Dylan. Part 3

"Owie!" Dylan yelped. Her skin p.r.i.c.kled with fear and adrenaline. No way was she going to endure another head b.u.t.t. She backed up a few sand-print steps in case she needed to make another run for it. "You're totally insane-I can't believe you almost fooled everyone with your whole transformation transformation act." act."

"What you mean almost almost?" Svetlana smirked. "Everybody adores Svetlana again thanks to your mom-host."

Dylan pursed her Nars Peachy Keensmeared lips. "Puh-lease! You practically twisted my arm into the Nike swoosh."

"So what?" Svetlana unraveled her braid-snake from its halo. "No one saw it, and no one will believe what a little red pimple like you has to say."

Dylan pinched her hips with renewed hope. "Wait, you think I'm little little?"

"Just the brain." Svetlana stood, brushing sand off her slippery-smooth robe.

"Oh yeah? Then how do you explain this this?" Dylan waved her LG.

"It's called phone, Pimple." Svetlana knocked it to the sand. "Now go. I must get back to meditation."

"Not until I watch your little outburst under the candlelight." Dylan held up the phone and thumbed through the b.u.t.tons. Her hands shook, knowing they could get smacked or snapped at any given moment. "I want to hear the part where you called me a sloppy loserfan again. The acoustics in here are great and I-"

What?" Svetlana released her honey-colored braid and clenched her fists. Svetlana released her honey-colored braid and clenched her fists.

"I wonder what the International Tennis a.s.sociation will say when it sees you've fallen off the temper-tantrum wagon?" Dylan positioned her LG under Svetlana's narrow blue-green eyes. A shot of the post-interview arm-twist was frozen on screen. "This little thing is amazing. It's limited edition-Merri-Lee got it in her Oscar swag bag. It stores hours of video."

"How did you-"

"Just before you knocked the phone out of my hand I pressed record." Dylan winked. "Not bad for a little little brain, huh?" Her heart thumped as Svetlana's smug expression darkened like the Hawaiian sky moments before a tropical storm. brain, huh?" Her heart thumped as Svetlana's smug expression darkened like the Hawaiian sky moments before a tropical storm.

"Thanks to your backhand, it was lying in the gra.s.s, so I have a few nice shots of your frilly underwear and-"

"Give to me." Svetlana swiped her claws Boris style as Dylan dropped the phone down the V of her lemon-yellow Fila minidress and folded her arms across her chest.

"After Nike sees this, the only thing you'll be endorsing is kitty litter," Dylan announced.

"How do I know you're not bluffing?" Svetlana's eyes flashed as she tightened the satin tie on her robe.

A new CD track blasted a series of loud, deep "ommm's" through the room.

Dylan reached inside her dress and pressed play on her LG.

Why do you think you are worthy to touch Svetlana? You are just loserfan, too sloppy to be an athlete and-"

"I am nawt a fan!"

"Correction. You are a loserfan stalker!"

"Ouch! My skull! I think you just gave me a concussion."

Dylan hit pause. Svetlana grinded her teeth, her dewy pink cheeks purple with rage. She muttered something in Russian that sounded a lot like "spit on your neck."

"Should I rewind to the part where you twisted my arm?"

"Enough," Svetlana demanded, clawing at Dylan's built-in sports bra, trying to swipe the phone.

Dylan jumped back, sending granules of sand skittering around her ankles. "Did you know I can zap this clip to The Daily Grind The Daily Grind with the push of a b.u.t.ton? Isn't that incredible?" with the push of a b.u.t.ton? Isn't that incredible?"

"You would not dare." Svetlana sneered, lunging once again at Dylan's chest.

Dylan pulled out her LG and mimed pressing SEND. "Or maybe Nike would like to see it?"

"Noooo!" Svetlana bent down and whipped a votive against the pink travertine. Gla.s.s shattered everywhere, hot wax splattered across the wall, and something landed on Dylan's head with a Svetlana bent down and whipped a votive against the pink travertine. Gla.s.s shattered everywhere, hot wax splattered across the wall, and something landed on Dylan's head with a thwack thwack. Sharp objects began ripping into her scalp.

"Ehmagawd, I've been hit!" she shrieked, then reached for her head, expecting to find a tangle of gla.s.s shards, red hair, and gooey brain-blood. But instead, she slammed into a four-pound ball of kitten fur.

"Ahhhhhhh!" Dylan frantically tried to swat Boris off her head. Dylan frantically tried to swat Boris off her head.

"Reeee-owwww!" The cat dive-bombed into the sand and scurried for the nearest corner, hissing as his paw landed in a puddle of molten wax. The cat dive-bombed into the sand and scurried for the nearest corner, hissing as his paw landed in a puddle of molten wax.

Svetlana was breathing heavily. "You will not do this to me," she screamed, whipping another votive at the wall. Then another. And another.

Dylan simply stepped aside, pulled her phone out, and began recording it all. She couldn't have planned this better if she'd tried.

After the last candle had been tossed, Svetlana dropped to her knees and ran her fingers through the sand, whisper-counting in Russian. Several calming breaths later, she stood up again and smoothed her white skirt.

"What you want from me? An apology? Because Svetlana really didn't mean to-"

"I want a lot more than an apology." Dylan tucked the phone back into the V of her dress.

"Anything." Svetlana pulled each one of her long, slender fingers until it cracked.

Dylan put her hand on the bamboo door, just in case she needed to make a run for it, and then blurted, "Teachmeeverythingyouknowabouttennis."

"You want . . . tennis lessons?" Svetlana's flawless forehead crinkled.

Dylan nodded yes. "Times ten. I want to become become the game." the game."

You?" She rolled her blue-green eyes. "Mission impossible." She rolled her blue-green eyes. "Mission impossible."

Dylan made a move for her phone.

"Okay, wait! Svetlana is just joking." A tight smile cut across her face. It looked like she had poo cramps. "If you could please share why you hunger for such knowledge."

"Nawt that it's any of your business"-Dylan twirled a strand of glossy red hair around her finger-"but it has to do with getting a certain crush to crush back."

"You do this for a boy boy?" Svetlana flared her nostrils. "How pathetic."

"Puh-lease! You've given up your entire life for a sport sport. How is that that any less pathetic?" any less pathetic?"

Svetlana opened her tight-lipped mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Fifteen-love, Dylan.

Finally, she swallowed hard. "How many lessons must I give?"

"Until J.T. likes me back-"

"J.T.?" Svetlana threw back her head and laughed.

"You know him?" Dylan's cheeks burned.

"Nyet." Svetlana quickly sobered. "But you Americans have such silly names." Svetlana quickly sobered. "But you Americans have such silly names."

Dylan crossed her arms. "Um, your nickname is Sweat Sweat."

"And yours is Pimple Loserfan!" Svetlana air-popped an imaginary zit.

Dylan held up her phone and let the unspoken threat hang in the gardenia-scented air.

"Okay, okay." Svetlana waved her palms in defeat. "I will help."

"Good. I'll be at your bungalow in two hours. Make sure your hairstylist is there, and pull out some of your cute dresses. I'm running low."

Svetlana c.o.c.ked her head. "Size six?"

"Four!" Dylan slammed the bamboo door behind her and hurried to the poolside cafe.

This LG Chocolate blackmailing was making her hungry.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

SVETLANA'S BUNGALOW Tuesday, June 30 8 P.M.

"Love it!" Dylan burped.

She had spent the last four hours in Svetlana's bungalow, staring at her reflection while Ingrid, Svetlana's busty personal stylist, wove extensions in her hair before perma-straightening it with chemicals that smelled like cabbage. When Ingrid left to ice her aching wrists, Dylan admire-stroked her twelve-inch, serpentine side-braid, wondering if J.T. would notice her striking resemblance to the Little Mermaid.

"Ariellllll," Dylan burped again.

Boris opened his haunting blue eyes, yawned, then curled back into his sleep-ball on the dirty-clothes pile in the middle of the room.

"Why must you belch words like a man?" Svetlana hit pause on the remote and sat up on her white (of course!) satincovered bed. An image of herself midserve was frozen on the giant flat screen across from her.

Dylan considered answering but decided not to bother. How could she explain humor to a girl who chased b.a.l.l.s across hot clay courts for fun fun? Instead, she crossed "Get hair like Svetlana" off her list and moved on.

"Now show me how to get that ah-dorable braid-swing you get when you're hitting a ball." Dylan grabbed Svetlana's boar-bristle paddle brush off the mirrored vanity. She swung her arm back, then whacked it through the humid air.

But her new braid hung limp. Nothing could swing in this heat. "Any chance of putting the AC on in here?"

"Nyet." Svetlana stood up and padded across the moist marble floor to jack up the thermostat even more. "Humidity keeps muscles limber. Get used to it. If you want to be world-cla.s.s athlete, you have to suffer." Svetlana stood up and padded across the moist marble floor to jack up the thermostat even more. "Humidity keeps muscles limber. Get used to it. If you want to be world-cla.s.s athlete, you have to suffer."

Dylan thumb-typed "extreme heat" into her LG as Svetlana looked on.

The mere sight of the device clearly put Svetlana on edge. She crossed the room and climbed the two limestone steps that led to the frosted gla.s.s spa-Jacuzzi nestled in the corner by the French doors. The gla.s.s doors opened to a lush garden, which was now drenched in the light of the pink Hawaiian sunset. Standing next to the tub, Svetlana powered on the jets, which burst to life with a frothing grumble.

"Where is my Epsom salt? WHO TOOK MY EPSOM SALT?" Her callused heel smashed up against the off b.u.t.ton. The tub water rippled before going flat.

"Tem-puur." Dylan waved her phone at Svetlana from across the room. "Anyway, forget the bath-we still have wardrobe and tennis lingo and diet to cover before bed."

Svetlana spun around and hurried through the open French doors behind her. "Ugh!" She grabbed a handful of pink plumeria blossoms off a budding tree and crushed them between her fists. Mangled petals slipped through her quaking fingers as she paced the patio, mumbling in Russian.

"Hey, Svet," Dylan called from the safety of a white satin ottoman at the foot of the bed, "did you say your designer was in the suite next door?"

"I have idea." Svetlana turned, her rehea.r.s.ed media smile hard at work. "Why don't we just go out to court and volley?"

Dylan grinned. It was nice to see her embracing their partnership. "Is there a mirror out there?"

"Nyet." Svetlana unzipped her white Nike warm-up jacket and fanned her reddening cheeks. Svetlana unzipped her white Nike warm-up jacket and fanned her reddening cheeks.

"Well, how am I going to see how I look swinging and playing if I don't have a mirror?"

"Dee-lann, this is silly waste of time." Svetlana marched over to the ottoman and peered down at Dylan's newly straightened hair.

"No, it's not." Dylan stood. "I saw the way J.T. looked at you. I want that that." Her voice trembled, struggling to support the weight of her words: words heavy with humiliation and frustration and LBR potential.

Because seriously! How pathetic was this whole blackmail scheme? How pathetic was this whole blackmail scheme?

Most normal girls would down a dozen Entenmann's cookies and come to terms with the fact that their crush was already crushing on an international tennis star. And they'd move on. But Dylan refused to give up that easily. Those days were over. She was tired of stepping aside. Tired of the spotlight pa.s.sing by on its search for someone better to illuminate, like Ma.s.sie or her mother or Svetlana. For once, she she wanted to shine. And not because she craved attention, but because she wanted to know that someone special truly believed she belonged there. wanted to shine. And not because she craved attention, but because she wanted to know that someone special truly believed she belonged there.

Someone other than herself.

"He was looking at me me?" Svetlana's smile softened. With an extra spring in her stride, she bounced toward the mirror-covered door that connected her suite to the adjacent one.

Who?" Dylan followed the leggy blonde, her stomach sinking when she realized what she'd just revealed. Dylan followed the leggy blonde, her stomach sinking when she realized what she'd just revealed.

"This J.T. you are talking about-he looked at Svetlana in certain way?" Her blue-green eyes widened, making her look her real age of fifteen, as opposed to her rage-age of twenty-five.

Dylan tugged her hair-snake and waved away Svetlana's question. "So not the point. Now, let's talk outfits." The last thing she needed was to make Svetlana aware of J.T.'s irresistible hawtness. Because if she liked him and he knew it, Dylan would be playing singles for the rest of the summer.

"Fine. Now, enter." Svetlana held open the door and waved Dylan through.

The connecting suite was just as humid, but there was no canopy bed, spa-Jacuzzi, or fireside sitting area. Instead, bolts of varying shades of white, sweat-resistant fabrics were stacked along the walls like contestant finalists, all vying for the chance to become Svetlana's next tournament fashion statement. Eight rows of tennis shoes covered the marble floor, each one sprinkled with mentholated Gold Bond foot powder, ready for battle. And a gallery of plastic Svetlana look-alikes-each frozen in a different action pose-donned custom-made outfits. There was a new one for each of the tournament's seven rounds.

The suite was a seven-thousand-dollars-a-night walk-in closet.

"Ehmagawd, these are ah-mazing!" Dylan said, fingering the rice paperthin fabric of a backless shift dress.

Svetlana brushed past her and stopped in front of the second mannequin, which was wearing a ribbed tank with a built-in navy ribbon belt and tulip-shaped skirt. "Does amazing amazing mean mean awful awful in your country? If it in your country? If it does does, then, yes, you are right. It is amazing amazing." She yanked the ribbon out of the top and cracked it Catwoman style. "Winsome, what did I tell you about colors?"

A pet.i.te twentysomething in an orange tank dress emerged from behind a mountain of fabric. Dozens of pins pierced the rubber toes on her lime green Chucks, as if she were some sort of voodoo doll. Winsome was the first person Dylan had seen in two days who wasn't wearing white. She felt like Dorothy landing in Oz.