Dylan. Part 6

Score. Dylan had actually made him reevaluate the sport while forcing him to contemplate the true meaning of- Dylan had actually made him reevaluate the sport while forcing him to contemplate the true meaning of- "Is that Svetlana?"

Dylan sucked in her abs and panic-scanned the spectators below. It wasn't long before she spotted the blonde in her ultra-low V-neck LWTD. She was sidestepping her way across a row of bleachers, clueless to the tongues that wagged as she squeezed by. Stopping at the only empty courtside seat, she pinch-grabbed the warm-up jacket that had been intentionally left as a placeholder, released it to the ground, and sat. Once settled, she lifted the Aloha Open visor off her head and unleashed her flowing waves slow-mo style. What happened to the braid? And the straight hair? What happened to the braid? And the straight hair? Svetlana looked like Dylan Svetlana looked like Dylan before before the mind-numbing, four-hour transformation. And now it would be months before the chemicals wore off and her own curls popped back. Pure evil! the mind-numbing, four-hour transformation. And now it would be months before the chemicals wore off and her own curls popped back. Pure evil!

Svetlana's eyes scanned the crowd. A devious smile cracked its way across her taut face when she located the Daly box and realized J.T. was watching her. She winked her faux lashes at him and crossed her oil-slicked legs with slow determination, as though they were underwater.

J.T. exhaled longingly, leaving a steam cloud of desire on the gla.s.s.

Opposite of acceptable! Svetlana was ah-bviously doing this to mess with Dylan. Well, a quick shake of her LG should put a stop to that. And it did. Svetlana's shoulders dropped slightly. She put her visor back on, coyly lowered it over her blue-green eyes, and focused on the match.

Seconds later, the cheering crowd tipped Dylan off to a successful swing by Brady. "That was some backhandler!" she shouted.

J.T. whipped around to face her.

Direct eye contact. Finally! She had his full attention now. She had his full attention now.

"Are you even watching the same match as I am?" His brow furrowed.

Nervous heat starting p.r.i.c.king under her pits, and Dylan hoped desperately that her freesia-scented deodorant would keep the crisis in check.

"Of course I'm watching the same match. Now shhhh shhhh!" she chided him, desperate to change the topic.

"You do know there's no such thing as a backhandler, right? It's called a backhand backhand."

Outside, polite applause followed a loud tennis-grunt.

"I know know. That's just our nickname for them back at the Westchester Tennis Club."

J.T. crossed his arms. "You look look like you're really into tennis, but it seems like you don't actually know anything about it. I mean-" like you're really into tennis, but it seems like you don't actually know anything about it. I mean-"

Dylan forced herself to face his disapproving eyes. "I'll show you how into tennis I am when Svetlana and I play later this week."

J.T. gasped. "Are you serious?"

"If by serious you mean stupid, stupid, then ah-bso-lutely," Dylan wanted to say. then ah-bso-lutely," Dylan wanted to say.

But instead she sigh-nodded yes and smiled awkwardly, the way love-struck girls often do.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

SVETLANA'S BUNGALOW Thursday, July 2 4 P.M.

"This will only take a sec." Dylan pushed past Svetlana and charged into the tennis phenom's humid bungalow that afternoon. An image of the athlete midserve, looking constipated, was frozen on the plasma.

"Ehmagawd!" Dylan giggled "No wonder you didn't want me to come in. You were checking out your grunt face."

"I admit nothing." Svetlana held the remote over her white-robed shoulder and clicked the TV off.

"Whatevs." Dylan helped herself to one of the Svetlana for Luna bars on the mahogany coffee table. "Anyway, we'll be playing a match in five days, and I need you to let me kick your highly downloaded b.u.t.t." She admired her blue and silver striped tank dress in the star-shaped wall mirror. The slight A-line was perfect for size sixes posing as fours.

Svetlana took a hearty gulp of green Gatorade. "Ahhhhh!" She lobbed the empty jug into a wicker plant holder by the living area.

Gawd! Didn't Svetlana need to burp after a chug like that? What was it about s.e.xy blondes and their lack of gas? Maybe beauty wasn't skin-deep. Perhaps it ran deeper.

"So, are you in?" Dylan asked.

"Hmmmm." Svetlana lifted the napping Boris out of the white-brick fireplace and began scratching his tiny head with her ultra-square acrylic tips. "What is point of this deception?"

"J.T. will be watching. And if he sees me beat you, he will believe I am a tennis G.o.ddess." She rubbed the dull ache in her shoulder.

"Svetlana has doubts." She tucked a silky blond wave behind her ear.

Dylan tried to do the same with her stiff red braid. It was like trying to twirl raw spaghetti.

"I cannot throw a game." She scratched Boris harder. "Even for silly pretend match."

"Cannot? Or will will not?" Dylan dared. not?" Dylan dared.

"Both. Is bad for career." She stood firm, her unpedicured feet planted on the beige sisal rug.

"So is votive throwing in a meditation chamber." Dylan waved her phone.

Svetlana closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Dylan wiped her sweat-drenched palms on the side of her striped dress.

"Fine." Svetlana hate-squinted, her taut lips flattened into a fine line.

Done! Dylan stuffed the phone back in her silver sequincovered tennis bag. Just as she was about to zip it shut, Svetlana tossed Boris on the bed and lunged at her with cougarlike ferocity. Dylan stuffed the phone back in her silver sequincovered tennis bag. Just as she was about to zip it shut, Svetlana tossed Boris on the bed and lunged at her with cougarlike ferocity.

Reee-owwwww!

"Back off!" Dylan quickly shielded her bag like a precious newborn. She shook her head in disgust while she waited for her racing heart to settle. "Try that again and your new sponsor will be Done Done-lop."

Svetlana took a step back. "Fine. But I have three conditions."

Dylan opened her mouth to protest, but Svetlana quickly covered it with her callused hand. "I have three conditions." She held up her long index finger. "One. You erase the veedyo the second the match is over."

"Agreed." Dylan pushed down her finger.

"Two. No one will believe you can beat me if they don't see you train."

Dylan suddenly became painfully aware that her inner thighs were touching. "Point?"

"We train. Then, on the court, you do what I say when I say it. I have trademark-pending regimen to ensure success. So it will be the Svetlana Way all the way. Yes?" She handed Dylan a foldout pamphlet detailing the training philosophy.

"Yes." Dylan rolled her emerald green eyes and stuffed the pamphlet into her racket bag. "And three?"

"No. Compliments. Ever."

"You mean complaints complaints?" Dylan asked, a.s.suming Svetlana was still working on her three-syllable words. After all, compliments were the only only reason to work out. reason to work out.

"No. I mean compliments compliments." Her nostrils flared slightly, showing that she meant business. "None. Not one. Ever."

Dylan suddenly remembered Winsome mentioning something about Svetlana and compliments, but the details were fuzzy. She'd been in a color-induced haze that day. She considered asking Svetlana why, but decided against it. The opportunity to spend the day with a gorgeous, athletic superstar and not have to feed her ego seemed like a real bonus. "No prob. Now, do we have a deal?"

Svetlana flopped onto her bed and shoved Boris in the cubby of s.p.a.ce between her neck and chin. They both stared mournfully at the rattan ceiling fan. "We have deal."

Dylan smirked. She might not know a thing about tennis, but she was an expert at playing the game.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

DYLAN'S BUNGALOW Friday, July 3 4 A.M.

Diing-donng.

Dylan curled into extreme fetal and pulled the honeysuckle-scented duvet over her head. Did her early-bird mother have to catch the worm every every morning? morning?

Diiing-donnng.

She lifted the pink silk eye mask over her limp red hair and lifted her LG. Four A.M.! Dylan lowered the mask and turned her pillow over to the cold side.

Diiiiing-donnnnnnnng.

"Maaaaa! Ca.s.sidy's here."

"Who is Ca.s.sidy?" shouted a distant but familiar voice.

Dylan whipped off her eye mask and tiptoed out of her room. Merri-Lee was sound asleep in the master suite wearing giant Bose headphones, her silicone-filled chest rising and falling like the buoys that bobbed on the surf beneath their window.

Stumbling over the cool marble to the dimly lit foyer, Dylan reached for the door, accidentally knocking the continental breakfast menu off the handle.

"What?" She finally managed to open it.

Clad in white short-shorts and a puff-sleeved hoodie, Svetlana was tapping her foot, a silver whistle lodged between her pursed lips.

Purrrrp!

"Shhhhhh." Dylan searched the dark, secluded grounds. Not even the happy island birds were chirping at this hour. "What are you doing?"

"We train." Svetlana had tied her damp, wavy hair into a high pony. "Let's go."

"Is this some kind of weird tennis hazing ritual or something?" Dylan grumbled. "What about breakfast?"

PUURRRPPPPPP!.

The chain-link-fence door to the private courts slammed shut behind them, sending a reverberating clang clang through the lazy resort. The air was dark and chilly. In the distance the surf roared something that sounded like through the lazy resort. The air was dark and chilly. In the distance the surf roared something that sounded like sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . Dylan's stomach grumbled, her eyes burned, and a screeching bat was circling her tangled red extensions. Just as she was about to call it quits, Dylan considered J.T.'s Efron-esque features and quickly concluded that this would eventually be worth it. Dylan's stomach grumbled, her eyes burned, and a screeching bat was circling her tangled red extensions. Just as she was about to call it quits, Dylan considered J.T.'s Efron-esque features and quickly concluded that this would eventually be worth it.

"Surrender!" Svetlana shouted as she bear-hugged Dylan and squeezed.

"Ahhhhhh! h.e.l.llllp!" Dylan pleaded, but her morning voice was hoa.r.s.e and weak.

"Got it!" Svetlana triumphantly pulled a chocolate chip oatmeal cookie from the pocket of Dylan's yellow cotton dress. "This is not part of the Svetlana Way! Read pamphlet!" She tossed the cookie in the air and slammed it to bits with her racket.

Dylan's stomach cried out in protest. She considered dropping and doing her best DustBuster impression when- Puuurrrrrp!

"Do like I do." Svetlana pushed play on her Bose docking station and began darting across the court. Cla.s.sical music mashed with a thumping ba.s.s blasted at maximum volume.

Dylan stared longingly at the cookie crumbs.

"Now!" Svetlana barked from across the court. "Or I will tell everyone you are size six six!"

"How do you know that that?" Dylan jogged lightly. "My labels say four."

"Winsome works for me, remember?" Svetlana smirked, clearly happy to finally have a leg up. "This is only way to be real four!" She lifted her whistle to her lips. "Now run, NoodleLegs!"

PUUURPPP!.

"Fine!" Dylan began sprinting, fueled at first by humiliation and then by determination. Imagine! If she became a four, she could finally tell people she was a two.

The girls ran until the rising sun turned the sky orange-like juice and marmalade and cheddar. . . .

And then Dylan collapsed on the baseline, dry heaving and pinching up cookie crumbs.

Before she was ready to stand-pop!-Svetlana hit her first serve.

"Wait! I wasn't ready," Dylan yelled from the baseline Pop! Another ball whizzed by Dylan's diamond-studded ear. Another ball whizzed by Dylan's diamond-studded ear.

"That's two," Svetlana called.

Pop! Dylan jumped up and swung blindly. Dylan jumped up and swung blindly.

"Three."

"Wait, why are you counting?" She lowered her racket.

"Every time you miss a ball, there's a consequence. Clearly you didn't read about the Svetlana Way carefully enough. For that, I add five minutes of sprinting. Now go!"

Dylan blinked. "You've got to be kidding."

"Do you want boy or not?"

Dylan sighed and jogged to the net. She slapped its white plastic top, then headed back to the baseline-again and again and again.

The minute she was done, Svetlana wound up for her next serve.

Pop!