Dylan. Part 7

This time, the strings on Dylan's racket connected with Svetlana's ball. It floated away from Dylan and sailed up, up, up in the air and over the fence.

"Sah-ree!" She turned back to Svetlana, who did not look amused.

"Drop and give me twenty-five," she barked.

"But you told me to leave my wallet in the bungalow." Dylan pulled out her pockets to show she didn't have any cash, and a flurry of cookie crumbs dusting the courts.

"Twenty-five push-ups, Size Six Six!"

"Don't call me-"

Puuuurp.

Dylan sighed, a.s.suming the push-up position. Her palms, which were unaccustomed to carrying anything heavier than a patent leather Chloe Paddington, were not prepared to handle this much Dylan. After two feeble attempts, her elbows buckled and her injured shoulder attempted suicide. She collapsed face-first into a Nike shoe print.

"All we have to do is fake a match. This is a little much, don'tcha think?"

"You can't fake fake tennis." Svetlana slammed her racket down on the net. "Now, twenty-three to go." tennis." Svetlana slammed her racket down on the net. "Now, twenty-three to go."

Dylan took a deep breath, placed her palms back on the red clay, and pushed herself up twenty-three more times in the name of love.

"Now for the serve." Svetlana pulled a ball out of her pocket and threw it at Dylan.

Miraculously, she caught the ball and began running in place like she'd seen Svetlana do before her serves.

"Weight on front foot, watch that stance, and breathe! Like this." Svetlana tossed the ball in the air and whipped it across the court.

Dylan cheer-clapped. "Wow, that was amaz-"

PUUURP!.

"No compliments!" Svetlana shouted. "Now you." She aimed a speed gun at Dylan.

Dylan, feeling thinner already, dribbled the ball a few times on the clay. She threw it toward the cloudless sky and swung her racket up to meet it. "Huu-ahhhh!"

Pop! The ball sailed over the net. The ball sailed over the net.

"Yay! That was pretty good, huh?" Dylan beamed, reminding her mentor that the no-compliment rule did not apply to her.

Svetlana checked the speed gun. "Eleven miles per hour. Unbelievable."

"Almost the speed limit in a school zone. I must be a natural." Dylan rocked excitedly on the heels of her silver Nikes.

"No, I mean it's not not believable. And we need it to be believable or no one will think you can beat me. I serve a 129. Now, again." believable. And we need it to be believable or no one will think you can beat me. I serve a 129. Now, again."

From the baseline, Dylan could see surfers riding the s.h.i.+mmering waves. She wanted to be on the beach taking their pictures and forwarding her Roxy moment to the Pretty Committee. Instead, she sighed and threw another ball up in the air. Imagining Svetlana's smug face on the fuzzy lime-green Wilson, she whacked it as hard as she could.

Pop!

Svetlana looked at the speed gun again. "Not as awful."

They practiced serves for another hour under the hot Hawaiian sun.

"Enough!" Svetlana announced.

"Finally!" Dylan dropped to her knees. "I need some carbs and a wardrobe change."

"Nyet." Svetlana tossed her a pair of white patent leather stilettos with rubber traction soles. "Put these on, Flatfoot." Svetlana tossed her a pair of white patent leather stilettos with rubber traction soles. "Put these on, Flatfoot."

"Nyet way!" Dylan jumped back. "Those aren't shoes-they're way!" Dylan jumped back. "Those aren't shoes-they're ews ews."

"You must. It will teach you how to stay on your toes." She thrust the shoes toward Dylan's face.

"I have some ah-dorable snakeskin Marnis that will do the trick." Dylan waved the nurse-gone-naughty pumps away like stinky poi. She'd heard Svetlana's mom-coach had unorthodox ways of creating the tennis terminator, but this was inhumane. "How 'bout we break for lunch and I'll bring them for our afternoon session?"

"Marion Bartoli's papa used to tape tennis b.a.l.l.s to the soles of her feet," Svetlana reported. "And p.u.s.s.ycat Dolls run on treadmill wearing four-inch clogs."

"What?"

"No what." Svetlana dropped the offending white pumps on the court. They bounced twice, then settled by Dylan's feet. "Do you want this J.T. to think you are good player, or do you want him to know you are Sizesix Flatfoot NoodleLeg Loserfan?"

"I said, no more names!" Dylan grabbed the heels and jammed them on her swollen feet. The patent leather was hard and unforgiving, just like Svetlana.

She stood with the awkward wobble of a newborn giraffe.

"Break's over!" Svetlana yelled from across the court, loading different-colored tennis b.a.l.l.s into the serving machine. "Stand on baseline. Prepare to hit."

Dylan a.s.sumed the position, doing her best to balance. But the combination of the springy sole, tough leather, and three-inch heels made her feel like she had two pogo sticks jammed through the soles of her feet. Tennis was hard enough in Nikes!

"Ready?" Svetlana pressed a b.u.t.ton and a rainbow of b.a.l.l.s shot directly at Dylan. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender.

"AAAAAAhhhhhh!" Dylan racket-blocked her face. But the barrage of b.a.l.l.s pelted her entire body and knocked her to the ground. She lay flat, spread out like a facedown snow angel.

Finally, the b.a.l.l.s stopped. Dylan managed to stand back up, her entire body stinging and throbbing.

"Ready?" Svetlana yelled, not waiting for the answer. "Here comes red ball!"

Dylan swung but missed.

"Yellow!"

Dylan swung again and teetered. She missed the ball but didn't fall down-a victory by her standards.

"Now green!" Svetlana pressed the trigger again.

Dylan stumble-ran for the ball. She missed this one, too.

"Blue!"

The b.a.l.l.s came faster and faster, and Svetlana yelled louder and louder.

"Purple!" But she could barely swing anymore.

"Let's go, you size six . . ."

Dylan could see Svetlana's lips moving as she yelled, but all she could hear was a loud buzz. Her arms p.r.i.c.kled with heat and her mouth felt like it was wrapped around a blasting hair dryer. She dropped her glittery racket and signaled T T for time out before collapsing on the hot clay. for time out before collapsing on the hot clay.

"Get up!" Svetlana called somewhere in the distance. "Up, up, up . . ."

But the only thing that rose were the illegal oatmeal chocolate chip cookie crumbs. They came up, up, up . . . all over Svetlana's white Nikes.

"Ani-maaaal!" Svetlana roared, kicking off her shoes.

Beads of something wet trickled down Dylan's cheeks. She was so spent she couldn't tell if it was sweat or tears or leftover puke.

Finally, as she lay helpless on the steamy ground, she called out for something white. It was the flag of surrender. And in her buzzing brain she was waving it.

Hard.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

DYLAN'S BUNGALOW Friday, July 3 2 P.M.

Dylan was wrapped up like a spicy tuna hand roll in her 100-thread-count duvet, longingly eyeing a banana split as it floated toward her dry mouth. Placed in the center of a s.h.i.+ny silver tray, it was surrounded by an aura of fuzzy light as if it had been sent from heaven just for her. Just as the angel-dressed in a burgundy room service uniform-set it down on the table next to the bed, a callused hand with square-tipped acrylic French-manicured nails waved it away.

"She'll have ginger ale," a commanding voice instructed.

The angel and her tray turned abruptly and headed for the door.

"Wait . . ." Dylan mumbled feebly.

But it was too late. The split had split.

"It's all for better," the voice boomed. This time there was no mistaking the thick accent or gruff delivery.

Svetlana was perched on the edge of the bed, stroking Boris, who was purring in her lap. She mowed her square nails through his fur, from b.u.t.t to head, making it spike up like a Mohawk. A can of ginger ale was in her other hand.

"What are you you doing here?" Dylan shot up in horror. The uneven bamboo slats on the headboard dug into her throbbing back and woke her pain, taking it from a seven point five to a raging nine. doing here?" Dylan shot up in horror. The uneven bamboo slats on the headboard dug into her throbbing back and woke her pain, taking it from a seven point five to a raging nine.

"Open." Svetlana poked the bendy straw between Dylan's cracked lips, then crossed her legs. She was wearing J Brand pencil-leg jeans and a blue and red striped Vince tank. Her blond hair was in a loose side-pony that overflowed with deep-conditioned curls. She looked like a regular girl. "Sip."

Dylan found the cold fizz invigorating and drained the can in a single gulp.

"Thanks," she whisper-burped. But her relief was temporary. All of a sudden her heart thumped in a post-espresso sort of way and her skin p.r.i.c.kled with the sting of adrenaline. "My phone!" She patted down her thighs like a frisking cop. "Where's my . . ." The hard rectangular object digging into her hip meant it was right where she left it, in her side pocket. "Oh."

Thank Gawd! She pulled it out and gripped it between her stiff fingers. She pulled it out and gripped it between her stiff fingers.

"You know," Svetlana said, tracing the beading on a ruby red Indian silk throw pillow, "I was not always this perfect. I had hard times training too."

Boris yawned. Dylan rolled her eyes.

"Back in Russia, when I was six-year-old, Mom-Coach would pull me off cot at four in morning so we could claim public court before anyone else. This court had no room behind baseline, so if I swung wide I'd smash wall and break flesh. Then blood from my knuckles would freeze from cold." She showed Dylan her scars. "But Mom-Coach made me stick with it. It was our way out."

Dylan imagined little Svetlana in the dark winter mornings, bas.h.i.+ng her fists into the cracked concrete while her frozen baby braid stabbed her hypothermic cheeks like an ice pick.

"So I didn't think today's lesson was hard. Because for me, s.p.a.cious court in hot Hawaiian sun with proper-fitting shoes seemed easy."

"Um, your cookie-covered Nikes should prove it was the opposite of easy easy."

"Nyet." Svetlana placed Boris on the marble floor and dabbed her tearing eyes with the bottom of her tank top. "Opposite of Svetlana placed Boris on the marble floor and dabbed her tearing eyes with the bottom of her tank top. "Opposite of easy easy is when Mom-Coach would chase me on Vespa, making me run ten miles every day in bitter cold along Neva River. I ate nothing but hard-boiled eggs and bread for eleven years. Friends, school, boy crushes, colorful clothes-I never had time." is when Mom-Coach would chase me on Vespa, making me run ten miles every day in bitter cold along Neva River. I ate nothing but hard-boiled eggs and bread for eleven years. Friends, school, boy crushes, colorful clothes-I never had time."

Dylan sighed, remembering that horrible afternoon in the sixth grade when she gave up carbs. Her energy had been super-low, and she'd snapped more times than a Splendid b.u.t.ton-front cardigan. And what if she didn't have Ma.s.sie's Friday night sleepovers to look forward to? Or the Pretty Committee's GLU meetings? Or gossip points? Or crushes? Or s...o...b..p.com?

"It can't possibly be worth it." Dylan siphoned the excess ginger ale from the straw. "Why didn't you tell Mom-Coach you wanted to stop?"

Svetlana shrugged. "Every time I wanted to quit, I'd imagine winning and having money so family could move to America, get heated home, and train in real facility. It was only way that pudgy little six-year-old was going to make it to Wimbledon. And once I did, I-"

Dylan crushed the empty can. "Wait, rewind. You were fat fat?"

"Da. Svetlana could pinch an inch." She placed her hand gently on Dylan's duvet-covered knee. "See? You and me-we are not so different."

"Why? You think I'm I'm fat?" Her cheeks burned with trepidation. fat?" Her cheeks burned with trepidation.

Svetlana shook her head dismissively, as if that was so not the point. "When I made it to Wimbledon, I had had to win. Not only for me, or Mom-Coach, or my country. But for all things I sacrificed along the way. Winning meant I didn't give all up for nothing." to win. Not only for me, or Mom-Coach, or my country. But for all things I sacrificed along the way. Winning meant I didn't give all up for nothing."

Dylan was starting to feel for the tennis star. And then her stomach grumbled. Suddenly, all she could think about was that banana split and how if she were eating it she'd be a lot more captivated by this E! True Hollywood E! True Hollywood moment. moment.

"I was this this close to winning second year in row," Svetlana continued, oblivious to Dylan's hunger-rebellion. Her blue-green eyes darted back and forth as though she were watching the match in real time. "The ball had been served and I was in perfect position to slam." Svetlana drew back her arm as though she were about to whack it. "Then, out of nowhere, random loserfan yelled, 'Svetlana, you rock!' I lost concentration. I missed ball. I lost Wimbledon." Svetlana's buff shoulders sagged. "And ball girl paid price." close to winning second year in row," Svetlana continued, oblivious to Dylan's hunger-rebellion. Her blue-green eyes darted back and forth as though she were watching the match in real time. "The ball had been served and I was in perfect position to slam." Svetlana drew back her arm as though she were about to whack it. "Then, out of nowhere, random loserfan yelled, 'Svetlana, you rock!' I lost concentration. I missed ball. I lost Wimbledon." Svetlana's buff shoulders sagged. "And ball girl paid price."

"Is that why you don't like compliments?" Dylan wondered, recalling her earlier conversation with Winsome.

Svetlana sad-nodded yes.

Dylan reached out to pat her hand. She couldn't help herself-the athlete looked so upset and vulnerable. Until now, all Dylan had seen was Svetlana's utterly enviable life-filled with trophies, endors.e.m.e.nt deals, personal stylists, and zero-percent body fat. But now she knew better. Svetlana's knuckle scars, compliment issues, and egg overdose made her Dr. Philworthy. And that meant she was just as messed up as everyone else. It was a total relief.

"One question." Dylan began nibbling on her pinky nail. "When you said we weren't so different, were you talking about weight or-"

"Not weight." Svetlana pulled her hand out from under Dylan's and dried her moist blue-green eyes. "We both have things we want. And we both work hard to get them."

"Yeah, but . . ." Dylan sighed. "There's no way I'll ever be good enough to convince J.T. I can beat you."

"Good point." Svetlana tucked American Boris under her arm and stood up. "So then we drop this whole thing, ya?" She held out her palm, as if Dylan would just slap her LG into it like a bellboy's tip.

All four chambers of Dylan's open heart slammed shut. If this sob story was just another attempt to get her hands on that video file, she was messing with the wrong girl.

"We drop nothing!" Dylan threw off her duvet and cracked her non-b.l.o.o.d.y knuckles. It was time to get serious.