Dylan. Part 9

"No! That's impossible impossible!" Svetlana snicker-gasped, coming up behind her.

Dylan looked at J.T. He looked down at his navy Nikes.

"But how?"

"You didn't believe cute boy-crush would choose Size Six Pimple Loserfan over me, did you?" Svetlana pivot-turned to retrieve her own bag and sauntered off the court.

"You set me up." Dylan choked back her betrayal-barf once she and J.T. were alone.

"You lied lied to me," he countered, tossing back his caramel locks. to me," he countered, tossing back his caramel locks.

"You used me."

"You duped me."

Dylan searched her reeling mind for something clever to say. But all that came out was the truth.

"You hurt hurt me," she whimpered as she tugged on the hem of her indigo skirt. me," she whimpered as she tugged on the hem of her indigo skirt.

Without another word, J.T. turned to go.

"Wait . . ." Dylan begged.

J.T. whipped back around. "What? You blackmailed a tennis star." His piercing blue eyes seared her tear-streaked cheeks. "The sport has suffered enough bad press already, don'tcha think?"

"In case you don't remember, Svetlana's Svetlana's the one who knocked someone's teeth out." Dylan mimed Svetlana's highly doc.u.mented de-toothing swing. the one who knocked someone's teeth out." Dylan mimed Svetlana's highly doc.u.mented de-toothing swing.

"She lost her temper out of love for the game."

"Well, I lost my mind out of love for you!" Dylan considered shouting. But that was too cheesy. Even for a summer romance.

Just then Svetlana returned to the court, swinging her bag and holding two bottles of Voss. She tossed one to J.T. "I know this is probably hard for Pimple to understand, but bagel bagel is tennis term describing game where loser stays at love." is tennis term describing game where loser stays at love."

"But-"

"You said you wanted love." Svetlana smiled proudly. "Now you got it." She linked her arm through J.T.'s and gave Dylan a big goodbye wave.

Left on the sidelines, Dylan hated herself. She hated boys, athletes, and bright Hawaiian suns.h.i.+ne. Why did everyone get to be happy but her? Even Tennis the Menace-a violent psychopath-found a crush who crushed back.

She whipped her LG onto the court and felt nothing as she watched it shatter.

Had she been insane to think J.T. would believe she was a tennis buff? Or had she been insane for wanting wanting him to believe it? After all, those imperfection-loving Dove soap commercials told her to be proud of the girl she was. To own and luhv her flaws and quirks and wear them on her size-six sleeves with pride. If those ads had lasted more than thirty seconds, they'd have told her she was she was much better off alone. Because pretending to be someone you weren't could never make you happy. And now she knew the truth about J.T.'s feelings, right? She should be relieved, right? Almost grateful she hadn't wasted another second trying to be someone she wasn't, right? him to believe it? After all, those imperfection-loving Dove soap commercials told her to be proud of the girl she was. To own and luhv her flaws and quirks and wear them on her size-six sleeves with pride. If those ads had lasted more than thirty seconds, they'd have told her she was she was much better off alone. Because pretending to be someone you weren't could never make you happy. And now she knew the truth about J.T.'s feelings, right? She should be relieved, right? Almost grateful she hadn't wasted another second trying to be someone she wasn't, right?

WRONG!.

She was tired of being strong. Tired of smiling though the pain. Maybe one day Maxim Maxim would want a burping, size-six redhead on its cover. But until then Dylan decided to slouch back to her bungalow, order room service, and mend her broken heart with sticky b.u.t.terscotch syrup and two scoops of French vanilla. would want a burping, size-six redhead on its cover. But until then Dylan decided to slouch back to her bungalow, order room service, and mend her broken heart with sticky b.u.t.terscotch syrup and two scoops of French vanilla.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

DYLAN'S BUNGALOW Tuesday, July 7 2 P.M.

Still sad, Dylan pulled the white duvet over her head and squeezed her eyes tight, but the tears wouldn't come: they were like the last bag of potato chips stuck in the vending machine-no amount of shaking could make them fall.

This trip was supposed to offer respite from insecurity, and here she was, shades drawn in the South Pacific, wondering if she should ask for lipo or a personality transplant for her next birthday.

Outside, the palm fronds waved gaily in the soft breeze. Young lovers crunched along the snaking seash.e.l.l path, marveling at the cloudless sky and the singsongy calls of the island's tropical birds. They argued playfully over who was cuter, who had the better spa treatment, who was more deeply tanned, who had a better lunch. These achingly cheerful snippets of conversation seeped though the walls of Dylan's bungalow and stabbed her heart like invisible daggers. All she could do was hate-punch her pillow and pray for a hurricane.

More than anything, Dylan wished her jasmine-scented mom were around to make up a story about how she'd once been dumped by a hot tennis fanatic too. But right now Merri-Lee was in talk showhost mode, getting coverage of today's matches. And maybe even breaking Svetlana and J.T. as the hot It couple of the Open. Dylan could see it now; their toned and tanned arms around each other, smiling for the paparazzi and inspiring made-for-TV movies.

Now what? Fly home? Or do what a Dove soap user would do and drag herself out of bed, hold her head high, and strut across the resort like she hadn't just gotten double-crossed and humiliated? The problem just seemed too big to remedy-like global warming.

Dylan considered calling Ma.s.sie for advice. But that would mean admitting J.T. had chosen Svetlana over her, and who wanted to say that that out loud? out loud?

Instead, she burrowed under the covers to wait for a revelation . . . or room service. Whichever came first.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

DYLAN'S BUNGALOW Wednesday, July 8 9 A.M.

Dylan stretched her arms toward the bungalow's thatched ceiling, her limbs finally able to move without aching. Apparently the Motrin plus nineteen-hour nap had done the trick. Now the only muscle still feeling the effects of the Svetlana Way was her heart. And wallowing was no longer acceptable. Feeling depressed in paradise was like wearing suede boots in the rain. It was just plain wrong. Besides, she was stahr-ving.

She padded over to the stainless steel mini-fridge in the kitchen. A half-full Styrofoam cup of spirulina green detox and a hunk of moldy Havarti stared back at her.

She pulled open the white Formica cabinets.

"Thank Gawd." She reached for an orange box of Wheaties. An action shot of Svetlana midserve graced the front, and Dylan instinctively whipped the box into the sink. She was starving-not stranded.

Feeling empty in a way that had nothing to do with her rumbling belly, Dylan realized she could either sit in her suite or she could move on-preferably to somewhere that had a hearty brunch menu.

She spun around on her tennis-callused heels and marched across the cool black-and-white marble to her walk-in closet. Unzipping one of her many unpacked, colorful-clothes-containing Louis Vuittons, she grabbed a pair of electric blue drawstring linen pants and a matching Calypso tunic. Kicking her Nikes to the back of her closet, she pulled out her silver platform Havaianas, shocked to realize that her pedicure had barely touched sand since she arrived. Suddenly, a tingle shot up her spine. Now that she was back to being Dylan Marvil, tennis hater, she could do all the things she had missed out on. Tanning, swimming, eating, spaing, and getting fas.h.i.+on inspiration from something other than a hard-boiled egg.

Donning round black sungla.s.ses large enough to make Nicole Richie jealous and a black floppy Chanel hat covered in gold C C's, Dylan presented herself to the mirror.

"Eight point five."

She spritzed some Clinique Happy perfume, hoping the uplifting citrus-y scent would give her that final boost she needed to face her public. It did.

Once at Bearnaise, the spa's five-star restaurant, Dylan force-smiled at the relaxed guests and strolled along the buffet, alternating between revenge plots and breakfast options. Her mouth watered at the sight of golden brown pancakes, fresh whipped cream, and silver-domed trays loaded with glistening breakfast meats. Pastries, bagels, m.u.f.fins, and seafood omelets stared back at her, begging to be chosen like scrawny guys during a schoolyard kickball draft.

A long communal table on the sun-soaked patio was the only way Dylan could avoid the depressing table-for-one exchange with the hostess. So she grabbed the last open seat. Moms in various patterned sarongs occupied the other seven. They were already on their second round of coffees and well into their morning gossip session.

"Of course I saw it, Jayna," said Red and Orange Paisley Sarong as she dumped a spoonful of muesli into her collagen-enhanced mouth. "It was so embarra.s.sing."

Her heart racing at full speed, Dylan turned away and gazed out at the cliffs. She scrolled through the mental image of her humiliating tennis match, wondering if anyone had been hiding out with a video camera.

"I'm telling you, if the Academy gave Oscars for 'acting during an interview,' she'd win a truckload," noted Jayna, lifting her gla.s.s of fresh-squeezed papaya juice. "All that fake sweetness. It makes my blood sugar rise just thinking about it."

"They should call her Splenda, not Svetlana," added Brown and Yellow Batiked Sarong.

The ladies cackled with delight. Dylan sighed with relief. This was about Svetlana's Daily Grind Daily Grind interview. Not her. interview. Not her.

"Well, the ball girls didn't buy her public apology," announced Green and Blue Striped Sarong as she wave-asked the waiter to refill her cup of Kona.

"I think it's wonderful that they've all suddenly come down with the 'Russian flu,'" Jayna giggled. "Who says young people don't get involved in politics?"

Wait! The ball girls were on strike? What else had Dylan missed during her nineteen-hour nap? What else had Dylan missed during her nineteen-hour nap?

"Serves her right," Brown and Yellow insisted. "Get it? Serves?" Serves?" She cackled. She cackled.

Dylan joyfully b.u.t.tered her Belgian waffle. It turned out she wasn't the only one out to get Tennis the Menace. But she was the only who knew how.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS COUT.

ALOHA OPEN: CENTER COURT.

Wednesday, July 8 1:27 P.M.

When Dylan volunteered to be the only ball girl for the Women's Final, the ITA chairwoman hugged her for an entire minute. Playing fetch wasn't Dylan's idea of fun, nor was changing back into her tennis whites. But it got her where she needed to be-on the court with Svetlana during her big comeback game.

Thanks to Winsome, Dylan took the court in a drop-waist skirt covered in hand-embroidered hearts to show the world she still had hope. Her scoop-neck tank showcased her now-toned arms, and the built-in b.o.o.b shelf had just enough padding to turn her A-cups into A-pluses.

She paced the baseline, the focal point for hundreds of spectators and dozens of TV cameras, charged by the daring nature of her plan.

After a sweltering forty-five-minute delay, Svetlana stepped onto the court. She bowed humbly, graciously accepting the outpouring of love from her cheering fans. Dressed in a white tuxedo vest top, super-short satin shorts, and a fierce squint, she looked Maxim Maxim hot and hot and Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated determined. determined.

Seconds later, perky newcomer and fellow redhead Lauren s.h.i.+rley bounced onto the court. She was greeted with a smattering of applause, making it clear she was hardly the main attraction.

The game started, and Svetlana began annihilating her opponent from the word go go. Dylan sprinted for each stray ball, speedily removing it so the match could continue at its dizzying pace. But still, despite her hair-tossing, sighing, and occasional throat-clearing, Svetlana didn't seem to notice her. And if she did, she seemed the opposite of threatened. At this point, the only thing this revenge plot had to offer was a bad case of s.h.i.+n splints and sweaty pits.

Svetlana won her game, and the crowd cheered like football fans, ah-bviously suckers for a good anger-management comeback story. J.T.'s forehead was practically mashed up against the tinted gla.s.s of his family's box. He was holding Boris, wiggling one of his gray paws so it would look like the kitty was waving.

From a distance, he didn't look quite as ah-mazing as she remembered. His pretty-boy features were still intact, but they didn't twist her gut her like they once had. The spell had been broken-not because he'd double-crossed her, but because he'd chosen Svetlana. And even though she was beautiful, toned, and world famous, that didn't mean she was a better catch. The only thing it proved was that J.T. was a tennis stalker with a soft spot for psychos. And that was a major turnoff.

It was time for the players to change sides. Despite Lauren's horrible score, she smile-waved at her mini cheering section as she pa.s.sed. Svetlana ignored the crowd, her head hung low as if focused on the tips of her sneakers.

"Nikeeee," Dylan burped as Svetlana approached the baseline.

She stopped suddenly, her I'm-in-the-zone squint quickly morphing into wide-eyed surprise. Her expression said, "What are you doing here?" while her blue green eyes scanned the court for some sort of explanation. When she didn't find one, she drew back her racket, ever so slightly, to remind Dylan that she'd tooth-bashed once and wasn't afraid to do it again.

Dylan mouthed, "Whatevs," but her gums tingled with fear.

On the court, Svetlana took the fourth set with little effort, and Dylan was there to pick up every ball. At first she chalked it up to revenge adrenaline, but as her legs sprinted back and forth, she realized that tennis boot camp had left her in pro shape.

Merri-Lee gave her a proud smile from the press box, and Dylan beamed. Her mother had noticed her. In a resort filled with genetically perfect tennis superstars, her mother had noticed her her! It was a moment fit for a Dove commercial. And it gave Dylan the push she needed to stay the course and finish what she'd started.

"Looks like Sizesix Pimple has finally found her calling," Svetlana hissed when Dylan handed her two service b.a.l.l.s.

"And you've finally met your match," Dylan countered, wis.h.i.+ng Ma.s.sie had been there to applaud her speedy comeback.

"I certainly have." Svetlana blew an air kiss to J.T., who annoyingly caught it and stuffed it in the pocket of his white loserfan shorts.

Almost instantly, Svetlana refocused on the game and began pacing the baseline like a caged lion. "Huuu-agh!" "Huuu-agh!" She tossed up one of the b.a.l.l.s up and smashed it right into the net. She tossed up one of the b.a.l.l.s up and smashed it right into the net.

"Let!" the line judge yelled, indicating that Svetlana got a do-over.

Perf! Suddenly, Dylan had the amazing opportunity she'd been waiting for. Suddenly, Dylan had the amazing opportunity she'd been waiting for.

Bounding to retrieve the ball, she skipped past Svetlana and whispered, "You're on fire!"

Ignoring the jab, Svetlana pulled a ball out of her pocket and gave it a bounce. It appeared as though she hadn't heard the forbidden compliment. And then she began running in place-a dead giveaway that she had.

The Svetlana Way suggested psyching out your opponent with a Sudden-Burst-Of-Energy Jog when you were feeling weak. And since Lauren wasn't exactly threatening Svetlana, it meant Dylan was.

Pop!

Svetlana served an ace.

Hmmm.

She wound up again.

"Doing great, Svet!" Dylan flashed the thumbs-up sign while she ran to the other side of the court to retrieve the ball.

Pop! Swoosh. Svetlana served the next ball straight out of the stadium. There was a loud thump, then the whine of a car alarm. The crowd ooh-ed louder than usual. Svetlana served the next ball straight out of the stadium. There was a loud thump, then the whine of a car alarm. The crowd ooh-ed louder than usual.

Svetlana's nostrils flared as she missed not one, not two, but three three of Lauren's next service points. The crowd murmured and s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in their metal seats. of Lauren's next service points. The crowd murmured and s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in their metal seats.

Finally, a volley began, and it seemed Svetlana was getting her juice back.

It was now or never.

"You rock, Svetlana!" Dylan whisper-hissed as she crouched along the sideline.

Svetlana glared at her, but Dylan refused to let that trip her up. She had a mission and had to stay focused.

"Great form!" Dylan air-clapped as Svetlana swung back to return one of Lauren's speedb.a.l.l.s.

Pop . . . right into the net. . . . right into the net.

"You're still the best!" Dylan said just loud enough for Svetlana to hear as she ran to retrieve the ball.

"E-nuffff!" Svetlana smashed her racket onto the court.