Dylan

by Lisi Harrison

  Knowing she had tons to learn if she wanted to turn the J.T. beach fantasy into a reality, Dylan switched her brand new LG Chocolate phone to camera mode. This way, she wouldn’t miss a thing.

  Her mother quickly briefed Svetlana on the nature of the interview, and complimented her on her beauty, poise, outfit, maturity, hair, business savvy, media savvy, and flawless skin. Then she ordered the makeup artist over for last-minute touch-ups. Once satisfied, Merri-Lee joined Svetlana and Boris on the couch.

  “This is Merri-Lee Marvil coming to you from the Aloha Open in Kauai, Hawaii. I’m here with Wimbledon champ and cover model Svetlana Slootskyia. Welcome to The Daily Grind.”

  Svetlana smiled. “Thank you, Merri-Lee. It’s very wonderful to be with you.”

  So far, Dylan had determined that the tan was real, the thick black eyelashes were fake, and the accent, even though it was gruff and hard to decipher, had a certain appeal.

  “Svetlana, allow me to get to the heart of the matter. You went from big winner to sore loser. Care to comment?” Merri-Lee tilted her head to show how interested she was, her diamond tennis racket earring colliding with the side of her neck.

  Svetlana stroked her thick blond snake-braid. “I will never be able to express how sorry I am for what I did to little Ali Chipley’s teeth. But I bought her new ones, and they are much nicer than old ones, so Svetlana feels good about that.”

  Dylan snickered.

  “Can you tell us what was going on in your head when you …”—Merri-Lee looked up, as if searching the thatched roof for the right words—“… when you had the episode.”

  Svetlana chewed her tight bottom lip and held Boris to her heart. “I have worked so hard and given up so much for tennis.” She blinked back tears. “And when I lost that match, it felt like I had lost everything I had worked for. And not just me. My mom-coach, who gave up life to train me; my father, who worked three jobs to pay for lessons; and my brothers and sisters, who gave up time with comrades to visit my tournaments.” She dabbed her blue-green eyes on Boris’s fur.

  Merri-Lee didn’t say a word. It was one of her great interview techniques. Silence made her subjects so nervous and uncomfortable they ended up revealing more than they’d planned.

  Dylan took a long, loud slurp of her smoothie. Svetlana seemed so fragile and vulnerable. But Merri-Lee held firm, nodding yes with gentle encouragement, silently communicating that they had all the time in the world.

  “And,” Svetlana sighed, “when I saw that ball girl congratulate my opponent, I felt like it was a slap. Not only to my cheek, but the cheek of my family. And I went into a blond rage.”

  Dylan snickered again. Had Svetlana brilliantly coined a new term, or was her English worse than her temper? Either way, it was awesome.

  “And what went through your mind?” Merri-Lee crossed, then uncrossed her pale legs.

  “I’m afraid I cannot recall.” Svetlana gazed out at the horizon.

  Merri-Lee gave Svetlana’s hand a comforting pat, then turned to face the flat screen on the coffee table.

  “Maybe it will help you remember if we take a look at it.”

  Svetlana’s blue eyes widened as the screen came to life. In slo-mo and set to “Apologize” by Timbaland featuring OneRepublic, the video showed roses raining down on the court as perky Bessie Evans blew air kisses at her fans. Ali Chipley threw a handful of balls in the air like a giddy graduate and ran-bounced with open arms to congratulate her. Just before Ali and Bessie made contact, Svetlana pulled back her racket like a Spalding bat and swung straight at Ali’s face. Little white teeth shards flew from her mouth like Tic Tacs.

  “Make it stop!” Svetlana cried, waving away the horror.

  Merri-Lee slit her throat with her index finger, letting Cassidy know it was time to cut the feed. “Bring back any memories?” she asked sweetly.

  “No.” Svetlana shook her head in shame.

  Merri-Lee leaned in closer, her lips pursed dramatically as she waited for a better answer.

  “I will never forgive myself,” Svetlana said slowly, lowering her gold-dusted eyelids.

  Merri-Lee addressed the camera. “Along with veneers, Ali Chipley received one-point-three million dollars, box seats to Wimbledon for life, and a spot on a new reality show called Celebrity Survivors, along with Naomi Campbell’s assistant.”

  Suddenly beaming with renewed pride, Svetlana nodded as if all of this somehow absolved her.

  Dylan ran her tongue over her BriteSmile and wondered if she should be trying to emulate someone who knocked out a ball girl’s teeth. And then she thought of J.T. and had her answer. Besides, it wasn’t like Svetlana woke up that morning determined to hurt Ali. She just snapped, as would any tightly wound athlete who’d given up her life for no reason.

  Merri-Lee patted her perfect blowout, then turned to face her subject. “Svetlana, do you think you are rehabilitated?”

  “Yes. I have watched sun set on my anger.”

  Merri-Lee knit her thin brows.

  “It is truth.” She let Boris lick her wrist. “We did several activities at the center I never had time for as child. Some-ores and campfires and hikes. I made girlfriends and had gentle pillow fights.” Svetlana’s lids fluttered with emotion. “I tapped into part of Svetlana I never got to explore. Of course, if I could take back what I did, I would. But in a way, I am glad it happened. I lost my temper but found real me.”

  Dylan felt her throat tighten. No wonder Svetlana had snapped. Without the weekly overnights at Massie’s, where the Pretty Committee gossiped about their crushes, complained about teachers, and made fun of LBRs, Dylan would have become a raging tennis beast, too. Well, minus the tennis part.

  “But it wasn’t all fun. It was hard work, too—daily therapy sessions and hours of meditation. I’ve incorporated Zen into my everyday routine. It has been life changing.” Svetlana crossed her legs, demonstrating the “om” position.

  Trying to cross her legs Svetlana-Zen style, Dylan noticed a green splotch on her box-pleated skirt. How had that gotten there? Noting Svetlana’s spotless LWTD (Little White Tennis Dress), Dylan wondered, How does she keep her whites so white?

  Merri-Lee took a deep breath. “Well, Svetlana, I have to say it’s been an absolute pleasure to speak with you. You are a remarkable young lady, and I think we can all learn something from you. I know at least this fan”—Merri-Lee pointed to herself—“will be cheering you on out there.”

  “Thank you and all people out there who have given me and Slootskyia family a second chance. Before, I just do it all for me. This time,” she sniffled, “I just do it for you.” She smiled like a seasoned spokesmodel and looked directly into the camera. “Nike: Just Do It.”

  Dylan rolled her eyes. She felt like she was watching a sappy Lifetime movie—ads and all.

  Curling her collagen-enhanced lips into a dazzling smile, the host addressed her public. “This is Merri-Lee Marvil for The Daily Grind, coming to you from the Aloha Open. And remember, if you’re not watching, you’re not living.” She held her smile for the requisite seven seconds, then whipped the mike off her white Ralph Lauren Polo dress.

  “That’s a wrap, guys.” She stood. “That was Emmy-worthy, Svetlana. Nice job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get this off to my editor aysap.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your time.” Svetlana kissed Boris and waved goodbye. “Enjoy the nosh.”

  The rest of the crew members offered Svetlana sympathetic grins as they scurried about dismantling the set. Ignoring them, she began making her way across the grassy lawn toward the bungalows.

  “What an interview!” Dylan yelled, grabbing her LG and chasing Svetlana across the grassy lawn.

  “Thank you.” Svetlana stopped and dumped an entire box of chocolate mint Altoids in her mouth, then handed Dylan the empty metal tin.

  She gripped it hard, hoping some of Svetlana’s DNA would seep into her pores.

  “Mmmmmm.” Svetlana chewed, then blew her choc
olate mint breath straight up Boris’s tiny black nostrils. “Russia Boris loved this.”

  American Boris sneezed.

  “Question.” Dylan eagerly set her phone to record. “How did you get your braid so tight? I always have little pieces that poke out, but yours is so smooth and even.” She reached out to pet it. “Is it hair spray? Mousse? Extensions? Or a combo of all three?

  Just as Dylan’s hand was about to make contact, the tennis phenom grabbed her wrist and twisted it back down to her side. The pain was so severe Dylan dropped her phone and yelped.

  “Ehmagawd—ouch!”

  “Camera’s off, interview’s over!” Svetlana barked. Boris hissed.

  “Woah—the devil wears Puma!” Dylan took a step back and rubbed her wrist. “What about everything you said about Zen and meditation and being sorry?”

  Svetlana stared at Dylan’s mouth.

  “What?” Dylan felt her cheeks burn.

  “Are those teeth real?”

  Dylan took a step back, her heels sinking in the spongy grass. “Of course they are.”

  Svetlana swung an imaginary racket toward Dylan’s glossy mouth.

  “What are you doing?” Dylan’s ears buzzed with fear.

  “Why do you think you are worthy to touch Svetlana?” The tennis star cracked her hair-snake like a whip. “You are just loserfan, too sloppy to be an athlete and—”

  “I am nawt a fan!” Dylan shouted, her forehead starting to bead with sweat as the midmorning sun warmed the lush resort.

  “Correction.” Svetlana leaned forward until they were practically button nose to button nose. “You are a loserfan stalker!”

  Then she head-butted Dylan.

  “Ow! My skull!” Dylan grabbed her head, hearing a landline ringing inside her brain. “I think you gave me a concussion!” She whipped the empty Altoids tin at Svetlana, but accidentally hit Boris in the back left paw.

  Without looking back, she scooped up her LG, put one silver Nike in front of the other, and ran as if her teeth depended on it.

  KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB

  MEDITATION ROOM

  Tuesday, June 30

  2 P.M.

  “Ah-lo-ha!” Dylan burped that afternoon, the heavy bamboo door of the meditation room slamming shut behind her.

  Reee-owwww! Boris meowed from somewhere inside in the dimly lit chamber. Svetlana’s jaw clenched.

  She was sitting alone, legs crossed, in the center of a caramel sand–covered floor with her eyes closed. Rake marks and tiny paw prints swirled around her. The pink travertine walls oozed water, which trickled into a gardenia-filled pond that flowed along the edges of the room. Birds chirped, waves lapped, and a deep man’s voice chanted, “Ommmmm,” over and over again, thanks to the sound effects that were piped into the candlelit chamber.

  “Can we talk?” Dylan stomped over to Svetlana, leaving a Nike footprint trail in the sand.

  “Nyet.” Svetlana’s eyelids fluttered. She looked almost angelic in a white satin robe with her blond hair-snake wrapped around her head like a halo.

  “Wrong answer.” Dylan stomped. A cloud of sand puffed around her yellow pom-pom tennis socks.

  Svetlana’s eyes snapped open. “Back for seconds?” She reached out and pinched Dylan’s calf.

  “Owie!” Dylan yelped. Her skin prickled with fear and adrenaline. No way was she going to endure another head butt. 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 act.”

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

  Dylan pursed her Nars Peachy Keen–smeared 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?”

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

  “Oh yeah? Then how do you explain 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 buttons. 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.

  “I wonder what the International Tennis Association 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 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 grass, 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 with the push of a button? 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. Glass shattered everywhere, hot wax splattered across the wall, and something landed on Dylan’s head with a 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 glass 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.

  “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.

  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, Svet
lana 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 the game.”

  You?” 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?” Svetlana flared her nostrils. “How pathetic.”

  “Puh-lease! You’ve given up your entire life for a sport. How is that 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.”

  Dylan crossed her arms. “Um, your nickname is 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.”