Dylan

by Lisi Harrison

“Is that a yes?” He placed a warm hand on her shoulder, putting her sweatproof fabric to the test.

  “I’d love to, but, um, I’m playing Svetlana today.”

  “Wait. You’re friends with Svetlana?” His eyes widened and he gripped the chain-link fence.

  “Totally.”

  Behind him, the Pacific Ocean glinted in the sunlight.

  “And you play together?”

  Dylan nodded yes, as if this were something everyone wearing white had known for years.

  “Wow. You must be … Wow … Do you think I could … Wow. I mean, could I just watch you guys warm up or something?” His voice cracked a little as he ran a hand through his adorably sweaty bangs.

  “Oh, I’d love that,” Dylan lied to his hopeful smile.

  Was he more obsessed with tennis or Svetlana?

  Not that it mattered. He was the kind of guy best friends fought over.

  Dylan clutched her custom racket for strength. “Well, actually, Svetlana’s feeling a little sensitive about her serve today. And it may be better if we just, you know—”

  “Sure. Of course. I get it.” He waved the thought away like a smelly jockstrap. “But we’re still on for the Brady Erickson match tomorrow, right?”

  Yes! Maybe he did like her after all.

  But just in case, Dylan thought it best to end this before the sexy sports-model and her latest pleated mini came searching for her tardy pupil and proved Dylan wrong.

  “Yup, see you at the match.”

  “Oh, and um, one more thing,” he stammered to his Adidas.

  OMG! Was he going to ask for her phone number? The name of her favorite flower? Her hand in marriage?

  She casually wiped her clammy hands on her braid.

  “Yes,” Dylan said sweetly, hoping to fill him with the confidence he needed to finish his question.

  “Do you think you could …” He scratched his head and squinted against the bright sunlight.

  “Yes?” Dylan took an encouraging half-step forward. He still smelled like coconuts. “What is it?”

  “Do you think you could, um, wear something a little more”—he swallowed—“white?”

  Dylan’s insides gasped and her outsides blushed. “You didn’t seriously think I’d wear this, did you?” she managed. But she looked so hawt!

  He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed.

  “Puh-lease!” Dylan hate-gripped her red Swarovski crystal–-covered racket.

  “It’s not me, it’s my dad. He’s so old school,” J.T. insisted. “Personally, I like your dress.”

  “You do?” Dylan’s cheeks faded back to their natural pale state. “What about my racket?” She tilted it so the crystals caught the sun. They cast flecks of light on the thick green grass beneath their feet.

  “Love it!” He grinned.

  Love you, Dylan wanted to shout. But instead she said a quick goodbye and bounced off to Private Court One, where Svetlana was probably pace-waiting for her.

  “You are three-and-one-half-minutes late.” Svetlana tossed a fuzzy yellow ball in the air and slammed it onto the red clay court with her racket. Her blond braid whipped against her T-back tank, and the pleats on her teeny-tiny kick-skirt opened and shut accordion style. “How are you going to be pro if so lazy? And why so colorful? This is not circus.”

  But Dylan was unsinkable. Her crush was starting to crush back. And that’s what really mattered.

  “I was with J.T!” She twirled, scuffing the dusty clay.

  “Good. So we are done. Give me phone and I will erase.” She held out her callused palm and wiggled her fingers.

  Dylan jumped back. “Not a chance. I may have the look down but I still have a lot to learn. We’re going to a match tomorrow and I need to know—”

  “The junior club champion Brady Erickson?” Svetlana smashed another ball, narrowly missing a sparrow soaring overhead.

  “Yup.” Dylan twirled again, loving the feeling of the Hawaiian sun on her face. “He asked me.”

  “Dressed like that?” Svetlana snickered.

  Yes!” Dylan felt a surge of anger.

  “Hardtobelieve,” Svetlana mumbled. “Now, let’s start.”

  Svetlana stomped toward the center of the court, suddenly all business. “This is net.” She whacked the black mesh with the side of her Wilson.

  “Nyet?” Dylan giggled.

  Svetlana rolled her blue-green eyes.

  “And this is tennis court.” Svetlana kicked the clay. “This is baseline. This is ball.”

  “Got it. Now let’s move on to the advanced stuff.” Dylan squatted over the baseline, bent her knees, and wiggled her butt. “Serve it up!”

  “Oh-kay.” Svetlana jogged to the other side. She arched her back, threw the ball into the air, and swung. “Huuu-waugh!”

  Dylan squeezed her eyes shut and waved her racket wildly in all directions. To her surprise, she made contact. Only, it felt like she had slammed into a speeding Hummer.

  “Owie!” She opened her eyes, then wiggled her arm to make sure it was still attached. The clay around her was littered with red crystals.

  “Whoops!” Svetlana smiled, not looking the least bit sorry. She took another ball out of her pocket and rocked back and forth on her heels, preparing to serve.

  “Wait! Stop.” Dylan tried to lift her palm, but her shoulder rang out in pain. “I’m injured.”

  “You’ve only hit one ball.” Svetlana lowered her racket.

  Dylan feebly pulled her blackmail LG from the teeny-tiny pocket sewn into her colorful wrap dress as she stumbled over to the sideline. “Get me a masseuse, aysap!”

  Svetlana released the ball. It rolled to the side of the court and slammed up against the cool metal chain-link fence.

  Just like Dylan.

  KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB

  SVETLANA’S PRIVATE COURT

  Wednesday, July 1

  11 A.M.

  Dylan finally found the strength she needed to stand. She smoothed her skirt and caught a flattering glimpse of her toned quads. Amazing how quickly they were responding to her tennis training.

  The Hawaiian sun reflected off the clay and into her green eyes. For a moment she couldn’t see across the court, but she could hear the ball whizzing toward her. She stepped back, pivoted right, pulled her glittering racket back, and swung. Swoosh! The ball glided effortlessly over the net as she completed her gazelle-like follow-through.

  “Brilliant shot!” a male voice called.

  Male voice? Where was Svetlana?

  A cloud passed in front of the glaring sun. Dylan could see clearly now.

  The voice belonged to J.T. His dimples deepened as he grinned in respect.

  Dylan smiled her thanks. She popped a ball out of her dress pocket and whipped out her best serve. The ball shot to the exact spot that she’d hoped. Ace!

  J.T. returned it with a grunt, and they rallied back and forth, trading break points. The game was heating up, yet Dylan remained remarkably cool. Just before she could serve for match point, J.T. dropped his racket and bounded over the net.

  “You know this is my side of the court, right?” Dylan teased, her heart beating like a hummingbird’s. What was J.T. doing?

  “No, I’m pretty sure it’s mine.” He closed the gap between them, the tips of his Nikes touching her Mint Chocolate Chips.

  Ehmagawd!

  He leaned closer. Then closer … then … his Gatorade-soaked lips touched hers.

  Her first lip-kiss tasted like a melted Creamsicle, just like she’d always imagined.

  The next thing she knew, she and J.T. were walking on the beach drinking virgin Blue Hawaiis with little pink umbrellas and plastic monkeys that hung from the lips of the glasses by their curly brown tails. They crisscrossed arms and drank from each other’s straws. Then, with no warning at all, a huge burp blasted forth from Dylan’s glossy mouth.

  J.T. spit out his straw.

  “Ehmagawd, please pretend you didn’t hear that,” she blush-be
gged, contemplating diving into the surging ocean to hide her shame.

  “I can’t.” He stepped back.

  “No! J.T., wait!” Dylan felt her Blue Hawaii inching back up her throat. She couldn’t stand losing another crush to her mouth gas.

  “Eccccccchhhhhhh,” J.T. belched.

  Dylan burst out laughing, then burped again gleefully. He thought it was funny! “JAAAYYYY TEEEEEE!”

  “DYYYYYY-LAAAAAAN.” He doubled over in hysterics.

  Dylan dropped to the sand and rolled around clutching her abs, which were becoming tighter and tighter by the second.

  “You’re so awesome.” He pushed his brown highlights away from his eyes. “I can’t believe it took me two whole days to realize it. I was so wrapped up in tennis I didn’t realize my perfect match was right here in front of me.”

  Dylan searched the empty beach for a witness. Not that she needed one—this moment would be so burned in her brain she’d be able to relive it with vivid accuracy for years to come. It would be like pressing repeat on her favorite track, only better.

  “How can I make it up to you?” J.T. dropped to his knees.

  “What about a massage?” Dylan flicked off her red dress straps.

  “Did I ever tell you how much I like your outfit?” He gripped her tanned shoulders. “It’s so vibrant.”

  Dylan lowered her head, giving him complete access to her neck.

  He rubbed. “It shows you have style and confidence. Anyone can follow the herd and wear white. But you’re a leader. And that’s hot.”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. “Oh, J.T… .”

  “Who is J.T.?” snapped a woman with a terse Russian accent. “I’m Simca.”

  Dylan’s eyes flew open. The hand on her back wasn’t J.T.’s. It belonged to a big blond Amazon whose blocklike torso cast a shadow on the wall that resembled that of SpongeBob SquarePants. She was wide awake now. Gone were the secluded beach, the romantic burping contest, and her crushing-back crush. Instead, she was stretched out on her belly in Svetlana’s humid bungalow, wearing nothing but a towel. Her red braid had been tightly pinned to the top of her head and was pulling her raw scalp rawer.

  “Count to three.” Simca hoisted up Dylan’s injured arm.

  “Wait, why?” Dylan lifted her head, but Simca shoved it back down.

  “Count!”

  Dylan whimpered, “One … two …”

  Crack!

  “OWWWWWW,” she wailed.

  She buried her sweaty face in the plush towel below her face and tried to catch her breath, shoulder throbbing and heart aching.

  KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB

  ALOHA OPEN VIP BOX

  Thursday, July 2

  10 A.M.

  J.T. punched his fist in the air. “Another ace!”

  Everyone in the Dalys’ box set down their mimosas and applauded while Dylan sighed and checked her LG.

  Time: 10 a.m.

  Google Maps location: Hell.

  She and J.T. were pressed up against the window in his family’s luxury box, surrounded by John Senior’s white-wearing cronies. To the fans below they must have looked like a cluster of cotton balls jammed inside one of those glass jars.

  Not the most romantic setting or the best-dressed crowd or the coolest first-date activity, but definitely the cutest guy.

  Definitely.

  Dylan’s gloss was thick and reflective, and her long, super-straight red hair had been tightly side-braided thanks to Ingrid. She’d chosen a belted T-shirt slouch dress in bright ivory—a subtle attempt to stand out, not stick out. She’d even stuck crème brûlée–scented sneaker packs in her Forty-Loves so a waft of vanilla would follow her wherever she happened to tread.

  But for some reason, J.T. was Brady-drooling much more than he was Dylan-drooling, which made posing as a psyched-to-be-here spectator extremely difficult.

  This was even more boring than the Briarwood soccer games. At least there, the Pretty Committee would kill time gossiping and game-crushing on the players. But here, she and J.T. weren’t even allowed to whisper. Aloha rules insisted on absolute silence while the ball was in play. And thanks to Brady’s “Mach ten serve and slammin’ forehand” (J.T.’s terms, nawt Dylan’s), that ball was always in play.

  Shifting in her Forty-Loves (and emitting a pouf of vanilla), Dylan decided to use the silence rule to her advantage. She leaned in close to J.T., inhaled, and seductively whispered, “Is that Dior Homme?”

  “No, pomegranateproteinsmoothie,” he speed-whispered back, his eyes fixed on Brady as he raced to return Karl Sveningson’s powerful serve. “Ourboxattendantwillgetyouoneifyouwant.”

  “Um, no, that’s okay. I’m good.” Dylan sighed and took a sip of her Perrier.

  “Yessss!” J.T. happy-hissed, looking down at the court. “Beautiful!”

  Dylan tried to imagine he was talking about her, but couldn’t manage to convince herself. Even her fantasies knew better.

  Regrouping, she moved on to tactic number two. Petting her snake-braid, she lifted her elbow so that it grazed the side of his sweat-wicking Nike crewneck. The contact sent crush-shivers down her self-tanned arm and a shock of pain through her tender shoulder. Still, J.T. did not look away from the match. Maybe his shirt wicked away flirtatious advances as well.

  Finally, Dylan tried to watch the game with the focus of a true die-hard. It would have helped if Svetlana had loaded her up with some in-the-know phrases, but Dylan wasn’t afraid to improvise. The more she watched Brady pivot his way around the clay, the more she understood the reasons behind J.T.’s athlete crush.

  Brady’s curly black hair was tied in a mini-ponytail—an ah-dorably rebellious move for someone in such a J. Crew–-cut-loving profession—and his deep tan and sweat-slicked muscles gleamed like a patent leather Coach handbag. According to Merri-Lee’s info, he’d landed the Prince endorsement, a three-episode run on The Young and the Restless, and had been making the rounds of the talk-show circuit. But still, he was no Zac Efron. More like Adam Brody with a body. Which was far from a bad thing …

  “Ughhhh.” He grunt-whipped the ball right into the net, which shook from the force.

  “Yeah, Brady, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dylan banged loudly on the glass.

  J.T. grabbed her arms and quickly lowered them, sneaking a quick look back at his dad. “What are you doing?!”

  Dylan’s shoulder had flared up with fiery pain when he grabbed her. But so what? He was holding her wrists!

  J.T.’s pearl-clad mother shifted in the seat behind Dylan.

  “Did you see how hard he hit that?” Dylan beamed. “What a swing!”

  J.T. looked confused, like he’d been suddenly roused from a deep sleep. “Brady lost the point.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I thought you were a fan!” Dylan tried, her mind running for an explanation.

  “I am.” J.T. still looked confused.

  “Then you should support him no matter what,” she whisper-hissed, rolling her eyes for added punch.

  J.T. looked away for a moment, probably to consider this. Seconds later, a huge smile spread across his Twizzler-red lips. “Wow.”

  Score. 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? Svetlana looked like Dylan before the mind-numbing, four-hour transformation. And now it would be months before the chemicals wore off and her own curls popped back. P
ure 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 glass.

  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.

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

  Nervous heat starting pricking 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!” 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.”

  Outside, polite applause followed a loud tennis-grunt.

  “I know. That’s just our nickname for them back at the Westchester Tennis Club.”

  J.T. crossed his arms. “You look 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, 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.