Dylan (2 page)

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
ALOHA OPEN VIP PARTY

Monday, June 29

7 P.M.

“I feel like I’m in a floral-scented snow globe,” Dylan whispered to Merri-Lee later that night.

They had just entered the massive tent on the hibiscus-lined bluff overlooking the twilit Pacific. Everywhere Dylan looked she saw white: white orchid centerpieces, white chandeliers dripping with pearls, white Mikasa china, frosted-white goblets, and, of course, white-clad tennis lovers sampling appetizers and predicting this year’s Aloha Open champions. And it was all set to the driving electronic beats of the Chemical Brothers. An odd choice for a VIP dinner, but so were sneakers.

Feeling like a total mom-glom, Dylan quickly ditched Merri-Lee in search of someone worth texting home about.

She wove through the crowd in her silver Nike Zooms, her mom’s diamond-studded four-leaf clover Chopard earrings swinging above the mesh straps of her Svetlana for Nike dress. In the absence of color and delicate fabrics, Dylan needed something that spoke to the side of her that wasn’t selling out for a crush. Never had her lids been so smoky or her pulse points more saturated in ginger-blackberry DKNY Delicious Night perfume. Her red curls had been individually glossed, and one side was pinned above her ear. A full updo would have been too sophisticated for the sporty crowd, and all down would have eclipsed her fabulously high cheekbones. For someone who had spent the majority of her day on a dehydrating airplane and then been forbidden to wear black, Dylan looked pretty darn good.

“Excuse me, miss.” A walking Abercrombie bag materialized in front of her, holding a silver tray. “Would you care for a prosciutto-wrapped melon ball in a soy and white wine reduction?”

“Given.” Dylan stabbed some melon with a toothpick and lifted it to her mouth. A slab of prosciutto fell off the ball and landed on the yellow swoosh above the hem of her skirt. “Ooops.” She flicked the oily scrap with her soy sauce–sticky fingers, leaving a dark streak on the porous material. “Why aren’t you serving all-white food? Soy is white’s worst enemy.”

Abercrombie was just offering Dylan a napkin when she spotted J.T.

“Forget about it.” She waved away the blond waiter, then hurried toward her idea of an Aloha Open trophy.

He was standing next to a giant ice sculpture of a tennis racket, shaking hands with a silver-haired couple and charming them with his dimple-flanked smile. He looked ah-dorable in his Lacoste polo and tuxedo tennis shorts, which was no easy feat.

“Awesome party,” she blurted, then immediately regretted it. Massie always told her to act aloof around boys she liked.

“Hey, you.” J.T. turned away from his geriatric audience and focused his hotness on Dylan. His floppy brown hair was pokey with product, and his navy eyes made the Pacific backdrop seem unnecessary.

“That dress is a grand slam.” He bent at the knee and mimed a forehand swing.

“Thanks!” Dylan scanned the crowed, trying to take in every detail of the night on which she was inevitably going to lose her lip-kiss virginity. But her brain must have been covered in Teflon, because nothing seemed to be sticking except J.T.’s hawtness.

“Follow me.” He grabbed her wrist and led her to a nearby table. Getting pulled through the crowd by such a total HART made Dylan forget she was wearing an athletic dress. The way everyone was envy-staring, one would have thought she was draped in Lagerfeld.

J.T. lifted two flutes of sparkling white cider off a passing tray. Dylan accepted her mocktail graciously, then fake-sipped. Bubbly anything led to burping, and unfortunately, they weren’t at that point in their relationship yet.

“So, do you surf?” Dylan consulted her mental list of “boy questions” as she strategically placed a white napkin on her soy stain.

“Nah. Tennis is way more exciting and far more demanding.”

“Ah-greed.” Dylan took another fake sip. “Do you play video games?”

“Tennis Wii is
awe
some. My friend Nick and I played for five hours last night. Get this—he actually sprained his finger trying to return my lob.” His slammed his elbow on the silver tablecloth and rested his forehead in his hand. “I mean, who does that?”

“He must be in a lot of pain.” Dylan pretended to care.

“Real pain is losing your Wii partner,” J.T. sighed. “You play?”

Dylan shook her head no. The only Wii she was interested in was her and J.T.

A long moment of silence followed. Their eyes darted around the room—and then grazed over each other for a split second. J.T. rubbed his temple. Dylan finger-twisted her hair. She searched her mind for something to say, but nothing came. She felt trapped in an episode of
The Hills
.

All she wanted to do was burp, “Like me!” But she knew it was too soon. Instead, she pretended to be distracted by the popping bubbles in her champagne flute, as if they were sending her an urgent message that demanded her immediate attention.

Beyond the tent a soft breeze rustled the palm fronds, the surf ebbed and flowed against the black sand, wide-winged birds glided across the tie-dyed sky, and speedy little lizards scuttled past their feet. It was as if Mother Nature was working her magic all over the place, except when it came to her and J.T.

“So, what else are you into? You know, other than tennis?” Dylan asked, hoping for something she could respond to in earnest.

J.T. blinked as though he didn’t quite understand the question. “Travel, I guess.”

“Seriously? I
love
to travel. I traveled here all the way from Westchester, New York.” She sat up a little taller.

“New York? No way!” He leaned closer. “Have you ever been to Ashe Stadium?”

“Come awn,
Ashe
me a hard one.” She rolled her eyes, managing to avoid admitting she had no idea what that was.

“Okay.” His eyes crackled with electricity. “Grass, clay, or hard?”

“Why choose one when you can have them all?” Dylan shrugged. Were those part of the spa package?

“Most people have a favorite surface—even Federer struggles on clay.”

“Sucks to be h—” She paused. Was this person male or female? “Sucks to be Federer.”

J.T. shook his head slowly from side to side, the corners of his red lips curled in a you’re-quite-a-piece-of-work sort of way.

But a good piece of work or a bad piece of work?
The uncertainty was making her palms itch.

“So, what’s
your
favorite quality in a girl?” Dylan asked, hoping they still had a chance, even though they had different interests. After all, David Beckham hadn’t picked Sporty Spice—he’d picked Posh. And who said lightning couldn’t strike twice?

“Well, I can tell you what I
don’t
like. My last girlfriend knew nothing about tennis. She was more into shopping,” he practically spit.

Suh-nooozer!”
Dylan blurted, surrendering to his dark blue eyes, even though shopping did seem like the best way to fight the jet lag that was tempting her to yawn in his face.

Just then, a warm breeze delivered a whiff of J.T.’s coconut-scented skin and rendered her powerless. So he was a little tennis-obsessed—she could pretend to be a size-four athlete for a week or two. How hard could it be?

“I mean, do you have any idea what it’s like to talk to someone who goes on and on about something you have absolutely no interest in?” he asked, shaking his head.

“It sounds awful.”

He looked her straight in the eye with an intensity that made her pits itch.

“My family has box seats for the Erickson-Sveningson match in three days. You should join us.”

Dylan was tempted to Tom Cruise herself onto the chair and shout, “A
ten
just asked me out!” But she speed-nodded her acceptance instead.

A warm smile spread across J.T.’s chiseled face, and Dylan had a feeling she’d be burping in front of him by sunrise.

Suddenly, a collective gasp filled the tent. J.T.’s navy blue eyes drifted to the center of the crowd and held firm on the blonde standing beneath the pearl-coated chandelier.

Svetlana Slootskyia stood petting her signature French braid as if it were a charmed snake. Her sleeveless, sequin-covered tennis cocktail dress shimmered in the setting sun, boldly announcing that she wasn’t going to hide from her scandal: in fact, she was going to shine. Her toned, tanned arms and long, slim legs more than justified her place on the cover of
Maxim
. But her narrow blue-green eyes and tight lips sent a clear message to her pervy boy-fans: “Don’t even think about it.”

As soon as everyone realized they were staring at Svetlana, the hum of voices, random bursts of laughter, and the clinking of silverware resumed immediately.

But J.T. didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

Dylan swiveled, once again following his dreamy gaze to Svetlana “IntimidatinglyprettyinternationalstarNikeendorsed
Maxim
covergirlWimbledonwinning” Slootskyia.

Reality hit Dylan like a barrage of high-speed tennis balls. When she’d met J.T. in the tennis shop, he hadn’t been calling
her
hot—he’d meant her
dress
was hot. Specifically, her Svetlana for Nike dress.

If Svetlana was Tennis Barbie, Dylan was Raggedy Ew.

The party paparazzi and several Elph-wielding fans snapped away, and Svetlana smiled graciously for each and every one of them. She didn’t look angry or dangerous, just poised and gracious as she pivoted to make sure everyone got what they came for.

But Dylan wasn’t buying it. She had read enough
Us Weekly’
s to know that rehab doesn’t work the first time.

All she had to do now was prove it.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
PAGODA

Tuesday, June 30

7 A.M.

“Cassidy, can you please do something about these waves?” Merri-Lee whipped off her headphones and tossed them onto the black director’s chair. “They’re killing my audio.”

“Um . . .” The rattled assistant hurried to the edge of the precipice and searched the turquoise ocean for a possible solution.

Ever since the alarm beeped at 5 A.M., Merri-Lee had been a nervous wreck. Was her cream-colored pantsuit white enough? Was the sky blue enough? The breeze cool enough? Her blowout full enough? Were the interview questions edgy enough? Was the cliffside pagoda charming or tacky? Did the palm trees in the background look fake? Should Svetlana recline on the pink satin couch or sit?
Orrrrr
should they lose the couch altogether and go with something more sporty? Like a treadmill? Wait! Maybe they should forget the pagoda and move the shoot to the clay court. Or would it be better for Svetlana’s new image to keep her in this Zen environment? What would Barbara do?

Dylan did what she could to reassure her mother over a pointless breakfast of hot lemon water and dry whole wheat toast points. But she had her own concerns and didn’t really give it her all. True, this interview, if done right, would put Merri-Lee in a whole new category of get-the-story telejournalists. But if Dylan could use this time to truly study Svetlana—her tennis style, her tennis lingo, her tennis elbow—she’d have a much better chance of convincing J.T. that she was just as worthy of his love as Svetlana. And in the big picture, that was much more important than this interview. After all,
The Daily Grind
featured high-profile celebs five days a week. But the chance to lose her lip virginity to a perfect ten would probably never happen again.

Dylan stepped into the pagoda. A maze of duct-taped camera wires had been stuck to the white wood floor by the crew, and Cassidy had seen to it that all of the star’s needs had been met. A mini Sub-Zero fridge had been installed to keep the spirulina detox smoothies chilled, and a Paris Hilton–free stack of
Us Weekly’
s,
OK’
s, and
Hello’
s were fanned out on the teak coffee table. Thirty packs of chocolate mint Altoids were stacked into a pyramid beside the magazines, and the flames on the Tocca candles bowed in the island breeze.

“Pickles, have a seat on the couch for a minute,” Merri-Lee said with an impatient smile. “We need a stand-in for Svetlana while we adjust the lighting.”

Dylan sat immediately. How poetic! There she was trying to
be
Svetlana and she was asked to—

Re-owwwwwww!

A gray kitty cat with haunting blue eyes leaped up from underneath a throw pillow and pounced on top of the silver fridge. It hissed at her, baring its pointy, Gillette Venus–sharp teeth.

“What the—?”

“Thank you for getting me Boris.” Svetlana extended her white bell sleeve–covered arms as she glided into the pagoda and lifted the kitty off the fridge. She held it against her Puma minidress and swayed back and forth. The silver S clips that held back her blond hair wink-reflected each time they caught the sun.

“Is he
yours
?” Dylan stood, more out of nervousness than respect.

“Nyet.”
Svetlana shook her head no just in case Dylan didn’t understand Russian. “
My
Boris is trapped in Moscow. Your president will not allow him to enter this country without quarantine. So I have Boris look-alikes until we are together again.” She squat-pivoted next to the fridge and pulled out two green spirulina-soy lattes. “Have.”

Unsure whether that was a question or a command, Dylan politely accepted.

“There’s my little superstar,” Merri-Lee gushed.

Dylan rolled her eyes. Her mother was constantly embarrassing her with silly nicknames and—

Merri-Lee pulled the tall blonde into a suffocating hug.

Oops
.
Wishful thinking.

“Mom-Coach sends these for you and delightful assistant Cassidy.” Svetlana looked from Merri-Lee to Dylan and held out a red, heart-shaped tin containing black-caviar pierogi-and-cheese blintzes dipped in Valrhona chocolate.

Dylan almost choked on her green smoothie. “I am
nawt
her assistant—I’m her daughter.”

“Really?” Svetlana studied them for a moment, then stroked Boris’s tiny gray head. “You look like sisters.”

“Did you hear that, Dylly?
Sisters!
” Merri-Lee lost herself in a fit of hysterics, her smile lingering long after the laughter faded.

On the outside, Dylan grinned with faux amusement. But on the inside, she imagined herself on the black beach below, tanning next to J.T. as the cobalt blue waves lapped against the shore. In this particular fantasy, he was feeding her BBQ Baked Lay’s, admiring her curves, and begging her to tell him funny stories about the Pretty Committee. Oh, and she was
not
wearing white.

“Where
is
the charming Olga?” Merri-Lee glanced over Svetlana’s shoulder.

“Mom-Coach could not be here. She is checking clay courts for dents.”

“Well, thank her warmly for me.” Merri-Lee quickly unloaded her nosh on a member of her lighting crew. “I’m so thrilled to have you here.” She clapped as if she and Svetlana were off to their first Kappa Kappa Gamma social. “Please, have a seat.”

Svetlana sat on the pink satin couch, knees firmly together. Dylan climbed up on the black director’s chair just outside the pagoda and snapped her knees together too.

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 chocolate 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.