Part 6 (2/2)
DYLAN'S BUNGALOW Friday, July 3 4 A.M.
Diing-donng.
Dylan curled into extreme fetal and pulled the honeysuckle-scented duvet over her head. Did her early-bird mother have to catch the worm every every morning? morning?
Diiing-donnng.
She lifted the pink silk eye mask over her limp red hair and lifted her LG. Four A.M.! Dylan lowered the mask and turned her pillow over to the cold side.
Diiiiing-donnnnnnnng.
”Maaaaa! Ca.s.sidy's here.”
”Who is Ca.s.sidy?” shouted a distant but familiar voice.
Dylan whipped off her eye mask and tiptoed out of her room. Merri-Lee was sound asleep in the master suite wearing giant Bose headphones, her silicone-filled chest rising and falling like the buoys that bobbed on the surf beneath their window.
Stumbling over the cool marble to the dimly lit foyer, Dylan reached for the door, accidentally knocking the continental breakfast menu off the handle.
”What?” She finally managed to open it.
Clad in white short-shorts and a puff-sleeved hoodie, Svetlana was tapping her foot, a silver whistle lodged between her pursed lips.
Purrrrp!
”Shhhhhh.” Dylan searched the dark, secluded grounds. Not even the happy island birds were chirping at this hour. ”What are you doing?”
”We train.” Svetlana had tied her damp, wavy hair into a high pony. ”Let's go.”
”Is this some kind of weird tennis hazing ritual or something?” Dylan grumbled. ”What about breakfast?”
PUURRRPPPPPP!.
The chain-link-fence door to the private courts slammed shut behind them, sending a reverberating clang clang through the lazy resort. The air was dark and chilly. In the distance the surf roared something that sounded like through the lazy resort. The air was dark and chilly. In the distance the surf roared something that sounded like sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . Dylan's stomach grumbled, her eyes burned, and a screeching bat was circling her tangled red extensions. Just as she was about to call it quits, Dylan considered J.T.'s Efron-esque features and quickly concluded that this would eventually be worth it. Dylan's stomach grumbled, her eyes burned, and a screeching bat was circling her tangled red extensions. Just as she was about to call it quits, Dylan considered J.T.'s Efron-esque features and quickly concluded that this would eventually be worth it.
”Surrender!” Svetlana shouted as she bear-hugged Dylan and squeezed.
”Ahhhhhh! h.e.l.llllp!” Dylan pleaded, but her morning voice was hoa.r.s.e and weak.
”Got it!” Svetlana triumphantly pulled a chocolate chip oatmeal cookie from the pocket of Dylan's yellow cotton dress. ”This is not part of the Svetlana Way! Read pamphlet!” She tossed the cookie in the air and slammed it to bits with her racket.
Dylan's stomach cried out in protest. She considered dropping and doing her best DustBuster impression when- Puuurrrrrp!
”Do like I do.” Svetlana pushed play on her Bose docking station and began darting across the court. Cla.s.sical music mashed with a thumping ba.s.s blasted at maximum volume.
Dylan stared longingly at the cookie crumbs.
”Now!” Svetlana barked from across the court. ”Or I will tell everyone you are size six six!”
”How do you know that that?” Dylan jogged lightly. ”My labels say four.”
”Winsome works for me, remember?” Svetlana smirked, clearly happy to finally have a leg up. ”This is only way to be real four!” She lifted her whistle to her lips. ”Now run, NoodleLegs!”
PUUURPPP!.
”Fine!” Dylan began sprinting, fueled at first by humiliation and then by determination. Imagine! If she became a four, she could finally tell people she was a two.
The girls ran until the rising sun turned the sky orange-like juice and marmalade and cheddar. . . .
And then Dylan collapsed on the baseline, dry heaving and pinching up cookie crumbs.
Before she was ready to stand-pop!-Svetlana hit her first serve.
”Wait! I wasn't ready,” Dylan yelled from the baseline Pop! Another ball whizzed by Dylan's diamond-studded ear. Another ball whizzed by Dylan's diamond-studded ear.
”That's two,” Svetlana called.
Pop! Dylan jumped up and swung blindly. Dylan jumped up and swung blindly.
”Three.”
”Wait, why are you counting?” She lowered her racket.
”Every time you miss a ball, there's a consequence. Clearly you didn't read about the Svetlana Way carefully enough. For that, I add five minutes of sprinting. Now go!”
Dylan blinked. ”You've got to be kidding.”
”Do you want boy or not?”
Dylan sighed and jogged to the net. She slapped its white plastic top, then headed back to the baseline-again and again and again.
The minute she was done, Svetlana wound up for her next serve.
Pop!
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