Part 7 (1/2)
This time, the strings on Dylan's racket connected with Svetlana's ball. It floated away from Dylan and sailed up, up, up in the air and over the fence.
”Sah-ree!” She turned back to Svetlana, who did not look amused.
”Drop and give me twenty-five,” she barked.
”But you told me to leave my wallet in the bungalow.” Dylan pulled out her pockets to show she didn't have any cash, and a flurry of cookie crumbs dusting the courts.
”Twenty-five push-ups, Size Six Six!”
”Don't call me-”
Puuuurp.
Dylan sighed, a.s.suming the push-up position. Her palms, which were unaccustomed to carrying anything heavier than a patent leather Chloe Paddington, were not prepared to handle this much Dylan. After two feeble attempts, her elbows buckled and her injured shoulder attempted suicide. She collapsed face-first into a Nike shoe print.
”All we have to do is fake a match. This is a little much, don'tcha think?”
”You can't fake fake tennis.” Svetlana slammed her racket down on the net. ”Now, twenty-three to go.” tennis.” Svetlana slammed her racket down on the net. ”Now, twenty-three to go.”
Dylan took a deep breath, placed her palms back on the red clay, and pushed herself up twenty-three more times in the name of love.
”Now for the serve.” Svetlana pulled a ball out of her pocket and threw it at Dylan.
Miraculously, she caught the ball and began running in place like she'd seen Svetlana do before her serves.
”Weight on front foot, watch that stance, and breathe! Like this.” Svetlana tossed the ball in the air and whipped it across the court.
Dylan cheer-clapped. ”Wow, that was amaz-”
PUUURP!.
”No compliments!” Svetlana shouted. ”Now you.” She aimed a speed gun at Dylan.
Dylan, feeling thinner already, dribbled the ball a few times on the clay. She threw it toward the cloudless sky and swung her racket up to meet it. ”Huu-ahhhh!”
Pop! The ball sailed over the net. The ball sailed over the net.
”Yay! That was pretty good, huh?” Dylan beamed, reminding her mentor that the no-compliment rule did not apply to her.
Svetlana checked the speed gun. ”Eleven miles per hour. Unbelievable.”
”Almost the speed limit in a school zone. I must be a natural.” Dylan rocked excitedly on the heels of her silver Nikes.
”No, I mean it's not not believable. And we need it to be believable or no one will think you can beat me. I serve a 129. Now, again.” believable. And we need it to be believable or no one will think you can beat me. I serve a 129. Now, again.”
From the baseline, Dylan could see surfers riding the s.h.i.+mmering waves. She wanted to be on the beach taking their pictures and forwarding her Roxy moment to the Pretty Committee. Instead, she sighed and threw another ball up in the air. Imagining Svetlana's smug face on the fuzzy lime-green Wilson, she whacked it as hard as she could.
Pop!
Svetlana looked at the speed gun again. ”Not as awful.”
They practiced serves for another hour under the hot Hawaiian sun.
”Enough!” Svetlana announced.
”Finally!” Dylan dropped to her knees. ”I need some carbs and a wardrobe change.”
”Nyet.” Svetlana tossed her a pair of white patent leather stilettos with rubber traction soles. ”Put these on, Flatfoot.” Svetlana tossed her a pair of white patent leather stilettos with rubber traction soles. ”Put these on, Flatfoot.”
”Nyet way!” Dylan jumped back. ”Those aren't shoes-they're way!” Dylan jumped back. ”Those aren't shoes-they're ews ews.”
”You must. It will teach you how to stay on your toes.” She thrust the shoes toward Dylan's face.
”I have some ah-dorable snakeskin Marnis that will do the trick.” Dylan waved the nurse-gone-naughty pumps away like stinky poi. She'd heard Svetlana's mom-coach had unorthodox ways of creating the tennis terminator, but this was inhumane. ”How 'bout we break for lunch and I'll bring them for our afternoon session?”
”Marion Bartoli's papa used to tape tennis b.a.l.l.s to the soles of her feet,” Svetlana reported. ”And p.u.s.s.ycat Dolls run on treadmill wearing four-inch clogs.”
”What?”
”No what.” Svetlana dropped the offending white pumps on the court. They bounced twice, then settled by Dylan's feet. ”Do you want this J.T. to think you are good player, or do you want him to know you are Sizesix Flatfoot NoodleLeg Loserfan?”
”I said, no more names!” Dylan grabbed the heels and jammed them on her swollen feet. The patent leather was hard and unforgiving, just like Svetlana.
She stood with the awkward wobble of a newborn giraffe.
”Break's over!” Svetlana yelled from across the court, loading different-colored tennis b.a.l.l.s into the serving machine. ”Stand on baseline. Prepare to hit.”
Dylan a.s.sumed the position, doing her best to balance. But the combination of the springy sole, tough leather, and three-inch heels made her feel like she had two pogo sticks jammed through the soles of her feet. Tennis was hard enough in Nikes!
”Ready?” Svetlana pressed a b.u.t.ton and a rainbow of b.a.l.l.s shot directly at Dylan. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender.
”AAAAAAhhhhhh!” Dylan racket-blocked her face. But the barrage of b.a.l.l.s pelted her entire body and knocked her to the ground. She lay flat, spread out like a facedown snow angel.
Finally, the b.a.l.l.s stopped. Dylan managed to stand back up, her entire body stinging and throbbing.
”Ready?” Svetlana yelled, not waiting for the answer. ”Here comes red ball!”
Dylan swung but missed.
”Yellow!”
Dylan swung again and teetered. She missed the ball but didn't fall down-a victory by her standards.
”Now green!” Svetlana pressed the trigger again.
Dylan stumble-ran for the ball. She missed this one, too.
”Blue!”