Free Dylan by Lisi Harrison

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 balls to the soles of her feet,” Svetlana reported. “And Pussycat 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 balls into the serving machine. “Stand on baseline. Prepare to hit.”
    Dylan assumed 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 button and a rainbow of balls 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 balls pelted her entire body and knocked her to the ground. She lay flat, spread out like a facedown snow angel.
    Finally, the balls 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!”
    The balls came faster and faster, and Svetlana yelled louder and louder.
    “Purple!” But she could barely swing anymore.
    “Let’s go, you size six . . .”
    Dylan could see Svetlana’s lips moving as she yelled, but all she could hear was a loud buzz. Her arms prickled with heat and her mouth felt like it was wrapped around a blasting hair dryer. She dropped her glittery racket and signaled
T
for time out before collapsing on the hot clay.
    “Get up!” Svetlana called somewhere in the distance. “Up, up, up . . .”
    But the only thing that rose were the illegal oatmeal chocolate chip cookie crumbs. They came up, up, up . . . all over Svetlana’s white Nikes.
    “Ani-maaaal!” Svetlana roared, kicking off her shoes.
    Beads of something wet trickled down Dylan’s cheeks. She was so spent she couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears or leftover puke.
    Finally, as she lay helpless on the steamy ground, she called out for something white. It was the flag of surrender. And in her buzzing brain she was waving it.
    Hard.
    KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
DYLAN’S BUNGALOW
    Friday, July 3
    2 P.M.
    Dylan was wrapped up like a spicy tuna hand roll in her 100-thread-count duvet, longingly eyeing a banana split as it floated toward her dry mouth. Placed in the center of a shiny silver tray, it was surrounded by an aura of fuzzy light as if it had been sent from heaven just for her. Just as the angel—dressed in a burgundy room service uniform—set it down on the table next to the bed, a callused hand with square-tipped acrylic French-manicured nails waved it away.
    “She’ll have ginger ale,” a commanding voice instructed.
    The angel and her tray turned abruptly and headed for the door.
    “Wait . . .” Dylan mumbled feebly.
    But it was too late.