Free Dylan by Lisi Harrison Page A

The split had split.
    “It’s all for better,” the voice boomed. This time there was no mistaking the thick accent or gruff delivery.
    Svetlana was perched on the edge of the bed, stroking Boris, who was purring in her lap. She mowed her square nails through his fur, from butt to head, making it spike up like a Mohawk. A can of ginger ale was in her other hand.
    “What are
you
doing here?” Dylan shot up in horror. The uneven bamboo slats on the headboard dug into her throbbing back and woke her pain, taking it from a seven point five to a raging nine.
    “Open.” Svetlana poked the bendy straw between Dylan’s cracked lips, then crossed her legs. She was wearing J Brand pencil-leg jeans and a blue and red striped Vince tank. Her blond hair was in a loose side-pony that overflowed with deep-conditioned curls. She looked like a regular girl. “Sip.”
    Dylan found the cold fizz invigorating and drained the can in a single gulp.
    “Thanks,” she whisper-burped. But her relief was temporary. All of a sudden her heart thumped in a post-espresso sort of way and her skin prickled with the sting of adrenaline. “My phone!” She patted down her thighs like a frisking cop. “Where’s my . . .” The hard rectangular object digging into her hip meant it was right where she left it, in her side pocket. “Oh.”
    Thank Gawd!
She pulled it out and gripped it between her stiff fingers.
    “You know,” Svetlana said, tracing the beading on a ruby red Indian silk throw pillow, “I was not always this perfect. I had hard times training too.”
    Boris yawned. Dylan rolled her eyes.
    “Back in Russia, when I was six-year-old, Mom-Coach would pull me off cot at four in morning so we could claim public court before anyone else. This court had no room behind baseline, so if I swung wide I’d smash wall and break flesh. Then blood from my knuckles would freeze from cold.” She showed Dylan her scars. “But Mom-Coach made me stick with it. It was our way out.”
    Dylan imagined little Svetlana in the dark winter mornings, bashing her fists into the cracked concrete while her frozen baby braid stabbed her hypothermic cheeks like an ice pick.
    “So I didn’t think today’s lesson was hard. Because for me, spacious court in hot Hawaiian sun with proper-fitting shoes seemed easy.”
    “Um, your cookie-covered Nikes should prove it was the opposite of
easy
.”
    “Nyet.”
Svetlana placed Boris on the marble floor and dabbed her tearing eyes with the bottom of her tank top. “Opposite of
easy
is when Mom-Coach would chase me on Vespa, making me run ten miles every day in bitter cold along Neva River. I ate nothing but hard-boiled eggs and bread for eleven years. Friends, school, boy crushes, colorful clothes—I never had time.”
    Dylan sighed, remembering that horrible afternoon in the sixth grade when she gave up carbs. Her energy had been super-low, and she’d snapped more times than a Splendid button-front cardigan. And what if she didn’t have Massie’s Friday night sleepovers to look forward to? Or the Pretty Committee’s GLU meetings? Or gossip points? Or crushes? Or shopbop.com?
    “It can’t possibly be worth it.” Dylan siphoned the excess ginger ale from the straw. “Why didn’t you tell Mom-Coach you wanted to stop?”
    Svetlana shrugged. “Every time I wanted to quit, I’d imagine winning and having money so family could move to America, get heated home, and train in real facility. It was only way that pudgy little six-year-old was going to make it to Wimbledon. And once I did, I—”
    Dylan crushed the empty can. “Wait, rewind. You were
fat
?”
    “Da. Svetlana could pinch an inch.” She placed her hand gently on Dylan’s duvet-covered knee. “See? You and me—we are not so different.”
    “Why? You think
I’m
fat?” Her cheeks burned with trepidation.
    Svetlana shook her head dismissively, as if that was so not the point. “When I made it to Wimbledon, I
had
to win. Not only for me, or