Dylan Read Online Free PDF Page B

reached inside her dress and pressed play on her LG.
    Why do you think you are worthy to touch Svetlana? You are just loserfan, too sloppy to be an athlete and—”
    “I am nawt a fan!”
    “Correction. You are a loserfan stalker!”
    “Ouch! My skull! I think you just gave me a concussion.”
    Dylan hit pause. Svetlana grinded her teeth, her dewy pink cheeks purple with rage. She muttered something in Russian that sounded a lot like “spit on your neck.”
    “Should I rewind to the part where you twisted my arm?”
    “Enough,” Svetlana demanded, clawing at Dylan’s built-in sports bra, trying to swipe the phone.
    Dylan jumped back, sending granules of sand skittering around her ankles. “Did you know I can zap this clip to
The Daily Grind
with the push of a button? Isn’t that incredible?”
    “You would not dare.” Svetlana sneered, lunging once again at Dylan’s chest.
    Dylan pulled out her LG and mimed pressing SEND. “Or maybe Nike would like to see it?”
    “Noooo!”
Svetlana bent down and whipped a votive against the pink travertine. Glass shattered everywhere, hot wax splattered across the wall, and something landed on Dylan’s head with a
thwack
. Sharp objects began ripping into her scalp.
    “Ehmagawd, I’ve been hit!” she shrieked, then reached for her head, expecting to find a tangle of glass shards, red hair, and gooey brain-blood. But instead, she slammed into a four-pound ball of kitten fur.
    “Ahhhhhhh!”
Dylan frantically tried to swat Boris off her head.
    “Reeee-owwww!”
The cat dive-bombed into the sand and scurried for the nearest corner, hissing as his paw landed in a puddle of molten wax.
    Svetlana was breathing heavily. “You will not do this to me,” she screamed, whipping another votive at the wall. Then another. And another.
    Dylan simply stepped aside, pulled her phone out, and began recording it all. She couldn’t have planned this better if she’d tried.
    After the last candle had been tossed, Svetlana dropped to her knees and ran her fingers through the sand, whisper-counting in Russian. Several calming breaths later, she stood up again and smoothed her white skirt.
    “What you want from me? An apology? Because Svetlana really didn’t mean to—”
    “I want a lot more than an apology.” Dylan tucked the phone back into the V of her dress.
    “Anything.” Svetlana pulled each one of her long, slender fingers until it cracked.
    Dylan put her hand on the bamboo door, just in case she needed to make a run for it, and then blurted, “Teachmeeverythingyouknowabouttennis.”
    “You want . . . tennis lessons?” Svetlana’s flawless forehead crinkled.
    Dylan nodded yes. “Times ten. I want to
become
the game.”
    You?”
She rolled her blue-green eyes. “Mission impossible.”
    Dylan made a move for her phone.
    “Okay, wait! Svetlana is just joking.” A tight smile cut across her face. It looked like she had poo cramps. “If you could please share why you hunger for such knowledge.”
    “Nawt that it’s any of your business”—Dylan twirled a strand of glossy red hair around her finger—“but it has to do with getting a certain crush to crush back.”
    “You do this for a
boy
?” Svetlana flared her nostrils. “How pathetic.”
    “Puh-lease! You’ve given up your entire life for a
sport
. How is
that
any less pathetic?”
    Svetlana opened her tight-lipped mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
    Fifteen-love, Dylan.
    Finally, she swallowed hard. “How many lessons must I give?”
    “Until J.T. likes me back—”
    “J.T.?” Svetlana threw back her head and laughed.
    “You know him?” Dylan’s cheeks burned.
    “Nyet.”
Svetlana quickly sobered. “But you Americans have such silly names.”
    Dylan crossed her arms. “Um, your nickname is
Sweat
.”
    “And yours is Pimple Loserfan!” Svetlana air-popped an imaginary zit.
    Dylan held up her phone and let the unspoken threat hang in the gardenia-scented air.
    “Okay, okay.” Svetlana waved