Swimming to Tokyo

S
WIMMING
T
O
T
OKYO

B
RENDA
S
T
J
OHN
B
ROWN

Copyright © 2014 by Brenda St John Brown

Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

Spencer Hill Contemporary / Spencer Hill Press

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA

Please visit our website at
www.spencerhillpress.com

First Edition: July 2014
Brenda St John Brown
Swimming to Tokyo/ by Brenda St John Brown – 1st ed.
p. cm.

Summary: While spending a few months in Tokyo, a young woman reconnects with a guy from back home and learns that love, letting go, and language lessons make for an unforgettable summer.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: 7-Eleven, Band-Aid, Bed, Barbie, Bath & Beyond, Betty Boop, Benadryl, Chapstick, Citibank, Coke, Doritos, eBay, Facebook, Gap, Girl Scout cookies, Google, Gundam, Instagram, M&Ms, Mentos, Mickey Mouse, Neosporin, Nike, Old Navy, Photoshop, Pocky, Pyrex, Rosetta Stone, ShopRite, Skype, Smurf, Starbucks, Tampax, Target, Trader Joe’s, Transformers, Twitter, Tylenol, Walgreens

Cover design by Christa Holland (Paper & Sage Design)
Interior layout by Jenny Perinovic

ISBN 978-1-939392-34-3 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-939392-33-6 (e-book)

Printed in the United States of America

To everyone who’s ever gotten lost in a book only to find themselves in the pages
.

I
wipe my nose on the sleeve of my T-shirt, right across the pink Nike swoosh. Disgusting, but it can’t be helped.

Neither can my groveling.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Alvarez. I just…I have to be at school and then I have swimming and study group, and Babci is supposed to take her prescription at lunch and dinner and I won’t even be home until seven.” Ugh. I sound like a pleading Brainy Smurf. “I must have dropped the money when I was running. I’ll come back. It’s fine.”

Although it is so not fine. It’s already 7:45 and I have to be in North American Lit in forty minutes. And I’m still sweating, which means there’s no hope of taming my hair into submission with the blow dryer. I didn’t want to pull it back today. Not with this flaming red nose and my eyes glazed like I’m on something way stronger than Benadryl. Damn allergies. I should’ve known not to go running with everything in full bloom.

“Zosia, can your dad pick it up? Maybe, before he leaves for work?” Mrs. Alvarez peers at me over her glasses from behind the cash register like she thinks this is an actual possibility. The red “W” of the Walgreens sign behind her sticks up from behind her head like horns.

I shake my head. “He takes the 6:19 these days.” Taking the 6:19 AM New Jersey Transit commuter train into Penn Station and the 8:24 PM back home means he can avoid the rush. It also means he’s basically MIA for fifteen hours a day. Since Babci moved in, he relies on her for whatever supervision I require, even though she’s supposed to be “convalescing.” His word, not hers. Regardless, having my grandmother there makes his life easier. Gives him more time to focus on work and whoever phoned late Saturday night calling him “sweetheart.”

But that’s another thing completely.

I pick up the crumpled, soggy slip from the counter and shove it back in my pocket. “Okay, five dollars coming up. I’ll be back.”

“I can spot you five bucks if you want,” says a deep male voice behind me.

“Oh my God. Thank you.” I’m grateful before I even know who it is. And then I turn and my mouth hangs open as Finn O’Leary pulls a five-dollar bill from his wallet.

Seriously. Finn O’Leary.

The guy I’d stalk, if I were the stalking kind.

Finn holds the money out for me, but when I don’t take it, he sets it on the counter. I realize from the smile growing on his face I’m still staring at him. With my red face, frizzy hair, and streaming nose. I fumble the slip of paper back out of my pocket. “Thank you. Um, thanks. That will save me a trip. I’m, um, running late, so, thanks.”

Finn’s smile is wide now. He has a very good smile. In addition to a killer set of biceps. Which are on display as we speak, straining ever so slightly against the dark-blue T-shirt he’s wearing. “Yeah. I got that. No problem.”

I pray he can’t see the blush creeping up my cheeks. Although from the way Mrs. Alvarez tries not to laugh, it’s obvious she can. She takes the money and hands me the small paper bag. “Here you go, then. Have a good day, Zosia.”

Finn’s eyebrows go up. Almost everyone calls me Zo or Zoe. Not that Finn’s ever called me anything.

“Thanks again. I’ll, um, pay you back,” I promise.

He shakes his head. “It’s five bucks. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, really. I can’t just let you give me money.”

“Buy me a coffee or something next time I’m in town. It’s no trouble.” He grins at me and gives Mrs. Alvarez his last name. He’s picking up a prescription, too? Is he sick? He doesn’t look sick. In fact, I’d say he looks just fine. I stay rooted to the gray tile floor for ten seconds until I realize they’ve both turned back to stare at me, and I bolt down the nearest aisle filled with feminine products. Of course. Because clearly if Finn ever gives me a second thought, the picture in his head should include Tampax.

As I shower, I alternately wonder what Finn’s doing back in town and why he’s at Walgreens before 8:00 AM. Because it’s a lot easier to wonder why he’s in Westfield than to wonder if he really wants me to invite him for coffee or if he was just being polite.

I am hopeless. Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless.

No wonder my most recent boyfriend only lasted a month. Damn Matt Cooper. It still pisses me off to see him, although that probably has less to do with our failed relationship and more to do with the fact he went right back to his old girlfriend, Nancy, two days after I dumped him. Jerk. My best friend Mindy says I have no right to be mad. I dumped him, after all. She’s probably right, but it’s the principle of the thing.

I pull on jeans and a blouse and stick a chopstick through the pile of hair on top of my head. It’s still damp underneath, so it will be a giant frizz ball later, but there’s nothing I can do about that except grab a silky scarf from my bedpost before I fly down the stairs in case I need to tie my hair back later. I’d be better off bringing a baseball cap or, better yet, one of those winter ski hats that cover my whole face, season be damned. Deal with hair and allergies in one go.

“
Dzień dobry
.” Babci doesn’t look up from
The Today Show
as she greets me in Polish when I run into the kitchen.

“Morning,” I answer in English through a mouthful of toast she’s left waiting on the counter for me. Babci’s adamant about me eating breakfast, and it’s easier to do it than to argue with her.

“I have swimming and a study group after school, but I should be home by seven.” I pick up the paper bag from Walgreens. “Here are your antibiotics. The doctor said for this week you’re supposed to take one twice a day and then you can go back to just with lunch. Promise me you’ll remember to take it.”

She grunts, fixated on Matt Lauer interviewing a girl who escaped a bear attack in Montana. I stand in front of the TV, waving the bag. “
Ten. Wy będziecie brać to, tak
?”
This. You’ll take it, yeah?
I talk to her in Polish this time. If I’m going to interrupt her program, I’d better.

She reaches for it. “
Dzi
ę
kuj
ę.”
Thank you
. Not exactly a confirmation.

“Babci, seriously. The doctor said the cut on your arm from when you fell is infected, and you don’t want to make it worse. You need to take this, yeah?” For some reason, when I speak to her at least half of what I say ends in a question. But it doesn’t hide the exasperation in my voice.

“I know. Don’t worry. You sound terrible. Are you sure you should go to swim practice?” The V between her brows deepens now that she’s looking at me. I helped her dye her hair last week, almost the same red as mine, and her wrinkles stand out so much more than they do when she lets her hair go gray.

“It’s just a cold. I’m fine.”

This isn’t an answer, but she lets it slide. “Do you want meatloaf for dinner? Your father said he’ll be home tonight. He has news, apparently.”

“What kind of news?”

Babci shrugs. “I didn’t ask. But if he’s home, we’ll have a proper meal.”

“As long as I don’t have to eat beets, anything is good, yeah?” I make a face and Babci scowls.

My dislike of beets has long been a point of contention between me and my very Polish grandmother, who practically considers beets their own food group. The only way I’ll eat them is raw and grated in a salad, which is practically unheard of in Queens where Babci normally lives. But three weeks ago she fell off the curb, banged up her arm, and sprained her ankle, so she’s living with us in Westfield until she recovers. Which, to hear her talk about it, is the one thing New Jersey is good for.

“Your mother turns in her grave when you say that.” This is her standard response, which most people find appalling. Because you don’t joke about the dead mother, even if it’s been three years and even if Babci’s actually not kidding. My mother tried really hard to get me to like beets before she gave up, citing my father’s American influence. I think it was a matter of realizing that at least I liked sauerkraut and sometimes you have to pick your battles.

“Mom isn’t even in a grave.” This is also my standard response. Mom wanted to be cremated and her ashes spread over the Hudson River and the Vistula in her native Poland, so that’s where she is. Forever floating.

I glance at the clock. 8:13. Twelve minutes until I’m officially late. Again. “I’ve got to go. But I’ll see you and Dad tonight, yes?”

Babci nods and waves, already sucked back into Matt Lauer’s smile. I scoop up my backpack with my bike helmet and hop on my old mountain bike propped outside the door, pedaling down the street past the colonials and Cape Cods neatly in a row. Union Community College is exactly two miles from my house, and usually I can make it in ten minutes. Although today I haven’t timed it right and need to wait for the 8:21 train to pass, which makes me late.

Much to the dismay of Professor Kerr, who gives me a disapproving look when I slide into my seat. Every other prof at UCC is lax about time, except, of course, the adjunct who teaches my early class. He gave us a whole lecture on day one about how timeliness equals respect. Maybe, maybe not. For me, being late has nothing to do with respect and everything to do with the fact his class starts stupid-early.

“Nice of you to join us, Ms. Easton.”

I nod and open my book. We’re reading
Cat’s Eye
by Margaret Atwood. Not my favorite, but better than Ernest Hemingway. Professor Kerr nearly spit out his coffee when I said that the other day, which is pretty much how my class participation in English normally goes. Mom always said books were the windows to the world, but my world has always been more about numbers than words.

“Ms. Easton, do you find Cordelia sympathetic?” Professor Kerr asks.

I glance at the page I’ve opened to at random, as if the answer will be there, even though I know it’s a question meant to generate discussion and I won’t
find
the answer. I’m supposed to
know
it.

“Um,” I stutter. “I think she’s a classic mean girl, so no. I don’t feel sorry for her, if that’s what you mean. But if you mean is she also a victim, then yes. I think she is.”

“A victim?” Professor Kerr looks at me, puzzled, and my heart drops. I feel like giving in, telling him I read it wrong, although I know he’ll tell me there’s no
right
answer.