Swimming to Tokyo (10 page)

“The look?”

“You know. The look people get when you tell them the worst thing that ever happened to you. That combination of pity and fear. Like they feel bad but at the same time they hope you’re not going to tell them too much.”

“I know that look.”

I nod and meet his gaze. “I figured.”

Finn raises his eyebrows at me. “How so?”

“You didn’t do it. When I told you about my mom the other night on the train, you didn’t give me the look.” I drain the rest of my coffee. “We should go. The line is out the door.”

Finn signals for the bill. While we’re waiting, he has an expression on his face I don’t know how to read at all. I’m about to blurt out a “what?” when he says, “Most people can’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Just leave it out there. They want to know what happened.”

“No, they don’t. Not really.” My voice is flat. Of all things, I’m certain of this.

I slip some yen out of my wallet. Finn reaches for his and I put my hand out. “This is my treat, remember? I owe you.”

His hand hovers over mine. “I think I like you owing me.”

“Why’s that?” I place the money on the tray, and the waitress comes to whisk it away for change.

“It’s going to be a long, hot summer. How else am I going to lure you out with me if not because you owe me money?”

I laugh, although it’s a laugh of surprise, not because I think it’s funny. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“That was definitely my best shot.” He’s not laughing. Smiling a little, but definitely not laughing.

“No, it wasn’t. Promise you’ll tell me someday. What happened.” It comes out as banter. I don’t realize until I say it how much I really mean it. How much I want to know.

The noise in the café screams across the silence between us. When he speaks, his tone is careful. “That’s a big promise.”

I said the word without thinking. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t promise, and I’m insane if I think he’s going to promise
that
.

His jaw relaxes just a little. “It’s a lot of sightseeing. A lot.”

I cross and uncross my fingers underneath the table. “I really like sightseeing.”

“It’s hotter than hell.”

“I won’t melt,” I say.

A hint of a smile comes back. “And it’s monsoon season.”

“I’m a very good swimmer.”

“Okay.” He says it again for good measure. “Okay. I promise.”

I can’t believe he’s agreed. “Just like that?”

He nods and purses his lips. “Just like that.”

But somehow I know from the way he holds my eyes and won’t let go, there’s no “just” about it. Not at all.

D
ad leaves for work at 7:10. Later than he did in Westfield, but still way too early for us to talk in passing. I usually sleep in until I hear Takahashi-san next door start vacuuming. Some days she starts early, but today I get to sleep until after ten. I wonder what goes on in her apartment that she has to vacuum every day, but a few days ago I saw her walking three kids back from school, so maybe that explains it.

As I wait for the kettle to boil, I scan the
Japan Times
Dad’s left on the kitchen counter. News about jobs, the economy, the strength of the yen. Things I probably should be interested in, but I’m not. Just as I’m about to close the paper, a small ad catches my eye for a shop called Nadia in Harajuku, featuring unique affordable clothing. There’s a tiny map, showing Harajuku station and a star for the shop a few streets over from the Harajuku Police Station. It actually looks easy to find, which either says something about the map or something about how my navigation skills have improved. Not that they were bad, but since most streets in Japan don’t have names, I’ve become a lot more adept at using—and remembering—landmarks to get around.

I’ve been wanting to go to Harajuku. It’s supposedly
the
trendy area of Tokyo and, hands down, the best place for people watching and shopping. For a minute, I consider texting Finn to see if he wants to go, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be into clothes shopping, no matter how unique it is. Plus, even though he and I have been hanging out these past couple of weeks, I texted him yesterday about going to the Tokyo National Museum and I don’t want to be pushy.

I shower quickly and then dress in the most New York thing I own: a vintage black A-line skirt, an Andy Warhol T-shirt, and my bright yellow Converse. I pile a bunch of rubber bracelets on my arm and tie my hair back with a fuchsia ribbon, and when I take a look in the full-length mirror on my closet door, I nod in approval. Mindy would definitely say I’m East Village-worthy; I’ve got to be cool enough for Harajuku.

It’s raining a little—not enough for an umbrella, but enough so that by the time I get to the train station, I have to blot my face with the handkerchief I carry with me everywhere. If anyone had told me a month ago I’d be carrying a flowery cotton handkerchief around in my bag at all times, I would’ve said they were insane. But I would’ve thought they were insane if they told me I wouldn’t leave the house without Mom’s old school bag, too. Her dark green rucksack is bulky and frayed around the edges, but it’s become my everyday purse/bag/catchall. The cute tiny purse I had in Westfield doesn’t cut it when a day out requires a wallet, camera, phone, and rail pass—and those are just the basics.

I open a box of Pocky once I step into the air-conditioned train. Since it’s midday, the only other people on here are the
obasans
and the housewives, and they don’t mind my eating, although a kid in a stroller looks like he’d dive for the chocolate-covered biscuits if he wasn’t strapped in. I know it’s considered bad form to eat on the train, in general, although when it’s not crowded, it seems okay. Still, I’m careful, making sure not to get crumbs on the seat or leave behind any cellophane.

When we stop in Harajuku, I’m the only person who gets off the train from my car, but the platform is crowded and I join the stream of people heading for the stairs. A quick glance to my left and right confirms my fashion choice. The girl to my right wears an oversized white-printed dress and green knee socks, with a spiked blue collar around her neck. To my left, a pink-haired guy climbs the stairs in leather shorts and a shiny black vest. Ahead, I even see a tall blond girl and another redhead.
Gaijin
for sure, or at least the redhead is judging by the freckled skin poking out of her sleeves.

At first I wonder if I could catch up to them, but I hold back once I get to the top of the stairs until they’re out of sight. Even though I wouldn’t mind confirming directions, I don’t want them to ask to tag along and then have to make the small talk that’s expected when you meet someone else who speaks English. As Mindy and, more recently Finn, point out, this is actually part of making friends and lots of people look forward to this kind of conversation. I’ve told both of them that it’s not that I don’t look forward to it, but I’m never going to call anyone a friend on the basis of where we’re both from.

Except Finn. At least at first. He was offended when I flippantly said we were hanging out because we knew each other before. We were at the Tokyo Skytree, climbing up escalators, so I couldn’t see his face for most of our conversation. Which, in retrospect, was probably for the best.

“So you’re saying we wouldn’t be friends unless we were here?” he asked.

“Um, we weren’t exactly friends before we were here, you might recall?” I said.

“I explained that to you.” He sounded exasperated, like he was talking to a little kid.

“I was there, thanks. And it proves my point.”

“So we’re time-and-place friends?” His tone was neutral, but it felt deliberate, like he had his own opinion and was waiting to see what I said first.

“I don’t know. Time will tell, right?”

We stepped off the escalator. From floor five, there was an elevator for the three hundred and forty floors to the observation deck, and we joined the line of tourists waiting to rocket to the top. Finn didn’t look at me as he said, “Yeah, time will tell.”

I felt bad, but then we were whisked into an elevator and up over Tokyo, where we stuck to conversation about the views and the way we both felt queasy after that elevator ride. I thought about bringing it up again, but I couldn’t think of how to backpedal without telling him I never thought of him as a possible friend because the only way I thought of him at all was in relation to possibly kissing him. I never imagined actually getting to know him.

I let out a small sigh as I exit Harajuku station. That was a week ago and I’ve seen Finn four times since then. The more time we spend together, the more he feels like a real friend. Like Mindy, but twenty times hotter. And okay, he’s a real friend I think about kissing, but still.

I’m so busy mentally—and quite possibly physically—rolling my eyes at myself that I walk right into a girl with giant Mickey Mouse ears on.

“Oh,
sumimasen
!” I say quickly.

“
Mondainai
.” The girl looks at me and continues slowly. “Do you speak English?”

I nod, and she smiles and puts her hand over her heart like she’s about to say the Pledge of Allegiance. “I practice my English with you?”

“Um…okay?” I’m not sure what to say. The girl is tiny and she looks about twelve, but then I see a cigarette dangling from her fingertips.

She notices my glance and drops it, grinding it under the heel of her black sandal. “You are American? Americans no smoke, yes?”

“Um…some do. I don’t. But it’s okay if you do. I guess. I mean…” I stop. Her brow has furrowed so much that her nose has joined in and she looks like a chipmunk.

“My English is poor. Please speak slowly?” She says this carefully, but with a confidence that comes from saying it many times before.

Right. My rambling isn’t doing her any favors. “I am going to Nadia. Do you know it?” I make sure my enunciation is clear and slow.

She nods eagerly. “Yes. My friend has this shop. I take you?”

“Uh…” I pause. What I really want to say is,
I kind of want to go by myself. If you could just point me in the general direction, I’m sure I’ll find it
. What I say instead is, “Sure. Thank you.”

She beams and gives me a small bow before turning to the right. Maybe it is a good thing she’s willing to take me. I would’ve turned left for sure.

“Do you live in Japan?” she asks. I have a sudden image of her in language class practicing conversational phrases.

“
Hai
. Yes. I am here for the summer.” I should ask a question in return, but I’m distracted. The streets are packed with young people. No one looks older than me, although I’m clearly a terrible judge of age. There are lots of people dressed in normal clothes, even a few dark suits of salarymen. But then there’s the rest of the crowd who look like they’re going to a sexy costume party.

Ms. Mickey Mouse Ears tugs lightly on my bag and points to a small street. “We go this way.”

“Is Harajuku always like this?” I ask her, after brushing by a girl and a guy wearing matching thigh-high white boots.

“Like this? Many people?”

No. That’s not what I mean. I mean so many people all in one place, trying to stand out and make a statement. But there’s no way I have the English or the Japanese for that so I just shrug. “Sort of.”

She nods like I was actually able to articulate what I meant. “Japanese. We are a groupful people. Harajuku is more…one?”

“Individual?” I offer. She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t know the word. “One: individual. Many: group.”

“
Ah, so, so, so. Arigato
.” She claps her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. English.”

I smile and we continue this way down the street and through at least three more quick turns, with her describing something and me giving her the English word for it. By the time we’ve arrived at Nadia, we’ve gone through words for stereo, mafia, and sugar daddy. I’ve also found out her name is Meriko and she studies English at “university,” although her major is something else I don’t understand. I think it’s medicine or engineering, but the Mickey Mouse ears don’t give me confidence in either.

She pushes the door to the small shop and calls out to the girl behind the counter in rapid Japanese. Meriko’s Japanese is so fast, the only thing I really understand is “American.” The girl darts out and bows slightly in front of me. She wears a floor-length bright green maxi-skirt and a white halter-top that exposes a sliver of her stomach.

Meriko gestures to her. “This is Akiko. It is her shop.”

Akiko doesn’t look much older than Meriko, which makes me doubt she owns the shop, but you never know. “What can I help you with?” Akiko asks in perfect English. If I had to guess, I’d say her accent is Australian.

“I’m just looking really. I saw your ad in the
Japan Times
, and I thought it would be a great excuse to come to Harajuku,” I say.

Akiko laughs. Her teeth are dark; they almost look gray. I’ve seen this with lots of Japanese people, although I don’t know why. Smoking, maybe? Crappy dentists? Whatever the reason, Akiko’s still prettier when she smiles. “You don’t need an excuse to come to Harajuku. There’s always a party going on here, right?”

She looks at Meriko who perches on a small stool, watching our conversation like a tennis match. I’m pretty sure Meriko has no idea what we’re actually saying, but before I can say anything, Akiko fires off something in Japanese that has Meriko nodding.

“You have boyfriend?” Meriko asks me when Akiko finishes.

I look between the two of them. What on earth did Akiko just say? “Um, no. Definitely not.”

“But there’s a guy, right?” Akiko says this like it’s a given and starts pulling clothes off a nearby rack. “There’s always a guy, whether you know it or not. You looking for date clothes or just casual, hanging-out clothes?”

I think about protesting again, but then I think of Finn. There’s definitely a guy.

“I don’t know. Either? I don’t have any dates, but…”

“A girl’s got to be prepared. You look cute.” Akiko studies my legs, boobs, and hair in that order before pulling a green tank top off the rack. “Let’s see if we can do sexy.”