Wimbledon Dreams

By Carolyn Chambers Clark

Like young adult sport stories that take you someplace you've never been before? Maybe you want a flavor of London and their slang, tennis, Wimbledon, or romance? If you answered yes to any of these...this book's for you.

Sixteen-year-old Sarah Jane Witherspoon would sooner date a toad then live in London her junior year, but when her father takes a teaching job there, she and mother and brother are forced to follow. Can she get in with the in-crowd, actually meet the Queen, and find the boy of her dreams?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Chambers Clark
• Release date: Oct 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465917829

Carolyn Chambers Clark

Carolyn Chambers Clark is a board-certified advanced holistic nurse practitioner with a master's degree in mental health nursing and a doctorate in education. She is a faculty member in the Health Services Doctoral Program at Walden University, and she hosts http://home.earthlink.net/~cccwellness and http://HolisticHealth.bellaonline.com.

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Wimbledon Dreams

copyright 2011. Carolyn Chambers Clark & Anthony Auriemma

SMASHWORDS edition

For your personal reading use only

Chapter 1

My father informs me on the way to the airport there are ten myths about London that aren't true, but everyone believes they are.

It doesn't really rain any more in London than it does in New York, he says from the front seat of the taxi, putting on a big smile as if that will make up for ripping me away from my friends to spend a year in England.

Oh, really? I say, pretending to act bored, when really I'm terrified about going to a new school where I don't know anybody and I have no idea how to speak their language. Sure, it's English, but an entirely different brand than we speak.

Yes, Mom chimes in, like they're singing a duet.

Thank goodness, they don't have time to tell me the other nine myths. They might start singing operettas if they did. Instead, our cab pulls up in front of the airport and I jump out and pretend to be studying a woman carrying a large suitcase wrapped in cling film.

Mom shoos us inside and Dad lines us up like we’re in the Army. Let's find the right gate. Get out your passports.

What'll happen if I don't show my passport? Maybe they'll send me home. I cross my fingers, even though I know it won't work.

Dad glares at me. If you'd like to spend the night in jail for trying to enter another country illegally, go ahead.

I reach into my bag and fake looking for my passport. You mean I have to actually show someone that photo they took of me? My hair's a mess and I look sixteen.

You are sixteen, genius. Josh rolls his eyes.

I pinch him on the arm and say proudly, Almost seventeen.

Dad waves his passport at us. All right, kids. Enough of that. Help me find our departure gate.

We finally find the right gate and then we have to stand in line behind two old people who only talk about how bad they have to go to the bathroom, which countries have awful toilet paper, and whether they ordered a special meal on the plane or not.

Sarah Jane. My mom calls out to me, and points to the counter where the clerk is making a sour face like we've kept him waiting for days.

We finally get onto our plane and the ride over is okay. The two older people who were ahead of us in line are way in the back and I only get to see them when I go to the bathroom. They’re still talking about toilet paper.

When the wheels touch down, I sigh with relief. So does Mom. We all try to pile out at once, but when I stand up, my legs feel like wood blocks. Somehow I get moving and we finally find our way out into the terminal from the gate. Once I get inside, the lights and noise wake me up, and I want to stop and call Mitts, but Mom says not now.

Then I see the Burger King and Pizza Express and all I can think of is eating—until I see the other shops. Then I want to rush inside them and buy all the shoes I can find. Dad stops me and drags me to the exit and we tumble into a taxi.

We arrive in London in pitch black. Couldn't we have timed this a little better, Dad? Where is London Bridge? Where is Trafalgar Square? I've been Goggling sights to see, so I can wow my folks with my knowledge.

Dad yawns and refuses to answer my questions. We're here, that’s all that counts. Isn't it great?

From the taxi I look out over the city lights. It does look pretty cool. Better than thirty below in Wisconsin anyway. But it’s still not home, and I can’t help worrying about how much I’m going to hate being here.

Chapter 2

This can’t be the place. Is this their house? The cab driver stops and I look up at the three-story stone structure with ivy creeping all over it. I even spy a formal garden that looks like something out of Alice in Wonderland.

Josh stares out his window. Wow, they're going to think our house is a rat trap.

Not at all. My dad says as he pays the driver and we all scramble out of the taxi. We have a perfectly fine house with more heat per square inch then they're used to.

My dad has the front door key at the ready and we wait for him to figure out the lock before we push inside. My mom and dad oh and ah about a basket of fruit and a note the Whitington's left for us on a table by the door. I hope Mom left a note for them in our house telling them not to dare touch any of my things, but I'm too excited to ask.

My brother and I rush upstairs to say dibbs on the bedroom we want. I get the one with a four poster and a gorgeous satin canopy. The room's all in pink—even the stuffed animals—which explains why Josh heads for the one painted black down the hall. It's just like his at home. I guess brothers are the same world over—depressed and depressing.

I think about calling Mitts and making a sandwich, but I just have to lie down on my bed for a minute. I’m more tired than I thought because the next thing I know, Mom's calling me. Time to get up, honey, we're going sightseeing.

Somehow it got to be morning. Did you say sightseeing? Maybe they don't have school in London. This thrills me so much, I run into the bathroom and start brushing my teeth, something I hate to do.

Yes, dear. It's Sunday and your father has a day before he has to go to work. What would you like to do?

Call Mitts and then go shopping. I slap water on my face and comb my hair.

You can call Mitts later. Dad's already at the door, ready to walk to Trafalgar Square.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a new pink angora sweater. That's when I see the card with my name on it. I rush over to check it out. I find a note and a book for me from Elizabeth Whitington.

Dear Sarah Jane,

Welcome to London!

If you've bagsied my room, I know you're the one reading this.

You'll find my CD's and player hidden in my closet where my

brother (and yours) can't find them. Hope you think they're as brill as I do.

Don't be gobsmacked by all this. So you won't be, I've left

you a book of the local slang.

Cheerio,

Elizabeth

She’s really nice. I grumble at myself for all the mean things I said about her.

The book sits next to her note: BritSpeak: How To Speak to Brits Even If You Don't Understand A Word They Say. I page through the alphabetized text, stopping at bagsied, translation: claim dibbs on something; brill, it means brilliant; and gobsmacked, is a way to say be surprised or taken aback. I already know cheerio means good bye, so I figure it won't be long before I'll be speaking like a Brit. They don't like to be called English, the book says on page 2, and when we stop saying it, they'll stop calling us Yanks.

You better put your jacket on. It's not spring here, Mom says.

My mom is a master of the obvious. I grab my jacket and stuff my new book into the pocket. It will come in handy. I run down the stairs and jump down the last two, shoving Josh out of first place behind Dad and Mom.

We start to walk and in a few blocks, we come to a street market. My dad makes a big thing out of teasing a young girl who's selling tea and some kind of cookies she keeps calling biscuits. The vegetables all look huge and healthy and the fruits are so bright and shiny.

My mom makes me eat a biscuit even though I want to hurry away and find what else there is to see. She points to a double-decker bus that whizzes by. In Wisconsin, the buses are one deck and not as exciting because you can't see much and the driver goes so slow you're almost at a constant stop. In these, you tower over the cars and all the people are driving on the wrong side of the road. I wonder why they don't run into each other, but I guess they're used to it.

Let's take the underground. My idea sounds cool even though I've never been there. According to my Internet wanderings, it's a tube they call the underground railway. I looked it up in BritSpeak and found out Londoners like their underground so much they have a special name for it: they call it Clockwork Orange.

Don't you want to see the shops and galleries? Mom pins me in place with her eyes. You won't see a thing but tracks and people sitting opposite you if we take the underground.

She sounds like she's trying to do the tourist thing. I guess she forgot what it's like to be a kid. Here's an entrance. I surge forward. Buy a ticket here, Dad.

We get in line behind a man in a wheelchair and a woman pushing a buggy. Okay, but we'll take the bus back, Dad says, to placate Mom.

If we took the bus in the first place, we'd be halfway there, Josh says, head down, hands in his jeans, jacket collar pulled up likes he's embarrassed to be seen with us. I feel that way sometimes too, but not today, not when the whole city of London spreads out for miles.

Josh has combed his hair over and up the side of his head as if he's stuck his finger into a light socket. Guess he thinks he's cool. I think he looks stupid.

I know it's immature, but I stick my tongue out in his direction and give him a shove. He grabs me by the sleeve and pushes me away. I giggle and remember how we used to wrestle on the floor at home until my mother separated us when I turned 12 and said, Get up, Sarah Jane! You're getting too old to be crawling around on the floor.

My dad hands me a ticket. Just put this in the slot on the machine face upwards and the gate will open.

Sounds easy enough and it is. We get on the next train and find a seat. The car is clean and we're the only ones in it. A fast ride later, my dad stands up and we follow him out to the street.

We're going shopping? I say, crossing my fingers and making a wish.

My parents whisper to each other, and I can tell Mom wants to go to the British Museum and Dad wants to go to the Wax Museum. Dad wins this time, but he'll probably have to pay for it later. That's just the way it is in our family

No dear, Mom puts her arm around my shoulder. Your father thought you'd like to see Madame Tussaud's.

I wrinkle my nose. Doesn't sound like any clothes store I've heard of, now Harrods would be a riot. What is MadameTussaud's?

It's where we turn you into a candle, Josh says, and squeezes the back of my neck.

Oh yeah, I say, remembering about the famous wax works from my Internet search. I heard they're going to lock you up in the Chamber of Horrors. I jerk away from his grip and step in beside my dad.

We've gotten off at Marylebone Road. I like the sound of it. All the names of streets sound strange and fascinating to me. At home, they're named things like Main Street, and Third Street.

Josh puts his hand on my shoulder. See that?

I look where he's pointing. Madame Tussaud's Famous Wax Works. Wow! Can we go inside?

It's just a bunch of wax people, my mother says, trying to guide us past the entrance. Don't you want to go to the National History Museum?

Duh! I guess not, I say, and Josh has the good sense to agree.

Oh, all right. Dad pays for our trips, but I can tell from the way he talks to the ticket taker that he wants to see a life-sized Michael Jackson, and maybe an Elvis with his guitar.

Josh butts in front of me. I want to see Jack, the Ripper.

You would. I point out life-sized replicas of Bill Clinton and Michael Jackson.

When we go inside, Josh heads for the Chamber of Horrors. I tag along, more because I'm curious than anything else. We shuffle past wax life-sized figures of Jack the Ripper, old things from the French Revolution, torturers, villains, and murderers, all looking ghoulish and terrible.

By the time we leave, I need some fresh air and something to make me forget the gruesome scenes. Out on the street I spy a theater. Isn't that 'M' in James Bond? I point to a photo of the woman who bosses James Bond in his latest movies. I love a take- charge woman.

She's Dame Judi Dench. My mom’s up on all sorts of things like that. I think she studies newspapers and the Internet like I do, just so she'll know. She's starring in a play here about a family of eccentrics who invite guests into their home for the weekend.

Sort of like us and the Whitingtons. Before anyone can start an argument with me about whether our family is eccentric or not, I chime in with, Hey, I'm hungry.

Mom opens her bag and hands out chunks of cheese and apples she must have bought at the street market. The apples are juicy and the cheese is tangy, just the way I like them.

Got anything else in there? Josh sticks his hand into her bag.

Here, take these. Mom hands out brownies and lemonades. We sit on a bench and eat.

What's next? I take a bite of the brownie. Not bad.

A rest, I hope. Mom kicks off her shoes and rubs her toes.

Yes, a rest. Dad winks at me. He takes my hand and we run down the sidewalk, pretending we're skiing down the Swiss Alps. Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen. He points to a bright red double-decker tour bus.

Josh beats me to the door, but I get to the top deck when an old woman with braids on top of her head and a nose like a pickle nearly trips my brother. Nice going, lady. Thanks for the assist. I smile at her. She smiles back as if we share a secret, and I guess we do.

I pretend I'm the queen, sitting on the open top deck and waving to my royal subjects. A kid on a bike looks so small and so does a guy on the corner selling fruit and vegetables.

The pickle-nosed lady points out the sites to me. That's Trafalgar Square, home to the National Gallery and dozens of pigeons. There’s Buckingham Palace. You should go there for the changing of the guard, and if you like jewelry, get your Mum to take you to the Tower of London. They keep the Crown Jewels there. Do you have a boyfriend? Meet him at Picadilly Circus under the statute of Eros. They say it's a very romantic place, but I wouldn't know about that. She gives me a toothy grin.

I imagine meeting Guillermo under the statute, and I'm just about to the part where he kisses me when I hear my dad's voice.

Come on down. He pokes me on the arm. Our stop is coming up.

I wave good bye to my personal tour guide and take the stairs two at a time so I barely miss beating Josh out the door. My dad ushers us down the street and into Porters English Restaurant. This was owned by the 7th Earl of Bradford, you know, my father says, so proud he knows that bit of history. As if anyone cares about some old guy, but I wouldn't mind going to see those Crown Jewels.

We're in the heart of Covent Garden's Theatreland a sign announces in bold