90 Days of Different

by Eric Walters

  “Deal,” I said, reaching out my hand to shake on it.

  “Just to be clear,” she said. “You’ll do whatever I arrange for the next eighty-nine days, right?”

  “Right.”

  “No argument, no refusing to do it and you’ll go along with whatever I arrange?”

  I really wanted to think more about this, but that was so predictable. I just had to do it. “Agreed.”

  “Then we do have a deal.”

  Instead of shaking my hand, she jumped up and gave me a gigantic hug, almost knocking me off my feet. What had I just agreed to?

  “So what’s my different thing for today?”

  “Don’t sound so ominous. It’s going to be easy. We’re going to sign you up for lots of social media.”

  “You know I hate all those things.”

  “And you know you’re the only person on the planet under the age of ninety-five who doesn’t use social.”

  “I have Facebook.”

  “Sophie Evans!” She said, annoyed. “You have an account, but when was the last time you posted anything?”

  “A while ago.” It had been months and months.

  “Through social you’re going to share the new and different you with the rest of the world.”

  “What if I don’t want to share?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? Besides, I know at least one person who needs to know that you’re doing all sorts of amazing things.”

  “I don’t care what Luke thinks,” I said.

  “I didn’t even mention his name, so you know you do care,” Ella said. “Besides, it’s like a tree falling in the forest. If nobody is there to hear it, does it make a noise?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “I’m just making sure that everybody can see and hear the trees fall as you do all those different things! Let’s get started by getting you more active on Facebook,” Ella said. “It’s like you’ve managed to say absolutely nothing about yourself. Open your page.”

  I struggled a little because I couldn’t remember my password right away.

  “I see you have twenty-three friends. There must be monks who’ve taken a vow of silence and hermits living in caves who have more friends than that.”

  “I do have some requests, but I just haven’t bothered accepting them.”

  “It’s time to accept those requests. By the end of the summer I want you to have thousands of friends,” Ella said.

  “In real life nobody has thousands of friends.”

  “Nobody said this was going to be real life. You don’t even have an updated picture of yourself. When was this one taken, three years ago?”

  “About that. Shouldn’t anybody who’s truly my friend know what I look like right now?” I asked.

  “Again. This isn’t real life. We’ll put up a picture of you looking really hot—like we could find one where you didn’t look hot.”

  There was something about her tone that was, well, almost an accusation.

  “A hot picture is a great way to attract new friends,” she said.

  “It sounds like a great way to attract stalkers.”

  “Stalkers, lurkers, strangers, people you don’t know—all count as friends. We need to get that number up so you don’t look like the loneliest person in the world. We also need to update your profile to make you seem more exciting and interesting.”

  “As opposed to boring and predictable.”

  “Glad you understand. How about this for a status update?” She started typing.

  “Searching for different?” I asked.

  “That line is important. Which reminds me—we need to change your relationship status,” Ella said. With a couple of keystrokes she changed In a Relationship to Single.

  There it was for the world to see.

  “Now, what do you think about Twitter?” Ella asked.

  “I think Twitter is stupid. Who cares what I had for breakfast?”

  “We’re not going to tweet about your breakfast. You’re going to do some things that people will be interested in.”

  “I just don’t see how I’m going to do that in 140 characters.”

  “Those characters can include links, and you can post pictures and gifs. You know a picture is worth a thousand words, which is like five thousand characters, if you think about it,” Ella explained.

  “It sounds like you’ve been thinking about it enough for both of us.”

  “And you have to start an Instagram account.”

  “If Twitter and Instagram both have pictures, why do I need both?”

  “Because Insta only has pictures, so you’ll get different followers. Plus you’ll get likes on your photos, so you get instant gratification.”

  “And that matters…why?”

  “Doesn’t everybody like being liked?” Ella asked.

  “Pretty well. So is that it?”

  “Of course not. You’re going to find all of this stuff addictive.”

  “Is becoming an addict one of the different things I’m going to do?”

  “You’re already addicted to boring, and you’re going to stop cold turkey. You will get a regular injection of excitement as an antidote.”

  “How can I find the time to do anything different when I’m going to be so busy tweeting, Facebooking and Instagramming?”

  “And blogging. You’re going to do a blog. We’re going to make sure that every tree you fell is going to be heard by lots of people.”

  “Do I really need everything?”

  Ella laughed. “You really don’t have anywhere near everything. I could put you on Snapchat, Tumblr, Kik and whatever else is being developed in a garage or basement by some fourteen-year-old boy who has time on his hands because he can’t talk to girls.”

  She sat down at my computer and got to work.

  DAY 3

  Since the day before, I’d gone from having practically no web presence to what I considered massive social media and learning how to use it. I’d already tweeted, posted pictures, blogged, published and connected. I, or @SophieEvans90, now had seven followers on Twitter and four on Instagram, seven retweets and fifty-seven new friends on Facebook, most of those from accepting pending friend requests that I’d ignored or hadn’t really known about.

  It was bizarre to be contacted by complete and utter strangers. I had been retweeted in two different countries and favorited in one. How did some guy in New Zealand find out about me, follow me, retweet and like my tweet? It wasn’t even that it was such a great tweet—Follow my journey as I try to do different things for the next ninety days!

  Ella said it probably had more to do with my picture than anything I was tweeting. It was a nice picture. I almost always took a good picture. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what I looked like, but I was more than that. I was smart. I was a good student. I tried to always treat people well—even people who didn’t necessarily deserve to be treated nicely. I helped people. I was kind.

  One of my new Facebook friends was my father—which seemed a little strange. Even stranger, another new “friend” was Luke. I accepted my father’s request reluctantly, and Luke’s accidentally. His request had been pending for almost a year, and I’d accepted all the pending ones at once. Then I figured it would make me look angry and bitter if I unfriended him a few seconds later. Actually, I was angry and more than a little bitter, but he didn’t need to know that. I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. It was a shame there wasn’t a category called Really Not a Friend But a Stupid Jerk. I would have put him there.

  There was another reason not to unfriend him. Ella was right—I wanted him to see that he was wrong about me. Knowing that he would be watching my posts might give me more incentive to do things I really didn’t want to do. I knew Ella well enough to know that some of what she was going to suggest or arrange would be more than just uncomfortable.

  The hardest part
was that I found myself thinking about Luke more than I should—more than I had when we were going out. He was out of my life. But I just couldn’t get him out of my head. Was he thinking of me or—I couldn’t allow myself to think like that, but how did you stop yourself from thinking? That was something I’d never been good at. There was so much to think about.

  Now I had to put up a blog entry about today’s different. I wondered what Luke would think about me eating at a place I’d never go with him, and caring what he thought bothered me more than anything.

  Today I ate in a Japanese restaurant for the first time. There was an all-you-can-eat restaurant, so I could try anything I wanted. Normally, I wouldn’t have wanted anything. Today I had everything—miso soup, California and dynamite rolls, beef teriyaki, vegetable tempura, salmon and tuna sushi and even shrimp sashimi.

  Okay, I’ll admit I’d heard there could be problems with eating food that isn’t cooked—you could get sick or get worms or something. I looked it up and found out that that’s hardly ever happened. In fact, it happens less than when people eat food that’s cooked wrong.

  Some of what I ate was really good, especially some of the rolls and the teriyaki – which of course is actually cooked. The sushi and especially the sashimi were harder to put in my mouth—you have to know that I even like my steak burned. I’ve always thought that fire and eating utensils were invented so we don’t have to eat raw food and use chopsticks. In fact, I still think a fork or spoon works way better than two pieces of wood awkwardly pressed together, but I used them as best I could—and I ate the raw stuff. It was, all in all, pretty good.

  Will I eat Japanese again? Yes. Tomorrow? No.

  I have the strangest urge to find out what Japanese food would taste like in Tokyo. Of course in Japan they’d probably just call it food! Someday I might find out. For now, sayonara and out.

  DAY 5

  It had been a long day, and I was feeling tired. At least part of that was because of the adrenaline that was still pumping through my veins. It made me wish I could have just eaten some other type of strange food today. No food would have worked well with today’s different, except maybe dry cereal.

  I’d already done a status update on Facebook. It was time to put a much longer description about my different up on my blog.

  I know that it’s called an “amusement” park, not a “terrifying” park, because most people find it amusing. And I do find some things amusing. Waterparks are nice. The Lazy River is a good place to drift for a while. Shows where people sing and dance are good, even when the singing and dancing isn’t that good. I like costumed characters who wander around. What I’ve never liked are the rides. Actually, merry-go-rounds are fun. I’m talking about the rides that jerk you around and around, and the ones that take you high and plunge you down, and the ones that spin you up high. Of all of them, the one I hate to even think about is the one that takes you up high, spins you around, plunges you down, jerks you around and doesn’t even let you sit down. I’m talking about the stand-up roller coaster. The only thing that could make it worse is if it had snakes.

  Sure, I know that every twelve-year-old and even the really tall nine-year-old who is “must be this tall to ride” goes on it. I’ve seen them come off laughing and talking, and I know if they can go on it, then I can too. I never wanted to.

  Having a friend like Ella, who knows you even better than you know yourself, is a wonderful and dangerous thing. She knows I hate roller coasters. She drove me to today’s different. She didn’t tell me where we were going until we turned into the park. Then I knew.

  The line for the ride was long. Apparently, many people wanted to do this or were being forced to by their best friends. It felt like I was waiting in line to be executed. Or for the dentist. Or for the dentist to execute me.

  The moment I was strapped in felt more like the execution and less like the dentist. I wish I could say that was the worst moment, but there were lots of worst moments. The long, slow ride up to the top of the first peak was an exercise in torture. The click, click, click of the machinery, knowing that I had to get higher before I could get lower, wondering if that bored-looking attendant who strapped me in had done it right. There was that moment when we reached the very top—time seemed to stand still—and then we plunged to the bottom.

  Lots of people screamed. Some in joy or delight, some in fear. I didn’t scream. I couldn’t get a sound to come out. The coaster camera caught my expression—terror is the only word to describe it—but you can see for yourself. Ella bought the picture, and I’ve posted it on both Twitter and Instagram. And then, as the coaster jerked to the side, the movement jarred my lungs enough to release a scream—so long and loud and shrill that it even shocked me. At that same instant I dug my fingers into Ella’s hand—we’d been holding hands since we got on—and I figured that even if my harness popped open, I’d hang on to her so hard that either she’d hold me in place or I’d take her off with me. Two of us dying didn’t seem so lonely. Besides, since this was all her doing, if I was going to die it seemed only fair we die together!

  Finally the ride ended. My knees were weak and my stomach even weaker, but there was this strange sense of joy. No, not joy, exhilaration. I was alive. Then Ella asked me if I wanted to go and do it again. I am proud to report that I didn’t hit her.

  I took my hands off the keyboard and thought about what should come next. I knew why I didn’t like roller coasters and things like that, but did I have to put it out on my blog for everybody else to know? Maybe I did. I started typing again.

  I guess it’s safe to say that I like to be in control. I used to joke that I’d ride on one of those things if they let me drive. That’s not really the case. Lots of highs and lows are beyond anything you can control even if you think you’re in control and even if you think you’re driving. All you can do is try your best to enjoy the ride or, in some cases, survive the parts you don’t want to be there for. Once you start you’ve just got to hang in there until the finish. I rode the stand-up roller coaster and I won! Another different done.

  DAY 6

  I looked at my unmade bed. A pillow was on the floor. The cover was all crumpled up at the foot of the bed, the top sheet was balled up, and the fitted sheet had come off one of the bottom corners. I really wanted to straighten it. I placed Snowball—my teddy bear—on the remaining pillow. Just because I couldn’t make the bed didn’t mean I couldn’t make Snowball comfortable. That was my different for the day. I wasn’t allowed to make my bed. It had to stay like this all day long.

  When Ella had told me this, I’d thought, How stupid. How different is that? Had she already run out of ideas? Big deal—so I couldn’t make my bed. How hard could that be? How different was it really?

  Instead I found out it was hard, and it was different. At least for me.

  For as long as I could remember, I’d started the day by making my bed. Today I didn’t. I walked away, but I couldn’t leave it behind. It was like a little itch I couldn’t scratch. When I had to go back into my room throughout the day, it was there, looking at me, smirking at me. Snowball looked confused. Or at least disappointed. It was my bed, but it was her world. And as the day went on, it bothered me how much it bothered me.

  I decided I wasn’t going to post, publish, tweet or blog about it. There was nothing that interesting about an unmade bed. Nothing interesting, just revealing, and there were some things I didn’t want to reveal. Not to the world and a bunch of strangers and lurkers and stalkers. I didn’t want to have Luke read about it and chuckle to his friends about how he’d done the right thing.

  I looked over at the clock. Only one minute to midnight… and then the clock clicked over. It was midnight. It was the next day. I’d gone the whole day without making my bed. I’d completed the different, and now I could go to bed. I was washed up, makeup off, and in my pjs. That was my every-night routine. But tonight there was still one more thing to do.
<
br />   I picked up the pillow on the floor and put it in place beside the other. I straightened the bottom sheet and tucked the corners in. I unballed the top sheet and spread it out nicely. I put the cover in place, straightening and flattening until it was perfect. Finally I put Snowball in her place. She looked happy, like she was proud of me. The bed looked so good. It felt so good.

  I pulled back the cover and sheet and climbed in. It was cool and soft and perfect, and I felt my whole body relax. I hadn’t realized how much the unmade bed had made me feel off until I felt on again.

  Right then I decided two things.

  “Me having trouble not making my bed is going to be a secret just between you and me,” I said to my bear. “You have to promise you won’t tell anybody.”

  Snowball kept silent. It was her specialty.

  “It’s just sort of embarrassing that it bothered me this much,” I added.

  The bear looked thoughtful.

  “There’s one other thing,” I said. “I really, really, need this. If an unmade bed bothered me this much, I need to do different things. I need to do roller coasters. I need to leave my bed unmade. I just hope Ella can keep on coming up with ideas.” I paused. This was the hard part, the part that worried me the most. “And I hope I can be brave enough keep on doing them.”

  DAY 7

  “Are you sure you don’t want some?” my father asked.

  “I’m not that hungry,” I said.

  “It’s pretty good,” Oliver said. “It’s homestyle chunky, meaty stew. It’s new and improved.”

  There certainly were chunks, but I wasn’t sure if anything else was true. From the second my father had opened the can and the contents made a sucking sound as they were dumped into a pot, I’d known there was nothing in this meal that I wanted.

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Just more for me,” Oliver said.