90 Days of Different

by Eric Walters

  It wasn’t the best sleep I’ve ever had, but I managed to fall asleep finally. Before I could go to bed I went from room to room, carrying one of my father’s golf clubs. I checked each door and window to make sure it was locked. I even checked the sliding doors a second time because sometimes they’re not locked even when you think they are because the lock button jams. I slid in the wooden bar as an extra safety precaution.

  What surprised me was how much noise my house made in the night. Things creaked and groaned and settled in a very unsettling way that sounded like footsteps. Then there were some voices outside around two in the morning—probably some stupid teenagers like the McNabb twins from two doors down coming home. And I don’t care if the McNabb twins read this—you two are idiots. That’s basically not an opinion but a fact. Jessie and John McNabb are idiots. Please feel free to post, retweet, favorite or like that comment.

  The worst wasn’t what was outside but what was inside. When I pulled that mask out from under the couch and threw it on the table, it stayed there. Ella didn’t take it home, and I forgot about it. Well, forgot about it until I walked into the room and caught sight of it out of the corner of my eye—it was glowing in the dark. My heart leapt into my throat and then almost stopped beating completely. How was I supposed to know that the white parts of the mask glowed in the dark?

  Once I realized that, I put the mask in the freezer. And then put a chair on top of the freezer to weigh it down or at least sound an alarm if somehow the mask pushed its way free.

  Okay, maybe that’s stupid—correction; it was definitely stupid—but that is what horror movies are all about. They aren’t about smart or logical or reasonable or thinking. They’re about irrational feelings and fears. All those things come back to haunt you—no pun intended—in the middle of the night in an empty house.

  I hit Publish and then decided I’d take a picture of the mask and post it on Twitter and Instagram. First I’d have to take it out of the freezer.

  DAY 23

  “Okay, so what’s today’s different going to be?” I asked as Ella and I drove along.

  “Isn’t it a bit obvious from the way I asked you to dress?”

  I was, as requested, wearing running clothes and sneakers.

  “I’m smart enough to figure it’s some sort of running thing. And judging from the way you’re dressed—heels, a skirt and fully made up—I’m also assuming you’re not going to be joining me in this one,” I said.

  “Think of me as cheering you on from the sidelines. Soph, you know how I feel about running. I only do it if something is chasing me or I’m chasing something. Remember what I said, that if a bear was chasing me, I’d run very fast, but if I was chasing Shawn Mendes, I’d run even faster.”

  “The singer?”

  “Do you know another Shawn Mendes?”

  “Doesn’t he always seem to have a girlfriend, or two?”

  “They are nothing to worry about. They are nothing more than place holders.”

  “You want to explain that to me?”

  “Those girls are simply holding on to the role of his girlfriend for the time being. Wouldn’t it have been a little bit creepy if he wanted to marry somebody who hadn’t turned eighteen yet?”

  “So he’s just waiting until you turn eighteen?” I asked. “Don’t you think there might be one or two other things that are in the way?”

  “Careful what you say or I just might find somebody else to be my maid of honor,” Ella said.

  “I’m honored,” I said.

  “You could even wear those shoes.”

  “My running shoes?”

  “White for weddings and they’re so white. Are they brand new?” Ella asked.

  “Not that new. I just take care of them.”

  “So they’re washable, right?”

  “Of course they are. How do you think I keep them looking so good? Why are you asking about that?”

  “I want to make sure they can still be white for the wedding.”

  “Can you at least tell me how far I’m running?” I asked. “It isn’t like I can run a marathon without training.”

  “You don’t know that unless you try it, but don’t worry. It’s only five kilometers long.”

  I felt relieved but confused. “You know I’ve run 10K races before.”

  “Of course I know, so we know you can do this. You have nothing to fear, and no time to fear it. We’re here.”

  Ella pulled the car into a dirt parking lot. On the fence was a banner—The Dirty Duck 5K Race. I shook my head. It all made sense—the distance, the comments about my white shoes. This wasn’t just a race, it was a mud race.

  “Strap on your GoPro and you’re all set to run.”

  “I don’t own a GoPro.”

  “You still don’t, but you have one to use for the day,” she said as she pulled it from her purse. “Since I’m not going to be there myself, I want to be able to see every jump, obstacle, mud puddle, pit and fall you go through.”

  “You could always do the race as well,” I suggested.

  “In my heels? Without chasing Shawn Mendes? We’ve gone over this already. You need to pay more attention to our conversations. You’re already registered, so all we have to do is get your racing bib.”

  There were hundreds of people ready to run. About 75 percent of them were guys, and 90 percent of those guys were jacked up and crazy and ready to go. People kept yelling and shrieking, fist-pumping and body-bumping. They were like a living, breathing advertisement for Red Bull—or possibly against the use of Red Bull. Some were in camo running shorts and tops. Some wore eye black to shade their eyes or had mud smeared all over their faces. Still others had mud smeared all over everything visible. A few had been taking turns doing full-body slides through a big mud puddle just off to the side of the starting area. Weren’t they going to get enough mud soon enough?

  “Runners, take your marks!” the announcer called out through the bullhorn.

  Everybody shuffled forward, pressing close to the starting line. I reached up and clicked on my GoPro. Now I was ready to go.

  I’d posted an edited version of the GoPro footage on YouTube. I’d stopped three times during the race to tweet and post pictures to Instagram. That wasn’t just about keeping my promise to document my differents on social media, but because I needed to rest. Something about running through deep mud, climbing over obstacles, swinging on ropes and running up hills for almost five kilometers can take it out of you. The uphill part was confusing since it ended at the same place it started but somehow it had seemed like the whole race had been uphill.

  There was only one thing left for me to do now. I went to the laundry room, where I’d left my clothes to presoak in the sink after I peeled them off. It was hard to believe how much mud was embedded in them. Beside the sink sat an overflowing hamper of dirty clothes that belonged to my brother and father. They both would need clean clothes when they got back. I thought I would just throw in a load, but I stopped myself. This was a test—not of them, but of me.

  I slopped my clothes out of the sink and into the washing machine and dumped in a double load of detergent. Between that and the presoak, there was a chance the mud and stains might come out.

  I’d already wiped down my shoes and even used an old toothbrush to get the mud out of the treads. They were badly stained, and I wasn’t sure if the machine wash would get them clean. I went to drop them in, then stopped. They certainly weren’t what they’d been before the race. They might never be that again. And that was all right. I’d earned those stains. I closed the lid, started the machine and walked away, still carrying my mud-stained shoes. I guess I’d have to buy another pair of white shoes when Ella and Shawn Mendes got married.

  DAY 25

  “You look revolting, repulsive and repugnant,” Ella said to me.

  “Look who’s talking! Have you looked in a mirror?”

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nbsp; “I could also add vile, vulgar and horrific to describe you.”

  “I guess I should take all of those as compliments,” I said.

  “You really should,” she said. “You look, well, zombie-like—there’s no denying it.”

  I pulled the car into the parking lot. Turning off the engine, I adjusted the rearview mirror so I could get one more glance at myself. An amusing and hideous image looked back at me.

  Both Ella and I were dressed in rags and made up to look like zombies. The clothing had been easy. We’d taken scissors to some old pieces and added stains, including rubbing in ashes from the fireplace. The makeup had taken much longer and was done by an expert.

  She was a professional who did makeup for movie stars and celebrities but also special effects for TV shows and movies. One of her claims to fame was that she’d personally done many of the “decomposed corpses” on CSI. She had worked on our faces, necks and hands for over two hours, laying on rubberized makeup and applying special latex “wound” features to make our flesh look like it was rotting. It was quite impressive in an incredibly disgusting way.

  Ella had found this woman through social. She was the friend of somebody who was following us, and when Ella put out word that we needed somebody to make us zombie-like, she’d volunteered.

  “The only problem I can see with you is that you don’t really smell like the walking dead. What are you wearing?” Ella asked.

  “Chanel No. 5.”

  “You love those old-school scents, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  It was one of my favorites—one of my mother’s favorites. When I smelled it, I thought of her. I used my supply sparingly, usually only for super special things, because there wasn’t much left in the bottle. Today, dressed as I was I felt so self-conscious that I wanted something special so I’d put on a dab. There wasn’t much left in any of the bottles of perfume she’d left behind. I knew that when they were gone I could just go out and get more, but these ones were special because they were hers.

  “You might be the best-smelling zombie alive,” she said.

  “Thanks, but technically, aren’t we supposed to be dead?”

  “Okay, you’re the best-smelling zombie dead.” Ella looked at her watch. “We better get going. We don’t want to be late.”

  We climbed out, I clicked the remote to lock the car, and it beeped. I liked the beep. It meant it really was locked and I didn’t have to go back and check—although sometimes I still did it a second time just to be sure.

  A couple of people looked in our direction as we passed and then did double takes. Although our ripped clothing was partially covered, our faces were visible. I waved and offered a smile to a little girl with her mother, both of whom were looking at us. The girl hid her face against her mother’s side.

  “Sorry,” I said as we passed. “It’s just makeup.”

  We kept walking. Ella turned to me. “Good thing you told them that, or they would have thought we were real zombies.”

  “I can’t believe that some people really do believe in zombies,” I said.

  “You mean you don’t?”

  “I have enough trouble believing in you half the time,” I said.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Carefully, so as not to disturb the makeup, I pulled up my hoodie and Ella did the same. There was no point in drawing attention to ourselves. This was all supposed to be a surprise until the moment it happened.

  As we moved toward our destination, we saw more and more people. We tried to keep our faces down and looked away from those who came closest.

  “I just wish I’d had this getup the night you were home alone after the horror movie,” Ella said.

  “Oh, that would have been lovely.”

  “I could have come up to the sliding-glass door and just pressed my face against it, and you would have looked and—”

  “But I know you wouldn’t have done that,” I said.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I wouldn’t have done that to you. Still, it’s interesting to think about it. It’s a shame your brother is still away with your father, or we could have gone and scared him after this is over.”

  “Okay, that would be fun.”

  We tried to move faster, as our time frame was getting tighter. “I should have parked closer.”

  Ella looked at her watch. “We’re going to be okay. It’s just up ahead, and I don’t think it’s started yet. At least, I don’t hear anything.”

  We arrived at the edge of Dundas Square. Nothing had started. We were on time. We’d made it.

  There were people crisscrossing the open plaza or standing in couples and groups, staring up at the big outdoor screen showing music videos. Others sat on the edge of a stage.

  “Do you see anybody?” Ella asked.

  “I see lots of people, but no zombies,” I said. “Are you sure it’s supposed to happen here and now?”

  “I’m sure—well, pretty sure. After all, if you can’t trust a zombie, who can you trust?”

  “I’m not sure if the words trust and zombie have ever been used together in the same—”

  Music suddenly came on. Loud. I recognized the very first notes of the song—“Thriller.” I looked up at the screen. There, thirty feet tall, was Michael Jackson, red-and-black leather jacket, red pants and zombie makeup.

  A cheer went up, and zombies started to materialize out of the crowd.

  “Come on!” Ella yelled.

  We ran toward the stage, threw off our hoodies and tossed them aside to reveal our costumes. The stage was already filling up with zombie dancers as we ran up the steps. We moved into the third row and started to dance, as behind us on the screen the characters did the same dance moves. Back and forth, across the stage, trying to dance with everybody else, doing the moves we’d practised last night, the moves we’d fooled around with since doing a skit in eighth grade.

  Below the stage, on the square, there were so many people, some dressed as zombies, others not, some dancing along while others just stood there and cheered. This was amazing, and I was part of it—a zombie “Thriller” flash-mob dance!

  DAY 26

  I couldn’t believe how many people had responded to the flash-mob pictures and videos. We hadn’t filmed or taken any of the pictures. We’d found some images online and retweeted, re-Instagrammed and reposted them on Facebook.

  One YouTube clip somebody had put up had been seen over five thousand times. I was responsible for eight of those views. It was hilarious seeing Ella and me up onstage, even though anybody who didn’t know it was us would have recognized us.

  It had taken me longer than usual to publish my blog because typing this time was really hard. I looked down at my nails. They were long fake acrylic nails. They were painted bright white and overlaid with a design—tuxedos. Each finger had a black bow tie and two black buttons below it.

  This was a simple, strange and completely unexpected different. Not just unexpected for me—all of them had been—but unexpected for Ella too.

  After the flash mob we’d gone back to have our zombie makeup removed. Our makeup expert, Anastacia, was also into nails, and she’d convinced us to let her do ours. These were incredibly impractical. I had trouble not just typing, but also making food, doing dishes and even punching in phone numbers. The agreement was that I’d have to keep them on for the rest of the day.

  I looked down at the nails again and wiggled my fingers. Ten teeny-tiny tuxedos danced on my fingers and thumbs, and I couldn’t help but smile. Maybe I’d keep them on for a second day. Just because.

  DAY 29

  Ella came into the house, carrying her overnight bag.

  “So am I assuming you’re actually going to be staying here tonight as planned?” I asked.

  “I think it would be best if we both stayed here tonight. No leaving, no walking and definitely no driving.”
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  Did the emphasis on the word driving mean something?

  “You’re welcome to stay as often and as long as you want, as long as you don’t have a horror movie or a scary mask in that bag.”

  “I have many things.” She unzipped her bag and pulled out a bottle. I was surprised.

  “Do you like vodka?” Ella asked.

  “You know I don’t drink.”

  “And is that your plan for the rest of your life?” she asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then once you get to college, you might have a glass of wine or a beer sometimes?”

  “I’ve had wine before.”

  “When did this happen, and why don’t I know about it?”

  “Well, it was at dinner at my aunt’s house last year at Christmas.” I paused. “I really didn’t like it. It tasted bad.”

  “Well, this is vodka, and apparently it doesn’t taste like anything,” Ella said.

  “Apparently?”

  “It’s not like I’ve ever tried it. You know I’m not much of a drinker myself. I liberated it from my father’s liquor cabinet. Somebody gave it to him as a present a few years ago. My father doesn’t drink vodka or much of anything else.”

  “Your father is smart and responsible.”

  “And tonight we’re going to be smart and responsible drinkers. We’re going to stay in your house, get into our jammies, watch some Netflix and have a few or maybe a few more than a few drinks. Well, what do you think?”

  I hesitated.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a little bit out of control as long as the situation is in control,” she said.

  “I don’t want to drink.”

  “It isn’t about drinking. It’s about allowing yourself not to be in control all of the time. Isn’t it tiring to always have to be in control?” she asked

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well, your choices are, you can watch me drink and you can be the sober, responsible, boring big sister, or you can join me. What’s it going to be?”