90 Days of Different

by Eric Walters

  Washing up took almost as much time as the hair job. We just tossed the sheet and the overalls. They could have been washed, but they weren’t worth much, and I was afraid they’d contaminate the washing machine. Ella had purple hands—mine had been covered by the sheet—and we both had purple on our necks and any places on our faces that weren’t covered by the masks and goggles. It really took a lot of scrubbing to get our skin clean, and I started to worry that this was a lot more than temporary. Those fears were put to rest when Ella fluffed and patted me down and a purple rain came tumbling out. Then I thought I was going to be leaving a trail of purple dust wherever I went, but after the initial downpour it settled into almost nothing.

  We’d gone out to the mall afterward. It may be true that blonds have more fun, but there is no question that purples get more attention. We got lots of looks. Some people looked amused. A number of guys made comments and started to talk to us. It was like my purple hair let them know we were friendly or freaky or simply available for conversation. Older people—especially older women—didn’t look very happy. If looks could kill, I would have been at least badly wounded.

  Strangest of all was what happened at a store where we shopped all the time. We were followed by two women lurking an aisle away, pretending to shop while looking at us out of the corners of their eyes or peeking around corners or through the shelves. It was rather unnerving. In the end Ella had gone over and asked them why they were following us, and they confirmed who they were—store detectives. Apparently, purple is the color of thieves. I decided then I wasn’t going to be shopping for the rest of the week.

  My phone buzzed, and I looked. My picture had been retweeted twice and liked three times on Twitter and liked twelve times on Instagram. Social media moved at the speed of light. I couldn’t help but wonder if orange would have gotten more or less reaction.

  DAY 44

  I looked up from my food just as my brother suddenly looked down at his plate. I was having a chicken Caesar salad, and they were having another can of stew. My father had decided that variety involved different types of stew. They’d returned the night before, and it was good to have them home. But obviously he hadn’t picked up any cooking tips at my aunt’s place.

  Once again I caught my brother looking at me and then glancing away as I looked at him.

  “You seem pretty fascinated by me,” I said.

  “Not really.”

  “Then why do you keep looking at me?”

  He shrugged. “Since when do you think you’re so special that everybody is looking at you?”

  I almost answered that close to two thousand people on Facebook and over fifteen hundred on Twitter and Instagram were looking at me, or following or friending me, but realized that would have sounded pretty egotistical.

  “Not everybody is looking at me, but you definitely are.”

  “Maybe he’s just glad to see you because he missed you,” my father suggested.

  “Yeah, like that could happen.”

  “Well, I was just thinking that you don’t look any different,” Oliver said.

  “You might have noticed that I have purple hair.”

  “Your hair is different. That doesn’t make you different,” he said. “Besides, it’s already starting to fade.”

  It had faded over the past 36 hours. I was grateful and a little sad. Purple wasn’t bad.

  “You know that just because you’re doing different things, it doesn’t mean you’re actually different,” Oliver said.

  “I’m not sure if I agree or disagree.” I wondered if there was something else he wasn’t saying. “Dad’s right—you really did miss me.”

  “Did that purple dye seep into your brain as well as onto your hair?” he asked.

  “Well, if that’s not it, then what is it? What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing is bothering me…well, almost nothing.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s just that you don’t need to be different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked very uncomfortable.

  “Come on, what do you mean, Oliver?”

  “Look, don’t let this go to your purple head, but you’re not the worst sister in the world.”

  “So you don’t mind me ordering you around and acting like your mother?”

  “You could stop ordering me around, but that’s really just the same as your hair. It’s just something you do, not something you are.”

  “That sounds deep.”

  “Look, all I’m saying is that Luke was an idiot for breaking up with you.”

  “No arguments from me there, although I’m surprised you’d say that.”

  “I think lots of things that I don’t necessarily say. I’m eleven, not stupid, but you’re stupid if you think you have to be different to get him back.”

  “I’m not trying to get him back.”

  “Good, because you’re way too good for him.”

  “Wow, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  He looked like he was blushing!

  “You said a nice thing to me. I’m going to come over and give you a big hug and a kiss and—”

  He jumped up from his seat and ran off screaming.

  “You’re not getting away that easily!” I yelled and ran after him. “You’re definitely going to get hugged and kissed!”

  DAY 45

  Oliver was recklessly hopping from one swinging step to another, connected to the cables linking one tree to the next. He got to the treetop platform at the other end, climbed up and hooked one of his carabiners onto the cable around the tree and released himself from the cable running between the trees. He let out a gleeful scream of joy that echoed through the trees, then looked over and waved. I waved back. I felt happy for him. And relieved he was back on sort of solid ground, if the treetop platform could be considered either solid or ground. He was so much faster and agile than us, and I thought he was frustrated at our lack of speed and skills.

  “He makes it look easy,” Ella said.

  “Ridiculously easy. By the way, thanks for not objecting to my brother coming.”

  “I like your little brother.”

  “Really, would you like to have him? I could give him to you.”

  “Well, not right now, but later. After all, he is my backup plan if Shawn Mendes doesn’t come through.”

  “Somehow he seems as unlikely a husband as Shawn Mendes does.”

  “Why? Is your brother married?” She looked over at him. “Are you married?” she yelled over.

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t listen, just like any husband I’ve ever met,” Ella said to me.

  “Oliver, honey, are you married?” she yelled again.

  “Are you on drugs?” Oliver called back.

  She turned to me. “Isn’t that so sweet that he’s interested in my well-being? He’s cute, and I’m sure he will listen to me because I’m older.”

  “That hasn’t worked for me.”

  “You’re just his sister. I’ll be his wife.”

  “Okay, then let’s talk about a dowry. Make me an offer,” I suggested.

  “Come on, you wouldn’t give him up for the world, would you?” Ella asked.

  “He has his moments, but not really.”

  I guess that’s why I’d wanted to have him with us. I’d missed him, and it wasn’t long before I’d be going away to school.

  “He’s really quite the little monkey the way he scampered along the ropes and aerial apparatus,” Ella said.

  “He’s pretty fearless,” I said.

  “You’re afraid enough for both of you. It’s like you inherited a double dose of scared, and he lost out on his portion of the fear factor.”

  I’d thought about that—how because I worried and was so responsible, he didn’t need to be, and my father didn’t n
eed to be either. Did my father do so little because I did so much? Had I stopped him from becoming more of a parent because I had filled that role? Was I an enabler of him doing less? Or was he genuinely not capable of doing more? So far he hadn’t done much more than open a can of stew or run the vacuum cleaner across the floor.

  “Although you aren’t doing nearly as badly as I thought you would,” Ella said.

  “You thought I was going to do badly?”

  “I arrange things that push you, and this is a push, right?”

  “I’m doing pretty well, all things considered,” I said.

  “Not bad. Really, I didn’t think either of us would get this far along the course.”

  “We’re only two obstacles away from finishing, so I think we’ve both done amazingly well,” I said.

  “Do you want to go next, or should I?” Ella asked.

  “I think me. The sooner I start, the sooner I end.”

  We were all wearing mandatory helmets and harnesses equipped with two cables and carabiners—special metal clips. We always had one or both of those clipped onto cables, so there was no danger of us falling more than a few feet before the cable would catch, and we could be pulled back up. So far none of us had dangled. I hated the idea of dangling, although far less than the idea of falling.

  I clipped one of my carabiners on the cable suspended above the steps between the two tree platforms. I then unclipped myself from the cable surrounding the tree. I stepped out on the first little swinging step, holding on to the cables as well as being clipped onto them.

  We were told by the instructors who trained us that the secret was not to look down. That was impossible. If you didn’t look down, you wouldn’t know where your next footstep needed to be. I slowly went from one step to the next, each perch swinging as I moved, threatening to buck me off and leave me dangling.

  “Can’t you move a little faster?” Oliver yelled.

  I ignored him.

  “You know you’re going away to college in a few weeks. You might want to pick up the pace!” he said.

  I tried to block him out. I needed to focus on what I was doing.

  “I was wrong about you not changing,” he said. “You could change the way you move so slow! That you could do different.”

  I clipped myself to the next stage of the cable, checked that I’d done it right and then reached back to disconnect the second cable. Only four more swinging steps, and I’d be there on the last platform with Oliver.

  “It’s a really, really, really big drop if you were ever to fall,” Oliver said. “Where you are must be the highest point on the whole course.”

  I looked over. He was lying on the platform, his head over the edge, looking down. I felt my knees get weak.

  I took one more step, then on to the next. It swung back and forth before stabilizing. Then I moved on to the next, and the next, and then to the last step. With the final step, Oliver, who had stood up, offered me his hand, and I jumped up and onto the platform. I clipped one carabiner onto the platform before undoing the one on the cable. I was safely on the platform now.

  “Thanks for the encouragement,” I said.

  “What’s a little brother for? Besides, I want to get on with the last zip line. It’s a lot longer than the others.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Come and look.”

  We circled around the big tree. There was a large pond between it and the next tree, and I could see that the zip line extended all the way across the water to a tree way, way over on the other side. We’d already done three short zip lines. They were the worst of everything in the whole aerial course. There was that instant when you stepped off the platform and dropped down, temporarily falling until the cable snapped and you started zipping down the line. It was an act of faith to conquer your fear and step off the platform and into space.

  “That is really long,” I said.

  “The longer the line, the longer the ride. Can I go now?”

  “We’re not going until Ella is here.”

  We didn’t have to wait long before she was standing at our side. Without any further delay Oliver clipped himself onto the zip line. He jumped off the platform and dipped down, almost disappearing from view, and my heart jumped into my throat. He then raced along the cable, going faster and faster. I held my breath as he crossed the pond and then reached the platform on the far side. He turned and gave me a big wave.

  “So you’re next,” Ella said.

  “I could be next, or we could both just climb down the ladder on the side of the tree and walk around the pond,” I suggested.

  “You could do that. The old Sophie would have walked.”

  “The old Sophie wouldn’t have been up here to begin with. My different is already done for today, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ella shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “I’m glad you agree. I have nothing to prove. So that’s why I’m going to do it.”

  I stepped off the platform, dropping down as my stomach lurched up, and then raced along the cable. Faster and faster, the pond now underneath, I raised my arms and started flapping them, a gigantic bird. I had no fear left. I just enjoyed the ride.

  DAY 47

  I opened my eyes. It was snowing. Inside the house. I blinked hard and rubbed my eyes, thinking it was just sleep in them, but—no, it was still snowing, inside the house, in the middle of the summer. Was I dreaming? Then I realized it wasn’t snow. It was soap bubbles fluttering through the air!

  I jumped off the couch and ran toward where they seemed to be coming from. More and more of them drifted down the hall. I turned the corner to find the kitchen filled with suds! They were not only floating up to the ceiling but also covering the entire floor with an avalanche as deep as the kitchen counter. I slid to a stop, almost falling as my feet slipped on the soapy floor.

  “Oliver!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. Part of me wondered if he was buried beneath the suds. The biggest part knew that somehow this was his doing. “Get down here to the kitchen right now!”

  It was all so surreal. The kitchen was covered in a deep layer of suds. It was almost beautiful, like seeing a new snowfall, peaceful and undisturbed by footprints. But it certainly wasn’t quiet. A motor was rumbling—it was the dishwasher. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it. It was buried, but I knew it sat under the mountain of bubbling suds. It had to be the source of the bubbles.

  I rushed in, and my feet slipped out from under me. I tumbled into the suds and slammed heavily to the floor, knocking the air out of my lungs. I pushed off to try to get up, but my hands kept slipping and slipping, and I felt a little bit panicky, buried beneath the suds. Could you drown in soap suds? I fumbled around, finally located the counter and pulled myself to my feet.

  “Sophie, what did you do?”

  I turned around and brushed the suds away from my face and eyes. Oliver was standing at the kitchen doorway, looking as shocked as I’d been.

  “What did I do? You think I did this?”

  “It wasn’t me!” he exclaimed. “I was upstairs, playing an online game.”

  Still holding the counter, I edged my way to the dishwasher. I groped around until I located the latch amid the suds and turned the machine off. Within a few seconds the bubbles had stopped shooting into the air.

  “You loaded the dishwasher and turned it on, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t like I broke it. I did everything right, so the dishwasher must be broken or something. It’s not my fault.”

  He looked so worried that I felt sorry for him, even if it was his fault. How could it not be his fault?

  “I squirted in an extra squeeze of soap, but that couldn’t have done all this,” he said.

  “What do you mean, squeezed in an extra squirt? The dishwasher uses packets of dishwasher detergent,” I said.

  “I know that, but we were ou
t, so I used the liquid dish detergent,” he explained.

  I picked up the plastic bottle from the counter. It was half filled with blue-green liquid. It had been completely full a few days earlier. I knew that because I’d filled it.

  “An extra squirt?” I said.

  “Well, first I filled up the two little compartments—you know, where the packet goes and where the rinsing stuff would go.”

  “We don’t use a rinsing agent,” I said.

  “I know, but I figured more would only help. And because the dishes were really crusty, I figured I had to do it if I wanted them to get clean.”

  “If you ran it more than every third or fourth day, they wouldn’t get crusty.”

  “I don’t want to waste energy.”

  “It’s a high-efficiency machine, so it doesn’t use that much energy.”

  “I meant my energy,” he said. “So because of that, I put some extra squeezes right onto the dishes to soften up the dried-on food. I wanted them to be sparkly clean.”

  I shook my head slowly, but no words seemed to come.

  “So what are we going to do?” Oliver asked.

  “First, we need to get a—” I stopped myself.

  “First we need to get a what?” Oliver asked.

  “You need to clean it up.”

  “But what do I need?”

  “You’ll figure it out,” I said. “In the meantime, I’m going to take a nap.”

  “You’re doing what?”

  “I’m going to take a nap. You did this, so you need to fix it.”

  “Come on, Soph, you have to help me.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But I don’t know what to do.”

  “Aren’t you the one who’s sick of me telling you what to do?”

  “Yeah, but once more would be okay.”

  “What would you do if this happened when I was away at college?”

  “I’d call Dad.”

  “Then call Dad.”

  Keeping a hand on the counter to avoid falling again, I edged around the room through the suds, feeling like a snowplow.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I slipped past Oliver and out of the kitchen. I walked away on sloppy, soapy, slippery stockinged feet, not looking back.