90 Days of Different

by Eric Walters

  “That was so beyond bad,” Ella said. “Which, ironically, makes it even better for you.”

  “Am I here to do karaoke?”

  “You’re not going to wait tables.”

  “But you know I can’t sing.”

  “Everybody can sing. I’ve heard you sing.”

  “If you’ve heard me sing, then you know I’m terrible!”

  “No, that woman was terrible. You’re just not very good,” Ella said.

  The MC called out the name of the next singers. Two guys bounced up onto the stage. They were older and balding and had big beer bellies. They were either very happy or very intoxicated—or both.

  The music started, and I recognized the tune—“I Love Rock-n-Roll.” My father often played it in the car and sang along at the top of his lungs. He was a terrible singer, and unfortunately, while some people thought I looked like my mother, I sang like my father. The two men started to sing. One was actually not bad, which made it even worse for his friend, who was as bad as the imitation Adele.

  “Go have a seat, and I’ll put your name on the list to sing,” Ella said.

  “Ella, I really, really don’t want to do this.”

  “I know you don’t.”

  “I’m just not comfortable being up there,” I said, pointing to the stage.

  “You’re not comfortable because you’re not that good.”

  “So you want me to look silly?” I regretted saying it as soon as the words popped out of my mouth. We were okay, but maybe not that okay.

  “I’ll admit that’s what makes it at least a little funny for me, but we’re talking about you. You need to be able to do things you’re not good at, that you’re even really bad at, and realize that nobody dies.”

  “I know I’m not going to die up there unless it’s dying of embarrassment.”

  “Nobody has ever died of embarrassment,” she said.

  “But I’m sure there are people who wanted to.”

  “Remember, being bad at something doesn’t make you bad. It just makes you human.”

  I understood what she meant, but I didn’t like being unable to do something well.

  “On the bright side, I’m probably not going to sprain a wrist,” I said.

  “That probably depends on how you hold the microphone. Look at the playlist and choose your song while I go and put your name on the list to perform.”

  She bounced away before I could say anything else. There was nothing to do but take a seat and try to find a song I wouldn’t completely butcher.

  Person after person took to the stage and sang along to the recorded music. I wasn’t shocked at just how many people actually wanted to do this but by the wide range of singing ability. Some were plain awful, but others were, well, amazing. Forget American Idol and The Voice—the most talented singers in the country seemed to be right here in this bar. I had to hope that either I didn’t have to follow one of the good ones or that I wouldn’t be called at all. Sometimes small improbable hope was better than no hope. I tried to focus on what Ella had said. I wasn’t going to die up there on the stage.

  “So you haven’t told me what your song is going to be,” Ella said.

  “It’s this one right here,” I said, pointing down at the playlist. “ ‘Summer Nights’ from Grease.”

  “But that’s a duet.”

  “That could be a problem.” I paused. “Or maybe I could find somebody to sing the other part. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to leave this table to find that person.”

  “So you want me to sing a love duet with you?” she asked.

  “Why not? It wouldn’t be any stranger than those two guys who sang the Elton John duet together.”

  Two men had sung “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” and actually done a remarkably good job. They’d gotten the biggest round of applause of the night.

  “So if I do this, do I get to be Sandy or Danny?” Ella asked.

  “You can sing whichever part you want. So will you do it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  The singer onstage ended his song, and we clapped along with everybody else. He had been less than good, which made him a good person to follow.

  The MC came onto the stage. “And next up is Sophie… Sophie, come on up!”

  My heart rose into my throat. I turned to Ella. “Well?”

  She smiled. “Just call me Danny.”

  In the end, we’d done two songs. It wasn’t that we were so good on the first but that we were having fun. Maybe my singing with somebody had been cheating, but still, I had sung two songs, and that was sort of the equivalent of one done solo.

  I started singing to myself. “Summer lovin’, had me a blast…”

  DAY 64

  I turned over and looked at the clock. I was surprised but not surprised to see that it was almost twelve thirty. We had stayed at the karaoke place until late the night before, and then I’d done all the media posting and publishing, but I’d still been unable to get to sleep right away. It had actually been a high getting onstage and making a fool of myself. Ella was right—it wasn’t bad to be that bad at something, and being bad together had made it even better.

  I started to roll back over, then caught the scent of something cooking—no, something burning. My father must have been trying to make lunch. It was so much easier when they ordered in, but he was trying—and failing—to cook them meals. I couldn’t let myself think about that. It had to be their problem, not mine.

  The smell was getting stronger.

  I climbed out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Whatever he’d cooked had burned badly, and there was smoke drifting up the stairs!

  “Dad! Oliver!” I screamed.

  I raced down the hall—a trail of black smoke was snaking along the ceiling. There was a pot on the stove, and flames were licking up its sides and soaring halfway to the ceiling.

  I stumbled forward, turned on the tap to get water, then thought better of that. I pulled open the cupboard underneath the sink, knocked things out of the way and grabbed the red fire extinguisher.

  I aimed it at the fire, which was getting bigger by the second, and tried to press the handle, but nothing happened. I scanned it and saw a pin holding it up. I pulled the pin and squeezed the handle again. A spray of thick white foam shot out all over the pot and the stove and the wall and the fire. Almost instantly the flames vanished. The fire was gone, smothered. I kept pressing until the entire top of the stove had disappeared beneath the foam. The fire was out.

  There was foam everywhere. It reminded me of the soap suds that had filled the room. What was different was the smell. The room was filled with the bitter odor of smoke, which still drifted in a cloud by the ceiling. The wall beside the stove was blackened, stained with smoke and charred by the flames themselves.

  “Sophie?”

  I turned to see my father and brother standing at the kitchen door. They both looked completely stunned.

  “What happened?” my father asked.

  “What happened is that you put something on the stove and then you left it.”

  “We were playing catch,” he stammered. He held up the baseball glove on his hand like he was offering proof.

  “And you almost burned the house down.”

  “We were only gone a few minutes,” Oliver said.

  “It only took a few minutes.”

  “Thank goodness you were here,” my father said.

  I walked over and handed him the fire extinguisher. “And if I hadn’t been here, if I’d been away at college? You know what would have happened? You would have burned the house down because you were too busy playing catch outside to watch the stove.”

  “It was an accident. It won’t happen again,” he said.

  “I’m surprised it happened the first time, because you hardly ever cook to begin with. You keep telling me you can take care of things, that you
and Oliver can get by without me, but is that really true?” I demanded.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Trying would be having groceries in the house, fixing a meal or two with real ingredients, doing some chores so it doesn’t look like the place should be condemned.”

  “I’m doing the best I can,” he said.

  “No you’re not!” I snapped. He looked as shocked by my words as I felt, but I couldn’t stop now. “All you’re doing is showing me that I can’t leave to go away to college because the two of you will either starve to death or burn down the house. Maybe we have to stop pretending that you can do it.”

  “I can do it,” he said. He didn’t sound very convinced or convincing.

  “Can you? Can you really act like a parent?”

  “Come on, Soph, that isn’t fair,” he said.

  “Fair? Fair would be that my mother hadn’t died or that my father acted like a father and I didn’t have to be the one who—” I stopped myself. My father looked like I’d wounded him. I burst into tears and ran from the room.

  I sensed I wasn’t alone. I opened my eyes and rolled over. My father was standing in my bedroom door. He looked as sad as I felt. He looked like he’d been crying. I’d been crying a lot.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  I nodded my head weakly.

  He came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s all cleaned up.”

  Again I nodded.

  “It could have been so much worse if you hadn’t found it. I’m so sorry for putting you through all of that,” he said.

  “I’m sorry too.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “For the things I said.” I was on the verge of tears again.

  “You should never be sorry for telling the truth. I let you down. I keep letting you down.”

  “No, you don’t. It’s just that—”

  “It’s just that I need to grow up and be the parent you and Oliver need. You’re going away to school and—”

  “I don’t have to go away.”

  “Yes, you do. If you don’t go away, I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll do better. I have to do better. I’ll show you. I promise.”

  I threw my arms around him, and he hugged me back.

  “Could I ask you a question?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Did you ever wonder what it would have been like if it had been the other way around?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said—but I thought I did.

  “What it would have been like if your mother had been the one to live?”

  And he’d been the one to die.

  “I’ve never thought of that,” I said, hoping my lie was convincing.

  “I have,” he said. “I know it would have been better for Oliver and you.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Your mother was the strong one. She would have been a better parent and…” He let the words trail off.

  “We got by,” I said.

  “And we’ll get by when you’re gone,” he said. “I promise.”

  DAY 66

  The first thing I did was post the pictures. Ella and I looked pretty cool in our get-ups. There had already been a bunch of likes. The pictures did make me smile. Now I just needed to post something more to explain the pictures.

  I started typing and then stopped. I put a hand against a bruise on my arm. It was tender to the touch. I was closer when it hit and it really stung. On the bright side, the bruises were the only things left on my skin that were a different color. It had taken a lot of scrubbing, but I’d managed to get rid of the last of the blue and red paint. Each bruise, and each patch of paint that had been on my skin or clothes, was a place where I’d been shot with a paintball. Who would have thought a little plastic ball filled with paint could hurt so much?

  We spent the day at a place called Balls of Duty Paintball. I thought the name was a little hokey—playing off the video game Call of Duty—but once I got there I changed my mind. It was a gigantic indoor facility, and walking around it, I actually felt like I was in the video game. It looked like we were in a run-down city neighborhood of partially destroyed houses and storefronts, with burned-out cars littering the streets. Even though I knew it was all fake, just a big stage really, it was unnerving.

  Somehow I’d thought that my having learned to shoot a real gun would give me an advantage. I was feeling confident. I was so wrong.

  I got the first hints of what was coming while we were in the lounge, waiting for our turn to get out there. That’s where we met our teammates. They were a bunch of guys in their twenties and early thirties who called themselves the Paintball Wizards. Ella had already sort of met them on the Internet when they approached her and offered to take us paintballing.

  They were all dressed in identical black outfits with matching goggles for eye protection. They’d brought the same goggles for us, and that was when I noticed that their outfits had padded chests and legs. There could only be one reason padding was needed. We certainly weren’t dressed like them—we’d worn our yoga pants and tops.

  It turned out these guys had been doing this for years, on at least one weekend every month and some weekday evenings. They’d fired thousands and thousands of paintball rounds while my whole experience was limited to a couple dozen rounds at the range. My lack of confidence in myself was tempered, though, by my increased confidence in my new teammates. They were all so good that they’d help take care of us.

  Then I met one of the other teams. They were dressed in the same sort of fancy outfits and goggles and had the same high-powered, expensive rifles.

  I thought that everybody would be friendly, sort of like playing a game together. Really wrong about that too. There were people who had “history” and either ignored each other or gave glares or snarky comments. Some teams that had played against each other in competitions still had an edge, an attitude that bordered on hate.

  One thing I wasn’t surprised about was the male-to-female ratio. A few other women were there besides us, but basically it was 95 percent male and 5 percent female. We were more than a minority. We were a curiosity and the center of attention, getting looks and comments. Some of the comments were just strange, while others were rude, insulting and sexist.

  One guy said there was “no room for women” in combat, and his buddies nodded, commenting that it was “a man’s business.” I pointed out that we were playing a game, and Ella added something like, If it was for men, then why was he there? That got his friends laughing at him, which got him angrier, which got him ranting even more about how we didn’t “understand,” how he didn’t want to “kill women and children.”

  Ella said she’d have no problem hitting a “little boy” like him with a paintball and that she suspected his talking to her was the closest thing he’d ever had in the way of a relationship with a female who wasn’t his sister or mother and that she assumed he still lived with his mother. Of course, that only escalated things further. Part of me wanted her to just shut up while the other part was cheering her on with “Go for it, Ella!”

  That team and our team weren’t supposed to be out at the same time. They either bribed or threatened another team and suddenly were scheduled to be our first opponents. That was just what I needed—psycho paintball killers who didn’t like us. They started trash-talking to us and the rest of our team, going on about their “kills” and using all sorts of military language, and strutting around like they were actually going to war instead of playing paintball.

  I asked one of the guys on our team—and they all seemed like genuinely nice guys—if any of those other guys had been in the military. He laughed and said that people who had actually served in the military and been in combat hardly ever came to paintball places. He knew the guy Ella had accused of living with his mother, and it turned out he did live with her. Not only wasn’t he ever in the
military, but he worked in a shoe store—a women’s shoe store. Maybe that explained his anger toward women.

  Don’t get me wrong. Most of the people we met were nice. Our team was made up of a chartered accountant, a couple of teachers, a firefighter and even a doctor—a pediatrician.

  The final and biggest surprises weren’t things I learned about other people, but things I learned about myself.

  It all started building as we got ready to go out, as these guys, our “enemy,” started turning up the comments. I knew it was just a game, just paintball. I knew nobody was really going to die. But that wasn’t how it felt. Deep down in my monkey-brain cortex and in the pit of my gut I started to react. My stomach started gurgling, and I had to get to the toilet a couple of times before we got out there. My hands started sweating, and I felt hot. Then, as we got out there and the action started, it got much worse really fast.

  I had a rush of adrenaline triggered by fear that caused my whole body to react. My hands began shaking, my body was sweating badly, and my heart was racing. It sparked a whole fight-or-flight response, and I wanted to run away screaming. I guess that was to be expected. What happened next wasn’t.

  Once it all started, there was no place to run. Flight was taken off the table, so fight took over. It started with that first “kill.”

  I was hiding behind a wall. Ella was just off to my side, also hiding. Neither of us had gotten off a shot because that would have meant sticking up our heads. Then this guy—the enemy—leaped over our wall, so close that he almost landed on top of me. I screamed, which startled him so much that he screamed too. He got off a round that splattered on the wall just over my left shoulder, and I reacted by falling away. But my finger was still on the trigger, and I hit him with six shots before he could react. That gave me a sense of relief, like I’d actually been saved from death, but there was something else—it produced a little rush of happiness.

  I remember reading something in history class—a quote from Winston Churchill: Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result. I’d been shot at without result. He’d missed. And then I hadn’t missed. I’d splattered him with enough red paint that it looked like he’d really been shot. And it felt good. Better than good. It felt great. And I wanted to feel it again.