by Eric Walters
We gathered just after 11:00 PM, meeting at the shelter and then going out in the van. It was me, my friend Chris, who is eighty-five years young, a driver named Brett and a fourth person, Julio. When I found out Julio was a police officer, I felt relieved. After all, when you’re wandering through alleys in the middle of the night, a police officer is a good person to have along. Unless, of course, you’re hanging out with a guy named Night Crawler and are doing street art. It would have been something to run into that guy again!
It turned out that Chris had been doing this for years. Julio had some experience as well, though going through the alleys usually meant arresting people, not giving out clothes and shoes and blankets. We were searching for homeless people who were so outside the system that they didn’t go to shelters at night.
Brett would drop off the three of us at one end of an alley, then drive around and meet us at the other end. In the first few alleys all we saw were rats, cats and an extremely large raccoon that stared at us in a threatening way before it waddled away.
It wasn’t until the fourth alley that we found some people. There were two of them. Julio saw them wedged in between a big dumpster and the wall of a building, lying on the pavement. At first I didn’t realize that one of the two was a woman, because they were both in bulky clothing and woolen caps.
Chris offered them a place in the shelter—which they said they didn’t want—and then we gave them some food, water and two blankets. They were grateful and shook our hands. That was the pattern I saw for the rest of the night. People were so grateful for the things we gave them—the most basic of things that humans need—food, water, warmth. It made me realize how much we all have in our lives and how so often we’re not really grateful for it.
Going out in the middle of the night taught me that there are many people, unknown to me, invisible to almost everybody, who live their lives in the shadows. I also learned that there are wonderful people like Chris who want to help, who understand that street people are still people who need to be treated with dignity and respect.
DAY 73
“I’m home!” I yelled as I came into the house.
“Hey, honey!” my father yelled back. “We’re in the kitchen.”
It was suppertime, so I assumed he’d brought something home. Maybe it would be something good, but I wasn’t counting on it.
Walking down the hall, I noticed that there weren’t any dust bunnies in the corners and the floor wasn’t dirty. There were no stains. In fact, it even felt clean under my feet. Had the dishwasher overflowed again?
Since I hadn’t been allowed to clean anything all summer except my room, the whole place had slowly slid from clean to dirty to dirtier. I’d been afraid for what it would look like in six months. But not today—it was better. Had the two of them been cleaning?
Going toward the kitchen I smelled food—good food. I stopped in the kitchen doorway—stunned.
My father was at the stove, wearing a tall white chef’s hat and a white apron that read Kiss the Cook. He was stirring the contents of a wok. I didn’t realize he even knew we had one of those.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
“What are you doing?” I questioned.
“Isn’t it a bit obvious?” Oliver said. He was wearing an apron too. His said Be nice to me or I’ll poison you. Not quite as cute.
“We’re making a chicken stir-fry,” my father said.
“I see that. It smells tasty.”
“It is tasty,” Oliver said.
“And healthy, low-calorie and easy to make,” my father added.
“But how do you know about stir-fries?”
“We got the recipe on the Internet,” my father said. He held up his iPad. “Do you know there are recipes for everything on the Internet?”
“Yeah, this cooking thing is really easy,” Oliver said. “You always made it sound like it was really hard.”
“So now it’s my fault nobody else cooked?”
“It’s my fault,” my father said. “But I’m trying. All we needed was the right attitude, the Internet and the right clothing. Just call me Chef.”
“And I’m the sous chef,” Oliver added.
“The what?”
“The sous chef. It’s French, and it means the second in command after the head chef. I work under him, but mainly what it means is that I get to cut things up. Normally I’m not allowed to play with knives. Here I have to. I chopped up all the vegetables, and I even cut the chicken into strips.”
“That’s impressive.”
“And do you know what’s even more impressive?” Oliver said. He held up his hands. “I still have the correct number of fingers.”
“You’re right, even more impressive.”
“Yeah, it probably would have taken away from the chicken part of the stir-fry if I’d sliced off a finger.”
“Not to mention the blood,” my father added. “We’re using a combination of soy and teriyaki sauces for the flavoring.”
“They were up in the cupboard,” Oliver added.
“I know. I bought them—back when I used to buy groceries.”
“We just ordered next week’s groceries,” Oliver added.
“We’re using an online delivery service,” my father explained.
“It’s really easy. Just ticking some boxes,” Oliver said. “I did most of it.”
“They even have prompts to help you plan meals and then reminders of things you should order to make those meals,” my father said.
“That’s amazing. I didn’t know about that.”
“So you are going to join us, aren’t you?”
“I’m looking forward to it. I have one more question. The house, well, it looks clean. When did you have time to do that as well as cook and order groceries?”
“I hired a cleaning person to come in once a week. Of course, we’ll still do the day-to-day things like dishes.”
“Believe me, I know how to use the dishwasher,” Oliver said.
I couldn’t help but laugh. He had figured that one out.
“I’ve also found a laundry service,” my father said. “They charge by the pound.”
“So you have somebody to clean the house, deliver groceries and do the laundry, and the two of you are cooking,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s right, you’ve been completely replaced,” Oliver said.
“Nobody will ever replace our Sophie,” my father said. “I just wish I’d known about these things years ago. That’s my fault too.”
“It’s nobody’s fault,” I said. “I didn’t know either.”
“Now go wash up and join us for dinner.”
I turned to leave before they could see the tears starting to come. I wasn’t even sure why I felt like crying. Was it because they had replaced me? No, it was because my father had done what he’d said he was going to do. He’d done it for Oliver. And he’d done it for me.
DAY 75
We inched through the traffic. I looked out through the darkly tinted windows at the people crowding the street who peered in trying to see what celebrity was inside our stretch limousine. If they could have seen inside, they would have been disappointed. No Ryan Gosling. No co-stars or minor stars, or director or producer, or featured actor or even movie extra. Just Ella and me. It was my first time in a limo—which was a different all by itself—but certainly not the different for today.
We were both in elegant dresses, floor length and low cut, and mine was almost completely backless. We’d been loaned the dresses. To top them off, we’d also been loaned some genuine-looking costume jewelry, and our hair had been done professionally.
The gowns and shoes had come from the designer of the dress I’d modeled on the runway. The fake jewelry was from another one of my followers. The makeup artist who had made us zombies for the flash mob had done our makeup. She was even better at that than she’d been with th
e zombie makeup. She actually hadn’t used much less on us tonight than she had then. I almost hated to admit it, because it did sound rather vain, but we looked really good. I felt like I was a movie star. That was particularly important if any of this was going to work.
Technically we were actors, since we had been in a movie—Horror High School. I’d keep telling myself that, and if anybody asked, that’s what I’d say. I wasn’t a great liar, but I certainly could leave out parts that didn’t fit.
Yes, Horror High School. Well, yes, it’s due for release this fall. I heard there was some Oscar buzz.
Some part of me even thought it would be fun to try to bluff our way through with that line. That the idea of being discovered or confronted amused me more than it scared me was probably one of the biggest changes in me that all these differents had made.
“Are you nervous?” Ella asked.
“Not really. I’m thinking this is a combination of walking the runway and crashing the wedding.”
Ella laughed. “That makes perfect sense, although try not to walk the red carpet the same way you did the runway, or they’ll think you’re insane.”
“Being insane pretty well defines a lot of the things we’ve done this summer.”
“Insanity might be useful, but we’re going to rely on something else to help us get away with this,” Ella said.
“Let me guess. We’re going to act like we own the place.”
“That goes without saying. We’re also going to have something else.”
Ella moved forward so she could lean over the partition separating us from the driver, Irene.
“Thanks so much for all of this,” Ella said.
“It’s my pleasure,” Irene said. “I’ve been following your adventures on Twitter, and I wanted to help.”
It no longer surprised me when somebody told me they were a follower or a friend, because I had so many of both, and so many of them were such nice people. I’d long ago capped out the five-thousand-friend limit on Facebook, and I had over eight thousand followers on Twitter and Instagram combined.
Ella had put out word that we needed a ride to the premiere, and the fancier, the better. You couldn’t get any fancier than this car. It was a stretch Hummer that was probably worth as much as a small house. It wasn’t just that I’d never ridden in anything like it, I didn’t think I’d ever seen anything this fancy.
Irene turned and handed back some papers. “Here are your invitations.”
Ella took them. “Thanks.”
“You got us invitations!”
“They’re not real,” Irene said. “But they are authentically color-photocopied invitations.”
“Where did you get the real one to copy in the first place?” Ella asked.
“Just about every limo and driver in the city has been hired for tonight’s event, so I got a friend to borrow one and make copies.”
“Again, thanks so much,” I said.
“We’re the next car in line,” Irene said. “Can you two do something for me?”
“Anything!” I said.
“Just name it,” Ella said.
“If you find yourself up close to that Ryan Gosling, could you give him a little kiss on the cheek from me? Tell him that Irene is ready to drive him anyplace he wants to go.”
“I’ll do that,” Ella said. “And then I’ll give him a bigger kiss from me.”
“Hey, won’t that make Shawn Mendes jealous?” I joked.
“All part of my long-term strategy. I think the best way to Shawn is through Ryan.”
The car came to a stop, and the right-hand back door popped open. A tuxedoed gentleman as handsome as a movie star offered me a hand.
“Remember, smile and wave,” Ella said. “Smile and wave.”
A roar came from the crowd as I stepped out of the limo.
“Welcome to the red carpet,” the tuxedoed man said as he released my hand.
“Good to be here, again,” Ella said.
We started along the red carpet—it really was a red carpet. I felt a little wobbly on my high, high heels, and my dress was so tight that I could only take little steps. Ella and I linked arms, as neither of us felt very steady on our feet.
On both sides were waist-high metal fences, and behind those barriers stood a crush of people. They waved, screamed, took pictures and held out pens and pieces of paper, yelling for autographs.
“Obviously, they think we’re somebody.”
“We are somebody!” Ella exclaimed.
She reached over and grabbed one of the pieces of paper and a pen and signed it. People screamed, pushed forward against the fence to thrust out papers and autograph books and tried to take selfies of her and them. I grabbed one of the autograph books, signed my name and handed it back, then grabbed a second, and then a third. The more we signed, the more people pushed forward, trying to get our signatures. We took turns being in people’s selfies or grabbed their phones, took pictures of each other and then handed the phones back to the owners. And the more we did it, the more people wanted us to do it. We’d created a little stampede of people on the other side of the barrier.
I decided it was best to start moving along before they figured out who we were—or who we weren’t. I grabbed Ella by the arm and gave a little tug. She returned the autograph book she’d just signed, and the two of us continued along the walk.
Up ahead, just by the entrance, dozens of professional photographers were going crazy, flashes exploding as they took pictures of the people who had preceded us on the red carpet. Just in front of us was the co-star of the movie! We stopped to watch. She was being interviewed, four or five microphones thrust in her face and the throng of photographers surrounding her.
“Wouldn’t it be amazing to be her?” Ella asked.
“I think it would be strange.”
“As strange as ninety days of different?” Ella asked.
“Probably even stranger. Come on, we’ll just slip around the side and—”
Another beautiful man in a tuxedo came up to us. “You’re the next two up for interviews.”
“Not us!” I protested. “We’re just a couple of—”
“People who simply live to be interviewed!” Ella exclaimed. She grabbed me by the arm and started to drag me forward.
“Stop!” I yelled as I dug in my heels.
“Come on, Soph, this could be fun—and another different rolled into one!”
“It’s not that I don’t want to be interviewed. But I didn’t dress like this to be dragged anywhere. We’re going to strut over there like we really do own the place.”
Arm in arm we strutted toward the interviewer, and the cameras started flashing, and the crowd cheered a little louder.
I pushed Send and the picture was posted to Twitter and Instagram. It was a lovely one of Ryan Gosling although he didn’t even know I’d taken the picture. I’d taken it at the after party of the premiere. He was behind Ella, and I pretended to take a picture of her.
The picture made me smile. And judging from the likes and retweets and favors that instantly started to pile up, it was apparent that other people liked it a lot too.
DAY 77
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice coming through the headset in my helmet.
“I’m…I’m good,” I said into the little microphone. I was slouched down in the seat so that I couldn’t see much of anything. I was trying hard to pretend I was sitting on the ground and not thousands of feet in the air. I had the GoPro strapped on, so I could see it all later even if I didn’t see it now.
“You’re doing well,” the pilot offered reassuringly.
I didn’t feel well. I didn’t feel much—I was numb with fear.
“If you’re feeling sick, remember you have the air-sickness bag right at your side.”
I had one hand on it already. It wasn’t like I had far to reach, or move,
or stretch, wedged in the little cockpit of the glider. I was stuffed into the nose, and the pilot was behind me. Maybe that made it worse. He wasn’t beside me or even in front of me, so I couldn’t see him at all, and my seat was so tight that turning around was almost impossible.
All I could see was the Plexiglas canopy over my head, the little white nose extending in front of me and, beyond that, the thin metal cable that connected us to the plane—the plane that actually had an engine and was towing us into the sky. Above was a cluster of puffy white clouds. Around was mostly clear blue sky. Below us—well, I wasn’t going to look there or even think there. I was just going to focus on the plane ahead of us. Originally my plan was to focus on nothing, to keep my eyes closed. I’d quickly found out that wouldn’t work. The only way to keep my breakfast in my stomach was to keep my eyes open. Why had I eaten breakfast, and why hadn’t it been dry cereal instead of bacon and eggs?
If I turned my head in either direction I could just catch a glimpse of the very tips of the wings. They were so long and thin and delicate, made of a fiberglass composite, and they were the only things keeping us in the air.
The pilot in the plane towing us and my pilot were chatting away. I understood some of the conversation, but they also used pilot terms I didn’t understand—it was like a foreign language.
“What’s our altitude?” my pilot asked.
“Seven thousand feet,” said the other. “The winds are coming out of the north-northeast at fifteen knots.”
“Do you have any reports of thermals on the horizon?” he asked.
Before we’d taken off, the pilot had explained that thermals were bands of hot, rising air that allowed the glider to float higher rather than simply gliding downward.
“I’ve had reports from other pilots that there are some significant thermals to the west.”
“Roger that. We’ll take a bearing in that direction. We’re going to release in ten,” my pilot said.
