How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER ONE

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1ST
5:50 PM
THE RIVERA'S DINING ROOM

"Eat, Diego." Dad points to my crowded dinner plate with his fork. "You need it. Got to put on some weight before tryouts, right?"

I nod and force myself to take a bite of Mom's chili as my gut churns. It's got nothing to do with her cooking—I used to shovel this stuff down like some sort of starved animal. But since the accident, I can't stomach much of anything. The fact that tomorrow will be my first time playing the part of the new kid at school isn't exactly helping.

Mom thought moving away would help us cope with what happened—or, more likely, would help us ignore it. Grandma suggested we come here, where she's lived since she was a kid. Having lived in Houston my entire life, the tiny town of Bradford, Connecticut, is like an entirely different world.

A world I admittedly haven't seen much of, since I've kept myself cooped up drawing in my room or pitching baseballs in the backyard all summer. Our house here is small and old, just like everything else in town. The few times I went out to get groceries with Mom, or took a ride on my bike to make a deposit at the bank for Dad, I got the gist of Bradford well enough.

I don't know about Mom and Dad, but the change of scenery hasn't done anything for me. I still have nightmares, I still throw up when I think about what I did, and I still miss Miguel. Now, it's just happening in a run-down house in a boring town, away from anything that gave me the comfort of familiarity.

"Don't worry, Superman," Mom chimes in. The old nickname manages to make me feel comforted enough to chew and swallow. "You're a damn good pitcher. You'll probably be Vanterbest's MVP by the end of the season."

I nod again and try to give her a smile. But I've forgotten how to do that, so it probably looks more like a grimace—which would be the honest representation of my feelings towards this conversation.

They've been on me about baseball since the move, all because I (in another of my trying-to-be-more-like-Miguel moments) tried out for the team at Darwin, my old school. I made Varsity and got bored with it pretty fast. Bored enough that I never planned to join the team again senior year.

But I guess now that Miguel's gone, they expect me to fill that role of future sports star. And since it's my fault that he's gone, I owe that to them.

I can't say I'm surprised they want me to be more like him—they always have. Miguel was always the favorite. Miguel's buried back in Houston, and he's still the favorite

Maybe it's because he really was a sports star, or because he had a 4.0 GPA every quarter, or because he was their firstborn. Maybe it's because everyone around knew who Miguel was: soccer legend, class president, prom king, the list goes on.

I was bland enough on my own: average grades, average social life, average baseball player. The most interesting thing about me is my comic collection—which, I know, isn't really interesting at all to most people. When compared to Miguel, no one has to wonder why I'm not the favorite.

Oh, yeah—it could also have something to do with the fact that I killed him.

It was an accident, of course. That's what I tell myself, that's what the therapists told me, that's what I see on Mom and Dad's face every time they catch me blowing chunks over it. A random blackout behind the wheel of Miguel's Chevy. There was no way to predict it, no way to prevent it. It was just a freak incident.

But it was still me behind that wheel. It was my foot that stayed pressed on the gas, my body that slumped over and turned the steering wheel into the other lane. And yet it was me who got to crawl out of the wreck and see my brother with a pane of bloodied glass through his head, covered in char and ash, his skin blackening to a crisp from the flames.

I couldn't have saved him. He was dead before I regained consciousness, and I knew it just by looking at him.

But it was still my fault.

You know, it's funny how easily I can get lost in thoughts like that and not realize it until my gag reflex has me jolting out of my chair and towards the nearest bathroom, like it does now.

I'm mostly focused on holding in my puke until I make it to the toilet bowl, but I vaguely register the jarring screech of my chair against the old wooden floor and the sighs from my parents hidden beneath it.

Yeah, I think as I slam open the porcelain, coughing as the bile stings my throat. I know how you feel.

IM SO EXCITED TO BE POSTING THIS STORY!!
In future chapters I'll probably add little questions at the end, but for the beginning there isn't much to ask lol 😅