How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER SIX

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 12TH
6:13 AM
DIEGO'S ROOM

Sometimes I can't sleep at all. It's hard for me to decide which is worse—not getting any rest and walking around like a zombie the next day, or getting a few hours of sleep plagued by the images of Miguel's death. I guess they're equally shitty.

On the nights where I can't fall asleep, I usually end up drawing until the sun comes up and I have to get ready for school. I used to sleep like a rock through Dad and Miguel screaming at soccer games on TV, through Mom vacuuming in the mornings, and through a lot of alarms. So many that my parents got into the habit of always checking to make sure I'm awake for school—a habit so ingrained after all these years that they still do it, even knowing I haven't had that problem in months.

Knuckles rap against my door twice—Dad. Mom always does three.

"You awake, Diego?" he asks.

"Yeah," I answer distractedly, preoccupied with drawing the dead-eyed expression on this zombie right. Watts' horror comics have given me an unexpected bout of inspiration. They're a lot cooler than I initially gave them credit for, I have to say—and that's coming from someone who admittedly skips over all the death and gore.

I'm so into what I'm doing that I don't notice Dad has opened the door until it's too late. I flip the book closed as I turn to him, but his eyes are already studying it with a heavy look of disapproval.

He looks at me and sighs, but Mom walks by with a stack of laundry before he can speak.

"Oh, here you go honey," she says, coming in and setting the folded pile on top of my dresser. "It's a load of your whites." She turns to me, face falling into concern. "Diego, didn't you sleep at all?"

I raise a shoulder, gesturing to my unmade bed as if that will somehow combat the evidence of my eyebags. "A little."

"How long have you been at this?" Dad questions, reaching over me for my sketchbook. He flips through the pages with disinterest as Mom comes up beside him. "Diego, you've got to prioritize."

"It's just a hobby. For fun."

He hands it back to me with a frown. "Looks like you spend a lot of time having fun. Meanwhile, when was the last time I saw you in the backyard practicing your pitches?"

Mom hums, a far-off look in her eyes and a sad smile on her lips. "Remember how hard it was to get Miguel to come inside? He'd stay out kicking that ball around for hours."

My stomach churns. She probably doesn't mean for that to sound like a comparison, but it does.

"You have to decide what you want to take seriously in life, Diego," Dad says.

I toss the sketchbook onto my desk. "This is just a hobby, it's nothing. I'm serious about baseball."

"Well I haven't seen you acting like it."

"Coach told me to rest my arm before tryouts," I blurt out the lie without even thinking. Where did that come from? My cheeks start to get hot, until I see the impressed look on Dad's face.

"You spoke to the coach?"

"Uh... for a sec," I say, as if shortening the length of the fictional conversation somehow makes the lie less serious. Truth is, I still don't even know anything other than his name. I could be passing him in the hall every day and wouldn't even know it. "Just to tell him I was interested in trying out."

"That's good." He claps me on the shoulder, smiling at me for what I realize is that first time in a long time. "Shows him you have initiative."

"I should get ready." I stand up, wishing I could shake off the shame that's settled in my chest. But there's something else there, too. The feeling like I finally did something right for once. "Watts and I have a thing for Chem, and we need to go over some stuff before first period."