How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15TH
6:49 AM
LAWRENCE DEMBENSKI'S HOUSE

There are already four plates of cookies and milk waiting for us on the small, square table in the kitchen. We thank Watts's grandpa, who tells us not to mention it and enjoy as he sits down on the tall stool by the counter.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asks before taking a swig of milk.

I bite into one of the warm cookies and find myself surprisingly comforted by the taste. The incident in the attic caught me off guard. When it came to what we saw in the band room, I know there was some part of me that knew something brutal might happen. But just now, I'd been at ease.

A stupid mistake, I guess. How could I even manage to fall into a false sense of security with the way things are? 

But as I sit in Lawrence Dembenski's cozy kitchen and indulge in freshly baked goods, I allow my heartbeat to return to a normal pace. It doesn't seem like Bozzanath wants any unwanted eyes on him, which means for now, I think we really are safe.

Watts nods, taking a second to chew. "Actually, Zayde, I wanted to ask if you knew anything about Charles Adkins. The guy who named the school."

"Ah, yes, an often forgotten part of Bradford's history. Not many people still remember how Vanterbest got its name. Charles Adkins won that essay contest... his son, Norman, was in my grade."

"Really? Was he... normal?"

His eyebrows raise, and he gives a short laugh. "Normal? What makes you ask that?"

"Well... his daughter Kayla goes to school with us, is all. There are some... rumors," Watts seems to be choosing his words carefully, like he doesn't want his grandpa to know more than he has to. "Rumors about her being involved with some weird... magic-type stuff."

This time, the laugh from his grandpa is heartier. He scratches the top of his head, shaking it slowly. "Well, I guess that sort of thing runs in the family."

All four of us freeze, cookie-filled hands hovering in front of our faces.

"Wh—Really?" Watts places his gingersnap back down, leaning forward. "What do you mean? Her dad was, too?"

"Like you said, there were rumors. I didn't know Norman all that well—or, well at all, really. But I remember hearing a few things through the grapevine about him, a few things that created a little bit of a stir. Something about a cult, and how he tried to brag to a few of the underclassmen about it. They said he was trying to indoctrinate them," he says dramatically with a point of his finger. "Yes, that's how they put it."

"What happened after?" Renny asks, dipping a cookie into her cup of milk.

He shrugs. "The same as I imagine is happening with this Kayla—nothing much. A few people would tease him, or make comments. Most people just thought he was a little strange. And other people never heard the rumors at all. Then we graduated, and—as I'm sure the four of you will soon find out—all that stuff was forgotten. We had bigger things to focus on."

"Trust me, Zayde, we have big things going on right now."

"You want to talk about big things, Walter, think about this—The Great Depression hit right as I was leaving high school. Picture it!" He gestures to me and Ambrose with an open hand. "Young intellectuals thinking they were about to head off to college, dreams shattered at no fault of their own." He moves his hand to point to the side of the table where Watts and Renny are sitting. "High school sweethearts who were getting ready to start a family, having to put their lives on hold."

Ambrose, mid-sip, snorts into his cup at the implication, sending milk splashing onto the table. He quickly disguises it as a cough, lowering his cup and pretending to clear his throat. "Sorry—wrong pipe," he chokes. But I can see him hiding a smile behind his hand.

Renny tosses a napkin at him, leering fiercely.

Watts's grandpa claps his hands, hopping from the stool. "I forgot, the lady wanted to see pictures."

"No—!" Watts rises from his chair in protest, but goes ignored as his grandpa leaves the room. He sits back down with a huff. "We are so leaving when he comes back."

"Speak for yourself," Ambrose says, still grinning. "The man has more cookies in the oven, in case you didn't notice."

"Getting back on topic," Renny says firmly, keeping her voice hushed, "We have a little bit of a lead here. We obviously need to look more into Kayla's family."

I nod, swirling a half-eaten cookie in my cup. "Anyone have any ideas as to how?"

"Short of breaking and entering, no."

Unfortunately, neither do the rest of us. And we don't have much time to brainstorm before Watts' grandpa comes back, distracting us with photographs and funny stories, feeding us cookies until we're so full it's hard to walk out to Ambrose's truck when it's time to leave.

We agree to keep thinking and recoup tomorrow. Not a dead-end this time, but a standstill nonetheless. Ambrose drops me home, but after I say hi to Mom, I go to my room to draw for a while and think about how I want to tell her and Dad the news.

Every drawing I make seems to stare back at me and ask why I'm not more excited to tell them. I don't have an answer.

It must just be the stress over Bozzanath. Once all that is over, once we figure out how to stop him, I'll be able to celebrate.

I decide to wait until Dad gets home and we're seated at the table for dinner, a steaming plate of spaghetti in front of each of us. He's still not talking to me much. Since they found out I missed tryouts, most of what he's said to me has been morning or, goodnight.

"So," I say, running my fork through the noodles, wishing I wanted to eat them. But the sudden reappearance of my appetite must've been a fluke, because it's gone again and doesn't seem like it's coming back, even for pasta.

They look up at me expectantly, forks hovering above their plates. I take a deep breath, setting mine down.

"Coach Deeley talked to me today at school," I start, watching the way their faces instantly light up with hope. If it's the reaction I was expecting, the reaction that I wanted, then why does it feel like a slap in the face? "I made the team."

Mom breaks out into a grin, eyes wide. "Diego! Really? How?"

I nod, trying to return her smile. "Since a lot of kids' parents are keeping them home... the team is lacking. He said he needs a good pitcher and offered me the spot."

Dad raises his glass. He's not beaming like Mom, but for the first time in days, he doesn't look angry at me. He doesn't look disappointed. "Well, now he's got one."

"Yeah." I look back at my untouched food and try to muster up even an ounce of happiness. I find a bit of relief knowing I'm back in their good graces, but nothing more. This should be my moment—I finally got what I wanted. I made the team; I'm exactly where they want me to be.

I shouldn't have to search for a positive emotion, and I shouldn't have to muddle through the dull ache of yearning to find a single, hollow piece of relief. 

But I do, because I am yearning, wishing they could be this excited about the things I want, and wondering if I'll ever know what it feels like for the three of us to be proud of me at the same time.