The School Life of The Other Demon

Make It End

Demetria's P.O.V.:

"Chocolate vanilla swirl with cookie crunch, please," Dick tells the young cashier in one quick breath.

"Why did he say it like that?" I ask the others.

"It's best if you don't question it," Father says.

"One banana-split, a cookie crumble, an ice-cream sundae—"

"It's Monday," Damian says.

"It's the name of a type of ice-cream," Tim explains.

"But why Sunday?" I ask.

"There are some things in this world that have no explanation, Demetria," he says. "And this happens to be one of them."

"There's a belief that I read once that the creator of the ice-cream named it after himself. But since he was a German man, his last name translates to Sunday. And over time, they just changed the spelling of Sunday to sundae—S-U-N-D-A-E," Jason explains.

"How do you know that?" Father asks Jason with pure curiosity written on his face.

"Because the rumored creator, or believed creator, was a druggist," he answers, blankly.

"You know, Jason," Father says. "At first, I was concerned."

"Why were you concerned?" I ask him.

"Because Jason read something that is practically history related. That was until he told us that the man was a druggist, so it's perfectly fine now."

"There's nothing wrong with me reading!" Jason exclaims.

"Kinda depends on what you're reading," Tim says.

"You read?" Damian asks, not believing the words.

"What do you read?" I ask him.

"It's mostly literature," he says, shrugging his shoulders as if it's nothing. "Shakespeare, Mary W. Sheely, Miguel De Cervantes, Jane Austen, etc."

"I refuse to acknowledge that the three of us have the same taste in literature," Damian says, crossing his arms.

"You're into that stuff?" Jason asks, his eyebrow cocking. "I expected you to be into those DIY summoning devil stuff. Basically, anything that has to do with climbing into the depths of hell."

"Tch. As if I would read of any of that fictional nonsense," Damian scoffs. "Only if I can find really good ones, but I would have to hide it from Dee."

"Why?"

"Because she might actually test it out by herself without anyone knowing," he deadpans, pointing to me.

"I would not!" I exclaim.

"That pentagram back at one of the compounds, made out of lava, would say otherwise."

"You have a point," I say, quickly composing myself, silencing myself due to embarrassment.

"You made a pentagram out of lava?" Father asks.

"We didn't have any chalk," I say, shrugging my shoulders.

"But, why a pentagram?"

"I didn't have anyone or anything useful to steal during that time," I answered truthfully.

Father's eyes widen in slight fear. He quickly pats his pockets. Patting his pockets, he digs into one of them quickly pulling out his wallet. Opening his wallet, he begins to dig through the little folds, his eyes widening while in search. He closes his wallet with a frustrated sigh. Staring at me, he puts his hands out towards me. "Give it. Now."