How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER TWO

My stomach growls as I scour a poster-ridden bulletin board for anything about baseball. I skipped breakfast since I knew my stomach would be all nerves today. Hopefully I'll feel mellow enough by lunch to eat something, because Dad wasn't joking yesterday—I really do need to put on some weight.

The bell rings, meaning I have to head off to my first period without any info about tryouts. I should've looked for a gym teacher, asked around about the coach, I realize. But it's hard to think straight on an hour of sleep, especially when that hour was taken up by my usual nightmare about the crash.

That, combined with the usual boring first-day-of-school syllabus review, has me nearly falling asleep in first-period Chemistry as Mr. Burns drones on about the semester ahead of us. Who the hell decided it was humane to give me chemistry first thing in the morning, anyway?

I flip the stapled syllabus packet over to the blank backside and take out a pencil—I'd prefer my sketchbook, but I'd rather not get called out by the drill-Sargent looking Mr. Burns for not paying attention. At least this way, my sketching might look like note-taking.

I've always liked drawing—I think most comic fanatics have tried their hand at it at least a few times. My interest was already piquing last year, but since the accident, I've been crazy about it. I've made my own characters, even thought up a few ideas for my own comics. I didn't expect a casual hobby to become a passion. And I definitely didn't expect it to be the one thing that actually helps me cope with Miguel's death.

It's hard to explain, but it's like my mind goes somewhere else for hours, deep into the atmosphere of the scene or the attitude of the character on the page. And it's addicting, not having to think about real life for a few hours. It's not a stressful distraction like baseball—there aren't any stakes, and no one's counting on me. It's just me and all the possibilities of an empty slate.

I don't know how much time passes, and I don't even realize Burns has stopped talking until I'm halfway through shading a pom-pom and I feel a pencil tap against my forearm. Whenever I get pulled from a drawing, it's like the world slowly leaks back into my brain. The classroom is filled with chatter, Burns is at his desk, and my tablemate is tapping the sleeve of my hoodie with the eraser of his pencil.

I didn't really pay attention when he came in and sat down, but I can tell from first glance that he isn't a part of the popular crowd I was ogling earlier—in fact, he looks like he's light-years away from that social planet. I guess I shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but he's got the geek look down pat: short sleeve button-up, pasty skin, and black hair that's stuck in that awkward length between short and long. A few strands fall down above his thick, black glasses frames.

I raise my eyebrows, silently asking why he's prodding for my attention. He uses the eraser to point to the page in front of me.

"That's Hemani," he says with a smile, as if I'm supposed to have any idea what that means.

"It's what?"

"Your drawing—it's Hemani Krishna. The cheerleading captain."

Shit. He knows I'm drawing shampoo-commercial-girl from the hallway. I flip the page over, feeling my face go hot. "I—"

"You're good at that. I mean, the hair, the face, the cheerleading outfit—it's all dead-on."

"I get a lot of my designs from real-life people," I try to brush it off. "I mean, I'm new here—I didn't even know she was really a cheerleader."

He laughs, and I know I must sound a little too defensive. "Hey, you don't have to explain yourself to me. I'd find it weirder if you didn't think she was hot."

"I never said that."

"Didn't have to."

I smile, catching myself by surprise. I sort of forgot what it was like to have a conversation with somebody my age—the only people I've really talked to for the past six months were my parents, doctors, and therapists. This feels a lot like the back-and-forth I used to have with the guys at Darwin back when things were normal, razzing each other about girls and whatever else.

"I'm Watts, by the way," he introduces, pushing up his glasses.

"Diego."

"Vanterbest doesn't get a lot of new kids. Bradford isn't at the top of most people's places to move."

The bell rings, making me realize just how long I was gone in my little drawing world. Students start gathering their things and migrating towards the door, and I realize I've already forgotten what and where my second period is.

I shrug, unhooking my bag from my chair and throwing the paper inside. "It's a lot different from Houston, but it's okay. I've been here a few months."

I stand and tug on my backpack, and as Watts rises from his chair, I notice something that makes me have to hold back a grin: high-waters. If I need to draw a geeked-out character anytime soon, I know where I'm getting my inspiration from. All he needs is a pocket-protector and he'd be a Halloween costume.

"Well, if you don't have anywhere to sit at lunch, my table's open," he offers. "Gotta bolt—my next class is crazy far."

With a raise of his hand, he's turning and heading for the door before I can thank him. I reach for the schedule in my back pocket to figure out where the hell I'm going—World History, Room 203—with a strange sense of optimism. A potential friend before the end of first period isn't too bad. And neither is realizing that I can still socialize like a normal human being.

Again I can't think of any questions to ask lol 😅 but uhhh yeah, meet Watts! A true fashion icon as you can tell. And a character with glasses because as a glasses wearer... I get stupidly excited whenever a main/secondary character wears glasses LMAO. Instant connection 🤝