How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

My vision blurs, body clamming up. "I—" I can't warn him, or apologize—I turn and fling open the door, rushing into the bathroom and, once again, kneeling over the toilet to empty my stomach.

How is it that I managed to suppress my barf over a literal demon, but the fact that I missed baseball tryouts is somehow too much to bear? It's fucked. 

I'm fucked, I correct myself, thinking about how Mom and Dad will react when they find out.

They'll know I screwed up everything and that I'll never be anything close to Miguel. He never would have done something this stupid—how could I have believed that asshole who told me the date? Of course he lied! It should have been obvious. When Mom and Dad hear that story they'll look at me like I'm an idiot and tell me I should have talked to Coach directly.

As I reach for the handle and flush, it occurs to me: that's exactly what I'll do. I'll talk to Coach Deeley on Monday, and tell him exactly what happened. I'll ask him for a chance. I'll do anything to make it so Mom and Dad don't find out.

I take a minute in the bathroom to clean myself up, washing my face and using mouthwash—by this point, it's a ritual. Then I head back to my room, letting out a heavy breath as I fall back against the door.

"Sorry," I say to Watts, who's looking at me with concern.

"You're okay?"

I nod, dragging myself to the beanbag in the corner and plopping down onto it with a sigh. "I'm good. I'll talk to Coach first thing on Monday and try to sort it out. I can fix this before my parents find out— I have to."

"What is it with baseball? I mean... why's it so important?"

"It's a long story."

He shrugs, hooking his bag onto the back of my desk chair and sitting down. "Well... I am going to be here all night."

And if Watts is my friend, then there's no reason to keep the truth about my interest in sports cloaked in mystery. Not when he's been so open with me about everything, even when he knew it might make him look crazy.

I unzip my jacket and take it off, trying to cool down from the hot flash. I guess there's no point in keeping my arm a secret, either—if I'm about to expose my inner scars, he may as well see the outer ones, too.

His eyebrows raise slightly at the marred flesh, but he regains his composure and says nothing about it, so I start.

"Miguel was the star of our high school's soccer team." I toss the jacket at the hamper in the corner of my room. It hits the wall and falls in on top of the laundry pile. "We were all pretty sure he'd end up going pro. My parents always pushed me to follow in his footsteps and become an athlete, so I played baseball back in Houston— and they expect me to continue it here."

"Do you like it?"

I shrug. I used to, sort of. Since I didn't have any other hobbies, it was fun for a while. But then I started drawing, and now... Now all I want is to not disappoint my parents. Don't they deserve to see Miguel's dream carried out? "I don't know. It's... fine."

"Dude. No offense, but..." He gestures to the drawings I've hung on the otherwise plain white wall behind my desk. "I mean, you're an artist. I've seen you talk about your art, and it gets a lot more of a reaction from you than 'it's fine.'"

I can't help smiling a little at his exaggerated, depressed imitation of me.

"I mean, you should just tell your parents that you changed your mind about baseball. That you want to focus on your art. If it's what makes you happy, they should support that."