Darkness Creeping Read Online Free Page A

should be my first hint that something’s a little bit off, but I’m still not awake enough to catch it.
    It was just last month that I got certified as a junior soccer referee. It’s not entirely my fault. Frankly, I blame my little brother, Cody. Six weeks ago, he joined up to play in the seven-and-under peewee league. I don’t know what possessed him to do it, and I don’t know what possessed me to volunteer. I’m not the volunteering type, but I just happened to be there when the coach asked for refs, and I saw my hand go up. Totally bizarre. Then two weeks later, my brother quits the team, and I’m stuck. Now they call me every week, like clockwork, to ref other kids’ games—and my parents won’t let me quit.
    “You have to learn to follow through on your commitments,” they tell me.
    “Yeah, well, what about Cody?”
    “He’s only seven.”
    As if that’s an excuse. He quit the team, but do they care that I’m stuck reffing? No. Double standards run rampant in my family, especially when it comes to Cody. See, Cody was a preemie. He was so close to dying when he was born, I think it left my parents in some sort of permanent post-traumatic shock—and they still treat him like he could keel over at any minute. They were terrified when he asked to play soccer—it freaked me out, too, because Cody’s about the most nonathletic wimp in the great history of nonathletic wimps. Even during his two weeks on the soccer team, he would run away whenever the ball came within ten feet of him. It was no great surprise that he quit. And so, as his personal purgatory, I demand under threat of death, or worse, that he come with me to every single game I’m forced to ref.
    I should mention here, that in a way, refereeing has always kind of been in my nature, but until now it was never official. Any time there’s a problem at school between two kids, I always seem to be the one who steps between them to resolve it. Whenever I’m working on some group project, and no one can make a decision, I’m the one who can, and the others always seem to accept it. “You’re a natural referee,” my parents had told me when I signed up to do this. “You were born for it.” I had laughed at the time.
    I quickly shower, dress in my ref uniform, then go into Cody’s room and roust him out of bed. I do this by grabbing his mattress, and flipping it, with him still on it. I’ve gotten very good at it. Sometimes I can launch him halfway across the room.
    “Daniellllllllle,” he whines.
    “Shut up and get dressed, I’ve got a game to ref.”
    He complains like the world is coming to an end, but he gets his clothes on. He knows he can’t worm his way out of it.
    We leave on our bikes for Arroyo Vista Park, where today’s game will be played. I’m feeling a bit less cranky now. I’m actually beginning to look forward to it. I don’t mind reffing, really. There’s a certain satisfaction to being the ultimate authority, and knowing that you can handle the responsibility. I’m good at it. I’m decisive and observant. I make the right calls, and people respect this, even when the call is against them.
    As for the kids, I don’t mind them. They’re not a problem—they’re just playing the game. It’s the parents who sometimes get nuts. They think that just because I’m fourteen, they can intimidate me into making calls favoring their team. Well, I don’t intimidate easily.
    Today, however, when I arrive at the field, there are no parents on the sidelines. Not a one. I check my watch: 6:50. Both teams are already here, practicing on their respective half of the field, but their parents aren’t watching.
    “That’s weird,” says Cody.
    “Not really,” I tell him. “A game this early? The parents all probably dropped their kids off and went back to bed. I don’t blame them. I’d do the same if I could,” and I throw him an accusing gaze, to remind him whose fault it is that we’re here at this unholy hour of