Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jasmine Fenton had a journal where she kept a written record of the various important times of her life. It was something that she'd started back when she was very little. She never ran out of topics to write about; there was always something happening. When she had used up every page, she simply began a new journal.

She now had quite a few stacked on her bedroom bookshelf and under her desk.

The journals tracked her own progress through her development as a child. The topics, interests, handwriting, and word usage had become more mature surprisingly fast, just as Jasmine herself pushed to be grown-up at a very young age. The journals had long since changed from babbling in a diary about her day, into something more serious that could almost pass for a clinical report. 

Although at first, it was just a regular diary. Her thoughts and experiences of her day to day life were written down; just a little girl with a diary, nothing out of the ordinary ... Although, considering the household she grew up in, even the day to day always had something strange and out of the ordinary. 

Day to day. Some days had longer entrees worthy of the milestones they represented.

The day when Mommy and Daddy had first let her in the lab. It was like something straight out of a children's book or movie. She had bounced eagerly and excitedly around this huge room full of endless potential, wanting to know everything about the strange and magical things that her parents made. Her parents had seemed like the smart-est best-est people in the whole wide world on that day. Her heroes, who would hunt any monster under the bed or hiding in the dark. Geniuses and explorers bravely paving the way to brand new scientific discoveries. Her mom was a tiny bit more concerned about her in the lab than dad, but safety was never either of their top priorities. 

However, there were still some rules:

• No going into the lab without Mommy and Daddy.
• No bringing friends into the lab without parental approval and supervision.
• No food or drink in the lab as it may result in "ecto-contamination".
• Go through the decontamination shower if it becomes apparent that it's needed.
• Listen to Mommy and Daddy in the lab immediately and without hesitation as it can be dangerous. 
• Wear safety jumpsuits made out of insulating and protective Fentondex material.
• No touching things without permission. etc...

Jazz had dutifully inscribed each rule in her journal with her messy childish handwriting and misspellings. 

____

The day she had started kindergarten...as the "weird girl". The day she found out that kids could be cruel, and unforgiving to those who strayed from the conventional. The first time she got to see her family from an outside perspective: to other people, they weren't geniuses, they were lunatics. She had cried when she branded her journal with the same ugly words her peers had used as if it was some great betrayal to record them in her diary forever.

____

The day Mommy had told her she was going to be an older sister. She'd jotted down all the bursting emotions that came with that revelation.

What would happen next?

Would the baby in Mommy's tummy be a girl like her or a boy?

What would change due to this new addition?

Mommy and Daddy were already very busy, sometimes... too busy, and another baby would only make them busier. Or perhaps Jazz could help so then they wouldn't be busy.

Maybe a sibling would help her not feel so loney. 

____

The day that promise had come true.

It was incredible, even though the waiting was boring and the hospital wasnt really fun. The newborn baby had been loud, he cried and screamed; it all must be so new and scary for him. Mommy had started rocking him softly and he stopped crying for a bit. Then the baby was passed from Mom to Dad. Jack Fenton looked even bigger with the small child in his arms. Jazz pulled on her dads shirt –for once he wasnt wearing his jumpsuit–wanting to see and be involved. Daddy slowly and gently stooped down, so that Jazz could come face to face with her new baby brother. A real live baby. What mom and dad had been talking about for so long, was now a reality. Jazz was officially an older sister.

Dad gave her a warm smile "Do you want to hold him?"

Then her baby brother was gently placed in her little arms, as Dad helped her hold him. At first he had started crying again, and she was afraid that she did something wrong and messed up her first day as an big sister. But guided by her fathers big strong arms, she rocked the little boy into a calm soothing silence. He was so little. Little hands, that he couldnt even really unclench yet, moved around without much direction. Then he looked right at her; Jazz gazed into those bright blue eyes, her own wide with amazement and curiosity. Her breath had caught in wonder.

She felt that her entry about that day could never truly do the event justice. 

_____

The day she started to see that she was already ahead of most curves in terms of basic development. She learned and retained things faster than her peers. That only served to further isolate her. She had no real friends... Pages of her journals were filled with too many lonely days of wishing she had any social skills.

One of the last strict diary entrees was for the day she was finally old enough to realize just how weird her family really was. The day when it dawned on her that her parents weren't infallible. In fact, they were quite wrong about several things. 

First and foremost...ghosts. 

Her parents were self-proclaimed ghost hunters. 

When she was young and impressionable she'd believed in the apparitions that her parents taught her about...then she began to realize that everyone else didn't share those same beliefs. 

All her teachers and textbooks seemed to disprove her parents' ideas. So, perhaps it was time to reevaluate the core beliefs, that her parents had instilled in her, that she had never thought to question before. 

Her writings changed, and instead of detailing her day, at 7 years old Jasmine Fenton began to craft an argument for the supernatural and put her belief in ghosts on trail.

Chapter Text

An imperfect line split the page. Childish, but still as neat as she could make it, handwriting began writing down evidence for both sides. 

Premise: Ghosts are real

On the left side of the line, she wrote in big letters: Affirmative.

The right side: Negative. 

Then she began her list of points to back up the claims from both sides.

• Affirmative: Mom and dad told me so.

Jazz frowned after she wrote that sentence; that was such a childish argument. An appeal to authority and no real backing with data.

• Negative: All of my teachers say no.

Same problem...an appeal to authority only this time citing a different expert. She stopped writing for a bit and thought back. She could list them all. From kindergarten to her current 3rd-grade teacher. Every single one of them had told her that ghosts were not real.

• A: Mom and Dad are super smart.

Not much of an argument there, a fact, a non-sequitur that had no use to either side.

Two could play at that game, each logical fallacy could be used to prop up or tear down either side. 

• N: Another fact, even smart people can be wrong. 

She knew that. One of the first teachers that she had looked up to, Ms. Brown, had told her that, and she has tried her best to never forget it.

--

It had been a fairly normal day in class when she'd received that life-altering realization. Jazz had been insisting as loudly and immaturely as she could that she was the smartest in class and therefore she knew what she was talking about. She'd declared that everyone who thought she was wrong was just too stupid to understand. 

Ms. Brown, her kindergarten teacher, had taken 4 and 3/4 years-old Jasmine aside and told her that she couldn't behave that way. The little girl had a full-on meltdown; a complete temper tantrum. Ms. Brown patiently waited out the screams and waves of emotion. Then she sat Jazz down, helped her wipe the tears from her eyes, loosened the tight neckline of her Fenton Jumpsuit, and calmly talked to her. 

Jasmine was upset. "It's not fair!" she wined. 

"What's not fair?" 

"Everyone! They are all so... so...stupid! They said that I was wrong, that my mommy and daddy were wrong! How would they know?! They can't even figure out the easiest math problem!"

"Now Jasmine, it isn't nice to call your friends stupid."

"They aren't my friends," the little girl complained. "And they are stupid! That's a fact."

"That's not a nice word. If you say it again, then you might get yourself into trouble. I do not want to hear you use that word again in class."

"Fine. Can I say that they are ig-nor-ant? or un-intelligent? or ridiculously mor-onic?" The big words came out of her small mouth in a stumbling way as if she understood the meaning but not the pronunciation; she'd only ever seen the words written down and hadn't heard them used before. 

"Is that really what you want to use that big brain of yours to do? Find other unkind words?"

"Well, it's true! They are completely a-sin-ine." 

"where did you even get that word from?"

"My books....well and the dictionary. And I know what it means," the young girl proclaimed in a snobbish tone as if she expected the need to fight to prove she knew what she was talking about, and enjoyed doing so. "It means it means foolish or un-intelligent. Ridiculous and stupid. Just like all of my dumb classmates."

"That's enough, Jasmine," the harsh tones of an authority figure to a misbehaving child was not something that teachers pet Jazz was used to and they had shocked her into silence. "Now you are going to go back into that classroom and you are going to say that you were wrong to say what you did and apologize for calling your classmates mean names."

Jasmine Fenton, full of pride and a force to be reckoned with even at such a young age, began to wail, "but I wasn't wrong! I am never wrong! I'm smart! Smarter than they are!"

"Jazz, you can be both smart and wrong. You are a very intelligent girl but, that doesn't mean that you are always right."

So simple of a sentence had rocked the world under her feet. 

"What? but if you're smart it means that you aren't wrong. If you know everything you can't be wrong," she whined building up momentum, on the verge of throwing another tantrum. 

"No, sweetie," The teacher said calmly and kindly. "Everyone can be wrong. Even geniuses. If you are incapable of making mistakes, of being wrong, and admitting when you are wrong, then how can you grow or learn anything new? Do you know what word means incapable of learning anything new?"

Jasmine immediately answered the question that was asked of her. "Mentally deficient," she stopped for a moment to really consider the argument being made. " Are you saying that if someone is in-fall-ible or believes themselves to be in-fall-ible...then they aren't truly intelligent?"

"how do you determine intelligence Jasmine? Is it just who knows the most or who is right the most."

"...or who is open to learning. Who never stops learning and asking questions, that's what you are trying to tell me. I need to be able to learn more to be truly smart, right?"

"You are already 'Truly Smart' Jazz, now you need to work on being open-minded, kind, and courteous to others."
__

Jazz smiled softly at the memory and then shook herself out of the past and returned to her list. 

• Affirmative: Mom and dad work for the government. 
  
  
• Negative: Their jobs aren't always related to ghosts.

In fact, most of the inventions that have problems–"bugs" her parents called them– and didn't work or exploded... all had one thing in common: they were the more ghost focused work. 

• A: Mom and dad work hard on their inventions. 

You can work hard and still get the wrong answer. You can be a genius and still be wrong. 

• N: Most of the inventions don't work.

And the ones that do, never work quite as expected or are the ones that don't have anything to do with ghosts.

• A: Weird stuff that happens in the lab.
  
  
• N: Textbook says no.
  
  
• A: Mom and Dad have research.

Theories that they can't prove. Evidence backed up by claims, instead of claims backed up by evidence. Hearsay and anecdotal evidence that no one can verify. Assumptions and presuppositions that never really allowed for true unbiased research. That is all her parents have; they have no authentic research and no data. 

• N: Mom and Dad have never even seen a ghost.
  

Scientific Method that her parents loved and praised, proved them wrong. Their science tapped out on the first rung of the Scientific Method: observation. No observations, no hypothesis, no research,... instead they jumped straight to experiments, and conclusions.  

• N: Mom and Dad don't even know for sure.
• N: Mom and Dad have been wrong before: exhibit A) Santa exhibit B) Tooth Fairy.
• N: Everyone thinks Mom and Dad are...crazy
  
  
• A:...they are my Mom and Dad.

No, Jazz quickly scratched that out...

• A...they are my Mom and Dad.

Her affection for them as people was a logical fallacy in terms of this argument. She couldn't hold on to this belief simply because they are her parents. She knew that. She had to be practical and impartial if she ever wanted to settle this. Divorce herself from her parents emotionally, for just this moment. See her family from an outside perspective and...she knew what everyone on the outside thought...

N: Mom and Dad are... crazy

She still loved them. Of course, she still loved them. They were still influential. They were her heroes...but being a logical minded intelligent girl...Jasmine Fenton could no longer deny that both the available evidence and the scientific method that her parents taught her...proved only one thing. 

Conclusion: Ghosts are not real. 

Chapter Text

As Jasmine grew older, her Fenton-brains blossomed even more and more. No one could deny that her parents were geniuses, with seven PhDs held between the two of them. (Even if some of those PhDs were not based in universally recognized and accepted fields.)

Jazz took after her parents in brains and sometimes in temperament. She could be excitable and obsessive when it came to something she valued. With very few, if any, friends to keep her preoccupied, the most important thing in her life quickly became her grades. She approached each assignment with the same fervent, at times delusional, single-minded energy that her parents used when they approached their projects.

Her focus changed again. Now she had a new journal, color-coded a new color, with an overstuffed agenda detailing every homework assignment, extra credit project, exam prep, and study time meticulously planned out. As well as various notes that she termed especially important.

One day she, out of curiosity, began looking into the differences in the human mind. She was drawn to various case studies trying to pinpoint precisely what was...off about...her family. After all she wasn't ignorant, she knew that some of the things that people whispered about her family behind their backs... had some merit. Jazz couldn't really deny that there was something...wrong with her parents.

Mom and dad are crazy...crazy, she had heard that word tossed around so often and frivolously. All her life, people used it as a synonym for Fenton. Crazy, the dictionary that she found stated the meaning to be: "mentally deranged." Diving deeper into this world and the history of where it stemmed from, she found that most experts seemed to agree that the word was antiquated and had lost most of its true meaning. It was the word of schoolyard bullies, not of standing in any scientific community. It was such a crude and weak word. "Crazy" was not an actual name of a condition, so she would have to look beyond 'crazy' for her answers.

Jazz followed that word and stumbled headfirst into the world of Psychology.

She quickly became hooked, as evidenced by her notebooks warping to assimilate every term she chased down. She was essentially copying down the DSM IV into her journal while adding personal anecdotes that went hand in hand with her diagnoses. Thus a new journal topic, the very beginning of what would later become a detailed record of two subjects in particular...her own parents, the town loons, the ridiculous and insane Maddie and Jack Fenton.

Psychology appealed to Jazz in a way that nothing else had ever done before. She became quite enamored with it. It was the first thing that seemed to make sense after the fundamental change of finding out her mom and dad were...well, wrong. Ghosts had been such an integral part of her life for so long, that when she finally accepted reality, she was left out of place and off-balance. Lost admits a sea of rapidly changing waves. She needed something, anything, to cling to...and her own research provided her just the right piece of driftwood to keep afloat. She replaced the notion of ghosts with the facts she learned about the psychoses from the books she got from the library.

They fit surprisingly well.

She also poured over several—for lack of a better term—ghost stories, trying to find the scientific bread crumb of truth within the delusions. It was a way for her to rationalize her childhood and the teachings of her parents. She discovered that her newfound love of Psychology had historical roots in people believing in spirits or mythical creatures.

Her mom and dad were not...completely...wrong... just misguided. They missed the mark. They were hunting down the same ideas that she was learning about: depression, grief, anxiety, ect...right? They were just...mistaken with how they were going about it... They had their ideas stuck in the dark ages, where such disorders were said to be signs of haunting or overshadowing... Otherworldly ghouls and monsters that plagued and tormented humans. In a way that might've been easier to accept that it was a malevolent spirit making you upset, rather than an adverse reaction to trauma or a chemical imbalance in the brain.

Soon her interest in Psychology began to overtake her life; as she continued to ignore the fact that she was just like her parents. Jazz tore through book after book. She memorized complex ideas and diagnostic criteria, at a tender age. Jotting them all down in her journals.

She read through books on delusions and how people can break from reality. She wondered if her parents had ever actually seen a ghost..or heard one because auditory hallucinations were just as common, if not more, than visual ones.

She read about attention disorders: that lead to being easily distracted alternating with intense hyper-focusing on something. To the point of ignoring everything else...even basic needs like food or sleep... or if you are a parent your own children. Jazz herself failed to see the irony of missing dinner and staying up all night to finish that section.

She read about social anxiety, perfectionism, and the intense stress put on oneself to achieve. That book really only helped her become more of a perfectionist. But that was ok, even encouraged in some cultures. She was giving it her all –her mathematically impossible 120% –and being perfect, that can't be a bad thing. At least not too bad of a thing. Right? Sure like anything it could be taken to the extreme and become unhealthy...but she now knew the dangers to watch out for... So she could avoid them.

Jazz read all about social behaviors and development. However, she approached everything like an equation or an experiment...that was her biggest problem. Strangely enough, knowing more about being social: the act of memorizing the definitions, the hormones released, and how it affected her brain and her development...Did precious little good actually helping her to be social. She could write a beautifully worded essay on why having friends and a solid support group was crucial for healthy living...but she still couldn't make friends herself

Jazz read about the theory surrounding locus of control and whether or not luck controls an outcome or if someone can work hard to assert control over a specific outcome. The belief that you can change your situation was half the battle...and Jazz was stubborn and opinionated, so she certainly believed that she could make a difference.

Jazz learned about the average childhood development and compared her own to what the peer-reviewed experts claimed a child needed. That was when she truly realized just how far along she was... She had always known that she was faster than her peers, but now she could see it in a quantifiable manner. It was also when she started to see the many many ways her household and parents were...unorthodox...and how that impacted a growing child. There were things that her parents didn't give her...like much attention for instance, so she had to find it elsewhere. Jazz attempted to match her growth to the book exactly, going through the motions as if the psychology book was a map. As if she could take her own development into her hands and force herself to reach the standard of adulthood.

Jazz studied depression, grief, OCD, schizophrenia, and so much much more. She inhaled every scientific journal about the human mind. She did what no actual psychologist would ever encourage (and if she had taken the class with a trained professional instead of all self-study she might have known that): she began to see these disorders in herself and those around her. She clung to these labels and acronyms to help her navigate the world. She saw them everywhere and chased after them...much in the same way her parents did with invisible and unconfirmed sightings of spirits.

She had even read book after book on parenting, and after coming to the conclusion that her parents were...not very good at it, she vowed to try and be there for her younger brother.

———

A new type of journal began, with a new color to indicate the change. Again. Jasmine Fenton began detailing absolutely everything she could about her little brother's development. She knew from experience that her parents were not going to provide what he needed, so...she had to. Right? Even if she was his sister and only about two years older than him... She knew what to do... So she should do it. Right? She had studied this, and she had to try to ensure that despite their unnatural household... his growth would be as natural and healthy as she could strive to make it.

Danny didn't always appreciate her help.

Sure, when he was younger he had thought nothing of their parents working long hours in the basement lab and going days or sometimes even weeks without seeing much of them... Of Jazz learning to fend off what mom cooked as well as cook something herself or order take out... Of how often things were volatile and explosive around the house... Of tasks around the house being left undone because their parents were busy or got distracted...

It might have briefly occurred to him that while Mom definitely kissed some booboos, the majority were taken care of by his older sister. That while Mom or Dad would drive them to school, it was always Jazz that buckled him up. She made sure that they actually got to school by reminding their parents as many times as was necessary. It was Jazz's neat handwriting that wrote things on the calendar to keep track of various activities: Danny's Space Camp, Parent-Teachers Conferences, or School Field Trips... The same looping neat letters were on the grocery list, too.

It was Jazz that Danny would go to when he had a nightmare, because sometimes mom and dad were working late... Besides, Jazz's room was right next to his, so most of the time she heard him first. Sure, there were times when he would specifically seek out Mom and crawl into her bed with her, but there were just as many—if not more times—when Mom's bed was empty... So, Jazz would come into the parents' room and find her little brother tucked under their parents' covers alone and shaking. She would have to coax him out and then deal with the nightmare herself.

When Danny had grown old enough to question these kinds of things, they had just become normalized.

Jazz tried to play the other side of the whole ghost argument too. Didn't their parents understand how impressionable little kids were? Didn't they know that Danny believed their every word? Didn't they realize that they were scaring Danny? They were talking about monsters, dead evil things coming back from beyond the grave that only wanted to hurt people; Danny already had nightmares. It didn't help that he was taught that the monsters under his bed were real. She couldn't let Danny be as lost as she had been. So it was up to her to be the voice of reason, that told them all that ghosts are not real.

Not that that ever stopped their parents. Jack and Maddie weren't quitters. Nothing slowed them down, and nothing ever shook their indomitable belief in their research.

Well, ...almost nothing.

Chapter Text

Jack and Maddie Fenton were scientists. They were... self-proclaimed  ghost hunters ... But more than hunters; they were inventors. 

Gadget after gadget furnished their home. Some inventions were only half-constructed. Gutted electronics, junk, littered the house in odd locations. Some had undergone multiple trials and various prototypes. Most had something to do with ghosts. Most never worked like intended. 

Many malfunctioned or imploded. 

A few miraculously struck gold and worked. A few were especially dangerous.

However, all these inventions dramatically shaped the childhoods of Jasmine and Daniel Fenton.

Whenever something broke around the house, their dad saw an excuse to "improve"  it: the oven, the dishwasher, the downstairs-bathroom sink, and much, much more. These improved items had the added "advantage" of being “ghost proof” and gave off an unsettling glow . They also sometimes did...   strange things. A lamp that turned on despite no one using it... Most likely because of faulty wiring connected to the switch. An oven that ran on dangerous levels of heat, because it was designed to harness ecto-paranormal power. A sink with the hot land cold functions reversed... except for when it randomly switched on you, so as a result: you never knew what temperature which tap controlled... In fact, regarding anything inside Fentonworks, you never knew what to expect... Even if you lived there your whole life...

Those inventions always caused some kind of trouble: whether it was mutating their dinner, knocking out the power, covering them in strange goo, blowing up in their faces, or just the simple action of stealing away their parents’ attention. Jasmine had no love for any of their parents’ contraptions. While Danny thought they were... weird, although, a couple he admitted could be “cool”–if they ever worked. Long story short, both children learned long ago to brace themselves whenever mom and dad had a new... project. 

The current project was a “Very Big Deal,” the culmination of years and years, even decades, of work. They’d even tried to get governmental recognition. That prized invention that they had given decades of their life to, their “Greatest Accomplishment To-date”: The doorway to the dimension of ghosts was almost ready to present...

So, the whole Fenton Family was slightly on edge. The prospect filled their parents with tense anticipation: like how a child acts in the days preceding Christmas... or how their dad acts. Actually… maybe that wasn’t the best analogy because Christmas was...   interesting with the Fenton Family. 

Jazz felt no excitement... no, none at all. Nervous yes, excited no. She was bracing herself for the fallout after the Portal. What will happen when this newest, most influential invention is up and running, or far more likely when it fails ?

Danny had always been a little more invested in their parents’ ideas, and it seemed like he couldn’t help being a little excited... But he too was nervous. He’d probably already been getting trouble at school because of this highly public project–because of course, their parents would tell everyone they could. Amity Park, and therefore their school, was well aware of The Fentons and their... escapades. 

It was hard to not feel like they were in the calm before the storm... Or the moments of a bomb ticking down to detonation. 

---

Late at night, Jazz heard a light, hesitant knock on her door. Soon a timid voice followed, “H… Hey, Jazz?”

“Yeah, Danny?” She opened the door to see her brother in a moment of childlike weakness. He looked so unsure and young, eyes tilted down and expression one of worry... if not fear. It surprised Jazz to see him at her door, and she wondered if he had had a nightmare. He was getting older, and while she didn’t know if his Nightmares had stopped, he had certainly stopped coming to her because of them. 

Jazz let him in and motioned for him to sit with her on her bed. He stood there unmoving, and just looked at her for a while. As if trying to find the right words. 

Finally, he asked, “... What do you think will happen at their...   demonstration ?” 

Oh.

She sighed, not knowing what to say. “... Who knows? I just hope we can get out of the blast zone.” 

“What if their Portal works? ” his voice shook slightly with fear and uncertainty.

“Danny,” Jazz said as if she was getting ready to talk someone down from a ledge. Maybe in a way she was: The Ledge of Delusion. 

“I mean, think about it... They have spent years and years on it, and we both know that they are geniuses... What if what they made actually works?” he argued. Jazz was suddenly 7 years old again, asking these same questions. Desperately looking for anything that could help her affirm her parents’ beliefs–and she had wanted them to be right–but they... weren’t. They just couldn’t be.

 “It can’t.” 

“Why not?” he asked. 

“You know why.”

“Cuz,  ghosts aren’t real? ” He scowled and crossed his arms, scoffing. That phrase–while true–had been a weapon against their family over and over. It often only caused resentment and pain. 

“Do you believe in ghosts, Danny?” 

He froze. He didn’t want to answer, and Jazz understood. He didn’t want to disappoint or hurt their parents by denouncing their ideas, even if he didn’t really believe them. But he also didn’t want to be grouped in with them. He didn’t want to pick a side. Of course, she understood. Although, personally, she refused to stand idly by on the fence... In fact, part of that was for Danny’s sake; he at least grew up always knowing that there was another side.

“... I... Uh... No?” He stopped, collapsed down on her bed with his head in his hands. He stayed like that for what seemed like a while, then finally he looked up, took a deep breath as if gathering his strength, and gave a full answer, “... No. No, of course not. I don’t believe in ghosts.” 

After a while, he continued, “... but I mean... well... there’s all the uh... weird stuff that happens. The teenagers who go missing by the cemetery, the stories about the haunted locker at school, the creepy feeling I get in the lab... Plus, ... Well, if only ghosts were real, then... our parents ... wouldn’t be nut jobs.” He spread out his hands as if pleading with the world to just have a normal family.

“Oh, our parents would still be crazy. Just in another way,” even Jazz herself wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. “As for the other stuff, there are logical explanations.”

Danny cut her off, not wanting to hear another one of her lectures. “Hey, if it… turns out that they really uh are right about ghosts. Do you think all their anti-ghost stuff really works?” 

“... You know what we used to call ghosts now has a logical reason. What people used to think was the work of ghosts usually turned out to be psychological. The man wasn’t haunted, he had depression. The girl wasn’t possessed, she just had schizophrenia. As for why teenagers go missing at night, well... I almost wish it were ghosts.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah... I know,” he muttered.

Yeah, Jazz had already told him most of this stuff before. 

There was a beat of heavy silence. 

“So... what do you think will happen? ... I mean, if it doesn’t blow up?” He asked again.

“If there’s no explosion, my guess is nothing, really.”

“That seems... anticlimactic. Nearly two decades of their work and just ... nothing ?”

“Maybe it might finally get through to them that ghosts aren’t real.” 

“It would crush them though: destroy their dreams.” 

“We all have to wake up and accept reality eventually, Danny,” she breathed gently. 

He grimaced, and then he too sighed, “Yeah... I guess so.”

“Besides... They’ll bounce back. You cannot keep that ingenuitive Fenton genius down!” She said, in an overly boisterous voice that imitated their dad, shoving his shoulder playfully. He laughed.

“Speaking of which, I saw your pretest scores.” 

He stopped, face falling. “yeah... And?” 

“And what? They were very good. I am proud of you, little brother.” 

“Buuuut?... what’s your real point, Jazz? You never compliment, you only nag.”

“I do too compliment. I am serious. They were very good,” she paused. She wondered if she should continue–probably not. Danny never listened to her with stuff like this. She should just shut her mouth and not give her unwanted advice. 

It turned out she didn’t even need to say anything else; Danny’s expression darkened. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought up school and grades in the first place; It always ended up going south.

 “Yeah, but not good enough, right?” he spat. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered. “It was just a beginning of the year pretest.”

“I understand.”

“I got a 90!”

“I know.”

“that’s good!” 

“I never said it wasn’t.” 

“That’s an A!”

“I know that.”

“Then what the heck is your problem?!” 

“I just don’t want you to settle for a 90, just because it’s an A when I know you can do better. You have incredible potential, and you shouldn’t ever sell yourself short.” 

“Yeah yeah, Of course, I need to take your advice because you’re the genius  ... so smart and you know everything, and you’re never ever wrong. So, I should just try to be 100% perfect, just like you.”

“Danny, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Whatever! I’m going to bed. I have school in the morning.”

“Danny, wait!”

“What now, Jazz?” 

“I really am proud of you.” 

“Uh, huh?” he said, rolling his eyes. 

“Really, really. You did a terrific job.”

He said nothing.

“And I get that high school can be rough, and I want you to know that you can always talk to me about anything, no matter what.”

“Jeeze Jazz, it's just high school. What’s the worst that could happen?”

She sighed; it had been a long while since Danny opened up about anything. 

“Good night, Danny.”

“G’Night, Spazzy.”

---

Jazz was right, again.

The Portal didn’t work, because of course, it didn’t. 

She knew it wouldn’t.

Danny called it an anticlimactic bummer. 

Maddie called it a slight miscalculation.

Jack called it a minor bug. 

Jazz called it a foregone conclusion.

It went about how Jazz had predicted; that is to say, nothing happened. 

On the night of the demo-demonstration, the entire family had gathered together to witness the activation of The Portal. If all had gone well, then Jack and Maddie would have gone through with their official presentation to a group of investors and governmental sponsors. Jazz was just glad that her parents had decided on a trial run: so that when it... inevitably failed, they wouldn’t lose face. Although, truthfully, they didn’t have much of a reputation to lose. 

Jazz was less glad that she’d had to attend the said trial run. But it was unnegotiable. A Fenton Family Emergency, all Fenton-Personal must attend. No arguments and no exceptions. And–for better or worse–she was a Fenton. So rather than make her way to her usual study session at the library, she instead sighed and headed downstairs.

She stopped before she reached the official lab area. 

“Not so fast, Jazzy, ya eager-beaver. You know the rules...” her dad said, unable to keep his exuberant smile off his face. He pointed her towards the lab closet that held... the Fenton-dex Anti-Ecto Hazmat Suits. 

“Oh, c’mon dad. I won’t even be that close to the Portal. Besides, can’t we get started already?”

Her father was itching to start, and she might have gotten away with persuading him to look the other way... if it weren’t for her mother. “Jazz, honey, hurry and get your suit on! We are starting soon!”

“Gotta go Jazzerincess! Don’t Start Without Me, Mads!” Her father seized her suit and threw it at her as he rushed to fiddle with his precious pride and joy. 

“Worth a shot,” she muttered slowly, as she tugged on her accursed Hazmat. Well... it was a Fenton event, and so she supposed it made sense that she had to look the part. She trudged up to where her parents buzzing around the metallic techno-hole they had created in their basement, like bees in a hive. 

“Ok, one last test before the official governmental unveiling. Jack, honey, can you check the nuclear power gauge?” Madeline Fenton was running through her checklist. Her husband was following her every direction like he could read her mind.

But... her two children stood off to the side looking bored.

“All good, Mads. Still in the green,” Jack chirped back in a joyful tone.

“Perfect. Ecto-shields in place?” 

The lab shimmered with peculiar energy. “Check.” 

“Failsafe switch on?” 

“Check.” 

“Generator running?” 

“Check.” 

“Safety equipment on?” Here, Maddie finally looked back at her very, very unhappy children. 

“Unfortunately,” Jazz said now that she was actually wearing the custom-made hazmat suit. It matched her mother’s style but, the teal was a softer shade–as if it being in Jazz’s favorite color could cause her to like it more–with some black lines for definition. Danny was right beside her in the same, except it was white and not as feminine. And to make matters worse, both suits displayed the old version of the Fenton Works Logo: a cartoonish version of their dad’s beaming face. They were also beside each other in their discontent. 

“Safety first, kids. It’s dangerous down here, so if you want to be in the lab you must wear a hazmat,” Maddie said with a playful teasing tone. 

“That argument doesn’t work, when we don’t want to be in the lab or wear a hazmat,” Jazz muttered under her breath to Danny, and he gave a slight snicker. 

Their mother didn’t hear, she was far too preoccupied with continuing her checklist. “Everything all set?” 

“Checked and double-checked,” Jack responded, squirming with fervor like there were ants in his jumpsuit. 

“OK, now we start the countdown on one throw the switch.” 

“Rightie oh, Mads!” 

“3...2...1... Go!” 

“Bonsai!” Jack threw the switch before Maddie had finished the last word. The Portal sparked, and there was a quick flash of what looked like the swirling beginnings of something forming. But... it was short-lived and unsustainable. The whatever it was... that was trying to develope quickly fizzled out and died. 

“Hmm...” their mom didn’t sound happy.

But their father’s boundless optimism was undeterred, “Did you see that? We’re so close, Maddie!”

“Ok... We can fix this. Hmm... We just need to... regroup and try again. Take two. Honey, try toggling the switch.” 

Jack did. The strange phenomena lasted for even less time. They tried again, and again... and again. Toggling. Adjusting. Triple checking. 

Nothing. 

“Well, that was eventful,” drawled Jazz, in an irritation she couldn’t quite help. “Can we leave now?”

 Their parents paid no mind to her. So she took that as a yes, and headed up to the kitchen, Danny followed her. Jack and Maddie probably didn’t even notice that the kids had left.

“So... what now?” Danny asked after they were out of earshot from the lab, sinking down into his chair at the kitchen table. 

What now, indeed. 

“Now, they will probably spend all night trying to fix something that’s not even broken,” Jazz said, already getting ready to order takeout. 

“but... it... almost did... something.”

She stopped, the house phone gripped tight in her hand.

... Yeah, almost.

They all saw with their own eyes what had happened. For a brief second, even Jazz herself had thought it might actually work... but almost wasn’t good enough.

“Sure, it was functional if that’s what you mean... we know their stuff is theoretically sound,... but... It didn’t work. It won’t ever work. There is no ghost dimension for it to find: it’s their entire premise that is wrong.”

“Yeah,... I just hope they don’t take it too hard.”

“They will be ok... they’re... them.” For better or worse, their parents weren’t likely to let this stop them. Jazz resumed the speed dial.

---

It wasn’t the Portal failing that surprised Jazz, no obviously not. What surprised her was how her parents took it... Badly, really, really… badly.

The next morning should’ve warned of the dilemma to come.

Jazz woke up when her alarm went off at 6:45 am. Just because it was now the weekend didn’t mean that her routine could change: it is integral to mental health to wake up and go to bed at consistent times. After her daily exercise regimen, she headed downstairs.

It shocked her to run into her brother at the foot of the stairs.

“Hey, Danny, you’re up early for a Saturday.”

He took a huge breath and exhaled with his word, “... yeah...”

He didn’t look like he slept well. He glanced at the entrance to the kitchen, “I’m worried about mom and dad, I’ve never seen them like this,” He said in a quiet voice.

She looked up at the ceiling, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. Her shoulders slumped with the force of her sigh. “You know how they get after a... setback.” 

Danny shook his head, “No, it’s not just that... this… is... worse.”

“Well... it was a bigger invention so... bigger letdown,” she said with a slight shrug.  

It wasn’t until she entered the kitchen, that she saw what he meant. If Danny had had a rough night, it was likely nothing compared to their parents. The energetic eccentrics sat slumped over the kitchen table, completely unresponsive. Her mother’s hair was messy and sticking up at weird angles that could only be from her running her hands through it repeatedly. They were both in the same jumpsuit as the night before and based on all observations they had probably not moved from the spot all night.

“Hey, Jazzy-pants,” Jack’s voice had none of his usual bravado or energy; for a moment Jazz could hardly believe it came from her father. “The portal didn’t work,” he chewed the words like someone who was still trying to understand what they mean. 

“I know,” she said like she was preparing to comfort a very young child.

“Nothing we make works,” Maddie added, confirming Jazz’s guess by messing up her hair even more with her hands. 

Danny gave Jazz a ‘see what I mean?’ look. 

“That’s not true,” Danny assured them. 

“It’s Just your ghost inventions that don’t…” Jazz trailed off as Danny shook his head slightly. She got the message: 'Please, just… Don’t start.'

“You guys are being too hard on yourselves. It’s just a minor setback, right? What’s that thing that uh people say?… uh, the famous quote… You just found another way not to build the lightbulb… You’ll get it.” Danny gave them a stiff, forced smile and tried his best to be encouraging. And although this delusion wasn’t something that they should encourage, she understood her brother’s point. It wasn’t fair for her to take this opportunity to win this age-old debate, rub their failure in their faces when they were so emotionally compromised.

“and maybe this is a sign that… it’s time to direct your focus… elsewhere,” Jazz said, going for a more gentle suggestion.

“Elsewhere?” Jack said, tasting and trying out that word slowly. “So... No ghosts?”

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Jazz couldn’t help it. Danny gave her a panicked look, like bracing himself for what Jazz might set off. 

“No, not real,” repeated both their parents in a dead voice. Jazz’s response was a slack-jawed, shocked expression mixed in with a bit of guilt. How long had she waited for her parents to admit that? How many times had she reaffirmed her promise that one day she would make them see that? So, why did it make her feel so terrible to actually hear it, now?

“How about I make some pancakes?” She offered awkwardly. Danny took one more look at their defeated parents and turned and left.

---

“They’ll be ok,” Jazz repeated in the living room a little while later. Although, she didn’t know who she was trying to convince, Danny or herself.

“Jazz, I came down and found them hunched over a tub of fudge,”

“So?”

“It wasn’t empty. An almost full tub of fudge.“

“Oh,”

“Dad barely even touched the pancakes you made, and Mom never once tried to take over and make them herself.”

“I know.” 

“They’re miserable, Jazz.”

“They are just going through a realization. A major paradigm has shifted for them. They are... adjusting, everything will be all right... once they accept reality and move on. In fact, they will be healthier once they let go of this delusion.” 

“So… how long will they be like this?”

“A couple of days? It shouldn’t be too long… they will bounce back before you know it. I mean… have you ever seen anything stop them?”

“No… but I’ve also never seen them… like this. They’re in so much pain.”

 “I know, but... Danny this is a good thing… in a way.”

“It sure doesn’t feel like one,” 

“Yeah...” 

Despite her reassuring words, their parents’ attitude worried Jazz too.

In her journal, she recorded the symptoms of depression. 

They were despondent. Destroyed. They had given up. They seemed to have finally realized what Jazz herself had learned at age 7: ghosts are not real. This had shattered their confidence and energy. They seemed lost and listless and wandered around the house like emptied husks.

It wasn’t just two or three days, either. The week crawled by and yet it was over in a flash. Jazz drove Danny to school, made all the dinners, and made sure the household chores were done. While their parents stayed in beds. It wasn’t really that strange for Jazz to do these things, but usually, it was because their parents were working… now their parents weren’t doing… anything.

Danny said it was like their dreams had died, Jazz said it was about time that they had finally woken up. 

Died… hmm. Maybe Danny was closer to accurate than they realized because Jazz’s detailed observations lined up almost exactly with the stages of grief. 

Stage 1: Denial. The subject pretends that nothing is wrong. The Fenton parents had been in denial about the truth, communicated through their lack of evidence for... a while. 

Stage 2: Anger. The subject lashes out and in a high-strung rollercoaster of stress and frustration, as they rage against what they perceive to be an unjust world. That stage only manifested in small bursts or perhaps in the soundproof lab, but Jazz was pretty sure that at least her mother went through it. 

Stage 3: Bargaining. The subject pleads for reality to not be so and makes impossible ultimatums to the world. Isn’t that what they were doing when they tried to adjust the machine, fix it, turn it off and on again, toggle the switch, etc. Begging it to work instead of realizing the deeper problem: it didn’t work because their theories were wrong. 

… Now they had reached Stage 4 Depression. The subject shuts down, hopeless as everything they once enjoyed becomes pointless. Feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness plagued their mind, because of tying so much of their identity to their intentions.

However, there was a silver lining. Stage 5: Acceptance was next. They would get through this. This was a good thing. This would unravel the insanity that imprisoned them. No more delusions, no more deviant behavior, no more dysfunction, and no more distress. Now they could focus on more important things–like their children for a change. Or maybe using their real degrees to benefit an actual field of science. Regardless, they would get through this; they would bounce back, you can’t keep a Fenton down. 

This nightmare would soon be over.

And if Jazz could help them get to that stage, then everything would be fine.

---

“No, seriously you guys should go do something. Just because your portal didn’t work, doesn’t mean that you should just waste away like this!”

“Ouch. I thought you were supposed to be the one that’s good at stuff like this,” Danny muttered, as Jazz continued failing to rouse their parents.

“Go and do something, anything! When was the last time you guys were out of that lab? Go see a movie or eat out or just something!” 

“If you guys take a break and come back, maybe you will see something you missed. It works with my math homework,” Danny said.

 “Or you could go out and forget all about that portal completely! You guys can’t let this keep you down. You’re Fentons! You always told us that Fentons don’t give up!” 

--- 

“Thank goodness that they finally left. Getting out of this house will do them some good,” Jazz said in a strained voice. She had just spent the last hour trying to convince their parents to do something. But at least it finally worked. 

“They are gonna be OK, right?” Danny asked, sounding just like when he was in her room the other night. 

“Of course, they are...” Their parents may have some... problems but they were still stubborn geniuses, who didn’t care what anyone else said and never gave up. 

“It was so weird seeing them so disinterested and so... disappointed.”

“I know...”

A beat of awkward silence fell.

Jazz broke it first, “I think... I need to get out of this house too, I’m gonna head to the library.”

“Ok, actually... I was thinking about inviting Sam and Tucker over.”

“While Mom and Dad are out?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re not gonna burn the house down or anything. We were planning on having a horror movie marathon.”

“All right, just you know the rules: no one in the lab without safety equipment, parental approval, and adult supervision.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You really think I want to hang out with my friends in the lab of all places?”

---

Chapter Text

Jasmine retreated to her journal.

Inside was a tortuous mess of thoughts, impossible to make out.

Incomplete sentences that communicated nothing…

Other than the deepest, most intense primal despair. Ideas drenched in fear met the page.

Normally, she recounted an event in a calm and collected manner. That structure shattered and splintered. Instead of a comprehensive recollection, this was a spastic explosion of indescribable emotions. Cries in the dark, begging for an outlet as they ran rampant from her mind to the page... to detail this horrible, horrible day.

---

Not to long ago, Jazz had felt sure things were improving.

Their parents had spent the week refusing to complete even the most basic daily tasks. Although, she’d finally persuaded them to concede to leaving the house. She knew going out would do them some good. Just as she had reassured Danny earlier, their parents would be ok. Convincing them had not been easy; the hours and hours of browbeating had worn Jazz thin, and she needed a break herself. So, she headed to the library. Danny said he wanted to invite his two friends over for a horror movie marathon or something. They were well on their way to restoring normalcy, or at least something that passed for it.

Everything was looking up; the worst was behind them.

Or so she thought.

So, Jazz left, and Danny and his friends were alone. In FentonWorks, an unstable high-tech deathtrap of a house... why oh why did she ever think that was a good idea? That that was safe?

Disaster struck.

Her baby brother had been in a terrible accident. All because Jazz hadn’t been there. All because of that stupid f*@king portal.

Jazz had assumed their parents’ insane research was through ruining their lives when it didn’t work... she really, really should have known better.

Jazz was attempting to put the Fenton Portal nonsense out of her mind with a good book, when her phone screeched and jolted her out of her immersion.

The caller ID alerted her: her brother was calling… but Danny wasn’t who greeted her. Instead, two terrified, stuttering, crying, and incomprehensible voices overlapped: Danny’s best friends, Sam and Tucker. She got the gist from them, through the waves of inconsolable emotions: something... bad had happened to Danny. 

Really, really bad.

Bad enough that the two teens had called an ambulance.

Jazz had to have called her mom three-times, and her dad twice before someone picked up. She relayed what Sam and Tucker had told her.

The Fenton Ghost Assault Vehicle rushed to the hospital with all the desperation of Jack Fenton’s usual driving... and then some.

When Jack and Maddie got the full story and found out it was their ghost portal that did this, they wanted to pull Danny out of intensive care to take him home to the Fenton Lab to treat him for  “ecto-contamination“ .

Jack and Maddie usually dealt with any sicknesses or injuries their  own  way... in fact, this was only the second time Jazz had ever been in a hospital–not including her own birth, the only other time was when Danny was born. So, she had kinda expected them to want to deal with this in typical Fenton fashion.

... But this was  too  serious to mess up.

Jazz put her foot down.

“Absolutely Not! Danny’s hurt! He needs actual medical care! You  cannot  do this! Seriously, your  insanity  is going to get him  killed !”

“Jazz, I know hospitals are very helpful… and important... But they lack the equipment and expertise to treat ghost-related injuries,” her mother said. Most of the time, people thought Maddie was more reasonable, intelligent, and all-around less insane than her husband. Sure, Maddie was calmer and less eccentric than Jack, but she was the one that helped to put these insane ideas into practice. She was arguably the one who was more dangerously deranged.

“Ghost?... related?...” Jazz could hardly believe that this was happening, that this ridiculousness was her life. The Fenton family was a bad joke, and she didn’t find it remotely funny. “The only way this injury is ‘ ghost-related ‘ is you!  You  and your stupid obsession did this! You cannot do this! I... Will not let you! If you try to take him out of the hospital before he is medically discharged by a licensed  professional ... I wi... will... It will be concrete proof that your break from reality prevents you two from being suitable guardians... and I... will... I will call CPS!” 

“Jasmine!” Her mother looked both hurt and appalled.

“No! no.” Maddie didn’t get to look at her like that, Maddie didn’t get to be hurt. Danny was hurt, and it was all their fault. “No, this time you will listen to me! I mean it! So… just Shut up and listen!”

Maddie’s fierce anger, at the disrespectful tone from her daughter, paled compared to Jazz’s own fury. Her mother’s mouth dropped open, but she was silent.

“This... was your invention that did this. How many times did I tell you, you were putting us in danger? For years I have tried to reason with you! For years I put up with your negligence and delusions. For years and years I have played damage control! But now look what happened!” Every single vitriolic thought poured out of her mouth like she was spitting acid. Every thought she never voiced. The cynical part of her told her she wasn’t really surprised that something like this had happened, only surprised it took so long. Her parents weren’t necessarily criminally negligent, but they were close. They said they cared about safety, after all, how many lectures have Jazz and Danny been forced to sit through about safety procedures? And yet that never changed the fact that there were often dangerous tools, stripped wires, and all sorts of hazardous prototypes everywhere. Danny had always been a curious kid… and reckless. He often gave Jazz’s mind, body, and heart, a workout, trying to keep him from messing with things he shouldn’t. So perhaps it was just a matter of time before something like this happened.

“This is all your fault!” She spat full of venom and pain, knowing that it wasn’t really all their fault; it was hers too. She hadn’t been there. “You hurt my little brother! That alone is grounds for a CPS evaluation.”

She expended her rabid anger, leaving behind only desperation, “please, please just for once... leave it to the professionals.”

“Mads,” Jack breathed, placing an enormous hand on his wife’s shoulder. People never understood how her parents could wind each other up and feed into the insanity, or one would pull the other back and rein it in. And if they ever considered that, they probably would always think about the calm, cool-headed Maddie reining in her bumbling, ridiculous husband. Although, just as many times it was Jack that reeled in Maddie’s stubborn, zealous mind. “We can check for exposure after they discharge him.”

“Jack, they... don’t understand what they are working with... they won’t discharge him if they can’t figure out what is wrong...” Jazz wasn’t being fair, she knew that. She would never accuse her parents of not caring about Danny... of course, they cared about their kids. Even if they were insane or distracted or whatever you wanted to call them, they did love them very much. They were probably just as shocked and worried as she was... maybe even more so due to the other ‘ghost’ problems they were convinced Danny was struggling with. Her usually very calm mother was white-faced and her eyes looked misty. But Jazz couldn’t bring herself to care about that... Danny took precedent. 

“Mads, it’s not the same. You saw him... There’s no sign of ecto-acne. Its... no, it’s not the same. He'll be ok,” Jack was still speaking softly, his voice guilt-ridden and grief-filled.

“That only makes me even more worried... oh Jack, how will this affect him?” Maddie Fenton, strong indomitable Maddie Fenton broke down in horrible, ugly, uncomposed tears. “We don’t know. What will be different? What we are working with is unprecedented, and these doctors don’t understand ectoplasm... and they won’t listen to us, they think we are lunatics!”

“Mads, he will be all right... but maybe Jazzy is right. We might not have the equipment or experience to deal with Danny’s other non-ghost related injuries, and those might be a bit more important right now.“

__

As Danny spent his days in the hospital, Jazz spent hers using her diary as a therapeutic way for her to express her tumultuous emotions.

Her fear detailed in a horrific symphony of what-ifs and coulda woulda shouldas.

Her suffocating worry for Danny as she tried to wrack her brain for something, anything she had learned about electrocution–No! No, electrocution with the suffix -cution implied fatality; it only applied when the subject is... dead No!–Electric shocks and the recovery process.

Jazz unpacked her building anger and monstrous resentment at her parents. She would not forgive them for building that damn abominable portal and not even considering the repercussions that their actions and the lack of safety preparation could cause. Analyzed her feelings of absolute soul-draining helplessness and nauseating guilt. there was nothing–absolutely f*@king nothing–she could do to help her little brother get better. All those injuries she had nursed, boo-boos she kissed, and disorders she studied couldn’t have possibly prepared her for this.

Jazz hadn’t been there. That was the horrible rotten truth. She was out at the library because she needed a break from the craziness that is their home. So she left. She left Danny alone. Then he got hurt. It was all her fault. She had sworn to be there for him. She had been protecting him ever since he was little, and now when he had needed her most, she had failed him.

It absolutely terrified her. He could really... die. That unimaginable train of thought brought Jazz back to the “moving on” lessons her parents had insisted she and Danny participate in. To better equip them to deal with... the unspeakable. To come to terms with and accept death, rather than letting resentment and misery hold them back in the form of a malicious specter out for revenge against the living. Ghosts weren’t real, Jazz knew that. Danny wouldn’t become an evil, vengeful spirit-regardless of whatever else happened; because that was impossible. However, she couldn’t help but hope that maybe he believed at least somewhat their parents said and actually learned something from those ‘death drills.’ If he had to leave, she hoped he could at least come to terms with it and pass peacefully... At least that was one thought she tried to comfort herself with.

It didn’t work. Her baby brother could be dying. Nothing helped.

Could anything be done? Was she actually about to lose him? The doctor had already told her parents that there was a chance–an extremely heartbreakingly high chance–that he wouldn’t make it. She had seen the horrifying scar, and it had nearly stopped her own heart. She couldn’t lose him.

Whenever there was any problem in her life, she examined it bit by bit, broke it down, and studied the dissection of the event. She did the same thing now, to her own behavior, it was what made her recognize all those same stages of grief in herself.

Jazz had started grieving as soon as they had admitted Danny to the hospital.

No, that in and of itself wasn’t right. She had started the process too early... It’s all her fault. How could she have given up already? She had already written him off as dead and gone. What the hell was wrong with her!? How could her brilliant mind, that had always worked a little faster than average, have betrayed her and jumped the gun on this...  extremely important thing. She had always been the fastest at solving equations. She usually knew the correct answer immediately–it was an ability that she had always loved... that she took pride in. She had no trouble recognizing patterns and following things to their logical conclusions... But this...

No...

No, she did not want this. It was too early. No.

Her stupid genius brain only pointed to one logical conclusion.

Screw logic. No. Jazz refused, point blank, to see that conclusion as even a possibility.

No, no, no, no. She was wrong. She had to be wrong.

Please, oh please let her be wrong. She usually hated being wrong, but now she would give anything for her snap judgment–that already told her it was pointless to hold on to this fleeting hope–to be wrong. Smart people can still be wrong. It was always a hard lesson for her, one she had learned in kindergarten and never really stopped learning. Was this another lesson? If it was, then she swears on her own life that she would never, ever forget it again...

Just let her be wrong this time.

Danny wasn’t dead... she should not be grieving... at least not... yet.

No! Not now, not ever.

Her conclusions were wrong. The doctors were wrong. She needed to have more faith in her little brother. He wasn’t dead. He was going to be fine. Please, oh please, let him be fine. She would do anything if her little brother could just be all right.

She was currently in the midst of stage 3, and she clung to Bargaining. She cannot leave. She will not. She refused to. He hasn’t died yet, and if she never allowed herself to go further in her grief, then he wouldn’t die.

Her little brother would be okay. She would not break down and assume the worst...

Danny was a Fenton; no one can keep a Fenton down.

__

Chapter Text

The doctor had already warned her parents there was a chance Danny wouldn’t make it.

 "Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, I feel its best to be honest with you about your son’s condition. The electric injuries that he sustained are… serious. Of course, it is still too early to know for sure… But you should begin to… prepare yourselves for the worst." 

That statement refused to stop replaying over and over in Jazz’s head. She was torturing herself with it. But sooner or later she had to stop uselessly dwelling on the worst case scenarios...

Prepare for the worst. NO. Never. It felt like a betrayal to even acknowledge the worst. 

Jasmine had often considered herself prepared for anything—it was mandatory skill growing up at Fenton-works. She knew preparation was vital to understand the consequences that they must confront. But…

But... Not that. 

Anything but that.  

No. Jazz had already wasted enough time falling to pieces. Now, she needed to do something productive, or she really was going to drive herself round the bend. Her brain didn’t function well without a problem to solve. Just like her mother and father.

The Fenton parents were practically wasting away in worry and guilt. 

And here she was, letting herself rot in the same way.

Eventually, mother, father, and daughter turned to do what they always did when they were stuck... Tried to invent their way out.

After, what was the point of being a genius if you couldn't fix anything?

So… do something. Work towards a solution. Be productive.

She wasn't prepared. she didn't know what they were facing. 

So... Find out.

Jazz scoured the medical section at Amity Park Public Library. Checked out several medical terminology dictionaries, first-aid guides, and even a few nursing school textbooks. No denying it; this was serious. Electricity had the potential to… irreparably harm so much: Heart, Brain, Lungs, Tissues, Muscles, Kidneys, Spinal Cord, nervous system, and skin. The sheer number of horrific symptoms, grizzly pictures, and catastrophic scenarios overwhelmed her every waking thought. These books didn’t belong to her, that fact was the only thing that stopped her from ripping the section marked Electrical Injuries to shreds.

No. She couldn’t do this. 

Stop! Jazz commanded herself. Calm down! You are letting your emotions get the better of you. Freaking out or breaking down will accomplish nothing and help no one. Find facts and information. Aren't you supposed to be good at that? Just pretend that this is all a regular research project. It's just like an essay for school. Familiar territory. C'mon Dr. Fenton, you want to actually help people right with what you know right? So, put your stupid big brain to actual use in the real world. 

The odds of dying from an electrical injury were… on the low side. Based on the stats, she’d found out that unintentional deaths by electrical injuries—and most of the time it was workplace injury—covered less than 0.5% of deaths per year. Out of the 4,000 people who suffered from a shock, only about 300 of those cases were fatal. 

That’s approximately only a 13% fatality rate, which—even bumping that percentage up to account for a margin of error—is still more than an 85% chance of survival.

Then optimistically, Danny had fairly good odds... right?

But even then, this could irreversibly cripple her brother; he might never be the same. 

But… No, she was doing it again, being paranoid. Assuming the worst.

She shouldn’t worry. Her little brother was going to be fine, right?

Why? Oh, why couldn’t she seem to convince herself?

__

The hospital visitations made Jazz feel nauseous; she couldn’t stand to see Danny like that. But she was tired of hiding from this. She had to see him. She would look this twisted reality in the eye... And not give in to her logical pessimism. 

They had given him an oxygen mask to prevent asphyxiation. He laid in the bed, wired up like a sadistic parody of a Christmas tree. The side of his face, neck, arms, and hands wrapped in bandages to treat the topological scaring. To make matters worse, Danny was hardly coherent for most of the visits. It was pointless to talk; he probably couldn’t hear her, and definitely couldn’t respond. 

All she could do was sit by his bedside and watch. Watch the hands of the clock on the far wall, complete their circular path. Watch the occasional nurse bustle around the room. Watch and wait for some miracle she had failed to convince herself to believe in...

Yet. She was not going to stop trying... 

Watch the rate of breathing from the oxygen pump and the line on the heart monitor. She couldn’t ever really reach a conclusion on whether it was worry and paranoia that made them seem slower than normal…

___

The days snaked by, days comprising several full-body scans, ECG recordings, and multiple 24-hour periods of monitoring every slight change in condition.

But, in this case, time did heal these wounds.

As the days went by, it became easier to hope as even the daunting, elusive window of 15% was rapidly shrinking. 

Her bargain was working. 

The nurses and doctors went on and on about how Danny was a “fighter” and recovering much better than they expected–almost weirdly fast. A few days ago he was barely conscious, but now the difference was night and day.

Jazz came into the room and found Danny not only awake but sitting up in the hospital bed, looking beyond bored, as he listened to the nurse explain: that despite his apparent turnaround, to err on the side of caution, he should stay in the hospital until the end of the week.

“And don't forget to take things easy for at least a few weeks after discharge.” the portly woman finished, eyeing Danny with palpable suspicion.

“I know. I know,” Danny grumbled.

“And no matter how much your condition improves: Do. Not. Remove. Your IV.” the nurse stressed the last statement as if this was not the first time she had to say that.

“I won’t!” he defended with a surprising amount of bite.

The nurse gave him one more I’m-watching-you looks and then sighed and left. Now it was just Jazz and Danny, alone, in his hospital room. Their parents were off somewhere, most likely bugging the doctors with their insane theories.

“Did you remove your IV?” She couldn’t help but ask.

His answer was a groan as he threw himself down on his pillow, with his hands thrown up covering his face.

“So… how are you feeling today?”

“I’m fine, Jazz,” was his tired response. Fine, as if she had simply asked how was his day at school. Fine, as if they weren’t having this conversation in a hospital. Fine, as if she hadn’t been driving herself mad. As if he wasn’t in danger of…

“Danny…” her throat constricted, and the room blurred and swam. “You have no idea how... worried I was.”

That seemed to sober him a bit. He removed his hands and turned to look at her. “Yeah… but Jazz really… I’m…” he hesitated before a queasy smile spread across his face, “fine.”

He must’ve realized that he wasn’t supporting his claim very well, because he tried again, “seriously, I’m fine. You heard the nurse, they’ll probably grant me freedom before next week.” His hands twiddled with the IV tube, itching to be free.

Jazz watched his nervous energy and gave him a slight smile, “bet you can’t wait, huh?”

He snorted, “yeah, like I miss school of all things.”

“You’re bored outta your mind here, aren’t you?”

“Yeah so really it’s the same as school... Just no friends.”

“Like Sam and Tucker haven’t been sneaking in whenever they can”

“Nah, Tuck wouldn’t step foot in a hospital if you paid him,” his joke didn't quite mask his genuine feelings on the matter. “Sam’s been here a few times, though...” his voice grew quieter. Until he shook his head as if he didn’t like the direction that thought was heading and backtracked on the subject. “Besides, you’re the one here ever single visitation window, you would know.”

Jazz rolled her eyes at his lighthearted grumblings, but knew that he really did appreciate her frequent visits.

“What are mom and dad up to?” he asked suddenly, glancing at the other empty chairs set up for visitors.

Their parents, rather than visit their only son, only came to the hospital to interrupt the doctors. They had convinced themselves that some impossible ghostly problems were causing Danny’s condition. Most likely an attempt to diffuse the guilt from themselves... So, they continuously offered their own brand of unique ‘expertise’ to treat this 'contaminant'. None of the hospital staff took them seriously.

“What do you think?” Jazz sighed.

“Are… they… blaming themselves?”

“Not as much as they should be,” she spat under her breath.

He must have heard—strange, that must have come out louder than she intended—because he immediately jumped to their defense. “Bb… bu… but it wasn’t their fault. Really, it was me... I… was the idiot that got myself… el…” his breath hitched. “K… ki…” his voice raised along with his breathing rate.

 Oh no. He began convulsing and trying in vain to regain his breath as if something had knocked the wind out of him. 

 Was he hyperventilating? Going into cardiac arrest? Having a PTSD flashback? panic attack? Why was no one rushing to his aid? The equipment wasn’t alerting the doctors. Jazz couldn’t do anything but uselessly watch...

Danny slammed his eyes shut and made a struggling, conscious effort to calm down.

“Danny!” are you really ok? the repeated question stuck in her throat. 

She only noticed that she had grabbed on to him when he pushed her hand off his shoulder. “I’m F…Fine.” 

Jazz was really starting to hate that word. 

He cleared his throat and continued to excuse their insane parents' actions. “I… uh, m… m… mmessed around with stuff I shouldn’t’ve and… I ignored all their safety rules… It really… wasn’t their fault...“ he finished in a small, weak voice that Jazz very much did not like.

It was still them who created the stupid portal, to begin with, but she kept that thought to herself.

The awkward—and on Jazz’s side, worried—silence stretched out before them.

_____

It was an inexplicable wonder, but… it seemed… that Danny was going to be ok. A miracle. A strange event that probably shouldn’t have been possible... The Fenton propensity for the impossible had—for once—served as an advantage. And no doubt about it, her brother was a Fenton. He was a fighter , a stubborn force to be reckoned with. How many times had she heard her dad’s boastful proclamation that “Fentons don’t‘ quit!” 

Danny had already survived so much insanity. He could… He would survive this too.

This time Jazz didn’t need to eavesdrop; this conversation was for all the Fentons, even Danny. He was still sitting on his hospital bed, hooked up to various machines. Multiple doctors and nurses stood puzzling and worrying over the data of the tests. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, your son’s condition has been improving at a very rapid pace.” said Dr. Mortan, the primary doctor assigned to Danny’s case, frowning and looking at Danny as if he was an equation that wasn’t coming out clean. Danny seemed to shrink away from the man’s scrutinizing gaze.

“That’s wonderful!” Maddie said before her face fell too as she noticed the man’s demeanor, “but… you don’t sound happy, Dr.”

“To be frank, Mrs. Fenton, your son’s results are…” he stopped and seemed to reconsider his words. “Unprecedented and... Unpredictable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you remember that early on, I advised you... to start preparing for the worst?”

Maddie’s eyes flicked to her son. She closed them tight and took a deep breath as the worst-case scenario no-doubt played on in her head. She gave a shaky nod.

“His heart-rate was dangerously unstable, as well as his breathing. In fact, he went through several bouts of cardiac and respiratory arrest. We have been monitoring his progress, trying to stabilize it.”

“And you did… right? I mean I’m fine… I’m stable now …” Danny interjected, reminding everyone involved that the boy they were grieving for was not only alive but in this very room.

“That’s just it.” the doctor said as his attention ping-ponged from the written medical examination results to the boy they supposedly described, “no, we didn’t. According to the most recent results, your heart is still dangerously slow, and you could have another heart-attack any moment now.”

“What?... but I’m... fii-” Danny’s voice cracked at an unfortunate moment “-ine. Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re not in any pain?”

“Now? ...no.”

“Do you feel dizzy or disoriented? What about any tightness or an uncomfortable burning sensation in your chest?”

“Burning?” Danny asked softly, slowly putting a hand on his chest, twisting his face into a look of confusion.

“Yes, or even just a mild warmth.”

“W… war... Warm? No.” 

“Have any difficulty breathing?”

“Um uh... n… o…?” Danny cleared his throat, “no, uh... not really.”

The doctor’s mouth thinned, and he made a displeased hum.

“Isn’t that a good thing?! I feel nothing... That’s good!”

“Nothing?” The doctor rounded on his patient with growing concern. “Is anything numb?”

“No! Nothing as in... I feel fine! Absolutely in no way is there anything even remotely wrong. Nope… Definitely completely... feeling n... nor... um, uh… normal. No pain or any weir... I... I... mean... I feel fine!”    

“Are you sure there isn’t anything that you’re not telling us?”

“N... n..no, of course… not.”

“Anything at all . Even something that you might consider nothing. A headache. Strange tingling or heaviness of limbs. Anything .”

“Nnnnope. Nothing nu-uh.Nada... no... uh... strange feelings what so ever.” Danny gave another crooked, almost painful, smile. Surely, he had to realize that his nervous rambling and repeated denial only made him seem more suspicious, right? Then again, her brother had always been an open-book; he couldn’t hide anything to save his life. “So...” he said after a beat of silence; everyone was still staring at him, “shouldn’t I be free to go?”

“ Technically, your condition improved,” the doctor said, tilting his glasses down and pinching the corner of his eyes. “ But… It’s still inconsistent. If you recovered so rapidly and inexplicably, then there is no guarantee that it won’t fluctuate again. And this time, it could do so in reverse.”

The doctor and the nurse still looked so worried. 

Inconsistent. Unstable. Inexplicable. These words were dangerous when it came to medical conditions. It was undeniable that Danny had improved, but not in the way anyone expected or understood.

But... who cares… Did that really matter?

The only thing that should matter was that her little brother was ok.

He wasn’t dead.

He was going to be ok.

Shouldn’t everything be better now?

Or was that sentiment hopelessly naive?

“Then what would your recommendation be, doctor? Keep him here until it stabilizes?” Maddie asked, gripping Danny’s hand tight in her worry. He pulled it free from her grasp, like he didn't want to be touched.

“We’ve been monitoring him for several days now.” the doctor sighed. He then turned to speak directly to Danny, “I understand that this is difficult, and of course, you don’t wish to stay here indefinitely. To be honest, we’ve done all we can do. Even if you stayed here, it would only be to further monitor your condition. I still fear that this miracle might have a rebound. However, as of right now… You are in the clear. To further monitor your progress, we will send you home with a Holter Monitor. Make sure that it records your progress. If anything changes at all. And I do mean anything at all. If you are doing anything, and you suddenly feel faint or short of breath. Stop doing that activity. And come right back here. Understand?”

“So I can leave then?” Danny asked again, a bit more hope bleeding into his tone.

“Yes, provided nothing changes from now, we will discharge you tomorrow morning.”

And just like that… the nightmare was over; just as rapidly and strangely as the whole thing had started.

____

After the hospital discharged Danny, everything shifted back to how things were... Well, to an extent. Danny was ok. He was up and about, although he still didn’t quite feel up to school—But, Jazz had to wonder how much of that was his accident and wasn’t just him dreading returning. His scars had almost... almost... totally faded away, and you could hardly tell that anything had happened. 

At least physically. But Danny was most certainly still affected. Jazz kept an even closer eye on her brother than before and recorded his recovery progress in her journal. 

He was jumpier following the accident; he startled easier, dropped things more often, and always seemed on guard against... something.

Their parents, on the other hand, had changed very little, if at all, after the accident. Jazz’s resentment—that she couldn’t help—towards her parents hadn’t faded away; if anything, it only grew stronger. When Danny was in the hospital, they had blamed themselves—as they should: it was their stupid portal. But now that he had recovered relatively unharmed, they could apparently return to their work guilt-free. She was almost cynically surprised that they had waited until Danny came home to turn their attention back to their precious portal. In fact, with Danny’s interference, that impossible portal, that they had spent decades trying to build, was now apparently somehow... working. This led to their parents holed up in the lab even more than ever.

So what else was new... Nothing was new.

There were no additional safety measures implemented. They didn’t stop prioritizing their research over their children. They also failed to notice that whenever they so much as mentioned the portal--or ghosts, or even the lab, or its various inventions--Danny’s face drained of blood. Sometimes he even started to tremble. This had traumatized him, and their parents didn’t even realize it.

______

One night it was particularly bad. Danny suddenly stood up, looking a little green in the face, like he was on the verge of throwing up. He practically threw his chair behind him in his haste. 

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Their mother said, pausing her in-depth conversation about her–honestly graphic and gruesome, especially when they were trying to eat–plans for once they caught their first ghost from the portal. Jazz's seething anger miraculously lost the fight against her self-control; she resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s cluelessness. She still wanted to groan and bang her head on the table, or maybe forgo subtlety and diplomacy and start chewing the woman out herself, but she settled for a glare.

How had Mom not noticed? Danny was getting more and more disturbed by what she was describing. How could she be so careless? So oblivious? So downright neglectful? To talk about the lab, the portal, and what might come out of the portal in front of Danny? 

“Jus’ not... hh.. h’ngry,” her brother murmured, barely opening his mouth as if afraid something other than words might come spilling out. 

“Are you sick, Danno? We can get the Fenton Thermometer, it checks for flu bugs and ghosts!” Their dad asked as if more freaky Fenton gadgets would help. 

“NO!” Danny said too fast and too loud. An intense wild, almost feral fear blanketed his expression. He held his hands held out, trying to put a shield between him and his father. Seconds stretched into minutes--but felt longer--until he took a few sharp, uneven breaths and forced himself to calm down. 

He tried to speak again. “...I... I.. m.. mm.. mean, ... Nah, ... There’s no need.. heh... I’m f... fine. Really... just... tired.. and y’know... rough week.” 

“Ok, sweetie,” their mother said with a concerned frown. She got up, to feel his forehead, to check if he was sick. “Hmm. You don’t feel warm... actually, you’re... freezing.” Danny pulled away too quickly. That was another change; Danny hated being touched. “Go ahead and go to bed. Think you’ll be up for school tomorrow? It has been a few days since the hospital cleared you.”

“.... Maybe,” Danny looked like he was weighing his options between the troubles school would undoubtedly cause and–his eyes darted away from the door to the basement–and... Oh... The lab. Once granted permission, he made a mad dash for his room. 

Jazz scooted her chair out from the table, making a very purposeful sound. “I cannot believe you two,” she spat as she too left the table. 

___

“Danny?” She asked, a soft knock on his bedroom door accompanying her voice.

There was a yelp that sounded more like a frightened animal on the other side of the closed door. “DON’T come in!” he said. His voice sounded... off. Scared. All over the place. Strange... Distant and almost… echoing? Like he was miles and miles from her. 

“Danny? I... just wanted to check on you.“

No answer. 

"... Are...you ok?”

There was a loud thump. Did something fall? “I’m... I’m... ff… fine,”

The sliver of darkness under his door lit up impossibly bright as if someone had just turned on a crazy white light.

Danny yelped again.

Seconds later, it was back to black. Although, in comparison, it looked deeper and darker than before.

“Danny, I’m serious. I’m worried about you,” she slowly tried turning the knob. Her brother, despite ordering her not to come in, had forgotten to lock the door.

She opened it. His room was pitch black, and the light from the hallway did very little to help. The only thing she could see was her own elongated shadow on the floor in front of her. 

“Danny?” even her own voice sounded... empty. Stale in the haunting silence. 

...

Silence.

...

She couldn’t even hear the sounds of his breathing. She wondered for a moment if he had somehow vanished. Gone from the room. Maybe out the window? But... No, that made no sense.

“Really, I mean it... if there’s something you want to talk about,” she told the unwelcoming room, feeling a little uneasy and wondering if he was even there to hear her. 

The shadowy pile of blankets on the floor moved slightly. “I’m fine,” it said. So Danny was here. 

“No, I don’t think you are,” she began gently. Why did it still feel like she was addressing an empty room? “Danny, it’s ok to... not be fine. I mean, you just had a very traumatic experience. It’s normal for-“

He cut her off with a shaky laugh. “Normal?” his grave whisper seemed to carry much farther than it should have; reverberating like they were outside or in a high-ceilinged area, and not in his bedroom. It sent an involuntary shudder up her spine. 

The room grew colder; icy wind bit into Jazz’s bones. Danny should really close his window. How was it even this cold? It was still August, and winter was a long way off...

“Danny, if there’s something... wrong, you can always talk to me... o... ok?” Jazz felt awkward standing in his doorway–It felt more like she was standing at the mouth of a cave–telling him this, but... Something kept her from approaching him like she usually would have. It was strange. The shadows were so thick; the darkness was so... Oppressive. The deep blackness opened up like jaws about to swallow her whole. So, like a little child afraid of the dark, she refrained from entering.  

“Wrong? NO! ... No... Noth... n... Nothing is.... wrong with me!” It took him a moment to scramble to his feet. His movements were stiff and unnatural, jerky and uncoordinated; a puppet with limbs that weren’t cooperating. He even almost fell a few times. Was his foot asleep or something? 

“I’mm... f... f.. fine ...I... I don’t wan... need... to talk about... it, cuz th.... th.. eres... nothing... to.. tt.. talk about.”

Real convincing , little brother. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure! I... Am fine, Jazz. Mind your own damn business! Just leave me alone! Go! Away!” His door slammed shut in her face. There was no way Danny himself had closed it from the other side of the room... It was probably the wind judging by how there was a lingering frigid chill in the air... But even with that explanation... Jazz still felt slightly… unsettled. 

---

Chapter Text

Preface:

It seems only fair to the adolescents that we correctly label the most dramatically significant years of life. It does no one any good to downplay what the average teenager must brave. Despite the detriment that arises as a result of carelessly diminishing the impact of youth, too often we mature adults do those who follow after a disservice. Therefore, I wish to gift this stage of development a proper term that validates the adversities that awaits a child as they leave their rose-colored childhood behind. I, like most people, struggled through my own teenage years and in the midst of them feared I would never endure. But I survived and, rest assured you can too.

 If you have chosen to read this book, you must fall under one of three basic categories:

1) You are yourself an adolescent, and despite the stereotypes of laziness and disinterest that are no doubt ascribed to you, you have found yourself drawn in by my little book. Perhaps it was the front cover, by which we do so often judge books on, or the title or something else that entice d you to pick it up. Possibly someone gifted or recommended it to you. Perhaps you simply selected it at random, out of boredom. If that is you, welcome. And may I commensurate you for the journey you are yet to embark on, or quite possibly have already begun.

Jazz was on the tail end of that metaphorical journey; she should be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel by now. And yet, she still felt so lost sometimes.

2) You are a parent. 

Ha. No, she really wasn’t. She wasn't Danny's parent. It wasn't her responsibility or job... No matter how much their actual parents were failing to live up to the role.   

But…

Your sweet darling little angel has transformed into a completely different breed of creature, and you are at a loss why. Your child no longer opens up. He or she no longer wants you involved. And what are you expected to do? Just let your baby walk down that twisted and harrowing road to adulthood all by themselves? Likely you remember your teen years and worry for your child. Possibly fortune blessed you with a relatively tame adolescence experience, and thus you cannot understand what your child is going through. Perhaps you have tried every other so-called self-help book on the shelves and are at your wit's end. If this is you, you too are welcome. If being a teen is one of the hardest things, then raising a teen is about as high up there.

But at the same time… she felt every word cut through her with excruciatingly painful accuracy. This author didn’t pull his punches or sugarcoat anything. It was one reason she admired him so much. 

3) You are not a parent or a teen, yourself. Perhaps you know of one who fits the descriptions I have already given. Maybe you are an educator or something of that sort. Not a parent, but just as involved with adolescents in your life. Perhaps you are a grandparent or an aunt or uncle. Possibly even a brother or sister. Regardless of how and why you came across this book, allow me to welcome you. Now with that taken care of, let me say something that I am in no way the first person to say but still could stand to be repeated: Adolescence is a rough time. One of the most challenging times of life.

And of course, now you are rolling your eyes at this truism. You already know this, no matter who you may be. After all, everyone knows that, as assuredly as they know, the sky is blue. Nothing I am saying is new. 

But think for a minute about that statement. For just because we know something doesn’t mean we understand it. If we return to the analogy above, anyone can look up and see the blue sky, but does everyone know the intricacies of our atmosphere that causes the phenomenon? 

Are you aware of the intricacies that make up adolescence? What is adolescence, really? 

Adolescence is a war. 

A fierce and frustrating battle where a child enters but an adult leaves. There will be vicious fights, close encounters, and terrifying changes. You need a strategy to survive; a terrain map of what lies before your child, as nature enlists them in this war. This is where this book can help you and your child Survive Adolescent Battlefield Unscathed. 

Jazz turned the next page to the table of contents and slid her finger down until she found what she needed: Trauma and Adverse Experiences. 

Trauma is any experience that makes one fear for one’s own life or the lives of others. These experiences can have lasting implications, as it subjects an individual to intense levels of emotional as well as psychological and physical distress. This disrupts their ability to function in everyday life. It is natural for a child to want to turn to the family unit or a trusted adult in these times. However, a teenager is more likely to seek solace in their peers. Adolescents are continually teeter-tottering between the need for independence and the desire for security. A confusing contradiction that only amplifies in times of extreme stress. 

Well... Danny fit that description. Definitely. 

And the truth was... He wouldn’t turn to their parents because... Well, they were their parents. Their insane, ghost-obsessed, neglectful, blind, and ever-busy parents. Obviously, he wouldn’t go to them if anything was truly wrong. 

In fact, even without him admitting anything... They had still labeled him “ecto-contaminated” (apparently evidenced by many of the other inventions—read here every single f-ing one of them—targeting her poor brother. She supposed one invention hurting him just wasn’t enough.) So, her ever-rational parents wanted to put Danny through an intensive, invasive, and no doubt Traumatizing with a capital T detox process. Which Danny unsurprisingly and very vehemently refused. For once, they’d been glad when Jack and Maddie inevitably distracted themselves again, so they didn’t make good on that threat of helping Danny.

Jazz would’ve liked to think that her baby brother would go to her... Ha. No.

That too was foolish. 

Danny had long since stopped seeing her as an ally. Instead, she was his overbearing critic that he tried to hide from and shut out. He told her he was “fine!” and he didn’t want to be her “psycho guinea pig!” and can’t she just leave him alone and mind her own business and stop being an “annoying nosey know it all.”

So, all she could do was continue to monitor him from afar. 

Which brought Jazz to what she was doing now; knee-deep in her psychological journals and therapy books, categorizing typical teenage behavior. Things that were on the charted course for healthy development. Things that were–for all this word means in a household like theirs–normal. 

It wasn’t either strange or worrisome if an adolescent began to create distance between himself and his parents...

However, there were healthy distancing practices: things like making your own decisions, what to wear, what to enjoy, what you want to do, and what you think or believe. And rebelling when denied that outlet of independence. Then there was… this. What Danny was doing: something far closer to Avoidance Behavior indicative of trauma. 

An embarrassed teenage boy pushing away his mother as she kissed his cheek was normal. Looking like a frightened animal waiting to bolt out the door whenever anyone got close enough to touch him… was not. 

Slumping in his chair out of boredom and rolling his eyes whenever their parents started rambling was normal. 

But that is not how Danny reacted. 

At least, not anymore.

Trauma causes the body to react in a fight, flight, or freeze response. 

Danny seemed to prefer flight. Running away whenever she tried to corner him and get him to just talk about his problems. And when Danny couldn’t avoid or leave the situation physically, he left mentally. When he clenched his eyes shut like that, it was uncanny how much it looked like he was in the midst of some sort of... PTSD flashback. Then… His eyes would glaze over. As he sat there and forced himself to not react to anything at all: this was Emotional Avoidance. Danny tuned out his parents not because he was a moody teenager and his parents were lame or out of touch, but because what they were talking about was unbearable.

Our survival instincts kick in and are on high alert. After the incident, it is common for one to become subdued and tired as the body recovers. Essentially, falling back down from high emotional arousal def con 1. Usually, an individual stays in this emergency mode for only a short amount of time after the immediate threat has vanished. The trouble arises when one feels that they cannot return to normalcy.

At only a week since the Accident, it was still too early to give an official diagnosis. But not too early to see the precursors that could develop into a Trauma Disorder. 

Here, the neuroplasticity in a developing brain presents itself as a double-sided sword. On the one hand, it can bolster resilience and an ability to grow from these experiences. However, it can also be the reason that trauma and stress affect the adolescent brain so much worse than an adult brain. And if not addressed, can be the catalyst of disorders further down the line. 

 Which was why, no matter how much Danny complained and hated her for this... Jazz had to do it. Once again, she was the one to look after her little brother. Her full-time job, and now she had an all-nighter shift ahead of her.

No, multiple all-nighter shifts. Until the problem was solved. 

Adolescence is a time of change, both mental and physical.The body went through embarrassing moments when it seemed to betray you. You had to get used to having the body of an adult and the mind trying to catch up... or the opposite.

Therefore... Theoretically... It made sense that... during puberty someone might become... clumsier… Right?

After all, they were trying to adjust to their new height, weight, and proportions...

And for a short while, these thoughts had provided some comfort…. But Danny’s fits of clumsiness came only after... The Accident. (Which had since become a proper noun in her mind.)

It was undeniable that this wasn’t simple clumsiness. Sure, sometimes Danny tripped, fell on his face, fell down the stairs, and somehow missed the chair he tried to sit on... But far more concerning was the act of dropping things. Danny would be holding something: his video-game controller, the tv remote, a book he was reading, his phone, his silverware during meals, a plate as he did the dishes, you name it... Then seemingly out of nowhere, a spasm would pass over him: his shoulders would tighten, his face would drop, his hand would go dead limp, and seconds later, whatever he was holding would come crashing down out of his grasp.

Was something wrong with his gross motor control?

Every time she watched her brother struggle with something like this, she wondered again why the hospital had discharged him. Sure, he had seemed to recover suddenly and miraculously… But that only further proved that his condition was sporadic and unstable. How naïve was it to have ignored all the warning signs? To have assumed that everything was suddenly and inexplicably solved. Didn’t the doctor even warn them that these instabilities could far too easily become negative? They just hadn’t wanted to listen. These late-onset symptoms were arguably worse than the topological scaring. How could she convince Danny–let alone their oblivious parents–to go get him tested for a motor neuron disease?

Jazz had just watched Danny’s spoon slip out of his hands and crash! into his cereal bowl with a loud clatter! as the metal hit the glass. And what’s more, his expression when it hit told her a couple of things. There was some frustration, but not too much and absolutely no surprise. Mostly he just looked defeated, like he had been expecting it but knew he couldn’t do anything about it. And that was so much worse.

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

He stared at her with wide, panicked eyes before whipping his hand behind his back. “What!?”

“Is it pins-and-needles tingly like your foot falling asleep?”

“I’ve… no idea what... you’re talking about,” he said in a strangled, highly erratic voice.

Oh, her little brother was such a pitiful liar. “Is it stiff? Is it cramped up? Does it feel too tight?... or too loose? Or sore or… Numb? C...c… Can you even feel it?” Jazz leaned in to touch his arm, and maybe see if she can test his sense of touch herself.

He scrambled away from her, making a loud racket as his chair hit the floor.

Yeah, she expected that reaction, but it did nothing to ease her worries.

“No, cuz there’s nothing to feel!” All that uncomfortable stress was seeking to find a new outlet, and anger was usually the one her brother favored. “I... It just slipped out of my butterfingers, Jazz! There is nothing wrong with me!”

She certainly didn’t miss the way he said that. "Nothing wrong with me." And it wasn’t the first time since The Accident that he had phrased it that way. As if something was making him feel like he was the problem.

“Have you ever heard of… Progressive Muscular Atrophy?”

He groaned. “If I say yes, will you Leave. Me. Alone?”

“It’s a motor neuron...,” Jazz knew Danny would instantly reject anything with the title disease or disorder in it… She didn’t want him to add to his feelings that he was damaged or wrong... but this could be legitimately serious. PMA often starts in the distal muscles, like fingers and toes. “... condition.”

Nope. Still not the right word. His face instantly twisted.

“For crying out loud, Jazz! I’m fine. It’s been a week since....” his breath hitched. “I...I. Am. Fine.” he repeated more forcefully through clenched teeth. “If I wasn’t, the hospital wouldn’t have discharged me…”

She opened her mouth to refute that, but he cut her off.

“Now, I know you are just dying to have something to pull out and play psycho psychiatrist on. But I do not have a... condition! But oh, wouldn’t you just love that?” he sneered, full of frustration and dark amusement. “If I had some freaky disease, then you could study it and use all the crap you learned, right?” He scowled. “You’re just like mom and dad,” he muttered with a bitter laugh full of pain and disappointment... and was that fear?

Jazz felt like he had just slapped her.

“Danny!” But by the time she had recovered her voice, he had vanished. He refused to talk to her, or even look at her, for the rest of the day.

 

PMA is a motor neuron disease categorized by the gradual progression of nerves shutting down. It starts with the fine motor functions in the distal muscles: the hands and feet.

(In Danny’s case, it seemed to be primarily his fingers.)

Symptoms include Flail Arm syndrome (where the arm muscles waste and become limp and cannot move voluntarily).

Not something Danny was struggling with. But also something that typically appeared at a later onset after the muscles had already had time to deteriorate… So perhaps it was only a matter of time.

Fasciculation (or twitching or rippling effect seen under the skin), muscle cramps and pain, clumsiness, deteriorating reflexes.

She didn’t know about the cramping or pain—well... Apart from guessing, based on Danny’s expression, that it didn’t feel pleasant—but she had seen his clumsiness and lack of reflexes. Sure, he might not be the most athletic kid, but this clumsiness was beyond anything explainable.

Breathing difficulties.

The doctors had worried about that. The halter monitor that he still had to wear was proof enough of that.

Fatigue.

He did look more and more exhausted recently. As if he wasn’t sleeping well.

Possible behavioral instability.

High negative emotions inter-spaced with periods of zoning out. That’s a definite yes.

Weight loss and weakness and wasting of the muscles until the patient practically cannot move.

It hadn’t reached that bad... Yet. That three-letter word haunted her and meant that she had to do something before it did.

PMA is believed to be caused by a mixture of genetics and environmental factors.

But it’s a neuron disease... and Danny just had who knows how many volts of electricity go through him. His brain definitely could’ve been affected. The electrical conduction in nerves that controlled movement absolutely could have been altered; resulting in something close to PMA, even if it wasn’t identical.

So… now what. The symptoms seemed to fit. But Jazz’s first attempt at breaching the topic crashed and burned magnificently.

This wasn’t working. Nothing was.

.…

....

Hands shaking slightly, Jazz tore that page out of her journal. She knows that she will probably end up taping it back in later, but for right now... she couldn’t bear to see her own notes. She crumpled it up and threw it hard across her room, in frustration and… horrible seething guilt. It was like a wound forcibly reopened. A wound that nothing could heal. Good. In some ways, she’d rather it didn’t heal. And if it did, then she should make it hurt again.

Because this wasn’t over. Jasmine might not know much, despite being a so-called genius, but she knew that. Whatever was happening was so far from over, and that was the truth that tortured her day in and day out.

Because why should she get to heal? Why should she deserve to feel better, when her little brother didn’t have that option? Why is it that their parents were able to recover? To the perpetrators of the act, everything was fine... but not to their victim. So she clutched her guilt to her chest, embraced it like it was her Bearbert Einstein Teddy.

She also didn’t want to think about how Danny would react if he saw her… research.

Was she truthfully using him the way he said? Is she treating him like a bug under a magnifying glass to poke and prod? Detailing its every reaction.

Was she only making it worse for Danny?

No. It’s for his own good… Right? I’m just trying to… help.

...

“You’re just like mom and dad.”

It was surprising how much his statement stung.

There was something deeper and uglier hiding under that statement. It was something she couldn’t quite understand yet, but it still made her feel sick to her stomach. Maybe it was how he looked when he said it, like a hunted animal.

Jazz had always assumed she was better at... this... than her parents. Better at the emotions, better at caring, better at noticing. Better at fixing... After all, she didn’t think their parents had even realized half the stuff that Danny was still going through.

She remembered their mom going on and on about how she wanted to dissect and study the remains of the... ghosts that came from the portal, completely oblivious to Danny’s discomfort. At that moment it hadn’t mattered that ghosts weren’t real, no not to Danny as what little color he had left drained from his pallid face.

What about their dad, proudly brandishing each unstable gadget, and never even stopping to consider how much damage the last invention had caused.

Was that how Danny saw her too? Insensitive. Unable to help. To care. Only able to break things apart?

Their parents dissect the body.

But she… She dissects the mind.

Was she honestly treating her own brother as an experiment?

“I’m not your psycho guinea-pig!”

The scientific method. Observe. Notes and notes of her observation lay in her lap. In her prized journals. The results of her spying and ignoring both her little brother’s wishes and his privacy. Detailing his every move in a cold, detached way. As if she was the narrator for a nature documentary. How uncaring her notes must read.

Research. How many of the books—sprawled out on her desk and bed, abused by sticky-notes and a ridiculous amount of bookmarks—had Jazz recently checked out because of Danny?

Hypothesize. Find the right combinations of letters that could explain all this behavior. PTSD, PMA, AVPD, etc...

Which diagnoses fit? Which aberrant condition did he have? What was wrong with him?

“There’s nothing wrong with me!”

Oh, but there is. There’s something very, very wrong with you. Something wrong with your body, your brain, your behavior… but what? What is wrong with you?

And once she thinks she knows, then she can start to confirm her assumptions and...

And how do you go about testing a hypothesis?

You... Experiment...

Oh.

She was just like their parents, wasn’t she? The genius, who cannot understand the consequences of her actions. The blind workaholic, who ignores the pleas and wishes of her family. The scientist, who only cares about her theories; as she uses everyone around her as an excuse to test them. The Dr. Fenton, ironically titled as she never truly means to help or heal her patient. Just to poke and prod, dissect and dismantle, categorize and study. The stubborn, prideful little girl, who insists that she can never be wrong.

Well...

What else could she do? She had to help him somehow... And maybe the only way she knows how is through her impersonal, clinical books. It wasn’t her fault that these unfeeling anecdotes were all she had… She had raised herself on them. For as much as she prided herself on knowing all about how the human brain worked, she still couldn’t understand the more social aspects of how to apply that knowledge.

Danny might hate her for this. He would definitely hate it if he knew how much of her little “diary” that he teased her about detailed her... “experimentation” on him.

But she can’t stop. Not until she knows what is wrong with her baby brother. Then maybe she can work on fixing it.

Because… he really was… Something really was wrong. Something… had… broken him. And pretending… wasn’t… wasn’t helping.

Jazz retrieved the crumpled up piece of paper. Brought it back to her desk. And then slowly, in sync with her breathing like a meditative practice, she smoothed it back out.

Now... deep breath. In. Out.

You cannot afford to fall apart. This isn’t ideal, but that doesn’t… can’t matter. Just do what you can with what you have.

Jazz grabbed the tape and carefully put the page back in. The slightly serrated edges and the wrinkles where the page wouldn’t lay flat were the only evidence of her doubt. Now, if only she could force her life back together so easily...

She turned to a clean journal page, and strengthened her resolve.

Teenagers judge each other on every little thing imaginable. And that judgment isn’t always able to shrug off, thanks to the confusing dichotomy between fitting in and going your own way.

Some people strayed too far to one side. Danny already struggled socially… again, the fault of their parents. Because who wanted to be friends with the freak from the freaky Fenton family? Jack and Maddie were lunatics, and no doubt they raised their children to be just as crazy. Jazz scoffed at that idea; that would require Jack and Maddie to actually raise their kids. Ok, that wasn't entirely fair… Her general opinion of her parents had taken a severe hit and it was overshadowing the good moments and happy memories. It wasn't that their parents didn't raise them… It wasn't that they didn't care about them… Or weren't there for them. It was just that, well… Sometimes, most times, their delusional theories and projects came first. 

Anyway, Danny already struggled in middle school, and now he had entered hard mode: high school. So… the snide judgments would only get worse.

One thing that is very high on that insurmountable list of never-ending criticisms: your appearance. So, it is not uncommon for adolescents to stress about how they look. What they wear, how they style their hair, and overall how they present themselves to their peers.

However, like every other thing she had observed about her brother, this was not typical teenaged behavior because of the way he was doing it.

Danny would continually check himself in mirrors and any even slightly reflective surfaces. Honestly, it was getting to be a little ridiculous; he would use anything, no matter how strange.

She had caught him once or twice; he had forgotten to close the bathroom door. It should have been nearly impossible to sneak up on someone staring at a mirror but, he was too busy to notice her. Lurking just barely out of sight, she watched her brother do a weird, almost ritualistic check over his face. He would run a hand through his hair over and over like he was developing another nervous tick. Mess his hair up so that his ears wouldn’t stick out as much. Lean in so close and stretch his eyes out as wide as they could go with his fingers, sometimes until they started watering. Open his mouth and run a thumb across his teeth. Hesitantly, ghost his trembling fingers over the face in the mirror, tracing the snaking, discolored area on his cheek. Then slowly repeat the action on his real face. After that, he’d sigh, shake his head and move on from his reflection.

There were also times when she saw him do a double-take as he passed by the window, the turned-off tv screen, the microwave door, etc. His eyes would quickly dart away. And then back up again with a look of pure terror, hysterically clutching his head or squeezing his eyes shut and then slowly reopening them. What he was expecting to see—or perhaps what he had seen out of the corner of his eye that freaked him out so much—she didn’t know. Maybe the scar? It was now barely noticeable and not really recognizable to people who didn’t know… but it was still there. It might always be there.

However, all of that assumed that stress and trauma weren’t causing some sort of hallucination or something. Of course, if Danny were struggling with that, he would certainly never, ever tell her.

So she could do nothing to help...

But monitor and record it in her journal.

Jazz conveniently “forgot” a small unassuming and gender-neutral colored compact mirror–that she had, strangely enough, bought very recently–in their shared bathroom. She smiled when she saw it missing the following day. Perhaps that would help in some small way–at any rate, it was better than using his fricken spoon.

Maybe she should do the same with some concealer… She’d have to guess at which shade to buy. Hmmm, Danny was most definitely paler than she was... Very, very pale… ever since The Accident... Which didn’t make much sense now that she thought about it. Jazz hadn’t heard of trauma affecting the melanin in the skin before… though she supposed it wasn’t completely beyond the realm of possibility. He was only hospitalized for a week... was that long enough to lose a tan?... Maybe even paler than the brand she bought carried.

Would concealer even help? Or would he reject it on the principle of it being make-up? And thus girly or something? She absolutely knew some people at school who would tease him for something that inane and shallow.

She had considered clueing him in that the mirror was a gift, but he never really accepted any kind of help she handed out. So, as far as he knew, he had successfully “pillaged” one of her mirrors; Jazz went back to using her teal-ish pink compact. She hoped he would come and talk to her, but she could wait.

“Leave the kid alone.”

Jazz had been explaining her troubles to her friend. Spike had been one of the few people who actually put up with her behavior and general Fenton-weirdness. Sure, he wasn’t always eager to have some conversations—like his own problems that Jazz wanted to help him with—but he was still a good friend. Having nowhere else to turn to and no clue what to do, she had explained both her worries and observations about Danny to Spike. Spike’s advice was to let him be. “Seriously J, you’re gonna make it a bajillion times worse.”

“It’s not healthy to bottle it all up. He needs to work through this.”

“Yeah, he needs an ‘emotional cathartic breakthrough,’” Spike gave her parroted words sarcastic quotation marks and rolled his eyes at her. “You keep forcing this and it’ll blow.”

Spike was probably right. She needed to calm down, give Danny air to breathe. Take it slow… But her Fenton upbringing guaranteed one thing, she had never learned moderation. It was full throttle or nothing. When a problem is in front of you, you tinker and mess with it until it’s fixed….

or until it blows up in your face.

The Fenton way.

“I’m not forcing him. It’s more of a gentle nudge.”

Spike snorted, “yeah, gently nudging him over the edge of a f*ckin cliff. You are faaar tooo pushy and all you’re gonna do is push him even further away.” Jazz wondered if Spike was speaking from experience, perhaps his own troubling relationship with his parents.

“I am worried about him.”

He said in a bored I don't care about anything attitude, that she knew he didn't really mean, “uh huh. But, you worry about everything. I don’t think you know how to stop worrying.”

“He’s my little brother. It’s my job to worry,”

“Take a sick day. Or better yet, quit.”

“I can’t. You don’t understand how serious this is. This time it’s different.”

“Riiiight… According to you, he’s been acting weird, right?” He rolled his eyes and began listing things on his fingers, “jumpy, self-conscious, paranoid, stressed, clumsy, moody, angry, secretive, defensive, and tired...” Here the sixteen-year-old boy cynically wiggled all ten fingers. Then sighed and gave Jazz a look with raised, pierced eyebrows. “Jazz, have you ever f*ckin met a teenager?”

Spike looked like the stereotypical delinquent teen, with a dyed and spiked mohawk, and a myriad of piercings and tattoos. He looked like he himself could fit most, if not all, of the adjectives he had just said.

Sure, she understood his point.

And most people would just write off these things as teenage angst that didn’t really mean anything. They would ignore these obvious red flags just because he was a teenager, and teenagers had a flair for dramatics and rebellion. As if that made everything a teen deals with superficial or unimportant.

Adolescence is a war.

And her little brother was deep in battle.

Was she really supposed to let him fight on his own? What if he really needs help?

Besides, Jazz knew that sometimes that teenage attitude that everyone liked to criticize was a good thing. A little rebellion, especially when you had a suffocating situation like Spike did, was healthy... to a degree. She had encouraged and supported it. How Spike chose to express himself wasn’t hurting him or anyone else. It was mostly cosmetic rebellion, anyway. He had a fashion sense that his parents disapproved of, but that had been an integral first step to forming his own identity and escaping the authoritative grip he was stuck in. Spike wasn’t the same person as his parents, and that was ok. Everyone had the right to be their own person.

As for the emotional struggles, that was what she encouraged him to actually change; starting with him finally having an authentic conversation with his parents instead of running from them.

But that was Spike.

What she was seeing in Danny wasn’t the same.

“I’ve already cataloged typical adolescent behavior... This isn’t it.”

Spike whistled, “F*ck, J. Cataloged? Don't you sound all F*cking professional?”

“This is different,” She ignored his dig and continued to back up her claims. Whatever was happening with Danny was hurting him. It was something both physical and mental, and whatever it was… it was not healthy.

“Ooooor, you’re overthinking things... aaaagain?” he grumbled in a low voice.

“No, you don’t understand the kinds of long-term effects that unprocessed trauma can cause.”

“Bold of you to assume you haven’t already told me aaall about them,” Spike said in a bored tone. Ok yes, she had used him as a sounding board for her ideas before... He was insightful when he allowed himself to be; he helped her as much as she helped him. After all, they were friends. Each other’s only real friend, to be honest. As they both had their own social issues and unfair stereotypes to compete with when trying to form close bonds.

Her not-entirely willing participant... Or patient and a begrudging study partner...

That was how many of their conversations evolved: Spike sat and listened half-disinterested and Jazz rambled on in typical Fenton fashion.

“You don’t understand,” she repeated. “He was in the hospital… he could... have… died. That’s unquestionably a traumatic experience.”

“Yeah…” Spike sighed and looked at her in a rare moment of sincerity. “But for you... or him?”

She couldn’t answer him.

“Look J, I get that you’re worried and freaked, even more than usual, which is saying something… but how do you know this isn’t all… in that big brain of yours. Like an inkblot test?” he asked, knocking on her head.

“What do you mean?”

“Your brain is... how you say... connecting the dots. Y’know, seeing things that aren’t necessarily there. Looking at the amorphous blobs and seeing images from your subconscious. Who’s to say your worries are even real?”

“I’m not…” she trailed off.

Am I just projecting my worries onto him? Is everything really ok? Is it all just normal teenage angst? Am I just overthinking and overreacting?

No, there was something there. Something wrong… right?

Every single little thing seemed to paint a horrifying picture.

But was she just being paranoid?

Psychology was a fallible field of study, like anything else. Diagnoses were tricky. How many times had the Rosenhan experiment been repeated? Where people faked their way into a mental institute but then were trapped there. After they had gotten in they acted normal, but the workers in the institution saw everything as a continuation of their condition. Confirmation baises warped every innocent behavior into a symptom that something was wrong.

Was that what she was doing to Danny?

She had recorded some minuscule harmless behaviors along with the worrying ones, and it was hard to tell which was which. For instance, lately, when she went to take a shower, a back full of ice water greeted her. At first, she thought that Danny had used all the hot water like he sometimes did. But no. Instead, the shower was set to absolutely freezing. She switched it back and had a nice looong shower before the hot water heater ran out. The following day, however, it would always be set back to freezing.

So, that must mean that Danny wasn’t taking hot showers anymore…

So innocent of a change. So mundane compared to everything else... But a change nevertheless.

Spike would absolutely say she was overthinking things if she sighted that as evidence of anything. But it was another way his routine had drastically changed. Didn’t it make sense that even the minor changes had a root cause?

Maybe she was overthinking things…

But...

“His behavior isn’t normal.”

Spike actually laughed harshly at that, “yo Fenton, what the f*ck is normal?”

Normal was entirely subjective. And if it truly was her confirmation biases making her think something is wrong… then normal behavior might as well not exist. It was an unachievable standard once the label of a diagnosis stuck. So easy to get into a mental hospital, and yet so hard to leave.

So how can she combat this? How can she objectively find out if there’s a problem?

If there’s a problem?

Of course, there’s a f*cking problem. She’d have to be blinder than her parents not to notice. Even if he didn’t really have depression, PTSD, or anything else. He was distressed. It, whatever it was, was still causing discomfort. So maybe she was overthinking some things… but her little brother was still in trouble.

She amended her statement, “this isn’t healthy...”

“He’s a teen. Depression and anxiety are part of that gig. You’re the weird one, so happy all the d*mn time, Little Miss Princess Pep.”

“So, what? I should just let him suffer? Let him deal with PTSD and depression.”

Spike shrugged, “Life is suffering. You should just let him live his life.”

“What the heck, Spencer? No, we absolutely should not normalize and ignore mental disorders! Just because it has become commonplace for teenagers to experience these feelings, does not mean that they are at all healthy or positive! In fact, it tells us that the way we treat adolescents needs to change. We need to work through these emotions, not just ignore them or bottle them up! That will fix nothing! “

“Everyone’s f*ckin crazy somehow, Fenton... You don’t have to fix everything. Sometimes, people don’t want your f*ckin help. Sometimes, there’s f*ckin nothing you can do to get stupid sh*tforbrains to listen! Sometimes, ya gotta just let the world be f*cked cuz it sure as hell ain’t gonna change, no matter what you do.”

Well, if that wasn’t a disguised cry for help, she didn’t know what was.

“... You wanna talk about it?”

“I thought we were here, talking about your problems for a change,” he muttered.

She gave a little laugh. “We can talk about both… So, what’s up?”

“Same old sh*t. You?”

She laughed again, but tinged with more bitterness this time. “Yeah…”

They sat in silence for a bit. Until Jazz breathed out the truth. No more professional mask or Dr. Fenton psychologist who always had the answers. Just a lost sixteen-year-old trying to desperately pretend she was an expert. “I just… Don’t know what to do… I am not imagining it, Spence, something is wrong. Very wrong. I don’t know what... But… He’s scared and struggling. All I know is that he needs help. But… He... won’t open up. He won’t let me... help him.”

Spike noticed the change in her demeanor and sighed. “Yeah? Well, maybe you should give him space. And wait for him to open up. Isn’t that something you always say? Breakthroughs take time… Anyway, I can tell you what not to do... Stalking him, and writing about his every f*ckin move in your diary… that will not help. That’s the weird part Jazz.”

“It’s not a diary,” Jazz wrinkled her nose, hating how childish that made her sound.

“Yeah, I know... It’s a textbook. A scientific journal. A research paper. A doctorate thesis. Whatever the hell it is, Jazz, it’s creepy... And not in a cool way. Any of your therapy books tell you what that kinda behavior is indicative of, cuz it sure doesn’t sound healthy to me.”

“Look, I know I can be a little obsessive.”

“Only a little?” Spike interrupted with an incredulous snort.

“but this isn’t about me,” she pushed on.

“Maybe it should be… C’mon J, before you drive your brother crazy...-er, with your theories and forced therapy sessions, you need an outlet. A… what would you call it? A… ‘recreational activity to aid with your own psycho-social adolescent development.’ I won’t even complain if you want to go somewhere besides the Skulk and Lurk.”

“The library?”

“Recreational activity, Fenton,” he deadpanned.

“Reading is recreational,” she argued.

“Yeah, but when’s the last time you read a book for fun?”

She opened her mouth

“And no, I don’t count your personal research projects… I mean like a book, book. Not an academic journal or a textbook, and no, just because you’re not taking the class doesn’t mean it’s not still a textbook.”

She closed it with a grudging glare.

“That’s what I thought. So worried about everyone else, you’re driving yourself nuts, J. Pretty soon you might be the one who needs f*ckin therapy.”

She humphed. Well, it wasn’t really like she could help worrying about everyone else.

“What about a movie?” he suggested.

“You know I don’t like your horror movies.”

“What are you talking about? You get even more invested than I do. Talking about the deeper real psychological fear each movie plays on.” Spike adopted a mockingly poor imitation of her voice, “like did you know that Zombies represent our fear of the collective and mob mentality that threatens individual thought? Or an alien invader plays on the fears of the otherness and times of outsiders invading our way of life. Or vampires represent the power gap and the cycle of abuse. Or how ghosts-“

“Stop! Ok, I see your point, you win,” she grumbled.

Spike gave her a smug smile. That would have seemed incongruent with his chosen outfit and displayed attitude had she not known better.

“Really though Jazz, I’m sure it’ll be fine…”

She wished she could be sure of that.

“Thanks, Spike.”

“No problem. Ya know, even the therapist needs some help every once in a while.”

“Yeah… but don’t think for a second that we are not talking more about your situation.”

“Ugh… Just can’t turn it off, can ya, Dr. J.”

___

Chapter Text

The following Monday morning was as On Brand as it could get. 

Pieces of their parents’ latest gadget littered the breakfast table, as they tinkered with it instead of eating. Their mother was literally using a mini blowtorch. Maddie herself wore her jumpsuit hood and goggles, because safety first kids, but largely ignored the other members and their lack of protection, as sparks danced across the table. Small burn marks joined the numerous other imperfections in the wood that served as proof that this was an everyday occurrence.

Danny was doing his best to just eat his cereal and ignore their parents. He was having trouble; the clatter of the metal spoon on the metal bowl was of course drowned out by the blowtorch, milk splashed the table, and over Danny himself. He whipped his right hand under the table scary fast and tried to continue his meal with his left. As he continued to pretend nothing was wrong. Not that using his non-dominant was doing him any favors.

Jazz, meanwhile, buried herself deep in a book, Surviving Adolescence through Therapy, trying to drown out the madness. But as her eyes kept flicking up, she was failing to do so. 

“Ok,” Maddie shut off her blowtorch. “A couple more adjustments and it should be just about done.”

That caused their overzealous father to latch on to the last word as he snatched it out of Maddie’s hands and took off to parade it around. 

“It’s done!? The Fenton Finder is done! A repurposed Global Positioning Locator, but instead of roads, or anything boring like that, this baby uses satellites to lead you right to the ghosts! Ghost GPS GGPS!”

Danny’s head jerked up, eyes blown wide, like a frightened rabbit. “It uses what to track what?!” 

Before anyone else could protest, Jack turned on the device and began dramatically pointing it around the house, as if he actually thought there would be any ghosts in the house... Although all things considered, he probably did. 

A cold mechanical female voice started up, “WELCOME TO THE FENTON FINDER, GHOST DETECTED, APPROXIMATELY 3 FEET AWAY. WALK FORWARD.”

Jack excitedly followed, as the Fenton Finder began beeping like a metal detector occasionally repeating the command, “WALK FORWARD.” 

Jazz watched it all play out, over the top of her book, like a twisted comedy routine: Danny had stood up and was backing away as his father pushed closer and the machine’s beeping was getting faster and faster. Finally, there was nowhere left to go; Danny had his back against the wall, trapped and cornered, his father’s intimidating height towering over him. 

“GHOST LOCATED. GHOST DIRECTLY AHEAD. YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION. THANK YOU FOR USING THE FENTON FINDER.”

“What? Well... that can’t... be right,” Jack said, puzzled, looking back and forth from the Finder to Danny.

“Um...uh, Actually I nn… need to tell you something,” Danny murmured.

Maddie had since joined Jack on his hunt; now both parents were studying their son—who was shaking like a leaf—up and down. 

Jazz forced her book shut with an audible snap. 

That was it. 

Her poor brother looked terrified, like he might faint any minute now. And her parents were hopelessly oblivious at best and further increasing his panic at worst. 

“You know what you need, Danny? You need guidance and parents who can provide it,” Jazz inserted herself in between her brother and that ridiculous device that was still occasionally spitting out “GHOST LOCATED. GHOST DIRECTLY AHEAD” She shoved it away. She stole a glance back at Danny—who had taken advantage of her intervention by making himself as small as possible behind her back—with the corner of her eye. He looked so pitiful, it strangled her heart and kindled her anger. She turned away and leveled her glare at her parents, ready to go off on yet another what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you-you’re-making-Danny-relive-a-traumatic-experience! rant... And yes, sadly the word another was needed.

Her mom gave Jazz a condescendingly placating look. “Now, Sweetie, I know what we do… Doesn’t always make sense sometimes, but you’re only-“

“Sixteen,” Jazz cut her off with identical pursed lips and stubborn pride. “Biologically. But Psychologically I am an adult,” or at the very least the closest thing to one. How dare her mom suggest she was too young to know what’s best when Jazz has been the only one acting like a mature, logical adult in this house... for years. Who was the one who noticed when there was a problem? Who remembered the important little details? Who actually took care of things that needed to be done? 

...it always fell to Jazz.

“And I will not allow your insane obsession with ghosts to do this... To interfere with an impressionable child’s development. To pollute the mind. To be the catalyst for neglectful behaviors. To foster resentment and...and...and,” in her fury, she was ready to spit fire—and say something she would regret. “To do even more damage... Hasn’t it already done enough?”

That shut her mother up. Maddie’s sweet smile curdled like old milk. The mood in the kitchen became suddenly cold and dismal. A strangely familiar chill swept through. Her father’s enthusiasm popped like a balloon. 

All eyes flicked to Danny, the scar of slightly discolored skin spread out like a tree branch barely visible going from his neck up his to cheek, who looked like he would rather be anywhere but here. 

Jazz also wasn’t helping. She was only making him feel worse, giving the impression that he was… Damaged. Contaminated. Broken. Fragile. Unwanted. She sighed. “Come on Danny, I will drive you to school,” Their parents looked surprised but whether it was by her outburst or the fact that they hadn’t noticed her driving Danny to school and thought it was new she didn’t know. One last glare at their parents, one last bite of her tongue, and she was out the door. Danny followed behind, looking like he had just dodged a bullet. 

The ride was awkward. Jazz kept checking the mirror to discreetly… or not-so-discreetly watch her little brother… He was still so jumpy. 

“Danny… Are you-“

“I’m fine, Jazz,” he cut her off before she could even get the question out. 

Right... Of course you are.

“... I’m sorry.” Her hands were turning white by how hard she was gripping the steering wheel. He didn’t respond, just stared ahead blankly; either zoning out or only pretending to ignore her, she didn’t know. So she gave a more complete apology, “I shouldn’t have said that... what… I did in the kitchen… that was… insensitive.”

He shrugged, “tch… ’sfine. Got me out of there, didn’t it?”

Silence stretched on.

The tension was suffocatingly thick and uneasy. The world had frozen; it was like the red light, in front of her, was affecting more than her car. Her little brother sat perfectly still… like a statue, his face as hard and unresponsive as cold stone. Jazz, herself, felt constricted. Her thoughts sluggish, her breathing uncomfortably manual as she began overthinking even that process. Every slight movement forcibly slowed, horribly aware of every awkward second that passed by like years. It was making her want to do something, just to get time working normally again. She wanted to turn the radio on to block out this oppressive silence. Or try to break the silence herself. But her lips felt glued together. She couldn’t force out words… or the building frustrated scream. Her arms felt stiff, outstretched on the steering wheel, and impossible to move. If only she could turn off the AC or even turn on the heater… When did it even get so cold? Part of her was screaming that she should just gun the engine, consequences be damned, and just get to school—running the red light and driving like her maniac father. Just to do something... anything. 

“Jazz?” Danny’s voice sounded strange as it penetrated the impossible silence; the first sound so loud after what must’ve been years of silence. It made her jump a little. “If... I uh.. told you… something… that sounded um uh… a bit crazy, like... Mom and Dad levels of nuts… would you… believe me?”

She slowly opened her mouth, feeling the dry skin of her lips peeling apart, her voice soft to not fully disturb the silence. “What do you mean?” 

“What if… just… uh hypothetically… What If… somehow… Mom and Dad were...” He was shaking again. He stopped, licked his lips, swallowed with some effort, and then began again, quieter this time. “What if Mom and Dad were… Right?”

Oh. No need for more clarification than that. That was a question that had plagued both of their childhoods. It was a volatile topic, especially when it was wrapped up in all that personal pain. It also came packaged with other questions unvoiced but heard nonetheless... How could their parents believe something so ridiculous? How could they continuously choose fiction over reality? How could they prioritize these delusions over their own children? 

She had to answer it delicately. 

“Danny,...” She stretched out his name, she was using her therapy voice. The same cadence and tone as talking someone down from a ledge, of talking sense to absurdity, of trying to soothe a panic attack.

Danny recognized the tone, and immediately backtracked, “Never mind… It was… A stupid idea, anyway.” He gave her a wavering smile that still looked like he was gonna be sick, “Everyone knows gh... osts aren’t real.” She didn’t know if the way his voice jumped up an octave on the word "ghosts" was because of emotion or puberty… Or both. 

“Danny,” Jazz tried again, but it was no use; he had clammed up. She had failed his test and now he won’t tell her anything.

She glanced at him again out of the corner of her eye. He looked downright awful; she had half a mind to forgo school completely and drive him right back to the hospital and demand to see the idiot who had discharged him. His face was pallid and drained of color, his breathing was shallow, and his eyes were shining like he might be about to cry, and they looked almost… wait?

green?

...

What the...?

Oh, it was just the light. 

Oh. The red light had finally changed to green; yes, of course, that made way more sense. She shook her head free from the image the trick lighting put in her mind. The honk of the annoyed driver behind her told her she had already spent too long staring at the green and had better get a move on. 

If their conversation at the light took too long, the rest of the car ride passed by too quickly. 

Danny never said another word, no matter what she tried. 

Before she knew it, they pulled into the school parking lot. “Good luck, little brother, and... have a good day.”

He scoffed. Muttered something she couldn’t catch under his breath. Then he left. 

The school cafeteria was having a vegan and vegetarian week, courtesy of Sam Manson. The young activist had been pushing for a healthier option and insisting that the school lunches needed to take dietary restrictions, either out of medical need or personal preference, into consideration when designing the weekly menu. In general, a good idea. Jazz had even signed Sam’s petition and had convinced some teachers to do the same. This week, while possibly not what the at-times-radical girl wanted, was a step in the right direction. 

Unfortunately, not everyone held that perspective. Many students seemed to take offense, either at the lunch options themselves or at the girl responsible, and soon the freshmen class, in particular, began an enormous commotion. Apparently going as far as to enact a food fight. Which was certainly one way to kill all talk of Menu Reform.

Jazz herself rarely ate in the cafeteria, instead, she grabbed her lunch–not the most appetizing looking thing but with her family she had had worse… much worse… at least this food wasn’t glowing strange colors and wouldn’t move of its own volition–and set up in the spare classroom a little ways away. Here she was allowed to study or have an open door for any students who needed some extra assistance. No one joined her this time. It was just her and her schoolbooks. Not even Spike came… Oh, based on previous evidence that probably meant that the weekend had not gone well for him… She would probably find him sulking near the bleachers. She should go check. Especially since he might try and skip class again, which is something he should not do. Mental health days aside, but that would involve him staying home with the cause of the strife. 

The school walls were pretty paper-thin, so she heard the absolute chaos that was happening in the lunchroom a couple of doors down. She just hoped that Danny wasn’t involved… which later would prove to be a naïve hope. 

She heard Mr. Lancer shouting names and a couple, in particular, caught her attention: Fenton and Foley. Danny and his friend. 

After school Jazz went home without Danny because he had to stay late for detention and he said that he’d rather walk home anyway, and that she shouldn’t have to wait for him and that it was his own stupid fault for getting in trouble and just Go! Home! Already, Jazz!

Evidently, he was still mad at her for this morning. 

When she walked into the house, the lights were off. “Mom? Dad? Hello?... Did you guys knock out the power?” she sighed, and said the last word under her breath, “... Again.” 

Suddenly everything was happening too quickly. There was smoke… And some strange goop... And yelling. And the whirring sound of a vacuum cleaner.

“Got ya now, you ghost scum!“ she heard her dad’s highly distinct voice yell out. And a massive silhouette nearly tackled her. “Maddie, watch my back! I got the Fenton Xtractor. This will knock that dirty ghost out!”

Jazz tumbled out of the way, in a manner that suggested that she had had experience with being jumped like this. Or at least had been prepared for it. Ironic that instead of using those skills against ghosts, as her parents no doubt intended, she used them against her parents, themselves. She had just managed to make her way to a light switch, hoping that the power still worked, and the lights were a part of the apparent ambush on the other side of the living room.  

Light flooded the room, revealing Jazz with her mother wrapped around her legs and her father holding a weird tricked out vacuum cleaner to her face. 

“What the heck is wrong with you two!” She yelled, working to disengage herself from this absurdity. 

Her parents seemed momentarily shocked and let her go with a look of quiet shame at their mistake. But she knew it was not likely to last. They never really let go of an idea, once it got into their heads. And it seemed that for some insane reason they thought she was possessed.

... Again. 

So it was that time: for her to endure countless weird prototypes and de-possession rituals. Until something convinced her parents that the ghost, which was absolutely not inhabiting her body because it didn’t exist, had moved on. Knowing what was coming, she made a beeline for her room. So angry she could barely think straight, she slammed the door and collapsed on her desk chair with her head in her hands. So much for what she said this morning, making them rethink anything.

They better not do that to Danny when he gets home. 

Well… If there was a sliver of silver lining to this messed up situation, if mom and dad thought Jazz was the one harboring a ghost then maybe just maybe they would focus on her and not do anything that would traumatize Danny more… And while she didn’t appreciate a “modified” vacuum being shoved in her face any more than the next person, she also wasn’t the one who had been sent to the hospital because of their inventions. 

Downstairs they were probably regrouping, maybe designing a different machine… Which means that she has until it’s finished to worry about it. She sighed and began her schoolwork, making a mental note to order a pizza soon. It wasn’t likely that her parents were going to remember food tonight, and if they did, it would probably have some weird chemical that forces ghosts out or something cooked with it. 

Besides, she doubted Danny had had much of a lunch, anyway.

Day two of Vegetarian and Vegan Week was even worse. The food fight had trashed the cafeteria, and tensions were high between students. The backroom kitchen where the lunch ladies worked looked like a bomb went off. Even Danny and his best friends were fighting. Which certainly was further info on the origin of the food fight.

But all of that wasn’t what was worrying Jazz. No, at this particular moment that honor belonged entirely to Spike; as she guessed he had another big blow up with his parents and she was doing her best to help. 

“Can we not today, Jazz?” he said wearily. He was sitting on a secluded picnic table, slouched over yet still glaring at Jazz.

“Spike, you can’t keep doing this, it isn’t healthy,”

He gave a derisive snort, full of frustration and pain. “And oh what is... Having a whole ‘nother f*cking fight. All that will result in is them putting their foot down and then up their own a$$! They won’t listen to me!”

“Well, that’s partly because you haven’t fostered that relationship yet. It takes time… and trust goes both ways. You have to open yourself up to your parents. Be true to yourself and them.”

“Yeah, thanks for the book slogans Dr. Fenton, but Jazz, that ain’t gonna work in real f*cking life,”

“Have you tried it?”

“Uh-huh,” Spike was glaring at her in a way that simultaneously communicated being annoyed and tired of this conversation. He had often told her that he didn’t want help with this… That in his colorful words: his sh*t is his f*cked up sh*t that she can’t f*cking fix so why try. Then of course he’d roll his eyes and sigh and admit that he knew she was gonna try anyway because she’s Jazz and that’s what she does. And only occasionally did he mean that in a derogatory way.

“Really tried it? Told them honestly how you feel? They’re your parents, they’re not gonna attack you or anything,” 

Jazz was cut off by a glowing green net, falling on her and then wrapping around. 

“I got it!” her dad’s booming voice roared in victory. Then he began reeling in the net, Jazz tried her best to move with the mechanism to avoid having her feet knocked out from under her… But in the end, she lost her footing and was completely caught.  “and the Fenton Grappler works like a charm!” he said happily. 

“Excellent, now we just need to keep her in there until that ghost phases through the net and frees Jazz,” her mother said. 

Jazz was fighting with the net, now with the added disadvantage of being knocked to the ground. “There is no ghost! I am not a ghost! And I’m not possessed either!”

“The more accurate term for that phenomenon is overshadowed,” her mother chimed in. “And you would know that if you were my daughter.”

“Oh, for crying out loud! I am your daughter!” Jazz fiddled to get her car keys out of her pocket, to cut the net. Normally, she might feel a little bad about ruining one of her parents’ inventions, but it was hard to think that way while caught in a net like a freakin fish. 

...Besides, if she’d only started breaking inventions earlier, she could’ve avoided... A lot.

She began to saw through the slender net with the serrated edge, hoping that they were too busy making it ghost proof they forgot to reinforce it against normal cutting tools. She was in luck! Snap! went the green Fenton rope. She threw the offending net off and carefully righted herself again. 

“This has to stop! You’ve ambushed me, suffocated me with smoke, trapped me in a net, and worst of all pulled me away when I was having a very important conversation. It might have even finally led to a breakthrough. What do you have to say for yourselves!?”

“If you’re not a ghost, how come the Fenton Finder directed us right here to the school? And it went off in the house. What about the Fenton Xtractor and the Fenton Grappler They both worked. Why if you’re not a ghost? oooor this ha! Got ya now! Eat hot Fenton Thermos Ghost Gal!” Jack overdramatically pulled out a soup container and directed it at Jazz. 

Jazz braced herself against more of that disgusting green goo or projectile soup or... anything really.

Nothing happened.

“Jack, I’m starting to think maybe… Jazz... isn’t overshadowed,” Maddie said, losing confidence.  

“But she’s been acting weird!” Jack defended childishly. Then he looked at her, staring right into his daughter, and yet still somehow missing everything. His gaze became sadly pensive and his booming voice softened. “She’s been so upset, recently. Acting harsher, and angrier. Out of character violent outbursts. Not my happy little Jazzerincess… Plus, she’s trying to sabotage and stop us from completing our inventions! Of course, a ghost wouldn’t want us to make more weapons.”

“I’m upset and angry? That’s why you think I’m a ghost?!” Suddenly Jazz thought back to what she told Spike. She had to be honest and open with her parents. That was the only way breakthroughs happened. Time to take your own advice, Dr. Fenton. 

She sighed, and faced her parents."Yes, I am upset and angry. Of course, I am! I am… So," Jazz’s voice shook with controlled rage and that energy was rampaging through her entire body. “So angry.”

But regardless of everything else, her father was actually right about one thing: this anger wasn’t normal. It wasn’t healthy. It might be slightly out of character… but it was all she could think of… And of course, her parents thought it could be as stupidly simple as sucking up her anger in a special vacuum cleaner with the name Fenton on it and then blissfully carrying on with life... Because that was how her parents dealt with anything. She took a rattling breath and forced herself to calm down, be mature and understanding. Shouting and fighting didn’t solve the deeper problem. Calm down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Count to ten. 1. 2. 3. “I’m… l...” No, don't say that... Instead, emphasise that this is just a temporary feeling, and not a state of being… “Feel angry… because of what you…“ and yet again that vile resentment surfaced again at what they had done… No, keep calm 4. 5. 6. It wasn’t really their fault… no, it was… But… at least maybe they couldn’t help it. That was something psychology had also taught her: be patient with people they are dealing with things you might not understand. If this ghost obsession was actually a break from reality, then… she needed to be gentle with the people behind the delusion... “your obsession with ghosts is doing to this family! I...thought with the...portal…” 7. 8. 9. 10. Stay calm. “You would have finally seen that what you’re doing isn’t... healthy. You’re not protecting us from ghosts, you’re… the ones… hurting us.”

“The portal?.... but, ... Danno is fine, he’s all better… right?” Jack asked, growing less confident that those words were accurate.

Jazz couldn’t help but stare at her parents as her jaw dropped. She knew they were easily distracted and missed some details… But… How had they not noticed?

“Yeah, he’s still having a rough time, bein’ a teen can be hard…” her father amended. Why did everyone just assume that it was general adolescence that was giving Danny a hard time and not… the literal traumatic incident he was lucky to have even survived? “but... He’s a Fenton, and a tough kid. He will bounce back,” Jack was always good at inspiring passion and confidence… He was the one who told his kids to dream big, reach for the stars, and never let anything stand in your way; something Danny happily took literally. 

Never let anyone tell you that anything is impossible. Why they all told me what I wanted was impossible and look at me now. You’re a Fenton and that means that nothing is impossible. Don’t ever let yourself be a victim or defeated. Fentons aren’t quitters, stand your ground and when someone tries to knock you down, get back up. 

... But her father still saw the world in such a simple way. His advice wasn’t always realistic; sometimes just saying get back up or you can do it... Just wasn’t enough. Sometimes people, especially children, needed a hand to help them back up. Sometimes they needed more than that "good ol'e college football, rub some dirt in it and keep playing," mentality. 

“Yeah, maybe he will… But only if you stop making him freaking relive it over and over!”

“Oh,” Jack said in a small voice, sliding his gaze to the broken net and then the thermos in his hand. More Inventions he used against his children.

“I really thought after what happened... You two would finally get your act together! Ghosts aren’t real, but you wanna know what is real… What has always been real? Your own freaking children!”

“I really have messed everything up, haven’t I.” The way he said it, not even a question but a statement, made Jazz feel awful…. But breakthroughs are painful and… They need to wake up before they do something they will regret. Well… something else.

“Not just you, Jack,“ Maddie stepped in to comfort her husband. 

“Jazzy is right, Mads. We… Are just making everything worse… From this point forward... I, Jack Fenton...” he met his daughter’s eyes. Showing her proof that he really, really did care more about his children than ghosts… Even if he didn’t always act like it. “Turn my back on ghosts.”

A grand declaration was par for the course for her over the top father... And he didn’t always follow through with all of them, and he rarely took them seriously. But soon all confidence and determination fled from him. He heaved a heavy, almost heartbreakingly defeated, sigh and looked down at the thermos in his hand. “Ghosts aren’t real. And this Thermos doesn’t work… It can’t trap ghosts... Because they... Aren’t real,” he threw it away as if he couldn’t stand looking at it. 

It was just like when the portal first failed. Jazz remembered what she told Danny: that was… This is... A good thing. Change is painful. Acceptance takes a while. However, they cannot remain the same forever. To grow and change and learn is to be human.

Ironically, how Jack and Maddie were acting, running along controlled by an obsession and a delusional world view where they never had to accept change and never noticed that they were breaking things and hurting people in the process, was how they often described ghosts. 

Jazz thought back to her conclusion long ago, ghosts were real, in a way... But they weren’t green glowing dead people or crazy monsters with impossible abilities… Instead, it was just the unhealthy mindset of a static refusal to accept change… Or the hyper-focusing on an obsession and forgetting to live… That was certainly very real. Her parents were onto something; seeing the shadows of the human psyche and demonizing it. Putting on a monster show, dressing real mental issues up in a bedsheet, and claiming that they could childishly shoot the monsters away. 

Time to wake up. 

Time to move on. 

Time to grow up.

She had finally gotten through to them, when it happened... Something else quite impossible.

For a split second–indeed, she later wondered if she really saw anything at all–something appeared. It was something that she couldn't give a name to... Blurry and hard to make out, moving so fast, impossibly bright, and the sun pierced through it, making it even harder to look straight at it. It was about the size of a child and looked vaguely humanoid. It fell from the sky and dove into the ground. Then it was gone, as if nothing had happened. An echoing wind whistling noise that could almost be arranged into words was the last thing to fade away. 

That didn’t just happen… Did it?

“Jack, that was...” Maddie’s awed voice broke the silence. 

“A ghost! A real live–well no not live… dead… a real dead ghost! Mads, we were right!” Jack picked up her train of thought.

No… This can’t be happening. Jazz had just gotten them to focus… To really focus and take a long introspective look at their actions…

Only for a...

A...

...What even was that? Jazz’s logical brain refused the notion of ghost, obviously, that was impossible.

A weird trick of the light.

A mirage...

Caused by what, though? 

A… What could that have been? A shared delusion? Was she going just as mad as her parents? Delusions weren’t contagious but... There were genetic disorders...

No, no, the senses can easily be tricked; the brain is a powerful thing and the power of suggestion can explain a lot more than people realize. 

By the time she had regained her own senses, Jazz had lost her parents… again. They had taken off running. She trailed behind them. 

She came upon her parents talking to Danny, probably asking if he saw the ghost. “Uh… Sorry, Dad, you um… Just missed him,” Danny replied, gesturing behind him. 

“We got a runner!” their father yelled and then they were both gone, and had left their children behind. Again.

“You didn’t actually see… A..anything... did you?” Jazz asked Danny.

“Um...uh… Nnno??... Why did you?” he asked, nervously shifting his feet. 

“I… don’t... know,” Jazz admitted softly. She gazed in the direction that Jack and Maddie had barreled towards, “and... I had almost gotten through to them… ugh! I guess we are back to square one.”

That night she recorded her attempt in her journal. She had gotten sooo close. So close, by being open and honest. She smiled slightly at that, and Spike said her solutions don’t work in real life… That was the closest she’d ever gotten… And if nothing else it did help her work through her own anger. She hadn’t forgiven her parents yet… They had made too many mistakes, screwed up her brother and her own lives too much for that… But it was a start. At least, now she could be in the same room as them without biting their heads off. As proven by dinner. Dinner with just the three of them, because Danny’s food fight drama had caught up with him and he and his friends had to help clean up the school. He had looked so exhausted when he came home, but well… Those were the consequences for his own actions... She just hoped it wasn’t too strenuous of an activity, he was still recovering after all. 

Today was a start. Danny was back in school, and apparently well enough to get into trouble. Her parents had a dose of reality today, and she would have to make sure she kept giving them more. But more than anything today proved that things could get better. 

And maybe they didn’t always have to get worse before that happened...

But… still, she couldn’t help but wonder, as she closed her eyes and tried to turn off her brain so she could sleep… A chill ran up her spine... What was that.... Thing… That she... Thought she might have seen?

Did she actually see it? 

Chapter Text

“Good Morning sweetie, you’re up early.”

“Um...” Jazz checked the clock reading 6:30 am. “No, I’m not.” Then figuring that her mother might’ve gotten the days mixed up added, “it’s a Wednesday.”

“Oh. I forgot to tell you. The principal called and said that they shut the school for the rest of the week due to cleanup and repairs.”

“That ghost did a number on the school grounds,” her father grumbled, joining the conversation. “If only we’d gotten there earlier, and we coulda stopped it.”

Jazz chose not to mention the fact that they were too busy trying to stop the ghost they convinced themselves had been “overshadowing” her. She also refrained from wasting her time telling them it wasn’t a ghost—because they aren’t real—that wrecked the school. It was just some misguided highschool students… one group of which included Danny and his friends. But of course, it couldn’t be all their fault... no way could three teens cause so much damage that the school shut down for repairs… 

Instead, she just continued to make herself some breakfast and didn’t dignify a response. She opened the fridge and pulled out the milk. 

Oh no. It smelled unsettlingly... off and was no longer only white. It must’ve been right next to… Whatever was in the slightly glowing Tupperware in the back. “What is this?!” She asked in exasperation. “I thought we agreed. No samples in the fridge.” Not that agreement was ever followed… but still.

“Oh, that. It’s just…” her mother paused, like what she had to say was hard to get out. “Well… Your father and I have realized that you... are right, Jazz...”

Jazz’s jaw dropped, and she stared dumbstruck. It was like her foot missed a step on the stairs. “Wait. Wh… what?” 

"We’ve been so focused on The Portal that… We neglected the detrimental effect it might’ve had on our own children.”

No way... Had yesterday actually succeeded? Her hopes soared higher than was sensible. She knew she should be more skeptical… but she couldn’t help it, as the storm clouds she’d been living under her whole life seemed to finally, finally roll away.

“We… are so terribly sorry, sweetie…” her mother said, and this time she sounded genuine. A gloved hand rested on Jazz’s shoulder and while the pressure was comforting, it still made her think back to the last time she actually felt her mother’s soft touch instead of the rubbery latex material. “and we... promise we are working to fix this. Make it up to you and… Your brother.”

This was… Was this happening? Was she dreaming? Had she at last done it, finally got them to listen to her? To take her seriously? To be the parents, she knew they could be, the parents she sometimes got glimpses of… The loving people who would do anything for their children. If only they let go of all this ghost nonsense. This was…

“The Portal is up and running” the next words out of her mother’s mouth were a quick stab to that ill-advised hope. And yet Maddie appeared once again oblivious to what was happening. Back to talking about her stupid invention and sinking Jazz’s heart deeper and deeper with every clueless syllable. “We need to be extra mindful of how that ecto-radiation might impact our home.” 

Ecto-radiation?!? Another absurd scapegoat for their actions. Another apology that meant nothing, because it was too disconnected from reality. Oh. Of course. Anything else was… too good to be true, she cynically finished her thought.

"Your brother… already suffered a heavy dose of ecto-poisoning that we’ve been… neglecting and hoping it would work itself out on its own... And the other day… We just assumed you were overshadowed, instead of also affected by the excess etcoenergy the portal gave off… And we are so sorry for that” she repeated the right apology for the wrong reasons. And that almost hurt worse than no apology at all.

“We are going to fix this. Starting with developing a way to prevent ghostly possession and limit the intake of contamination, based on natural herbs, as well as some trace samples of ectoranium.” She finished with a proud smile.

“So what is it exactly?” Jazz asked in a dead voice, now remembering the strange container that she pulled out of the fridge, not sure if she even wanted the answer. 

“An Anti-ecto Protein Shake!” Her mother replied, beaming.

Right. Of course, it was.

“I am not drinking that.” 

Her mother’s smile stretched thin and became forced, “Jasmine, sweetie…”

They were trying. Jazz could tell… but… 

She had half a mind to dump it down the sink… Or maybe even flush it down the toilet. Instead, she ignored both it and the woman who made it and turned back to the fridge to search for something edible.

If the milk was already turning, then the eggs that had been in a similar location, probably couldn’t be trusted either. So she had to settle for a pb&j sandwich, not the best breakfast, but it required nothing from the biohazard that was the Fenton Fridge. 

Her mother sighed and let her be, seeing that nothing was going to get Jazz to further engage.

Soon her parents had moved on to discuss the problem with their latest invention. Jazz let the words float around her, half tuning them out. But… half listening for something else she’d need to brace herself for. One of their toys wasn’t working… apparently 

Her mother poked and prodded the opened back of the strange little machine. “I don’t understand, It was working fine at the kids’ school just yesterday.” 

“Maybe it’s outta juice and needs a recharge?” Jack suggested. 

“No, it’s nothing like that. Remember, we decided against typical batteries for that very reason. Don’t wanna be without it when we need it most. Hmmm… besides, it turns on and responds, it’s just the signal that is... off.”

“Maybe something is interfering with the signal, so we can’t get a good read on...”

“Oh, of course!” Maddie clapped a hand to her forehead and exclaimed, “The Portal!” 

“Oh! That explains why it was reacting to Danny too!” Jack shouted, overjoyed that they solved the mystery. “The excess ecto-energy from The Portal must be scrambling the system.”

“Right. Oh...” her mother’s expression dropped like a stone. “Speaking of... We still need to make sure…” she swallowed and put her head in her hands. “he is in the clear. Ecto-radiation poisoning can... do terrible things.”

“Mads…" Jack began rubbing his wife's shoulders trying to comfort her. "We won’t let that happen, he will be ok,” 

“We’ve waited so long already… we should’ve insisted…”

“We had to… we thought it was best to wait and give him some time to adjust…”

“We need to make sure... there are no lasting effects.”

“Are you two serious?” demanded a voice, and both parents seemed surprised to see their daughter there. 

“Jazz, I know you just want what’s best for your brother and so do we… We mean it… We know we messed up… But we can fix it.”

“Fix it?! What by forcing him into the lab and running your ridiculous tests?!”

“Ecto-radiation and ecto-contamination can be extremely harmful”

“You know what else can be extremely harmful? Forcing him back to the place of the Traumatic Incident. Haven’t you even noticed how terrified of the lab he is? ”

“What? Danno scared of the lab?” Her father asked as if the very idea of one of his kids not liking the lab was ridiculous. “But he goes down there just fine.” 

“Oh my god, how blind are you? Since The Accident? He used to. But since he’s been home, has he gone down there to ask you something? Or even popped his head down from the kitchen to call you guys up? Hell, when was the last time he left the kitchen without circling back around the table, instead of cutting across the door to the lab like normal? You seriously haven’t realized that he’s been avoiding it like the plague?”

“Jazz, I appreciate you looking out for your brother. I understand that you’re worried about him, we are too. But this is something beyond you. You don’t understand what is at stake here! How dangerous Ectoplasmic poisoning is!” Her mother tried her best to simultaneously get across the severity of her claim and the confidence that they could fix it. 

“Well then, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you made that stupid portal, to begin with!”

Maddie looked like Jazz had just slapped her.

Ok, so maybe Jazz’s anger wasn’t as dealt with as she thought… or claimed. But these things take time… Besides, as much as her parents professed they were trying to make things better, they only made everything worse.

Just then Danny came down the stairs. Well, "came" was a generous way to put it; he scrambled and staggered down the stairs, looking like death warmed over. He was gripping the banister so hard that his knuckles were white and it looked like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Indeed, it must’ve been because he lost his grip and tumbled down the last couple of stairs. He hit the bottom hard, groaning and laying at the foot of the stairs. 

“Danny!” Jazz rushed to help him up, forgetting all about her parents and appearing by his side in seconds. It surprised her how easily she could lift him; he was so light… Was he eating normally? She’d have to keep a closer eye on him during meal times.

Danny weakly pushed her away, “Gerroff! I’m fine.” He then demonstrated how fine he was and how he didn’t need her help by getting up on his own… and immediately falling again, clutching his head and moaning. 

“Did you hit your head? You could have a concussion!” Jazz fussed around him, trying to discover what was wrong… and more importantly, how to help. 

“Quit it,” he tried to swat her away.

Their parents had now come over to see what was going on. “Sweetie, are you ok?” their mother asked, the worry tight on her face. 

“yeah, fiii..ne... jus… head… hur…s,” he finally seemed to grudgingly accept Jazz’s help to get up—he swayed uneasily and grabbed onto her arm for support—which meant something was really wrong.

“Are you sick, Danno?” their father asked.

“Nmm..” he said, shaking his head, and then immediately thinking better of it. He went back to clutching his head as if worried it might split in two. “can’t...mss..mre..school.”

“You don’t need to worry about that, sweetie. Your school is closed until Monday for cleanup and repair.”

“Oh.”

"Maybe you should lie down.” suggested Jazz, watching him sway uneasily. 

He glanced at the stairs and gave a bark of disbelieving laughter, “nuh… gunnappen.”

“what about the couch?”

Danny seemed a bit steadier on his feet and let go of Jazz’s arm and walked, in reality, stumbled and swayed like a drunk person, over to the couch and collapsed. Jazz had stayed right behind him, spotting him like he was walking a tightrope. 

“I’ll go get the Fenton Home All Malady Cure Kit!” Jack roared, preparing to become a 6ft tall and 300lb mother hen.

“Wait, no! Immafheelinfine! I don.. nee...” his slurred words trailed off in an equally jumbled curse. It was too late.

While their parents had rushed to get the kit, Jazz pulled out her phone. “Danny, look over here, I need to check for a concussion.”

Hmm. His eyes were not malpositioned. That’s good.

“What day is it?” she asked him.

“Huh? What?" He looked confused, then he refocused his attention on her, "uhh, Wensday?” So even if his words were still slurred, he at least could answer.

"Follow my finger,” she moved her index finger, but instead of following it, Danny just rolled his eyes at her. Jazz gave him her stop-being-so-stubborn-and-immature look, which he ignored.

Fine. Ok. She turned on her phone’s flashlight feature and slowly shined it near his eyes.

"Wha tha hell, Jazz!” His pupils constricted like crazy, so small they nearly disappeared, and… it almost looked like for a second that his eyes reflected the light like a cat’s… But that’s insane… Must have been a really weird trick of the light. Before she could examine them, he slammed his eyes shut, put his hands over them, and scooted farther away from her light. “I already feelike Imma gun puke! I don wanna be blind too!”

So, that’s a yes on increased light sensitivity.

“You feel nauseous? And you said your head hurts, right?”

“Yeah, it does. So stopshshshouting,” he moaned.

“Shouting?”

“Yallre so damnloud.”

Hmm. Increased sensitivity to sounds and lights. Dizziness. Nausea. Slurred speech. 

But wait… he was dizzy before he fell... So the fall couldn’t be the cause, right? “Danny, did you feel dizzy and nauseous before you fell down the stairs?”

“No, I washperfectlyealthy and made the deshision to flingmyselfdown the shtairs. It’s the fastest way down y’know.”

“Ok. If you’re cognizant enough to be a smart alec, you don’t have a concussion.” 

“Izzthattafact?” 

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’mdyin,” he said, cracking up like he just told a hilarious joke. “Thinkmy bones have beemmmmicrowaved.” 

Hmm… she would’ve hoped that he could take this more seriously. She could hardly get an idea of what was wrong if he doesn’t tell her anything… “Anything else? More specific?”

“Evythin’ hurts… m’sore all over.” That was the exact opposite of more specific...

"From working late last night? How long did Mr. Lancer make you and your friends clean up?" She asked, while she disproved of his actions and understood that he needed to accept the punishment, it wasn't long enough to make him feel this badly, right? Mr. Lancer wouldn't have made the penalty way worse than the crime, right? He was tough... But not an unreasonable taskmaster.

"Too long," Danny complained, which honestly could've meant anything.

Well, headache, that was at least easy to treat. She ran to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

“Here, to help with your head.” Jazz handed Danny the water.

“Thnks.” He took a sip and then grimaced, “it tasyes weird.”

“It’s water.”

“Didjya geddit from the FentonFilter?”

“Of course not. Who knows what they are unintentionally putting in our water supply to make it ‘ecto-purified' It’s bottled.”

“Wazit in the ffffridge?”

“Mom and Dad put another sample in the fridge. No.”

“Esc…” he murmured, looking down the mouth of the bottle, “plains why it’s warm… Couldya... get me some ice?”

‘Ice? From our freezer? Samples there too… Not much better than the fridge.”

“It tayses weird waaaarm” he whined.

“Well, would you rather have room temperature or contaminated water? ”

“Apparn’ly... I’m a’ready highly contamminaed... Couple ice cubes won’ kill me.” he laughed again, a hysterical dizzy laugh that didn’t seem to fit with anything he was saying. Or maybe Jazz just didn’t get the joke. 

“No, but it might make Mom and Dad force you into the detox box.”

Danny stopped still as a statue, as if something big and terrible was after him and he was afraid to move. “no… they… can’t...” he whispered.

Jazz sighed, taking the water from his hand, and went to go put some ice in it. “You’re lucky that I’m putting up with you being a brat, because you’re not feeling well.” 

Maybe it was a good thing she did because he downed the iced water like someone dying of thirst. She went to refill it several times.

Their parents came back shortly, bringing with them the Fenton Cure Kit. Any sickness or injury always saw this kit and their parents’ unique brand of medicine. Jazz just had to make sure that they didn’t do anything like drag him down to the lab… or actually force him into the decontamination chamber. 

“Ok, sweetie, open up,” Maddie said, pulling out the Fenton Thermometer. Danny eyed it suspiciously as if worried it might blow up in his face, but in the end he did what he was told.

A couple minutes later Maddie was looking at it, frowning. “hmm well you don’t have a fever.”

“I don’t?” Danny asked, voice croaking with surprise.

“No, in fact, your temperature is… perfectly normal. 98 degrees.”

That didn’t seem to comfort Danny, if anything he seemed more nervous and worried. “Oh... Hype… uh hypoth… thethically what would it mean if I... did… uh havum a fever?”

“Anything really, fevers are the body’s way of fighting off intruders, either viruses, bacteria, or ghostly possession.” Jack said, “it’s why our thermometer also measures the ectoplasm in your system.”

Danny nearly choked as he tried to take another drink. “O… oh” he hacked and coughed out.

“How’s his ectolevels Mads?”

“Hmmm. Lower... than I would’ve expected. Looks like your body is indeed flushing the ectoplasm out... That’s good. Although, that probably doesn’t feel…” she gave the weak, sickly boy a glance over before finishing, “pleasant.”

Danny reacted to that before Jazz could even open her mouth, trying and failing to get up, thoroughly terrified. “Wait! What...doyamean my body is flushing out ectoplasm?!”

“Danny, do you know how much ectoplasm The Portal contains? It shocked you… there’s no way that did not contaminate you...”

Danny looked down, almost ashamed, and stared at his hands. “oh.”

“Really, we should’ve put you through a decontamination process immediately but...” Maddie bit her lip trailing off.

“So… uhh... Now what?”

“Well, sweetie... It looks like you are very, very lucky. Your body is fighting off the contamination on its own.”

“Izzat why I feel so... crappy?”

Maddie looked at him with pity, “Probably. What specifically do you feel like?”

Danny gave a sigh that was more of a groan, but he answered. “My head hurts. I’m sore all over. I’m exh..austed and weak. And dizzy... I feel like imma puke. I’m hot… like really, really hot… it’s so hot...”

“It sounds like you might just be dehydrated or suffering from a particularly bad fever,” Jazz put in bringing Danny yet another glass of ice water. “Where’s your Holter monitor, did you remember to put it on today?”

“Thnks,” he murmured, taking it from her. This time he didn’t drink the water, he specifically dug out the ice cubes and popped them in his mouth. “And I uh… frg..ot?”

“Danny!” He flinched and covered his ears with his hands, dropping the glass on the couch and spilling the water all over himself. “You cannot do that! Until you get the ok from Dr. Mortan, you know that you have to wear it!”

“I know…” he grumbled, “but it was… unc...omf...terble”

It was early morning, so he would’ve had to have forgotten to put it on last night… or yesterday. Jazz tried to remember if she asked him about it yesterday or if she saw him with it on. She couldn’t remember; she had been preoccupied with other things. 

“Danny, you have to take this seriously!” 

“I know! I jusht frgot yesterday!”

And yet he had a history of taking it off when he wasn’t supposed to… so much so that his week-long test had to be re-administered. He knew that if he continues to do things that mess up the results, he might have to stay at the hospital again to ensure he wears it for the full monitoring period. He had his next appointment on Friday after school. It was Wednesday. He had three more days until it was over. Why would he jeopardize the test so close to the end?

“Did you faint? Is that why you fell down the stairs?”

“No... My head hurt, I felt dizzy... and my stupid foot fell throu… uh um Immean missed a step.”

“Keep drinking water and get some rest... and you should be fine,” Jazz said, looking at her parents as if to say please don’t go overboard and make this worse than it is. “And maybe you should see if you can move your appointment up, after all, there’s no school. Where’s your monitor? I’ll go get it.”

“Uh… in my room. On my desk next to my computer.”

Ah. Breaking another rule then. He knew he had to keep it a good deal away from other electronics so that nothing interferes with the signal. Jazz almost had to wonder if he was trying to skew the test data on purpose.

“Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” Maddie said. “I will call Dr. Mortan. And… Danny, in order to make sure that the contamination really is going down. We also need to do some tests.”

“W what?!” Danny looked terrified. “Why? What kind of tests?!”

“Standard tests… blood test. Maybe even a urine sample.”

“You cannot be serious,” Jazz said. At the same time as Danny said, “What? No! That’s disgusting!”

“It may be disgusting, but it’s also an important part of making sure your body is flushing out the toxic ectoplasmic waste,” their mother replied completely unphased.

“And… um uh blood samples?” Danny asked, voice trembling.

“Need to check your blood to ectoplasm levels, make sure it’s at a relatively safe range between 1-5 parts per hundred.” Their father said, “Your mother and I spend every day in the lab so we have our levels closer to 5-10 parts per hundred. But we decontaminate regularly and wear the Fentondex hazmat protective suits. I’m expecting your levels will be on the higher side, maybe even cross the next threshold to moderately contaminated 10-20 parts per hundred.”

“What happens if it.. is that high… or even… Um uh, higher?”

“It depends. If your mother’s theory about you fighting it off is accurate, it might be lower. If it’s as high as moderate, then we will need to look into ways to help your body fight it either through the Fenton Detox Box,” Danny flinched. “or something else. Maybe we can make a porta-detox something or you know good ole fashioned ghost repelling herbs and spices. There are many options. Don’t worry kiddo we can fix this, ok?”

“What if it’s like… really, really high... like… uh hypoth...etically… like closer to I dunno… maybe… like 50-60 or… something like that?”

“Don’t be silly, Danno, we’d know by now. If your contamination is that high you’d be crossing the line of extreme contamination… which would’ve probably… killed you… So, either you’d have to be overshadowed or maybe even a ghost yourself,” their dad said with a laugh. 

Danny gave a halfhearted chuckle as if trying to convince his dad that they were on the same page, “heh… heh, ye…ah…”

“Jack!” Maddie reprimanded. “Don’t worry so much sweetie, it’s just some standard tests… ok?”

“Do I hafto?" Danny whined.

“It’s for the best, sweetie…”

“He is sick! Can’t you at least wait until he is feeling better!?” Jazz argued, seeing that this time her parents were actually going to go through with this insanity. 

“No!” Their mother’s voice was stern and stubborn… and scared, like she was telling her kids not to touch a hot stove. “We have waited long enough. I know you two do not believe us. But right now, I do not care. This is too important. Daniel, come. Now… Or so help me… I will ground you for a month! You too, Jasmine.”

So they spent the Wednesday in the Fenton lab. Danny had it worse than Jazz, who only had to go through about half of the tests… to make sure she wasn’t overshadowed and check on her contamination levels. Then of course the decontamination process; she always hated the Fenton Detox Box, but had endured it. 

Danny had his blood taken, he’d nearly had a panic attack when his mother did that… but eventually he calmed enough for them to get their sample. Then some other tests like blood pressure… it was low—below 90/60 but it matched his baseline that the hospital had discharged him with... and other typical doctor’s checkup type tests.

Even the grosser examinations took place, regardless of how embarrassing and undignified they may have been. 

Then the more Fenton style Tests… Their parents were nothing but thorough when it came to their projects...

Various strange gadgets scanning Danny over. It went about as well, as expected… The Fenton equivalent to a Geiger counter, but for “ecto-radiation”, still had some “bugs to work out” and had nearly shorted out while they were scanning Danny... And it wasn’t the only invention that “wasn’t ready for use” and should certainly not be anywhere close to her brother. After the fifth time something nearly short-circuited or blew up in Danny’s face… or straight-up tried to attack him, they seemed to finally get the hint. 

Jazz was at least successful at sparing her brother from the detox box, though. Absolutely no way were they going to force someone who was actually having a serious panic attack into a small claustrophobic metal box hooked up to a kooky machine that “drew the ectoplasm from the body like wringing out a sponge”. 

No. Nope. Not happening. Over Jazz’s dead body. Ground her all you want. Sure, shove her in that uncomfortable box… At least she didn’t have highly unstable breathing, heart problems, a chance of fainting and blacking out, or an intense PTSD reaction, and a well-earned fear of their inventions… “You already did your stupid tests... Now leave Danny alone!” 

There was one thing that she hadn’t expected but was nevertheless thankful for: apparently, this insanity did take Danny’s mind off of his fever and headache. In fact, after the nightmare was over, he looked almost… better than before. 

Danny sat on the couch, drowning out the horrors they just went through with a cheesy movie. But some color had returned to his, still pale, face. He no longer complained about his head or felt dizzy. He was drinking lots of water and chewing on some ice cubes. He seemed like, against all odds and their parents’ best efforts, he was going to be alright.

Until he actually threw up, because of some weird herb Mom had cooked dinner with… that she hadn’t bothered checking if he was allergic to.

If yesterday had proved that eventually, Jazz could get through to her parents… And was a ringing endorsement for optimism. Then today was the other shoe dropping. Today was proof of the continuous harm their parents’ madness caused. Today was pessimism spitting back in her face. 

Jazz crept downstairs to the kitchen, to eavesdrop on the other things their parents were planning…

“Well, Jazz is clear at least. But that’s not unexpected, she hardly ever comes down here…” her mother said with a sigh.

“But Danny?”

“I don’t understand. The tests seem... inconclusive. It doesn't make sense... His blood is thin… ectoplasm would make it thicker, not thinner... and strange. Like it’s diseased… or incomplete... but not overly contaminated. 10/100… higher than it should be certainly... but lower than makes sense given the reactions of the Fenton Finder, the Fenton EctoRadiation Detector… and the fact that The Portal...”

“Maybe he really is fighting it. Fenton genes kicking ectoplasmic poisoning to the curb!”

“It’s not that simple. Jack, it doesn’t add up… he should be showing signs of ecto-acne but he’s not…”

“Perhaps something protected him… Jazzy had nearly the same levels as us, just from exposure to different things. So what if all that gradual little exposure throughout their lives, created something like an immunity… or at the very least a tolerance.”

“Oh… oh, that could explain why Danny’s body was able to recognize the foreign substance enough to fight it off internally, rather than try to excrete it through the skin and clogging up the oil glands, thus creating ecto-acne. And the overall weakness he’s been feeling, as well as the abnormalities we found in his digestive tract… like someone with a high tolerance for poison. I see. Then… oh, the blood blossoms and etcoranium probably had a bit of an adverse effect on him because it tried to break down his built in tolerance. In fact, it might be better to continue the gradual exposure, instead of eliminating it, so he can build the tolerance up… Hmmm. Changes the way we need to deal with this. The best thing would be to get him to wear a Fentondex suit, but... that won’t happen,” she sighed.

“This is brand new… Mads, we need to be careful... We can't override his tolerance.”

“You’re right. For now, we should just monitor him. Make sure his body doesn’t overwork itself. Either purge the ecto too completely, thus developing an autoimmunity… or adapt too much and create an addiction to it. It’s such a delicate balance.”

Jazz had heard enough; she left her parents, still muttering away and building contingency plans for made-up illnesses. However, at least they seemed to rethink what they were doing to Danny. Jazz headed back to bed but found herself stopping at Danny’s door.

She knocked, softly.

“Who is it?!” Asked a jumpy voice, on guard for the worst.

“It’s me. I just wanted to check up on you… How are you feeling?”

She could’ve said the words with him if she wanted to, so familiar was his answer, “I’m fine, Jazz.”

She could repeat the question. He would only repeat his answer. 

She could accept his answer, turn and walk away. But that would only leave a festering doubt that he wasn’t telling the truth. 

She could barge into his room, see for herself how not fine he is, overstep her boundaries and force the help he will never admit he desperately needs. Her hand slid down to the handle. It wouldn’t turn. He’d locked his room this time.

She withdrew her hand but still didn’t leave. She felt like if she waited long enough, if she just gave him enough time, he would open up… She gave him so much silence, but he never wanted to fill it.

She didn’t know if it was ten minutes or ten hours later when he spoke again, “I know you’re still there… Seriously, just go to bed, Jazz.”

She sighed and leaned her head on his closed off and locked tight door. “I’m so... worried about you…” she breathed, talking more to the door. She doubted he even heard her. “Good night, little brother,” she said louder.

“Yeah, I know… but I’m fine,” he muttered, answering her. “Night, Jazz.”

Today had only strengthened her resolve: she would reach her parents and force them out of this mindset, or die trying.

Chapter Text

Nearly a month, that was a sizable test period to begin to know if things were going to get better on their own. Enough time to know when something is serious. It had been just over a month since Danny’s Accident… but that wasn’t an entirely fair assessment; if she was waiting for a full recovery, then it would be more accurate to go by the period of three weeks since the hospital discharged Danny. The three weeks of attempted normalcy, the three weeks of adjusting—or readjusting—to school. And even then, it hadn’t been a full three weeks, because of… outside circumstances. But things were improving slowly—so gosh darn slow that Jazz had to repeatedly remind herself that they were really improving—but surely. 

One such piece of evidence that things were indeed improving happened at the end of the week. Danny had returned from his second doctor’s appointment since release in relatively high spirits. Jazz noticed his Holter Monitor was missing, which was probably the source of his mood change because he hated that thing.

“So… how did your appointment go?” Jazz chanced asking Danny during a Sunday night dinner… and one of those rare family dinners occasions where everyone was accounted for and the food wasn’t too mutated.

He shrugged, picking at the meal disinterested, “same as last time. They don’t know. Dr. Mortan spent a good long hour and multiple paragraphs of medical mumbo-jumbo just to say he has no fricken clue what is going on with me. But hey, at least he realized it’s pointless to have me hooked up to that stupid monitor any longer.”

“Really, just like that? Has your condition at least improved?”

“Nnnnope. Stagnated was the word he used,” he said, waving it off like it wasn’t important.

“Oh. That’s... not good.”

“Figures you’d think that too,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “At least it’s not getting any worse.” 

“It’s also not getting any better,” Jazz tried to stay as calm as she could.

He scoffed, “like I needed a professional to tell me that.” 

“So what now then?” This time she turned to her parents, hoping that for once the adults were going to take charge.

“Well… one option is a pacemaker-” Their mother began.

“--I am not!“ Danny interrupted, crossing his arms and sulking deeper in his chair. “Putting up with another stupid, uncomfortable device that doesn’t even fix anything! Especially not one they want to surgically implant in my fricken heart. Not happening. I am fine. I don’t need that.”

Jazz opened her mouth to further debate, but he beat her to it, “It’s my stupid heart! I should get a say! And I say I’m not doing it!” 

This was not the ideal time for her little brother to choose to be especially stubborn and overly… difficult. 

“Then maybe we could come up with an alternative for you!” Their father offered, well-intentioned but so woefully tone-deaf. “What do ya say, Mads? We got a good look at Danny’s Monitor and I bet we can design one that’s not as uncomfortable… Ooh, we can even use it to stabilize the ecto-contamination! Ha! two birds with one stone!” 

“Absolutely not.” Jazz shot down at the same time as Danny blanched and shouted, “No!” He looked down embarrassed at how loud that came out and a bit ashamed at how hurt their father looked. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Nn-n-no that’s um ok… uh no offense Dad… but your guys’… stuff still kinda has a habit of…” attacking him, hurting him, making everything worse. “Uh um… Ek-sp-plo-d-ding? So…” he trailed off. “B-b-but thanks for the offer,” he said with a forced and sickly smile.

“Of course, Danno… it was just a suggestion,” the man said, more subdued than normal. “I don’t wanna do anything... that would hurt you…” Danny flinched ever so slightly.

“The other option is medication…” Maddie turned the topic back to the details of the doctor’s appointment.

“And have to deal with all those messed up side effects? No thanks. I like his third option: do nothing. Dr. Mortan said that some people don’t even need treatment for… whatever the heck he called it.”

“Bradycardia, sweetie. And that’s not what he said. He said some people don’t have very bad symptoms or face any complications to warrant extreme treatment,” their mother corrected.

“Yeah, that. Me. I’m fine: no symptoms, no complications, no treatment needed.”

Really? That’s what he was going with? No symptoms or complications? What did he call all the obvious things he was still struggling with? If he was going to lie, he should at least put some effort into being believable. 

“Danny, just the other day you were seriously ill,” Jazz reminded him, trying not to sound too overbearing but also slightly freaking out that he absolutely refused to take this seriously.

“Yeah… But I’m not now!”

“That doesn’t mean the problem has just magically vanished!” Jazz burst out in frustration and desperation.

Unless it wasn’t a lie… Maybe he was still in denial… That wasn’t good at all. Short-term denial to process a distressing situation subconsciously instead of overwhelming yourself was healthy and beneficial. But Danny living in denial for a month was certainly not…

“We… will take it slow…” their mother cut in, driven by a similar desperate worry… but also cautious not to escalate the situation. “Ok? Danny? Keep an eye on your condition and meet with Dr. Mortan for a couple more sessions… but we don’t have to decide on a treatment... just yet.” Their mother was feeding into Danny’s denial… and from the look on her face, she knew that… but she was also right: everything was still too delicate to mess with.

Danny looked startled and for a moment almost suspicious… But then his expression softened in relief, “Thanks, Mom.”

Maddie’s smile answered in kind, as her worry relaxed, “no problem, sweetie. Now I can handle the dishes tonight, you should probably get to bed. You have school in the morning.” She went to kiss him on the top of his head, and this time he didn’t respond by pulling away… So that was something.

“Yeah,” he sighed, running a shaking hand through his hair, which then morphed into a groan, “don’t remind me.”

The school had done a commendable job cleaning up the grounds, cafeteria, kitchen, and various other places that vandals had targeted. 

They had done a less thorough job trying to shut down the talk and the rumors about the so-called ‘Meat Incident’ from last week. Some stories going around we’re simply ludicrous… although, Jazz supposed, not as ridiculous as her parents’ “ghost” theory… Besides, what actually happened was also quite improbable… if less exciting. The food fight had caused so much damage and sent multiple people into hysteria, causing several cases of visual and auditory hallucinations because of a gas leak. That explained whatever she had seen that day. A simple case of Carbon Monoxide poisoning… wow, that was extremely dangerous... no wonder they had to shut the school down. It turned out that during the chaos someone, either accidentally or purposefully it wasn’t confirmed, ruptured a gas pipe. How highschool students had managed to do that, no one knew. At least Danny wasn’t being blamed... as far as she knew.

However, it seemed the official story seemed too boring for the average high school student, so away went the tall tales of what they had seen in their hallucinations… at least the people spreading these stories did not seem to believe them. Just a bit of senseless fun.

But really... whoever had done that weird edit of “The Massive Meat Monster” that they posted online had some talent, despite choosing to waste it on foolish jokes. Also, someone should screen the articles published in the School Paper, The Casper Hi-lights, better because apparently a few of the members of the journalist club were cryptic chasers or conspiracy theorists or… too into sh*t posting. Which resulted in these articles: The Government Uses Gas Leaks as an Excuse to Cover Up the Truth.

The Twisted Truth of the Mystery Behind Mystery Meat

The Conspiracy Behind State School Lunch Funding and how the Elites Want Us Unhealthy

As well as satirical writing pieces. One about the reanimated corpses of cows coming to take revenge on the top of the food chain that was, all things considered, quite good. The author had even included the provided irony and a fair bit of commentary on what had started this mess to begin with, Vegan and Vegetarian Week. Jazz heard that they even submitted it for extra credit in Mr. Lancer’s Creative Writing class.

Not counting the school newspaper, there were also just plain old rumors without much of a platform… but that didn’t make them any less popular.

Some rumors painted Sam Manson as the vandal who caused the gas leak as revenge for ruining her menu plan. Some mockingly said that she 'used her voodoo gothic witchcraft to place a curse on the meat so that everyone would have no choice but to go vegan'. Or 'a curse that those who ate meat would receive karmic punishment for their crimes and become the meal for the animals they slaughtered'.  

Still, other stories casted everyone’s favorite urban folkloric characters—Amity Park’s very own Mad Scientists, The Town Lunatics, and Jazz’s own parents—as the culprits. The worst part was that like the best-exaggerated fisherman tales it held some truth to it: her parents did like to involve food with their crazy inventions, they were at the school when the incident occurred, and they were trying to convince anyone who would listen that a ‘ghost possessing meat’ orchestrated the whole thing after the fact… add that to the fact that their son was the one, that according to eyewitnesses, had started the food fight, to begin with… and… the plot for a parody B movie style horror story practically wrote itself. 

Frankenstein rip-off, where the mad scientists reanimated a lump of meat... That in turn reanimating the old 'Fentonstein' nickname. 

Or claiming that the 'Freaky Fentons incited the massive gas leak to get everyone to believe them through hallucinations and the power of suggestion.'

Unfortunately people were quite adept at spreading horrible, tasteless rumors based on charactertures about her family. It was nothing new; they had done the same thing when Danny first had his accident. At least, those gruesome speculations grew stale before Danny had to come back… mostly.

Jazz supposed it was just more childish pranks… More cruel bullying and laughing at anything that strayed from the norm... Or perhaps a result of living in a quiet little town where everyone knew everybody, there weren’t too many secret things, and in general not much happened. That was certainly the reason her parents made the local news far more times than was strictly necessary… 

Anyway, the rumors would die down… Jokes would grow old… They always did.

And this time sooner rather than later because Casper High’s Back to School Dance was rapidly approaching; Gossip about who was dating who would always take precedence over gag urban legends about “Mystery Meat Golems’’...

Even if mocking the “Freaky Fentons’’ never seemed to truly go out of style

Jazz doubted anyone would be discussing anything other than the dance after Tuesday at the latest. The mood of the school had already changed. As always, High School Dances meant high school hormones: a veritable petri dish for psychological evaluation with an overwhelming sense of excitement, anxiety, fear of rejection, jealousy, puppy dog love, and infatuation all boiling over. The school was ready to burst. 

Teachers did what they could to get their classes to focus, but they weren’t often successful. 

Jazz was right about the dance overshadowing all other topics in the school. As the dance grew nearer… talk spread at record speed. Now, Jazz was not a very social person. She put little stock in the social hierarchy of Casper high, the gossip of who was with who, or the extra-curricular events like school dances. 

However, despite normally blending into the background most of the time… the rumor wheel had taken an interest in Danny. 

Not for the first time, Danny had caught the attention of the school. But this time based on who he was taking to the dance: An A-lister, an up incoming royalty of Casper High’s elite. The young Underclassman Queen and School Princess Paulina Sanches. 

Jazz wanted no part in the ridiculous and downright medieval class-based division the school glorified. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of it. 

Everyone knew the rankings. Split by grade, interest, and finally wealth and family status. At the tippy-top of the food chain were the S rankers, the Upper-Class Royalty, the Seniors and juniors involved in all the ‘right’ sports and fashion trends, and whose parents were extremely well off. Directly below them sat the A-listers, the Underclass Royalty, the Freshman and Sophomore next in line for the throne. The only difference between the S and the A-list was age.

Leaving the coveted Royal line you found the B-listers, the ‘less important’ sports players, the ones with ‘cool’ interests, who followed all the ‘right’ trends and yet, gatekeeped by other factors such as wealth, never had the power to set them. 

Below them were the commoners, The C-listers, the average students, not important enough to stand out or to be worth degrading. 

From here the hierarchy sorted people by (insults towards) interests: The band geeks, the goth freaks, the science nerds, the theatre freaks, the debate club, the math nerds, etc... Jazz couldn’t keep up with them all. Or the exact oh so nuanced way they considered one interest ‘cooler’ than others. Ex) if you played an instrument, and it was the tuba then you’re a band geek loser, but something more conventional like the guitar and you are a wannabe rocker and could be high as B list. Sometimes the complications revealed that of real-life hierarchies and lines of succession, although memorizing Casper Highs Social Succession wouldn’t help you pass your history class. Or do anything really, other than more effectively pick on people. 

Below all the various cliques created out of interest there were the lower tiers for the ‘losers’ and then the lowest of low tiers… The F-list for those ‘freaks’ that didn’t follow the rules, who had no grouping feature except their unwantabilty by any other group: The undesirables, Invisibles, and untouchables of Casper High. 

Psychologically speaking, these cliques forced a mob mentality hive mind If de-individualization if you were one of the pack and dehumanized as well as ostracised those considered ‘others’. It was a disgusting microcosm that bred feelings of superiority and inferiority and a whole other host of tendencies that might fester into full-on mental disorders in the future. Metaphorically speaking, it transformed the school into a ruthless jungle or compartmentalized and tiered off hell, worse than even Dante had imagined because here bad behavior was incentivized. And this Oppressive Social System was at peak power when events such as dances occurred, so as expected this week… it was bad. Not that it was exactly pleasant any other time, but still. 

Jazz never really cared which rank they put her in. Her last name ensured that she wouldn’t ever reach as high as a C; being a ‘Freaky Fenton’ had downgraded her quite a bit… But she didn’t care... that much—because she was still a teenaged girl herself and well aware of the social programming that these cliques prayed on.  

She guessed she was sorted into one of the many ‘loser nerd’ categories, because apparently only ‘loser nerds’ wanted to succeed, and put forth their best effort in every class… it was a ‘lame’ thing to get good grades, spend all your free time at the library… take extra classes for fun, help out academically whenever you could, be involved in academic competitions, be sorta friends with some of the teachers... Yeah ok, so maybe she was a nerd. But she never understood why everyone used that label as a derogatory thing. 

Jazz didn’t know where the all-powerful irrefutable highschool hierarchy decreed her brother should be… based on his last name probably pretty low, based on his friend group even lower, and based on everything else… Well, people—especially high school teens—were not predisposed to kindness. 

So when A-list darling Paulina agreed to go to the dance with an F-lister, Freak Fenton, the school gossip train had exploded. Rumors flew and as expected they weren’t at all pleasant. Honestly, at this point, the School Newspaper was more like the School Tabloid. The gossip spread so far that even people neither interested nor connected knew, which is how the news eventually reached Jazz.

Ah. So in the midst of all of the other medical and school problems, her little brother was also dealing with his first crush… and the Draconian psychological warfare that these cliques taught.

Oh. That could re-contextualiz some of his behaviors… but certainly not all.

The door to the spare classroom opened during her lunch period, “Ah, Jasmine, I had hoped to find you here.”

“Oh, Mr. Lancer!” The slightly overweight, balding middle-aged vice-principal startled Jazz out of her work, “Um… hello, do you need anything?”

“Honestly? Yes. Jasmine, I know you are the volunteer student tutor,” his smile fell. The man sighed, “and there is a student whom I think would benefit from your guidance… but, I also fear the arrangement wouldn’t have the desired effect.”

“What do you mean? Which student?”

“Well… your brother,”

“Oh.” Her voice fell lower as the implications sank in. She almost had the insane desire to laugh or maybe scream. But no, she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t fall apart, not when everyone around her seemed to be doing that already. Here was another incident where someone else, another adult, had to come to her, “oh.”

“Now… I don’t want to place either of you in a difficult position…” Mr lancer began.

Too late.

She cut him off, “you’re right, that would hardly be…” her mouth twisted, trying to find the right word, “productive.” Jazz resisted the urge to bury her head down and groan in frustration. “The exact fricken opposite, most likely,” she muttered under her breath. Then gathered her thoughts and forced a level of confidence and maturity she certainly didn’t feel on her expression, “what exactly is he struggling with?”

“He’s still behind…”

Right, he was in the hospital for an entire week of school. And then home for another half week. So that was almost two whole weeks of missed classwork, not to mention homework, for every single one of his classes. What do you expect? He certainly wasn’t brushing up on Shakespeare while he was in the hospital… Then of course in the weeks after his discharge his priority still wasn’t the huge packet of missed work... that while important even a teacher’s pet like her would admit was trivial when compared to a life-altering medical condition…

“He’s been having a very hard time catching up…”

Of course he was! This isn’t over yet, no matter how much Danny and everyone else seems to want to pretend it is. He is still having troubles with his coordination, motor control, stable breathing, and who knows what else... And it’s surprising that he hasn’t been focusing too much on algebra or poems, or anything else? 

“…not helped by his habit of falling asleep in class,” the teacher finished the last part with an air of slight irritation. 

“Wait! What? He’s sleeping in class?” Jazz asked, her mind already racing ahead a mile a minute. Was he actually sleeping in class? Why? Was this fatigue brought on by stress? Was he sleeping at home? Was something keeping him up? Insomnia? Was this yet another symptom that he wanted to ignore? Was he passing out? Having trouble focusing and staying conscious because of low oxygen levels and slow heart rate? Body shutting down because of muscle deterioration? Essentially, creating something similar to Narcoleptic attacks?

Or laziness… a normal teenager tuning out in a boring class… Slow down, you're doing it again... Catastrophizing... Not everything is the end of the world. 

But even if it was just that... that was still a drastic change from how Danny usually acted. Danny was smart as a whip. However, while Jazz inherited their mother’s meticulous attention to detail and perfectionism—the kind that makes people who have never actually studied mental disorders call her a bit ‘OCD’—Danny got their dad’s ADHD.

But… those symptoms were familiar and something the school was aware of: difficulty focusing, spacing out, doodling, daydreaming, sometimes forgetting homework, having difficulty motivating himself to complete tasks he found uninteresting, hyper-focusing when something did pique his interest, acting restless or unable to sit still... What Mr. Lancer was describing was… almost the opposite… hmm, difficulty focusing was the same… but falling asleep, acting drained of all energy… 

“I’ve caught him a few times, yes." Mr. Lancer answered, "and I have informed him that if this behavior continues, I will have to take more drastic disciplinary actions. Same with his tardiness.”

“Tardiness? He’s late for class, too?” Now there was no excuse for that one… she knew he shouldn’t be late because she drove him... 

“Yes. And his overall work ethic has declined. Not to mention other things such as Mr. Falluca sending him to my office, for and I quote ‘carelessness bordering on vandalism’ in the science lab. Along with a lifetime ban on handling any fragile school equipment… and then, of course, the food fight last week…” he trailed off again.

When he started again it was clear he was choosing his words very carefully,“now I understand that… he had… extenuating circumstances.”

Do you? Jazz wanted to scoff. Do you understand? Because it seems like no one else freaking does… even the hospital staff didn’t have answers for what happened, why he recovered so quickly… or what was going on now… So how could a high school teacher possibly even begin to grasp the severity of whatever was happening?

 “And as this is all very soon after… and I don’t want to seem unreasonable… but,” the man sighed and continued, “Look... I wondered if maybe you could talk to him… he was a fine student, eager to learn, and now with everything going on he might need some... extra help to set him back on the right path, and you are quite the role model, Jasmine.”

That feeling was back, the one where if she opened her mouth she was going to scream. So tight a lipped smile it was. Right. Role model. 

“I will see what I can do to help,” she said as if she hadn’t been doing that to no avail for a month now. 

She knew how that would go over: 'Hey Danny, I know you missed a lot of class... because of the… traumatic event–that we are all ignoring and pretending wasn’t extremely traumatizing and life-changing… anyway if you ever need some extra help. I’m here.' 

No. No, she couldn’t say any of that to him. Because older sisters weren’t supposed to have to talk with their younger sibling’s teacher about their schooling progress. 

Especially not siblings so close in age… Because they were siblings and inevitably, people would compare them; even before all this mess, school had always been a sore spot in their relationship. Of course, it was, when Jazz had poured so much of her identity into her own schoolwork and her top grades... She still struggled with achieving the ideal of Perfect Student… her competitive (sometimes admittedly nasty) and prideful nature had surfaced when that happened. 

Danny would coast his way through getting 90s so he could say he was a straight-A student, while she slaved and worked her butt off to give a 120% even though there wasn’t a real grade above 100—extra credit can only go so far—but if there was she would have gotten it. And truthfully, it made her a bit… frustrated and... resentful that Danny never, well... hardly ever, gave his full effort. Like it or not, they were often competitors… and she was contending with someone whom she knew could do better. She didn’t know if he could be just as smart as her or maybe even smarter because he never tried, so even those immature victories felt a bit hollow. 

It wasn’t fair… for either of them and it also only strangled and stretched their bond thin. She sometimes worried that it might be what one day snapped it.

Oh… oh, maybe it wasn’t the Accident… Maybe he… Was he doing this, acting out in school, on purpose? Trying to accomplish something or prove a point or something? 

Was this somehow her fault? She had claimed the identity of The Perfect Student, The Academic Genius, so no doubt his teachers were constantly expecting something similar from him... Was this his stubborn and defiant way of proving he was different from her? Was this teenage rebellion? 

Well... Whatever it was, Danny would never in a million years listen to her if she brought up his declining school effort… Not after years and years of having their grades displayed right next to each other. Not when she had report card after report card that she had bragged about and rubbed in his face. Not when she knew he wasn’t confident in his own intelligence... something that if she was honest, she probably contributed to a good deal.

Not when she was Casper high’s volunteer tutor for struggling kids.

Mr. Lancer, ignorant to all of this information easily accepted her weak response, and relaxed a bit, “that’s good to hear…” he turned to leave, but Jazz still heard his parting remark, muttered under his breath, “although this probably would’ve been a more appropriate discussion to have with your parents...” he grimaced and left. Another person who dreaded pulling the pin on the grenade that was interacting with the Fentons.

'Jasmine, you are more reasonable than your parents, so let me have what was essentially a parent-teacher conference with you instead.'

Ha. Right. 

Perhaps this was all being blown out of proportion. It was still his third week back... just wait. He would bounce back. 

How long should we wait? How long could they keep saying wait?

‘It’s only been a couple of days since he returned from the hospital, but he’ll be fine’.

‘It’s only his first week back at school, hell be fine.’

‘It’s only been a month, he’ll be fine’...

Would they be amending that statement for years?

So far it was only a couple missed homework assignments here, a slow pace as it forced him to catch up and learn additional information simultaneously, and a low B or two there. He could, he will bounce back. Nothing to worry about. His GPA could still survive… and who knows, maybe this could even be a positive change. This could inspire him to work harder and stop coasting because he learned the consequences of only doing the bare minimum and not having anything extra to fall back on. 

Or it might get worse. He might get so stressed out that he continues the spiral and strays even further from where he was.

“So, how goes the stalking J?” Spike asked in a dull voice, during their free period, recognizing the notebook Jazz was writing in. 

She snapped it shut and tried to hide it under the various books surrounding her, as if it really was a diary and she was embarrassed to let him see, “for the last time, I am not stalking!”

“Riiiiight, how goes the research?” he gave her the look, “what happened to ‘givin' him space', huh?”

“I… I w-was…”

Spike hummed, “and then the name Fenton started running through the halls… and you got all worried and ran for the nearest library... Again.”

She sighed, “... Mr. Lancer came to talk to me about his schoolwork earlier…”

“Ah. So… Gonna force tutor him?”

“Ha. No, that would not go well… at all...”

“Well, no sh*t, but I’m kinda surprised you actually admitted that. Usually, nothin' can stop your warpath”

“Yeah... But… I’ve been thinking and maybe… maybe it’s better if I just let him make his own choices...”

“All while you continue to stalk… sorry monitor him?”

“Is it so bad to want to watch out for him? He’s my baby brother!”

“He’s your teenage brother.”

“I know!” she said. 

Spike picked through the stack of books Surviving Adolescence through Therapy, The Adolescence Battlefield, The Generation Miscommunication, and why parents don’t understand their kids and many, many more. “oh F*ck! J, you’re spiraling,” he gave her a long-suffering look as he pulled the notebook from her. “Ok… what crazy theory have ya come up with now?”

“It’s not crazy!” she said in a way that an outside observer might’ve called crazy. She forced herself to calm down, “I am in complete control of my mental faculties, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, see, that’s what worries me…” Spike deadpanned flipping through her research on her brother. “So?” he asked again “Usually I don’t even have to ask... You just tell me. Whether I wanna hear it or not,” he muttered the last part with a half-serious glare.

“I don’t have one…” at his skeptical look she continued, “or rather there are too many… I can’t pinpoint what is going on… there are too many variables and the only fricken thing that is constant is the stress and trouble it’s causing him.”

She snatched back the notebook, “At first I thought it was his Accident… but the doctors cleared him… then they diagnosed him with Bradycardia… but that doesn’t fit!” She grabbed a medical encyclopedia and rifled through until she found the page on irregular heartbeats, “And if I, a fricken high school student, can see that surely a trained medical professional could… So why to give him that diagnosis?”

She slammed that book shut and opened the next, “then I thought maybe you’re right and its just normal teenager stuff… but it’s not! Then the rumors take off and ok maybe it’s just the result of a crush... But no. Nothing fits. Then there are my insane parents, insisting it’s some absurd ‘ghost’ disease that they can zap, suck, or force outta him using some newly invented torture device..." Jazz broke off. Forced herself calm... Again. When she spoke again it was so soft, but also shaking with emotion. "It’s almost like… it’s something completely new... unprecedented and unpredictable, that’s what they said in the hospital. So all we—I, the doctors, my nut job parents, the school staff, and anyone freaking else—can do is monitor… is watch as he continues to struggle and fall apart. He was seriously ill right just last week… this still isn’t over… and it’s not getting better!”

“Wanna hear what I think?" Spike asked, and at her misreadle nod said, "sounds to me like he has a terminal disease I once learned about called life.”

“I am being-”

“-Serious? So am I," he cut her off. "Did ya know we start dying the minute we are born? Every day brings us closer to death. And y’know what? F*ck life, it’s a stupid sexually transmitted disease that’s gonna one day kill us all. Or maybe it’s the result of the oxygen slowly poisoning us… whatever, it hurts and sucks and never seems to get any better. Doctors sure as hell can’t cure it… so we just cope. Sometimes there ain’t no f*cking cure. Sometimes all we can do is just f*cking live with whatever sh*tty hand we were dealt. I know you know that… with parents like yours…”

“But there has to be a way to make it better. I can’t just give up. Besides, you sound almost... suicidal...”

“I'm not, you of all people know that... Otherwise you'd have already diagnosed me with depression and tried to cure my suicidality... Instead of just my rebellious attitude and sh*tty family life."

"I know you're not... Just that worldview sounds so... Pesimistic and... defeatest."

"Pesimistic? Try honest. Im tired of lies saying that life isn't a Cluster F*ck... It is. As for defeatest... Dunno sometimes throwing in the f*cking towel is easier...”

“You don’t believe that. I know you don't. If you did, your parents would have their perfect obedient doll… or you really would be sucidial... You are still fighting...”

“Ha. F*ckin understatement,” he muttered with a dark undercurrent of anger and hurt.

“Well, so am I...”

“Yeah, but J, you’re trying to fight someone else’s battle.”

“Yeah.. maybe I am…” she flipped the book in her hand. Now surrounded by closed books, she sat with her hands covering her face, “this is the part where you tell me to ignore these red flags and mind my own business, right?”

“This is the part where I tell you to F*cking relax. Y’know as much as you know about stuff like this… I’m kinda surprised you think it would be over so soon.”

“What are you talking about! I am not the one that thinks this is over, everyone else is.”

“So then why are you trying to force it to be over? Forcing your brother to be better?”

“That’s not what I’m doing!”

Is it? She knew these things take time to heal. Danny would need time to adjust. Time to catch up in school. Time to open up. She wasn’t trying to force him to be better; she wanted to help him be better. 

Jazz was reading in the kitchen when her mother came down… not in her jumpsuit? What? She was wearing… A nice simple, yet it complemented her figure elegantly, dress that, while still the same color pallet as her jumpsuit, was clearly not made of Fentondex material. “Mom? What are you wearing?” 

“Oh, this? Well, considering that we were asked to chaperone the dance-”

“Wait! What!? You and dad are chaperoning the dance!?” she must’ve somehow heard wrong. Please tell her she heard wrong. Because How could that happen? Who approved that?

“Yes. I was admittedly a bit surprised myself, but apparently, Jack and Danny’s teacher really hit it off during the parent-teacher conference. He asked for us personally!”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” she smiled. “Now, where is your father? If we aren’t careful we’re going to be late.”

Her father came up from the lab, toying with some random device and not looking at all like he was expecting to go anywhere anytime soon. 

“Jack, there you are! What on earth have you been doing?” it was not a usual sight to see Maddie yank a half-finished prototype out of Jack’s hands. Then again, it was not a usual sight to see her mother dressed in civilian clothes. Much less a dress. With light makeup covering her face instead of a hood and goggles. Her auburn hair stylized, framing her face. A compact in her hand, applying lipstick that didn’t double as a weapon. Jack stared down at his wife in confusion as these things no doubt occurred to him as well. “I thought you were getting ready!” She stamped her—high-heeled—foot impatiently “We cannot be late…”

“Ready?” her father asked, looking almost dazed.

“Yes, I set out a dress shirt, jacket, and tie upstairs. Now go change,” her mom’s tone was getting more annoyed with each word.

“Change? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

"Jaaaack,” she stretched out the man’s name in exasperation, “we talked about this, remember? We need to not wear our hazmat suits to the dance.”

“Mads, you know I get a rash without my jumpsuit. Wait dance?”

“Yes Jack, the dance, the dance at Danny's school, that you vulenteered us to supervise. The one that starts in a couple of hours. Now. Go. Change. Jack.” it hardly mattered who you were when Madeline Fenton used that tone of voice, you listened. And her father turned and did just that.

A few minutes later, the father of the Fenton household trudged down the stairs looking for all the world like a petulant child who had just had his toys taken away. It was such a strange sight to see him without that eye-bleeding orange jumpsuit. He wore a white dress shirt, a black suit jacket over that, a pair of black dress pants, striped orange and black tie--like Maddie keeping some of his color schemes--and an expression that matched the one Danny made for picture day.

“There, much better” his wife adjusted the tie which he had put on incorrectly and lopsided as a testament to his inexperience.

“I still don’t understand why I have to wear this stupid suit.”

“Because it’s Danny’s first dance, Jack. If we’re gonna chaperone this thing, we have to make sure we don’t embarrass him.”

“Embarrass him? How would we embarrass him?” her father asked, sounding honestly confused.

Jazz threw in her two cents and hopefully at least reminded her mother of the importance not to make… another scene, “Well I for one think it’s great whenever you guys do anything that doesn’t have something to do with your sick obsession with ghosts.

Before her father could rebut, her mother gave a sigh and her own reasoning, “Were his parents... And you know how kids are, Jack.”

“Why are we supervising this thing again?”

“Jack,” her mother said slowly, her brow crinkling, “honey… are you feeling alright?” she moved her hand from his tie to his forehead, nearly standing on tiptoes to reach. “You’ve been acting strange lately… You are the one who accepted to chaperone... “

“I am? I did?”

“Yes, a great way to be involved and show Danny we care, keep an eye on him, and of course have fun dancing.”

“Funny. I don’t remember volunteering to chaperone the dance.” he screwed up his face, trying very hard to call the moment to mind, but to no avail. “It’s all a... vague blur.”

Now her mother looked really worried. “Honey, do you feel disorientated?”

“Yeah, a bit...”

“And you’ve been acting strangely out of character… and”

“I’ve lost time… moments that are just...”

Uh oh, Jazz recognized them going through the list of 'symptoms of ghostly overshadowing’ from the many times her parents asked it of either her or Danny. She needed to zip that in the bud right now. “You can be pretty absentminded Dad, how many times have you misplaced things like your keys”

“Hmm… maybe,” her dad said, his voice unfocused and acting far more suggestible than normal. 

But before anything else could happen, Danny came into the kitchen. It looks like he also wasn’t ready yet. Strange Jazz would’ve assumed that he’d be excited… Danny’s expression was mixed when caught sight of their parents at least trying… 

He grabbed a glass out of the cabinet and the Fenton Water Filter out of the fridge and poured himself a glass of water. 

“Hey, Danny,” Jazz greeted. 

He stopped pouring to look up at her, his expression guarded and suspicious. A reminder that lately, every time they’ve talked, it’s been about how he insists he’s fine when he’s clearly not. He was bracing himself for it to start again. 

Ah. She really was pushing him further and further away. Spike was right. Well, then.. she needed to back off. Stop pushing all the clinical data… Stop dissecting his behavior and obsessing over what it might mean... Maybe do her best to re-establish some levity and light sisterly teasing. “I just wanted to say, I know”

“Kn-know? Know wh-what?” he asked, his hands started shaking so much that he was nearly spilling the water as he tried to take a sip. 

Jazz nodded with a playful smirk, “mm-hmm, your little secret,”

Danny gagged, an actual real-life spit take. Coughing and trying to regain his breath, he squeaked out, “s-secret? Wh-what s-secret?”

“Oh, you know, the clumsiness, the nervousness. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before...”

He said something very loud at the same time as if to stop her from talking. As a result, both of their words were jumbled up and hard to make out. 

“-ts---iiieemnot!---gg--oh-“ 

“---You-----av------ggirl----end“” Jazz finished as her statement was longer. 

He looked terrified a second ago, but now that cleared away. His eyes widened for half a second “ohh…” he scowled, “I-I mean… she’s not my girlfriend, Jazz. She’s just going to the dance with me."

“A girlfriend?! That’s great, well done, son! I can’t wait to meet her! And show her all the things we’ve been working on! Oh, and warn her about ghosts!” their father said, sounding much more like himself and easing the anxiousness in their mother’s expression. 

Danny looked mortified. 

“You better let her know your family’s insane now, Danny.” Jazz said, laying a hand on his shoulder as if she was offering sage advice. “If you marry her and she finds out later, that’s called entrapment.”

He shoved her off with a grumble of “I better go get ready,” and made a beeline to his room.

Jazz watched him go with a soft smile, but when she glanced back at her parents in a heated debate on whether Jack could take any inventions, the smile slid off her face. 

“Jack, no! This is for Danny, remember and we said we wouldn’t.”

“But Mads, a highschool dance, teens with hormonal imbalances? A school that already has a history of hauntings? A situation like that is ripe for ectoplasmic manipulation!”

Her mother looked like she was considering it, but then she shook her head. “No Jack, not tonight.”

“Nothing big… just something, it’s dangerous to be completely unarmed and I have a feeling those ecto-scumbags are planning to strike again.”

“You always have that feeling, dad,” Jazz said, putting as much of her own disapproval as she could in those words. 

“Gotta always be prepared Jazzy, Ghost Hunting rule numero uno!”

“Fine.” Maddie gave in because her mother was just as convinced of the dangers these imaginary creatures pose. “We will take the GAV and keep the weapons in there… just in case. But no inventions in the school. We are there to chaperone. Not ghost hunt. We are there for Danny."

 “I know. I can’t shake it, Mads a rattling of my bones... telling me something bad’s gonna happen tonight.”

Jazz felt the same way, thinking of all the reasons her parents should never be supervising anything. She was suddenly very glad that she wasn’t going, not that she really wanted to… Even though she had been asked which incidentally is how she found out that her designation on the social ladder as an ‘acceptable nerd’. In Dash Baxter’s eloquent and tactful words she was ‘smart enough to be nerdy but hot enough to be bangable and just freaky enough to be a challenge’. And yet it had surprised him when she turned him down, honestly.

Anyway… She had thought that maybe this dance would be good for Danny, a chance to enjoy some social interaction. A chance to unwind all of that stress he carried with him… And she wouldn’t be there to make anything more awkward. But now their parents would be. And she wouldn’t be there to corral them or handle damage control. So… 

This was… very likely to end in disaster

Oh my... Goodluck, little brother. 

Chapter Text

The dance hadn’t gone well.

Someone must’ve spiked the punch or something—unless it was another gas leak… But really, again? Seemed rather... Unlikely—because the following Monday everyone was buzzing with stories of a giant neon-colored glowing dragon disrupting the dance and trashing the football field.

And the football field had indeed been trashed. Someone… Had somehow ripped one of the goalposts out of the ground. Sets of bleachers now resembled match work. Gigantic ruts were dug in places as if something had raked the ground with enormous claws. The Casper High Ravens were unable to play during the weekend, because of repairs… Which had the special bonus of making the S-ranker and A-lister jocks and cheerleaders furious and out for social outcast blood. P.E. Class would also only be held in the Gym this week, instead of using the sports field. The gym, itself, was mostly spared, but the girl’s locker room was in shambles and there was a massive hole in the ceiling that needed to be patched up. Seriously, between whatever happened at the dance and the gas leak a few weeks back, Casper High was not looking too good in terms of safety. Not to mention funding-wise… The School Board was probably going to slice the budget in other areas to compensate.

Her parents—to the surprise of no one—blamed it on ghosts. Ignoring how that didn’t even make sense; ghosts are supposedly "spirits of the deceased", right? Or—what was it her mother always said?—"Ectoplasmic imprints of postmortem consciousness"... So even if... Say hypothetically, ghosts were real... A dragon, really? Dragons were still mythical creatures, so they can’t be dead or have had a consciousness to create an "ectoplasmic imprint"... The least they could do is keep their mad ideas consistent… To clarify: No, ghosts don’t exist. No, dragons don’t exist either. So… A ghost dragon? Need she say more? Unless her parents meant that it was a ghost that had spiked the punch… Which was a-whole-nother level of ridiculous… Not that she’d put anything past them.

Her father was also using the "ghostly infiltration of the dance" as proof in his "expert ghost hunting instincts". Not to mention his claim, "we can never let our guard down; we can never be without our weapons again". Unfortunately, he had swayed her mother to agree with him… so they were now toting around highly explosive and dangerous weapons everywhere. 24/7 armed with the Fenton Finder, to detect ghosts and various ectoguns, to blast them. And unlike before, everywhere, now meant everywhere. The grocery store, parent-teacher conferences, the post office, etc. Jazz is counting down the days, as they rack up complaints, until there will be some Fenton Ban placed in the windows. It was just lucky that the Fenton parents didn’t have a habit of going out around town, although her father also mentioned ‘ghost patrolling' so…

One good thing that came from that night: Jazz highly doubted anyone would allow the Fenton parents to chaperone a school event ever again.

Jazz had tried to talk to Danny asking how the dance went. If he was ok. If he saw this alleged hallucinatory dragon. His responses were confusing, all over the place, and ultimately unhelpful.

When she tried doubling down, he cringed and gave an embarrassed sigh. “I'd… uh, really rather not talk about... the dance.”

Oh. Ohhh. So something else probably happened too… Considering everything, he probably had gotten his first breakup at the dance. She knows he said he and the girl he took to the dance, the A-lister Paulina, weren’t officially dating… But he’d most likely hoped for that to be the end result of going to the dance together… So he still went through that disappointment, rejection, and… Heartbreak.

She opened her mouth to provide comfort but. Then. Stopped... “I...understand,”  instead, with an enormous effort and a clenched heart, Jazz backed off.

Danny looked taken aback. “W-wait, th-that‘s it? Y-you’re not gonna… m-make me?“ he asked, half to himself.

The words he chose, "make me", reinforced her decision... “Not if you’re not ready to…“ She got up and crossed to the door, giving him space.

“O-oh,“ his eyes narrowed as if trying to figure out if this was a trap. Yet more proof that the last thing he would ever do was trust her.

She reached the doorway...Hand on the handle, foot just barely past the threshold, back facing him... But, because she was Jazz, and it might kill her to leave anything alone... She couldn't leave without saying one last thing, “but…” she heard the slight groan he tried to stifle... “If..." She shook her head slightly and turned to meet his gaze over her shoulder, wondering when he'd become so much harder to read. "When you are ready… and feel like you need to talk… about anything… the dance, school, other stuff… just know that I’m here.”

Then she left his room, rather than waiting to be kicked out. And rather than having the door slammed in her face, she closed it herself. And instead of hearing the telltale sound of him turning the lock...

He cracked the door open, dull blue eyes peering out of the space between the wall and the door. “Hey uh, Jazz?“

“Yeah?”

He stood there for a while as if debating on saying anything… “Thnks”  he muttered, hardly opening his mouth and more than he had opened the door. But it was a start. What little she could see of his stature relaxed slightly as some of that everpresent tension in his shoulders eased “ and… um…uh Goodnight.” 

It wasn’t usually Danny who said it first. She smiled softly, “goodnight little brother.“

''Leave the kid alone, Jazz."

Yes… that was what she needed to do. Wait for him to come to her instead of interrogating him with his back against the wall... 

''Leave me alone and mind your own business.''

Ok… She strengthened her resolve to back off when it came to her little brother. She’d keep a watchful eye–which was not stalking no matter what Spike said–but she would stop butting in so much… Unless something dangerous started happening.

So, she would return to her new project–more accurately her old, old project that she had begun when she was seven years old: Operation Get Her Parents to Realize Ghosts are Not Real. Because once she accomplished that, everything else would be infinitely better. After all "ghosts" were the root of all their other problems... Just not in the way her parents thought.  

She had made progress a few times… There were moments when she almost got through to them… Moments so tantalizingly close to the answer, before it slipped through her fingers. The failure of the Portal almost did it… But then whatever Danny did to it somehow worked… Or at least made it appear functional; the machine now glowed and swirled around the goop that they called ‘'ectoplasm’' around like a freakish lava lamp… To say it worked as in was a "stable tear in the fabric of reality and allowed access to the dimension of ghosts" was ludicrous.  

Danny’s Accident also almost did it too...

There was a time when Jazz thought that might’ve served as a wake-up call… A line that even their hopelessly oblivious parents could realize they had crossed… but no. 

Then there was the day of the food fight when she had been the closest than ever before… A day when they had looked at her and for once saw the damage they were doing. It was what she had longed for all her life… But that too had failed. An unfortunately timed hallucination caused by a ruptured gas leak had reinforced their delusions… Another moment that left her questioning the absurdity that was her life.

Her parents always bounced back. Can’t keep a Fenton delusion down.

Well, fine, she’s a Fenton too, just as stubborn and relentless as they are. If it came down to a war of attrition, battle after battle for the safety and sanity of their family, then Jazz sure as hell would not be the first to fold. 

Now, she needed a plan, an alternative approach… She’d tried being open and honest with them and telling them how they were making her feel… And it hadn’t worked. Huh, guess Spike was right after all: in real life sometimes it’s not that simple. 

If they would ever agree to see a professional and get diagnosed, then they could receive proper psychiatric treatment… But how to convince them they had enough of a problem to get a diagnosis.

And there was enough of a problem to get a diagnosis... Right? Didn't they have troubles that warranted a diagnosis? So, then what diagnosis?

Hmm. Firmly held false beliefs or delusions with no basis in reality could be a sign of schizophrenia… She often wondered if that was the case. 

Sometimes they seemed to display symptoms…

Psychosis

Jazz may use the term “delusions” frequently, but she did not use it frivolously. She meant what she said. Her parents were delusional, literally.

According to psychiatrist and existential philosopher Karl Jaspers, a delusion encompasses three factors: certainty, incorrigibility, and finally, impossibility. Jack and Maddie Fenton ticked each box. 

The first warning sign is the absolute rigidity of the conviction. People, especially Scientists like her parents, naturally have periods of doubt and times when they have to entertain questioning ideas. In a world as vast and with a species as complex as humans, very few things can boast 100% certainty. A conviction that never ever falters for a single solitary second is a red flag. This conviction can result in the refusal to change this false claim. This unhealthy unchangeability can cause the person to deny all evidence that seems to contradict the delusion. Human beings must adapt and change, our thoughts and ideas must grow and develop. A stagnated belief is a worrisome thing; no amount of logical reasoning, sensory information, or scientific data will ever dent the impenetrable wall of this denial of reality.

But the piece of the puzzle that made Jazz realize that this wasn’t normal, was the absolute impossibility of their claims. Things incongruous with the world around them. The strangest of the bizarre ideas that seemingly had no plausible genesis.

Not to mention the intense distress that these false beliefs cause.

What her parents believed also seemed to fall in line with the commonly reported specific themes recognized by the DSM-V. 

Such as the Capgras Delusion, where a person believes that their friends or family are gone; not themselves, but taken over or replaced by an imposter. The most recent example that Jazz had personally experienced, when her mom and dad had attacked her! Smoked her out, pointed weapons at her, and not to mention captured her in a fishing net. All because they honestly thought she was no longer their daughter. It was a frightening thing to know that she could become a target so easily. It was a terrifying thing that these delusions can make it so her parents were willing to attack or hurt their own children... 

Every day they acted out Delusions of Persecution. “Ghosts”, her parents lived in a world where these creatures of darkness were conspiring against them. Horrific predators that sucked humans dry, snatched bodies and wanted nothing more but destruction. Supernatural eldritch beings that could hide from detection, bypass any normal means of security, and could wield such unfathomable power. These monsters caused everything from either a minor inconvenience to an earth-shattering disaster. And therefore, in the typical Delusion of Grandeur style, Jack and Maddie had to eradicate these horrors. Cut them open to gather information on possible weaknesses. Prepare for the inevitable fight. Protect their children. Save the day, fix the problem, and receive recognition.

Selective attention 

Focusing entirely too hard on one thing, the one thing being ghosts, and entirely missing others… They were unable to recognize things happening in reality. Completely incapable of thinking, talking, and worrying about anything other than these figments of their mind. A split from reality, an inability to differentiate between fantasy and their day-to-day lives.   

A diminished level of being able to care for themselves or anyone else.

Strange disorganized behavior…

They acted as if they were incompatible with how neural normative people behaved. They barely had any social groups. The neighbors wanted nothing to do with them, especially after the amount of times they've caused explosions, blackouts, and general disturbances. The most interaction they get is when someone calls the fire department or files a noise complaint. Jack and Maddie Fenton consistently seemed to provide evidence that they could not function in everyday society.

But... At the same time, some symptoms didn’t fit.

Diminished emotional responses or depressive episodes or anxiety attacks…

No, just the opposite; her parents were as eccentric and energetic as possible… well other than the time when the Portal didn’t work but that was an outlier. They weren’t overcome with anxiety as you would expect from someone in a constant state of paranoia psychosis… Nope, if anything they were overjoyed to hunt these specters down.

Incoherent or nonsense speech...

Sure they talked about ghosts and their inventions which could technically count as the topics were nonsensical… But that symptom refers to more jumbled up, rambling, fragmented, or incorrectly patterned speech that fell into what is known as Word Salad… 

Even if they did derail conversations to perpetually steer them back towards ghosts…

Hallucinations. 

Maybe… but they themselves admitted they’d never actually seen a ghost clearly before the food fight… not that that had ever deterred them.

Disorganized, incongruent behaviors and emotions.

Her parents might be eccentric… they did seem to enjoy disasters, to some extent, because they believed them to be caused by ghosts… They believed that they could fix terrible situations by charging in and blasting away. They did seem to be out of touch emotionally with general society, especially her father, but… There were other explanations for that. 

And finally–not really a symptom but a precursor to most mental illnesses–they sometimes did act like...

A clear danger to themselves and others. 

She had often gone back and forth on whether or not that one applied. Wondering if their neglectful behavior was inherently dangerous as well as generally harmful. 

But then... Danny’s Accident… It had almost cemented her thoughts that it definitely was and it definitely did. She thought about the threat she'd given her mother when Danny was admitted to the hospital… 'I will call CPS'.

That wasn’t the first time she’d considered that, even if it was the first time she told her parents. But she had the number written down in her notebook–tucked in a corner of a page that detailed how dangerous breaks from reality could be. She'd felt so guilty when she wrote it. She felt a stab of shame every time she saw it. It represented giving up. That was the button for the nuke, the end of it all. Her final play that she had sworn she would never use... Unless of course, she reached the End of the Line Worst Case Scenario. 

No... schizophrenia wasn’t the only explanation. Too many of the symptoms had to be ignored or obfuscated to make them fit… So that diagnosis, at least, didn’t fit. 

So… then. Take a step back. Going overboard, as usual, Dr. Fenton… Just assume for the time being, that this isn’t a literal psychological mental break… It would be easier that way, wouldn't it? Because if it wasn't something that serious than she really could fix it. She could force them out of this. 

But if they did have a mental disorder then... What could she even do? So right now... She should try and unravel these maladaptive conceptions... 

So, then what would be the reason behind the belief? 

If hypothetically it was just normal interest they were taking too far… Which she had to admit did hold some water because Fentons were...to put it lightly, passionate people. Who had... difficulty containing their enthusiasm and refraining from going to extremes. They liked to babble and steamroll the conversation when it came to their fascinations. Quite honestly... All of them had that problem. Their Dad: any inventions or ghost-related thing. Their Mom: any theory or experiment about a ghost. Jazz, herself: Psychology. Danny: space and the stars. Once you got a Fenton started they could go on and on, blathering until the cows came home.

So ok, a "normal" hobby that they had hyperfocused on and nurtured this all-consuming ideas over the years.

Maybe the Sunk Cost Fallacy played a motive because how many people would be able to come to terms with every decision they ever made since college being built on a false premise? As well as Cognitive Dissonance and Confirmation Biases keeping it alive and strong.

Well if it was an interest that took over… 

Then what? What could she do? They won’t listen to her when she is honest… so she has to be a bit more underhanded… Sabotage? Hmm, maybe she should–at this point for Danny’s sake if nothing else… A failed invention almost did the trick last time… But no, because now the portal does "work", now they had "seen ghosts", and now they were even more cemented in this line of thinking than ever before...  So little inventions failing wouldn’t do anything to dissuade them.

Hmmm. Different approach. New approach. Maybe she could pull them out by engaging their interests in something non-ghost-related… Hard, extremely insanely difficult but theoretically not impossible. They were scientists after all…

It would be easier if that plan focused on her mother. Her mother loved the science behind "ecto-biology" and ''para-bioengineering'' which meant that if Jazz could just get her mom’s scientific curiosity away from ghosts and towards more traditional projects, she just might have a fighting chance. 

Then she could work on her father maybe even with the help of her mom. 

That morning her textbook was conspicuously absent. Instead, a slim magazine sat in its place. She was at the kitchen table reading it. Her mom was fiddling with something. The boys had yet to arrive for breakfast, so it was just Jazz and Maddie. The perfect time to strike. Jazz let out an exclamation of excitement that admittedly might have been a tad overdone, but it had gotten her mother’s fickle attention.

“What is it, sweetie?” her mom asked in a polite, slightly curious voice.

“Genius Magazine is looking for the next bright mind to feature in the upcoming issue!”

“Oh, really? That’s interesting,” her mom said, hardly listening. 

“I know right!” Now, here came the tricky part. “Wouldn’t it be so cool if you were on the cover?”

Now Maddie stopped what she was doing and looked up, her full focus on her daughter. “Me?!”

“Yeah, I mean, you are a genius, and any one of your groundbreaking achievements could deserve the cover spot.” Madeline Fenton was a woman who had the deepest pride in her work. She had struggled, just as Jazz did, with proving herself exceptional against people who underestimated her. Jazz knew that her mother was where she got her own intense drive to succeed, and same as any overachiever, Maddie wanted recognition for her accomplishments...

Her father liked tinkering and messing around with stuff. He enjoyed showing his gadgets off, relished having grand ideas about Fenton being a household ghost hunting name… but truthfully, he was never that concerned with what others thought about him. Criticisms rolled right off his back, half because of how outgoing he was and half because he didn’t quite pick up on social cues.

But her mother? Her mother was the one that scrubbed the graffiti off their doors, windows, and walls with the fire of resentment in her eyes. Her mother was the one whose polite smile became infinitely tighter whenever someone made a jab at their lack of credibility or implied dysfunctional cognitive faculties. Her mother, who both knew and hated that everyone considered her, with her multiple hard-earned degrees and an industry she helped build from the ground up, little more than a laughingstock. The less than respectful reputation the Fentons had was a sore spot. One that Jazz could apply the due amount of pressure to put her plan in motion. “and it could serve as proof that you are not just some town loon...”

Was it slightly… Well… Manipulative and conniving to use her mother’s internal flaws and deepest insecurities to get urge her to agree?… Yes. It probably was. But… it was for everyone’s own good. So, that made it—if not ok, then at least—forgivable, right?

“Yes, I suppose hypothetically... But, honestly, I doubt they would want the,” her mom’s expression constricted as if saying the next couple words were distasteful, “town loon on the cover.” Maddie returned to messing with her contraption with a bit more vigor than before.

“Yeah, but what about the projects that the US government commissioned? Even putting aside public opinion, no one can deny you’re brilliant.” Another insecurity, because those who knew their non-ghost related inventions gave them due praise... But that only made it worse when they were ridiculed for their passion projects. 

“I dunno, sweetie...”

“But... Wouldn’t it be so cool to have a chance to actually receive recognition for your hard work? Be published in something reputable?”

“It’s a… nice thought”

“So then if they agreed to it, would you do it?”

“Hypothetically?”

Jazz shook her head, “Actually. Cuz, I emailed them a couple days ago, and they just got back to me.” 

Furiously working hands slowed, and then eventually stopped. Lilac eyes met teel. “Jazz, honey...”

But Jazz was on a roll and she wasn't about to relinquish her influence of this conversation, "and guess what? They said yes! They said yes!"

“Said yes to what?" A sudden voice asked, Jazz nearly jumped as Danny groggily appeared behind her—she hadn't heard him come down the stairs at all—looking annoyed and already so done with a day that hadn’t even started yet. "Did you ask if you were a conceited snob?” he grumbled.

“Well,” Jazz huffed. “Good morning to you too.”

He collapsed into his chair, put his head on the table, and groaned.  “dunnowhazogoodboudit.” He paused for a moment, sat up, rubbed his eyes, and bit back a yawn. “Oh, maybe... Coffee,” he slurred out as he stumbled to make himself a cup.

He breathed it in like with the expression of someone coming up for air after staying underwater too long. “Yeah, coffee’s good.”

Jazz glanced at the murky black substance in his cup and frowned slightly. His coffee addiction was relatively new too. She remembered what Mr. Lancer said about him falling asleep in class… He had huge bags under his bloodshot eyes and his skin was pale and clammy—although, it usually was nowadays. He looked exhausted. So then he was having trouble sleeping.  

“Good morning sweetie, did you sleep ok?” asked their mother, making Jazz wonder if she was mentally exaggerating how bad Danny looked or if her mother was blind. 

His response was a snort of laughter. “Likethefrickendead,” he muttered into his mug.

Jazz forcibly shifted her attention from all the worries Danny was giving her—He hadn’t even done anything that strange. You’re just overreacting. Remember, different approach. Don’t freak out about him right now and don't freak him out by freaking out about him—and turned back to her mother. “So, how about it? Will you do it, Mom?” Jazz tried to continue their conversation before she lost complete control of the spotlight... 

Oh, too late; her father had bounded into the room, bringing with him his aura of excitement. 

“How’s it coming, Mads?!” He was holding another one of his ridiculous gadgets. 

“Should work now,” she said, handing him another piece that he fit in easily. 

“Awesome! Thanks, Sweetcheeks.” He stopped when he saw Jazz’s magazine, “hey, a magazine! Is that the swimsuit edition?”

Mortified, Jazz snatched it back. “No! Ugh, Dad. It is an extremely well-known and influential magazine that is recognized by the Respected Intellectual Community and they have just agreed to put Mom on the cover!”

“Mads on the front of a magazine? Nice! You knock out those other models, Baby!”

“No, it is not that kind of magazine! It’s Genius Magazine! This month is women’s appreciation month. For women geniuses, by women geniuses and about women geniuses.”

“So it is the swimsuit edition,” Danny snarked. Then he stopped as if something just dawned on him and spit out some of his coffee, “Wait? Oh, gross! Mom’s gonna be in the swimsuit edition?!”

“It. is. not. the. Swimsuit edition. It is a magazine dedicated to scientific discoveries, proposed theories, and original inventions.” Jazz read the slogan out loud before realizing what a bad bad mistake it was, but the words had already left her mouth and it was too late.

“Inventions!” Her dad pounced. “I’ve got just the thing!”

“Wait! No, Dad!” she yelled, trying very unsuccessfully to stop this all from going pear-shaped. “This is a chance for everyone to see that you guys are capable of functioning like normal people and not crazy ghost hunting freaks.”

“Hey, they are not crazy ghost hunting freaks!” Danny said, for some reason, suddenly very offended. She met his gaze, neither of them had shied away from the fact that their parents were... Nuts. However, now Danny seemed to… have changed his mind. “At least not really that crazy, and… there’s no need to call them freaks,” he muttered into his coffee mug, trying to hide the red spreading on his face.

“Speaking of ghost hunting,” Jack interjected, displaying stunning tunnel vision. 

“Check this out,” he switched on the invention and began showing it off with the gusto and excitement of a cheesy old-timey commercial announcer. “The Fenton Ghost Gabber! This little beauty takes all those strange and mysterious sounds of the unknown that ghosts use to communicate and translates them into words that humans can understand!” 

He was waving the device in Danny’s face. He held it out in front of him, and Danny took the opportunity to encourage him, with a slightly mischievous smile he leaned into the receiver. “Um uh... Boo?” 

“I am a ghost, fear me” the machine quote, unquote translated. 

Danny didn’t seem to enjoy his joke as much as he had intended. His jaw dropped and he looked uneasy, perhaps because he just realized that now he was going to have to convince their parents that he was not in fact a ghost. Honestly, Jazz couldn’t help but think that it kinda served him right. The last thing their parents needed was an egging on!

“Um uh… I-I’d b-better get to school!” Danny booked it out of the room, but not before the machine lit up again and repeated his nervous outburst adding an apparently obligatory “fear me” to the end.

Jazz rolled her eyes at the whole display. 

With Danny out the door and Jack preoccupied with contemplating what it meant that the device had reacted to his son, the conversation between the two Fenton women could continue. 

Finally, her mom gave, while not a complete and total yes, a positive response to the idea. “That’s great about the magazine, sweetie. But your father and I are a team. We built FentonWorks and made all our best contributions together. Besides, every genius woman deserves to have a genius man by her side.” 

“Standing side by side on the cover of Genius Magazine!” Jack joined in. “The Fentons are a family of geniuses! That should appeal to your fancy-schmancy magazine! Tell the whole world that the Fenton Family is here!”

A Family of geniuses wouldn’t be too hard of a sell, but a Fenton Family and all the stigma that carried would be. 

“Fine,” Jazz relented; she was nothing if not desperate at this point.  “But please, you have to promise me...No Ghosts. This is a Rebranding of the Fenton name, understood?” After that additional blow to the already long-dead horse, Jazz too left for school.

Jazz should probably feel a bit more guilty that thanks to Danny’s new track record, she had gotten used to leaving on her terms. This morning wasn’t the first time he had rushed out of the house before she could even offer to drive him... And lately, whenever she did offer he turned her down. The first time he refused, Jazz figured it was an excuse to avoid being trapped in a small space faced with her questions… which, while she had to admit hurt a bit, wasn’t too surprising. When she asked why, his response was a casual shrug and a claim that he’d just rather walk to school. She sighed, accepted his excuse, and gave herself another internal reminder that not everything he did had some deeper meaning… right? But that was also not like him, Danny usually didn’t really enjoy physical exercise... Before the Accident, he used to bug her all the time to drive him places... in fact before it was usually Jazz who had resisted.

''Oh c'mon Jazz, you actually have a car now, and walking takes for-ev-er."

''Walking isn't gonna kill you.''

''But I have to leave soooo early.''

''To save time, you could always ask Dad.''

''Are you kidding? Walking won't kill me, but that will! I wanna arrive at school in one piece! Why can't you just take me?''

''It's my car, I make the rules. I don't have to drive you everywhere, I'm not your chauffeur. Quit being a brat!''

''It's not like I'm gonna mess up your precious car, you're the one being a brat!''

Maybe he was trying to do it to impress his friend Sam.

Should she push the issue? Insist that since he couldn’t get to class on time, she needs to drive him… No, she shouldn’t strong-arm him… she’d only push him further away...

Besides, it wasn’t just homeroom he was late for, so getting to school wasn’t the root of that problem... He must be fooling around in the halls or… something. "Going to bathroom" for the entire class period, according to his teachers. That also wasn't like him, he wasn't some kind of delinquent. The very idea was almost laughable, Danny was always a bit of a goody-goody–of course not to the extent he teased her of being. He was a good student. He was bright and energetic, when his curiosity was peeked there was nothing that couldn't accomplish. He never had or caused any troubles. Well ok, he did sometimes like to pull small pranks and had a bit of a mischievous side... but he never did anything really wrong. He had never even ever gotten detention, well... until the day of the food fight...The food fight that Danny had apparently started... That also wasn’t like him.

But that was before. Now? It seemed like he was never going home when school actually ended because something happened… again. From a clean record to at least one detention every other day... And a few outlier days where he received more than one. Something she needed to talk to him about. What on earth had gotten into him? What was he even doing to have cemented that reputation in a few short weeks? He cannot keep doing that. Absolutely not. She's surprised that the school hasn't contacted his parents yet... Or she would be if their parents weren't who they were.

Which brought her back to the task at hand. Because the way to help Danny–and not smother him with unwanted advice, forcing him to either clam up or run away, and overall making the situation ten times worse–was to get her parents to snap out of it and start being parents! She again wrenched her thoughts from her brother and back to her plan. 

Maddie Fenton on the cover of a magazine, someone accredited publishing her work. Then, best case scenario, her mom will be inspired to continue the real work and not waste her time chasing ghosts. Positively reinforce working on the kinds of projects that were useful. It could serve as an opportunity to reinvent FentonWorks Industries. A way for her parents, both of them once her mom gets swept up in her projects and thus sparks her father's curiosity, could benefit the community at large. Which in turn would provide more external validation, creating a positive feedback loop that could ensure the new path. 

Then after years and years of negligence, disorganized thinking, and harmful behavior... the nightmare could finally be over. The Fenton family could be free. 

And then Jazz could present her worries about Danny to someone who'd listen. As a Family, they could move forward and pick up the pieces. After all, maybe the cause of Danny's downward spiral was him desperately trying to get their parents' attention. In any way he can. Test the limits of the Fenton obliviousness and workaholic nature. Screaming from the top of his lungs: can you notice something is wrong yet? How can you not see anything? Waving red flag after red flag and waiting for someone to care. 

Jazz did notice...she did see... And she certainly cared... but she wasn't who Danny wanted or really needed. That was always what he said to her, wasn't it: "go away, Jazz. Leave me alone. Stop being nosey. Mind your own business."

I don't want you. You are not my parent. And I don't want you to be... 

She understood, really she did. But it still hurt.

Jazz remembered craving her parents' attention, but all they cared about were ghosts. ''Ghost'', that word got her daddy's attention faster than anything else...and mom right behind him. When she was very little, Jazz realized that if she screamed that most powerful word: ''Ghost!'', Mommy and Daddy would appear like magic. But that strategy grew less effective each time. Until finally, her mom sat her down and explained that ghosts were serious business and she shouldn't cry wolf like that.

Because in the end it always did trail back to ''ghosts'' somehow or another... But her point was getting away from her...

To help Danny, she needed to first deal with their parents...

And for that, she had a plan. 

The final bell rang, Jazz collected her things, said a couple rushed goodbyes, thanked those who had allowed her to reschedule their tutoring sessions, and sped home, driving like she was indeed the daughter of Jack Fenton. 

When she arrived, her parents were–surprise, surprise–in the lab. She sighed and got to work on making the living room presentably and guest-welcomely normal. Double And triple checking for any hazards, or evidence of explosions… or mysterious stains visible. 

A little while later, the doorbell went off. She mentally thanked her lucky stars that she was still on the main floor and had not chosen to go up to her room to get a head start on her homework. She took a deep breath as if bracing herself on behalf of the unsuspecting people on the other side of the door. A smile on her face.

Here goes nothing.

“Hello, how may I help you, ma'am?”

“Hello,” greeted a professional-looking African-American woman in a purple suit, with a pad of paper and a camera around her neck. “I am Connie Jones from Genius Magazine. Here to interview Mrs. Madeline Fenton.”

“Of course. Come in Ms. Jones and please make yourselves comfortable.”

Connie glanced over the young woman, “You are awfully young...” 

“Oh, I am not Maddie. I am her daughter, Jasmine Fenton,” Jazz waved off with a polite chuckle. 

“Ah, of course, you are the young lady who sent the email, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I just want to say how incredibly grateful I am that you responded.” Jazz gave a winning smile, after all, a little flattery couldn’t possibly hurt. “I have been an avid fan of Genius Magazine for years, it is such an honor to actually meet you, Ms. Jones” 

“Aren’t you sweet. Now…” the woman's eyes scanned around the empty living room, but it didn’t look like Jazz had missed anything weird or glowy. “Where is your mother?”

“Oh," Jazz waved a casual hand. "She’s just caught up working on one of her projects, she’s a bit of a perfectionist.”

“Well, that sounds promising,” Connie said with a gleam in her eye. 

“I will go get her, please have a seat,” Jazz gestured to the couch and left to go drag her mother out of the lab. “Mom, the magazine interview, remember?”

“Oh, right!" Maddie pulled up her goggles and stopped on whatever she was working on. "I'm so sorry sweetie, I completely forgot.”

Yeah, Jazz had expected that. Hence the reminder and the hand pulling her up the stairs. 

When the two elder Fentons entered the livingroom, the interviewer couldn't hide the slight reaction to their chosen Fenton-dex attire. But she wasn't running for the hills… yet.

A few minutes later and Connie and Maddie had shaken hands and exchanged pleasantries. Maddie introduced her husband, who responded in exuberant praise of his wife. The woman pulled out a camera and snapped a couple photos, but so far everything seemed to be going fine

Jazz allowed herself to calm down slightly. She sat down on the ottoman next to the couch, where Connie and Maddie sat. Jack had taken his armchair that was better suited for his stature. She made them some coffee and set it down on the small table.

Now here comes the hard part: the actual interview. She hopes her parents remember their promise.

“So, Maddie,” Connie began. “For starters, I want to know all about your beginnings.”

“Oh, I am from a fairly humble background. My sister and I grew up in a little town in the middle of nowhere, Arkansas. Not much chance of bein' noticed by the Academic Community. I reckon I was one of those gifted kids that could get out y'know? Valedictorian in my local high school and always searching for more than my hometown. With some hard work, and a little luck, I was awarded a full-ride scholarship to the University of Wisconsin. That's where I met Jack and my love of science really was allowed to flourish.”

“Ahh, the good ole Wis U Science lab!"Jack interrupted, getting swept up in his memories. "Remember the first experiment we ever did together?!” 

“Of course I do, honey... But…” she gave a glance at her daughter, thankfully remembering her promise to focus on her scientific achievements. “is now really the time to go into all that?”

“Course! They wanna hear all about the Genius beginnings of Madeline Fenton, right?”

“Uh Dad, is this story going to be about… um, the... uh extracurricular club... you and mom started?” Jazz asked nervously.

“Huh? The Club? Yeah! That’s how it all started, remember Mads? You, me, and the V-man the 3 Ghostkateers! It began when you and I bumped into each other at the science lab one day, literally! At the time, I was trying to simulate the proper conditions to imitate an ectoentity. I nearly knocked over my experiment, Ha! Coulda blown the whole lab sky high! Boom! If not for Mads here. Though it took some time for my eyebrows to grow back, I tell ya!” he wiggled them up and down for emphasis and laughed as he misread the look of growing concern on his guest’s faces. “It is quite a story! See..”

“A story for another time, Dad!” Jazz frantically cut in before he could really get going “And... I am sure that Ms. Jones has more questions to get through, and we can’t keep such a busy woman here for so long; we are on a time limit.” And a ghost limit. And an explosion limit. The last thing GM needed to know about is the beginnings of the ghost delusion or one of the first combustions caused by her father. 

Connie seemed to pick up on Jazz’s clue to move on. “Ah… Right, yes, while I am sure that it is a… thrilling tale.” she gave the man another side glance as if worried he’d set off a bomb right here and now. “Unfortunately, we do need to move on. Now, Maddie, I’ve heard that you have 2 Ph.D.s, why don’t we talk about those?”

“Only 2? Are you only counting the ones from Wisconsin University?”

“You went to another university?”

“Oh, no." Maddie waved a dismissive hand, chuckling. "It was impossible to find any university that offered the courses I needed. So in the end, I had to forgo the usual methods and build my own curriculum entirely. That was strenuous, to say the least, but I had help of course,” here she smiled at Jack. 

He nodded enthusiastically joining in, “Mads was absolutely incredible! She took the class schedules, syllabi, and tests of multiple different courses and created a brand new study path using them as a model.”

“Oh, Don’t forget that you were there guiding me on which classes were more important and which concepts fit better with which courses, it wasn’t all me... Anyway, eventually, we had done enough work to qualify as a doctorate thesis. Then we just had to find someone who would sign off on the work and issue a degree. That sure wasn’t easy, but we managed.”

“Fascinating, so you pioneered a custom degree path?” 

“Uh, Mom... maybe we should stick to the official degrees. Did you know, she has a Ph.D. in Biochemical Engineering, and one in Molecular Biology!”

“Yes, but those are old school subjects. I am much more interested in a degree that you yourself created. That’s what being a woman genius is all about! Breaking down tired old ideas and making groundbreaking contributions! What a story! And such an amazing thing for little girls everywhere to learn about and aspire to!” Connie said, her eyes shining.

“I couldn’t agree more!" Maddie gave a winning smile. "As a child, I always found many of the conventional studies in the scientific community to be rather… Not my taste. Instead, I always gravitated towards the unusual and the experimental. After all, isn’t that the philosophical idea behind the study of science? But the result speaks for itself, I'm now one of the first proud holders of an official Ph.D. in both Ectobiology and Parachemical Engineering”

“I’m sorry? I’m not familiar with those terms...Ecto? Biology? And Para? Chemical?”

“Yes, Ecto comes from the Greek word ektos meaning 'outside or exempt from' and is where the origin of words like ectoderm, which is the outer layer of the cellular membrane of the metazoan animal. Ectomy, the practice of removing or taking something outside the body. And of course ectoplasm, or amoeba-like substance quite unlike any other where all the sustainability is exterior. Although, in a way, the term ectobiology is a humorous misnomer as I’m sure you know bio means life, and typically my studies focus on abiotic entities. To put it in layman terms 'the study of life outside of life'. The root Para is similar, a Greek word meaning 'pertaining to the outside, beyond, contrary to, and the all-around abnormal'. As in the idea of the paranormal. The chemicals I work with are as yet still outside the periodic table, in fact right outside this plane of existence.”

“Oh. I... see,” Connie was getting that look that people who have spent enough time with the Fentons get when they inevitably learn that not all the rumors are false. “So you study the… paranormal?”

Jazz had to do something. Abort abort. “Well, that’s enough about your college days, don’t you think mom!?” Her voice came out a bit too loud and a bit too fake. 

 “Really? but I was just getting started. Ms. Connie said that the magazine wanted to know all about how I managed to get Ph.D.s that weren’t offered at any school and the steps to designing my own curriculum so that more people can learn about the paranormal.”

“I’m sure Ms. Connie is eager to know about the things you did after college, too. And y’know… we’re on a tight schedule”

“Oh, alright. Well, after college and with 4 degrees under my belt, I made my way into the workforce. At first, it was basic jobs in labs here and there, quite boring stuff to be honest. Many of the commissions and minute contributions are still what I am known for, but there was nothing too exciting about those. No, it wasn't until I actually started getting parties interested in my work, that things really kicked off! As you can imagine, it is quite a niche community, so you can only get involved by word of mouth. It's difficult to be a woman in the scientific fields, and especially one as stigmatized as the Parascience field, so I am sure you can fill in the gaps of intern lab work and clawing my way up. Anyway, soon after that I ran into Jack again, our previous work together at Wisconsin U had caught the eye of some fairly influential people in the Paranormal community, and we were offered an internship. We began dating again. From college sweethearts to partners in an internship, it seemed like we were destined to be, so when he finally proposed how could I say no?” She finished gazing lovingly at her husband.

“Mads has always been incredible! The best of the best! And absolutely brilliant! I couldn’t let a woman like that slip away.”

“As you can see, we often work as a team. One reason I wanted to hold the interview here in our home, and workspace.”

“Riiight,” Connie said looking from Maddie to Jack looking like she was wondering how these people in front of her were actually real. 

“Shortly after we got married, we opened FentonWorks Industries. It was another long and arduous uphill battle. We still had to do internships or low-paying jobs or demos to prove our competence. It hasn’t been easy, but with enough hard work and determination, anything is possible.” Maddie said with a proud smile.

Ok, this allowed an opening for driving the conversation back towards the legitimate discoveries, one Jazz gladly took. “They help design inventions, some of which are even commissioned by the U.S. government. Mom, how about you tell them about your work with alternative forms of transportation.”

“Ah, the Fenton Speeder!” Jack shouted, excited to once again grab the wheel and drive the conversation straight off Crazy-Cliff. “It’s still in the beginning stages but when it’s done, it will be a complete hovercraft that can withstand the conditions of the gh-“

“No!” Jazz cut off his fast babbling just in time. “I meant more along the lines of taking the gas-guzzling cars and your efforts to find a new clean energy source to use in our vehicles.”

“Oh, yes!” Maddie took over. Ok, they were in the clear. “you see we have discovered a substance, a paraelement not yet on the periodic table this is the element that much of the gh-“

Or maybe not. Jazz had to butt in again. “Actually, why don’t you explain about...”

“Honestly, while your track record is… impressive and your credentials are... Interesting. Our readers really would love to know about your present work. What is the latest thing you are working on?”Jazz could have hugged the woman as she more successfully got the interview back towards the ultimate goal. 

“Well, we just finished this baby today!” Oh, no. Jazz watched in horror as her father pulled out the ridiculous contraption he was messing with earlier this morning. No, no no. She was starting to really regret this whole thing. It was backfiring spectacularly. 

Jack babbled away, oblivious, “how’s that for the present? Its called the Ghost Gabber! and it”

“Dad! Put that thing away!” Jazz tried to grab it out of his hand. “The magazine wants to know about your work, not your…” delusions. “Hobbies.”

“Well, there are no new huge developments right now, we have many little ideas, but we need time to refuel our creative juices after our last major project,” Maddie answered Connie’s question, used to and undeterred by the various interruptions. 

“Ooh, last major project sounds interesting,” Connie said, trying to follow Maddie’s lead. However, she was still glancing at Jack cautiously.

“Oh, it is.”

“Mom has been working on a new form of self-generating energy. She’s an amazing, intelligent woman who’s about to change the world.” Jazz again interrupted, worried she knew exactly what project her mom wanted to talk about was. 

“Yes, but that’s not the biggest thing. You are in luck Connie because you came right after our golden goose laid its egg. Our most important achievement to date-“

As Jazz had expected, it was the Portal. “Really, maybe we should–” she tried again. 

But no luck. Her determined mother ignored Jazz and steamrolled through, “the Fenton Portal, a doorway to another dimension. A rip in the fabric of reality that allows us to see into the dwelling place of ghosts.” The look in Maddie’s eyes didn’t seem to have a better word to describe them other than… crazy.

“I’m sorry, did you just say other dimensions? And... ghosts?” Connie asked with a slight frown. 

Oh no. The G-word had officially entered the conversation, it could only go downhill from there. 

“Yes, while FentonWorks is involved in design and commissions… I much prefer to talk about our original work. And these days my primary focus is on the systematic capture and experimentation on ectoplasmic entities, or rather ghost hunting,” came the words that completely obliterated any of Maddie’s credibility and brownie points she’d won throughout the interview.

At that moment the universe must have taken some pity on Jazz because in walked a distraction. The door swung open and in walked Danny and his friends. Jazz had never been so happy to see them. 

Maddie looked up at the interruption and saw her son. Danny looked... Awful. Exhausted. He was practically leaning on his friends for support and had heavy bags under his eyes. He looked bad enough that their parents actually noticed. “Danny! You don’t look so good, what have you been doing!”

“Cmon Mom, I'm fine. We were just working on a school science project. Research at the zoo. Alone. For hours.” He yawned, “All night.” Even Danny’s friends couldn't help but stare at him after that statement. “Uhhh... we’ll be in my room.” Danny grabbed his friends and in a couple of seconds, they had vanished leaving behind only an uncomfortable silence. 

A silence that did not last long, the insufferable device in her father's grasp echoed Danny’s awkward exit. “We’ll be in my room... fear me”

“Give me that!” Jazz finally pried the thing away from Jack. She shoved it under the couch cushions, muffling the sound. 

Jazz was Sisyphus pushing a boulder uphill in her own personal hell, but she was long too stubborn to stop now… she blamed her Fenton genes. So of course she continued to try to put out this fire with gasoline. “Now, where were we... Mom, why don’t you talk about...”

Literally anything but ghosts. But these were her parents after all. For being a genius herself, this wasn’t one of her smarter plans. 

“Oh yes, I was just explaining about the Portal. Would you like to see it?”

“No! I-I mean how about instead you show Ms. Connie–“

There was a yell from Danny, followed by a massive thud that nearly shook the ceiling and made everyone jump. And a cry of “Danny!” from two voices, probably Sam and Tucker. All eyes turned up. Then there was an earth-shattering crash as if something very big and very heavy had just toppled to the ground. What were they doing up there? 

“Danny!? Are you ok!? What’s going on up there?!” Jazz called up. 

“I’m fine!” came the muffled and strained—an expected—response. 

Ignoring the second half of the repeated conversation where she asks again and he lies again, and pushing down her building unease, Jazz turned back to the mess at hand. “Ok,” she whispered. “You know Ms. Connie, the whole Ghost Hunting thing is more of… a hobby... They actually work on–”

There was another tremendous boom that almost sounded like a wall collapsing. And something wiring like one of their parents’ inventions. But couldn’t be because Danny knew better than to mess with their parents’ stuff… especially since the Accident.

“What was that?” Connie asked.

Jack’s answer wasn’t surprising in the slightest. “Ghost! I bet it was a ghost! Those suffering spooks are back!” 

“Oh my…” Maddie had the Fenton Finder out in no time, as part of the new routine she carried it with her 24/7. “Jack! ectoplasmic levels are off the chart, even with countering for the spike from a flare of the portal...  Kids! Get down here! There’s a ghost in the house!” Maddie called upstairs. 

Tucker and Sam rushed downstairs, looking freaked out, but Danny was nowhere to be seen. 

“Uh… A-Actually there’s to…” Sam stepped on Tucker’s foot as she came down in a way that could just barely be considered accidental. “Ow! Too much homework to be done for there to be a ghost, we are just rushing down to grab some...uh some snacks“ Tucker said, words coming out too fast as if he wasn’t sure what he was even saying. He bolted towards the kitchen entrance. Apparently, Danny’s friends were not very good at lying either.  

“Where’s Danny?” Jazz asked at the same time as her parents.

“Danny is upstairs...uh” Sam was interrupted by another loud crash, she winced and bit her lip as her eyes darted to the ceiling. Danny’s voice—although it did sound… off somehow—making multiple sounds of effort, grunting, and struggling. “He’s Um… uh… busy...” Sam seemed to trail off. More thuds and this time what sounded close to a stifled cry of pain.

“Uh… Exercising…?” Tucker jumped in to fit in Sam’s story, but from the look on the girl’s face, she would’ve rather he didn’t. The word sounded closer to a question than an answer, not to mention it made no sense, Danny doesn’t really exercise… and of course, they would know that.

“He doesn’t even have any exercise equipment,” Maddie pointed out. 

“Hey! That’s My computer!” Danny’s shout was slightly muffled and far off. 

“He’s using his computer…” Sam blurted out. Then with what must've been some quick improvisation began to spin a story, “it’s a videogame. Kinda like the Wii fit… but online. Y’know the only way I could ever get these two to care enough to work out. Anyway, we just came down here to grab some snacks and drinks! We really worked up quite a sweat,” Sam must’ve had more practice lying. Her excuse made more sense… Ignoring the fact that neither of them looked like they had been working out. She was also probably counting on the fact that no one here knew enough about computer games to question her. 

That didn’t stop all the discrepancies though, “I thought you guys were doing homework…” Jazz said but another loud racket of shouts, crashes, and clattering sounds cut her off. This time so loud that it must have come from the kitchen. 

The adults, and Jazz, rushed to see what was going on and found a trashed kitchen, a table smashed to bits and a shocked Tucker. “Uh...”

“What is going on?!” asked a flabbergasted Maddie Fenton at the state of the kitchen. “Are we under endoplasmic attack?!”

The noises had moved again… they were now coming from the lab under their feet. “No! Uh... I just uh… th-thought I saw a rat, tried to get rid of ‘em...” Tucker said. 

“Ghost rats! Those are the worst kind!” Jack growled charging up the gun he was pulling out of a Fenton Emergency Weapons Survival Backpack. 

“No! Wait!” Tucker yelled, positioning himself between the enormous armed brick wall of a man and the doorway to the lab. Sam followed suit. Whatever was going on, these kids were pretty brave. “Um uh…No ghosts! Just regular...completely normal rats...well, I guess they are… uh...” Tucker glanced at the smashed table with another wince. “Weirdly big? ...but other than that they are completely ordinary and not in any way ghostly rats… nope no ghostly anything going on here… just rats not something to worry about.”

“Oh Tucker, I think I saw some more! Everyone Else, don’t worry, we’ll get rid of them!” Sam said, grabbing Tucker and pulling him out of the kitchen. Maybe she was hoping that they would follow them or maybe she was dreading it. Jack Fenton did follow them, screaming all the while about exterminating ghost rats. Maddie meanwhile stooped down studying the debris from the kitchen and scanning for ectoradiation.

“I would like to know exactly what is going on here,” said Connie approaching the lab. 

Jazz, who wanted to do her best to keep Ms. Connie out of the lab, and away from the weirder parts of her parents’ delusions, tried to stop her, “Wait! I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Hmm.” Her mother did not look happy. Her lips were pursed, thin, and disapproving. She dropped the wood chips she was examining and stood up. ”Where is Danny? I want to know exactly what on earth he is doing?” Her mother said as she began to head towards the stairs.

“Actually that’s not a bad idea, I’d like to know a bit more about this Danny,” the reporter muttered, lab forgotten, she followed Maddie. Jazz came too. What she was hoping to accomplish she didn’t even know anymore.

The interview was in shambles. Her father was being led on a wild goose chase by Danny’s friends, hunting invisible—not to mention imaginary—ghost rats. Her mother was finally realizing that something was up with Danny. Danny himself seemed to be taking a rather distressingly destructive way to deal with whatever was wrong. And to top it all off a reporter—that she’d invited over to try and prove that they could at least fake being functional members of society… Ha! Good one.—was dogging their heels, recording every maddening detail, and looking like a cat with a bird in its jaws. Story found. Plan obliterated. Jazz shuddered to think what might be printed in the magazine now.

“Danny? Sweetie, where are you? Are you ok? What are you doing?” Maddie flung open his door, to see his room in chaos, various things were thrown around and at least one of his rockets was smashed. He himself looked slightly crazed, still tired but shaken up and adrenaline-filled as if he’d just gotten off a rollercoaster or something…

“Mom!? Don’t you ever knock!” He launched himself across his room lunging for the door and slammed it shut with his body. 

“Well! Daniel Fenton! You open this door right this minute young man!” Maddie fumed, fighting with the door. “He locked me out?!” she turned to her guest. “I don’t know what has gotten into him lately, he’s usually not that rude.”

Connie meanwhile was looking at the door like it could be the next big scoop. “Hmm. Reclusive, messy, brooding those are quite common signs of a genius. Not to mention mysterious.” 

“That doesn’t excuse such blatant disrespect! When you come out you are in so much trouble, young man!” Maddie scolded the closed door. 

And after mom is through with him, Jazz is gonna kill him… right after she forced him to get serious help. 

They stood around trying to get the door open, when Jack rejoined them he offered to blow it off its hinges with the Fenton bazooka… which thankfully didn’t happen due to the disapproval of both Fenton women—although her mother had looked tempted for a moment. The door stayed shut, locked, and intact. There was no response whatsoever almost as if Danny wasn’t even there anymore. 

Soon they had no choice but to give up, task abandoned, everyone slowly headed back down to the living room.

Connie looked at her watch and then extended her hand towards Maddie. “Well, Maddie I am afraid that’s all the time we have for today, but it has certainly been...interesting,” the way she phrased the word indicated that she hadn’t meant it as a compliment. “Genius Magazine will… be in touch. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Goodbye.”

The professional woman shook hands with both Fenton parents, although she hesitated before extending it to Jack. 

Jazz offered to walk her out just as she had walked her in, but in much lower spirits. Connie gave Jazz a smile before shaking her hand too. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jasmine.”

“They really aren’t...crazy,” Jazz tried as a last-ditch attempt... “I mean… well,” she shrugged, unable to defend them. “They are geniuses… just a bit… eccentric?”

“Y’know kid, having interviewed several geniuses… I’ve found that most of them are a little… off. But... Well, I am not sure if your family is the best look for our image.”

Jazz sighed, “yeah, I should have seen that coming.”

The woman smiled full of pity, “sorry, dear. However, there still might be a story here, and.. you have our number so keep in touch.”

“Wait? Really?”

“Yeah, people are a curious bunch, especially when it comes to the strange and unusual... I’m sure a story about The Truth about the Fentons would see some traction.”

“Oh.” Jazz scowled at what this woman was hinting at. “A tabloid hit piece about the town crackpots wasn’t what I had in mind when I called you up.”

“I know. But do you really think your parents are sane? Our magazine is accredited and respected. We can’t display that... ‘Ectobiologist’ nonsense. We have our reputation to uphold and... you Fentons have yours.”

“Goodbye,” Jazz said instead as an answer, the politeness draining from her. 

“If you ever change your mind you have my number.”

“I won’t. For your information, I was trying to change the Fenton reputation, not lean into it.”

Connie laughed in her face at that, “having actually met your parents now...Good luck with that, kid.”

In the end, Genius Magazine did receive their scoop. Although it wasn’t Jazz that called Ms. Connie back, it was Danny of all people.

Maybe he did it in as a peace offering attempt to placate both his mother and older sister and make up for his behavior on the day of the interview. It did make it so their mom hadn’t grounded him, after of course he profusely apologized. However, Jazz, while she couldn’t blame the entire mess on him, was still livid with him. Not even to mention that while he was doing whatever he was really doing—Cuz it sure as heck wasn’t exercising on an online video game or exterminating rats—he had somehow smashed her computer. 

Yeah, Jazz was definitely going to kill him...as soon as she succeeded in wringing the truth out of him, that is. If he thought the magazine article could save him, he was dead wrong. 

Maybe it was just a desperate play to boost his grades, which had taken a sharp nosedive and were only getting worse, not better. She had still yet to struggle through that ill-fated conversation with him...

But regardless of why Danny called back the woman from the magazine, it resulted in Madeline Fenton being featured on the cover of Genius Magazine, along with her son and the discoveries he had made about the gorilla in the zoo. Namely, that he had gotten close enough to see that the animal was female. The magazine ate it up and published the story for their women’s appreciation month. 

With everything else that had gone wrong lately, Jazz didn’t have much energy left for a reaction apart from a drained sigh as she turned back to the drawing board.

Chapter Text

Jazz wholeheartedly believed that no one is beyond help. It was her life motto influencing everything she did. 

It made it so she could never let anything go to save her life, inspired her to volunteer to tutor Casper Highs’ struggling students, and firmly set her heart on becoming a professional psychiatrist or a neurosurgeon. Then she could finally truly help people. When she was little, she often dreamed of becoming famous for solving impossible cases; something of a Sherlock Holmes of the psychiatric world; when all hope seemed lost and everyone else had given up, she could be there.

It was a foolish childhood fancy, and it made cheeks flush when she thought about it… Other little kids fantasized about being a fairy or a princess or a knight or a superhero or something… And though she might tout herself as more “mature” and “sensible” and too “grown-up” to allow such juvenile thinking… The root of her desire was still the same thing. And it was just as impractical. 

However, that didn’t make her underlying reasoning any less valid. No, she still couldn’t ever let go of the idea that everyone deserves help. Be that psychological help through therapy, behavioral help through disciplinary actions or rehabilitation, or academic help through tutoring.

No one was a hopeless case. No matter what. No matter how many times she ran into a wall, how many times her plans blew up in her face, how many times she had to start over… a million failures didn’t mean she could stop trying. Because one of the worst things you can do is give up and write people off; forcing them to suffer through the damning label of “lost cause”.

There had to be a way forward somehow. 

Spike said that was an unrealistic view of the world. He would laugh a harsh mocking drawl and claim that “optimist” was just a nicer way to say “liar”. But she could never accept that. He’d roll his eyes and say, “of course you can’t J, that’s because you’re the biggest one I know.”

Maybe he is right and maybe deep down she knows it too. But like her Bearbert Einstein teddy bear there, were some childish comforts she couldn’t force herself to leave behind.

It was also one of the several thesis topics that she considered writing out in their entirety. (The others being The Effects of Growing Up in a Delusional Household, The Process that Form Deeply Rooted Obsessive Delusions, The Parental Influence on the Struggles of Adolescence, and How the Holes in the Relationships are Revealed Through Rebellion.) That way she could put her conviction into words. Watch as people tried their hardest to tear her conclusions down as she rose to defend it. And she can defend this position; she has nothing but confidence in her work. Defend it like a grand knight in an overtly romanticized fantasy; childish good overcoming and winning against the bad. Once it is a masterfully articulated idea, then she can affirm that she wasn’t foolish to think that way. Yes, put me and my worldview to the test. Come challenge me on what I believe. Drench my deepest held ideals in red ink and assign a letter value to my pursuits. Give me the percentage that you think I am worth. And I will overcome. I have never received an average rating yet.

Who knows, one-day others might even read her academic journals and learn that optimism isn’t a pointless venture.   

This determination and commitment to helping anyone—and she meant anyone—brings her to why Dash Baxter sat in the FentonWorks kitchen as Jazz attempted to tutor the untutorable. Well ok, that wasn’t the 100% honest reason. It was more than just an altruistic desire or even just gathering data to prove that she could succeed with even a student like this… She also wasn’t ignorant to the... less than positive relationship between the other boy and her brother. Supposedly—according to what Danny told her—that had stopped… Yeah, right, far more likely her brother had just stopped telling her about it. It would be nice to think he would tell her the truth if he was struggling with bullying… but she knew Danny better than that. 

Anyway, studies commonly showed a strong correlation between kids who were struggling themselves and kids who lashed out and bullied others. So by that line of logic, perhaps helping Dash Baxter would in the long run help Danny. Similarly, the fewer assignments that the football player failed, the less anger, and hopefully the less likely he was to take out his frustrations on someone smaller than him, again namely her little brother. Was that a tad wrong of her? The wrong reasons for doing a good thing? Maybe... But she knew Dash had his own ulterior motives; he had made that painfully clear when he tried asking her to the dance. And putting aside even that, the boy didn’t agree of his own free will; Mr. Lancer had insisted.

No one was beyond help... But they did have to be willing to put in the work. There’s a difference between helping and doing it for them. And as Jazz was quickly coming to realize in various facets of her life, you can’t always help someone who doesn’t want your help.

Case in point, Dash Baxter. Someone who did not care at all about what she was saying. He had been staring at her, not listening as she had explained—yet again—the formula for the Pythagorean theorem.

Ok, once more from the top. “Ok, so the triangle has three sides, right?” He could at least nod or show any kind of acknowledgment. But of course, he couldn’t do that because he wasn’t listening. “The sides are labeled a, b, and c. The hypotenuse, or c, is the longest side of the triangle. So knowing that and what we have just gone over, how would you solve for c?”

“Huh?”

“Are you even listening?” she asked, despite knowing the answer.

“Yeah yeah yeah, gotta find the hippo of the triangle.”

“Hypotenuse. So how do you find the hypotenuse?”

“Uh... math?”

Jazz doubted banging your head on the table was very encouraging for tutelage or professional, but those are the only reasons that she succeeded in restraining herself… and even then it was a close call.

“What math, specifically?” She asked, with excruciating patience.

“Uh...” He fiddled with his notes that he had crumpled up into a ball. Jazz tried not to tolerate stereotypes influencing her thoughts, but boy did Dash look like the picture-perfect “dumb jock” at that moment. 

She snatched the ball from him and smoothed out his sloppy notes. “A triangle’s longest side is equal to the square root of the sum of the remaining two sides. So the formula you want to use is a^squared+ b^squared= c^squared, Ok? Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok, so say that you have a triangle with the sides of a=2, b=3, what is c=?”

“Uh, 5?”

“No.” The slow word provided the extra time to collect herself so she could rephrase the steps. “First, you have to find a^squared. Then b^squared. And then add them. Then you take the square root of that number to get c.”

“So… the root of 5...”

“No. Because you didn’t square the other sides. It’s not a+b. Square 2 and then square 3. Then add and then find the root.”

“I don’t get it. If we’re just gonna un-square them at the end anyway, why bother with squaring the other sides?”

“Because at the end you find the root of the sums, that’s way different. You can’t just skip steps in math, that’s why the formula exists. So what is c?”

“Hey, why don’t we take a break. Grab a bite to eat, my treat.”

“No, we have to finish this. Now, one more time...”

Dash wrinkled his nose. “Triangles are for losers. When am I ever gonna need to know this crap?” he complained. 

“For starters,” she answered, raising an eyebrow as she barely looked up from the textbook. “The test.”

“Besides then. You nerds never think about real life.”

“Well, say you were going to build a building or something and without the correct measurements it would collapse.”

“Why would I build a building?” Dash asked, thoroughly confused.

“I don’t know… What do you want to do when you’re older?”

“Not build buildings.” 

“It was just a hypothetical suggestion. So…” she stopped and faced the boy, giving him her full attention, exactly what he couldn’t be bothered to give her. “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing that involves stupid useless triangles,” he muttered.

“You would be surprised how many professions use these ideas in ‘real life’,” she couldn’t help rolling her eyes at his echoed words.

“I dunno.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what I wanna do,” he said, a bit more honest.

“You don’t know?” she asked as if she expected everyone to meticulously plan out their future to the nth degree... as she did.

“Yeah, what am I supposed to know that already? At my age?” he asked, back to being defensive.

“But... You must have some ambition. Something you’ve always wanted to be or do. Some interest you want to make a career. What about your sports?”

“Ha. It doesn’t work that way. Do you know what percentage they allow in the NFL? They only want the best of the best.”

“And that isn’t you?” she asked, surprised that Dash would ever even come close to admitting that there might be someone better than him.

“Of course it is!… but still the big leagues…” he trailed off, his pride losing the battle against his own insecurities.

“I see. So...” she prompted, waiting for maybe some introspection from the jock.

“So no... I don’t know. And y’know what else? I don’t care, ok? I just wanna enjoy my glory days, get spotted by talent scouts and play at the college level and then waste the rest of my life away in a dead-end job knowing that at least I didn’t waste my best years studying.”

Well, there was something to dig into. If it had been earlier in their session and she wasn’t already pushed pretty far past her Dash-limit—although all things considered, this was probably pretty good practice for later in her life, cuz she doubts Dash Baxter is the worst she’ll have to put up with—she might be eager to work through it with him. But this meeting was about grades—and after mentally penciling in some time to work out his other issues—she got back to the task at hand. “You know colleges also care about grades, right? As in, you might not be allowed to play if you can’t boost your grades. In fact, isn’t that what Mr. Lancer threatened you with, to get you to agree to this?”

“Ha. Yeah, but like Ms. Tetslaff won’t let him kick me from the team; I’m the star. I mean, did you see me last game? Told ya, I’m the best of the best! The reason we stomped Elmerton into the dirt! We won 21 to 7! You were there, right?”

“No, I didn’t go, I was busy.”

“Studying?”

“Yes. But even if I wasn’t, I am not that interested in sports.”

“Right. You’re a nerd, I forgot”

“How could you forget; you’ve only mentioned it about five times since the start of our session,” she muttered in an undertone. Then she took a deep breath. Suppressed a frustrated groan. Stretched out an encouraging smile. “Now c’mon, Dash, you have to focus.”

“Y’know you’re smokin' hot for a nerd.”

She ignored him. “Alright, now back to the algebraic terms here–”

“Really, you’re beautiful,” Dash said, sounding a bit more sincere.

“Look, I am trying to tutor you and so far you are doing your utmost best to disprove my hypothesis that no one is un-tutorable.”

“The hypothesis is the c-one, right?”

Close enough. “Hypotenuse. And yes. Now how do we solve for c?”

Circumstances had doomed their session from the start, and inevitably another thing conspired to interrupt her explanation: namely, Danny came into the kitchen. “Hey Jazz, Hey...” he seemed to process who was also in the kitchen, “D-Dash!? Wh-what the fu-uh... heck are you doing here?”

Her brother had another one of his moments of weird clumsiness. He tripped and tried to catch himself, but his momentum must’ve tipped the table and nearly knocked it over. Dash’s homework papers flew everywhere. The heavy textbook narrowly missed Dash’s head. She almost had to wonder if it was on purpose.

“Watch it! Fenturd!” Dash growled and barely stopped himself from lunging for Danny, Jazz suspected if not for her he would have. 

Danny flinched and scrambled back, “s-sorry… I was just… uh, heh, p-passing through?” his tone tilted up in uncertainty, and the nervous laugh didn’t help his situation either.

Danny, after darting around looking for the nearest exit, backed down the stairs to the basement. Wow, the lab was a better alternative to Dash? That… should tell her a couple of things. Although, all things considered, at least he wasn’t going out of his way to avoid the place anymore. 

“Well, now that fricken pansy is gone,” Dash said in a bolstered self-aggrandizing tone. “You’re comin’ to the party at my house on Saturday, right?” He pulled an invitation out of his letterman jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Everyone who’s anyone will be there. It will be a chance for you to see me in my rightful place as the King of Casper High.”

“And a chance to disprove your hypothesis that asking me out directly after being mean to my brother is a good idea.” Jazz said, scowling. She bent down to pick up the papers. Shuffling them back into a proper stack on the table. The invitation sat there. 

An invite to an A-list blowout. Something she couldn’t care less about. Parties were never her thing, and besides, it would cut into her study time. Not to mention the act of attending such an event would only enable the social hierarchy of Casper High. She knew that this party, and the invitation by extent, was simply another excuse to ridicule and exclude those not invited. To force feelings of jealousy and inadequacy as the elites withheld social validation. She knew the effects such a simple piece of cardstock paper could have on self-esteem…

Actually, maybe she could work with this. After all, if he wanted something from her, he couldn’t very well deny something she wanted. “Look, if I go then... there are some conditions.”

“Yeah?” he asked, looking eager. 

He leaned in closer and she responded in kind; a smile, as sweet as the honey on flypaper, spreading across her lips. “You have to invite Danny too.”

That wiped the smug look off his face. “What!?”

“You heard me… And,” she added, still smiling sweetly, “stop being mean to him.”

“But... I can’t invite... Freakton to my party, he’s a loser...”

Jazz leaned back into her chair, crossed her arms, and tsked, “yeah, see that right there? Counts as being mean.”

“No, I mean, that’s what he is! I’m an A-lister, you’re a nerd, he’s a loser.”

“I’m well aware of the archaic cast system the school has in place, and I don’t care. That’s my price: No more being mean to my brother. And as proof, you can start by demonstrating your change of heart by inviting him to your party... Now if that’s settled, shall we turn back to the ‘loser triangles’, hmm?”

“You got Dash to invite me to his party?” Danny asked Jazz in slight awe.

“Yes, I did.” Although, if she was honest, it kinda surprised her that Dash had followed through. 

“Wow. Uh... Thanks.” 

“I figured some more adolescent socializing would do you some good. You’ve been acting... kinda strange lately.”

“Strange!?” Danny squeaked out as he jumped. “What me?... S-s-stran..ge... like how?”

“Well, for starters like that, jumpy. Paranoid. Defensive. And I know you don’t want to hear this… but ever since the Accident you’ve been showing some signs of unprocessed trau-”

“-Jazz!” He cut her off. “How many times do I have to say I’m fine? It’s been almost two months now. Nothing is wrong with me. Just let it go.”

“I am just saying what I’ve noticed. And however you may think you are, you are not subtle. Something is definitely,” she stopped herself just in time from saying the word ‘wrong’. “… Up, and you aren’t hiding it as well as you think you are.” Uh oh, she was doing it again; putting Danny on the defensive. She saw his eyes scan the room, looking for an excuse to make a run for it... and get the hell away from her. If she tried to block off his escape route, he would fight for a way out with the ferocity of a cornered animal. Or he would do the equivalent of ‘play dead’ internally shutting down and stonewalling her until she left. None of these reactions would be good for either of them. If she wanted to help him, she couldn’t be acting as his warden. So... She backtracked. “I’m not gonna demand you tell me what…” as much as every fiber of her being wants to... “Just... T-take this Saturday to…. Try to get out whatever teen rebellion you need to...” and she hopes and prays that this is all this is. Just a normal reaction to growing pains. Teenage rebellion was natural and even sometimes healthy... but what was he even pushing back on? 

He would need a cause to rebel against… right?

Danny was probably just confused and angry and was channeling it in a dangerously self-destructive way. 

That was also understandable; adolescence was a confusing and frustrating time… so then some time to blow out some of that would probably be… beneficial, right? After all, this was also a time of experimentation… Of figuring out how to interact with others, the pressure to fit in and conform so suffocating… Figuring out who you were going to be… Where you would mark your boundaries… Besides, testing those boundaries isn’t the worst thing in the world…. And whatever might go down at that party… It could at least provide a chance for that. 

After all, it almost seemed like he was testing the waters, curious about what he could get away with? How many rules he could break until it was too far? Arriving late. Ditching classes. Ignoring assignments. Breaking school property. 

He was so different. Was this all him trying to carve out a new image? Try to gain popularity; earn the label “cool”? Avoid the social ostracisation that was apparently linked to academic success. Was he ashamed of being smart? Was that why Dash bullied him? So he hesitated to draw attention to himself? But he was standing out now; grabbing everyone’s attention in a completely different way.

Was this the influence of his friends? No... Sam Manson might be goth as a way of expressing herself, but she wasn’t into the more dangerous aspects of that culture, and she still cared about her schoolwork…. And Tucker Foley was a tech whiz, so he had stellar math and science grades. Besides, both of them were social outcasts too, and Sam was very vocal in her loathing for the in-crowd. 

She did consider the influence of something else… drugs? Hmm…

Tired. Paranoid and jumpy. Irritable and snappish... Was it drugs? 

But… No.

No... He wasn’t that kind of person. Right? She at least knew her brother that well. He wouldn’t get himself caught up in all that… would he? No, he was smarter than that. He would stop before he did something that dangerous… right?

“Look,” she pushed on before she got completely lost in her own theories and half-formed diagnostic criteria. “I get that… this year hasn’t... been the smoothest,” calling that statement an understatement, was in itself an understatement. But Danny constantly tried to downplay the Accident, so maybe her mirroring his nonchalant attitude could work as a sign of solidarity. “And I thought that maybe you just need…” her rapid momentum faltered. How could she word this? What was it he truly needed? She released a breath at the same time as her words, trying desperately to convey she intended to benefit him and not judge or push or anything… “Time to be a normal kid for one night...”

His eyes widened at the word ‘normal’; yet another loaded word. Yet another seemingly unreachable goal. His expression was so hard to read—how was that even possible? This was her too-honest-for-his-own-good little brother, who couldn’t hide his feelings to save his life... What had changed so much? How had they already become so... So distant that she can’t even parse out what he is thinking? “Just be safe…” Whatever you are doing. Please. Please be safe. Be careful. We already almost lost you, little brother... “I’m guessing this might be the kind of event that could have underaged drinking...” she added, unable to help her worrywart squeaky clean tendencies that everyone accused her of. 

“Oh. Ok, well,” Danny’s voice was tight like he wasn’t sure how to say what he really means. “Thanks...” 

“Anytime little brother. Remember, if you need anything, I am here.”

Danny was once again the talk of Casper High. He finally seemed to be in the higher ranks of the social standing, and he was busy reveling in his newfound position. 

Although Jazz saw his friends, Sam and Tucker, off to the side, forgotten. Those three used to be inseparable… It was almost wrong to see the famous trio gutted like that. It wasn’t as if they had never had fights; they did. In fact, she knew that Sam’s menu campaign had caused a rift that Danny had been frantically trying to patch. Maybe that was the difference. This time it was Danny, the self-appointed glue, that had deserted the group… Well, this was just another lesson that Danny would benefit from: learning what people he wanted to be around. Friends have a rather large impact on an individual’s sense of self; the wisdom behind the adage of ‘who you hang around is who you will become.’ And Danny—like many of his age—was still learning who he wanted to be.

Right. It was another one of those moments that counted as ‘none of her business’. If she was trying to give her little brother some space and room to grow, she had to let him make his own mistakes.

Although she wondered about what was going on with the three of them. Did Sam and Tucker notice how different Danny was? They must have. Did they know why? What did they think about it?

But they weren’t likely to tell her any more than Danny would. And they certainly wouldn’t answer her interrogation questions. 

Well, she could at least take a small amount of comfort that Sam and Tucker cared about Danny and would never let him do something too dangerous… right? They were loyal, but they would still know to seek help if anything was really wrong… Right? If Danny was hurting himself or getting into drugs or something? They would know that they needed more concrete help. Samantha-screw-the-authorities-Manson and Tucker-terrified-of-hospitals-Foley had called an ambulance when Danny had his Accident; they hadn’t tried to hide it or deal with it on their own. So they knew some things were too important not to rely on and trust the professionals.

Dash Baxter interrupted her lunch. Which was just what she wanted to deal with right now...

“Well? I did it.” He declared, puffing out his chest. 

“Uh J, you tutoring today?” asked Spike, barely looking up at the uninvited guest to their secluded watering-hole—that the general student populace usually avoided.

“I invited your dweeby brother,” Dash said, as if she was the unreasonable one for having him do something that inconvenient for him. “So I will see you Saturday then.”

“For the love of f*cking Cthulhu, please tell me this numbskull is not your next big ‘project’, J,” Spike whispered—well his voice was breathy enough to technically be considered ‘whispering', despite being fully audible; Spike was not even pretending to keep his voice down—returning Dash’s approach of talking like the other one wasn’t there. 

She sighed, “no. I just tutor him.”

“So why’s he here?”

Dash didn’t take being ignored well, “who even are you, Creep? Her boyfriend?”

“Ha. Shows what he knows. He does realize you’re not wired that way, right?” Spike asked Jazz, still barely acknowledging the jock. 

“What like you don’t like guys or something?” Dash asked Jazz, trying to force his way into the conversation where it should be abundantly clear he wasn’t exactly welcome.

Jazz sighed, she had no desire to discuss relationship drama with Dash of all people. Not that she’d like to have that conversation in general… “I just have never been that interested in romance. Of any kind, really. There are far more important things,” she responded, hoping maybe that being honest would placate the boy enough for him to leave…

It did not. “So you’re not dating this American Horror Story reject then?” Dash, asked.

Spike let out a derisive snort. “Uh, no offense J, but you’re not my type too peppy,” Spike’s tactic to get Dash to leave was evidently going to be the inverse of hers; instead of giving Dash the answers he wanted, Spike continued to only speak to Jazz in an effort to talk across the other boy... She had to give him some credit, Spike was an unrivaled master at the disinterested stare that made people feel there was no real reason to be here; he could stonewall an actual brick wall and get the inanimate object to cave first. He’d used the technique on her until he realized she was uniquely suited for talking at people regardless of how much engagement they showed—she’d had practice with people ignoring her... Which, ok yeah, wasn’t exactly something to be proud of... But that’s a digression. After a fierce battle of wills, a determined and stubborn Jazz befriended a begrudging and impassive Spike. “B’sides,” he added in a blank voice, “since you’ve declared yourself my unofficial therapist, I’m pretty sure dating would be against some moral code. Not professional and all that sh*t.”

She rolled her eyes—and yet couldn’t keep the slight smile off her face—at Spike’s familiar brand of teasing. It was nice to have someone where she knew exactly where they stood, platonically united by their mutual dislike and indifference in the whole dating scene.   

Possibly one day, she might feel differently about the very idea of romance, but for now, it was hardly a priority. Which she knew wasn’t exactly normal for the average teenage girl, but then again, Jazz wasn’t exactly a normal teenage girl.

Noticing that Dash was still looking between the two expectantly, she added with a sigh, “we’re friends…”

“Like friends or… friends?” Dash asked, directing his question to Spike this time, instead of Jazz.

Jazz chose to ignore the insulting insinuation; Spike did not. “Look d*ckhead,” he said, for once addressing Dash, and actually choosing to look him in the eyes. “Just because you can honestly not comprehend a guy and girl enjoying each other’s company and not f*cking, doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t.” He whistled sarcastically, “By the way… Is that cuz yer an idiot or just an @sshole? Do tell, I’m genuinely curious,” he added in a bland monotone that was anything but genuine.

“Hey! You better watch your mouth, Creepshow! Before I make you!”

“Ohhh would ya look at that…” he was gazing at the other boy like Dash was some kind of animal in a zoo. A wall of separation between this supposedly fierce animal and the perceived prey, that rendered the oh-so-strong-King-of-Beasts, lion harmless. “It’s both, how surprisin’… Now look Freshy, how bout you head back to the side of the school where they tolerate your f*ckmuncher attitude cuz you know how to throw a ball and a halfway decent punch.”

Dash looked like he was fighting multiple reactions at once; his face was turning an almost impressive assortment of colors. But Dash Baxter, despite being the Big Man in his grade, was still two years younger. Not to mention that Spike had perfected his part of a deranged, dangerous delinquent, not someone to pick a fight with. So, perhaps choosing to listen to his better judgment, Dash chose not to escalate the situation… Well, he did punch the picnic table in an attempt at a display of force, but he didn’t try to hit the older boy, himself.

Spike looked disaffected at the intimidation technique, which to be honest was the expression he wore in most situations. 

“Here.” Dash finally deciding that he’d had enough, he turned from Spike and thrust another invitation at Jazz. “Party starts at like 8:30.” He smirked, regaining his outward display of Cool-A-Lister-Star, “So... Should I pick you up around 8?”

“Um… that seems rather counterproductive considering the party’s at your house, and I have a car while you do not,” Jazz said. 

“Fine. But you are coming, right?”

“I said I would, didn’t I,” she muttered as she turned over her regret for this whole thing in her mind.

“About the dress code…” Dash changed his mind halfway through, his eyes lingering on Jazz’s body in a way she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. “Well, nevermind, you’re hot enough to pull off anything.”

“Right...” she said to fill the silence, releasing the breath only after he had turned away.

“D*ck,” Spike muttered, still glaring at the retreating silhouette of the jock. “What was he on about, anyway? Cuz, I doubt that was about algebra help…”

Rather than respond, she handed Spike the invitation. He read it over. “You hate stuff like this.”

“Yyyyup,” she answered gloomily.

“So… Then what’s your angle?”

“He said he’d stop picking on Danny...” she murmured through her hands, as she massaged her temples to soothe the headache that had blossomed during the confrontation.

“Ah. More meddling from afar, huh?”

“So what else is new.”

Spike sighed, “gonna backfire, J.”

“So what else is new,” She repeated through grit teeth. Then gave her own sigh, hoping to ease some tension, “at least it’s something I can do.”

Spike gave her a look that clearly asked her what she thought she was doing. A question that echoed her own thoughts.

And one she had no answer to.

Jazz was reading in the kitchen when she realized she could no longer feign concentration. She had read the same line three times and still doubted she had processed it. All that clanking and beeping was disrupting her train of thought and making it impossible to tune out—something she was usually quite adept at. 

“What are you guys even doing?” she asked when she couldn’t take it anymore. 

Maddie and Jack were fiddling with the Mini-FentOven. Uh oh. Whenever her parents tried to mess around with the cooking appliances, it always ended... Bad. Case in point, the mini-oven should not glow an unsettling green. Or secrete foul-smelling discolored slime.

“Making hot dogs,” her mother responded with a cheerful trill to her words, as if nothing was wrong with this picture.

“Yeah! This baby will cook ‘em ten times faster than a regular oven,” Jack put in rubbing his enormous hands together. “Which is great cuz, I. am. Starving, Mads!”

The oven dinged, rattled, and spewed out some more unnatural smoke. Never a good sign. Jazz supposed she should give some credit; the food was at least still recognizable as hot dogs… If you ignored the sick, almost fluorescent green color. And the worrying whirring and growling sound she hoped was coming from the oven. Also, were the hotdogs… Moving?

“Great. You just put the Frank in Frankenstein.” Jazz muttered, eyeing the tainted and wriggling meat with disbelief and caution. 

“Hmm... The ecto-contamination still leaked through. The filter wasn’t strong enough.” Maddie babbled to herself as she began to re-retake apart the mini-oven... “I wonder if it’s because of the meat itself. Animals having a stronger reaction to the volatile ectoplasmic energy. Hmm, while we’ve theorized that plants, as organic matter, can still form ectoplasmic impressions, they lack the sentience needed to stabilize the most crucial part in the formation of a ghost: the obsessively repeated frequency. Jack, do you think if we tried something plant-based like produce, it would mutate too?”

But Jack was distracted by the only thing that rivaled his obsession with ghosts: his ravenous appetite. Jazz watched in disgust and incredulity as her father reached for one of the toxic hotdogs. Ok, yes, something was definitely moving in the soiled meat. They writhed like some putrid slug made of… whatever unspeakable animal parts the average hotdog contained. Jazz nearly gagged; her appetite was not likely to return anytime soon.

“Don’t! Jack!” Maddie shouted just in time; before the man could put that infected substance in his mouth. “You know they have a high level of ecto-contamination. We can’t eat them until we fix the converter.”

Jazz silently swears that even if they ‘fix’ the converter so that the food no longer glows or visibly has anything wrong with it, she will still never ever eat anything that came from the Mini-FentOven.

“Hmm... That explains the color. Ooooh! They’re floating!” Jack said, poking and prodding the mutated weenies. Satisfied with his examination, for now, he shoved them—with some difficulty as the meat slugs fought for freedom with incredible vigor. “Mads! One of them bit me!” Jack shouted out in delight—into a random Tupperware. And stuck it somewhere in the fridge. 

Great. More samples of hazardous waste placed right next to the groceries that Mom had bought a couple of days ago. Jazz made a mental note of what area of the fridge was now compromised and turned back to her book.

Danny walked in, greeted by the not unusual sight of pieces of machinery strewn across the kitchen table. “Hey Dad?” he interrupted. “Could I, um... Borrow some cash?”

“Cash? What for?” Their dad asked, pulling wires out seemingly at random and rearranging them. 

“Well... uh, there’s this uh… Important party on Saturday... And I need to buy some stuff to... uh fit in,” Danny said, his shoulders hunched as his volume dropped in embarrassment.

“Hmm, well I mean it’s not like it’s a problem… I mean we have money…” then he locked eyes with his wife and changed his tune in response to their silent conversation, “but well you know kiddo it’s an important part of growing up for you to learn the value of money.”

Maddie took over, “absolutely, there’s nothing quite like working for what you want. You want money, you gotta earn it.”

“What like get a job? Before Saturday?!” Danny whined in dismay.

“A job, or find another way... Hmm, like maybe getting rid of and selling some of your old junk,” Jack said, fitting pieces back together, a sign that he wasn’t really listening anymore. 

“Jack, speaking of old junk... It’s high time we cleaned out the lab and got rid of the things we don’t need.” Maddie said.

“What?” His head shot up at those words. “But Mads, we need everything in the lab!”

“Really? Everything? That is the result of the Fenton Weasel explosion,” Maddie gestured to a box full of goo, random machine parts, and quite honestly who knows what else. “We really need all of this?” even their mother was gingerly picking up the things with two gloved fingers, as if hesitant to touch them.

“Yes, it’s important!”

“Jack, do you even know what any of that stuff is for?”

“Not a clue… Yet. But, I bet I can find a use for them! After all, what else is inventing but creative recycling?!”

“Jaaaack,” Maddie said, drawing out his name in fond exasperation. She sighed. “Fine. I suppose it can go with all of your other junk in the shed. But sooner or later you are going to have to clean that out. Preferably sooner, especially because there’s probably ectoplasm in it and we don’t want anything to become possessed.”

Well, that’s one way to get Dad to clean out the shed, Jazz thought wryly.

“Ooh, good point Mads! I can’t have those ghosts getting their filthy ectoplasmic hands on my stuff!”

“Hey uh… Dad, do you want any help moving the stuff or cleaning out the shed?”

“Aw, thanks for the offer, Dannyboy! But the answer on just giving you the cash is still no.”

Danny sighed and scowled slightly, and Jack bounded down the stairs to the lab with a new mission in mind, leaving behind a mess in the kitchen.  

Danny turned to Jazz, giving her a pouting look.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jazz answered without her attention even leaving the book. 

“Aw c’mon Jazz, you know how important it is for me... ‘As a crucial part of my adolescent development‘ to fit in with my peers,” he pleaded, trying to use her own words against her. 

“Nice try,” she put the book down and gave him an amused smirk. “But still no. Besides, Mom and Dad are right too; it is also a crucial part of your adolescent development to learn the value of money before reaching adulthood.”

“Please, Jazz? How am I supposed to get enough by Saturday? Tomorrow is already Friday and between school and homework and... stuff... I am running out of time!”

Yeah, between the school he was skipping and the homework that he was ignoring, he must be soooo busy. Not to mention the other mysterious ‘stuff’ he was involved in. “That is not my problem.” After all, aren’t you the one that got mad at me for not minding my own business? Didn’t you want a chance to make it on your own? “I got you the invitation, the rest is up to you. And… Besides, if we really want to talk about money, you still owe me for breaking my computer.”

That seemed to put a definitive end to the conversation. He guiltily rubbed the back of his neck, “Oh... R-right. uh… Sorry about that...”

“Y’know, I’d rather an explanation than another apology.”

“Uh um... I should probably go, help dad.”

“Yeah… I guess you should.”

He ran out of the room.

Danny was indeed running out of time and options as evident on Saturday morning when Jazz found out exactly how Danny planned to get the money. Sometimes, he had the most reckless and foolish ideas. 

“You do know that this is a terrible idea, right?” Jazz asked, seeing Danny setting various things out in the yard. His friends were also helping with labeling stuff and setting things out. Tucker had a lawn chair and a reflector out and was busy setting up a desk-like area. Meanwhile, Sam occupied herself with trying to make the clutter look more buyer-friendly. 

“Whaddya mean?” Danny said, not even stopping what he was doing. 

Oh, come on, he had to know this was going to backfire, right?

“Do Mom and Dad know what you’re doing?” She asked, crossing her arms in a disapproving stance, her voice taking on what he would no doubt call a ‘nagging tone’. 

“Well... Mom said she wanted to get rid of some of this junk....” he dragged out his words as if still trying to convince himself, let alone her. 

“And Dad?”

“He got distracted in the middle of cleaning out the shed... Got some new idea. Besides, he won’t even notice what’s missing.”

Honestly, that was probably true. There wasn’t much short of a miracle that could get their dad to notice stuff like this. However, the underlying principle was still the same, regardless of how oblivious their parents are. 

“Well, I suppose, if you... are ready to face the consequences...” 

Danny looked at her, half in shock and half in suspicion. “W-wait?… Really? You’re not… Not gonna rat me out?”

Oh, little brother. There is so much that I should probably tell our parents about... But what is the point? Besides, she really was trying to not suffocate him or coddle him. So... She would let him make his own stupid, bad choices and then deal with what happened next. 

Jazz sighed. “No... Instead, I will leave it to you to explain yourself… When this all goes horribly wrong.”

Danny crossed his arms and scowled, “And what, you are just assuming everything will go wrong?”

“Danny, you’re selling Dad’s old junk,” she emphasized exactly what he was getting himself involved in; obviously, he had lived in FentonWorks long enough to realize what would happen. “Of course everything will go wrong. Be sure to warn your customers that anything they buy might explode or attack them or something... And I’d make it... refundable.”

He groaned, “not everything they own blows up or is contaminated, Jazz.”

“Right…” she side-eyed the various gadgets and modified appliances… She also refrained from asking him if he’d already been attacked by something today. The answer—which based on his track record was probably yes—would only make him angrier. “Well... I hope all this is worth it.”

“It will be!” he spat. Jazz gave him one last look she hoped communicated how much she disapproved of what he was doing. Then she glanced at his friends, hoping maybe they could talk him out of this. But no; they were as unabashedly loyal as ever. She sighed and headed back inside to get a head-start on the essay that was due for her civics class in a week.

Later that night Danny came bounding into the kitchen, looking far too pleased with himself for what he was wearing. Oh, my… Talk about an eyesore. The color scheme should’ve worked: white and blue. But the blue was the saturation of pale toothpaste which clashed with his bright eyes in the exact wrong way to make them look almost dull and tired. And the white? Danny usually looked pretty good in a pure stark white, there was a reason his family suit was that color. Honestly, he would look better in that—yes, even with the old logo of their father’s face. Because this? Only made him look more washed out and out of place.

Jazz would never understand certain fashion trends, however she does recognize the psychosocial importance of expressing oneself through outward apparel. How someone chooses to dress and present themselves to the world is oftentimes a huge insight into their personality and how they see themselves. Her parents, for example, wore gaudy eye bleeding jumpsuits everywhere regardless of occasion, signifying their workaholic nature and complete ignorance (in terms of her father) and defiance (in terms of her mother) of social norms. Danny preferred simple colors on his shirt, blue jeans, and sometimes threw on a hoodie when it got cold. A typical teenager. He had a few graphic-Ts with NASA logos or terribly corny puns on them, but in general, his outfits aligned with his desire to not stand out.

This was the exact opposite—which Jazz could read into a couple of different ways. This outfit drew attention to him in the worst way. Tracksuits have a tight design to show off an athlete’s muscles… but that was when it fit your body type, which this one did not; it was more like he was wearing a trash bag. Besides, Danny was already on the small side, and the oversized jacket and pants hanging so low and loose that they were almost in danger of falling down—a predicament that Danny wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with if you put much stock in the rumors passed around—only exacerbated that aspect. 

Lastly, her brother was clumsy enough without a visor falling into his eyes, forcing him to push it up every few minutes. 

If Jazz didn’t know any better, she would have thought this was a calculated backhanded way for Dash to make a fool out of him at the party. Oh, who is she kidding, that is probably exactly something Dash would do. 

“Well, how is it? The bomb? Fresh? Cool? Is it totally Stoopid…” he asked, spreading his arms to show off. “... With two os,” he added quickly.

“Oh, It’s definitely stupid I’ll give you that,” she muttered, still taking in everything.

“Well, just wait until you see me at the party. You’ll change your tune… Hey, when are you changing? The party’s soon.”

“Not changing. Not going.”

“What?! But you’re the reason Dash invited me in the first place.”

“Exactly, I got you in; my work is done.”

“B-b-but if you don’t come...” he hunched in on himself, grabbing his left arm with his right hand, unsure what to do. 

“I will drop you off, but that’s it. I never told Dash that I would stay or that I would be his date.”

“Ew! Thanks for that image. But… if Dash only invited me because of you and you don’t come...”

A loud crash cut him off. Followed immediately by the booming voice of their dad yelling, “Code Red! Ghosts have infiltrated the shed!”

“That’s our cue, coming, Danny? Unless, of course, you want to stay and explain to Dad who really raided the shed.”

“N-n-no, I-I’m coming.”

__

Jazz drove to Dash’s house in silence. Danny spent the ride worrying at the sleeve cuffs of the sports jacket like it was too tight or too long or just maybe he was feeling too awkward.

They pulled up to a large house in a more well-off part of Amity. 

“Well, we’re here… I will wait here for a couple of minutes, then I have to get to the library. Tell Dash that if he wants to talk to me, he can come here.”

Danny awkwardly went up to the house and rang the doorbell. Dash opened the door dressed in clothes similar to what Danny usually wears and nowhere near what Danny was currently wearing. The two boys had a tense conversation that she could see but not hear from the street.

Danny slipped inside, looking like he couldn’t be more out of place if he tried. Dash meanwhile headed towards her car. 

“You coming inside, beautiful?” he asked, still trying to pull off the ‘I’m-the-King-of-the-School’ persona. He was leaning against the door looking down at her in a way that must’ve been imitating some 80s movie. 

She sighed, put her car in park, but left the motor running. Then, after collecting herself, she gripped the handle. She was building up the pressure slowly, as if reluctant to pull it. The door opening caused Dash to back up slightly. She shut it and turned to fully face him. “Nope.”

“What?! but I invited your stup... uh...” he faltered at her look, proving that just like he did when he invited Danny, he really was trying… maybe. “Your brother! You said you’d come.”

“I did. I came.” she held her arms out in a sardonic ‘Tada’ motion. “But, I never said anything about staying. Besides, I have an important essay to write; I don’t have time to party.” 

“Oh C’mon…” he laid a hand on her car door before she could, to stop her from opening it. “Everyone knows you are a straight-A student, you don’t need more study time. So, take a break, come inside. Relax for a change. I know you’ll like it.”

“Judging by your breath, no, I won’t,” Jazz said, turning her nose up at the clear scent of alcohol.

Dash laughed, “you ever been to a party before? Cmon you’re a junior, right? But you still need a Freshy to tutor you? Well, Teach, let me show you how to have some fun tonight.”

“No, thanks,” Jazz said flatly. 

“You really are as fun-hating as they say, huh?”

“We may have different definitions of fun”

“Oh, Don’t be like that. What, you a goody-goody loser Fenton?” Dash goaded her, which proved that he really, really didn’t understand a thing about her if he thought that would work. 

“So I’ve been told,” Jazz was getting very bored with this entire conversation. 

“You’re also a tease...” he reached for her, but she sidestepped him, without even stopping to think. “I invited you and your loser freak of a brother to the best blowout in the school, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I never agreed to anything more than showing up. I’m here. But I’m not staying.”

“Do you know how many people would beg to be here?”

“Well, go bug them, then. Or are they too low on the social ladder to care?”

“Don’t get too cocky, Hot or not, you’re still a freaking low-list nerdy loser!” he spat... Literally, she wiped the particles of whisky scented saliva with the heel of her hand.

Charming. At least now she could drop her pretense, too.

Jazz merely smiled sweetly, “glad we cleared that up. Anything else before I go?”

Dash grumbled something she couldn’t catch. 

“No? Then allow me, don’t forget to complete pages 17 to 22 for our next tutoring session.” he scowled. “And one more thing,” she stepped closer, right up in his face, getting the full blast of the alcohol on his breath. “Know that if you take this out on my brother, you will regret it.”

“Whaddya gonna do, Hot stuff?” she let him grab her this time and then countered, catching his arm and twisting it back in one fluid motion.

“My mother holds multiple black belts in several styles of martial arts. You really think she didn’t teach me any?... So I will let you solve the equation of what will happen if you hurt my little brother. Consider it an extra credit problem. Now you really have cut into my study time, so I’m afraid I can’t stay any longer. See you for tutoring on Monday... Hopefully soberer.” Jazz let go of Dash; he nearly lost his balance when she did. 

She got back into her car and headed to the library, eager to put this mess behind her. She now doubted that this was ever a good idea to begin with. Unfortunately, she seemed to have concocted quite a few messes lately, under the impression that it would help… but it never did. Tonight was more of the same. The best she could hope for was that tonight at least provided some sort of—she doesn’t even fricken know... but—something for Danny… Maybe it could help him blow off some stress. Maybe it would serve as a reminder of the more important things in life. Or maybe just lead to the realization that events like this party, people like Dash Baxter, and the whole social dogfight that existed at Casper High, were not worth anyone’s time or effort. 

Or perhaps it would only accomplish… the only thing she could be counted on to fix... Nothing. 

Chapter Text

The short musical tone, which always arrived as a precursor to the start of the school day, sounded. "Good morning, students and staff. This is your principal speaking! And these are your morning announcements," the bright and polished voice of Principal Ishiyama filled the small classroom, somewhat muddled by the ancient public school speakers.

"First off, Congratulations to the Casper High Ravens! On another outstanding victory during the away game against Elmerton last week." A couple of hoots and hollers broke out from various football players and fans. So much so that they missed the following few words, "—ure I speak for everyone when I say that you make our school proud!" The commotion hid the soft scoff that escaped Jazz Fenton; as she thought about the various behaviors that the jocks partake in daily and how proud it should make the administration. 

“Coach Tetzlaff has asked me to remind you we have now fully repaired our home field, and it is ready for use. So practice is on, as usual, this week. Keep up that competitive spirit and carry our school to the championship!”  The raucous cheers started again, oh joy, now accompanied with crumpled-up papers thrown around the classroom... Until their homeroom teacher wrangled control back as the announcements continued.

"Do not forget that we have a school assembly scheduled for this morning at 10:30 am. Teachers, it is imperative that you keep an eye on all your students during the assembly as we do not wish for anymore..."  the principal's ever professional tone faltered; her slight Japanese accent was, for a moment, more pronounced in her uncertainty and anger, "...in.. tzcii-dantz... Students I am esctremerly diisa-pointed, this diis-graceful behavior reflrects poorilry on our school and our community."

She cleared her throat and continued, "speaking of which... The investigation to recover the missing dissection knives and who was responsible for… Releasing the frogs from the biology lab is still ongoing. If you have any information regarding these or any other acts of defacement of school property, please let a member of the staff or faculty know right away. So that we can punish them accordinglry. Teachers, please be aware of these frogs hiding in your classroom, the vents, bathrooms, etc... We have called animal control to help us round them all up, so rest assured that the problem will be dealt with soon, but in the meantime, keep an eye out."

"I would like to again reiterate for students (and faculty could do with the reminder as well) to please exercise caution. Stay safe when going near the parts of the infrastructure that are undergoing reparation. Especially the scaffolding... And let us all wish Linda from 10th grade a speedy recovery. We must apologize for this dishonorable situation and are confident that our school will be back in optimal condition as soon as possible."

"On a more serious note, September is National Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. Please continue to support Casper High in our various outreach programs, donations, the spread of resources and stories as we, along with the rest of the nation, attempt to spread awareness and shed light on this highly stigmatized and sensitive topic. All month we have been collecting funds for the NIMH, and every bit counts..."

"If you or anyone you know is struggling, please do not hesitate to speak up... We have staff and faculty ready and willing to listen. Thank you. And remember this is a year-round struggle and although this September is nearly over... That does not mean that we should forget this subject. On October first, we should be just as willing to talk about this as we are right now... If not more. This is not something we should stay quiet about. Every day, we need to continue to open the conversation... Because that conversation just might save a life."

"Thank you for your time now... Please, join us in the pledge of allegiance..."

Jazz stood up with everyone else, placed her hand over her heart, and mumbled the words without paying attention. She was too busy re-going over the announcements and checking everything in her head.

"Have a great day!" The speaker abruptly shut off, and the school day officially began.

Now, Casper High was not a typical school… one of the many ways to tell was how nothing ever seemed to go right during assemblies. 

Jazz figured this was all going downhill as soon as Samantha Manson usurped the conference. Danny's friend was her own version of rebellious and someone who embraced over-the-top, sometimes riotous, and defiant behavior and a general mistrust of authority. 

That being said, Jazz doubted that Sam was behind Danny’s more recent changes in attitude. For one thing... Why now? They had been friends for years, and there was no reason for Sam’s more drastic ideas to suddenly and inexplicably start influencing him. Even with the theory of him trying to impress a girl, he was developing a growing crush on… it didn’t fit. For another, Danny wasn’t causing the same kind of trouble. His rebellion wasn’t masquerading under whatever cause or convictions that Sam touted; no, he had no love for activism. 

As for mistrusting authority... Sam had a less-than-pleasant relationship with her parents. So, likely her colored viewpoint subtly encouraged a more prominent disconnect between Danny and his mom and dad… But Jazz questioned if becoming less involved with their parents... was a bad thing... And besides, that was one of the tamest ways Danny had changed.

So no, whatever was going on with Danny, Jazz couldn’t lay the blame at the feet of Samantha Manson.

However, the assembly was another story…

Sam had another gripe against an authority figure and a perceived injustice that she wanted to focus on… (rather than focusing on the root of her problems and improving her own health and wellbeing.) The young activist strolled in with the fire of self-righteous indignation and fierce determination in her gaze and a handmade "SAVE THE FROGS!" sign in her hand. 

On the bright side, the administration now knew who (unsurprisingly) was behind the Great Biology Frog Liberation Act. Jazz sighed as the realization—that Danny was likely involved too—hit. For, while he wasn’t an activist, when he could help it, most likely Sam had dragged him along on her schemes… Which was yet another way he often found himself in the middle of it all. 

"Fellow students!" Sam began drowning out whatever actual reason the administration had called this assembly with her—black spray-painted with an artistically distorted purple skull sketched on it—bullhorn; Sam’s personal property from home. "Something sick and disgusting is taking place right here in our school!"

"Miss Manson!" But even Principal Ishiyama had no hope of stopping her once she got started. 

And boy, oh boy, had the younger girl worked up quite a rant, barely even bothered when no one appeared to be listening. "These brutal and outdated methods need to be abolished! With our current technology, we don’t need to cut up living organisms anymore!"

Strange sounds of crashing and yells of a struggle started echoing, from the various backstage rooms of the auditorium, about halfway through her second line.

Yet, Sam remained undeterred, "we can find a better alternative! Like a simulation online or synthetic frogs.” Sam’s phrasing and tone began getting more vindictive and volatile. She slammed her fist on the podium for emphasis, “how would you like it if someone kidnapped you, drugged you, and then CUT you OPEN and extracted your organs! Some of these frogs are ALIVE during the experiments! This is unacceptable! This is..."

People were paying even less attention to Sam’s tirade as the commotion behind her only grew louder and louder. The teachers and staff were now trying to get things under control... But they were doing a terrible job from all perspectives.

Either ignorant of what was going on or comfortably ignoring it, Sam barely even paused for breath, “we must rise up, as one! As students against this senseless injustice! Do you have any idea what these kinds of dissections do to the environment?!” 

There was a yelp and growl and more crashes. 

The curtain started rising. And behind it was... Oh. Oh, no. Danny, what did you get yourself involved in this time? ...Just another way Jazz’s little brother was stirring up trouble, rumors, and finding himself in the center of everything... Yet again. 

There was Danny, put on display like some sideshow attraction, amidst broken props and set pieces from the school drama department. He looked slightly dazed, as if recovering from hitting his head... and beyond furious. And—Jazz hated to use this word, but... well, to be honest, the situation warranted it—a bit... Psychotic.  There was a wild look in his eyes as he struggled to rip various costume pieces: fancy dresses, suits, petticoats, aprons, and even some bonnets for the period piece the school had been working on. First, off his body... And then, for extra measure, to shreds. Some he was even tearing with his teeth, like some rabid animal. He looked like he had just lost a fight with a thrift store. Someone had wrapped him up in some scraps of fabric, over and over, as almost a sort of binding.

It took him a few seconds to realize that everyone, the entire school, was watching him. His violent thrashing slowed and then stopped altogether. He stood there, a deer in headlights. Before he attempted to move again tripped over a skirt tangled around his ankles and fell flat on his face.

Now laughter was competing for attention against everything else. It was complete pandemonium: Sams continued spiel; cruel amusement echoing; the desperate cries to settle down from the staff. 

"The local population of frogs is in danger; If we do nothing, we might soon see the common bullfrog and grass frog on a list of endangered species. Not to mention, we are disrupting the delicate balance of their ecosystem by removing them..." Her eyes widened as Sam finally turned and saw what everyone else was looking at. Her mouth fell open, and her campaign ground to a halt.

Principal Ishiyama took this as an opportunity to re-commandeer the assembly. "Students!!! May I have your attention, please!" She snatched the bullhorn from Sam’s grasp, cleared her throat, "ahem, I said! Ah-tten-shon Prlease!" the chaos died down. 

"Thank you. Now, Miss Manson. Mr. Fenton. Kia-ndly return to your seats. We will discuss this— and your other disruptions—later. In my office."

The two students did as they were told; Danny with some difficulty, as he was still wearing several torn costume pieces. 

The rest of the assembly passed on with no further hitches. The principal began discussing the official reasons for calling the assembly. The alarming amount of recent property damage incidents, the gas pipes bursting, various vandalism, or other ways people have been directly disregarding the school rules. Which, yes, they should probably address... She and few other faculty members laid out the new disciplinary methods meant to stop these... Situations from happening again. 

Another topic finally received the deserved recognition: how Casper High did not have—and has not for a while had it in the budget to hire—an official school counselor. However, thankfully plans to hire a new one were indeed said to be underway. Applications were being checked over. And as soon as the School Board agrees, they would have a qualified professional whom students could go to if they were having trouble.

Lastly, Principal Ishiyama explained that October, which was just around the corner, is the National Bully Prevention Month. 

Jazz fought off another scoff. Ah, yes... Bullying Awareness Month... As if everyone at Casper High wasn’t already more than aware of the problem. She knew what that would look like: pandering and promotional ideas that solved nothing. The best the school would do is decorate the halls with cheesy, overly simplified, and dramatic anti-bullying posters. Right, Jazz is sure the elites, shoving their latest victim into the wall or a locker, got a hearty laugh from the banner right next to them. Probably took pleasure in pinning the 'scrawny losers' up in a place where they could see the rich hypocrisy of the School Board on display and know no one would be coming to help them.

Also, October meant a return of the anti-bullying seminars. Where underpaid and overworked teachers—with hardly any professional psychiatric training—attempted to fix this problem. With rounds of passing a share-stick around the circle and talking, trust falls and watching old 80s PSAs on antique tv sets wheeled in the classroom. 

That new counselor could not possibly arrive fast enough.

As if any of that... Could hope to even approach the tip of the hideous mountain that proved that Casper High had a crisis. A Bullying Crisis. 

In one extremely understated word, it was... Bad. Really, really bad.

And Danny was far from the only target. Casper High had quite the sordid past. Yet neither the staff, board members, nor even the student government representatives did anything other than pay empty lip service to these ever-prevailing issues. 

Not to mention that the bullies of Casper High could be quite... creative in their deeds and experts at getting away with murder. Honestly, Jazz did not know how Danny wound up on that stage as the laughingstock of the school. But she suspected Dash and his cronies or something. Heck, the presentation had almost made it seem like Sam was behind it, but Jazz had known Danny’s friend too long and too well to think that. 

Well... No matter whose fault the damage had been done. 

And that was only just getting started. 

 Later in the week—only a few days into October: The National Bully Prevention Month—it got worse. Danny's locker was the next thing to be targeted. Which forced him to change lockers. 

His new locker? The one at the heart of an urban legend. 

Every town had stories of dubious origins. Old wives' tales told around campfires, to scare children or newcomers, or just to ease the monotony of a life where nothing happened. Amity was no different. They had accumulated quite a few stories over the years... And no, not all of them centered on the Fenton family...

Even if there were more than Jazz preferred... Although, considering that she would've preferred zero, that argument was a moot point. 

Anyway, Amity park was a sleepy little town that made up for that tedium with countless idiosyncrasies. The Amity graveyards were older than the settlement, for instance. With tombstones so old and names so worn away, you couldn’t even read them. Or dated before they officially consecrated the land as a cemetery. Then there were the very, very old buildings. Rotting broken-down buildings, either never finished, or no one had the desire to refurbish... for mysterious reasons. Other tales passed around included old caves, alleged remnants of cursed pirate hideouts, ancient burial grounds, or nonsense like that. Cold cases long dropped by the Amity Police Department. That now lived on in stupid dares that tell children it was a brilliant idea to fool around where people went missing years and years ago. As if that proved their bravery or something.

 Honestly, though, death surrounded any town... Especially if you went out of your way looking for it: as her parents did. Bridges where people jumped; lakes where they drowned; roads where cars spun out of control; houses or buildings that collapsed; or any other horrible accident. So people did what they would always do when they rejected thinking about the dark reality: take a more removed look at it through the lens of a story. Any time a mysterious, unresolved death happens, tales of restless spirits, eventually followed. That, of course, counted the typical spooky stories commonly spread about the midwestern forests: sightings of Bigfoot, wendigos, skinwalkers, and other supernatural creatures. 

In fact, it was these stories that caused Maddie and Jack Fenton to move here, not the other way around. As her parents told her before she could walk: "in some places in the world, the fabric of reality is thinner, and Illinois is one of those places, especially Amity Park."

One such urban legend most likely originated as a misguided bullying prevention technique. A fabled curse that bound the tortured soul of a young boy to his old locker, the instrument of his tormentors, and where his remains are to this day.

Riiiiight. Yes, of course, they definitely would’ve left the body there.

No, instead, it was probably a eulogized name and a faded face set as a placeholder of the countless victims to guilt-trip children into playing nice. A modern-day fairytale meant to discourage socially unacceptable behavior. Do not stray from the path, or the Big Bad Wolf will gobble you up. The boogeyman eats the naughty little children; Santa rewards the good little children. The story of Locker: 724 was the same; do not be a bully... Or else.

No one seemed to put much stock in these tales—well, no one except her parents, but that was another matter entirely—and yet, the conspiracies never fully died down. It was no wonder the story received revivification and renewed traction during the Bullying Prevention and Awareness Month. 

But in this context, this moment was only an insult added to injury. Of course, it made perfect sense; give the Fenton the 'Haunted LockerTM'. 

Was this all a cruel joke?

Intended that way or not, that was how the rest of Casper High took it. An open invitation for more mockery. Her poor brother: the freak with the freaky locker. She would almost think that Dash had orchestrated the whole thing. But that didn't seem to make much sense... Even if  Dash was the one who trashed his locker, to begin with. 

Which she still had no proof of.

Despite all the talk about STOMPING out bullying, changing the culture, and spreading the transformation... No one wanted the star quarterback benched for disciplinary reasons. Dash had been right when he cockily proclaimed that Coach Tetzlaff would never allow Mr. Lancer to suspend him. Even Jazz, Little Miss Perfect, an active member of the student council, and #1 Teacher’s Pet... Had about as much luck as the next person getting anyone to listen when she brought up the football team—the pride of Casper High, their ticket to the championships—in regards to bullying.

So, perhaps in a not unforeseen turn of events, as retaliation for how little the administration seemed to care, something else was sweeping the halls of Casper High. A Vigilante: a champion for the Bullied, as it sounded. 

It started small—Little bits of mischief here and there; a gadfly biting the horse. An A-lister who had picked on one of the less popular kids, suddenly finding themselves tripping over nothing. An unfortunate would-be victim saved at the last second, and the prank befalling the A-lister who planted the bucket atop the door instead. The lockers stuck shut, the combination locks changed, refusing to open so that a nerd avoided the fate of being stuffed inside.—But growing bolder every day. 

Rumors started flying... again.

Whoever this vigilante was, they seemed to be out for revenge more than justice, and soon minor transgressions developed into something potentially dangerous. Sure, spilling a mop bucket on Dash hurt nothing but the larger boy's ego. And despite the blood-curdling screams, Paulina Sanchez had nothing worse done to her than a messed-up hairdo. 

But soon things escalated... a little too far, as they are wont to do. Several A-listers had been involved in... Accidents; that actually could hurt someone. Whether it was a case full of heavy bronze trophies falling on Kwan Nguyen. Or Dash Baxter's face being slammed into the solid metal locker... Multiple times. Or another football player, James Thompson, pushed down a flight of stairs. Even if the bullies had done, and would likely continue to do, worse to their victims… There was a right way and a wrong way to address this problem; it was undeniable which this was.  

Yes, the system desperately needed reconstruction, and while revolution and retaliation were paths to reform… They weren't the only ones or the best ones.

Jasmine Fenton was not a... radical. She had no desire to scorch something into the ground just because it was... flawed. Or to strike out in violence in the name of misplaced justice. On the contrary, she could be—and has been—called a cog in the system. Kowtowing to authority (when it had earned her respect). Embracing the inner workings of bureaucracy (when it functioned at its ideal). Never shying away from the conventional (provided that it was backed by evidence-based research.) So no, you wouldn’t see her amidst a crowd of anarchists, activists, or vigilantes.

Maybe it was naïve to trust the failing corrupt system that crushed the little guy underfoot, to repair itself through the same staunch rules it upheld. But Jazz had never been out to become an enemy of society. Or fight violence with more violence. A more permanent and healthy change arose by changing it from the inside rather than tearing it all down. 

Not that she didn’t sympathize with the radical world view that wanted to raze it all and start fresh. Or make someone else feel as lost, helpless, and beat up as they had once felt. Of course, she understood their rage and disgust... But getting overly emotional and lashing out in violent anger rarely added to the conversation or did anything other than drag the name of whatever cause they were championing through the mud. 

Besides, Jasmine was a rational adult—mentally and psychologically at least... Someone who believed in compromises and appreciated the parts of society that did function and had come a long way to reform its views... So she was ready to fight this the adult way with facts, and peer-reviewed studies, and statistics, and anecdotes, and expertly crafted rhetoric. 

However, she wasn’t perfect. Or as mature and unaffected as she pretended to be... And it did still make her seethe with anger. But she refused to take it out on anyone... at least not physically.

To say nothing about letting herself get carried away...

Didn’t the school board and faculty know how dangerous bullying was? Couldn't they see the effects on the development, self-worth, and overall mental health of adolescents?

She could pull up study after study. A part of her ached to print them out and do something drastic: hang them up in the teachers’ lounge or submit them to the school paper... Forget the colorful cringy posters that only made people laugh... Here is a chart detailing the correlation between bullying and various mental health issues... but, the rest of her knew that would also do nothing. 

Didn’t the administration realize the cruelty they fostered by turning a continued blind eye? How could they not see they were reinforcing a cycle of harm that only made the world a worse, more hateful place? The recent rise of violent retaliation painted as justice only proved that; a pattern that repeats indefinitely. The victims of yesterday become the culprits of tomorrow. Now there was this new anonymous power targeting the A-listers, stirring up more dread and pain... And solving nothing.

How could the school possibly justify what was happening, letting street justice and jungle rule dominate... and for what in return? The continued ability to allow the amnesty given to the sports team and popular kids from well-off families? 

Why? 

Because; the school needed the grant money that the sports team raked in... Because; they were running into debt problems, even worse than last year, what with all the vandalism and… Issues with the school infrastructure… Because; people like the Sanchezes, the Baxters, and the Masons were highly vocal members of the School Board and PTA? 

Tension was at an all-time high; who knows when it will blow, and who will get hurt when it does. Jazz cynically wondered that, if this sent one of the star athletes to the hospital, would that be serious enough for the administration to care yet? 

They were expected to be educators: role models, people to give support and advice to struggling kids… And yet they would still put monetary needs above the wellbeing of their students? 

It made her blood boil and her stomach sick…

(Of course, she wasn’t wholly as virtuous and unbiased as she claimed... Because she also had vested interest in this argument... namely Danny: a favored target of senseless bullying and a troubled kid in need of someone to help him. And if he refused to allow it to be her, and the ship had long since sailed on their parents... Then she needed the ability to rely on The System to be there for them...

Sometimes, Jazz asked herself, would she even care if it didn’t directly impact her or someone she cared about? Or was she just as selfish?  She would like to believe that her involvement comes from an honest place of wanting to see justice upheld for everyone But she couldn’t be sure... Even so, whether she was despicably selfish...

She still wasn’t a teacher. She wasn’t called to that higher standard, no matter how much pressure she heaped upon her shoulders. No one had trusted young impressionable minds to her care. Teachers should care about all of their students... especially those whom their peers deem undesirable or worthless.)

Another mystery to solve, and one that was for the moment more pressing: how their parents learned that 1) There was an old urban legend about a dead, high school kid. 2) He apparently 'haunted' a locker at Casper High. or 3) Danny was now using the aforementioned locker. 

"So, Danny! What's this I hear about you getting a new locker?" asked Jack over the breakfast table, as usual doubling as a construction space for another ridiculous invention.

"Oh, uh, heh," Danny looked around nervously as if something could stop the incoming conversation. "Um, yeah. But it's not a big deal, really. Uh, nothing for you and Mom to get..." he rubbed the back of his neck in nervousness, "uh... obsessive about."

"Why? Is it haunted?!" their father not-really-asked, gripped by full-throttle enthusiasm. 

"Oh, Don't worry, son," Maddie said before explaining why both of her children should absolutely worry. "You'll barely even notice us staking out that locker during normal school hours." 

Jazz, perpetually on damage control for her parents, jolted out of her latest book at that profoundly disturbing statement. "What?! No!" The Fenton parents camping out—along with all their hazardous and questionably functional equipment—by one of their kids' lockers during school hours was legitimately the stuff of nightmares. "Danny is at a very critical stage in the development of his peer groups! He's already a social outcast! And the last thing he needs is you two making it worse! "

"Wow. Thanks for the defense, Jazz. Total confidence-builder," Danny muttered into his cereal.

"And the best part is," continued Jack, as usual, oblivious to both his daughter's disapproval and his son's discomfort. "Thanks to these new ghost gloves," he grabbed the clunky gauntlets that Maddie was still working on and shoved them on his enormous hands. "When that ghost comes out of that locker, I can spar with it mono à ghost-o!" he shouted, flailing his arms around. Punching invisible enemies.

Rather than his imagined opponent, his swings—with the added advantage of his massive stature and impressive height—connected with the very non-imagined kitchen ceiling. Causing a good chunk of the piping system to come crashing down. Anyone else would've reacted to that destruction with sheepish guilt, or at least acknowledgment of their mistake. But Jack Fenton only let out a whoop of victory at how well the invention worked... As it destroyed their house. Just another typical day at Fentonworks.

"Well..." Jazz turned away from the latest farce their parents were involving themselves in and to her brother, hoping to say something to cheer him up. What came out instead sounded weak even to her own ears, "if you can't be... uh cool in high school, there's always college... As a fresh start?" She couldn't really blame Danny for glaring at her in response.

Jazz had a flawless attendance record; never missed a single class. Sick days and mental health days were, of course, important... but they were also something she prided herself on never needing... yet. However, today... She wanted to skip today; ha, she never thought she would ever feel that way. But it would be preferable to this anxiety. Constantly wondering if—and likely when—her parents were going to follow through with their ludicrous plans.

The thought that Jack and Maddie Fenton could be there out there, setting up for whatever nonsense by Danny's locker... sent shudders through her body. Not to mention, distracted her mind from her lessons.

Third class in, and what she had been dreading came to fruition. She was almost glad for how impossible it was to miss the massive Fenton RV, driven by the force of nature that was her father. She could practically feel it approaching like a storm. Her hand hit the air at the exact moment the—unfortunately, both especially loud and recognizable—horn or S.W.S. (Spector Warning System) blared outside. Her math teacher allowed her to leave without the unneeded explanation; everyone knew why Jasmine Fenton was storming out with an expression halfway between worry and frustration. And exactly where she was heading. 

She slipped out of her desk, grabbed the hall pass from Ms. Smith's outstretched hand, and hightailed it to the front of the school, crossing her fingers that she can cut them off before they can do... anything.   

She skidded to a halt, her black flats scuffing the floor at the entrance. She threw herself in their path, nearly tripping down the front stairs in her haste. (She thanked her lucky stars that she hadn't inherited her father's clumsiness like Danny did.) 

"Hello, Sweetie!" Maddie greeted her with a brilliant smile like she had expected Jazz to find this intrusion pleasant. 

"Mom, Dad, what are you doing here? You know that you're not allowed on the grounds during school hours." 

"Well, yes, but..." Maddie started, having at least the courtesy to look slightly apologetic.

But Jack had no such awareness... or shame, "drastic times call for drastic measures, Jazzy. There's a ghost a snoopin' n' causin' trouble."

Jazz stood on the steps of the school, blocking their entrance with her arms flung out. As if even the extensive width from fingertip to fingertip could rival her father's immense girth. "No! The only one snooping around and causing trouble is you. Please, just go home."

"No can do, Princess. This thing," he gestured to the invention in Maddie's hand, as she complied by holding up. "Has been going nuts, pingin' all day. Lead us straight here, and if our calculations are correct, the focal point of this is probably that ooky-spooky locker you kids were talking about."

"How many times do I have to tell you? There's nothing strange going on at school." That might technically not be true... But there certainly wasn't anything supernaturally strange, so she could stand by her statement because that was what her parents worried about. "Now leave before..."

Mr. Lancer came rushing out the doors, jogging along in a not-quite run that only drew attention to the fact that he was out of shape, in hot pursuit of a little green grass frog. "Gotcha!" he yelled, lunging for it. "Catcher in the Rye! These things are slippery!" The frog struggled to get out of his hands, succeeding when his attention diverted to... a fully suited up and weapon carrying Fentons. "Mr. and Mrs. F-Fenton?!"

"They were just leaving!" Jazz said, but it was closer to a desperate plea than anything else. 

"Ah. Mr. Lancer, we have reason to believe that the staff and students are in danger." Maddie walked up to Mr. Lancer, interrupting the man in his frog hunt. "Our readings indicate that something big shifted the overall concentration of latent ectoplasmic activity on the school grounds. The ecto-electromagnetic field is now a level 3 category manifestation rather than a low-level lurking." Maddie said, shoving one of their gadgets into his face. "This is a delicate process, and people could get hurt if we cannot locate and eradicate the breach; it may even rank up to a full-on haunting."

"Mrs. Fenton," the teacher sighed, looking a bit lost at how to appease this woman, made even more difficult because the thing she was worried about did not exist. "I can assure you that... No one is in danger-" A scream interrupted him. 

"Ghost! Comin in hot!" yelled Jack. 

"No! Wait!" Jazz cried in vain as her parents wasted no time in slamming past her into the main hall of Casper High. 

The corridor was empty, classes were still going—She's lucky that she was so far ahead in her Pre-Calc class that she wasn't missing much. The lights started flickered; why on earth was this school so ineffectively funded? Every single locker was somehow open; the doors were swinging in the breeze. Loose-leaf papers and various supplies littered the floor as if the vandal who broke into the lockers went beyond breaking and entering to thievery and then, for extra measure, trashing everything.  

It made her again question what was wrong with this school?

Well... Nothing compared to what was wrong with her parents. 

Away they went, carried by the throes of their insanity. Jazz's mom was as meticulous as ever, scanning each crumpled paper ball, pencil, and spilled ink puddles. Taking samples and studying everything. Apparently, the ink had "residual ectoplasmic energy." 

While her father ran after his wife, punching the air, hoping to hit some strange invisible entity. Playing a weird game hot and cold and swearing, he almost "got that suffering spook." 

Mr. Lancer looked extremely disconcerted—and who could blame him—as he watched the Fenton parents have their way with the school. The overweight teacher hesitated to get too close to the beast of a man, Jack Fenton, and his enormous, furiously swinging metal-gauntleted fists. But there was no other way to get them to quit; other than calling Principal Ishiyama. After all, Jazz had unquestionably already failed to get them to leave.

Instead, Mr. Lancer ignored all this and continued to chase the far less unpredictable and dangerous opponent: the frog. Which, again, who could blame him.

Suddenly there were more echoing crashes and another rattling scream. Jazz wondered if this was another horrible bullying incident, either with a retaliated stance against the A-listers or the jocks back in power preying on helpless kids.  

Scrambling up from the basement appeared Sam and Tucker, moving like they were expecting, and hoping no one would see them. 

"Kids!" Maddie yelled, walking up to them. Sam shoved something behind her and pushed Tucker to the front, so he would take the heat first. "What was that? What happened? Did you just witness a ghost attack?" 

Before Tucker could get out anything other than stuttering filler syllables, Jack interrupted. He made a threatening motion by slamming his huge fist into his palm, and the gigantic gloves made weird noises charging up for something. "Don't worry! We will beat back those monsters! I'm gonna grab me a ghostie!"

"Mr. Foley, Miss Manson, do you have a hall pa..." The re-recaptured frog slipped out of the teacher's grasp yet again, and immediately Sam darted down to save the animal, in the process revealing her entire box full of the remaining liberated frogs.

"Uh... No ghost here!" Tucker suddenly yelled, sounding panicked as he ran over behind Maddie. 

Mr. Lancer's expression widened, "Ah. So you two... ah!... Or uh three I suppose," he did a double-take and corrected himself, now seeing Danny standing directly behind Tucker. He must have snuck up during all the commotion; Danny was far too good at not being noticed. "Created this nonsensical diversion so that you could again smuggle the frogs out of the science lab. The Wind and the Willows, Miss Manson!"

Sam looked like she was raring to go, maybe seconds away from reenacting her entire speech from earlier, but after a quick look at her friends... The headstrong girl actually caved. It was a strange sight to see Samantha Manson looking so repentant. "Yeah, that was... our plan," she muttered, another almost indiscernible glance at her friends. "No ghosts here... At all." 

"But, what about the readings? And the locker?" Jack asked, unwilling to give up so soon.

Tucker shoved Danny back, further away from their parents... Hmm, guess Danny told his friends about how unpredictably their inventions functioned around him. "The locker? Ohhh," his laugh tried to be carefree, but it was still tinged with nerves, "ya mean Locker 724? That was just some dumb joke, Mr. F, nothing serious."

"Thank you!" Jazz said in exasperation. "That's what I have been trying to tell you, but you never listen! Now, will you please go home!"

"Actually," cut in the vice principal, "Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, since you are already here and I have about 45 minutes left in my planning period... Well, you saved me the trouble of calling you; it is high time we had another talk regarding your son's recent behavior. The rest of you get back to class, Miss Fenton, that means you too. And Mr. Foley, Miss Manson, I will talk with your parents later. And I will see you, along with Mr. Fenton, after school today for detention."

"Huh? what did I do?" asked Jack, who had stopped paying much attention, no doubt still looking for the ghost... Until he heard 'Mr. Fenton'. 

"He means Danny, honey," Maddie gently reminded him and then followed (and nudged her husband to do the same) Mr. Lancer to his office.

"Oh. Danno in trouble again? What did he do?" Jack asked. 

"I'd be happy to provide you with the complete itemized list..." Mr. Lancer said in a dry drawl. "But first, please get rid of those... ah, inventions,"  the word left his lips with the heavy implication that he had wanted to say something less flattering... But then thought better of it. "This is a school! We cannot have anyone with... weapons."

"Oh, it doesn't hurt humans!" said Maddie with a carefree laugh. 

"Legally. Mrs. Fenton, if it is legally a weapon, I cannot have it in the school."

"But what if those dastardly spirits come back?" Jack asked.

“Well... I suppose we can put the bigger ones back in the GAV. Besides,” Maddie consulted her ghost detector again, “it looks like the ecto-energy has receded slightly... Hmmm, maybe it left?”

“Scared it off! Ha! We spooked the spook! No one messes with the Fentons!” roared Jack, striking an intimidating pose and shaking a colossal fist at the ceiling. 

When the adults had walked off, Jazz turned to Danny and his friends, "and just what were you three doing in the basement? Were you skipping class?! What has gotten into you? Do you even have a hall pass? Do you have any idea how much trouble you are in? Do you even care about what you are doing to your education? You cannot keep doing this, Danny!"

Danny crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. Jazz was predicting his disdainful reaction, and yet exactly what came out of his mouth caught her thoroughly off guard, "Jeepers Creepers! Yer bashing my ears, Ginger-snap. What? Yah writing a book?" His voice sounded off; puberty could explain the cracks or breaks... but not the overall higher pitch and the more nasal tone he was using. Not to mention the word choice. "Get bent and agitate the gravel, Dollface." 

"Wh-what?" Jazz spluttered, trying to process how bizarre he was acting. Even his friends looked concerned. Their side glances met, clearly trying to have a conversation but not wanting Jazz to hear. Tucker mouthed something—probably one of the strange statements that just came from Danny's mouth—with a look halfway between worry and hilarity. 

"It's none of your business, Jazz. Besides, you aren't in class either," Sam said, rolling her eyes at the boys and turning to confront the older girl. Jazz had an idea what Sam was doing: baiting Jazz's sometimes slightly compulsive adhesion to the letter of the law. Making her feel like she needed to defend that she was not breaking—or even really technically even bending; her teacher knew the reason she left—any rules. Effectively, deflecting from whatever they were doing...

Yeah, she could see through that. However, that didn't mean that she could resist falling for it. "I have permission!" Jazz said indignantly, waving the hall pass—her written permission and proof she was still complying with the protocols... the same validation they didn't have. But of course, two could play at the let's-poke-at-insecurities game, "and an important  reason."

"Hey! So do we!" Sam spat. This time Tucker cut her off with a look instead of the other way around. Then he nudged his head 'subtly'  in Danny's direction.

"Uh, huh? Saving frogs or... Something else? " Jazz asked, crossing her arms in disapproval and shifting her gaze from Sam back to Danny. He was avoiding eye contact...

Actually... Was it her imagination, or were his bright blue eyes... Strangely lifeless and dull?

"Jazz, we get it. We messed up," Tucker said. Ok, now both of Danny's friends were ostensibly working hard to keep her attention on them. Something was definitely going on... But at this point, when wasn't something going on with these three... "Mr. Lancer already chewed us out, not to mention the detention. Do you really have to rub it in? Anyway, now you are making us late for class."

Jazz's lecture died in her throat, and instead, it came out as a strangled sigh. "Fine, just... promise me, no more ditching."

They could at least have the decency to pretend they were sincere. Of course, Jazz knew the three friends were lying through their unconvincingly smiling teeth. But how could she in good-conscious go back to her class, knowing they were going to keep doing... Whatever delinquent actions, and ignoring every rule they left in shambles? 

But in the end, she has no control over their choices. They would continue to skip if they wanted to, with or without her lecture... Or possibly, maybe in spite of it. She should leave them to the repercussions of those unwise choices and go back to her own class. 

So with considerable apprehension, that is what she did. 

"Jasmine... impeccable work as always," Mr. Lancer’s jaw was tight as if fighting a frown. His brow furrowed in worry. He placed her paper face down on her desk with a weary sigh. 

Jazz flipped over her essay, bracing herself... A stab of panic shot through her when she saw the missing letter at the top, where that familiar A should be. 

But no. 

No A. 

No nothing. Mr. Lancer had omitted the grade. At first, she wanted to entertain the possibility that this was some kind of mistake. But that was foolish. 

Red ink doused her essay; it underlined long sections, circled words, and filled the margins. Looking beyond the first impressions, she saw that instead of correcting her grammar or misspellings. Mr. Lancer must have been commenting on her essay as he read it in real-time. 

Feedback finally culminating with the note written at the bottom. “See me after class."

It would be a lie to say that she wasn't expecting it... Or could deny that she deserved this response. 

She had warped her dissection of the significant themes—the effects of what happens when society unpeoples a group. The delicate importance of identity, be that individual, group identity, or both, and the ways society can be force an individual into an identity or strip one from them—of the classic novel and molded them to suit her own agenda. It had been a stroke of luck that one of the class topics tangentially applied. 

Which, hey, was one way to make sure it was at least seen by the teacher expected to grade it… 

Yes, Jazz understood the consequences. She knew that this technically failed to follow the criteria for the assignment. She should've just done what Mr. Lancer expected of her; written and turned in a more acceptable response. But... Her furious, pent-up rage and choking desire to do something … had taken over and written her essay for her. Scratch that, "essay"  was the wrong term... It was a placebo. A virtue-signaling, cathartic mess that she honestly had only written to make herself feel better. 

It was far from her usual style. She had sat and deliberated for hours whether she should turn it in... And yet to leave all this unsaid and unheard… Ironically, sounded almost more like a betrayal of the themes of the book. So, she had made her choice, now she had to pay for it. 

So yes, she had submitted her exhaustive, vitriolic diatribe: framing the administration of their very own Casper High as a corrupt system that allowed horrible evils to grow. 

But even she admitted it was a tad... Tactless to compare something as small scale as teenagers picking on each other to momentous events that violated all human rights and decency. Was this somewhat disrespectful to those victims of such tragedies?

Yes, maybe it was. But change starts on a small scale. Besides, Jazz would like to believe that they shouldn't overlook this kind of behavior, regardless of the scale of impact.

Were the cliques and bullies as bad as, say, the Klansman, or the nazis, or the witch hunters, or any other bastions of human cruelty? 

No, of course not. But the situation could still stand as a microcosm of that reality. Teach children, and you hold the future in the palm of your hands. And what is the continued acquiescence of bullying teaching children? That violence and aggression should be not only acceptable responses, but rewarded. Allow these awful acts to continue now, and who knows what world it will create once it reaches a larger scale.

Bullying. Jazz intimately knew what the research said about it. Which is why it baffled her that no one was doing anything to truly stop it? To look into the causes? To examine this despicable cycle of abuse? And not only the victims, because tackling this dilemma meant reaching out and helping the offenders as well. After all, when you strip away all the pretense, a bully is or was usually someone else's victim once.

Oh sure, she knew the counterarguments, too. 

It’s normal for kids to pick on one another. People are too sensitive nowadays. Fights and roughhousing were just kids being kids...

It was social Darwinism at work; the strong overpower the weak. Kid's these days are too sensitive, this is just how nature works. Human beings, like any other animal, operated in hierarchies. They have for thousands of years, and they still do now. We reward success, and we reward strength and power. 

And it didn't end at graduation. 

Ohhhh noooo, in fact, workplace bullying is just as much of a problem. Children carry their learned behavior—and the knowledge that they can get away with these actions—into their adult lives. There is a strong correlation between the most successful people, like CEOs and business tycoons, with narcissistic or antisocial personality disorders. The cutthroat society of Corporate America rewards those who assert their power over those in a lower position. Those who drag others down to excel themselves. These high school bullies were simply another example of the drawbacks to such a system.

Was she blowing all of this wildly out of proportion? Probably, it is what Jazz does best. But she could stand upon the mountain of evidence that supported her claims. 

And her essay did indeed bring up something from real life… The real-life kids who had taken their own lives because of stuff like this. It was dangerous to say that bullying was the only, or even the primary cause, of the rising suicide rate... 

But, even if correlation doesn't equal causation. We should still look into that correlation. The fact of the matter is that bullying and suicidality are linked. In fact, studies show that both victims and perpetrators were more likely to have suicidal thoughts than those who were uninvolved. So yes, this issue that the administration wanted to sweep under the rug literally had a body count. The Washington State Healthy Youth Survey found nearly one-quarter of the 10th graders interviewed, who reported being bullied, also reported making a suicide attempt.  

Even in their small community, you could find evidence of this: A perfect example of the bogeyman aesthetic was the real-life tragedy becoming a ghost story, now carelessly passed around the halls... All urban legends aside, the boy himself, Sidney Poindexter, was real. Jazz had dug up his old school records and everything… Even if the story about the locker was... Questionably reliable. 

That case wasn't exclusionary either. Sure, the body count might not be as high as historical wars, tragedies, genocide, or even diseases… But it was already too high. According to the World Health Statistics, suicide is the 2nd leading cause of death for those aged 15-24. 

Wasn't that enough reason to care? 

Wasn’t any body count reason enough to care? 

Why wasn’t teen suicide afforded the amount of seriousness and the label it deserved? Why was everyone so much more comfortable ignoring it instead of bringing it out of the shadows? Why did they only care on the patented Mental Health Awareness days, where everyone got a little plastic bracelet and patted themselves on the back for “Starting a conversation”? 

A conversation that never seemed to include definitive solutions. A conversation that didn’t want to look at the possible causation. A conversation that treated teen suicide as some bogey man that came with no warning signs. A tragic accident that no one could have seen coming. 

Or was she, again, being unfair? Asking for a magical cure? Putting the onus of these deaths on the school and its faculty? That probably wasn't appropriate.

If you see something, say something. That was plastered on every wall, told to every student via announcements, and recited like it was some magic spell that could solve everything.

Hard to see something when you go about your life willfully blind. Hard to say something when no one wants to make any changes that might affect what we are accustomed to. Hard to say something when you know the administration will most likely ignore you... And what's worse, those who engage in that behavior might come after you for being a "snitch". 

It may not have been as wrong as the deep south and the government legislature who encouraged discrimination, or those under the Third Reich just following orders, or an organization founded and sustained by hatred... But Casper High had a lot to answer for all the same...

She sighed and reread her own words.

At the end of her last page was a note written in red: 

“ Well, you certainly have an excellent, if unorthodox, grasp on what it means to connect with and analyze a piece of literature. I don’t know whether to be proud or a little unnerved. I am not sure whether to give you your well-deserved full marks on your detailed deconstruction of a system of oppression or an equally deserved zero for your creative interpretation of the clearly laid out expectations on the rubric. It seems such a shame to tarnish such a perfect record, but Great Gatsby, Miss Fenton.

See me after class."

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

"Yes. Hello, Jasmine. Please take a seat." Mr. Lancer stopped shuffling various folders and gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

She did. Then, with some hesitation, she brought her paper out of her bag and placed it on the desk. His eyes flicked to it. Silence hung disrupted only by the soft tick-tick-tick of the clock above the whiteboard. 

Finally, after rubbing between his eyes, the man lifted his head, looking haggard and old. "Well... Miss Fenton, I can fully say that wasn't the response I expected to receive."

Jazz bit her lip as her usual confidence deserted her, "would you believe it wasn't the one I expected to write?"

His laugh was halfhearted and still slightly stressed, "with your meticulous planning and attention to detail? No, truthfully, I wouldn't."

She curled in further on herself, her long straight hair trailing down her back as her straight, perfect posture faltered along with her straight A's. "It.. was more reactionary ... the result of emotion… rather than… any planning."

"Now, that I believe. But I highly doubt that you turned in that emotion dump without reading it over and editing it, perhaps several times, to perfect what you wanted to say… Am I wrong?" 

Her smile was as small and stiff as his, "...No."

"You know the expectations of this class. I asked you here to present your case… What grade do you believe you deserve?"

"What?" Jazz's eyes widened in shock and slight confusion. "Uh um, isn't it obvious? A… Zero, sir… I know, my essay didn't meet the criteria… I largely ignored the given prompt and deliberately responded to another topic entirely. If this was any other class, it would be a zero. You can't just choose to answer another problem in math class or turn in a history paper in science class, which was essentially what I did."

"Well, math class, no. But hopefully, I have taught you well enough to recognize the subjectivity in literary analysis. Connecting it to another class isn't a bad thing, and neither is relating a work of literature to your own life… On the contrary, that is one of the class objectives."

"But… Well, there's the fact that my paper wasn't the most... tactful or respectful piece."

"Ah." Mr. Lancer adjusted his positioning, so his entire face rested in his hands. "No, it was certainly not."

"I accept any disciplinary consequences."

"Jasmine," the teacher gave her a long look. "Do you expect to be punished?"

"I should be."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?  You read my paper."

"Yes, I did."

"I didn't answer the prompt. I barely used the book as a jumping-off point; my entire analysis was a trojan horse to sneak in my opinions about the administration of Casper High." Really, she had done nothing different from Samantha Manson jumping up on that stage and stealing the microphone. "... Have you, uh... Shared it with anyone? Other teachers? Principal Ishiyama?"

"No. Were you intending me to? Because this is not really an assignment, and certainly not the one I gave out a couple of days ago."

"I know. Just... Something has to be done. And well… I thought maybe... I don't know. Besides, it's not even as if... I said anything new..."

"I agree that the issue... of bullying is not being dealt with in the best way... But there is not much more we can do... I hate this situation just as much as you do, but..."

Jazz snorted, "With all due respect, sir, the school is not dealing with it. They ignore it as a nonissue, at best. And reward and encourage it at worst! But they certainly are not doing their best to handle it! The administration has communicated loud and clear that... They are barely trying! We might well count them as complicit in it! Why do you think you have someone targeting the bullies in a revenge quest? Because they can't trust this school to deal with these problems... And now we have disheartened, students, pushed to absolute extremes. Everyone in this school knows the School Board and the faculty doesn't give a..." she cut herself off abruptly. "Sorry sir, that was uncalled for..."

"No, you are right. The unfortunate reality is the health and well-being of the students is not this administration's primary priority... But to claim that we are completely uncaring...  Or even helping perpetuate the abuse... is... an extreme accusation."

"I know... But benefiting monetarily from a corrupt system that takes advantage of the unseen and unheard is the exact opposite of trying to fix this problem. I understand the school needs the grants and the revenue from the sports team to run… But this cannot go on..."

"The administration is trying... At least somewhat to fix this... In fact, the board just approved the idea of hiring a professional."

"I know, I heard at the assembly."

"Right. This has been a very stressful year… What with the vandalism and infrastructure failures and… Now excessive violence... Some students have already had a few..."

"Breakdowns?"

He sighed again, "for lack of a better term... Yes, I suppose that's one way to put it. Through the Looking Glass! Something strange is going on... So we agreed on, well... You are right; something must be done. We finally got the needed approval to hire a counselor."

"R-really? And they are really going to... Hire someone new? Or uh... did they force the job on you?"

Mr. Lancer let out a sharp laugh, "No, no, they agreed it should be someone with credentials. In fact, we've already hired her. A professional with a degree in child psychology and experience as a teen therapist."

"Oh. Oh, wow."

"As I said, uncaring is a bit harsh. No one here wants more names added to the list you provided and dug up."

"Yeah. I guess I... I overstepped. It was an inappropriate connection to draw. To portray the administration as outwardly malevolent... To compare the school with the complacent system that allowed the slaughter, torture, and dehumanization of countless people."

"Perhaps... but I can understand your desire to shine a light on an issue you believe shouldn't remain unseen and unspoken of, and I can't entirely fault you for that. The point of this class is exactly this: to connect Ellison's words to the harsh cruelties of reality. And you did exactly that, albeit... Unexpectedly. And you did it through your eyes and your experiences. You forced a look at the Invisibles of Casper High."

He took her paper and marked it with a red 92.

"What? But... I thought we both agreed that it was a zero… I didn't do the assignment correctly. I..."

 "Really? How about we go over it together? Because I think you did a fantastic job." He pulled out the rubric that he had gone over in class. "Section one Thesis and Organization. 4 outstanding. The student developed a clear and compelling argument. Uses relevant and convincing evidence and quotation to support the argument. The thesis statement is effective at strongly and concisely communicating topic and held stance."

She shook her head. She slid her finger down the scale of the rubric until she landed on, "1 Needs Improvement/Unacceptable the thesis statement is off-topic and does not respond to the prompt."

"Jasmine, what is Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man about?"

"Many things. The struggle to find an identity; the difference between individual and community identity. How the world or society at large can erase someone until they feel invisible. The racial prejudice that was prevalent in the united states; the cruelty of unpeopling a demographic."

"And you in your essay talked about similar things. But in a new lens. Biting social commentary and all, you earned it. Although I did detract some points for your deliberate lack of following directions, hopefully, your record can survive one A-." She nodded numbly. 

He leaned back on his chair, suddenly looking tired again, "and now… here comes the cruelest part of all... just like the problems are not solved at the end of the novel…" Of course, in the grand scheme of things, her essay meant nothing. "Jasmine, you have a genuine passion for this… Not to mention brains and talent. I am sure our new counselor, Dr. Spectra, would be happy to take you on as an assistant. You could help settle her into this school, prepare her for what she's getting herself into… as you know a Casper high isn't exactly a typical school, and it can be hard to enter a small community and not feel like an outside invader. Not to mention she could probably help with the bullying more than I could."

He smiled, "anyway, fantastic work as expected, Miss Fenton. You are a delight to have in class and always bring new insights." Mr. Lancer's smile dropped, "now if only I could say the same of your brother," he muttered half-heartedly. 

She cringed at his tone when he mentioned Danny, "I-is… he still… skipping class?"

"Physically? No. But mentally? He uses English class as nap time... I don't suppose there is any... Trouble at home?"

"No. At least... Nothing out of the ordinary."

"With your family? I doubt that very much, Ms. Fenton."

She couldn't quite fight off the cringe, "that's not what I meant."

Danny and his friends were at it again. They had lasted even less time than she expected. The very next time Jazz saw him, he was freaking skipping class again.  

With the football team?

What? How?

Were Dash and Danny actually getting along? 

Jazz had watched as they slunk away from the designated area during lunchtime, and the bell had not caused them to reappear. It hadn't looked like Dash had forced Danny to follow... At least not noticeably or physically. But still...

Uh oh. Jazz had a very bad feeling about this. She knew Danny still just craved the idea of being popular, a craving that had not yet been disillusioned no matter what the other boy had put him through. A desire and adherence to the social hierarchy that Dash had no trouble exploiting, in fact, it was one of his favorite tactics.

Jazz thought they had already been through this song and dance, what with Dash's party.

But no. Here they go again...

Although, Jazz spotted Sam and Tucker sneaking off to the side, no doubt to follow after her wayward brother. She backed off. By the look on his friends’ faces, whatever they were going to do to him would be significantly worse than what his sister could get away with.

So she let him face his own consequences.

Besides, she had her own classes that she could not—and would not—miss.

That doesn't mean that she wasn't going to pin Danny down and chew him out later though... His behavior was becoming absolutely unacceptable, on all accounts. 

Her interrogation never accomplished much. She wondered if he was as bored with this cycle as she was. It never amounted to anything; just the same old questions from her and the same old excuses and non-answers from him. 

"So, want to tell me what that was all about at school?"

"Uh... What what was all about?"

"Really, this again?"

"huh?"

"Whatever, at least you are at least sounding more like yourself again... Dropped that ridiculous voice and act."

"Wha... Oh. Ohhh. Um uh... right... S-sorr-ry?" his apology was more a confused question, complete with shrugged shoulders and a faltering voice.  

"Danny, I don't want an apology. I... Just what is going on with you lately? It's like... you've become a completely different person."

He flinched. She almost thought she imagined it... but no, he actually flinched. "I'm still... me" he whispered, sounding like he was trying hard to convince... Not just her. "Just... I'm" he shrugged halfheartedly... dropping his gaze to his shoes. "Going... through... some stuff and... Figuring things out?"

Jazz laid a hand on his shoulder... Or tried to, he backed away from her before she could reach him. Instead of letting her hand drop, she left it there holding it out like he was a skittish animal she was trying to coax out of the corner. "Wanna talk about it?" She asked her voice softer than before. 

"No." He shut his eyes, grit his teeth, and shook his head, every movement proving that he should talk about it... But... she had pushed him enough for today.

"Well, know I'm here if you need me."

"Y...yeah," he sighed. "I know..." he muttered in a way that told her he didn't believe her.

"Seriously Danny, you know you can tell me anything... Right?" Had they really grown that far apart? She understood being hesitant to tell their parents... But had she really made him feel like even she wasn't on his side anymore? 

He scoffed, "anything, huh?"

"Anything."

He looked at her as if searching for something, some way that he could be sure that she meant what she said. Staring at her with icy blue eyes so vivid that they almost seemed to... shine with intensity. It was strange to see her laidback brother so serious; usually, she was the one who could be accused of staring into someone's soul and trying to pick apart their thoughts... But now, being on the receiving side made her feel a bit uneasy. Even more so... Because, apparently she still hadn't convinced him...

She almost wanted to ask him what he wanted from her? What did she need to do to get him to trust her enough to let her in?

Whatever he was looking for, he hadn't found. And a second later he dropped his gaze and said, "Nah, it's nothing. I'm... Fine." 

Right. When are you not 'fine'?

It was Jazz's turn to sigh, "if you say so."

Chapter Text

In the end, Jazz resolved to take Mr. Lancer's advice to check if Ms. Spectra wanted any help.

After all, she was already serving as a student helper or informal TA for many teachers. She was the unofficial-official volunteer tutor for her fellow students. Not to mention her off-the-grid help with some students, like Spike. So... How hard could it be to be an assistant guidance counselor? Plus, it lined up with what she wanted to do for a living; it would provide some good hands-on experience.

The door lightly creaked when she opened it.

The office was cold. A chill ran up Jazz's spine; she absentmindedly rubbed her arms, trying to soothe down the sudden goosebumps and warm herself up with the friction. The whole place had an almost eerie, abandoned atmosphere... Which she supposed was relatively accurate; before the new hire, the school hadn't even bothered with the needed upkeep.

The humming and flickering harsh fluorescent lights served as yet another example of how crippled and misplaced the school funding was. Their uneven coverage of the room and more glaring tones made the shadows appear almost weighted, darker.

"Hello? Uh... Ms. Spectra?" Jazz asked, taking a hesitant step towards the desk.

As Jazz drew nearer, she realized she wasn't as alone as she had thought... Or felt. A woman sat at a desk, motionless—if she hadn't known better, Jazz almost might've mistaken the woman for a statue or a mannequin—in a crisp crimson pantsuit. She had sharp, perceptive eyes behind wide-rimmed cat-eyed glasses. And wore her dark red hair slicked back into a working woman's 1950s-Esque high beehive hairdo.

She cut quite an impressive figure.

But that intimidation lessened somewhat when she smiled. A wide grin spread with an air of someone putting on a splendid performance. "Hello! My dear," her captivating voice shook the small room. "I wasn't expecting anyone so soon. As you can see, I am still settling in..." she gestured to the several unopened boxes that sat around her desk.

"I-uh... I can come back later..."

"Oh, no, no, no. No need," the counselor intervened before Jazz could turn and leave. "I always have time for a struggling young mind." The woman spread out her arms in a beckoning motion. "So, what brings you into my office? Trouble with school? Hmm?" Her voice dripped with honey leaden sympathy.

"Oh. Uh... No, I..." Jazz tried to explain, but Ms. Spectra cut her off again.

"Ah." She nodded sagely. "So... Trouble at home, then? Parental problems, perhaps?" Those great, intuitive eyes were peering into the inner workings of her mind. Studying Jazz.

"N-no..." Jazz stopped, finding herself pausing... To think about the several 'parental problems' that she faced daily. "W-well... y-ye..." Jazz shook her head to collect her unusually unorganized thoughts. Reminded herself this is not her priority right now, "no."

Ms. Spectra's expression was hard to read, but Jazz knew that look: a woman on a mission. Peering into a microscope and documenting every slight movement. A look often on her mother's face. Not to mention the number of times it had doubtlessly graced her own. "Just a general dissatisfaction with life, then?" Ms. Spectra asked. "Are you frustrated? Feeling out of place? Wasted potential? No one listens to you? Or lets you do anything?" Ms. Spectra oozed a calm, strange... Compassion... That made Jazz want to tell her everything. Here was someone who might actually listen.

Here was someone who she could rely on... trust to make things better. To help.

"No!" Jazz backtracked at once, feeling meek and almost embarrassed. She was screwing up that all-important first impression. "I mean... Sorry. It's just..." Deep breath. Calm your racing thoughts. Focus on what you came to do. "My name is Jasmine Fenton... uh, but I go by Jazz."

Ms. Spectra's eyes lit up at the introduction. "Ah. I see." Jazz internally braced herself, wanting to get the normal reaction to her name out of the way as soon as possible. Ms. Spectra may be a newcomer, but she must have heard something about the Fentons... Or she wouldn't've had such a pronounced reaction.

Jazz let loose a breathy, almost-scoff—fogging up in front of her face to showcase just how freaking cold it was in the room—that concealed her next word, "yeah."

"Well then, of course, you don't need any help... Now do you?"

"Wh-wha?"

"Can I let you in on a little secret?" the woman gave a light tittering, conspiratory laugh, reminding Jazz of some of her more gossipy classmates. "Just between the two of us? I am a bit star-struck to meet the talk of the Teachers' Lounge."

"Wait... Wh-what... me ?"

"Oh, no need to be so modest. Your reputation precedes you..."

"My reputation?" Hers. Not her parents'. That was... new. That was what she had always wanted... Right?

"Oh come now, you must know how much your teachers adoooore you. I have barely been here a few days, and I already have heard so much about The Jasmine Fenton. The genius. The pride and joy of Casper High. The perfect student. #1 Teacher's Pet. I say, the pressure you feel must be so insanely intense...Ah, it warms my heart to see students rising to their full potential."

"Uh... Um... Thank you?" Jazz's mouth was dry, and her tongue felt slow. "Now, about why I am here..."

"Oh, of course. It was wrong of me to assume that you don't struggle just like everyone else. Perfectionists can often feel as though they must keep moving, or they will drown in all those... Expectations. Or that The Whole Wide World will collapse if you let yourself express a single moment of... Vulnerability. The air at the top of Everest can feel a little thin, can't it? But no matter what anyone says or how lost you feel, you can't let that discourage you. Ok? When you want something to prove, there's nothing greater than a challenge. We may glorify peace and happiness, but it's the pursuit, the struggle that changes you as you fight for your peace, that makes you who you are."

"I..." Jazz found that she had slipped into a chair. It took her what felt like forever—but was likely really only a few seconds—to regain her train of thought. And even longer to find her voice. When she did, it came out soft, and no matter how much she wanted to deny it... vulnerable. "No, I... I'm not here for a session. It's... Not about me."

"Oh? Not about you? Oh honey," Ms. Spectra laid a comforting hand on her shoulder; it felt like a ton of bricks. "Do you... Do you feel as though you shouldn't... Not allowed to... talk about your problems? That you can't... don't even have the option of making a single misstep? I understand feeling that way. That's a perfectly fine and natural thing... Nothing to be ashamed of. Human beings survive through striving for constant approval, after all. To top it all off, you are a teenager amid such a confusing and tremulous time... So much so that you'd kill for a bit of stability. An overachiever like yourself must feel forced to make your own. But, you shouldn't ignore your own mental health in your efforts to fix others."

"Wh-what? N-no," Jasmine had always prided herself on being self-aware. She knew she had her own gaping blind spots. Knew what traps would do her in and how best to walk that line and avoid falling. Juggled her tendencies to worry too much. To become swept up and carried away. Everything everyone always accused of her. She was always overly involved. Too pushy, too stubborn, and too prideful. She took after her mother: never able to be satisfied until she had proven herself right. Constantly fighting against expectations; and never ever capable of letting go of an idea once it overtook her mind like a weed. She took after her father too: her misguided attempts to help; that only seemed to make things worse.

She already knew that.

But there was something so—she didn't even know how to categorize it... Terrifying? Relieving? Horrible? Wonderful?—about someone else looking at her, not as a gold-plated ideal, but as something broken or fragile; what she really was: a little girl trying too hard. "I mean..." Deep breath. Stabilize yourself, your thoughts... Create your own stability when the world starts shaking under your feet. "I-I am f-fine..." As self-aware as she was, she had to appreciate the grim irony of those words coming from her to someone who just wanted to help. Take a deep breath. Focus on your task at hand. "There's a bigger problem here."

Ms. Spectra looked her over, scrutinizing every aspect of Jazz: her tone of voice, word choice, and body language. All of which were struggling to maintain her usual self-assurance. So this was what a professional at tearing down walls and mental barriers looked like. This was someone whose job it was to see the cracks in the armor. Someone who had experience with moody, sulking, stubborn teenagers, blocking out everything and everyone. Refusing anything that might be in their best interest. Someone who had seen it all before and therefore it felt impossible, not to mention pointless, to lie. No, the only option left was to open up and admit the deep-seated secrets you held.

Ms. Spectra must have seen how 'not fine' she was... But she only gave a half inviting and half disappointed smile, understanding that Jazz wasn't ready to talk about that yet. "Of course, My apologies. I can often let myself get carried away." Jazz watched as the woman backed off, didn't push or demand an answer but allowed Jazz to refuse to accept the offered and needed help.

Oh. This is what a professional does when their patient doesn't want to admit there's a problem. The exact opposite of what Jazz does to her brother: try to beat down his barriers and forcefully drag him out of his comfort zone. "I'm sure you can understand that. Besides, you must have friends or perhaps your parents that you can confide in?" And then, after emphasizing that it's ok for Jazz to have her own struggles... Ms. Spectra subtly reminded Jazz that she shouldn't face this alone. That her peer groups and family could provide social support...

It was like watching a master artist effortlessly manipulate the brush to perform each stroke on a canvas. Compared to Ms. Spectra's professional sessions, Jazz's own efforts to help were like a child making a mess, with paint on her fingers and all over the floor. Staring at the blots on the paper that resembled nothing close to the ideal.

Jazz cleared her throat, which had a growing choking bulge, and tried again. "Ms. Spectra..."

"Dr. actually," the woman corrected with a wink. "I didn't slave away in med school for nothing, my dear."

"Right... Uh, well, Dr. Spectra... I... know you're new. So, I don't know if you have noticed yet… But there's an overabundance of bullying at Casper High and..."

"Oh, yes. It's so awful that those who feel betrayed by the system believe there's no other choice but to turn to violence." Dr. Spectra's voice wobbled, overwhelmed by surging emotion.

"Ah. So I guess you also heard about... the recent retaliation."

"Such a pity. Desperate people, who feel like they will never have a voice, think that the only way to be seen is to create chaos. Then at least someone will notice the trouble they've caused. Tell me, how long has this school had this problem?"

"Too long."

"I see. Well, soon, I can start getting to work fixing this... mayhem. But every problem is an opportunity to improve, and that is what we are here to do; give those poor unfortunate delinquents the opportunity of change ."

"I was wondering... If you needed any help or would like an assistant or something."

"Oh, aren't you sweet? I can see how you got your glowing reputation. But... are you sure you are up to the task? It's a lot of work, plus there's a lot more that goes into this job than you might think. Psychology isn't a straightforward study. It would be irresponsible for me to allow someone without the proper training to be too heavily involved. It can be a delicate thing, you know, human psychology; you must know, precisely, what you're doing or risk making it... Worse. You always have to be cautious of jumping to conclusions or giving someone fraudulent advice. Even I, as a professional, constantly have to pull myself back... Let others speak. Not let myself put words into their mouths or diagnoses in their head. But, oh, there I go again... I could blather on for hours... It's such a fascinating subject, don't you agree?"

Jazz felt that familiar feeling of being underestimated because of her age creeping up on her. Battling with a growing worry: that is quite literally what she has been doing... You might only make things worse. Yeah... That follows. Maybe it was her own meddling that had exacerbated her little brother's problems to the out-of-control extent they were in now. "I know... I'm already taking consecutive college courses in psychology... I hope to make it my career someday. I want to help people, starting with my own community."

"Really? Oh, wow. So determined and mature. You seem to have everything figured out, and at your age... My my my, well... I suppose that is to be expected of the genius at the top of her class. I would be delighted to have you, but right now, I already have an assistant." Here she gestured to a short and stout little man opening boxes on the other side of the office, whom Jazz had somehow completely missed. Was he there the whole time? How was he so silent, opening boxes without a sound? "Besides, I am sure a brilliant girl, such as yourself, has other priorities. Class commitments, college essays to write, academic competitions to star in, and of course, all that tutoring to do. The last thing I would want to do is add even more stress to an already full plate."

"I can handle it." Jazz repeated. Reasserting herself. She had shrunken back down to a small child, face to face with the mirror of the professional she always tried to be. But now? She needed to pull herself back up. Where did all her confidence go? She is Jasmine Fenton... She can handle any insane thing that comes her way. She's proven that time and time again... So what if she's not as perfect as she appears... She's still exceptional, and she can still fake perfect perfectly well.

"Are you sure? You know, it isn't a selfish thing to... want to take some time for yourself. If you are too busy, please, tell someone. Rather than working yourself to the bone so as not to disappoint anyone."

"I am sure. I know I can handle it."

"Alright, if you insist. Maybe I can find something for you to do... That is... If you really want to help."

"I do."

"Oh, how refreshing the assurance of youth! I wish I had your confidence and drive when I was younger. How incredible it must be to be a perfectionist. Well, as you mentioned, I am new to this school... So I need an informant. No doubt you must know everything that goes on around here. Anything you can tell me about these recent... Incidents?"

"I... uh, have a few... theories. But nothing... concrete."

"Worried about jumping to conclusions yourself, hm?"

"Yeah... Also, I know they are in the wrong... But it's hard to want them to be punished... While known tormentors get away with... everything. At least they were trying to help... Even if they were going about it in the wrong way."

"I see. Well, with your help, we can make sure people see that this is not the answer. Show them that blowing out someone else's candle won't make theirs shine any brighter. The correct response to this is to stand up and speak out with maturity and personal responsibility. And above all else, help those who feel they have to make others small to feel tall. Spread positivity through these dark halls and kill them with kindness. I look forward to working with you, Jasmine."

"Me too. Thank you so much, Dr. Spectra. I won't let you down."

"No..." Dr. Spectra's vivid red lips slowly split into her widest smile yet. Jazz fought off yet another shiver— note to self: when working with Dr. Spectra, bring a jacket cuz that woman loves to keep it so cold. "I am sure you won't."

Danny's delinquent behavior had spread, infecting other things than just school. He was missing curfews; they would find out last minute he was over at one of his friend's houses or once or twice he had just never come home the previous night.

He was dodging household chores. Now, considering that one of his duties was to clean The Lab, The place where all of his trauma stemmed from— Yes, he had finally stopped going out of his way to avoid it... But going down there probably still brought up harrowing memories—Jazz had tried to get her parents to see that... Maybe he should be exempt from that particular job . Even if it was just a precaution against another bout of PTSD or a sudden panic attack, or heaven forbid his clumsiness causing another accident. It was dangerous down there.

She had no such qualms about doing the dishes or taking out the trash, though.

Danny had apparently graduated from hating the lab and was now shunning everything having to do with home. They hardly ever saw him at Fentonworks anymore... Danny often woke up late, so that if he ate breakfast—and some days he skipped altogether; which was not healthy, not that he ever listened to her.—it had to be fast. Grabbing something quick like a granola bar and rushing out the door. After school... He would either stay out with his friends. Or he came home, usually with his friends in tow, made a beeline for his room, and stayed there. Sometimes making no noise, so it was almost like they weren't even there. Or maybe they really weren't, because more than once, when Jazz went to check on him, the room was empty. He was sometimes out so late that no one knew what time he got back... Or at least could reliably prove he hadn't been in his room the whole time. He frequently missed dinners... Even accounting for the rarity of Family Dinners in the Fenton house because their parents worked so much.

Through some miracle, their parents had actually started to recognize something was wrong. Now, Jazz just had to make sure that they actually helped him... Instead of assuming he's 'overshadowed by a ghost' or something.

It was late. Very late. Jazz was trying to read on the chair next to the couch. Trying being the operative word because it was no use, she was too worried to fall into the zone.

Both Maddie and Jack were, for once, not in the lab.

The last member of the household was nowhere to be seen, and the reason the other three were all on high alert.

Maddie was pacing the living room nervously, biting her lip, and glancing up at the clock every couple of seconds. Jack was fiddling with something, but it actually seemed like the invention was not his primary focus; it was just something for his hands to do. He also kept stopping his work. His gaze fell on the door. As if he hoped—like they all did—that any minute now, Danny was going to come through it. Then moved to the clock; the little novelty ghosts that decorated the hands circled in what seemed like slow motion. Or finally to his pacing wife.

Maddie made a call on her phone... Again. No doubt trying to reach Danny's cell. "Why do we even pay for this thing if you never pick up? " She grumbled in frustration.

Jack suggested loading up the Fenton RV and going out looking for him. ("What if a ghost captured him?")

Giving up on her book, Jazz left to double-check that Danny hadn't somehow snuck back into his room without them noticing. After returning, in low spirits, to the same armchair she just left, Jazz asked if anyone had called his friends.

Her mother agreed it was a good idea and dialed another number. "Hello, Angela? This is Maddie. I don't suppose Danny is over at your house hanging with Tucker, is he?"

Silence as Mrs. Foley said something Jazz couldn't hear.

Maddie gripped her phone tighter. "Yes, I know what time it is..." How could she not? Maddie had been watching the living room clock like a hawk. As if she could interrogate it to tell her where her son was. "Yes, I know it's a school night..." Maddie's worry racked through her body as she breathed out. "Please, Ange, can you check? He's still not home. At this point... I'm almost hoping he forgot to tell me he was working late on some project or spending the night or something."

Another tense few minutes while Angela Foley no doubt barged into Tucker's room, hopefully, to find some lead on Danny's whereabouts.

"Oh... I hope so... Yes... You, too. Thank you, Angela. Bye," Maddie hung up. "Well... He's not at Tucker's," she relayed to the living room. "And Tucker says he doesn't know where he is..."

"Have you tried Sam?" Jazz said.

Maddie pinched the bridge of her nose between her eyes. Steeled herself for a conversation with the Mansons and dialed the number. "Hello Pamela, this is Maddie Fenton-please-don't-hang-up! I was wondering if you knew where Danny is. He hasn't come home yet, and I'm getting worried..." Pamela Manson was much louder than Angela Foley, but Jazz still couldn't make out the words... She just knew that they were unpleasant from the overall shrill tone... Well, that and both her general knowledge of the Mansons and her mother's deepening frown.

"I wasn't accusing your daughter of anything... Yes, I am sure she is... My son is not a delinquent!... I..." Maddie's face grew red with embarrassment or anger or both. "Now, that is uncalled for... Please, can you just check?..."

Maddie pulled the phone away from her ear and covered the speaker with her hand as Sam Manson's loud voice started competing with Pamela's. After the awkward not-silence—of two people yelling on the other side of the phone call without their words being clear, though easily guessed through context—Maddie lifted the receiver to her ear again. "I see. Thank you, Pamela. Yes... I... Understand... Sorry for disturbing you and your family... Goodnight." She hung up with a frustrated exhale through her nose.

"No luck. Danny is not at the Mansons, and Sam doesn't know where he is, either... Where could he be? This isn't like him."

"Maybe he went to the park... or somewhere to stargaze?" Jazz suggested, trying to wrack her brain for what her brother could be doing. Because her mother was right, this wasn't like him.

Well... Ok, yes, once or twice when Danny was little, he had run away. When he later confided in Jazz, he admitted it was a kind of experiment to see who would notice... Danny struggled with people overlooking him and making him feel invisible...

He had been mad at Jazz when she had tracked him down to one of The Amity Park parks. Mad because their parents hadn't noticed, they were down in the lab.

"Maybe he was ambushed and captured by a ghost," Jack repeated his earlier suggestion.

"Or..." Jazz interrupted her father. "Maybe he is on his way home but is just... running late?"

"Nearly an hour late?" Maddie asked, her voice higher from anger and worry.

It was another high-strung half an hour before the door finally opened.

Danny came in, looking demoralized and frustrated.

"Daniel James Fenton! Where have you been?!" Maddie demanded.

He looked up and noticed the gathering in the living room with a look of shock. He probably expected to go straight to his room with no one the wiser what time he came home. Pretending that he had been in there all night. Only possibly needing to fend off Jazz's interrogation if she wasn't too deep in her studies. "Oh... Um..."

"You missed your curfew again, young man," Jack added, looking up again from the invention in favor of his child.

Danny sighed. "I'm sorry... I just... Uh..."

"Where were you?" Maddie demanded again.

"I uh... got caught up..." his eyes widened as he scrambled for an answer which, considering he had to go looking for it or craft it, was probably not the truth. "In this really hard... battle... uh, video-game battle!" he coughed awkwardly. "Was hanging with Tuck… we uh… Lost track of time?"

"Try again. I called your friends. Mrs. Foley, Tucker, Mrs. Manson, and Sam all said they didn't know where you were."

"Oh. I uh..." Danny shrugged with a pained grimace, having no other explanation after being caught in the lie.

"Do you have any idea how worried we were? We thought something had happened to you!"

Danny muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "never noticed before."

Maddie's face paled in anger and maybe a bit of—warranted—shame. "What?"

"Nothing," he said too quickly.

"This is becoming a pattern, Danny!"

"Yeah..." his eyes dropped to his feet. "I... Know... I'm sorry." There it was again... Danny tried to make himself look as small as possible, submitting to authority.

He wasn't lashing out. He wasn't yelling or facing off in disrespectful or hostile defiance. He didn't have any real excuses or even a defense for his actions. No, instead, this was remorse. He was ashamed. Upset, but he didn't seem angry at being caught... More upset at himself for doing the wrong thing. He had always wanted people to be happy, to be proud of him. It was far more likely for Danny to compulsively seek approval. Rather than destructively rebel. Honestly, both Fenton children shared that tendency: a common symptom of insecure attachment resulting from parental neglect.

This was proof that he wasn't doing this just to be rebellious. He wasn't a good liar or actor, so there would be no way for him to fake that. He really was sorry. He really had wanted to please their parents and follow the rules... But something kept him from doing so. What? What was it? And if it honestly wasn't his fault, why not just say that? If he had a legitimate reason, why didn't he share it? What was going on?

Was he trying to protect his friends? No, they said they didn't know where he was... They could lie, sure... But they were both in their homes, while Danny was not... Like anything else with his recent behavior...

It didn't make a lick of sense.

"It's not even just the coming home late..." Maddie started.

"Yeah, you're also shirking from your chores," Jack cut in, tightening a bolt on his contraption too hard in anger.

"We just had another parent-teacher conference to talk about your grades and overall behavior in school..." She stressed the word 'another' like someone nearing her wit's end." Really, Danny, your grades are one thing—and something we will definitely discuss—but what is this about vandalism and skipping classes?"

"And we need to talk about your chores," Jack repeated.

"Uh... You already said that," Danny said hesitantly.

"Yes, but do you know what happens when you don't do them? They have to be done, and the rest of us get stuck with them. You know how busy we are," Jack grumbled before returning to the invention.

"Jazz suggested that... Maybe it might be the lab... that's the problem... Danny, are you scared to go back to the lab?" Maddie asked, guilt slowing her voice.

"What?... No! Of course not." Danny looked shocked at the mere suggestion. He shot Jazz a dirty look.

"Then there should be no problem with doing your chores," Jack said gruffly.

"There isn't... I just forgot. Look, I... I'm... just under a lot of pressure right now... You have no idea what... I'm going through... Uh... what it's like to be a kid these days." Danny sulkily threw himself on the couch and put his head in his hands. Indeed, he did look like there was an enormous weight pushing down on him. Like Danny might just keep sinking deeper and deeper until there was nothing left. He might be hiding behind cliched statements and non-excuses, but... the torment he felt looked real.

The pitiful sight did not move their mother. "Oh please, Danny, that's the oldest excuse in the book. I remember using it on my parents. There is nothing you're going through... That is different from what your father and I went through at your age."

Danny muttered something under his breath, this time quieter, so no one could overhear. Then he jolted up in a slight panic, almost like something had just stung him or something, before gingerly settling back down.

He was so skittish. What was that? Was he hurt?

"Every teenager ever feels like their parents 'just don't understand'," Maddie continued, giving the phrase a disdainful shake of her head. "That doesn't mean that this unacceptable behavior can continue. You want to try again, the truth this time? What is going on with you lately?"

"I..." Danny glanced around the room. He almost looked like a prisoner cataloging exits and calculating some way out. Was he planning to make a run for it? He muttered something, dropping back down. No fight, no flight... So he just shut down.

This wasn't accomplishing anything. Jazz closed her book again. "Maybe the reason Danny doesn't feel you can relate is that you guys never talk about your struggles."

"Jaaazz," Danny groaned, glaring at her.

"Talking out your problems can be very beneficial. That's the way to find out what he's going through. Who knows, maybe it is different from what you guys went through. The world itself is different from when you were growing up, after all." Not to mention the fact that neither Jack nor Maddie had themselves as parents... So Danny's childhood was probably impossibly different from theirs. "What was your high school experience like? What about your friend groups? What classes did you struggle with?"

"Jazz," Danny tried again.

But Jazz was on a roll. "What about your own relationship with your parents? Surely you remember how tough it is to be a teenager."

"Jazz!" Now he was yelling at her, almost desperate for her to stop talking.

"Actually... That... Might not be such a bad idea, Jazzy," Jack said, glancing back at Maddie. "And I know the perfect way to do it."

Wait. Uh, oh. Knowing their father... That didn't sound too promising.

"What?" Maddie asked.

"This." Jack pulled out two fancy invitations. "You can come with your mother and me to our college reunion."

"I... What?" Danny asked.

Jazz grabbed the invitation from her father's hand, "In Wisconsin?!"

"Yeah! My old pal Vladdie is throwing a good old-fashioned shindig there. The whole family can come. We'll take the GAV, and on the way, we can have some quality bonding time. It will be great, you kids can learn all about your mother and my past... but like... As an object lesson! Hands-on, up close, and personal! Ha! What better way to learn!"

To make things worse: the weird water heater-like invention decided to punctuate Jack's speech. With a ding, an arm extended and shot out some ghastly green goo directly… Where Jazz was standing.

Jazz was not happy. At all. And yes, admittedly, there could be times when The Ever-Mature and Above-It-All, Jasmine Fenton, could still be a bit of a brat. This was one such time. "I don't get it. How does this happen? You," she uncrossed her arms to gesture to her brother. "Goof up, and I am stuck in the Fenton RV..."

Jack turned his head. Interceding in their discussion—and reminding them how little privacy they have for the next 4 days—to correct her. "Hey, that's the Fenton Family Ghost Assault Vehicle, Jazzy," he said with a chipper wink.

"The Fenton RV... " Jazz repeated in a slower and drier tone than before. "For four days as we drive to Wisconsin! " she continued her complaints—yes, she knew it was pointless. Yes, she knew whining solved nothing. Yes, this wasn't the kind of person she wanted to be... But darn it all! It felt too good to wallow in the situation's unfairness, to stop herself from acting like an immature, entitled child—as she watched Fenton Works fade into the background from the window.

"Oh, come now, it won't be so-whoa!... bad, kids," Maddie commented cheerfully as the RV went over a large bump that rattled everything.

"Why are you blaming me ?!" Danny shot back at Jazz in a just as foul, if not worse, mood. "It was your stupid suggestion about 'talking about their past' that started it."

"Yeah, talking. Opening up and having an honest discussion. That's good for you. Driving all the way to Wisconsin and missing another whole week of school is not! "

"Kids..." Their mother's tone carried a warning. "Be nice and stop fighting."

"If you had just minded your own business and stopped prying into my life, this wouldn't be happening." Danny spat in a half-whisper, side-eyeing their mother.

Jazz had tried that; Danny obviously could not get through whatever this was on his own. "And if you just stopped being stubborn and actually admitted that something is wrong and you do need to talk about it, I wouldn't have to pry."

His response to that was a freaking snarl... Literally ... Almost like he was a wild animal... Then he turned to look out his side of the window and refused to talk to her anymore.

If you have never been on a cross-state road trip in an RV with your family. There is not much to compare it to. Imagine countless hours of gazing out the window at the passing midwestern terrain. Trapped with no hope of rescue when your family members are being exceptionally annoying... Unless you wanted to hole yourself up in the tiny communal bathroom. Which no, you absolutely did not want to do. Trying in vain to stave off the boredom before it dug its claws into your mind and made you go round the bend. Dreading another rendition of a classic road-trip song from far too enthusiastic people, who needed better pitch before they should be that eager to sing. Working hard not to acknowledge the bumps in the road that heightened any feelings of motion sickness.

Take the worst parts of that and double and triple it. Now imagine, if you will, what all that would be like with a... Fenton twist.

Accidentally leaning on a button—or who knows, perhaps Danny did that on purpose: he was mad enough and could be petty enough. Causing some weird invention to go off and spray some weird goop... Again.

Stopping every so often because their parents thought they saw something.

Any conversation, always eventually turning back to ghosts and their various inventions. Stuck with no way to escape their dad's blathering.

Games of I-spy quickly deteriorating into describing one of three things: rock formations, trees, or the supernatural entity that their parents swear was there.

The worst part was that, had circumstances and temperaments been better, it could've been enjoyable. Jazz could admit to occasionally having nonsensical fun with her one-of-a-kind family... in a good way. But now? She was too busy seething and cursing her rotten luck at being born a Fenton... Something she did an unhealthy amount of times if she was being honest. And it had only been getting worse, as of late.

So she spent the ride sending piercing looks—a complicated mixture of worried, exasperated, and perplexed—at her brother. Rolling her eyes at her parents. Attempting to read, only to be interrupted by the near-death experiences caused by Jack Fenton's mad driving.

Danny, meanwhile, passed most of the time on his phone, probably complain-texting his friends. He seemed even more on edge than usual... And Jazz didn't think it was just because of carsickness or annoyance at her, at least not all of it. He kept glancing back to where miles and miles and miles away lay Amity. He was chewing his bottom lip; she was almost surprised it wasn't bleeding yet. He was bouncing his leg in nervous, spastic energy. It was like he was an animal begging to be let out of a cage. Or a junkie denied a hit...

No... Overreacting again. Or someone simply bored; an ADHD brain going a bit stir crazy from being forced to sit still so long. A perfectly normal reaction... Probably, the only reason their father wasn't also freaking out with excess energy was that he was driving. So calm down. Possibly, you yourself are just under-stimulated too; and thus looking for something to pick apart. But there's nothing here to freak out about. Nope, there's not anything to obsess about or try to fix. Calm Down.

Was Danny's behavior a little much? Yes, but it was not... Too weird... Right?

No, wait... It wasn't just his legs, was it? Was it her projection and paranoid imagination or... Were his hands slightly shaking, too? He caught her staring and grimaced, shoving them into his pockets lightning-fast. Which also served as evidence that she hadn't imagined it.

After a while, he started obsessively checking his phone.

"A-Are you ok?" Jazz asked after glancing him over.

"Just frrrricken peachy," he snapped ferociously, the r rolled up from deep within his throat like a growl. Jazz started back at the wildness of his hostility and didn't push any further... For a bit, at least.

A couple minutes of cold, awkward silence later, she resolved to try to talk to him again. Jazz watched her brother watch his unresponsive phone. He was holding it upside down, sliding his trembling fingers over the blackness... Until he sighed and put it back into his pocket. Only to repeat the process a second later. Yeah, add that to the list of ways he was worrying her. "Um... Uh, do you need to borrow the charger?"

"Huh?..." she startled him out of the mindless routine. He looked down at the phone in his hand that he had just pulled out yet again. It was dead. It had been the last five times he checked it. However, judging by the look on his face, only now had he finally realized that fact. "Oh... Yeah, uh... do you have a car charger?"

She dug into her bag and pulled out a spare car adapter. "Thanks," he muttered.

Jazz tried to smile at him but doubted it reached her concerned eyes. "Don't mention it."

Long story short. It was a long and stressful trip, an unreasonably long and stressful trip. But finally, finally, the Welcome to Wisconsin sign came like the first welcome rays of the sun after a long and tumultuous storm.

"Ahh, look at that good ole Wisconsin view. We are almost there." Jack announced from the driver's seat. "This will be the last stop." The family RV pulled up into a truck stop for the night. "Now, everyone, get some shut-eye. I want the whole Fenton clan bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when we come to the Masters' Manor tomorrow."

"Wait, Masters? " asked Jazz, her thoughts careening to a stop. "As in Vlad Masters, the famous billionaire business tycoon Vlad Masters? That Vlad Masters?"

"Yup, that's the one! Course, back in college... He was still just Vladdie. My best friend, roommate, and lab partner. We did everything together..." Jack gazed ahead, a dopey smile plastered on his face, lost in the memories of the good ole days...

"Wait. Wait. So you're telling us that your old college roommate is now one of the richest and most successful men in America. That's... Absurd. Why haven't you ever mentioned that before?"

The grin twitched slightly. Strangely, it wasn't Jack who responded but Maddie. Who had dropped her volume down to a soft murmur, "Well... We haven't really... Talked to Vlad since... College..."

"Yeah..." Jack said, and regardless of his emotional tone-deafness, his smile and enthusiasm now seemed strained.

"Why? What happened?" Jazz asked.

Both of their parents grew quiet. That was a bad sign. It overjoyed Jack whenever he had an opportunity to blab on and on about some random story. An impulse that she had been counting on at the beginning of this mess... How had baiting Jack Fenton into talking failed not once... But twice now?

"Well... Uh... Something went wrong... With our machine... The thick fingers of fate stuck themselves right in Vlad's eyes." Jack said, speaking—for once—with his indoor voice, fiddling his own fingers and looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

"Machine?" prompted Jazz, frowning, a twisting feeling settling into a pit in her stomach. She probably shouldn't phrase it as 'what did you do?' no matter how much she wanted to. And certainly not with the look of dread and horror that she was working very hard to keep off her face.

"We were all working together: me, Mads, and the one and only V-man. The Three Ghostketeers! The best team Wisc U ever saw... Gonna change the world! But then..." her father struggled to keep up his usual cheer. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, and when they opened, his expression was far wearier and older than she'd ever seen it. "He was hospitalized thanks to... a horrific case of ecto-acne... It devastated him... ruined his life. Had to drop out of college and finish his degree in the hospital." He cleared his throat as if trying not to get choked up. "But... Hey, like you said, he's super successful now..." he chuckled fondly, "heh... Makes sense even back then: he was a go-getter."

"You two... Hospitalized your best friend?" Jazz asked, scandalized. She didn't know what was worse: that they had hurt someone else because of their madness; or that the first person who got hurt hadn't made them reconsider before the next one got hurt...

Or the worst fact of all... That neither thing really surprised her anymore.

"It was... an accident," Maddie said in a faint voice, and she wasn't the only one who couldn't help stealing a glance at Danny.

Danny, who had also been hospitalized because of them. Danny, who was still struggling with what had happened to him. Danny, who had a hard-to-read expression on his face as he rubbed the side of his neck, where if you looked closely, a very, very faint scar was still just barely visible. Jazz wondered what he thought of the fact that apparently, he wasn't the only one, or even the first one, sent to the hospital because of Jack and Maddie's malfunctioning machines. If she were him, she'd be furious...

But as much as Danny had distanced himself from their parents... He also never laid the blame for The Accident on them. Whenever Danny talked about it—which was seldom. It would definitely be healthier if he opened up about it more! Why can't Danny just understand that? Ugh—he always insisted it had been his stupid mistake and not anyone else's fault.

"We... uh haven't spoken since then... But... this," Jack pulled out the overtly fanciful invitation. His grip was so hard, Jazz was almost surprised his enormous grasp wasn't crumpling it or ripping it. He looked at it like it was an answer to a complex equation that he and his wife had been up countless hours searching for. Held it up for all to see: the proof that something had worked out.

Then he gently—so gently, like it was something fragile and sacred that deserved far more care than thoughtless, bumbling Jack Fenton ever used—folded it back up. Her father put the folded piece of paper back inside one of his Fenton Fanny Packs, which he wore to make up for the lack of pockets in his jumpsuit. With an uncharacteristically solemn look on his face," this might mean after all this time... Maybe he's finally... Forgiven me." Jack finished softly, with a struggling-to-be-optimistic smile. Maddie put a hesitant yet trying-to-be-comforting hand on her husband's shoulder but looked just as uneased.

Jazz didn't know how to react. She peered sideways at her brother and saw he looked like he was struggling not to be sick. She wondered if Danny was considering if his Accident had been worse... If it had ruined his life more, ruined his chances of getting a college degree, stranded him in the hospital for years instead of weeks... Would he be as willing to forgive the ones who caused it?

Did he really forgive them as much as he said he did... Or was he just burying his resentment?

After all, Jazz wasn't even the one who had to endure the Accident... But she still sometimes—at her worst, most broken of times—felt like she would never... Could never forgive her parents. Not for what they did to her baby brother. Not for never being there when their children needed them most. Not for forcing her to be 'the responsible adult.' Not for the years of mockery and humiliation their association put her through. Not for what their ' ghost hunting' has done to their family.

Not for never being the parents they desperately needed.

Knowing that Vlad Masters was one of the richest men in America had still not prepared Jazz for seeing The Masters Manor. First off, 'Manor' was not the correct word for it. While it certainly had a large garden area and enough land to call it an estate, the building that sat as the centerpiece was not just an old, fancy country home.

It was a fricken medieval-style castle: an authentic, fortified castle. Most of the parts you could call a manor looked to have walls of stone, not bricks.

And what Manor needed feudal battlements as part of the architecture?

Then you looked up. Jazz's neck started hurting as she tried to gaze up and up as the enormous structure continued far higher. About a dozen turrets and towers stretched into the Wisconsin sky. It looked like something that belonged in old Europe. But even there, it would look out of place. It was more over-the-top than Sleeping Beauty's castle at Disneyland... But that castle was at least ascetically pleasing.

This one was more eye bleeding. The structure itself was gray—duh, it was stone-built. But the roof and the cones topping each tower or turrets were bright mustard yellow. Clashing strikingly with the forest-green banners that hung on the aforementioned battlements.

Well, anyone who wants to live in a place like this ... Yeah, she could see how they could be friends with her outlandish and tacky parents.

Her father enthusiastically banged on the door—that also looked out of place on the castle. Jazz was almost expecting a cast-iron gate. It opened to reveal a tall man with silver hair and a slick suit. He smiled, spread his hands like an elegant and ever so sophisticated actor on the stage, and said in a slight accent that Jazz couldn't quite place. "Ah. Jack..."

His no doubt polished greeting was cut off because nothing could stop the energy that was Jack Fenton; he slammed into his old friend like a freight train. "Vladdie!"

The man's poise faltered in alarm. "Let go of me! You great big baf... ah. I mean, old friend... I can't breathe." The man struggled to say from within the bearhug.

"Oh. Right. Sorry, V-man. Just missed ya, is all. Been too long." Jack released the other man with a sheepish smile and a slight chuckle.

Vlad sneered somewhat, brushed himself off. "Yes, quite..." He readjusted his neck collar, re-straightened his suit cuffs, and ran a quick hand back through his slick hair, making sure no single strand was out of place. "Now, as I was saying before, I was so rudely interrupted... Hello and welcome... My old college chums. " His face softened as he turned away from Jack. " Maddie, how delightful you could make it." He took their mother's hand and kissed it. "You have never looked lovelier, my dear. And these must be your charming children." He smiled, but the warmth did not reach his calculating eyes, which seemed to shine with intensity as they ran up and down both Jazz and Danny. "Now, don't let's keep standing here. Please, please. Come in." Already holding Maddie's hand, he effortlessly guided her into the house. As he slid to the front—to be their guide—the door he had been propping up slammed shut, echoing in the high-ceilinged entry hall.

Vlad Masters led them around in a grandiose fashion, showing off his symbols of immense wealth and status. Contrary to the exterior, the interior definitely skewed more towards an elegant mansion than the crude living-quarters of a castle.

"What's with all the green and gold? You're a billionaire! Surely, you could hire an interior decorator." Jazz said as the terrible taste continued down the imposing entrance hall.

"Uh... Jazz, hello? Isn't it obvious?" Danny answered before Mr. Masters could. He started pointing at all the paraphernalia that lined the walls, hung in plain view, and rested on gaudy pedestals. "Football helmets, jerseys, foam fingers, cheese-head hats? He's a Packers fanatic."

Their host paused, a slight frown on his face. "Oh, 'fanatic' is such a negative word. Personally, I prefer the term 'aficionado'. .. But yes."

"Uh-huh," said Jazz as they came to an enormous rug displaying what was most likely the football team's logo. "I still don't get it. You have billions of dollars. At this point, why not just buy the team?"

"Because they belong to the city of Green Bay, and they refuse to sell them to me." Mr. Masters muttered in sudden frustration, his composure slipping slightly. Jazz seemed to have hit a nerve. Before he straightened himself again with an awkward clearing of his throat. "Ahem. Yes, unfortunately, even with my immense wealth, I cannot acquire everything I desire. .. At least... As of yet." A slightly off-putting smile spread across his face as he looked at their mother.

Danny leaned over to Jazz with a disturbed look, "uh... is it just me or... Is he hitting on Mom?" he said out of the corner of his mouth.

Yeah, there was something about this guy that... was rubbing her the wrong way.

"As long as he has working toilets, full-sized beds, and Mom says no... Who cares." Jazz muttered back. Not the right thing to say, and Jazz knew that... Nevertheless, she could not take any more of that RV... And tacky or not, this place was gigantic enough that she could probably slip away to recharge her beyond drained social battery.

But yeah... It did kinda look like the billionaire was flirting with their mother... Right in front of Maddie's husband... Who does that?

Actually... Where is... Their father?

Her internal question was unfortunately answered by the man himself making a scene. Jack had grabbed one of Mr. Masters' footballs from the display case and threw it, shouting, "Go long, Vladdie!"

Vlad took in what had happened in nearly an instant and did indeed move to intercept it with desperation in his eyes. He caught it with a surprising show of quick reflexes and being light on his feet.

Jack whooped. "Nice one! You still got all your old moves!"

"Do. Not. Touch. That." He spat in barely restrained fury. If Jazz didn't know any better, she might say that it looked like he was literally seeing red, like a cartoon character with steam coming out of his ears. "This ball," he articulated very, very slowly as he ground his teeth. "Was autographed by the legendary Ray Nitschke himself! It is my prized possession that was on display, you idiot! It. Is. Not. For. Playing. And... As for the old moves? I never had any old moves! In fact, I never got to play at all in college! You made sure of that!" During his rant, his volume had been steadily rising, and at the last sentence, he was now outright yelling in Jack's face.

Maddie broke the awkward silence that took over as the dust settled. "Uh... Maybe, we should... go..."

"No!" Vlad said suddenly, flinging a hand out as if to stop her. Then he seemed to think better of it and instead slowly curled back and rested the hand on his face. "No, please don't." he sighed. "Forgive my... unseemly... outburst... The whole reason I'm throwing the reunion here in my castle is... To put all the messy problems of our past behind us and... Reconnect with you, Jack."

"We don't want to impose... Maybe we should stay in the RV..." Maddie said uncertainly.

"Yeah, it's super cool! I can't wait to show you how we tricked it out and improved it!" Jack cut in.

"No, no, no. I assure you; that you are more than welcome, nay esteemed, to stay in my humble home. I insist." Mr. Masters said, dialing up his charm once again as if that could make them forget his angry eruption from before.

But it was either stay in this gaudy castle with the somewhat distasteful billionaire or... Get back in the Fenton RV. "Let's stay here," Jazz coughed, trying to further sway her parent's opinion.

"Smooth," Danny mocked, side-eyeing her.

"You know, Jack, you interrupted my tour before I could tell you about the previous owner of this place. It once belonged to the famous Wisconsin Dairy King, and legend has it even to this day his ghost haunts these very halls." Vlad said with an amused grin that grew even wider when his words had the desired effect on their father.

"I'll get the bags!" Jack yelled. Out the door in a few seconds.

"Ah, same old Jack," their fathers 'old friend' said, shaking his head in exasperation.

"Sorry about that, Vlad," Maddie said, wincing slightly with a hand to her head.

"Oh, no need for you to apologize, my dear. I expected nothing else. Do you need any more help getting settled in?"

"No, we should be alright. You've done enough already... Kids, why don't you go help your father with the bags..." Maddie said, suddenly turning back to Danny and Jazz.

"Uh..." Danny looked from their mother to Vlad... And then finally back to Jazz.

"Sure, Mom." Jazz said, pulling Danny along. As they were leaving—Danny still metaphorically and literally dragging his feet—they heard the start of a new conversation between Maddie Fenton and Vlad Masters.

"Vlad... I was wondering... Could I talk to you about something?"

"Anything." Mr. Masters responded a bit too quickly.

"I understand if this is a sore subject... But it's about... your Accident..."

As soon as they were out of earshot, Danny blurted out, "are we really going to leave them alone? That creep is totally flirting with Mom. You're not at all worried?"

"I'm sure Mom can handle herself. Right now, we need to make sure Dad doesn't do anything... Destructive." Jazz replied, walking towards the RV, holding her head up high and not bothering with anything but the presented problem at hand. Danny remained at the threshold, reluctant to keep going. "Especially considering he now thinks this place is haunted," she groaned.

Dinner with Mr. Masters was unpleasant and awkward. You could cut the tension with a knife. First off, the billionaire insisted on sitting at the head of the table between their parents 'wanting to be next to both of his old friends whom he missed dearly.' Of course, their father had no problems with that, 'sounds like a great idea!' Their mother also didn't put up much of a fight, though she seemed a bit more uncomfortable than Jack. The two kids took the other spots: Danny next to Mom and Jazz next to Dad.

Next, their father was not the picture of grace and decorum... Quite the opposite. Most Fenton family meals—like everything else regarding her family—were usually raucous and outrageous. Their parents used dinner as an opportunity to either multitask and work more on their inventions. Or talk about the concepts or ideas for their inventions. This was not anything like dinner back in Fentonworks.

It was clear that Jack was out of his element, not that the man himself seemed to take much notice. His hands shook and twitched as he looked for something to fiddle with. He was playing with the various sets of silverware—Jazz had always thought that was more just a stereotype in movies... But no, Mr. Masters had set 3 forks, 5 spoons, and 4 knives in front of each guest, all of varying sizes and (she assumed) highly specialized uses. Every so often, Jazz thought she saw the man smirk slightly whenever anyone in her family selected one of the plentiful options to use.

Silence was not something that her father did well with. And yet, his clumsy attempts to start a conversation to fill it... Were painful to watch. "So... V-man, what have you been up to? Heard you're a bigshot business exec!"

"Ah. Yes. After the debilitating Accident and the subsequent years in the hospital," Mr. Masters leveled a pointed look at Jack. "I had more than enough time to chart out a course for my life." Mr. Masters began cutting into the steak on his plate with a bit more intensity than before. "Execute some financial decisions that helped to make me very wealthy, very quickly. And of course..." he paused and dabbed his mouth with an ornate cloth napkin, his eyes almost shining. "It never would have happened if not for you, Jack."

"So... it all worked out in the end, then?" Jack asked, happily enjoying the premium food, and of course, missing every single red flag this guy was waving in front of his oblivious face.

"Of course, water under the bridge... Old friend ."

"Great! This is delicious, V-man!"

"I'm glad you like it... Now, tell me more about your life. I am dying to know what you two have been up to since we... fell out of contact all those years ago?" The question was more directed towards their mother.

"Well, after we graduated from Wisconsin University, we sought out someone to sign off on our paranormal studies."

"We did it, V-man! We became official ghost hunters!" Jack interrupted between bites, overjoyed.

"Did you, now?" asked the businessman in a tone that was a mix of amusement and disdain. "How about that."

"Yes, we found someone interested in sponsoring our work and officiating our doctorate in Ectobiology." Maddie picked up the story again. "I also have a Ph.D. in Parachemical Engineering, and Jack has one in both Paranuclear Physics and Ectoelectrical Engineering."

"Wow, I see you two have been keeping yourselves quite busy, indeed."

"What about you?" Maddie asked, setting her own fork down in a moment of hesitation. "Have you done any further work in the Parascientific Community? They approached us for an internship because of the work we did in college, and you had a big hand in that, after all."

"Oh no, I am afraid my paranormal studies days are over. If you excuse my frankness but, ectobiology puts a rather sour taste in my mouth since the... Accident."

"Oh." Maddie looked chastised, dropping her gaze back down to her plate. "Oh, of course... Sorry."

"No need for you to keep apologizing, my dear."

"All the same, Vlad, we are sorry." Jack cut in, for a moment speaking in a way that sounded like he was trying his best to get the words out. It had the cadence of something he had practiced over and over in his head. "We shoulda stuck together... The three Ghostketeers!" Jack's smile wobbled, and Jazz saw Mr. Masters roll his eyes at the name. "From college besties to internship buddies. I... wish we could've worked together on stuff again... y'know like the good ole days... but guess fate had other plans."

"Yes... Fate ." Drawled Mr. Masters into his cup, which was honestly more like a chalice.

"Did'ja know? We finally did it?" Jack asked.

"Hmm?" inquired the other man, still taking a sip.

"We did it," Jack repeated, glancing at Maddie as if waiting for her permission or gauging her reaction. Whatever he was looking for wasn't there, or maybe it was, but he missed it... Because for whatever reason, her father kept going... "We built a... Portal, that actually... Works!" Oh, her father was so bad at social situations. How could even he think it was a good idea to bring that up? A chill swept through the room—Castles and stone walls can be drafty—and for a split second, Jazz thought she saw their host's eyes flash menacingly.

"Oh. Did you, now?" Vlad Masters repeated in a soft, chilled voice that seemed to echo in the large, high-ceilinged dining hall. "Well, congratulations... Hopefully, this time things... went smoother than the last. You must've at least learned from your previous mistakes..." Both her parents flinched slightly. Danny shrank down, trying hard not to draw attention to himself. While Jazz kept her an eye on everything and everyone. The atmosphere was potent with unease. Presently Vlad continued speaking. "Well... I am so glad that ' it all worked out in the end .' Worth all the... sacrifices. "

Yeah... Dinner was awkward and unpleasant... Despite the food being delicious, it was hard to stomach.

It was a relief when it was time to be shown to the rooms they would be staying in.

If Jazz were to give the tiniest bit of... A simulacrum of credit to her parents and their insane beliefs. She could say that it was at least evident why some people claimed that this place was... Ugh, how she hated this word: 'haunted.'

It was genuinely creepy. And drafty. And gave Jazz the feeling of being watched. She sighed, shook her head from these nonsensical thoughts. Jazz turned on the bed so that the door was no longer at her back. Facing that black void—where she knew the door was, even if she couldn't make it out in the dark—did not calm her nerves. It also wasn't any better when she closed her eyes.

She needed to calm down. The only reason she was feeling this way was that it was very late at night in an unfamiliar old house that was mostly empty. Nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

It was perfectly normal to have trouble sleeping in an unknown bed. Jazz turned back to the other side. The ancient springs creaked.

It was perfectly normal to feel out of place in a strange room you've never been in before. The unease was only aided by the fact that this room looked so... Old-fashioned. Jazz was spending the night in a castle, straight out of a book, from times long since past. Of course, her mind was telling her that each creak from the floor and misunderstood shadow was something more... Sinister. Of course, she was too riled up to sleep.

It could be worse, she told herself. You could still be in that godforsaken RV. You could be barely a foot away from your snoring father. You could have to worry about accidentally pushing a button and setting something off in your sleep. You could be cooped up and squashed onto a pop-out mattress. Quit complaining and go to sleep.

There were strange, echoing noises from downstairs. It's an enormous place; it could be anything down there. Was someone else awake? Her parents' creepy friend? It is his house... Who knows what he does alone in this place. Someone else? Her family? Getting up to do something benign like go to the bathroom or get a drink of water... Something else... Monsters? Yeah, right. Do you even hear yourself? Calm down. It's just the wind, the old groaning walls or floorboards, animals like mice in the rafters, or simply your own overactive imagination.

Close your eyes. Focus. Breathe in and out. Ignore these troubles... It's all in your head. Go to sleep. Or you will regret it tomorrow. You have actual problems to deal with tomorrow.

It was working. Jazz was easing herself into blissful oblivion. Breathe. In and out. Count to ten. Let your thoughts and worries fade away. Tomorrow will bring fresh worries.

...

A scream shattered that calm. Jazz was up and wide awake in a second.

That almost sounded like... Danny?!

What happened? What was going on?! It was the middle of the night, so... Nightmares?

She started, a bit disoriented, at the unfamiliar room. Wiped her groggy, sleepy eyes, took in the layout. She snatched the robe Mr. Masters had provided and threw it on as she made her way to the door. The lock was old and jammed. She fiddled a bit with it before it opened. She headed to the room her brother was staying in.

His door was open, and she could hear voices from inside. She crept closer, using the shadows to hide.

Danny sounded guarded and confused. "I uh... must've had... A nightmare. I-I'll be fine in the morning. I'm sorry for the scare."

A deeper, smoother voice, the voice of Vlad Masters, answered back, "Oh, what's a little scare between friends, son, hmm? Sleep tight, little badger."

Jazz backed away slightly as Vlad left the room and closed the door. "Thank you for checking on him, Mr. Masters... Is he ok?"

"Ah, Jasmine. Did Daniel wake you? Allow me to apologize on his behalf. And there's no need to worry; your brother will be just fine."

"I… I wanted to make sure Danny was ok... He has been having a rough time lately..."

"I understand. Your brother is very fortunate to have such a diligent older sister." Mr. Masters spoke with calming tones and highly selected words. But his intense gaze upon her was nothing short of calculative. He was trying to figure her out just as much as she was trying to figure him out. He reminded her of someone playing a chess game. Every movement deliberate and planned out... And therefore, it came off as ungenuine. But that didn't necessarily mean it was. Perhaps he was just bad at social situations. It would make sense. Vlad was friends with her father, who was also unsuited to social settings, albeit differently. Where Jack was awkwardly friendly and outgoing, Mr. Masters seemed to be awkwardly closed off and cold. And then isolated for most of his adult life... Yes, perhaps she was judging the man too harshly. Maybe he really was trying. It was impossible to anyone not blind or buried under denial—so anyone but Jack Fenton—to miss the blatant resentment Vlad still held. He blamed her father for his Accident... Which was understandable. But maybe he still really did want to extend an olive branch and repair that broken relationship...

"Rest assured that nothing is wrong." the man continued, gently leading her back to her own guestroom. "Best get back to bed, my dear. You want to be well-rested for tomorrow's festivities."

She nodded and stepped through the door as the man opened it. She heard the old hinges creaking and then latching as it closed. Shook her head free of some lingering worst-case scenarios and settled back down. This time she drifted to sleep quickly and easily.

Jazz offered to help get the place ready for the reunion 1) because she liked to help and always felt better when she made herself useful. But also because she hoped it would tire her out and she could have an excuse to avoid the actual reunion.

Mr. Masters' ballroom was like the rest of his place: inordinately over-the-top and unnecessarily large.

Her plan was moderately successful... At least she could probably sneak away soon after the reunion started. But she still had to endure the beginning.

She came down in a simple dress; the dress code was formal, even her parents were in civilian clothes. It was just in time as people were arriving. It turns out she and Danny weren't the only kids unlucky enough to be dragged to this event. She saw a couple of other teens looking just as out of place and embarrassed as she felt. She could try talking to them... but even back home, she was terrible at making friends. Not to mention if these kids had parents who knew hers, then no doubt they would've been warned to avoid 'those Fentons.'

Jazz hated social events like this.

Her father, however, was ironically a bit of a social butterfly, despite not understanding any societal norms and committing social faux pas with every breath. He was still eager to put himself out there. He seemed to think that all of these people would be just as excited to see him as he was to see them. He would shout someone's name and then run over to go catch up. Jazz watched whatever old acquaintances wince, shove a false smile on their face, and greet Jack and Maddie back. Then usually, they would leave with a shallow excuse, par for the course. Danny apparently got roped into one of their dad's stories, along with some other adults.

No one was really giving her much notice. It was the perfect chance for her to duck out. She edged her way to the punch bowl and snack table, trying to avoid looking like she was a desperate convict on an elaborate escape scheme. After that, she quietly and inconspicuously slipped out of the ballroom itself.

Now where to go in this ridiculous place where no one would find her. Hmm.

She turned the corner and entered a room set up like a movie theatre.

Well, this will do.

Looks like all Mr. Masters had available to watch were old Packers games and segments on the history of the team and the coaches and stuff. Ugh. She had never been one for sports, but... The alternative was worse, much worse. So she turned on the large television and hit play.

Jazz drowned out whatever was happening outside the screening room, as well as the hours the reunion would gobble up. The door opened only once; she was worried she would get in trouble. Or worse, forced back to the party.

But no, it was just Danny.

"So this is where you disappeared to?"

Jazz paused the football replay. "Not like anyone really cared." She replied with a shrug, not even looking at her brother. "So, how'd you escape?"

"I didn't escape. Mr. Masters asked me to grab a present from his lab."

"Well, I'd take your time getting it if I were you... More time away from a bunch of old fossils 'pogo'ing to new wave music."

"So I take it you're staying here."

"Yyyyup."

"Not going back?"

"Nnnope. Did you know the Packers won the very first Super Bowl?"

He scowled. "Whatever. I should get that gift and head back..."

"Your funeral."

Danny groaned... but he did turn and close the door.

Jazz pressed play.

A couple football games in... At the edges of her perception, she could hear crashes, bangs, and... Screams. And they were getting louder. She sighed, naively hoping that it wasn't her parents' fault. She ever so purposely turned up the volume and forced herself to ignore it.

She had almost succeeded. Succeeded in not getting wrapped up in whatever chaos her family seemed to be a magnet for. She could ignore it. Pretend she hadn't heard a thing; No news was good news. It was not her problem. Something to deal with... Later. Now? Now, she would remain blissfully, willfully ignorant as she watched Bart Starr face off against Butkus and the Bears.

...

More shouts and yells; this time, someone had definitely yelled her father's name. She jammed her thumb on the up arrow on the remote. Up, up, up. Louder than was probably healthy for her hearing. But she was more worried about the health of her sanity.

Oh no. The Fenton RV's horn or SWS (Spector Warning System) blared, more potent than even the loudest setting on Vlad's stupid, expensive speakers. Ugh. Fine. Ok, yes, now she could not ignore it any longer. You win, stupid Absurdist Doctrine of the Universe. Congratulations.

Jazz stuck her head out just in time to see her mom drive the RV through the door inside Masters Manor.

What the heck is going on? What in the world was her mother thinking? Usually, Maddie was the more rational one... Or at the very least, the one less likely to drive a large assault vehicle through several walls.

"Well... There's no way we're going to be invited back. So much for repairing their relationship with their friend." Jazz muttered to herself. Somehow she doubted trashing his house was an accepted tactic for mending broken bridges.

It was all pandemonium. Tons of people, looking traumatized, were screaming and running at full throttle away from whatever was happening in the ballroom. Jazz almost envied them, yearning to join in with the crowd. But noooo, she had to make her way towards the chaos. Ah, the joy that was her life.

When she made it to the ravaged ballroom, she saw her parents. They were embracing each other—with celebration, exhilaration, and fearful relief as if they were worried about losing each other—at the very epicenter of the devastation. The RV was right beside them, with all the guns and various defenses fully activated. That was doubtless what had caused the several holes melting on the ceiling, as well as the burn marks on the floor, walls, and singed furniture. They looked frazzled and exhausted. Jack's civilian suit was all torn up to reveal that he had been wearing his jumpsuit under it. Maddie had hitched up her dress's skirt and tied it around her waist to make movement easier. Danny was next to them, looking just as weary, if not more.

"Jazz!" her mother cried when she saw her. Jack and Maddie broke apart, and both ran towards her. Maddie took Jazz's face in her hands and then looked her all over. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah... I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" she said, caught a bit off guard at how worried her parents were. She tried to pull herself free. "What..." did you do? "Happened?"

"A ghost crashed the party," her mother said, pulling both her children towards her chest like she had done when they were little. From that position, Jazz could hear her mother's heart hammering. Further proof that she was running on adrenaline. "But your father... Beat that ecto-scum all the way to Kenosha!"

"I..." Her father looked a bit disoriented. His broad, energetic smile also had an undercurrent of fear. But he shook his head as if to clear it, and then his massive arms came around the entire group. The Fenton Family Group HugTM was complete. "I was... just doin' my job... And no one hurts my family!"

"I... love you guys," Danny murmured. His voice shook slightly, just as affected by the sudden severity and rawness of emotions.

The flash interrupted them. One of her parent's other acquaintances that Jazz saw them talking to earlier stood there with a camera. The woman stood there in a professional mint green pantsuit, her long black hair in a ponytail. "Wonderful! Simply wonderful!" she said. "Oh... and Jack?" she turned and held out a hand to Jack. "All these years, I called you a crackpot... I um, suppose I apologize."

Jack smiled wide and energetically shook her outstretched hand, almost shaking the woman's entire arm in his enthusiasm. "No problem, Harrie!"

"So... World-renowned expertise, huh? You simply must tell me all about that! Ghosts! Ha! This story of the century! It will make your career-and mine!" The woman said, eagerly digging through her purse for a notepad.

With her parents preoccupied with ecstatically talking the reporter's ear off, Jazz turned to her brother. "So... What actually happened?"

Danny shrugged, looking like he was crashing from his own adrenaline high. "Uh... you heard them... ghosts crashed the party..."

Jazz raised an eyebrow and folded her arms. "Really, what happened?"

"Really, really. Ms. Chin got some footage and everything. Go bug her if you don't believe me. Although, you might have to get in line." He pointed to the reporter in deep conversation with her parents.

Before long, the Fenton family was back in the RV, heading home. Watching the remnants of yet another disaster shrink in the distance. Jazz hadn't heard much about how the departure between her parents and Vlad masters went, but she doubted it was very... pleasant.

She had, however, heard far, far too much about the 'Wisconsin Ghost' that had apparently gatecrashed the reunion... And therefore justified whatever mayhem her parents had inflicted on the innocent partygoers and the impressive infrastructure of the Masters' Manor. They were evidently going for a world record, for how many times they can tell the same story before they made it home.

This was going to be a long,

long,

long drive.

...

That's it. If she had to hear one more thing—About how the 'Wisconsin Ghost' stared at everyone in the party with evil, beady pupilless, red eyes. Took control of Jack and held him hostage within his own mind, and made him act in absolutely appalling and inappropriate ways. Until he accomplished wrestling control back. Or how Maddie busted in with the bazooka equipt on the assault vehicle and shot that nasty specter. Or how after they forced the ghost out of him, Jack caught it in his phase-proof gloves and actually slugged the ectoplasmic menace. Or how after Jack hung it up to dry; the ghost pleaded, cowering before the Fenton expertise and world-renown reputation and slithered back to the primordial, oozing dimension where it came from. How they were right all along—Jazz was seriously going to lose it; go madder than even her psychotic parents.

As for what actually happened... Well, it was an adult party, so it wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility for there to have been some alcohol. Alcohol can sometimes rarely—when used extremely irresponsibly—cause hallucinations. Judging from the stories her parents were eagerly spreading... They must've been wasted. Or something... Maybe some other type of adult recreation? After all, Vlad Masters is a wealthy elite who could get away with stuff like that.

What made it all worse was their insistence that now they had so many eyewitnesses who could back up the proof that ghosts really did exist. They even cited another old college buddy, Harriet Chin, an influential reporter for the Milwaukee Journal. They excitedly rambled on about how Ms. Chin was going to confirm the existence of the supernatural, the expertise of the Fenton brand, and bring the entire story into the mainstream. Soon everyone will know that the Fentons aren't crazy. That they were the heroes who stopped an interdimensional terror from wreaking havoc...

Apparently by wreaking havoc themselves...

...

Jack and Maddie ended up dragging Ms. Chin—the former promising rising star of journalism after her work with exclusive interviews with guerrilla rebel leaders—down into ridiculed infamy by association. Now, who could've seen that coming?

A few days later, they got wind that the Milwaukee Journal had unceremoniously laughed Harriet Chin out of her comfortable position... All because she tried to submit a nutcase story about the existence of ghosts.

Aaaand... Now that's two for two on Jack and Maddie screwing around and causing untold damage to their old friend's life.

Going back to what had started this perfect mess... Their parents apparently had changed very little from their college days. In all honesty, that wasn't that surprising. Young Jack and Maddie were probably exactly like what Jazz had always pictured when she gave thought to her parents' past... Eccentrics. Most likely sectioned off and socially cast out. Insane. Spent most of their time in the Wisconsin University's lab... blowing it up and causing troubles. Hijacking every conversation with their ludicrous theories. Yeah, turns out Jazz's hypothetical wasn't that far off... Shocker.

If the reunion party, and the general reaction to their presence at said party, was any indication, Jack and Maddie had struggled socially. Similar to how the family curse was now continuing in their children's lives. Of course, it made sense. Their father had told many stories, framing himself as the popular and lovable goofball of his school… But he seemed to have missed quite a few more discreet, yet unmistakable, social cues. Their mother, always portrayed as bright and sensible, usually focused her stories on her perfect grades, advanced achievements, and valedictorian status. But... socially? She barely seemed better off than Jack. Perhaps even at a social detriment... because of Jack.

Then there were family members. Jack Fenton had been ghost crazy for a while; they knew that. He passed down anecdotes about how slaying the supernatural has always been in the Fenton bloodline. A story Grandpa Fenton sometimes corroborated. Jazz often wondered whether Grandpa wasn't just spinning elaborate tales for his grandkids or if he actually believed the nonsense like his son. But regardless, growing up, Jazz and Danny had heard story after story about how: 'whenever there was something ooky-spooky afoot, there was always a Fenton somewhere nearby.'  Dating back to their arrival in America, their settlement in Salem, Massachusetts. Yeah, read between those lines... Talk about the sins of the father. .. The Fenton family has let their own steadfast beliefs of the supernatural endanger, destroy, and even forcefully take innocent lives since the very beginning.

Meanwhile, their mother hardly talked about her family. They knew she grew up in a tiny little town in Arkansas with her sister. Jazz could vaguely remember Aunt Alicia and her husband. Not enough to call much attention to what sort of people they were. Jazz remembered that Aunt Alicia liked hard work and running her farm the traditional way. And had no love for any of the gadgets her sister, Maddie, said might improve productivity. Jazz also remembered that Aunt Alicia didn't really seem fond of Jack Fenton, which was probably why they never really visited her much. Jazz and Danny didn't really know their maternal grandparents. The visits, if there had been visits, must've been back when they were very young. And they absolutely never came over for holidays... which honestly... understandable; Jazz doubted anyone wanted strange mutated Turkey for Thanksgiving or non-stop bickering for Christmas. No, it seemed Maddie didn't want to talk about— or to— her parents. Once or twice, Jazz caught the tail end of her mother's bitter sentiments. Even her own family seemed to think Maddie was a crackpot, foolishly choosing to waste her natural genius. So maybe their mother had been telling Danny the truth when she said that every teen feels like their parents don't understand them. Or at least that Maddie had felt that way with her own parents. Perhaps Maddie really did ostracize everyone in her life when she fell for Jack Fenton. Leaving her college friends, her sister, and even her parents scratching their heads, wondering why such a promising young woman ever joined in this insane crusade against the supernatural. If that's the case, Jazz wonders if her mother ever regrets that decision.

Now don't get it wrong, while Jack and Maddie may not be well-adjusted members of society... Or notably stable, attentive parents... They were undoubtedly a loving, healthy couple. Jack and Maddie worked in tandem, if not in sync. They almost never fought—Christmas was an outlier... even if an, unfortunately, consistent one. They loved each other and their children very much. That was something that Jazz knew she could count on. They affirmed each other's strengths and tried to bolster each other's weaknesses... Unless, of course, you considered the weaknesses they shared, those they just compounded. Jack doted on Maddie, and she always saw the best in him.

It was one thing that Jazz could truthfully say that they had healthily cracked the code on. Even though that fact sometimes made the rest of their unhealthy habits even more tragic. During those dark days after the portal failed, Jazz could admit that she had considered for a moment what might happen if her parents finally found out they were wrong... Would that passion for the paranormal that brought them together evaporate? And if it did, would it take their love with it? Would Maddie blame Jack for her loss of friends, family, and reputation, all for something that wasn't even real? All the vows they pledged... Broken, with one moment of clarity. Would they even be able to stand one another? If every time they looked into the eyes of their partner, in marriage as well as work, they saw only wasted years and failures chasing an illusion? And what if only one of them figures out that they're wrong? Would they stay and try to convince the other? Neither willing to compromise endless fighting and debating. Like Christmas. Only a thousand times worse because it would be every day of their lives... Until something gave out. And judging by how stubborn both her parents are, what's likely to give out is the relationship... Not either of their wills.

If Jack and Maddie's love was so strong because of their shared delusion and the 'us vs. the world' mentality... Then would curing this false belief, what Jazz had dedicated her life to, be the very undoing of her family? It was a scary thought.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Jazz considered the possibility...

Of not convincing her parents. Of leaving things how they are.

Would that be better?

Sure, it's not great now... but they are still a loving family. They both encouraged and supported their children's interests, too. Did they try to promote and push 'The Family Business' onto Jazz and Danny? Yes. But they also wanted their children to explore their own scientific curiosities, be it the human mind in Jazz's case or the far-off cosmos in Danny's. Jack and Maddie never shot these ideas down. They didn't even get mad when Jazz and Danny seemed to whole heartily disagree with their claims about ghosts. Were they disappointed that even their own kids thought they were either wrong or crazy? Yes. But did they close off those discussions and force their kids to accept their ideas as fact? No.

It could be worse. Jazz knew that. Knew people who had worse situations. Besides, as annoying and ridiculous as her family was... They were still her family. Could she even imagine a world where her parents no longer believed in ghosts?

Before that thought experiment always called up utopian ideas; the best parts of her parents magnified. Her parents, retaining their inventiveness and passion, eagerly constructing something substantial. Something for the common good and getting the recognition their genius deserved. Working towards a greater understanding of the world they lived in, not the one they constructed shrouded in the fog of deceptions. Whenever there was a problem using their ingenious minds to develop plausible solutions. The days of blindly assuming that the answer to every 'why?' was 'a ghost' long gone, and everyone better for it.

But now, she flipped that shining, idealized fantasy on its head. Imagine a world where Jack and Maddie didn't believe in ghosts. Would they even be recognizable as her parents? What if all that spirit, that scientific yearning for knowledge, vanished along with the 'ghosts'? What if shattering the framework of their reality destroyed a quintessential part of themselves? What if they... Never recovered? What if... Every section of their lives, their home, Fentonworks, their useless inventions... Only rubbed salt in an open wound; further proof of failure. Unable to take it anymore, Madeline Walker packing her bags. Depressed and apathetic, Jack Fenton, watching without even trying to stop her. Danny, angry and broken, wearing his bleeding heart on his sleeve, not helped by Jazz's meddling, but made all the more alone. Her little brother, blaming Jazz for finally succeeding in what she had promised to do since she was 9 years old. What if she ruins everything in her foolish, bumbling attempts to help?

Dr. Spectra's words drifted back to her: careful you must know, precisely, what you're doing or risk making it... Worse.

Chapter Text

Their parents were  fighting . Jazz could hear it from upstairs, which meant it was one of those rare moments when they were livid with each other. Or perhaps she should say  her mother  was livid with her father; it was Maddie's voice, doing most of the yelling. 

Jazz winced at the harsh tones. Yeesh. That sounded rough. She painstakingly closed her latest book, set it neatly on her desk, and shot it one more longing look before...

Yeah, she should probably head down and see what the problem was.

At the bottom of the stairs, the scene that greeted her was not good. Maddie was holding a packed suitcase, along with an aggravated expression. "Jack, we talked about this! Last time, you...  You promised! Remember?!  I cannot believe you did this! Again. And what? Am I just expected to forgive you!?  Again!"

"Maddie, I swear I just have a few more adjustments..." Their father's large hands were out in a placating gesture, a clear contrast to their mother's clenched fists at her side. 

Maddie closed her eyes, set her jaw, and took a rattling breath, collecting herself. "You know what?  Fiiine ." The last word came out excruciatingly deliberate and disconcertingly friendly. Uh oh, she had shifted to calm, controlled, frigid anger. That was much more of a problem than a passing fit of explosive rage. "You finish working on the Spectre Speeder since that is clearly all you care about, Jack Fenton. But  I... I..."

Her voice was shuddering, and her wrath bubbling up again. " Ugh.  I can't even stand to  look  at you right now! So,  I  am  leaving . I'm going to visit my sister for the divorce. Alone."

"Maddie, please, don't go!" her dad pleaded, but her mother slammed the taxi door in his face. 

"Wait?!" Danny squeaked out. "D-Di-vorce? What?! Jazz, did you just hear that?" her little brother asked her, his voice cracking and world crashing down. 

"Hear what? Mom yelling at Dad? Yeah, kinda hard to miss," she grumbled, massaging her temples with her fingertips at the scene. Trying to circumvent the headache she could feel building. Then, taking in Danny's expression, switched tactics—this wasn't the time to be disappointed in her parents; she needed to calm Danny's catastrophizing down. "Relax, Danny," she said more gently. "It's not a big deal. I am sure it's not what you think. Mom will take some time alone to cool off, and then she'll forgive Dad..."

"B-but... I-I've never seen her s-so...  mad  before..."

"Well, of course, she's mad. She has every right to be; I mean, Dad does  this  year after year, after year. And what's more? He never even really apologizes or does anything to make it up to her. And if I'm right, this year will once again be more of the same." Jazz said with a shake of her head.

"Nope!" Jack interrupted, radiating bountiful, barely contained energy. "You're wrong this time, Jazzy! I promised your mother I wouldn't forget this year..." He slapped a giant hand to his face as if something just came over him like a thunderclap. "Oh. Ohhhh, I... Uh... Well, what with the recent ghost attacks... Guess I've been a bit... preoccupied lately, b-but... No more! Gotta fix it this time! This time I'mma prove that this family is more important to me than ghosts! I swear it! I am going after her! You kids will be alright on your own, right?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he rushed out the door, yelling as he went. "I'm off to Arkansas to apologize and give your mother the  best  anniversary gift  ever ."

"Wh-what?" Jazz's thoughts screeched to a halt as her father rushed past her. "Wait." She felt uneasy. Her footing was uneven. Her stomach lurched, along with the room. Because, well, that was so contrary to every previous action her father had ever done. "I'm sorry b-but... Did  Dad  j-just... realize he made a mistake?  Dad?  B-but that's not how Dad is. He's not self-aware enough for that..."

Danny's lips were moving, but her brain refused to register any of his words. She put a hand to her head. Her forehead felt feverish and slick with sweat. Something was echoing within her mind, pushing in on her, preoccupying her energy right now. Everything just felt... Off.

Oh. 

Oh. Jazz knew this feeling. She recognized the obscure, half-remembered, acidic, bitter taste as her mouth ran dry. Oh. If it wasn't the feeling of her own hubris, collapsing in on itself like a dying star and dragging her down. One of those moments, she'd tried her hardest to repress, when something didn't go exactly according to her expectations. Those moments when her predictions shattered and gravity seemed to stop; she had knocked something off the table, and yet, in this bizarro world she fell into, it floated instead of fell. Jazz felt about four years old again, hearing for the first time that she had the ability to be wrong. Such an idea seemed too outrageous to comprehend because  she wasn't wrong .

She was never—hardly ever— wrong .

No, not her. Because she always knew,  precisely,  what was going on. She was an expert at pattern recognition and thus flawlessly able to predict outcomes based on her observations, first-hand experience, and extensive research. 

And yet lately, she's been feeling lost. The world around her amorphous and endlessly shifting. Familiar things warped and changed their shape. People she'd know her whole life now, faceless, nameless aliens. Her own family. Every path and tree bare of any identifying features. The patterns she loved shattered. She  knew  her family. Understood what made them each tick. So how could any of their actions surprise her? But...

It had started with Danny, as he became an entirely different person. She could no longer figure out what goes on behind those—once so expressive and now so distant—icy blue eyes. Before, he was an open and familiar book. But now? That book refused to open at her touch, bound shut like one of those ancient tomes from the movies. Or maybe one of those diaries that comes with a little padlock and key. And once she had  picked the lock  and  forced  her way in—because he certainly didn't trust her enough to give her the key—she was still no closer to solving the mystery that had swallowed up her little brother. She stared into foreign symbols from a language she had never learned and couldn't even  recognize , let alone read. 

But okay. That was okay. Danny was a teenager. It was natural to change on your journey to adulthood. She wondered if they'd only grow further and further apart as they grew older. They used to be so close.

But that was a long, long time ago.

Jazz can't even claim that his recent unusual behavior was the source of the widening divide between them. No, the root ran deeper. It had been there, growing as she let it grow, either through action or inaction, for a while now. Maybe that had culminated in what she was facing today. She was looking at his attitude as if it had abruptly, drastically changed with one specific catalyst—she'd guessed it was his Accident. But maybe it was more slowly building up with subtle changes without her noticing, like the old adage about a frog boiling in a pot. Only now, as the heat started suffocating her, had she realized something was drastically wrong. Soon, he might be a complete stranger; if he wasn't already. How long until it was too late? How long before she wouldn't even recognize him? How long until she would look into his face and see nothing at all?  

But that was  Danny . What had thrown her so thoroughly off track right now? It was the spread of this uncertainty. It had started with Danny but now, had reached her father. Now her father was the one acting strange, doing something so... So out of the norm. So not like himself. She didn't know how to respond.

For barely a hair's width of a second, the concept of 'overshadowing' skipped across her thoughts like a flat stone skimming a lake. The slightest touch, sending rippling vibrations through her thoughts, and then it was gone. Her parents dealt with anyone acting abnormally by claiming that the person had been replaced; invasion of the body snatchers style. Ha. No, obviously not.

That would almost be easier to deal with, less terrifying than someone just abruptly acting differently. Someone's behavior being flipped on its head and all together... So  backward .

Oh. 

Ohhh.  When had Jazz—in her thoughts, notes, and predictions—declared her father was incapable of changing? As much as she liked to claim that no one was beyond help, she'd still written off her father as the worst parts of himself. Hadn't she? Accepted that. Expected that. Taking it so far that now she felt strangely unsettled because he was actually  trying...  To do better. 

She had always thought of herself to be working towards  helping  her family confront and  solve  their worst tendencies. And now... Here was Jack Fenton, acting so antithetical to his flawed characteristics. That should make her delighted. Right? Optimistic for brighter and better days, right? It was a good thing. Right? Because if Jack could take an objective look at his actions, then it was a step in the right direction. Then things weren't as hopeless as she had declared them to be...

But she had tried, so many times, to force a change, and yet her parents' worst qualities stayed a constant. A constant she might  need  for things to make sense. 

And... Yet now, everything was throwing her so far off balance.

Why? Why was this meager bit of maturity and moment of character growth shown by the personified walking hazard, her father, shaking her down to the core?

Jazz needed to do something. She barely noticed leaving the foyer. Didn't know if Danny said anything in response to her leaving. Didn't remember deciding to run up to her room until she was already there. Like some kind of maniac, down on her hands and knees, digging up her color-coded notebook for her parents.

She flipped it open so hastily that she was almost surprised she didn't tear it. She held up her prize: her detailed analysis of everything she had ever observed about her father. Jack Fenton. There were things she could count on when dealing with her dad. He would always be overzealous, energetic, and easily distracted. Her dad was someone who—through both carelessness and inattentiveness—created problems, not fixed them. It never meant he didn't care. No, it was just who he was. Bumbling old Jack Fenton missed the subtle details. Their oblivious fool of a father, blind to even the more glaring things right in front of him. It was challenging to understand this infuriating man.

It drove her mad until she learned to accept that simply was how he was. And how he'd always be.  

Her dad, who would be there when she needed him, almost despite himself. Moments rushed back to her when she was younger and upset. Back then, she hadn't really understood her own emotions, and neither did her dad, so hopelessly out of his depth. Awkwardly—and yet gently—patting her head as she cried, failing to calm her down. She'd yell or cry, and he would look at her lost, unable to help or fix anything. Especially those times when it was  his actions  that upset her. Too ignorant of what he did or why she felt that way. He'd look at her and ask, "What's wrong, Jazzerincess?" 

But he never understood when she tried to answer him. Instead, he'd stare at her—not always meeting her eyes—lost as she chanced trusting him by pouring out her heart.

At his wit's end and utterly incapable of dispersing the storm of her emotions, he'd left. She remembers how acute the betrayal stung as he left her to her own despair. But like the sun shining through the clouds on an overcast day, he stumbled back in a few moments later and brought with him his needlepoint. "I'm no good at this, Jazzy... But whenever I feel overwhelmed, like I'm an ol' unstable ectocartridge shoved in the gun the wrong way... And any second, everything is gonna blow... You wanna know what I do?"

She'd curled up tighter. Forehead against her knees, shaking arms tightly, embracing her legs, and long hair bouncing as she'd shook her head. 

The mountain of a man had sat down next to her and started breathing softly and slowly. 

Always the curious child, Jazz had looked up when he stopped talking and let the silence carry the moment. The stillness and quiet, so strange coming from her bombastic father, was comforting. She watched him awestruck; he looked more pensive than she'd ever seen him before, breathing in time with each stitch. Insert the needle from the back of the canvas, and inhale as the needle pulled the thread out. Exhale as the needle goes back in. He'd smiled wide and beaming when he saw she was looking at him. "It helps me when I gotta focus. I'm no good at slowin' down or bein' quiet... Not unless I'm doing something. Sometimes when I feel like I'm falling apart, putting something together, or making something nice helps me feel put together or nice too, y'know? Dunno if that makes any sense. But maybe it would work for you too? Wanna try?"  

So he'd sit with her, guiding her tender hands through each stitch, probably never even realizing the mindfulness techniques he was teaching her. And she'd sunken into his warm, massive embrace and allowed herself to entertain the idea that things would get better.

Yet, shortly after, he'd only do the same thing that hurt her all over again. Ignore her, never really listen, and never change, no matter what she did. 

So, okay. Maybe Dad wasn't able to change. And maybe that was okay. Jazz shouldn't put these unrealistic expectations upon him. She couldn't trust him to notice when he goofed up, so it would hurt less if she just assumed it would always happen. She would stop being surprised at his misunderstandings. No doubt, after years of being married to the man, her mother took a similar approach. Which reinforced what she said to Danny: their mother would blow off steam, and then everything would be fine. 

But,  whispered a panicked voice in the back of her mind.  If your father starts acting incongruently to your preconceived assumptions... Then what is to stop your predictions about your mother from being wrong too? How can you trust you know what Maddie would do if you were mistaken about what you thought Jack would do? How can you know that what happened last time would happen this time?

No, Jack would always act in a certain way. It was undeniable. Especially when Jazz considered neurodivergent reasoning behind his behavior, she was almost positive that her father had ADHD and was possibly on the autism spectrum. So then it was unfair for her to insist that he function the same as her, or her mother, or anyone else, let alone the ideal.   

But now? Those careful observations were failing her.

She had them out in front of her. All those unsuccessful attempts. Each so-important thing Jack Fenton forgot. Each insensitive phrase he hadn't quite understood was the exact worst thing to say. Each time Jack had cluelessly fouled something up and failed to make up for it. Sure, he would do something else, as an almost-apology—usually unrelated to the problem at hand. To show that even if Jack was hopeless with emotions and knowing  why  they were upset... He still saw they  were  and cared enough to try to cheer them up. But yet usually without taking responsibility for his actions that made them upset.  

Now, Jack Fenton suddenly was trying to work on his flaws? 

That was a terrifying, unknown situation. At least Jazz always knew what to expect from her parents. She knew how they'd react—even at their absolute worst, most ludicrous moments. For better or worse, she knew the inner workings of their minds. 

Or at least Jazz had  thought  she did. 

But now? She was in uncharted territory, lost. And that scared her more than the horrifying, embarrassing, and absurd status quo. How could she dare begin to hope this might improve? No, assuming the worst was safer. Expecting the most ridiculous actions had always meant she was right. It didn't hurt as much when you saw the blow coming and prepared for it. The few times she let her hopes up, they only dashed back down. Painfully. 

Oh.

There was something deeper there, wasn't there? In Jazz's own mind. Something she wasn't truthfully, entirely ready to examine. Which was why the various raucous noises— What on earth was Danny doing? —coming from downstairs were an almost welcomed distraction... Not that she would ever admit that. 

"Danny!" Jazz yelled down. "Would it kill you to keep it down!?" 

"Hey, I am trying to make this place spotless so Mom can come home to a clean house!" He shouted back, his voice much louder than she had expected, booming with a slight echo as if he was somewhere with much better acoustics than the living room. 

She ran downstairs to chew out her annoying little brother as an excuse not to continue down her previous frightening train of thought. "Well, I am trying to concentrate!" The target of her ire was nowhere to be seen.

Wait. What? Where was he?  She could have sworn he was down here. She looked around at the various cleaning things set out. The All-Purpose Furniture Spray on the table, the bottle of Windex beside it, sponges and wet wipes in a basket, and the vacuum cleaner plugged into the extension cord in the wall. But the carpet didn't have the telltale signs of smooth vacuum tracks. Hmmm. Maybe he just hadn't started yet.  

"Uh-huh," said a soft sarcastic voice from directly behind her. 

The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up, and a shudder ran through her. She turned around and nearly jumped a foot in the air. Her shock and hammering heart swiftly morphed into indignation and annoyance. "Do not  do  that!" 

Her brother covered his mouth as he snickered at her expense, but that still didn't effectively hide the mischievous smile proudly displayed. "Do what?" He asked in feigned innocence.

"You  know  what," she muttered, hand clutching her chest, still trying to recover from the impromptu heart attack he had just given her. "I... I'm not gonna be able to get anything done here. Ugh. I'm heading to the library."

The Amity Park Public Library’s copy of the Diagnostic Statistics Manual 5th edition was an intimate old friend. Emphasis on old. Some pages had been dog-eared, wrinkled, or even torn. But that hardly mattered. Besides, she was using it as more of a security blanket. She already knew most, if not all, of the information; it was a meditative practice as she ran her finger along each section. She breathed the words in, found her peace and stability again. 

Okay, you’re okay. 

So you might have been wrong. So what?

It’s not the end of the world. You made a mistake; it happens. You must’ve missed something. Some small minute error shouldn’t be reason enough to give up and throw everything you believe in the trash. This kind of all-or-nothing thinking is a dangerous logical fallacy and a cognitive distortion.

You still have your foundations. So, return to them. Doubtless, not everything is wrong. It’s a minor miscalculation. Something happened, and you felt unprepared. Breathe. It’s all okay. You can’t prepare for absolutely everything. You don’t have to be in control all the time. You missed something in your detailed observations, so what?

But... No, no, no. Oh no. If she missed this... Then... Oh. Her carefully crafted calm collapsed like a Jenga tower. 

What else had she missed? Could she even trust her own observations? What else was she wrong about? What if her other conclusions were flawed? Was everything she ever thought—was it all—compromised?

No. No, calm down. Breathe. Stop. Now, you are the one catastrophizing. 

Step-by-step. Calm your thoughts. How many times have you explained ‘what to do when the world is falling down’ to other people? Why can’t you seem to get a grip on your own maladjusted cognition? How can you expect to help others if you fall apart due to such a silly, insignificant thing? How could she force her family to be better... If she was just as crazed and unbalanced as they were?   

Dr. Spectra’s words, unbidden, rushed back to her ‘Do you feel as if The Whole Wide World will collapse if you let yourself express a single moment of... Vulnerability?’ 

‘That you can’t... don’t even have the option of making a single misstep?’

Yes. Jazz had avoided answering truthfully before. But now, alone, she let her calculated perfect guard down and let herself admit that yes. Yes, she did. Oh, Jazz shouldn’t’ve ignored the professional when the woman had only wanted to help her. She should’ve admitted how close to the edge she was. Then maybe she could get better at holding herself together.  

No. Jazz could collect herself through her own abilities. This wasn’t anything that new. She absolutely cannot fall apart like this. What is wrong with you? Pull yourself together.

Deep breath. In and out.

That’s it, calm down.

You know how to decatastrophize a situation. It should be no different when you yourself are the one straddling the ledge.

Calm down. Compartmentalize if you must. Dissociate for the moment. Decatastrophize. What advice would you give someone else if they were breaking down in front of you? 

“You’re not thinking logically,” she whispered to herself. Her frantic thoughts had nothing on how strained and shaking her voice came out. Ragged breath in. Slower, somewhat less hysterical, breath out. She tried again. Pretend you are talking to someone else because you can’t be trusted to fix yourself, now can you?  “Acknowledge the worst-case scenario and how likely it is to come to pass. Itemize your worries.”

Ask yourself the harshest, scariest question you can think of. Play through the situation to its logical conclusion, and see it might not be as bad as you are making it out. 

What would it mean if you are wrong? 

Why are you so petrified of being wrong?

It would mean a loss of control, a loss of all certainty and stability. 

‘You’d kill for a bit of stability.’ Dr. Spectra’s voice wafted towards her, colliding with her own thoughts. ‘An overachiever like yourself must feel forced to make your own.’

Yes, Jazz’s parents were bonkers. Complete basket cases sometimes, but that kind of chaotic, clueless, overconfident energy was predictable. And if something is predictable, it is manageable. Therefore, she had freaked when her ever predictable father did something she never expected.

How likely is the worst-case scenario? 

How could she know if they were already operating outside established precedent? Before, if you had asked Jazz, ‘how likely is it for Jack Fenton to stop working on his project, realize he forgot his anniversary, and work to make it up to his wife?’ She would’ve given an embittered, morose chuckle and said, ‘chances are slim to none.’ 

So, now that something like that had happened... Then, all the other things that she never considered likely now seemed skewed to a higher chance of happening. 

How likely was it for Maddie to forgive Jack? Before, she would’ve said, ‘of course, Maddie would almost certainly get over her anger.’ 

But now? 

Absolute worst-case scenario... A major fallout. A fight where they could never reconcile. Their marriage torn asunder. Divorce. Before an extremely low possibility. Now? Who knows... Certainly not Jazz anymore. 

Oh, oh god, this wasn’t working. Jazz couldn’t define the parameters of how likely the scenario happening was. She felt insane. Her fevered mind was spinning away like her father driving the Fenton RV, with all the implied decorum and regard for boundaries. She watched, helpless, as each thought burst apart, rushing faster and faster with no breaks; but could do nothing. 

Slap! 

She struck her own cheek, hard as she could, with her shaking hands. It was often said; that sharp pain can be effective to clear the mind. Indeed, it seemed to work briefly. But Jazz could feel that choking hysteria creeping up on her yet again.

Stop!  She ordered herself. What you are doing isn’t helping, you know that. You are getting lost in baseless, ridiculous claims. If you cannot trust yourself, do what you’ve always done, turn to the experts.            

Go back to your foundation of understanding; isn’t that why you came to the library in the first place? 

Follow the philosophical Cartesian method of upending the apple basket to inspect each thought before putting it back inside your head. Get rid of the rotten ones or the ones based on cognitive distortions. 

Instantly she can reabsorb those views from the DSM-5… Right? Or was that the same sort of thinking that got her into this mess? 

But… she can’t just discount all the research, both her own—no, your analysis might be compromised. You are a biased source regarding your ideas and thoughts. So you cannot trust your thoughts, especially not now. You are not in any position to be acting or thinking logically—and the peer-reviewed studies by all the experts.

Yes, this is the reason Jazz is here in the library. To reaffirm with as little bias as she can manage—not ‘no bias,’ cuz that was unrealistic. Naturally, humans are creatures full of bias—her unofficial (still not a professional no matter how hard you try, Jazzy) diagnosis.

Her father: Jack Fenton, highly suspected to struggle with both ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) and ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). She had, however, already dismissed the possibility of schizophrenia despite his more... out-there beliefs and delusional thinking that could suggest psychosis. 

First off, the ADHD Inattention Criterion. 

1) Often fails in paying attention to close details and makes careless mistakes.

2) Often forgetful in daily activities. 

Uh. Yeah, what started this mess, to begin with, was Jazz’s dad forgetting their anniversary... Again, for the 18th year in a row, if what her mom had shouted was accurate. Not to mention the number of times her dad had forgotten something more mundane like running errands, paying the bills, scheduled appointments, ETC... That was her mother’s wheelhouse—unless, of course, she was also preoccupied with a project... Then it became Jazz’s responsibility.

3) Often has difficulty sustaining attention on tasks. 

Only if it’s not ghost-related, but that can be explained through the hyper-focus and fixation symptom. 

4) Rarely seems to listen when directly spoken to, hard to get their attention, as their mind is perpetually somewhere else.

Yup. Just trying to get Jack Fenton to engage in something was seemingly impossible. Unless it was ghost-related.

5) Often has difficulty following instructions or set procedures and easily gets sidetracked. 

Her dad was lucky he was self-employed and thus could effectively decide to drop a previous task for the one that just popped into his head. As for instructions? Jazz is sure her mom has had some trouble getting him to do things step by step. 

Plus, well, did driving laws count? 

6) Has difficulty managing and organizing both activities and physical workspaces.

Yyyup. The garage vouched for that. As well as the various half-finished projects littered around the house. Or the sorry state of the lab when a project was underway. 

7) Often loses things necessary for tasks or activities. 

Yes. How many times had he misplaced his keys, half-finished inventions, tools, wallet, and even his phone? How many times has Jazz had to have the ‘don’t be ridiculous of course ghosts aren’t stealing your stuff’ talk? Far too many times.

8) Often easily distracted by extraneous stimuli. 

Said stimuli that again he claims are ghosts. 

9) Often avoids, dislikes, or is reluctant to engage in tasks that require sustained mental effort.

As long as it didn’t ping his interest—ghost-related—then, yeah. Their dad used to struggle in schools. He worked hard to get his B- and was proud of them. Even if they seemed to pale compared to Maddie’s perfect straight As. It was something Jazz had hoped he would be able to relate to Danny about because Jazz only came off as insincere when she talked to her brother about school. 

Well, that was the last symptom in that section. The DSM-5 says that it required five or more to qualify, and Jack Fenton checked 9 out of 9 boxes. 

Moving on. Hyperactivity and Impulsivity Criterion.

1) Often fidgets with or taps hands, swings feet, or otherwise squirms in seat. 

Yes, it wasn’t uncommon to always see her father doing something with his hands. He was an engineer, after all. He was most comfortable with a project in his grasp, either an invention or his needlepoint. But when those options weren’t there, he would fiddle with his fingers like he didn’t know what to do with them.

2) Often leaves a seat in situations when expected to stay seated. 

Kinda. Jack Fenton would unquestionably never survive an office job or any sort of situation that required him to be seated, motionless, for hours at a time. No, that would be a disaster. He would frequently jump up from his seat in excitement or forgo sitting down entirely. 

3) Often runs about or climbs in situations where it is inappropriate. As an adult, this behavior declines to generic restlessness.

4) Often acts as if ‘driven by a motor’ or constantly ‘on the go.’

Well, her father often let his excitement run rampant, and thus, him running around, breaking into things, and climbing things was... not that unheard of. 

5) Unable to engage in leisure activities quietly.

Yeah, Jack Fenton and Quiet were strangers who barely knew the other existed.

6) Often talks excessively.

Oh boy, does he ever. Ask anyone unfortunate enough to have gotten him started. 

7) Often blurts out thoughts and does not wait for a turn in the conversation. Unable to gauge the appropriate volume or time to talk.

8) Difficulty in waiting in general

9) Often interrupts or intrudes without consideration for the other person and their boundaries. 

Well, her dad might’ve been a B- student, but he had just received another perfect score. 9/9. Yeah, he absolutely had ADHD. She wasn’t wrong about that... 

Now for ASD. 

Criterion detailing Persistent Difficulties with Social Communication.

1) Issues with social-emotional reciprocity. An abnormal social approach and the inability to initiate or respond to social interactions appropriately. 

That was more vague and subjective than some of the other symptoms, but she could still say... That yes, Jack Fenton fit the bill. Even if he tended on the side of oversharing rather than the stereotype of disconnected and reduced engagement.

2) Abnormal and poorly integrated nonverbal communication and body language. Deficits in displaying and understanding eye contact, gestures, facial expressions, ETC…

Hmm. Jazz’s dad sometimes missed signs she would consider strikingly obvious. Like how he kept blabbering on, ignoring the caged off and uncomfortable body language of the person he was trapping. So many quote end quote friends from the reunion screamed for escape in every nonverbal way when Jack Fenton bounded over to them. Resentment bubbling under Mr. Masters’s demeanor, the fear and embarrassment that blanketed every interaction with Danny, and her own palpable disappointment and disapproval written on her face. All missed by Jack. But at the same time, he himself was still a very expressive and open person, to the point that some called him simple.

3) Deficits in developing, maintaining, and understanding relationships. 

Friendships. Romantic relationships. Parental relationships. Jazz could look at the people around him to see the truth in that. Vlad Masters, his best friend whom he had hurt, ruined. A friendship not repaired. His wife, Madeline Fenton, declared that 18 years in a row was too many, and now this might be the final straw… His children. Yeah…

So… Yes, you could say that Jack Fenton had persistent defects in all 3 sections of social communication. At least enough.

Restricted repetitive patterns of behavior. 

1) Stereotyped repetitive motor activities, use of objects, or speech with frequent idiosyncratic words and phrases.

Her dad was always moving or toying with some inane gadget. But Jazz wasn’t totally sure if it was overly meticulous and repetitive. After all, she never really watched him work, preferring instead to be as far away from that nonsense as she could get. Although in terms of verbal idiosyncrasies, her father did feel the need to give ridiculous names to everything. He sometimes repeated things as if he fancied himself yelling out catchphrases. But she didn’t know if it was enough to check that box.

2) Strict adherence to routines and ritualistic patterns. Insistence in sameness and difficulty in switching gears between activities. Always trying to do even simple activities, in the same way, every time. 

Some things that her dad did almost seemed like that… Jack always wore the same thing every day. And he often said that without his jumpsuit, he felt like he’d break out in hives. Her parents didn’t have a typical job, so they could run their business however they pleased. Their routine was the same, pretty much every day, spend all day down in that lab fiddling with something. It was almost impossible to get her father to pry his focus away from his latest project. In fact, that was one of the weirdest parts of what he did today; he stopped working on his ‘specter speeder’ to suddenly rush to Arkansas to try to make it up to her mother. 

3) Highly specific and fixated interests, abnormal in intensity, and preoccupation with unusual and pervasive objects or activities.

There it was. That was probably the reason behind the whole ghost thing. That described Jack Fenton to a T. 

4) Hypersensitivity to sensory input or especially interested in the sensory aspects of the environment.

Did it count if he was only interested and sensitive to them because he thought he could detect ghosts through his environment? Cuz apparently, a change in the temperature was a sign of a ghostly presence. 

The DSM-5 said that to warrant a diagnosis, a patient must display 2/4 of the repetitive patterns. She had 1 definite answer and 3 maybes. Was that enough? 

Wasn’t that enough? 

Okay. Okay. Everything was slowly but surely fitting back into something Jazz could recognize. It was utterly pathetic how easily and completely she fell apart. But now, she was slowly regaining her stability. Her conclusions weren’t wrong… Right? 

No, they were replicable, so that meant she could trust them… Right? 

Or maybe not… Okay. Maybe, Jazz needs a more comprehensive understanding, more than just the DSM-5. She finds the only too-familiar psychology section and begins pulling any—and all—books that might even remotely help. 

Growing up in a Neurodivergent Household. Understanding the problems NT and NonNT children face when they have a Neurodivergent parental figure. 

Parenting Guide for the Neurodivergent Mind. 

Neurodivergencies and Parenting

Unfortunately, there were fewer results for managing situations where the parent warranted the diagnosis rather than the child. On how a neurotypical parent can learn to adapt and make the world easier for their struggling child? There was book after book and journal after journal to help with that. 

But how the child can learn to adapt to their parents’ differences? Nope, a few here and there that she managed to scrounge up. 

Guess people were naïve; thinking that the parent is the one who needs help seems almost backward, right? Children taking care of their parents? No, not until they are functioning adults themselves and their parents are much older does that natural order switch. Children questioning these kinds of subjects and tentatively trying to put a label on their parents? It seems almost wrong. Strange. Possibly even... Disrespectful. Some children grow up thinking that their parents are beyond fault at first, sometimes even have trouble seeing them as human beings. As you grow older, you start to realize that: no; they aren’t infallible, yes they do struggle, and yes, absolutely can they be messed up. Less lucky children are forced to face that reality sooner rather than later.

But Jazz sometimes wondered, where was the self-help guide for dealing with parents? Instead of parenting issues or questions. Not how parents can deal with and understand their kid, but the opposite. Where was the roadmap to show her—the technical child in that relationship—how to understand her parents? Because, good god, she needed some map or clue, especially since Jazz seemed to have missed a couple of twists and turns somewhere along the way. 

Of course, there were general studies on adults with neurodivergencies. But adults don’t live in a vacuum. The literature already had expanded on the struggles of the friends and family. There were even ample options on navigating a romantic relationship with someone who was neurodivergent. But something that seemed such an irrefutable and obvious, inevitable challenge—what happens when that diagnosed adult in that relationship takes the next step and has children—was hardly addressed. And in her family’s case… Well, it wouldn’t be too surprising to learn that both her parents warranted some kind of diagnosis, perhaps even more than one. So what happened—what was she supposed to do, how could she navigate life—when two people, both of whom possibly struggled with their mental health, marry and have children. Children who may have displayed signs of mental issues—because she couldn’t deny that her own cognition strayed from the typical norm. And Danny... 

Their entire family was a mess. A collection of issues held together by, well, sometimes she felt like it was her that kept them together. Sometimes she felt like it was her fault they weren’t holding together as much as the family needed. If it all toppled down now, it would be because she was wrong, and she couldn’t keep them together. 

No, you’re doing it again. Catastrophizing. 

Then, of course, you had the additional challenge, in the more common and confusing cases, when an adult never received an official diagnosis. Which, truthfully, is quite common because of the radically different approach to mental health in the past. Jazz doesn’t have the Ph.D. or training to diagnose anyone. Dr. Spectra was right yet again. ‘It would be irresponsible for me to allow someone without the proper training to be too heavily involved. It can be a delicate thing, you know, human psychology; you must know, precisely, what you’re doing or risk making it... Worse.’ Anyone can comb through psych books and then—like some hypochondriac or Munchausen syndrome by proxy patient—declare that they, someone they know, have an illness. All because of the boxes they checked off in their head. ‘You always have to be cautious of jumping to conclusions or giving someone fraudulent advice. Even I, as a professional, constantly have to pull myself back... Let others speak. Not let myself put words into their mouths or diagnoses in their heads.‘ 

But self-identifying with a diagnosis can be... helpful. If you have a label. Then these things can be easier to recognize, face, and overcome. 

But imposing the label on others? Oh. And herein lies the kicker, what triggered this emotional breakdown and obsessive spiral. Her father, whom she had already labeled and mapped out, acted in a way that seemed to counter the labels she forced on him. Thus, making her question if he really warranted the classifications. 

Oh. These labels, diagnoses, were bars on a cage and links in a chain. Jazz wasn’t using them to be helpful, to make things clearer or easier to overcome, but to trap people into boxes of behavior. 

But there had to be a balance! Because chances are her family could never be talked into seeing a professional… So, Jazz is the best they get. She needs to hold it all together. Same as always. 

And she can’t do that; if she second-guesses her thoughts and actions. She can’t do that if she doesn’t have her foundation of research and observations. She can’t do that without these labels, that she lovingly imprisoned them inside. 

If there’s no option for an official diagnosis... Then at least an unofficial one is better than struggling with these undefined ‘quirks’ and ‘strange behaviors’ that seemed to indicate something else going on.

Right, yes. Bring the monster out into the light, and then you can face it. Call a spade a spade, or you will lose yourself in a world with ever-changing definitions and no basis on what reality is. 

Hmmm. This wasn’t solving anything, just more pointless, endless circling. Jazz, stubbornly and arrogantly—and untruthfully—insisted that she knew exactly where she was going. As each step got her all the more lost in a clearing where every path looked identical.

Maybe Jazz was just too close to the problem. Or possibly Jazz was the one with the real problem. After all, she knew already that she was slightly on the more neurotic side of things. Which, she also knew, was quite the understatement. 

Oh. Maybe Jazz needed to do more research on herself and her own mental problems. ‘You shouldn’t ignore your own mental health in your efforts to fix others.’ the professional had told her, someone with all the proper training.

But that would only feed these feelings of uncertainty and insecurity, wouldn’t it? No, that would honestly break her. Jazz had never been good at dealing with her own issues. As everyone always accused her of, she was too busy trying to micromanage everyone else.  

Another Journal caught her attention: The Pervasive Perfectionism Problem.

Well... She figured she’d bite.

It began with an early method of defining perfectionism. Breaking it down to ‘normal perfectionism,’ where the drive to succeed and exceptionally high standards was balanced and well adapted. And then ‘neurotic perfectionism,’ which was what Jazz knew that she had. Where the pursuit of perfection had her obsessively unraveling over a simple mistake and highly critical toxic self-evaluation. 

But this was all nothing new. Jazz just happened to be facing it in a way that was harder to run from.         

She also knew the literature that detailed the correlation between perfectionism and several other more serious mental disorders. For example: anxiety, depression, narcissism, and other psychopathology. As well as some awful unhealthy coping mechanisms. Such as the defensive tendency that the journal spelled out—the one she was currently knee-deep in engaging in right this moment—’self-concealment.’

The perfectionist tries to hide any and all negative character aspects from everyone. So that they can maintain their constructed self-image of perfection. Someone who could never be wrong or make a single mistake because that would mean failure. 

She fought off the mad desire to laugh, as even her beloved books started calling her out for being wrong. She couldn’t…

Oh. Oh no. Breathe. Get a hold of yourself! 

What is wrong with you?

Oh, she knew the answer to that. She was a neurotic, maladapted perfectionist. 

That’s what her books said. That’s what the experts said. That was the correct answer, right? She always got the answer right. Just ask her perfect record. 

Ha. Hahaha.

Nope. Nope.

She couldn’t do this right now. She’d rather keep hiding; ‘self-concealment,’  these problems, thank you very much, even from herself. 

She put the book away and decided that, for once, she might have had enough of the library. Besides, she was exhausted from her multidimensional freakout. Yeah, she should probably just head back home.

Especially since, out of nowhere, her stomach turned.

Oh, she was feeling sick. Something else was going wrong. Very, very wrong. The room spun. Faster and faster. Then she was back there. Thrown back in time, panicking again. This sickly, potent dread, running sluggishly through her veins, was too familiar. A repeated refrain she knew, a pattern of events her obsessive mind latched onto. After all, what had happened the last time their parents had left them alone?

‘You kids will be alright on your own, right?’

Of course, Dad, just like we’ve always been. 

But then again, they hadn’t been alright. 

Not the last time their parents left. So what would happen this time?

Add that to what she, the responsible one, had done? Escaped to the library and then Danny had been... Oh. Oh no, left alone. 

She couldn’t dare let something like that happen again.

Jazz felt considerably better once she had reached her home. It may have been foolish to get so worried and paranoid about the past repeating itself, but she couldn't help it. She knew she'd breathe easier after she made sure that her little brother was alright. She reached the front door, newly cleaned from the typical insulting graffiti, took a steadying breath, bracing herself for the worst. No, not the worst, not again. Calm down. Before you fall apart again. And entered her house. 

The first thing she noticed was that Danny actually had done quite a respectable job at cleaning up. The living room hardly ever looked this nice.

No random gadget pieces or hazardous wires. No green goop or even the leftover splotches of where green goop had been festering. Even some stains that Jazz could've sworn were on the ceiling earlier were wiped clean. Whoa. How did he even reach those, let alone get rid of them?

He had also seemingly dusted the place. The tops of the bookshelves, the various knickknacks, and the curtains all looked brand new. He had succeeded in what he said was his goal 'to make this place spotless.' Almost disquietly clean, like a place never lived in. No dust pattern or stain matched or emphasized any memories. As if someone had somehow just removed every smudge of dirt, speck of dust, and cluster of bacteria.

Clean was a massive understatement.

How on earth did Danny do all this?

Danny was not a neat freak. Far from it. One only had to walk into his room to know that. He was a teenage boy, after all.

Plus, he had done all this in the time she was at the library? How long had she been there? It couldn't've been more than a few hours. And had he done this all on his own? Or did he rope his friends in? But—even accounting for more helping hands and perhaps some strange fancy, expensive cleaning product Sam could've brought over—it still seemed ridiculous to do this much in such a short amount of time.

If it wasn't equally as unlikely, Jazz might've considered the possibility of one of their parents' inventions helping with the thoroughness of it all. But her parents' contraptions only made messes, never cleaned them up. 

The second thing she noticed was that Danny, himself, was nowhere to be found in either the immaculate living room or the eerily pristine kitchen. 

The third thing she noticed nearly stopped her heart. A noise from down in... the lab. The lab. No, no, no. 

It couldn't be their parents. No way could Dad have apologized, convinced Maddie to come back, and traveled all the way back to Illinois in only a few hours. So it had to be… Danny. Probably continuing on his quest to make the house perfectly flawless. 

Oh, no. It. Was it really happening again? 

Or was it just her mind playing tricks on her? So worried that she thinks she's hearing things.

"Danny!!" her voice unbelievably shrill from worry and a growing bubbling fear; she yelled down the staircase, dark except for that creepy green glow. "Is that you!?" More noises, like someone nervously scrambling to hide or avoid a lecture. She took a deep breath—told herself this wasn't going to be like last time—and started walking down. "You know you shouldn't be down there... And with what happened la… st ti..." her voice trailed off. 

She flicked the light on. 

No one was in the lab. Jazz released the breath that had caught in her lungs. 

Although, someone had undoubtedly had been in the lab recently, for it was considerably tidier than she had ever seen it. Usually, inventions, beakers, samples, and/or any number of her parents' weird assorted tools could be found laying spread out on all the table surfaces. Now? Every one of the chrome worktables not only had nothing on them but had even been wiped down. They looked almost polished. Jazz ran a hand over a metal countertop. She could see her reflection in it. 

Wow. Jazz looked like a mess. 

Her long hair was frazzled and tangled up. Her expression was one of complete instability. Crazed, bloodshot eyes. In every way, she was the exact opposite of the calm confidence she tried so hard to portray. 

She let out a breathy chuckle. 

The lab was quiet, too quiet. If it was one thing Fentonworks never was, it was quiet. Jazz's erratic laughter bounced back to her as a continual testament to how there were no other sounds here. No bombastic words from either Fenton Parent. No explosions. No crashes. No, nothing. Just the vestige of her nervous breakdown. And that almost imperceptible whirring of that... Abominable machine.  

She hadn't been here in a while, not since... "I thought I heard someone down here," she whispered, almost afraid to speak and shatter the unsettlingly horrific silence. 

A shiver ran through her; the insulation in the lab was always terrible. She looked up and around her one more time, feeling the oddest feeling of being watched. 

But no. No one was there.

Jazz's roving eyes fell to the portal. What she had been working so hard to ignore since she stepped foot down here. Right there. Impossible to ignore. Given the area of prestige, so you had to see it. Her parents' 'greatest achievement.' It was on. Of course, it was on. They would never shut it down; too worried that it wouldn't start back up. Now it was 'working,' if you asked her parents. Swirling that toxic disgusting whatever it was that they put in it, like a perverse lava lamp.

She felt her stomach turn and fought down rising bile and a growing feeling of disquietude permeating the very air. The air was thin and too cold. The shadows were long and too spindly. The lab was too quiet. Her skin crawled.   

She shook her head free of silly thoughts, like nightmarish hands reaching out or wide gleaming, unblinking eyes gluing her to this spot. It was simply brought on by stress. It's not real. It's all in your head.

"Heh, guess, I was wrong again," she said to herself, not strong enough to throttle another slightly unstable laugh. She ran a hand down her face in stress. "Doing it again, aren't you, Jazzy? Falling to pieces."

Then she straightened up as she made up her mind. She turned her back on that stupid portal and walked back towards the stairs. When she flicked the switch off, that horrible green glowing monstrosity was once again the only light source. 

She left the lab.  

Living room, kitchen, and now the lab, but still no Danny. She ran up to the second floor and knocked on his bedroom door. 

"Danny? You in there? I just wanted to let you know I am back and... " she hated how thin her voice sounded. No response. "Danny?" No, nothing. 

She turned the handle and threw open his door. No one. He wasn't in his room, either. His bedroom had not had the pleasure of getting caught up in his cleaning spree. It was just as messy as usual, if not more. Clothes bunched up and piled high in his hamper. Schoolwork flooded his desk. Bed unmade. Random stuff littered the floor. The trash can overflowed with tissues and other no-doubt disgusting things.

Some strange, sickly green glow was coming from under the bed. What was that? She, unfortunately, recognized the hazardous hue. Oh. Was he fooling with mom and dad's stuff? Why? Perhaps he had stolen a couple of mom and dad's gadgets and wanted to hide them. Kinda understandable, considering they went off around him and had the potential to hurt him.

But shoving the unpredictable thing that might attack him under his bed was not one of his brightest moves.

Maybe she should fish them out, find a better place to hide them. Somewhere where they wouldn't hurt anyone and couldn't go off randomly like a live landmine. But digging through Danny's things was another invasion of his privacy, which he certainly would not appreciate. Not to mention the fact that she'd rather not find out what else her teenaged brother had shoved under his bed. 

Judging by the other green light visible from the crack under that door, there were also a few more of their parents' inventions in his closet.  

Jazz resigned herself to inaction, shaking her head, and left his room. 

Well, Danny wasn't in FentonWorks. He probably went over to one of his friends' houses after cleaning.

Right. That made sense. No need to worry over a nonissue. 

Now for her to get back to her other task at hand. Because, for once, she was going to focus on herself. She collected her strength, taking purposeful strides towards her room, each footfall timed with her breathing. Why was it so hard to let herself be vulnerable? How strange to think she wasn't strong enough to be weak. She grit her teeth, hard enough for her jaw to hurt, grabbed her cell phone, and dialed Spike's number. 

She almost hung up in the few seconds it took him to answer.

"What's up?" asked his bored voice. 

"I uh..." she cringed at how she sounded and cleared her throat to start again. "Hey." That one syllable was hard to force out but nowhere near as hard as the following sentence. "Um... I think I uh… need help??"

"Uh oh, you sound  way past  spiraling." She couldn't see Spike but could guess he was rubbing his temples. "What do you want, J?"

"Um uh…" Breathe. Her words tumbled out of her at breakneck speed; the only way to get them out was to not even try to sort them in her mind. So Jazz didn't think she just rambled. "I was wondering if you could help me go over every excruciating detail of my personal notes to look for minuscule errors..."

There was a beat of silence. Then Spike's deadpanned voice asked a question that wasn't a question; cuz he knew her too well for that. "Please tell me you are f*ckin' kidding."

"Um… uh..."

"Right… Course yer f*cking not. J, what in the deepest, coldest blackest void of hell are you thinkin'?"

"I uh… don't know," she confessed, words bubbling and hiccoughing out of her. "I think I am going mad… C-Can't tr-trust my own observations, thoughts, or conclusions. I've been trying and trying. Re-reading and going over and re-going over them m-my-self, but I am too biased. I can't. I n-need someone outside of myself to help me kn-now if I am going crazy. Because I feel like I am… like it's all sec-conds away from deteriorating… My p-pparents… and l-little b-brother… E-everything."

"Oh, for f*cks sake, J breathe! Before you f*ckin' pass out!"

Jazz took sharp intakes of air, trying to force herself not to hyperventilate. Wait, a bit. Breathe. Slow. Calm down. Easy.

"Ok. start from the top. Exactly why do you think the world is ending  this time  ?"

Jazz bit her lip and waited long enough for it to get awkward.

"Seriously, Jazz, you are impossible." he groaned. "But… I'm here."

"I haven't driven you away yet?" she asked with a choked chuckle, grateful for him putting up with her. She rubbed her hands over her eyes. 

"There've been some close calls," he scoffed, teasing her. Struggling to get her focus on his voice and out of her own head. She tried to laugh, to fool him into thinking it had worked, but the stifled sound wouldn't come. "But," the sound was more groan than a recognizable word. She heard his head thud against something, most likely a wall. "I think I can go the distance. What else are best friends for?"

"Thanks," she murmured, almost inaudible. 

He took several seconds inhaling, probably bracing himself for whatever she was going to throw at him, and then slowly exhaled. "So… what's up?"

"My parents." She answered, sounding momentarily as hollow as he usually did, thus continuing the theme of 'role reversal' this phone call had fostered. "I… Look, um... How would you describe my… uh, parents?"

Spike whistled through his teeth and hesitated. 

"As truthfully as you can. Don't hold back." Jazz added. 

"Well... They're psychos… Everyone knows that...  You  know that."

"Yeah… Do I ever."

"So… what's up?" he repeated. Jazz could hear the unspoken question;  if you know, why are you acting like you just had some grand revelation?

"I think they're  trying . They aren't good at it… At all. But some of their actions are starting to make me think that they are…  earnestly  trying." 

"Oh. Sometimes it's worse when parents actually try," he said softly, no doubt considering his own broken and suffocating home-life. 

"Yeah..." she agreed. " Why?  Why does it hurt more when they show me that they are trying? Why does it hurt to see my insensitive and clueless father remembering something and trying to be better? Why does hearing the words, 'family is more important to me than ghosts! I swear it!'  burn?  I-it's what I've wanted. What I've tried to get them to do."

"Sometimes you get used to things bein' sh*tty and don't want them to change."

"So that's it then? Learned helplessness? Anxiety at lack of control? Too scared of change? Stuck in a state of Repetition Compulsion?"

"You know the terminology better than me, but yeah. If all you've ever known is a f*cked up situation, sometimes you start to crave it. And actively f*ck other situations up, like on purpose."

"Yeah, that checks out. Is that why you don't want to fix  your  relationship with your parents?"

"Maybe… How did you turn  this  back on  me  again?" Spike asked. The slight creak told her he had just thrown himself into a chair. "You are too damn good at that," he groaned.

"Well..." she prompted.

"Maybe I just don't think things   can   change."

"Yeah…" Both of them sat for a moment with the weight of that statement. "But if they really could… If you knew for 100% certain that they could… Would you honestly want them to?"

"Dunno... What 'bout you?"

"I  thought  I did." Jazz sat down and let her shoulders sink from too much pent-up tension. "Today is my parent's anniversary, which my dad forgot about, again. Like everyone expected him to. Like he has every other year. But it was different this time… my mom took it as the final straw, flew off the handle, and stormed out. Then my dad, the man that it would take a miracle to get anything through his thick skull, reacted… So… Normally. With self-awareness, which he never shows, he stopped his latest project and ran after my mom. Promising that he'd start putting family before ghost hunting." She ended with a slight warble in her throat, feeling herself start to fall apart again. She hastily wiped her eyes again, trying to circumvent the downfall and out-pour of troublesome tumultuous emotions. "Spike, honestly, am I wrong? About everything I've cataloged about them? Could they change? Could things get better?"

"I'm the wrong guy to ask, J. You're the ever peppy optimist, and I am the sullen angsty pessimist."

"I don't feel very optimistic."

"I know. Like I've said before, you're so fake sometimes, J."

"Yeah… I guess I am. Am I at least fooling anyone... Besides myself?" she asked with a half-laugh, not really sure if she was joking or not. 

"Some days. Sometimes you seem so perfectly put together."

"If only you could see me now," she murmured. 

"Yeah? Not gonna lie; you sound like sh*t."

"I look it, too. Thanks."

"For what?"

"Being there. Listening."

"You always do that for me, gotta return the favor sometimes."

"Also… It's nice to not be so fake for a moment."

"Dunno why you try so hard, J."

"Repetition Compulsion. It's what I know. What I'm used to. Can't ever turn it off."

He snorted. "Yeah, I know. Well, at least you don't sound completely outta your mind anymore."

"Ironically, that's cuz you're quite good at getting me outside my own mind."

"Well, someone f*ckin' has to."

A genuine laugh came from Jazz this time. "Thanks again, Spence. For putting up with me."

"Well, someone f*ckin' has to," he repeated, softer this time. "So, seriously, you good, Jazz?"

"Yeah, I think so… Or at the very least, I am ready... to pretend to be again."

Again, she knew he was shaking his head. "Gonna drive yourself nuts, J, that ain't healthy."

"I know. I am a classic case of Neurotic Perfectionism. But..." Jazz trailed off, unable to finish that thought. "Thanks again, Spike. See you at school. Bye."

Jazz had smoothed out the tangles in her hair, washed her face free of the red puffiness, and fixed up her overall appearance so that she looked more put together. Which almost instantly helped make her  feel  more put together. 

And just in time, because she heard something downstairs. She hoped this time she wasn't just imagining things. Not even waiting to brace herself, she ventured down. 

She heard Danny's voice. He sounded a mixture of drained, aggravated, and stressed. "Seriously, that guy was an asshole! If I  never  see him again, it will be too soon." 

"Uh, Dude? Pretty sure you just jinxed yourself," Tucker said. In response, Danny banged his head on the table with a groan. 

"So…" Sam asked. "Now that you got the damn thing back, how do you get it to your dad in Arkansas?"  

"I guess… I'll have to fly," Danny said.

"Dude, Arkansas is kinda far. You sure you can manage..." The sound of the chair scuffing against the floor—Danny stood up abruptly—cut off the rest of Tucker's statement. 

"And just why exactly are you planning on flying to Arkansas? And how do you think you're gonna get to the airport?" Jazz asked, stepping into the kitchen and admitting to eavesdropping. Danny was facing the entrance and the only one not surprised at her appearance as if he'd somehow known she was there. 

He gave her a half sly, half pleading smile, which already let her know she would probably regret getting involved. "Well, maybe my super cool big sister could give me a ride?" 

"Danny," she said, dragging out his name, not liking how the direction this was going.

"Please, Jazz. It's important,  really  important. It might be the only thing that can stop Mom and Dad from getting divorced."

"Divorced?" Jazz raised an eyebrow. "They are not gonna get divorced, Danny."

"Yeah, they are. Mom said  the   word,  Jazz. That's a  bad sign . Not to mention how mad she was earlier." 

"Danny, calm down. Just because someone said a word in anger, it doesn't mean that meant, or it or are going to follow through. It's probably a simple misunderstanding. You don't understand," she started, but he cut her off.

"No,  you  don't understand." He whirled around, flailing his arms in nervous energy. "Dad forgot the gift! The one he's gonna apologize with. He accidentally left it in the lab; it's right here!" Now Danny had picked up the large wrapped present and was now waving  it  in her face. "Without it, Mom won't forgive him, and if she doesn't forgive him, then…" he trailed off as his imagination started running away with him.

"Dad  forgot  the gift?" Jazz asked, her world around her slowing down yet again. Now  that  sounded like their dad. That aligned with her thoughts, observations, and assumptions. Huh. She didn't know what to do with that information. On the one hand, it reestablished her previous way of looking at things and reassured her that she  wasn't  wrong. 

But on the other, she spent the day trying to warm herself up to the idea of things being different. 

On the  other  other hand, she hadn't exactly succeeded and still found that idea far too daunting to consider. 

On the other other  other  hand, it was still somewhat disappointing to yet again be shot down—when she had thought they were  so  close to an unattainable degree of progress—and end up right where they started. 

"Yes!" Danny's high-strung words penetrated her nebulous thoughts and stopped them before they could spiral down too intensively. "So we've gotta get it to them! Now! Before it's too late. So, are you gonna help or not? Cuz if you're not, then I'll find my own way."

"And just  how  would you do that?" She asked with a scoff. 

He blinked, as if not expecting to be called on the bluff, and shrugged nonchalantly, "Well, I'd uh… Figure something out… Like um uh... I… Dunno hitchhike... or something?"

" Hitchhike?  To Arkansas? Danny, are you  insane  ?"

"Ooor, you could do the  responsible  thing and protect your poor innocent, little brother. From  purposely  putting himself in the  unneeded  stranger-  danger  of hitchhiking and just take me there yourself." And now he had her. Because she would never let her baby brother do something so risky.

"You are an absolute  menace  sometimes."

His friends snickered, but Danny took slight offense to that. "Hey! It's all for a just cause! I'm the good guy!" His friends only laughed harder, and Tucker muttered something—Jazz couldn't make out—to Sam. Danny's face went even redder. "Shut up, Tuck." He glared at Tucker. Apparently, Danny  had  heard what the other boy said, or at least knew his best friend well enough to guess.

But of course, her brother knew what buttons to push to get her to go along with his insane plans. So before long, she was actually on her way to Arkansas with him. 

But she supposed it was worth it in the end. 

When they joined their mom and dad, Jack and Maddie had evidently worked out most of their problems by themselves. The two kids caught the very tail end of a surprisingly earnest and profound apology. Even though he did somehow manage to work 'ghosts' in. Hearing her father swear he loved their mother 'more than anything. Even more than he knew ghosts existed,' was an odd mixture of sweet, comforting, and yet utterly demoralizing. But that was just another example of who their parents were. And would likely always be.

Still, the gift was the needed icing on the cake to solidify the reconciliation between their parents. 

"So everything's fixed then? You guys aren't getting divorced?" Danny asked, interrupting their parents' embrace. 

Their mom stopped and turned to him. "Divorce? Whoever said anything about us getting divorced?"

"You did. You were yelling at dad and said you were going to your sister's for the divorce."

"Reckon, I can explain that one," said a woman with short-cropped, light red hair. She was wearing a pink plaid shirt under denim overalls. She put a large, calloused, and slightly dirty hand out to the boy. "Remember me, young'un? Why I ain't seen ya since ya were knee-high to a grasshopper."

"Aunt Alicia?"

"Dern tootin'. How ya been, kid?"

"Uh... fine?" he said, a bit awkward shifting from foot to foot. 

"Yeah? What about you, lil' missy? I see ya hidin' back there, like a fish outta water." Aunt Alicia turned to Jazz.

"Hi, Aunt Alicia," Jazz said, stepping forward out of the background with a slight wave.

"Well, tha's better. Now, ya don't need to be chargin' in here blowin' up a storm, yer momma's not the one getting divorced."

"You're not?" Danny asked, turning back to Maddie.

"No! Of course not!" Their mother looked appalled at the very thought. "No matter how mad I may have seemed... Oh, Danny, sweetie. You don't have to worry about that."

"So... then... Who is?"

"Not is... Done did ." Aunt Alicia amended. "Dunno if y'all remember my husband, been so long. Heck, we been split for ten years and yer only what..." she trailed off, studying Danny "12?" she guessed.

"Uh... 14." Danny corrected. Alicia blinked a bit as she thought back to the last time she had seen them, which Jazz only had the haziest, vaguest memory of.

"14. Right." Their aunt said with an almost sad smile. "Anyways, he was a scoundrel, and I'm glad to be ridda 'im. Been happier than a hog wallowing in the mud ever since."

"Oh."

"Which brings us to why we are here." Maddie cut in. She went up to her sister and hugged her. "Alicia, I know that marriage wasn't what was best for you. I don't know how hard it was to realize that and break it off, but I am glad you are outta that right awful situation. I wanted to celebrate that with you... And show you I support you. And well... Surprise!" She ended as a couple of the neighbors drove in on a red pickup truck that looked like it was carrying a party in the back. There were streamers, a bluegrass band, party poppers, and even a box of fireworks. 

A banner spelling out: A DECADE OF DIVORCE unfurled from the small wooden cottage. "Oh, Madeline..." Aunt Alicia said, bringing her hands up to her mouth and tears filling her eyes. 

"I know you and support you in what you want. Just like we've always been there for one another. I just want you to be happy; you weren't ten years ago. But if you are now? Well, that's all I could want for you. So, happy independence day from that jerk."

"Maddie... Thanks. And honest, if yer tellin' me yer happiest where ya are... Well, I will trust yer judgment, too. I ain't gonna be another Maw and Paw tryin' to run yer life. They did that to me too often." The woman pitched her voice up, as if imitating someone "'Divorces ain't right, Lissy.' 'I'mma sure y'all can make it work.'" then lower down in a gruff tone, "'The fact that y'all are still havin' these problems is proof that ya ain't tryin' hard enough to fix 'em.' Heh. Funny, they hated ya for marryin' but hated me for divorcin'."  

"Nah," corrected Maddie. "I think they hated us both for never makin' somethin' outta ourselves."

Alicia let out a bark of laughter. "Dunno bout that. Y'all seen my prized Rhubarb? I gotta nice thing goin' here. And you? City Slicker, makin' all them fancy gizmos?"

Maddie waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, Amity Park is hardly a big city..."

Alicia gave Maddie a smug smile. "Y'all got a shoppin' mall close by?"

"Well, yes."

"What about an airport?"

"Yes."

"Then yer a city."

"Pretty sure Amity is a Town," Maddie said with a wry smile.

"Bah. Whatever." Alicia threw up her hands. "Still flew the coop and headed north. Ya even lost mosta yer accent."

"It... Comes and goes..." said Maddie with a trivial laugh. Then she quieted again. "Really though, Lissy, I really am happy."

"Truly?"

Maddie smiled, taking her sister's hand. "Like a twister in a trailer park."

"Shoot, they even got twisters up where y'all're stayin'?"

"Every now 'n then."

"Gotta say, not a bad little family. Yer kids are cute as a sack full of puppies and sweeter than honey. And while Jack Fenton is still crazier than a run-over dog, who puts his mouth in motion before his brain is in gear... I respect yer decision."

"Thanks. You're the one I can count on not to treat me like I'm crazy."

"Now, don't ya get me wrong, Madeline, I reckon yer crazier than a popcorn kernel on a hot stove. But if ya wanna spend the best years of yer life bein' a fool. Runnin' after apparitions in the night, like a blind dog chasin' his tail... Then that there is yer choice." 

"Thanks... And when I finally prove I'm right, you'll be the first to know..."

Alicia said, blowing air out of her nose in a fond amusement, "Oh, I don't doubt I will, Maddie."

"Well, I guess you were right again," Danny said instead of a greeting a little while later. 

"W-what?" Jazz asked, startled out of busily detailing the latest events in the notebook on her observations about her parents. 

"They weren't ever gonna get divorced. It was all a misunderstanding... You were right."

"Oh. Right... I guess I was," she murmured to herself. Then cleared her throat with an awkward cough, straightened her back, and tilted her chin up. "I mean… That all seemed rather unlikely."

"Yeah." Danny clenched his jaw, crossed his arms, and scrunched up his nose in annoyance. "Well? I said it… So can you stop freaking out now?"

"Freaking out? I don't know what you mean," Jazz lied, refusing to look at him and fixing her gaze on the open book in her lap.

"What do you mean you don't know what I mean?" He challenged with a raised eyebrow. "Through this whole mess, you've been acting fricken psychotic."

"First of all," Jazz said, finally meeting his eyes, prompted by his misuse of terminology. "If anything, I have been acting neurotic , not psychotic. Those are two very different terms. And second..." her tone faltered, as the air of superority was knocked of her. Her shoulders slumped and head turned away; she couldn't keep that act. "Fine," she breathed out. "I suppose that's a..." She searched for a word, perhaps hidden among the wooden floor of the porch, that could preserve as much of her dignity as possible. "Fair assessment."

"So, have you accepted the world-ending realization that you can be wrong?" he asked with more than a hint of sarcasm and roll of his eyes. 

"Oh, don't be ridiculous." She snapped her head back up in frustration that he was getting to her. "Of course, I know I can  be wrong. It's just that I'm..." Jazz shook her head and dropped off before she could say 'not.' She turned back to her notes. "Dad doesn't apologize. He hardly ever realizes he goofed up. Except this time, he did..."

Where ever she was going with that sentence was cut off, interrupted by a cry of 'ghost!' ringing through the air. Jazz wrinkled her nose, watching the distant forms of their parents sprinting off into the swampy Arkansas night. She pulled her headband down, and ran her nails across her scalp before readjusting the headband again. "Well, at least some things stayed constant. Besides, one thing I know I'm right about? Ghosts don't exist."

 Danny gave her a strained grin like he wanted to say something, but he kept his lips sealed. 

"Well… Two things," Jazz amended, absently flipping through the pages with her thumb. "That." Finally, closing her journal. "And... Our parents are embarrassing crackpots." 

Her little brother shrugged with an 'it is what it is, so what can you do' expression. 

"But I suppose that's just the way they are..." Jazz relented.

"Does that mean you're gonna stop trying to uh... 'fix' them? Like, convince them that ghosts aren't real?"

"I... But ghosts aren't real! And sooner or later, our parents are going to have to face reality."

"I think you're the one who needs to accept reality," Danny mumbled, just barely loud enough for her to hear. 

"What do you mean?"

"Well..." Now he was the one avoiding her sharp gaze. "They, uh..." he rubbed the back of his neck in uncertainty. "Have evidence, don't they? You know... The college reunion? Or the stuff that happened at school? Or the fact that their stuff actually works now?"

Jazz groaned, holding herself back from slamming her head into the porch railing. "Please don't tell me they finally got to you. Look, whatever happened at that college reunion was probably brought on by either an excess of alcohol or something more potent causing hysteria and hallucinations."

"Everyone had the exact same hallucination?" Danny asked, raising an eyebrow. "Doesn't that seem, oh I don't know." He pursed his lips in an imitation of her 'I know better than you' expression and tone. " Highly unlikely? "

"Still more likely than fricken  ghosts, " she responded perfectly rational, not about to let her little brother get under her skin that easily. "Besides, that the power of suggestion can explain the similarities in hallucinations from different people. And I do  hope. .." She raised both her tone and her gaze to show concern and maturity. In response, he leaned against the porch railing, shoulders dropping like a rag-doll and face contorted in malcontent. " You  did not have a single drop of alcohol that night. Our parents getting plastered is one thing, but you? You are underage! I cannot believe Mom and Dad didn't think that through! You didn't, right? You were kinda out of it... Undergoing a crash. Especially the next morning."

"For crying out loud! I was just tired,  Jazz," he said, working his way to a groaning whine. Dropping his head into his hands. " Not  hungover."

"I am just saying…" she cut him off before he could get too worked up, with her hands held up in surrender. After a beat, she let them drop and continued her points. "Anyway, the school events already have other explanations... As for their inventions? They don't work; they always misfire and try to target you. "

"Yeah,  I know.  And other explanations?" Danny scoffed. "Yeah, right." He added sarcastic air quotes to the explanation as if his attitude and skepticism meant that these facts changed. "'Gas leak the day the meat monster appeared.' 'Someone spiked the school punch, so everyone saw a dragon.' 'Drugs at the college reunion.' All that still leaves you with the same argument. How many times can you claim 'mass hallucinations?' And... Aren't those like... Super rare in psychology? What are the odds that they keep happening?"

"Well, when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, is the truth." Jazz said with clenched teeth, in a tone that she hoped did not betray how often she wondered about that very flaw in her own argument. Or how the fact that she knew he was actually correct—about the psychological consensus regarding 'mass hallucinations' or 'collective hallucinations'—was ruffling every single one of her feathers. She was the resident expert—but of course, not really an expert—on psychology. "So, however  improbable  it is that these kinds of situations keep happening... It's still not as impossible as ghosts."

Danny rolled his eyes again. "You are the one who's impossible  ."

"Why do you care so much? I mean, you don't actually believe in ghosts, right?"

He did a double-take at her question, mouth dropping open, nearly slipping off the railing he was leaning on. He righted himself and snapped his mouth shut, turning back to her with a blank expression. It was hard to explain, but it was like he wiped his face as clean as he had made the living room back home. The only movement in his face were his wide eyes, staring at her long enough for it to just start getting awkward. Before he turned his back, kicked a small stone off their aunt's porch, and said with a scowl. "I… I don't."

"Don't what? Care so much or believe in ghosts?"

"Either. Uh… Both."

"Danny… is there something else going on?" Stupid question. Of course, there was something else going on with him. She just couldn't for the life of her work out what. She tried voicing one of her theories. If she was lucky, his reaction could let her know if she'd guessed right or not. "I mean… Could this be a way to try to get mom and dad to notice something… Do you feel like affirming their crazy beliefs would make them proud... or something?"

"What? No! What even gave you that idea?"

"Well… Lately, you have been acting out..."

"And you think it's cuz I'm a stupid kid who just wants attention?" He asked, closing himself off with his arms crossed and kicking another stone, harder this time.

"I know you're not stupid..."

"Coulda fooled me," he spat at the ground.

"And," she continued as though he hadn't interrupted. "There's nothing  that wrong  with craving attention from distant parents."

"Well,  sorry  to ruin your  oh-so-thought-out theories ," he mocked her with surprising bite and eyes she could swear were flashing. "But no. No, I am not  seeking attention . I'm happiest when they, and  you , leave me the heck  alone .  You are   wrong, Jazz."  His bared teeth told her he knew she felt each word like a blow to the gut, and he had  intended  her to. "Hopefully, that doesn't drive you into  another  nervous breakdown."

"Danny..."

"Should'a known you'd never listen!" He threw his hands up in the air as if telling her he'd declared her a lost cause. After yelling in her face, his tone abruptly switched to a soft-spoken, his mouth stretched taut across a painfully false grin, "Whatever... Maybe it's better that way..."

"Da..." she tried again, but she was alone before the first syllable of his name left her lips. What was she doing so wrong?

"Mind if I join ya there, missy?" Her aunt had come out onto the porch where Jazz was still sitting, staring off in the distance after a brother who had long since vanished. 

"Oh." she shook her thoughts to clear them. "Uh… no, of course not. Go right ahead."

"Brought ya some lemonade and a slice of my famous Rhubarb Pie." The woman set the tray down next to Jazz. "So..." she settled down in the other porch chair. "What's got ya so down in the dumps? It ain't that bad out here, is it?"

"No, it's not that." Jazz's eyes widened, and she gave her aunt her most polite smile. "At all. Really, Aunt Alicia. I am glad to visit, and your cottage is lovely."

"Ha." The woman gestured with her own glass of lemonade before taking a swig. "Sweet talkin' me ain't gonna get ya out of answerin' the question. I recognize that look on yer face, like yer mother trying to figure out some complex problem. What's up, sweetie?"

Jazz bit her lip. "You and Mom used to be close, right?"

"Don't care much fer the phrase 'usta,'" Aunt Alicia puckered her nose like either the sweetened lemonade or the word itself was sour on her lips. "But yeah, two peas in a pod we was."

"What changed? Was it one thing? Or a bunch of small things piling up? Or is it just natural for siblings to drift apart?"

"Ah." her aunt's eye line followed Jazz's gaze. There, off in the distance near the tree line, far from people or light pollution, they could barely make out the vague silhouette of a boy. "Worryin', huh? Fightin' with yer brother? I thought he was all fired up earlier when he came in to get his slice of pie. And though, can't say I know much about teens, I been an older sister for longer than you have."

Jazz nodded, waiting for the woman to keep going. 

"Well… the start of it all? Not sure t'be honest." The ice clinked in the glass as Alicia set it down. "Coulda been when Madeline headed off on her scholarship, and I..." she twisted and rubbed her ring finger on her right hand. "Stayed behind makin' one of the worst mistakes of my life and gettin' hitched too soon. Then course, it coulda been when Maddie herself got engaged and broke the news to our parents. Man, they was so mad at her. 'Bout as ornery as a nest of hornets when she told 'em."

"Why? Did they really not like Dad that much?"

"Oh, yer father surely didn't help his case none, barging on in like a bull in a china shop. And runnin' round mad like a scalded cat. But naw... Maw and Paw were more mad that she never went to med school." She dropped her voice down to a lower pitch as if imitating someone, "'what's the point of havin' all them brains if ya ain't gonna use em?'" She grabbed her glass of lemonade again, swirling it and the ice tinkled musically. "But yer dad and Maddie got on like a house on fire, and ain't nobody  never could talk Maddie outta somethin' once she made up her mind." Her mouth quirked up to the side in begrudging amusement. "Heh. Stubborn like an ol' mule, that mother of yers. Runs in the family."

Jazz also had to smile a bit at that because it was too true. "Has... she always been obsessed with... ghosts?"

"Ha. Yeah." The woman's smile and shake of her head was the exact combination of exasperated and fondness that Jazz could only describe as 'the older sibling look.' "Bless her heart. Wasn't always ghosts… But Maddie loved the unusual. Always has. Runnin off into them swamps over yonder, givin' my heart quite the workout. Catchin' and dissectin' all them pollywogs, toads, and crawdads. Till she got bored'a that and wanted somethin' even stranger. Then she started huntin' different prey, stories, mysteries, urban legends. Swamp monsters, phantoms, and what not... Still, it's natural fer kids to be curious and find trouble... We all thought she'd grow outta it. But not Madeline. Naw, smart as a whip, and she wanted to prove she was right 'bout it all. Then she met Jack Fenton." The smile morphed into more of a grimace. "Who only encouraged all that nonsense. I don't wanna speak too ill of yer ol' man, kid..." By the expression on Jazz's Aunt's face and the tone she was using, that statement was said merely out of polite formality. "But truth is? Madeline needed him like she needed a hole in the head."

"Oh." 

"But," Alicia leaned back on her porch chair, with a weary breath of years gone by. "Can't blame her too much. After all, I was dumb enough to get hitched, too. Difference is, I was able to come to my senses enough to leave... But tha's a whole 'nother side of the family drama."

"I don't really remember your ex-husband."

"Well, ain't you lucky."

"Do you wish you could go back and change it?"

"Course. But if wishes were horses, then all them beggars could ride. Still... Yeah, I do. There's a lot I wish I coulda changed," she ran her calloused hand across her face.

"Like your fall out with Mom?"

"Didn't really have no fallin' out. I never really blamed Maddie... At least not fully." She ran her hand up and down her cheek as if trying to rub away the years. "She mighta thought I did. Yeah, coulda been that..." Her hand dropped, and her gaze fell with it. She cleared a lump from her throat and tried to adjust her position in her chair. Before breathing out slowly, the words were whispered like a prayer. "When I lost my son. Maddie swore she could find him, bring him back."

"Oh. Oh my..." Jazz covered her mouth with her hands. "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright. Been a long time. Still miss 'im, course; the only good thing to come from my marriage." Her aunt turned to look up into the sky; far away from the light pollution, there were more stars than Jazz usually saw. "He'd be a little older than ya are now." She said softly, not really to Jazz but more to those distant lights. The wistful smile faded. "But no, I never blamed Maddie none. At least not as much as she probably blamed herself. After that, we just... sorta drifted away." She cleared her throat again. "Well... She still calls me up, sometimes, to talk my ear off 'bout her projects. Though, she knows I ain't really interested. But Maddie will never give up. Don't think she knows how."

"I think that also runs in the family."

"Haha. Ya are right 'bout that, Little Missy. So don't ya worry so much and don't give up all hope. Not every family falls apart. I heard yer brother, so worried that Maddie would up and leave. And as many times as I have truthfully encouraged that action, she has been as steadfast as always."

"You've been encouraging her to leave?"

"Honestly? Yeah, I have been. 'Specially when she came to me all torn up and near in tears. That father of yers always fergettin' what's most important… Hurtin' my baby sis like that." She shook her rough first in anger as if imagining slugging Jack Fenton before dropping it back down. "Yeah, I certainly was."

"Oh." Jazz sighed. "I guess I can understand that..."

"But, I know she won't."

"How?"

"Ain't ya been listenin'?" Her aunt asked with a sharp bark of laughter. "She's stubborn. Say what ya want about her cooky theories, but she knows who she is and what she wants, that one. And fer whatever reason—I don't think I will ever understand—what she wants is that fool, Fenton."

"They love each other, no doubt about that," Jazz said, thinking back to the many times she could pick out where they had proved it. Pure, simple declarations of love through everyday actions that she had recorded in her journal.

"Well, I know she's Buckwild 'bout him."

"And, Dad loves her just as much."

"Gotta funny way of showin' it," said the woman with a scowl.

"No... This time, he did better... Or at least he tried to do better. And outside of specific dates, they show it to each other all the time. In all the little things. Here." Jazz handed over the section she was working on, so her aunt could see.

"What's all this?"

"My observations. And the proof to back up my claim."

Alicia chuckled. "Ah. Another brilliant scientist in the makin', huh?"

"Something like that."

"Gonna be a ghost researcher, too, one of these days?"

"Absolutely not." Jazz said, her face twisted in disgust. "I prefer to study things that are real  ."

"Ah. Gonna be the doctor yer mother never became?" She asked with a wry smile and a rumble of amusement.

"Well... Perhaps a neuroscientist. Either that or a psychologist. I find the human mind fascinating."

"I see. Fixin' folks who ain't right in the head, huh?" by the look in the older woman's eyes, she had already guessed why that subject intrigued Jazz so much. 

Jazz dropped her gaze to the floor, her earlier insecurity about her own mental health rushing back to her. "Yeah..."

Alicia gave her a warm smile, handing Jazz back her journal. "Keep up the hard work. And don't ya never let nobody stop ya. And like I said before, don't never give up. I ain't great at dolin' out much wisdom... Sometimes life can hit ya harder 'n a shellbark hickory, if ya let it. But, if it weren't fer the rain, we'd never know there's a leak in the roof."

"Thanks, Aunt Alicia."

"Dunno exackly what yer thankin' me fer. Now, c'mon kid yer pie's gettin' cold, and ya ain't had even a lick. Ya gonna hurt my feelin's if ya leave it fer the bugs."

Jazz returned her smile, grabbed her plate, and took a bite of the pie. "Hmm... This is delicious."

"Ya dern right it is. My own recipe. And the winner at the county Pie off these last 5 years."

Chapter Text

Everyone had told Jazz to wait. Whatever Danny was dealing with would get better on its own. They had all been saying that since the beginning. Over and over, that idea echoed from various mouthpieces. They may have used different words and provided different time frames to wait, but the sentiment was always the same. 

And okay, yes, Jazz could recognize when she jumped the gun—she had struggled with that before, and no doubt she would again. As soon as Danny's Accident had happened, she had set off on the warpath, scanning for any early signs of serious issues. 

And they were there. Without question, those precursors to prevailing issues were there. Written out in big, bold, glaring signs that somehow only Jazz saw. So Jazz was right to worry. Right?

But the people who told her to wait also had valid reasons. 

It was too soon. A lack of instantaneous improvement was not enough reason to panic. So what would be enough reason to panic? How long should she wait? 

30 days was an appropriate timeline for tests. No psychologist would dream of giving a diagnosis, especially one as serious as PTSD, until at least 30 days of persistent symptoms. But 1 month still seemed too short. Didn't it? And before Jazz realized it, 30 days had come and gone. So they had moved the goal post, found other excuses to explain why Danny wasn't 'bouncing back,' good as new. 

Business continued as usual, and per usual, her little brother fell through the cracks, invisible and unnoticed. Had everyone forgotten their obligations to monitoring and treating the boy until he reached full recovery? Had they given up on full recovery altogether? What about Danny himself; had he given up on full recovery? 

At this point, his denial of his symptoms and other abysmal coping mechanisms had all but grown habitual. 

Hmm actually... Health psychologists at (UCL) the University of College London conducted a study that found it takes anywhere between at least 18 to 254 days to form a lasting habit. The study examined 96 volunteers to discover how to effectively and persistently change routines and concluded that the average time—the updated 'magic number'—was 66 days. The study may have been focused on developing and encouraging self-improvement through healthy practices... But the concept could easily pertain to harmful behaviors as well. That implied she should've done something before those 66 days were up; now, these behavioral patterns really did have the potential to be automatic and habitual.  

Well, too late for that... 66 days, too, had come and gone.

They were now approaching 3 months since Danny's life-changing Accident. 3 months or longer was often the needed interval for illnesses to be recognized as chronic. So now she could literally say Danny has been struggling with chronic symptoms of anxiety, depression, paranoia, and who knows what else. Was that enough time to wait? Was that long enough to validate her worrying? Or did she need to wait out the entire 6 months that the DSM-V recommends? 

Or better yet, why don't we just leave the poor confused, scared, and hurting teen to his own devices for a set 365 days, an entire year. Set him aside like some kind of Petrie dish and see if he magically gets better?

Jazz had waited and observed. She had backed off. And what had that accomplished? What had it solved?

Nothing. If inaction wasn't working, wasn't it time for a new approach? Wasn't it time for action?

Her parents couldn't help. The various doctors and medical professionals, too, had failed. The school was no better. Of course, neither was she. Besides, even if she knew how to help Danny, he had already made it abundantly clear he doesn't want or appreciate her help.

Thus the predicament she found herself in: stumbling back to those same adults and institutions like some desperate prisoner trapped in a horrific cycle with nowhere else to turn to.

"Mr. Lancer, can I talk to you?" Jazz asked, catching the teacher in the hallway during lunch. 

"Ah, Jasmine." Mr. Lancer gave her his genial smile, reserved for one of his star pupils. "I have just been getting everything set up for the upcoming Spirit week. What can I do for you? Is there a question about the latest project or perhaps about the class concepts?"

"Uh... actually, no. It's about..." Jazz toyed with her fingers, trying to formulate the right way to breach the topic. 

But it turns out she didn't need to. "Ah. Should've known." Mr. Lancer stopped dead in the hall, and his shoulders tensed. "Your brother ?" The long-suffering question was not really a question. 

"So, I guess... Nothing has improved," she said delicately, also not a question. As if she wasn't well aware that nothing had changed. 

"No." The teacher sounded as drained as Jazz felt. Presently he began walking again, and Jazz followed.

"He won't listen to me... He thinks I'm just being bossy and nosey and..." Okay, maybe she was. But... "He needs help..." no one else would listen to her worries either, but that didn't matter. Jazz could no longer passively watch her baby brother destroy himself. She was no closer to knowing specifics, but she would somehow find them. She swears it. "I just... don't know what to do..." The whisper was quieter and more heartsick than she had intended to share with the teacher. She was not about to break down in the halls of Casper High, but man, was she tired. Tired of being so scared. Tired of being so useless. Tired of not knowing. "I am worried... All that frustration and anguish he's repressing is going to reach a breaking point..."

"Jasmine," Mr. Lancer had stopped walking again to meet her eyes. "What makes you think he will listen to me ?"

"B-but... You're a teacher."  Oh, how young and naïve that statement sounded. "He has to listen to you..." Deadpanned stares were usually more something a student gave the teacher, not the other way around. But Lancer had evidently learned from his students how to give a withering 'are you kidding me?'  look. "To an extent," she mumbled, amending her previous statement.

The man shook his head and muttered under his breath, "Catch-22!  I have enough difficulty getting the boy to listen to me in the classroom. Offering help or advice? No, he most assuredly will not listen to me either..." He cleared his throat in a way Jazz recognized as someone struggling to maintain a slipping level of authority and professionalism. "Yes, I am still his teacher and the Vice-Principal. I could easily become the authoritative antagonist. Punish him...  but I doubt that's what you had in mind... Besides, to be frank, I have already been enacting that strategy... To no avail. Regardless of how many detention slips I dole out, it remains a poor deterrent for his rueful behavior. Hardly seems to phase him anymore."

They were passing Dr. Spectra's office when they heard crashing, glass shattering, and the booming sound of heavy filing cabinets slamming to the ground.

Behind the door was—honestly, what she had regrettably come to expect—Danny. He stood in the heart of what was closer to a Warzone than an office. He looked lost, angry, confused, and just plain burned out. What was she just saying about him reaching an explosive and devastating breaking point?

"The Sound and the Fury!  Mr. Fenton?! What happened?!" Mr. Lancer cried, unsure if he was more astonished or infuriated by the boy's actions.

"Danny!?" Jazz wasn't using her 'lecturing' tone. Instead, it was her concern that made her voice reach that octave; she was simply desperate to understand. 

"I... Uh, um..." Danny glanced around the demolished office as if looking for an alibi among the ruins. He found none. And hung his head in guilty, ashamed defeat. 

Dr. Spectra entered only a few minutes later. "Oh, my my my. What on earth happened here?" the woman voiced the question on all their minds. How had he been able to cause this much damage?

"Dr. Spectra..." Mr. Lancer seemed to come to his senses. His nostrils flared as his face darkened like a thundercloud. Jazz had never thought the balding, middle-aged, overweight man could look so cold and terrifying. His words about setting himself up as an antagonist, or villain, resonated a lot more when his expression promised punishment so openly. "I must apologize about your office, and right after the recent renovation, too. This student here." He thrust his accusing finger at Danny. "Seemed to think outright demolition and wanton destruction was an effective use of his lunch break. Well, Mr. Fenton? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Apparently, what Danny had to say for himself was nothing. 

Just like with Jazz before, Spectra's eyes widened at the name. "Ohhh. So you're the infamous Daniel Fenton," Spectra looked to both Mr. Lancer and Jazz to reconfirm who this was. "I've heard a lot about you..." Spectra looked like someone had just presented her with the Gordian Knot on a silver platter, and she could hardly wait to unravel it. "The troubled, rebellious child. Always in the wrong places at the wrong times, doing the wrong things. Every single teacher you have has said you are completely unmanageable, and..." She gestured around her, gliding effortlessly across the damaged office, surveying everything he had smashed to pieces. "I can certainly understand why... But, something tells me that's not the full story, now is it? Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, Mr. Fenton?"

Dr. Spectra had now reached the boy, who had shrunken in on himself in remorseful silence. The woman laid a hand on his back, long, thin, red acrylic nails drumming ever so lightly on his shoulders. Danny recoiled from her touch with a sharp intake of breath. A pitying smile engulfed her face as she tutted. "Oh, sweetie, I  don't see a lost cause, Danny. I see someone who is lost. And afraid. And possibly in over his head ." 

Danny met her eyes and looked like he wanted to bolt at the first viable opportunity. 

"This," here she gestured to her destroyed office. "Looks like a cry for help. An opportunity to take all that pent-up energy and turn it towards something positive. Oh, and don't worry about the office; it's no biggie."

Mr. Lancer made a gruff noise from his throat; apparently, he didn't share Dr. Spectra's assessment of the destruction being 'no biggie.'

"Things? We can replace... But people? Human beings... Well, those are infinitely more... valuable ."

The bell interrupted the slightly awkward silence that followed.

"Get to class, Mr. Fenton. You don't want to be late," Mr. Lancer said, tightly with an unspoken again hidden in his words. "Dr. Spectra and I will discuss your punishment. "

Given permission, Danny escaped with unsurprising haste. Jazz watched him go, feeling powerless to help. 

"You should probably get to class too, Miss Fenton," Mr. Lancer said, slightly more subdued.

But Jazz couldn't leave yet. "Mr. Lancer, please, there has to be something we can do."

He stopped and looked over at Dr. Spectra. "Not something either of us can do... But a professional."

The woman in question brandished her ever-wide and spirited smile. "Weeell, I am a professional Motivational Speaker, not to mention a highly respected Teen Therapist." Her voice bounced and flowed like an upbeat children's song. She picked up the various framed pictures off the floor, brushing the broken glass aside with hardly a care and setting them neatly back on the wall. Other than her diploma and various awards for her remarkable work, they were all pictures showing Dr. Spectra with a patient. All teenagers. The kids looked tired, depressed, and drained of all life.

If Dr. Spectra could help them, bring them back from such a state, surely she could help Danny. All the better if she can intervene before he fell into that kind of despair.

But it was Danny, who hated needing help, who tried to solve everything on his own, and never, ever wanted to admit he even had a problem. This could all backfire spectacularly. 

 "Jasmine, your brother needs help beyond what either you or I am capable of. Dr. Spectra is the one to go to." 

"I know." Yes, she knows. She is not a professional. No matter how acclaimed and gifted Jazz was, she was still sixteen. She could not hold a candle to the woman who already had a Ph.D. and multiple success stories under her belt. "But Danny will never agree to it. You always can’t help someone who doesn’t want help."

"Well, what I said about being the bad guy is still true. And," Mr. Lancer gestured around the trashed office. "He certainly gave me the perfect opportunity," the man grumbled, evidently not willing to let Danny off with no consequences. Mr. Lancer could be a strict jailor, an impartial judge, or a fierce advocate. But the Vice-Principal had already told Jazz that he believed throwing the book at Danny was better than allowing for leniency, especially considering the severity of the crimes. "He could do his detention with Dr. Spectra."

"Jazz, while you are right about people having to let themselves accept help..." Spectra said, giving her a sage nod and sharing her wisdom backed by experience. "Sometimes they need a gentle push in the right direction," as she spoke, she pantomimed the aforementioned gentle push. "Especially for more stubborn cases."

A gentle push, huh? 

Spike's words rushed back to her from back when Jazz had expressed the same sentiment to him, 'yeah, gently nudging him over the edge of a f*ckin cliff. All you're gonna do is push him even further away.'

But she can't be too far off if that is what this professional therapist is suggesting. After all, at this point, Jazz definitely trusted Dr. Spectra more than her own failing attempts. At least Dr. Spectra was aware of the dangers and knew how not to escalate the problem. She had warned Jazz of the risks, and she had been right. 

'It can be a delicate thing, you know, human psychology; you must know, precisely, what you're doing or risk making it... Worse. You always have to be cautious of jumping to conclusions or giving someone fraudulent advice. Even I, as a professional, constantly have to pull myself back... Let others speak. Not let myself put words into their mouths or diagnoses in their head.'

"Jazz, I'm guessing you already tried to help him?" asked the woman, again seeing through every wall Jazz put up. 

Her only answer was a glance at her feet and a meager nod. 

Dr. Spectra came over to Jazz and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, turning her intense, beseeching eyes on her. "And how did it go?" 

Jazz couldn't answer. The words refused to come, as her pride resisted voicing her ongoing agonizing failure. Spectra's hand only added to the weight on Jazz's shoulders, making it even more burdensome to keep her poised posture. 

"Did it... go wrong?" the woman asked tenderly, coaxing and comforting the little girl who was always truthfully seconds away from breaking again. "Backfire?  Blow up in your face? Only make everything so much worse?"  Her fathomless green eyes overflowed with sympathy; Jazz briefly had the feeling of drowning, perpetually sinking within their depths. 

"It's okay..." Dr. Spectra whispered, soothing like a weighted blanket. "Oh sweetie, you are still so young yourself, so you might not know this... But sometimes... it's easier to open up to a stranger. Sometimes we have to hear what we need to hear from someone not close to us. In fact, they often encourage professional psychologists not to treat their own friends and family members. You are too close. Step back."

Step back. Back off. Stop being so overly involved. This same song and dance. Yet another mouthpiece, expressing the same sentiment. Give him space. Leave him alone. You can't help him. 

He won't listen to... you.  

Everything will blow up if you keep pushing. 

You are just making it all so much worse. 

Jazz gasped out as if struck. Feeling like Dr. Spectra had just lifted a smothering weight off her chest, but strangely enough, that left her even more hollowed out and empty. Useless. "Yeah, you are right," the prideful, overbearing girl conceded. 

"However, that does not mean that you can't continue to be there for him. He still needs you, Jazz. Don't think that just because he pushes you away, he doesn't need you. You can still help him... Set a positive example... In fact, would you be up for giving a speech at the Spirit-a-thon rally? That way, you can inspire all the students at this school, not just your brother, to work as hard as you do. The best and brightest this school has to offer! Showing us what it truly means to embody that Casper High Spirit! Oh! It would be so wonderful if you could!" She stopped as if remembering something. "But! Only, if you think you can; I know it can be daunting to admit when you feel overbooked and overworked. But please do not hesitate to let me know if this is too much for you. I understand I am asking a lot from you, and rather last minute, and the last thing I want is to increase your already stressful workload."

Jazz was used to being asked to be the example. The ideal. The perfect student. She thrust her refined, lying smile back on her face. "No, it's no problem. I can handle it, and of course, I would be happy to help in any way I can."

"Fantastic! You have just made this spirit week so much better! You see, I have a grand spectacle all planned out. Show them, Bertrand." Here she gestured to her assistant. Jazz nearly jumped at the reminder that the assistant existed, let alone was in the room. The short, stout little man always faded into the background compared to the almost cartoonishly exuberant Dr. Spectra. 

The man brought out some illustrated plans for the Spirit-a-thon rally and flipped through the cards as Dr. Spectra kept talking. "Spirit sparklers, confetti cannons... Aaand I even got the clearance for real fireworks!" She added with a wink. "I'm gonna pull out all the stops and Pump Up the Pep! After your speech—and you have no idea how thrilled I am that you agreed. I really, really hoped you would! Oh, I knew I could always count on you, Jasmine!" She pulled Jazz to her side, painting the picture with her theatrical gestures. "You will knock down the ceremonial domino and trigger a chain reaction—symbolically showing the entire school how one person can make a significant change by affecting the person next to them—until... The chain fires off the Ultra Mega Spirit sparklers! Slammin! Huh?"

"Uh... if by 'Slammin' you mean a bit..." Jazz looked over the extremely detailed plans. "Um, over the top... Then yes."

The woman let loose a lively laugh at that. "Well, I suppose I do! After all, I believe going over the top and giving 110% is the important first step to success!"   

"That all sounds wonderful, Dr. Spectra! Thank you for heading up this project." 

"Oh, no thanks necessary, Lancer. I live to inspire poor downtrodden students to reach their true purpose! Children—ah, the joys and innocence of youth—are precious diamonds that were made to shine! And it is my job to make sure everything goes off with a Bang!"

 "You know, Spirit week was always one of my favorite times of high school!" Mr. Lancer said, beaming as he allowed himself to be swept off into his memories.

"Really?" asked Jazz.

"Of course. The entire school, coming together in a moment of solidarity and school pride. The sports team, raring up to carry our school to victory. This year, possibly even the championship! Plus, the show the marching band puts on and the cheer squad's magnum opus performance. Did you know, Jazz, that I was a cheerleader when I was your age?"

"Really? Oh, wow... No, I didn't." Jazz said, trying to imagine the balding, slightly overweight man as a cheerleader. The juxtaposition of Paulina's cheer squad wasn't helping the mental image. "Weird."

"Thanks again for being our special spokesperson, Jazz. I can guarantee this will be a Spirit week that no one will ever forget. Trust me when I say they will be talking about what will go down for years to come! Now, run along to your class. I will write you a note. We wouldn't want to mar that perfect record of yours now, would we?"

"Right. Thanks."

Jazz needed to talk to Danny; the problem was she already knew how it would go down. Not well. At all. 

But... that never stopped her before, and it didn't mean she could just stop pressing. She caught her brother at his locker with his friends. 

"Danny, that doesn't sound like Jazz to me," Sam was saying with a frown. 

"What doesn't sound like Jazz?" Jazz asked, trying to come off like she wasn't aware her presence would most likely set him off like a bomb. Yes, she was admitting to eavesdropping. But not like she hasn't been guilty of that before—and surely would be again. Besides, this time they were talking about her... So, it was all fair. Right? 

Danny didn't see it that way. 

He slammed his locker door shut with unexpected force; the echoing clang made her heart rate jolt. He whirled around; he was now about a foot from her face, lips curled up in detest. "Oh, I dunno." The condescending, hypothetical tone coated his words in acid. Anger building into a savage impending onslaught. "How 'bout minding her own damn business and not making my very existence hell? That sure doesn't sound like Jazz to me."

"S-still mad?" she had to take a step back from his fierce, unrestrained temper.

"Oh, w-ow-w."  His long exaggeration of the word reinforced his eye roll. "Aren't you the smart one?" 

"Danny, Look. I know you're upset... and that's justifiable..." his sneer twisted with an abrasive snort; she ignored him. "But I really am worried about you. Ever since The Acci-"

"Jazz, stop!" he cut her off—his frigid eyes seething—before she could even finish the word. "Just stop. You might think you're helping, but you are not! "

You're just making things worse. 

"Danny, you can't just... ignore this! You are struggling with serious problems, and you have to talk to someone!"

"Yeah, I know! I'm always the problem." That was not the wording she used, but telling that it was what he heard. "I'm some dumb, immature kid who doesn't understand anything about my own damn self. While you do?" he snarled, harsh and grating like a knife sharpening. A sound much too rabid for comfort, like some wild animal. "Oh, of course, you do. After all, you're perfect and maaatuuuure and ooooh soooo smart. So surely you know more about what I am going through than me."  

Oh, but she doesn't. Danny is right to call her out on that... Because truthfully? She has no clue what he is going through, and it's torturing her. How can Jazz help? When she feels this out of her depths? She swallowed her own rising frustration; she had to appear calm. Like this was under her control. Even though it was spiraling down into the depths of something she neither understood nor could handle. She opened her mouth to respond, argue, or defend herself? She didn't even know.

But he wasn't through tearing into her. "Right. Because you always know best, don't you?" he sneered. No, she didn't, but she always had to maintain that she did. She wondered if Danny could see how fake it was. How fake she was. "Just. Leave. Me. Alone. Jazz."

Yet again. Back off. You are too close.

"Danny, this isn't h-healthy," she murmured, feeling as small as a mouse in front of a feral cat.

"I don't care. Maybe this is me now, ever think about that? This is just how it is. Maybe I am not something... That you have to fricken fix! Did it ever occur to your big stupid brain that... I like it this way? Maybe I'd rather be the failure and the screw-up. At least it's better than being anything like you! Not everyone has to be like you!" At the end of his tirade, he let out a sharp gasp—almost as if he was in pain—before clamping a hand over his mouth. The tightness in his shoulders—that had made her usually shy and passive little brother seem so much more combative only a second ago—gave out. As instant as a switch being flicked, all that frothing rage contorting into something else entirely. His eyes bulged out of his head and were frantically darting around the hall on all-time high alert. He grit his teeth; his upper lip curled up towards his twisted nose. And he was trembling all over.

"Danny, you're shaking," Jazz went to steady him. His shoulder was like ice.

He threw her failing-to-be-comforting grip off. "Do not touch me!" he snapped. "Leave me alone!" his anger careened around the walls, echoing and bringing the overdue realization that something else was wrong. Very wrong. No one was in the hall. They stood there in the freakishly deserted silence. Their conversation—and Danny's accompanied blowout—had been anything but inconspicuous and in a public hallway, no less. Normally? There would've been onlookers, either awkwardly listening while trying to do something else or just shamelessly watching the show. 

"You're freezing," she whispered. As if summoned by her words, a crisp, icy breeze swept down the hall. Now he wasn't the only one shuddering; a chill skittered up her spine. Someone had just opened a doorway to winter, despite it being months too soon. The fluorescent lights too shivered, and far down the hall, one went out altogether, followed with some sparks as it shorted out. Well, now, at least, maybe the school will have to replace those bulbs. 

Her vision must've stuttered out, for she blinked, and Danny and his friends were mysteriously... Just gone. Even though she was positive, she never saw them leave. 

Screams drifted towards her from an impossible distance. Her feet failed to move, rooted to the spot, even as something within her begged her to run. The only thing in her body not infected by this paralysis was her thrashing heart. 

Was this a panic attack? 

If so, what had brought it on? 

It was getting harder to breathe. Jazz's mouth dried with terror, and yet what made her far more alarmed was the irrationality of it all. 

Presently it came over her like a full-course collision: the overwhelming buzzing noise was not just in her head. No, it definitely wasn't just in her head; because it was getting louder. Louder and louder. And closer.

Until it was bearing down on her. Her brain refused to process the input she was receiving from her eyes. Was she hallucinating? 

What was happening?! 

What was going on?!

Coming towards her was... She had to be seeing things. This could not be real.

Stalking the halls was a giant hornet. And no, not 'giant' like 'oh, wow that's a big bug,' but 'giant' as in 'horror movie style bigger than humans giant.' As in 'this is not possible giant.' It was oozing green, and Jazz could see every revolting detail up close and magnified.

The buzzing was coming from it. Large glistening segmented wings beating, and horrible compound eyes locked right onto Jazz. 

Her brain short-circuited, trying to make sense of this nonsense.

How could this be real?

It wasn't.

It couldn't be real. This... Oh, man. Oh, man. Breathe.

This wasn't happening. Breathe.  

There had to be some other explanation. Hallucinations, another gas leak... Did she somehow hit her head or something? Was she having a... mental breakdown?

She was going mad. Oh, god. 

Can shock cause hallucinations? What about stress? She can't remember. That gifted, big brain of hers isn't working. Her body was shutting down. 

This can't be happening. 

The thing grabbed her. If it was just an illusion, how did it touch her?

And there was no mistaking that it did touch her... The sensation on her skin made it more than just crawl as if every cell in her body wanted away. Away, away, far far away from this... thing. The freezing slimy touch burned as it came in contact with her skin. Her flesh erupted; rather than just tiny goosebumps, these were closer to a sickly contagion of measles or mumps spreading through her. And for the first time in her life, Jazz found herself wishing she was wearing a protective Fentondex suit.  

The creature pulled her towards it, as every fiber of her begged to flee as far as she could.

The insect's face was too near her own. Her reflection—cheeks drained of blood, eyes protruding with terror, lips trembling—repeated over and over endlessly in its dark segmented eyes, boring down on her. Two Antenna rubbed thousands of coarse—and yet still cold and slimy—tiny hairs in some sadistic caress of her cheek. Every pore of her face screamed in revulsion from its stroke. Too many cold, clammy legs with far too many joints, rough and barbed, wrapped around her. It was surrounding her and smothering her; every place she turned, it was there. Repulsive mandibles parted for the thick slimy green tongue to shoot out. It was inching closer to her face. If this was just a nightmare or a horrific fantasy—likely brought on by the overwhelming stress she felt lately—she pleads to wake up before whatever this thing does to her next.

Its bulbous thorax pulsed neon poison green, and like any other hornet or wasp, she knew it must be swelling with venom. Perhaps the toxin was already in her system. That might explain a few things: her leaden thoughts, anesthetized muscles, and writhing pulse.  

She scrunched her eyes tight as a scream built in her throat. 

"Hey! Back off, ghost bug!" The warped voice, bouncing off the walls and whirring with angry static, broke the spell. The bug released her, turning towards its new prey.

Jazz was free. Knocked down to the ground, she scrambled away before her back hit the cold metal of the lockers, signifying she could go no further. Not unless she stood up, but her trembling legs shrieked in protest and refused to bear even a fraction of her weight. 

Jazz sat there, transfixed by what she saw. 

It was a boy—or at least she thinks it was—he was blurry, as if out of focus and impossibly bright, hard to look straight at. He had bright white hair and was wearing something dark-black that covered him from the top down like a jumpsuit. He was glowing and floating and fighting one on one with the giant insect. 

Then they both had vanished... Gone. Jazz was alone. But no, she wasn't. She could still hear the hum of the horrible wings, the crash as something slammed into a locker across the hall, and a sharp almost-human cry of pain. 

The battle was still raging on... she just couldn't see it anymore. 

See it... Oh. Invisible. 

Growing up in the Fenton household meant she knew what this was. 

It was... 

Glowing that nauseating green.

The gloopy, slimy cold stuff that twisted the insides and singed the flesh.

Floating. 

Turning invisible. 

Making everything grow colder and forcing her heart to strike against her ribcage with undeniable, instinctual, all-consuming terror. 

The overly familiar word slipped out of her mouth in shocked disbelief, "Ghost."  She didn't know whether to blame the word or her fear for the foul taste in her mouth. She swallowed. It didn't clear the overpowering feeling of bile creeping up her throat. She tried swallowing again. No, no use, she still couldn't force the lump down. 

She didn't know how long she sat there, unable to move, to think, to even breathe. Long enough that she could guess that the battle had ended. She wondered which impossible creature won. 

Would either come back for her? 

Oh, man. Oh man,  Jazz couldn't do this. 

She had to. She had to move. The danger might return, her mind whispered. The clang of her own head hitting the locker behind her made her heart startle again. She felt like a frightened rabbit—a vulnerable, powerless prey animal. She had to get up. Her trembling legs and whirling vision disapproved strongly of her decision to stand. She grabbed onto the lockers for support and slowly made her way into the girls' bathroom.

Where she promptly threw up. 

Still dizzy with fear and revulsion, she wiped the excess sickness off with her hand, got up, flushed the toilet, and staggered out of the stall. She caught herself on the sink countertop, wrenched the faucet on, and began cleaning her hands. 

Hands clean, she turned to her face. Running her hands under the water and splashing some life back into herself. 

Breathe. Breathe. Oh, god. Wake up. Please Wake up.

The water was refreshing, but it changed nothing about her situation. She was awake. She wasn't dreaming. 

Her face was still haggard. 

You look as if you've seen a ghost.  That old cliched saying churned in Jazz's thoughts, just as involuntarily and violently as the bile had spewed from her throat. And like the retching laughter that was now bubbling up from her turning gut.

"That was... a ghost," she told the empty bathroom, in a fit of hysteria. "I-I just... S-ss-saw a ghost. And... not just one... but two. Two ghosts."

Suddenly everything up to this point that she had ever known shifted. The ground under her shook... or were those her weak knees again? 

Ghosts aren't real.  

How many times had she proclaimed that? How many times had she smugly pointed out that her parents had never even seen a ghost? 

Ghosts can't be real.

Except, lately, they have been saying that they have. But Jazz's parents let their biases rule them. Of course, they thought they saw a ghost. But that didn't mean... There wasn't a more sensible explanation.

Danny scoffed in her memories, calling her out for her refusal to even consider that a possibility. Clinging to denial. 'I think you're the one who needs to accept reality.' 

That was impossible. But undeniable. Oh, but denial was a lot more comfortable than reality right now. How ironic, wasn't it always she who had touted the importance of coming to terms with the 'Real World'?

That was a ghost. A gigantic, freakishly large... ghost hornet. 

How does that even work? Ghost hornet... Was it a dead hornet? Every time she killed a bug, did she create one of those monsters in the... Ghost Zone? 

No, that was ridiculous...

Ridiculous!? This whole thing is beyond ridiculous! 

Her parents claimed ghosts had all these crazy abilities and powers related to their obsession... So the bug could be... a ghost power, most likely shape-shifting, taking the form of someone's greatest fears or something. Bugs were not one of Jazz's phobias... 

At least they hadn't been. Tense shoulders convulsed again, shuddering at that thought. The thought of that... Creature... grabbing her. It probably could have killed her, or eaten her, or something even worse... 

If that other... Ghost hadn't come. 

The other ghost, he—or it?—looked more like a typical ghost. A young boy, oh. Does that mean that it—he? It felt so wrong to label a child an 'it.' Oh. Child. Ghost... A dead child? If ghosts were real... What did that mean? 

What were these creatures... These so-called ghosts? Were they tied to all the cultural implications that word had carried for centuries? Or something else like... Interdimensional beings from another plane of existence? Did people really become ghosts? Were these ghosts once people?

What was it that her parents always said... 'A copied consciousness.' 'Ghosts were the last thoughts that obsessively ran through someone's head as they died, bonded to ectoplasmic energy and given form.' Her mother would often correct the assumption saying, 'people don't become ghosts, they leave them. Closer to a footprint or a fossil.'

Ridiculous. Impossible. 

How could such a thing ever be true?

What her parents practiced was an abysmal excuse for science. They hardly had any evidence. 

They designed their experiments to prove themselves right.

And yet... Maybe, if her parents were right about everything... Oh, god, what an excruciatingly horrifying thought that was.

Was she the one who was... wrong? Was she the one who needed to come around and let go of her beliefs that didn't conform to reality? 

A reality where ghosts were real?!!!

Everything her parents had warned about, the monsters she had stopped worrying about when she was 7 years old, were real? Their world was now inhabited—no, that was the wrong word—invaded by these unimaginable horrors. What kind of world would that create?! The dead had come back to take their revenge against the living, like some cheesy horror movie. How many of her parents' paranoid worries and appalling theories were also true? 

What could these creatures do? 

What kinds of powers did they have at their disposal? 

How could she prepare against the supernatural?

What would happen to everyone she cared about? 

Her parents would no doubt jump at the chance to battle these monsters. How well would they fare? How could they hope to win against these nightmares?     

Her parents were right about ghosts. 

Oh god. What did that mean going forward? 

What did this change? 

Everything.

This changed everything. This was going to have impossibly reaching consequences, seeping into the cracks of everything in her life like some vile contagion. And one Jazz had to cut off; quarantine it before it was too late. 

If it wasn't already.

Jazz spent far too long re-collecting herself in the bathroom and, as a result, was late for her next class. Not that it mattered, though... Her teacher took one look at her and suggested she should go to the nurse. 

Man, did she still look that unwell? 

Jazz had declined. She probably shouldn't've; after all, it's not like she got any benefit out of being in class. She was not taking notes or even attempting to pay attention. Instead, she sat there staring ahead, one hand clutching her notebook so hard the pages were getting all wrinkled. And the other, gripping her pencil so that her nails pierced her palm and her knuckles had turned white. She had spent most of the last period trying not to break down into more bouts of irrational laughter, throw up again, or dissolve into tears. 

The time had gone too fast and simultaneously too slow. The last bell had sounded—making her jump out of her skin, causing some people to give her odd looks—she grabbed her things and rushed home. Doubtless, she'd been a danger on the road, but truthfully? She hardly remembers the drive, and at least she made it. Besides, with her father... Drivers in Amity were... Adaptable.

She pulled up to Fentonworks and... Couldn't take it. With a groan, her forehead thumped against the steering wheel, setting off the horn. She couldn't bear to go in there right now. Not when everything was crashing down. Not when that stupid lab might actually hold something of value. Not when the next time her parents went off, she might actually be tempted to listen. 

But she also knew she couldn't stay in her car forever... 

Their welcome mat had a caveat written on it, 'WELCOME*... *Unless You're A Ghost!' And the contemptible graffiti was back once more, people calling the Fentons crazy in various colorful ways. Funny how she took more notice of these things now. Like the old saying claims: the more you try not to think of something, inevitably the more it will become all you can think about. She took a deep breath, which did not steady her as much as she would've wanted, and she entered her house.  

The living room was not overwhelming... At least, not that overwhelming. Jazz could handle the little green novelty ghost blobs on the clock hands. And no, the embroidered throw pillow her father had made sitting on the couch that proclaimed, 'I Can't Keep Calm There's a Ghost!' did not make her want to burst. Nope, not at all; what could possibly give that impression?

She could even stomach the few inventions—one of which was the Fenton Finder—and various pieces of random technology on the table. Walking by them, ignoring them just like she would've before... and definitely not allowing herself to ponder what they did... Or if they worked. She most certainly did not want to turn on the Fenton Finder and discover if she was truly alone in the living room. No, instead, she left for the kitchen, maybe for a drink of water or something... And absolutely not to come face to face with the stairwell leading to the lab. 

Danny sat at the kitchen table, eyebrows knit together with frustration embedded in his face. His homework was out in front of him, but it didn't look like he had actually written anything. His head shot up at her soft footsteps, and when he realized who it was coming into the kitchen, his expression withered even further. "Come to give your stupid baby brother another lecture?"

"What?" she asked, still far too distracted. "No... I... wanted to... uh... ask you something." Danny would be easier to talk to than her mother or, heaven forbid, her father... She just had to tell him what she saw. 

Oh god. Jazz is not sure she can. 

He narrowed his eyes, studying her for a bit. "What?" his tone held slightly less suspicion than she would've expected, given their last encounter, but still was heavily caged off.

"Do..." Do you believe in ghosts?

She'd asked him that question before. The time he gave her a straight answer? It was no... But lately, his responses have grown more and more... ambiguous. Not too long ago, he had corroborated their parents' tale about a ghost crashing the reunion in Wisconsin. "D-d-did you see..." A ghost? 

Have you ever really seen a ghost? 

How could she ask this... It didn't help her case that she—the number one denier of all things ghostly and the one who had sworn to rid their family of this nonsense—was the one asking. 

How could she ask this and not feel absolutely crazy? 

She wasn't crazy... Right?

It wasn't just that she'd finally caught the Fenton Crazy. 

No, that's not even how that works! You know that! Jazz ran a hand down her face and slumped into a chair on the other side of the table.

"Uh... You okay?" her brother asked. He hadn't stopped side-eyeing her like he wasn't sure if this was a trick or something.

She shook her head, lips pressed together in a thin line. Thoughts unraveling once again. No, truthfully, Jazz hasn't been okay since... Whatever happened freaking happened. How could she be sure that it had actually happened? What if she had imagined it all? Was it all in her head? She had been replaying it and re-replaying it over and over in her mind... Reliving it. 

Was she still in shock? What was the diagnosis for shock again? Oh. Frick, why wasn't her brain working right now? It all felt so unreal. Every thought, so far away and hazy. Was the kitchen spinning? She should probably sit down. Oh, wait, she was already sitting down, wasn't she? Why did nothing feel solid; it was like she was drifting about in a dream. Dream. Nightmare. Hallucination. What happened couldn't be reality... because things like this... don't happen in real life... Right?

Yeah, she might be in shock. C'mon, what's the use of knowing this if you can't recognize it in the moment? 

Shock, a typical emotional response after a traumatic incident. That and denial, which she wished she could sink back into right about now. Breathe. Calm down. Assess your mind; not helpful, not working right now. Try again later. Assess your body, also not an option right now. 

"Jazz?! uh... Jazz, you in there? Earth to Jazz!" Danny had leaned across the table and was waving a hand in front of her face.  

She startled again, heart bolting right back to her throat, eyes blown wide with panic. A hand slapped over her mouth to stifle the scream.  

"Woah... What's with you?" Danny muttered.

"Nothing," she responded too quickly.

"Uh-huh. Seriously, what's got you so spooked? You look like you've seen..." he trailed off awkwardly and mercifully did not complete that statement. She didn't think she could hold it together if he did. 

"I... I." She fought down the lump in her throat. "Danny," she grabbed onto his hand like it was a lifeline. She didn't know if it was her hand that was so cold and clammy or his. 

"Uh... What?" He gingerly disentangled himself and pulled away.  

"I... D-did you see a..." Ghost. "Giant bug earlier?" 

"Oh." He blinked a bit before responding. "Um... Uh... yeah? I mean, I… heard a couple people freaking out about that..." he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck; Danny's tell that he was uncomfortable or lying... Or both.

"Did... It... L-look weird to you? I-I I mean... Did you get a good look at it?"

He shrugged, "Not really. I didn't stick around. It was a big bug, so I ran. Y'know like a cowardly loser."

 "I think it might have been..." Now or never, she had to get the word out. She shouldn't've been surprised when it came out drowned in another unhinged, brittle laugh, "a-a gh-ghost." 

Danny raised an eyebrow. "A ghost? Really, Jazz? Are you feeling okay?"

"No," she muttered, hiding the word behind another uncontrollable chuckle that mismatched her emotional situation as she ran a hand through her hair.

Danny looked stunned at her admission.  

"I know it sounds absurd. Insane. Completely preposterous. But I swear I saw  it... it was green, enormous, and... glowing... and..."  

"You sure it wasn't just a big bug?" He asked. She was a bit bewildered at how concretely he wanted to deny it. Wasn't he the one who kept trying to get her to be more open to the idea? Only a few days ago, he had been tearing into her for ignoring what was in front of them. Danny could claim he didn't care, that he didn't want to put stock in either side of the argument... But she knew he did. He may have gotten ridiculously harder to read lately, but some things she could still tell...

He cared about this topic way more than he wanted to admit... For some reason.  

"Big? It was about the size of a car!"

"Ohhhkay. So a 'very  big' bug, then." He rolled his eyes. "Ooor maybe, it was all a hallucination? Near any 'ruptured gas pipes'? Or did you take any drugs lately?" he asked, mimicking her usual haughty tone.

Oh. So Danny was mad at her for that, too. Oh god, she was just messing up everything with him, wasn't she? Making him feel stupid with her tips about school. Making him feel damaged with her constant attempts to help psychologically. And... Making him feel crazy with her stubborn insistence that ghosts weren't real. Yeah, she got his point. "Danny... I..."

"Well, if that's all... I have homework to screw up."

Something in his tone penetrated the thick fog in her head. She could have an existential crisis about ghosts later... Right now, her little brother still needed her. She shook her head, smacking and massaging her cheeks to bleed some feeling back into her and forcefully shoving her crumbling worldview aside.

"Danny..." he was refusing to even look at her. "A-about earlier today... I really do think you need someone to talk to... We used to talk all the time... What happened?"

"Yeah, when I was 8, and you weren't such a stuck-up fink," he muttered.

"Danny!" In her desperation, his name came out warped. She couldn't do this. She couldn't help him. And if she stopped trying for even a second, then her hastily contrived facade was going to come crashing down. She absolutely could not deal with her own emotions right now, so she had to distract herself with this... But her little brother wouldn't let her in. "Would you please..." she begged. "Just listen to me!"

"No!" He bit out. "Cuz, guess what, despite what you think, I don't have to listen to you! So," he mimicked her tone. "Would you please... just mind your own damn business!"

"Fine." She may have relented, but she hadn't given up. "You leave me no choice." She stared at Danny, giving him an ultimatum with her eyes. He didn't budge. So she walked over to the door of the lab, still maintaining eye contact. She opened the door. 'Well? You know what I'm about to do, right?'  her pointed look told him. His stony face was the only reply. He could've prevented what was coming if he just stopped being so stubborn and opened up... But he didn't. Truthfully, she didn't want to do this any more than he did... But, well, as he said, he doesn't have to listen to her... But he does have to listen to their parents. So... She took a deep breath and yelled down the stairs, "Mom! Dad! I need to talk to you about Danny!"

"Jazz!" Her brother shot her a glare full of betrayal and deadly anger, something strange in the lighting making his eyes look like they were flashing.

Now Jack and Maddie had their flaws as parents—quite a lot of them, in fact—but they did really love their children. There was never a doubt about that. They loved them, completely and unconditionally, as parents should. No matter how distracted they could get... So, they wouldn't neglect to come when they outright called... Well, usually. Okay, admittedly, they often had to call... multiple times... But eventually, their parents would rush to their kids' aid when they really needed it... At least, most of the time. 

Their mom ran up first. "Is there something wrong with Danny?"

Jack was right behind her. "Is there a ghost involved?"

Ghost. Of course, her father jumped to that conclusion. That wasn't unusual; it would be more unusual if he hadn't. But it still made her heart rate stutter and her stomach twist unpleasantly.

Maddie rounded on her son. "Danny, is there something you want to talk about? Is it about your school?"

"Is it the ghost's fault?" Jack asked, brandishing his newest gadget. 

"I... uh..." Danny fumbled for an answer, looking trapped. Then "Actually," a shrewd smile split his face, and he shot her the same expression of ultimatum she gave him. 'Two can play at this game, Jazz.'  "Yes. Jazz said that she saw a ghost  today at school."

Oh, oh no. Danny shot Jazz a serrated, vicious, triumphant smile as Maddie turned suddenly. Now Jazz was the one in the hot seat. 

"What!? You saw a ghost?! Jazz, why didn't you call us?!"

"We could have tested out the Fenton-Peeler!" Jack showed off the strange tech he was holding, activating it. The metal expanded out until it completely encased the large man in chrome armor. Yet another invention that would be incredibly useful and revolutionary had it not been ghost-focused. "It peels ghosts apart molecule by molecule." Oh... Okay, maybe not. Flaying non-ghost things was not okay... Heck, if what she had discovered today about ghosts being real turned out to be true... She wasn't even sure she was comfortable with ghosts being flayed. 

Danny seemed to have similar thoughts as he not-so-subtly edged away so that she was now in between the crazy peeler and her little brother. Which, considering how painful flaying sounded and the track record of things going terribly wrong when Danny and an invention were involved, she understood. Or maybe she was overthinking things, and he just wanted away from the awkward conversation, which she also understood.

"Well, Jazz?" He said, smirking like the beastly little hellion he delighted in being sometimes. "Go ahead and tell them aaaaall about your 'ghost bug'... Enjoy your chat, bye."

"Danny, wait!" 

Too late. How was Danny this good at slipping away? How could he move so fast and vanish so completely?

"You saw a ghost bug?!" Maddie repeated. 

"Uh... Yeah..." She did not want to have this conversation. She could not have this conversation. Everything she had shoved down was now bubbling up, and she was going to give out... Again. Well, there's nothing else to be done. Perhaps if she answers honestly, then they will release her sooner. "It was a... a m-monstrous hornet. The size of a bus. Glowing green and oozing that weird goo."

"Sounds like ectoplasm. Then what happened." Jack said, jumping up and down like a kid in a candy store. 

"It... it..." Deep breath. She steadied her thoughts, but it did nothing to prevent the horror from leaking out through her voice. "G-g-grabbed me." She slipped into her chair again as her knees started buckling. Shaky breath. Shaking body. Hmm... Probably still in shock, then. 

"What?! Some putrid, ectoplasmic manifestation is going after our daughter?" Her father roared, full of overprotective anger. He placed a warm, comforting hand on her shoulder, steadying her. "Jazzy, are you okay, princess? That evil ectoslime didn't hurt you, did it?" 

"N...n..no." she sniffed, trying hard to stop the shuddering tears that had re-emerged in her eyes. "I... wasn't hurt... It was going to... had me in its clutches and... then I was saved..." 

"How?" Her mother demanded, grasping her and looking her over for wounds or ectocontamination marks or something. 

"Another ghost," she answered faintly, head still spinning. 

"What?!" Both of her parents stopped and stared at her with mouths dropped open. 

"A-Another ghost," she repeated louder and bolder. "A... a boy came out of nowhere and... he saved my life."

"Jazz, ghosts are dangerous and evil," her mother said, biting her lip and looking like she wanted to let down Jazz gently. "That other ghost probably just wanted you for itself, so it fought off the ghost bug for its prey."

"No, he saved my life! If it weren't for him... I-I would've been..." she shuddered again and pushed her head clear of horrific what-if scenarios. "He... Must've been... a good ghost."

Her father smiled softly but shook his head firmly. "Jazzy, it was probably just trying to lull you into a false sense of security. That's what they do. Ghosts aren't good; that's not possible. They can never do anything that isn't for their own selfish gain. They are vengeful and destructive." 

"But how do you know that?"

"It's a part of their makeup, sweetie," Maddie answered. "Literally embedded into their molecular structure. How many times have we told you that? A ghost is a perfect predator for the living. A ghost good?" She laughed lightly as if the very concept was ridiculous. "You might as well try to get a lion to be vegetarian or a human to develop gills. They might not always look it, but they are all monsters."

"He saved my life!" Jazz repeated. "I... I oh god, I was so scared," she admitted. "I thought... but... No." Jazz jumped to her feet and crossed her arms in opposition. "He saved me. How was that selfish? How could that be evil?" 

"Well, ghosts feed on human emotions... Your fear... Maybe it wanted to save you just to re-terrify you again, y'know like a twice-baked potato." Jack suggested, rubbing a large hand against his neck. 

"That doesn't even make any sense!" Jazz stomped her foot. "You're not even listening to me! Why can't you just believe me! Yes, I saw a ghost! Yes, a ghost saved my life! These things might be r-ridiculous and im-impossible... B-b-but they happened... Right?" Her emotions were all over the place. If they were right about ghosts feeding on them, she must be a veritable feast right about now. "Oh god. N-none of th-this makes any sense!"  

"Sweetie, I know… you may want to… feel tempted... to..." her mother frowned, looking for the right word. "Psychoanalyze the ghost. Ascribe deeper meanings to justify its actions... believe that they could be... good and see if you could do something like...  rehabilitate it... But that is impossible. You are only going to get yourself hurt... or worse... if you try. You cannot let your guard down, and you absolutely cannot trust it. Or think that just because it," her face twisted as if she had just smelled something disgusting, "'saved you'  this time it wouldn't attack you and try to kill you the next time."

Jazz scoffed, "it's not as if I am going to go out looking for him." But even as she said it, she realized it wasn't totally truthful. 

Her mom's eyes widened in fear before smoothing her expression into a brittle smile. "I know, sweetie. You are smarter than that. Next time you run into ghosts, call us. In the meantime, you shouldn't be caught unprepared. Here," Maddie handed her a small portable Fenton Ecto-gun. Jazz recognized it as a practice model. 

Jazz's hands shook as she took it.

"Now, details Jazzy. What was this ghost like?" her dad turned back to excitement once he knew she was okay. 

"Which one? The bug or the... boy?"

"What did the humanoid one look like?"

"A regular teenager... just..." Dead. How dreadful. A dead kid. "A ghost... Glowing. Slightly blurry around the edges and bright like overexposed film."

"Ooh! Mads, that explains why it's so notoriously hard to get a picture of them."

"Hmm. Anything else?" Maddie asked.

"No, not really..." Jazz wracked her brain for anything more. "Uh... He had... bright green eyes. White hair. His voice echoed."

"Anything else?"

"No... He just showed up, saved my life, and then was gone again. Almost as if it had never even happened... But it did, didn't it?!" It was so debilitatingly ironic that Jazz was asking her parents, of all people, to reaffirm that she wasn't crazy. 

"Yes, I think it did. Your description matches with the basics of our research." Maddie said, obviously thinking hard. 

"Are you sure you are okay, Jazzypants?" her dad asked, his massive hand resting on her back again in a preemptive measure in case her legs gave out, which she wouldn't count out the possibility right now. "You look a little faint."  

"Yeah, fine," she muttered weakly. "Just a major paradigm shift..."

"Why don't you get some rest, sweetie?" Maddie suggested softly. 

Jazz nodded, went up to her room clumsily as her legs wobbled. When she reached her room, she threw the ectopistol down on her bed, hoping to never need to use it. Then she dove under her desk, dug out one of her old, old journals, and flipped back to an entry. 

The entry from when she was 7 years old. Her case against the supernatural. Her proof that her parents were delusional and ghosts didn't exist.

She shakingly drew an uneven line through her old conclusion. 

Ghosts aren't real.

She added a bullet point to the affirmative side, wrote the day's date, and then added those four damning words that changed everything: I... saw a ghost. 

Underneath her old conclusion, she wrote: Ghost might be real. 

'Might be,' because even now, she couldn't say it clearly for all to hear.

She whimpered as if in pain and then crossed out 'might be.' 

Ghosts might be real.

Stop fooling yourself. You wanted proof. You've wanted proof all your life. Now you got it. What? You want to reject it because it wasn't the proof you wanted? How horribly dishonest and hypocritical of you.

You know, deep down, you have started to have your doubts. You knew something was wrong. From the very moment when you saw that 'hallucination' from the 'gas explosion,' Remember now? The 'hallucination' you tried so hard to repress?  Something blurry, moving so fast, impossibly bright, hard to look straight at, about the size of a child, and vaguely humanoid. 

You saw it! Can you really sit there and deny it? You saw it fall from the sky and dive into the ground. Then it disappeared.

What about the glowing neon dragon at the dance... If someone spiked the punch, what were the odds that everyone would see the same thing? How many people claimed to see it? 

Same problem with the college reunion...

'You're the one who needs to accept reality.'

Okay... Fine!

She'll admit she's wrong. So hopelessly and impossibly wrong.

Happy?! Her life has been one f*cking joke ever since she was born to the Fenton Family. And now? Here is the grand finale: the last gut buster to torment her until the clown show—she has reluctantly found herself a member of—can finally take a bow. 

Fine. Everything is absurd. And if everything is absurd, then anything could happen. 

Ghost could be real. 

Her parents could be right. 

She could be wrong. 

Her whole f*cking worldview could shatter into a million tiny pieces, leaving her just as desperately lost as she was when she first set out to prove her parents wrong.

Ha. Oh, you're the fool, Jazzy. The prideful fool, trying your damnedest to prove your parents wrong? Only to find out... That they were right in the end. How humiliating. 

Oh. Jazz sighed a slow, exhausted sigh and sat on the floor, unable to move. She was so drained. 

Her hand was shaking so much that she could barely read her handwriting, she wrote 'Ghost's are r...'

She ground her teeth. Come on, admit defeat, Jazzy. You're wrong; get over it. You're making this so much harder than it needs to be.  

'e' 

Breathe. She forced the pencil to paper yet again.

'a' 

No use fighting it anymore. Especially since now, you have only one more line to go ...

'l.'

Done. Finished.

She slammed the journal shut, not bearing to look at the completed sentence. She put it back under her desk, where she hoped to forget about it.

Now she had more important things to worry about... Namely Danny and his situation. And even if ghosts are real... Well, she doubts ghosts are at the heart of her little brother's problems.

Jazz couldn't sleep, not that surprising considering the day she had. The  trauma  she went through. The last thing she wanted was to come face to horrible face with that ghost bug again in her dreams. 

Plus... there was the underlying problem that ever since Jazz had seen that ghost... She had been half expecting to wake up. Now that she was actually trying to fall asleep, she had to admit that she really was wide awake.

She couldn't sleep. She couldn't stop her racing thoughts. Or her racing heart. 

Something sickly green caught the corner of her eye. She ran to her window and looked out. Another...  ghost!?  

Oh god. You sound like your parents. You are honestly going mad... Yup, flipped your lid. You finally have driven yourself round the bend. After all... It was always only a matter of time, Fenton. 

She rounded the corner so that the thing, whatever it was, couldn't see her from her window. Back pressed against her wall, she chanced a glance out again. 

It was far away and hard to make out. But, as ridiculous as it sounded... Jazz thinks... It had to have been a ghost. 

What on earth are you thinking?!  Jazz criticized her crisscrossed, confused, knotted, and gnarled thoughts.  What do you think you are doing?  She asked, watching herself getting dressed from an outside observer's perspective. Her dissociated hands threw on long pants and grabbed her jacket; she had a sneaking suspicion it was going to be cold out tonight. Oh, how she wished she could say that her reasoning was entirely related to the weather. 

This is insane, you know that, right?  Feet slipped into her black flats. Fumbling fingers tied her long red hair back into a braid for increased mobility. 

This is dangerous and stupid.  Jazz picked up the gun and looked it over with disdain. It was a practice model. Easy to use: flick the safety off, point at the ghost, pull the trigger, and shoot. So straightforward, a child could work it. In fact, her parents had insisted that their children could work it. She had never paid attention or bothered with the 'emergency defense against ghost lessons.' But, regarding target practice, she wasn't especially 'bad.' 

Course, she wasn't especially 'good'  either. She never thought she'd need to be. The ectopistol was small, lightweight, and easy to conceal. Inconspicuous despite glowing softly—powered by 'ectoplasm'—and stamped with the Fentonworks' new logo. 

Just in case , she tucked the miniature Fenton ectogun in her jacket pocket. Along with her phone.  This is still one of your worst ideas ever...

You specifically said you wouldn't go looking for ghosts.  Jazz crept down the stairs, taking great care to avoid the ones that had a habit of creaking. If anyone spotted her, she could claim the midnight snack excuse, provided they didn't look too closely at her definitively-not-PJs. 

She paused when she reached the living room, remembering something... Cautiously, she activated the flashlight built into her phone and scanned the area until... Yes! The Fenton Finder! She snatched it; it was too bulky to shove in her pocket, but she would likely be glad she had it. 

It was easier to leave the house than she had anticipated.  Ah, our ever-attentive parents; no wonder Danny is adept at sneaking in and out as he pleases. 

Oh. Oh no. If there actually are ghosts lurking around at night... Danny might be in danger if he keeps sneaking out to—Do whatever he does—Even if the activity itself isn't dangerous. She's just been hoping her little brother is smart enough not to get mixed up in drugs or gangs or something like that. 

But, no. No, worry about that later. Focus .  One problem at a time, Jazzy. This is a terrible idea... But if you are going through with it, at least stay focused on the task at hand. 

She switched on the machine and began... Oh god. She was  ghost hunting , wasn't she?  Heading out with Fenton tech in the middle of the night in pursuit of a ghost? What else could she call that but... Ghost hunting ?

No! No!  She was  not  ghost hunting. She... was... just... conducting surveillance? Searching for evidence? 

So much for never getting drawn into the Family Business. 

No!  She was just making sure that what she saw  was real . Then, satisfied with proof—no matter what it turned out to prove—she'd go back to blissfully avoiding anything ghost-related for the rest of her life. This was  not  going to become a habit! She  would not  let this affect her carefully laid out plans! This was just a one-time thing! 

Ugh. Jazz couldn't do this...

But she had to. She had to reconfirm her situation. She couldn't count on anything she had witnessed in the height of her panicking… She had to make sure she wasn't going...  crazy . 

The machine sprang to life, and the mechanical female voice echoed slightly in the quiet night. "THANK YOU FOR USING THE FENTON FINDER. SCANNING YOUR AREA FOR GHOSTS... SCANNING... SCANNING. GHOST LOCATED. WALK FORWARD DUE WEST."

She followed the directions until it led her to the Amity Park Park. Empty. No one was there. No ghosts. 

"GHOST DETECTED. GHOST DETECTED." 

Or not. Guess it was...  invisible . Or... something. Oh. Wait, no, Jazz saw it. The ghost boy. He was up in a tree. Probably not needing to worry about either climbing or falling. A light flashed against the bark high above her, and a warped curse echoed in the still night. 

"YOU WOULD HAVE TO BE A MORON NOT TO SEE THE GHOST RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU. GHOST DETECTED." The boy's head shot up, and his eyes, glowing like searchlights, scanned the area. Jazz narrowly avoided his gaze and flung herself behind a bush. Her parents really should've reconsidered a ghost hunting gadget that made so much noise and gave the position of whoever was using it away. But thinking ahead like that had never been a strength of her parents. 

"Oh,  this  is just  great ." the boy groaned. "Seriously, I am  so  not in the mood!"

The boy had glided out of the tree and was now the one searching for  her . 

Oh. It had just occurred to Jazz just how  utterly stupid  this plan was.  So much for being the smart one.  Jazz held a hand over her mouth and nose, trying hard not to make a single sound and hoping that the deafening  thud thud thud  of her heart wouldn't give her away. 

A frosty breeze danced up her spine, and she could've sworn she heard the wind whisper something far too close to her name for comfort. But there wasn't any wind, was there? No, at least not any...  natural  wind. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up, and she instinctively knew something was creeping up from behind her.

She had to turn to face this creature...  'Monster,' whispered her thoughts in a voice that sounded remarkably like her mother.  'Don't think that just because it saved your life last time, that it won't attack you and try to kill you this time.' 

Well? Too late to question your truly idiotic decision. You got yourself into this mess; what did you expect? You went looking for the ghost. 

Congrats, you found it. 

Now? You have to face it.  Jazz bit back a pathetic whimper and spun on her heels, only slightly dizzy from adrenaline. Her trembling hands found the little gun, and she pointed it right at the ghost.  

The boy had indeed been behind her. At her movement, he backed up immediately, looking dumbfounded by her presence. Like he was just as floored to see her as she was to see him. His far-too-bright green eyes fell to the gun. 

Jazz could do little more than stare.  Impossible . This was...

"Uh..." the boy shifted his footing ( in the air!? His feet were not touching the ground!?) in unease. He licked his lips ( grayish blue, like someone who had been out in the cold for far too long. Or someone... dead?! ) with his ( green and glowing!? ) tongue and hesitantly broke the silence after seeing she wouldn't. His voice echoed, and it took concentration to understand him as the beginnings and ends of his words vibrated. Thrumming like there was some strange current running under him. "Uh... shouldn't you turn the safety off?... If you want that." He gestured with his eyes to the ectopistol in her hand, which, yes, she had forgotten to flick the safety off. "Thing to do you any good, I mean..." He took another ( floating!? ) step back and cringed, and quickly added, "not-that-I... Uh,  want  you-to-shoot-me-or-anything," his words so fast they were blurring together. He winced again as if bracing for something. He cleared his throat. "Uh, obviously... but, uh um... yeah..." he trailed away, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. 

"Y-You're...  real ," she breathed out, barely even a whisper, the only thing her brain could bother to process.

The boy's ( slightly pointed ) ears flicked, confirming that he had heard her. "Uh... yeah?"

She licked her lips, trying to force her voice out. "Wh-wha-what  are  you?" 

He locked those searingly bright green eyes on her, one eyebrow raised in an ' are you kidding?'  expression.  

"You're a...  ghost ." Jazz had intended it to be a question, but it wasn't. No, instead? It was the answer to her last question. She had not either lowered the gun or turned off the safety.

"Uh...  Duh ," the now officially identified ghost said with a roll of those gleaming, impossible eyes. That action left a burning afterimage of a glowing green circle in the air. "What  else  would I be?" 

Jazz opened her mouth to say something else, but nothing came out. Not even the mounting shriek she could feel deep within her. 

What?  

A ghost. That was a ghost. 

Right there, in front of her. Talking with her. 

No. No.  Jazz fought desperately to hold on to her denial with the ferocity of a riled-up dog playing a game of tug-of-war...  Losing  a game of tug-of-war. 

No, you cannot take that away from me. Please, how am I supposed to stand if you tear the ground out from under my feet? How can I stay afloat if you puncture a hole in my boat? Oh god... Please, no. 

Her mind was frantically scooping out buckets of water and dumping them over the side of a rapidly sinking vessel. How can she expect the machine to function with all the wrong parts in all the wrong places? 

No. No, no, no! Damage control. C'mon, think... There had to be another answer. There had to be another logical explanation. 

She was dreaming. Yes. Yes... She  had  to be dreaming... If she closed her eyes, then she could  will  this all away. Yes. She could will the very fabric of reality to start making sense again. Yes. She slammed her eyes shut, almost too eagerly; when she opens her eyes, she'll wake up in her bed, having never gone outside in the first place. When she opens her eyes, this will all fade away. The park, the night, and the... ghost . 

But when she  did  gather the nerve to force her eyes back open, there stood that boy, glowing, floating, and definitely not gone. He wore a wide smirk as if he knew just how much this was messing with her. As if he was mocking all of her arguments that claimed ghosts weren't real. Mocking all the laws—of nature... and physics... and reality—he was currently breaking without a care in the world. 

"Uh... um...  Booooo ?" the ghost boy said, waving his fingers in an exaggerated 'mystical flair' with a tittering laugh. 

"Oh god," she whimpered, having regained her voice. But it was still weak and trembling, just like her knees buckling under the momentous realization. "This... Is...  Not ..." She barely felt the Fenton Finder slip from her grasp and softly thud to the ground. She pressed her splayed palm tight against her chest, heart thundering in her ears. " Possible...  This  can... Not."  Her head was hammering. "Be...  Real... " she felt her breathing pick up the pace again, and dark spots threatened to dance across her vision. She had to be careful, or she was going to hyperventilate... If she wasn't already. 

The boy moved to do something—Catch her? Steady her? She didn't know... But her mother's warning echoed louder in her head, alongside her screaming instincts, telling her she was a fool. Scorned her for getting caught in the gaze of a predator.  'Ghost! You cannot let your guard down, and you absolutely cannot trust it.'  "St-stay b-back," she stuttered, the small ectogun in her grasp wavering as much as her strength. She still had not flicked the safety off, so it was useless as a weapon, but it seemed to deter the ghost even so. 

"I... am not going... to hurt you," he mumbled, but he  did  step ( or float ) back. Even though he knew as well as Jazz did that she wouldn't—and couldn't, the safety was still on—shoot, he still shrank back; now he was the one afraid to get too close. A pained look on his face, as if Jazz had already shot him. He was raising his hands in the universal  'I surrender'  gesture. That is if such a gesture was universal even to ghosts.

Then he seemed to rethink the action and dropped his hands rigidly by his side. "Uh... sorry," he said, swallowing with difficulty. "I... didn't mean... to uh... Heh,  spook  you." His smile was tight and forced, and his laugh sounded almost mechanical ( it also drew her attention to the fact that he was not breathing?!)  A far cry from the easy-going mischievous grin he wore previously. 

Her parents claimed ghosts had no emotional capacity. Any and all signs of emotions were empty, shallow manipulation techniques. 

Jazz swallowed again. "No..." she set her jaw and fought to regain her composure. It was so... laborious to think; there was too much fog in her head. "I mean... you d-d-di..." Breathe. Calm. Steady. In. Out.  "I... wasn't s-sca... r-rd." Her lie had no hope of being believed when it came out  that  unevenly. Plus, she was still trembling. "Y-you just caught me... uh, off guard?"

The boy turned away from her and hung his head. His glow even seemed to dim slightly, like someone had taken the brightness level and scaled it down somehow. "Right…" he said in a monotone, hollow voice. "S'okay... I get it... I mean, who wouldn't be scared... of an evil... destructive... Monstrous...  ghost , heh, heh... Can't be too careful, right?" His voice broke slightly. He made a hacking sound like he was trying to rein in his emotions by clearing his throat. "You should turn off that safety," he said again.  

Empty and shallow were not the words that came to Jazz's head when she heard the open  raw pain  that the boy tried and failed to smother. He sounded so  young . She recognized that beaten tone. Danny used the same one when he lied and tried to convince her he was 'fine.' That faraway voice, fragile like glass. Every word pleading for help silently because he couldn't ever bring himself to ask out loud.

It was a tone that struck Jazz like a knife to her heart. 

And as with always, when someone needed help and sounded so hurt... 

Jazz couldn't help but get involved. 

Her own emotional turmoil and existential crisis be damned. Her rocketing pulse and overwhelming fear be damned. All her parents' theories and warnings be damned. She. Was. Not. About to do nothing when someone—regardless of whether they happened to be  human— sounded that...  broken . 

She couldn't—didn't know  how to —help Danny , but... 

Spectra's words echoed through her head. 'Sometimes... it's  easier  to open up to a  stranger.  Sometimes we have to hear what we need to hear from someone  not   close to us.' 

But, maybe by some miracle, Jazz could be the helpful stranger that  this  boy needed. Maybe... She  could  at least help...  someone . "I... Don't think..." No, that was the wrong way to phrase it.  You cannot afford to be uncertain right now. Even if a part of you might still have doubts, you have to come across as firm. 

Despite every neuron in her brain telling her this was a bad, bad, deadly idea. Every instinct still wanted away... But she'd deal with that later. Right now? Well, if she really wanted to help... Then she had to say what this boy needed to hear...  Deep breath. Freak out later. You know how to do this, get your emotions under control; someone else needs you to be okay.  "No. I... I  know.  I know you're  not a monster. " She corrected resolutely... and at least somewhat earnestly. The boy glanced back over to her and opened his mouth as if he was about to argue. She cut him off with a look. She locked eyes with him, and so he could clearly see what she was doing, lowered the gun and put it back in her pocket. A sign of trust. A sign that she wasn't here to hurt him... As well as a sign that she believed him when he said he wouldn't hurt her. 

Her parents would kill her if they knew about that action—or, honestly, if they knew about anything she'd done tonight. But she didn't care; she was not about to comfort someone at gunpoint...  And, yes, she absolutely was going to comfort this gh...  Child . "And as for evil? Well... You...  saved my life  ."

The ghost was now staring at Jazz as if he still couldn't believe she was there... Which made two of them. 

"If it weren't for you, I..." she grimaced, her words faltering. Before she breathed in and then out and moved on, "who knows what would've happened to me. You saved my life.  So... Well, one reason I am out here is... Because I wanted to say...  Thank you ."

Her words settled over him like a thunderclap. His shock made him lose his balance (or however he stays floating) for a bit, and he almost fell out of the air. His glow flashed and brightened.

His enormous, luminescent eyes grew until the green orbs overwhelmed the rest of his face. "Wait? I'm sorry, back up. Did you seriously  track me down  and hold me at frickin'  gunpoint  at f*ck-I-don't-even-know o'clock in the morning just to... To...  th-thank me? !" his childish voice cracked on the statement of gratitude.

Well, when he put it that way... Slightly startled, she had to chuckle at this whole ridiculous mess. "I guess?" 

He slapped his palm to his forehead. "I cannot believe you!" he was laughing himself now. "Jaaa-uh, That's  insane ! You realize that, right? Like you are absolutely  insane !"

She huffed slightly; she had no love for anyone calling her insane. She was  not  crazy. "Look, I needed to know... That you were real... That I am not..." Jazz trailed off, shaking her head. She was  not  going...  mad . Her cheeks burned in embarrassment, and the ghost boy only laughed harder at her expression. "A-and besides, I… I I never got the chance to thank you earlier. You vanished... and I was too busy..."

"Freaking the f*ck out?" he asked with a raised eyebrow and a mocking smirk.

She opened her mouth to retort, but another breathy laugh came out instead. "Something like that..." she admitted. 

She looked the ghost over yet again. Studying the boy as he shrank back and tried to avoid her invasive gaze. The creature was undoubtedly strange-looking... Set off major uncanny valley vibes. Bright white hair waving without wind, like it was underwater. Pale skin with a greenish sallow hue, like he was backlit with some freaky light, that was fitting for the... dead. Not to mention the whole glowing  thing. The shadows on his face were  wrong , and Jazz had the strangest feeling that the more she stared into his face, the less she could understand what she was seeing. He was perfectly still, not even breathing, apart from the slight bobbing up and down as his feet hovered over the ground. He also moved too quickly to see clearly, like he was blurring and splitting apart at the edges. 

But despite all that... he was even more... She didn't have the word to describe it... This feeling resting on the tip of her tongue... something so close, but it danced just out of her reach before she could name it. The closest term she had was...  Familiar .

That was insane. Ridiculous. Where had such a thought even come from?

But his mannerisms—which clearly displayed emotions no matter what her parents claimed—easy way of speaking, and word choice, right down to the harsh curses... All seemed so...  normal ?  Natural?

Just regular teenager stuff. 

Plus, there was what really cemented her thoughts towards this boy... He was  hurting . She didn't exactly know how... Or why... Or what to do to fix it. But Jazz could still tell. 

But she could also tell... that something she said had gotten through to him... At least a little. His reaction to the simple act of  not pointing a gun at him, for starters. The shock when she not only denied that he was some evil monster but then again when she had thanked him. She saw how maybe her 'Helpful Stranger Act' really did do something . Maybe... Obviously, whatever pent-up issues this boy had couldn't be solved in one conversation. Particularly when you factored in the fact that they might have been so bad... that they contributed to his  death.  A thought almost too grim to bear thinking about for too long. But... she'd just have to hold out hope that a few kind words and a positive interaction could go a long way. 

Besides, in terms of 'Helpful Stranger,' the boy had actually started it... He had helped her without even knowing her or anything. Just a good samaritan, a far cry from the evil, vengeful creatures her parents described. He had saved her life and yet was entirely blindsided when she came to thank him. As if he never expected her gratitude. Or even the  recognition  for what he did...

Wait... 

No, it went even  deeper  than that. As he had said, 'I get it… I mean, who wouldn't be scared... of an evil ... destructive... Monstrous...  ghost.  Heh, heh... Can't be too careful.' He not only understood her fear but had expected it. Even the first thing he said to her was wondering why she had the safety off, but he never thought to question why she had pointed a gun at him in the first place. No, that action was what he had anticipated. Was that because of what she  was, a Fenton, or because of what  he  was, a ghost?

Based on his actions and words, it was like he never expected  anything...  At least, nothing outside of fear  and  hatred . 

How awful. No one should have to feel like that.

"You know, I never believed in ghosts..." It felt weird saying this to a ghost. "But even if I did... You're... not what... I expected."

The boy cocked his head to the side and crossed his arms. "Oh? And what... were you expecting?"

"Just... Not this... I never would've imagined... they'd be like..."

"Like what?" 

"Well... You're just... a normal kid."

"Oh. Uh..." The boy bit his lip, and she could see that his teeth were sharp, more like fangs than anything else. "Apart from the obvious," he muttered with a scoff, gesturing to his whole ensemble, glowing and floating and all. 

"Yeah," she agreed, unable to say anything else when faced with another reminder of what he was... a  ghost . A kid. A  dead  kid. She wanted to ask him how old he was... He looked like he couldn't be any older than Danny. Far too young. Or when or how he had died... but she knew that was a terrible idea. Even if this ghost, just floating there,  not  doing anything evil, seemed to disprove all her parents' theories... Ghosts could still be dangerous. She knew that; her parents had drilled it into her, and it seemed despite her best efforts, it had reluctantly stuck. But dangerous didn't mean  evil . After all, people, humans, could be dangerous too. When their emotions ran high, or they acted out of self-interest.  

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "So... uh, you  th-thanked  me..." he sounded like he was still trying to process that. "And seemed to have stopped... freaking out. So..."

"Right." she nodded. "I should probably head back home." She wondered if  he  had a home. Do ghosts have homes? 

"Yeah." He said with a sigh—so strange a thing to see someone sigh without breathing, without their shoulders moving or their chest expanding—and a beaten,  weary  smile, which made her think he likely didn't. "Oh, and turn off that safety! Not all ghosts are as nice as me. And keep out of trouble!" He said with an almost worried look on his face.

"I will be fine. I am a Fenton, after all." As she had predicted, the ghost had definitely heard that name before. An unreadable expression, not strictly a frown, crossed his face.

Then he shook his head with a light laugh. "Ha. Yeah , I know...  that's why I said what I said cuz... since when do  Fentons  keep  out  of trouble?" 

She winced slightly. So yes, this ghost knew of her parents. "Fair... So..." she held out her hand to shake the boy's.

He looked alarmed at the simple gesture, "uh..."

"You're supposed to shake it."

"I know that!" he said with an annoyed huff. "But..."

She raised an eyebrow and gave him a look.

He sighed again and took her hand. As she had expected and braced herself for, it was  cold , like she had just dipped her arm in a bucket of ice water. She couldn't entirely stifle the shudder that ran up her arm and spread through her from there. But hoped she made up for that shortcoming with her friendly smile. "My name is Jasmine."

"Uh... My n-name is..." he stopped and evaded her gaze. Was his name a sore spot for him? Did he even  remember  his name? Her parents had said something about ghosts not really remembering their lives... right? She had to admit she never really listened when they talked and only had the vaguest of ideas about... ugh, 'Ectology.'  

"Just..." He shook his head slightly and then looked back up with an unreadable expression on his face. "Call me Phantom."

Phantom.  Didn't that just mean ghost? How was that any better than just calling him 'ghost'? Well, she guessed by the simple fact that he had apparently chosen the name. "Okay," she said with a slightly sad smile. "So... Will I see you around?"

Phantom snorted, apparently finding the question comical. "Uh... p-probably not..." he drew away from her again. 

Before she could even open her mouth to say anything, he cut her off with a slight shake of his head. "It's better that way," he whispered. And then, in the time it took her to blink, Phantom had vanished. She looked around, wondering where he had gone... And if possibly he was still there, unseen. She lifted her gaze to the sky—it was lighter than it had been when she set out—and breathed out her mixed feelings. Confusion, worry, concern, sadness, and weariness.

She retrieved the Fenton Finder and returned home.

Chapter Text

Jazz cornered Sam and Tucker at their lockers the next day. "Hey, can I talk to you guys?"

The two locked eyes with each other and then instantly started scanning the area for places to avoid her. "It's about Danny." She skirted around them and cut them off as they tried to make a break for it. "I'm worried about him." 

Sam rolled her eyes, grumbling, "of course, you are." She fixed her focus on her combination, evidently having difficulty getting her locker unstuck. Once it sprang open, she retreated into its depths to escape this conversation. 

"He's not acting like himself..." Jazz continued, despite how unengaged both of her brother's friends remained. "I'm sure you've noticed."

Sam emerged, a math textbook gripped tightly in her hand, and exchanged a sharp glance with Tucker from the corner of her eye. Then she put the book in her bag and returned to her locker to get something else. All while doggedly ignoring Jazz.

"You must have noticed." Jazz amended her previous statement. Of course, they'd noticed. There was no way that they didn't. This problem was real and evident, and not just something Jazz was imagining or blowing out of proportion. Besides, if her brother had confided in anyone—and Jazz hopes against hope that Danny hasn't completely shut out and disregarded all of his social support network.—it would've been them. "He's been so... So negative lately. So miserable and distracted... Jumpy and paranoid. Anxious and stressed. Angry, Panicky, Defen-"

"Jazz!" Tucker interrupted her before she could get through the complete list, which admittedly was pretty long. "Even if there was something going on—which I-am- not- saying-there-is!" He added hurriedly, holding up a hand and trying to stop her from pouncing on that statement. She reluctantly closed her mouth and let him finish. "... Why are you asking us ? We're Danny's friends... That means he trusts us to keep his secrets... Uh, y'know, that includes from you, right?" 

Of course, she knew that! 

Jazz had known Tucker and Sam for about as long as Danny had. Tucker Foley and Samantha Manson had long since become honorary—and in terms of the town's perspective, just as disreputable—members of the Fenton Family. They often hung around FentonWorks as though they lived there, too. It wasn't exactly clear whether they had adopted Danny or if he had adopted them... But Jazz knew the indomitable bond the three of them shared, almost like family. Now, when you considered Sam—and everything that made the young girl who she was—that made some sense. Sam had very few good things to say about her own situation at home—and it must be bad if she considered FentonWorks a functioning replacement. Even in terms of Danny's situation, it made sense: he'd always been a relatively isolated child. Struggling with being forgotten or lost in the background. Jazz had done her best... but... lately, she has had to come to terms with how inadequate her best had been. Tucker was the only one of the three who had anything close to resembling a comfortable, caring... normal family.  

But regardless of any parental situations, social reputations, harsh mockery, and general insanity, Sam and Tucker were steadfast. They stuck by Danny. Maybe Jazz only knew them from the outside looking in, as she watched the three interact from afar, fascinated by the real-world example of genuine friendship she was seeing... But the point was, she trusted them. 

They were good friends and good people. Sure, they had some silly juvenile fights. But their teasing never seemed to have any bite behind it, and they'd never let disagreements hinder their support for each other. Jazz knew they chewed Danny out for his stupid decisions just as often as they covered his hide... or encouraged and/or participated in the latest foolhardy stunt. They could be the definitions of loyal. If something involved Danny, she'd place money—if she was a betting person, which she was not—that Sam and Tucker were along for the ride. And all of that was further proof she could trust that they had Danny's best interest in mind. 

Just like her... 

Which was also why she trusted them to know when they were in over their heads. After all, they had called her before, when Danny had gotten hurt. When things had become more serious—when protecting Danny's life was on the line instead of getting 'in trouble' with detentions or groundings—they had made the right call. "Even if his secrets are dangerous?"

They spoke in a language of slight, furtive glances, veiling the complicated and complex conversation they were unmistakably having right in front of her. What Jazz wouldn't give to know what was going on in their heads.

Fed up with hiding, Sam changed tactics and turned to meet Jazz's gaze head-on. "Jazz," She readjusted her stance, relaxing her shoulders and straightening her spine to fall back on that bull-headed confidence Samantha Manson was infamous for. "Everyone's got problems..." She cleared her throat briefly, eye-line dropping for half a second. "Secrets... And I-I get that you're worried, but..." she paused, before continuing. "He is alright." Jazz wondered if Sam knew she sounded as unconvincing as Danny did whenever he claimed he was 'fine.' Her words were soft. Her smile was reassuring, but something in her expression was still off. 

Jazz couldn't put her finger on it... But she recognized the air of forced composure; after all, she had gotten reasonably good at it herself. And understanding that false confidence as she did, Jazz knew what seemingly trivial hints—that allowed the genuine emotions to leak out—to look for. Maybe it was those secret signals they were still sending each other in their periphery. Or how the corner of Sam's mouth twitched, dipping ever so slightly on the word 'worried.' Or the way her violet eyes didn't completely match her soothing tone. 

Maybe it was how rigidly composed Sam and Tucker fought to appear. Sam looked too focused on keeping firm eye contact. As if holding back the urge to look away, blink, or engage in what is known as eye-blocking behavior. While Tucker had his attention divided between the two girls, bracing himself and trying to keep one eye on each. All signs of stress and of hiding something that tipped their hand. Revealing that this was indeed an act. 

Or maybe you are overthinking and jumping to conclusions... again. 

These are Danny's friends; you have seen them lie before. They are not good at it. No more than Danny is. 

Or was. It was time for Jazz to stop fooling herself and realize just how skillfully Danny donned his mask now. And how comfortably he wore it. Sure, maybe Danny was still dreadful at point-blank, lying to your face. So he'd adapted, found ways to lie without having to rely on his stumblingly weak excuses. Found easier ways to hide in plain sight. Stuff like using people's tendency to overlook him to his advantage. Or letting people form their own beliefs and then using that as a handy-dandy pre-made excuse. That was the tactic he used when the school had declared him some kind of delinquent. It didn't matter what he said, and it didn't even matter that no one believed him. Especially not if they'd already made up their minds about him anyway. Besides, all that really did was make it easier for him to hide; just because people knew it was a lie didn't mean they were any closer to learning the truth. And if they assumed he just was a liar, then they'd be less likely to recognize the truth if it ever did slip out. It was scary how quickly he'd picked up deception and avoidance tactics. 

And Sam? Samantha Manson spent most of her life defying her parents in any way she could. So she had to have some expertise in sneaking around, lying, crafting excuses, and hiding things.

"Sure," the younger girl continued. "Danny likes to keep to himself... and, yeah, he has some... Stuff he's still figuring out..." she cleared her throat again, folding her arms. "He's a teenager. Besides, it's not like he's doing anything... criminal." 

Jazz nearly lost the end of Sam's statement as the fire alarm blared. Which set the sprinklers off, soaking everything. 

Then all was chaos. Everyone caught in an uproar: students running, people screaming, A-listers complaining about their hair and outfits, teachers trying to calm everyone down, and various adults trying to figure out if the fire was real... And in the middle of it all, there stood—who else— Danny. He looked even worse than the last time she'd seen him. Eyes crossed and unfocused. Hands clamped around his ears, expression one of pure agony as he fought for a way to unhook himself, caught on the emergency fire alarm, pulling it down. 

If Jazz didn't know any better, she would've wondered about the possibility of someone going out of their way to frame Danny. Because there are only so many times when Danny can be found at the heart of a decimated crime scene. Most of the time, in some strange haze, as if surprised to be there himself.

Mr. Lancer waded through the crowd and the growing puddles of water to find the boy, still grappling with the alarm. The teacher's face was an unrelenting stone wall, completely unamused. "Mr. Fenton! Tell me," he shouted over the ringing and the general confusion, managing to somehow sound simultaneously loud and worn out. "Why am I not surprised!" 

Danny barely looked coherent.

"All right!" The man roared. "Everyone Out!"

The students of Casper High waited—wet, annoyed, and bored—outside the building in the standard 'Fire Drill' positions. Mr. Lancer had the unenviable job of explaining to the Amity Park Fire Department that it was a false alarm. The Fire marshal had insisted on sending a few people in just to be absolutely sure that everything was in order. While that was happening, Lancer was free to chew out the one behind it all.

"A month's detention?" Danny's mouth dropped open. "B-But Mr. Lancer, I didn't do anything!" 

Interesting. This time, Danny was fighting back. Whatever had him so disorientated earlier cleared; he set his jaw and clenched his fists, looking like he was ready to square off. Lately, Danny responded to getting in trouble by hanging his head and passively accepting whatever punishment he was given. He seemed to have no misconceptions about his behavior; he knew it was wrong. And knew he deserved the consequences. It was one of her strongest points of evidence that he was not actually a delinquent. It showed that it wasn't a problem of authority causing him to act out. 

Following that train of reason, perhaps he really wasn't at fault here.

"12 Angry Men! Mr. Fenton." Mr. Lancer said, matching Danny's anger. "Even if you." He waved his disapproving pointer finger to accentuate his displeasure. "Were someone worthy of credibility—which might I add you are not!" Danny blanched at that—the wind stolen from his sails—and slunk back into himself. But he had no argument. Again illustrating how Danny never took pride in the wrongness of his activities. Nor misunderstood the significant repercussions for his choices. "— you would have quite the case to spin, considering I caught you in the act!"

"I... No, you don't understand... It was... an accident?" The tilt at the end of his tone was not doing him any favors; it sounded like he doubted his own explanation. 

Mr. Lancer gave him a dry look. "It is virtually impossible to pull the fire alarm inadvertently. By design, one must manually push and... Then pull."

"B-But I really didn't do anything! Please, you gotta beli-" he cut himself off, face falling like he just admitted how unreliable that plea turned out when it came from his mouth.

"That is enough, Fenton!" Mr. Lancer said, putting his foot down. "You are lucky to get off with only a month's detention. Are you aware that what you just did is a crime? A misdemeanor, at the very least. A felony at worst, especially considering your already less than spotless record. We would be perfectly within our jurisdiction to suspend or even expel you for this! This is a serious offense. Not only have you wasted the time of everyone here, your fellow students, and the staff, not to mention the Amity Park Fire Department! But you also could have caused devastating harm! What if an actual fire had been happening, and they couldn't get there in time just because you wanted to play a funny prank or to get out of class?! Or just uncover new and innovative ways to cause untold chaos and destruction to our school's fragile ecosystem! It is about time you learned that your actions have dire consequences and affect more than just you!"

"I know that! Just..."

Dr. Spectra appeared at Mr. Lancer's side in a blink of an eye, putting herself between the enraged teacher and the troubled student. "Mr. Lancer. I know this situation isn't ideal, but you need to calm down." 

"C-calm down?!" the vice-principal spluttered, veins bulging and face reddening. 

"Yes. Calm down." Repeated the woman. "Everyone take deep calming breaths... in... and out... There. Harsh words don't solve problems; actions do. Now, I am sure Danny didn't mean to create this much of a... commotion. .. Did you, Danny?"

"N-no!" Danny cried, defensive, and still riled up, despite Spectra's calming breathing exercise. 

"There, you see?" Now she turned to face the boy with a concerned smile. "I believe you, Danny. If you claim it was only an accident... Well, everyone makes mistakes. Our mistakes are our wisest teachers. They have the power to change us and make us better than ever before. If we let them. Now we take this accident and learn from it and make it an acci-don't!" she finished with a clap of her hands and an overly peppy smile.

"An accident? A simple mistake?" Lancer scoffed, unyielding in his disapproval, shaking his head. "Dr. Spectra, with all due respect, I believe these things to be intentional choices at this point." The vice-principal forced himself past the psychologist so that he was once again towering over the tensed boy. "Your behavior, Mr. Fenton, has been entirely unacceptable for too long! And if you don't clean up your act soon, I will have to resort to more drastic options."

"Intentional?" Dr. Spectra tapped her chin with one of her long acrylic fingernails. "Perhaps," she admitted. "It is quite common for people to lash out and act up when they feel overwhelmed. Like they are submerged, drowning in all that suffocating stress. It seems to me to be a call for attention and a cry for help."

"No! Tha... It's not... just a..." Danny tried again to force himself to say something, but it looked painful. He was folding in on himself, adding the visual representation of someone suffocating to Spectra's careful words.

"But really... Who could blame him?" Dr. Spectra calmly spoke over Danny's stuttering and quieting disputes. "After all, what better way to signal an emergency?"  

"That is precisely the problem." Mr. Lancer replied. "There was no emergency!"

"Oh, but isn't there?" Dr. Spectra moved to stand behind Danny and settled a hand on his shoulder. His body tensed at her touch. She tightened her grip as her voice flooded with empathetic heartache. "Or at least... Perhaps he feels like there is an emergency. Look at the boy, Lancer; does he look like some hardened criminal or someone struggling and hurting? Maybe he was going through some kind of emergency on the inside."

Dr. Spectra's words appeared to settle over Mr. Lancer in a way that finally succeeded in calming his anger, as he did indeed look the boy over. 

However, Spectra's words seemed to have the exact opposite effect on Danny. He squirmed and thrashed trying to escape the woman's supporting grip. Danny looked sick to his stomach—all eyes on him, watching like he was their twisted entertainment until the all-clear came—once again, forced into the spotlight. He was still shaking slightly, arms wrapped tightly around his torso as if barely restraining himself from unraveling. "N-no!" he gasped out, stuttering and full of frayed nerves. "I... that's not... I... Quit talking about me as if I'm not here!" he yelled—not caring that he was talking to adults, not to mention authority figures. Now he was accentuating his words with wild swings of his arms, acting like everything was closing in on him. He continued to take shaking steps, backing away and not daring to let anyone close. Not caring that most of the school was still watching this display. Not caring if he was sounding or behaving unhinged and thus confirming the Professional Psychologist's claims. "Quit staring at me like that... I'm not... some frickin... unstable... nervous wreck!"

"Oh, no one is calling you that, sweetie." Spectra approached the boy like he was a rabid animal, arms out to show no harm. Speaking so carefully to avoid startling him. "Anger, aggression, frustration, stress, isolation, anxiety, and instability, those emotions are all completely natural parts of the human condition."

He looked, if possible, even paler at her words, he opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"Danny, Danny, Danny," Spectra said shaking her head as she watched the display. "You know it doesn't make you weak to need help, right? It doesn't make you a failure if you fail at something. You are not a mistake just because you happen to make mistakes. On the contrary, it is completely normal to struggle. Now? You need to learn how to process those feelings in healthy, productive ways; that won't put yourself or anyone else in danger. And I think we can at least all agree that the way you are handling them right now: Lashing out in anger, destroying and vandalizing the school, or pulling the fire alarm to signal the genuine emergency you feel deep within you, is not right. Hmmm?"

"N-no! I... I..."

"It's okay, sweetie. Breathe. Calm down. Deep breaths. Can you do that for me? That's it... In and... out." It seemed that even that action was difficult for him. "Yes, you are a mess, no denying that..." she gave him a sympathetic smile and a slight chuckle. "Buuuut..." she continued, leaning closer to him as he stared at his shifting feet. "A Mess is just the beginning of message. I swear to you, we can work through this. Then you will feel better, feel at home in your own skin once more. Don't you want that?"

"I... no... I mean... uh, yes? I... " his words and actions were stilted. Eyes darting from onlooker to onlooker. 

"Hey, hey. It's not the end of the world." Dr. Spectra murmured, soothing his panicking. "In fact, this is a blessing in disguise. Because it means that our little sessions have been extended for another month. Good thing too, I have to admit you are quite the..." she put a hand to her chin and gave a chagrined smile as if looking for the best way to phrase something. "Challenging case. We need more time to smooth out all those deeply troubling thoughts lurking in that head of yours."

"I..." Danny stopped abruptly; everything, fight and fear, bleeding out of him. Leaving the boy looking emotionally depleted. "Okay." The word came out thin and far away. He dropped his head in defeated submission and allowed Dr. Spectra to get super close to him again. She held a hand against his back—as if keeping him steady—and then led him back to her office.

In addition to the ongoing month's worth of detention for the fire alarm incident, every day seemed to only bring more troubles for her poor brother. 

More humiliation; the Casper High Rumor mill was at it again. Jazz—having her ear to the ground whenever it came to her little brother and his problems—caught the murmured insults, cruel jokes, and various stories. Nothing out of the ordinary—unfortunately—but the traction of these rumors had once again increased. Highlighting his more questionable actions and pushing all of those distasteful theories. Like how he was an unstable lunatic with an inability to process or control his emotions. And having a mental breakdown or something. 

'I swear the Freaky Fenton kid has literally lost it.' 

'What did you expect? It was only a matter of time; he is a Fenton, after all. Everyone knows they are all f*cking deranged.'

Danny's one-on-one sessions with Spectra did not seem to improve things either. What Jazz wouldn't do to be a fly on the wall during those talks. She knew Danny was too stubborn for his own good and would reject most ideas to help. But... Surely... He was more cooperative with the actual professional. Right?

Now and then, she would witness the impact of one of the numerous self-improvement activities that Spectra tried. But they rarely seemed beneficial. 

One such activity resulted in Danny walking around the school wearing a sign around his neck that proclaimed himself a 'FREAK.' 

Jazz overheard him tell Sam that it was Dr. Spectra's idea: to 'take away the label's power to hurt him and embrace it like a badge of honor.' Which conceptually made some sense. The human mind has a remarkable pension for taking something negative and turning it into a positive through a simple change in perspective. If Danny could be encouraged to go through how he sees himself with fresh eyes and learn that he doesn't have to be so...  ashamed of himself. That was a crucial first step to regulating his unstable emotions, improving his self-esteem, and breaking himself out of the prison of negativity. 

No, it wasn't too terrible of an idea, but there was absolutely something... amiss with... this practical application. 

Jazz grimaced when she saw her little brother lumbering around the halls as optimistic as a death row inmate. But what could she do? She knew that any word from her would only heighten his volatility. Besides, he was already acting fiercely unpredictable. Some rumors even claimed that he'd actually bitten  Dash when the larger boy tried to pick on him. 

Dr. Spectra had also given Danny a notebook. No doubt to help with the documentation of his process of improvement. And to help him work through his own thoughts. Jazz sometimes used her own journals for that purpose; it was a wonderful mindfulness technique. 

Jazz was so tempted to steal the journal and discover what he was writing. A book where Danny detailed out his own thoughts and struggles? All the answers to those baffling mysteries just sitting there. Lying just beyond her reach. But that... would be egregiously wrong... On just so many levels ... It would be crossing so many lines. A complete breach of trust and disregard for his boundaries, even worse than watching him, writing about him in her own journals, or badgering him to open up. No. She could not go that far. She absolutely positively cannot do that. 

And she knew that. Didn't stop her from fantasizing about it.

Whatever he was writing about... didn't seem to help; he always looked more agitated after slamming it closed. 

As another part of the therapy, Dr. Spectra had insisted Danny inform people he struggled with 'Anger Management Issues and Debilitating Anxiety.' Thus the Medical Mental Health ID bracelet he could now be seen wearing. He was often twisting it around his wrist, making it bite into his flesh as if it was a shackle he desperately wanted to be free from. Knowing her brother, he probably hated that even worse than he had hated the Halter Monitor he had to wear a while back.

Dr. Spectra probably thought that having some way for the other students to know would help. That applying that label to a student who was already a target for bullying and seen as a social outcast was a... good idea. That maybe they'd be more sympathetic and charitable if they knew more about his situation. It could serve as an eye-opener for those who chose to make themselves bigger by putting others down. Allow for a moment of self-reflection and realization that you don't always know the details someone is coping with. Yeah, right. All that was naïve and too idealistic. So, really... Casper High took it about as well as... could be expected...

'Fenton finally got looked at by a shrink, huh?'

'Yeah, after his latest meltdown, not surprising. I heard Lancer said it was therapy or suspension.'

'Too bad it wasn't suspension. I could do with a week without the little psycho in the halls.'

'I know, right! Did you know that the freak actually snarls and growls like some kind of rabid dog? Anger management issues for sure!'

But soon, the conversations in the hall about her brother dwindled. Actually, all conversations in the school began... Dwindling. As if all the general emotions were subdued. No one had any energy to do much apart from attending class. 

"Is it just me... or is something... wrong?" Jazz asked Spike one day. And even that simple question took effort that she'd almost rather not exert. She had been so focused on Danny's problems—which, yes, 100% needed focus, but still...—she'd overlooked the slow social contagion of whatever this was. A sluggish 'something' settling over their school that was sapping all the motivation, excitement, and passion. It was a strange thing to consider that something like moods or mental states could be infectious. But people affect and are affected by others far more than they consciously realize. In fact, wasn't that why they had 'Spirit Week' in general? To deeper connect the school as a unit and foster that social spread of camaraderie between students, affirming actions and words, and an overall productive atmosphere. There were even studies pointing to a correlation between high School Spirit and academic success.

This was the same, just the opposite, instead of that Positivity that they hoped to cultivate... Something was saturating the environment with Negativity. 

It was... Probably just stress. Yes, stress was severely corrosive to a healthy frame of mind. 

Spike shrugged. He wasn't very expressive on a good day. And this? This certainly sounded closer to a bad one. "What d'ya mean?"

"I dunno just... everyone seems so... despondent."

"Jazz, it's high school." He grumbled. "Seriously, what's next gonna tell all the people at the Amity Park Penitentiary to." He put on an abysmal impression of her, "'turn that frown upside down!'?"

"That comparison seems a little... harsh."

"Yeah, you're right. Would'a been more accurate if I used Hell ." 

"Look, I get that not everyone enjoys school like I do... but you've got to admit this," she gestured around to the apathetic students sitting at their lunch tables. Not talking, hardly even eating. Just listlessly sitting there like empty husks. "Is taking things too far."

"Whatever," he sounded just as tired.

"What about you? How are you feeling?"

"Like sh*t." he set his food down, too. It didn't seem like anyone had much of an appetite, which yes, you could blame the cafeteria food for... But still... "But not like any sh*ttier than normal."

"You shouldn't feel like crap every day, though." Jazz didn't know how many times she'd said something to that effect before. But it never changed anything. Her efforts really never did amount to anything, did they? Why did she keep trying? Jazz's own stomach twisted and then she couldn't even force that tasteless sludge down her own throat.    "Don't you think that's a problem?"

He hummed noncommittally. "Not like it's anything new."

"But… It's getting... worse."

Even Spike, long-suffering pessimist though he claimed to be, didn't usually look this washed out. "Not really. It's always sucked. Maybe people are just starting to realize it."

"Fine, maybe not worse... But... Well, it's not getting any better."

"Yeah. And you're not gonna fix it with a stupid speech."

"I know." Jazz put her head in her hands. She could feel it settling over her, too, that weariness in her bones. "But I already told Dr. Spectra she could count on me."

Dr. Spectra had her hands full with the sudden rapid onslaught of low affect that had spread like a virus. Nearly the entire school had passed through her office. Including Jazz herself—to subtly find a way to ask about Danny's progress—to offer assistance to the woman who must find herself backlogged with people needing her.

Each time, Dr. Spectra cheerfully turned Jazz away. After assuring her that there was 'no need to worry.' 'Oh, Sweetie, I am a professional; I can handle a good number of patients. But it's sweet of you to offer, dear.' 

Right. 

Still... Something was... It was strange. Really strange. 

Even stranger, because before anyone had noticed, it was Spirit Week. But you would never know it, other than by the overly upbeat Daily Announcements proclaiming it each morning. Very few, if any, students wanted to engage in the usual Spirit Week Activities. The banners and streamers around the school looked wrong. As if the building was all decked out for a massive party. But the people inside had missed the memo and instead showed up prepared for a funeral. 

It was colder, too; the heating system must be acting up. Ah, the joys of public school funding. A crisp breeze wafted across the dreary, abandoned hall, making the banners and streamers sway almost eerily. It didn't help matters that the streamers were in the school colors: Red, White, and Black. 

The staff—well, other than Dr. Spectra, who was trying her hardest to bolster morale—pushed all these problems aside. Probably thinking that once the festivities really started, the overall mood would improve. Once people started getting involved in the infectious week of celebration: wearing fun outfits, attending the pep rally, watching the Cheer Squad, the mascot, and the Marching Band give it their all, and of course, as soon as the Casper High Ravens take to the field whatever was causing the slump would vanish. As if they were in a cartoon, and the black cloud hanging above everyone's head would just dissipate. 

Jazz doubted it would be that simple. Something odd was going on.

Something... that she couldn't help but wonder whether it was entirely... natural. Or if perhaps the answer might lie more in the... Unnatural. But as much as she had begrudgingly accepted that, there were things outside her understanding... That didn't mean... 

That couldn't mean that she could afford to jump to... that conclusion. No... 

Yes, ghosts might actually be real... And yes, she was kind of still... processing that. But... 

No, that didn't necessarily mean that this problem was any more likely to be the result of ghosts than any number of other explanations. It was probably just stress... Yes. This had been an extremely stressful school semester, not just for Danny. Right? 

Oh, god, part of her hoped so.  

The first day of Spirit Week was Pajama Day. Jazz didn't remember bags under the eyes, unkempt appearances, or stumbling around like zombies being a part of that theme. 

The next day was Sports Day. In previous years, it had been an insufferable excuse for the Elites of Casper High to show off exactly why they were so esteemed: their talent in sports. Jazz figured this year, with the impending championship and the Casper High Ravens in the lead, it was going to be taken to the utmost extreme. But it wasn't. The Jocks wore their jerseys, and the Cheerleaders wore their cheer uniform; but for once, they didn't treat it like it was the crown jewels. Or like everyone needed to roll out the red carpet and grovel at their feet. Even the way they bullied the other students seemed lackluster... Not that she's complaining... Obviously. 

It's just... all of it was weird and... Impossible not to notice and wonder about.  

Rather than improving morale, Spirit Week only demonstrated through painful juxtaposition how everything was getting steadily worse.  

And everything... Included Jazz's poor little brother. Which was where her priorities laid. She understood that Dr. Spectra had to be there for all the students and couldn't just ignore everyone else's problems to focus on Danny. But Jazz had no such constraints and no one she had more charge to help. 

Yes, Jazz knew all the many problems with forcing her unwanted help on her little brother. She had heard them all before. She never really stopped hearing them. They were legitimate, and she should probably honor them more. Nothing had changed, and the issues she had created between herself and her brother hadn't disappeared. 

Everyone had been right; she should have left things enough alone. She had just wanted to help. 

And now? 

He was worse off than ever before. 

So she had no other choice but to keep doing the same thing and hoping somehow something got better. Or at least to prevent or stop this situation from deteriorating even further.

Jazz came up to Danny and his friends at the Amity Park Mall ice cream parlor after school. He looked awful. She had never seen him this bad, even when he was bedridden in the hospital immediately after his accident. She was suddenly revisiting her theories about whether Danny was on some drug. His expression was beyond fatigue, like someone with mere days left to live. His skin was so pallid and clammy. Calling them 'bags' under his eyes seemed like an understatement; they were far too sunken in for that commonplace phrase. It looked more like his skin was a rubbery mask someone had stretched across his skull, like some ghastly Halloween costume.  

He was repeatedly banging his head on the table as his friends looked on with worried expressions. 

"Danny..." Jazz hesitantly came up to him. 

He groaned and refused to even lift his head this time. 

"Are you... O-okay?" stupid question, but what else could she do.

He scoffed, then spoke, his words muffled against the table. "Like you even care. Go away, Jazz." 

Well, at least it wasn't his usual insistence that he was 'fine.'  But... How had Jazz ruined their relationship to the point where he doubted she even cared?  "Of course I care! Danny... I... just wanted..."

She was cut off by him bolting upright. Shivering and hacking like something just went down the wrong pipe.

His usual lazy posture abruptly vanished as his spine went impossibly stiff. Every muscle taught, like a bowstring. Eyes bulging out of his head, darting around for the nearest exit. Then he let out a noise that was half frustrated groan and half feral snarl. 

"D-Danny?"

"What Jazz?!" he snapped, leveling her with a glare full of the hostility she'd come to expect. "Come to ruin my life more ?! Huh? Well, congratulations! You did it!  You've already made school even more of a fricken nightmare!  Like I didn't know that was possible until you did it. So, sure." his anger dwindled into something heavier and more beaten. "Whatever... Might as well... also ruin the only free time I have left." He got up and shoved her into his vacant seat. "And you two!" Now he turned on his friends. "You really wanna take her side?" Sam and Tucker's worry curdled and now looked closer to guilt.

"Danny..." Sam tried to say. 

But he wasn't having any of it. "Then why don't you hang with her instead!" 

Her brother was about to perform his impossible disappearing act... again. Jazz couldn't stop him... again. Danny had crammed her into the booth, and there was no way she was fast enough to follow him. But... She had to try. 

"Danny! Wait!" she stumbled and pushed his friends to the side as they too tried to block her. She darted out, practically throwing herself over the table.

She had to reach him, somehow. Someway she had to reach him. Metaphorically. Literally. She had to reach him.  He was so close to her... And yet, so far. 

She extended her hand to grab him. But Jazz was too slow—even though she could've sworn she'd felt her grip clasp down on the hem of his shirt—the next thing she knew, her hand had sailed through the frigid, thin air. 

She did a double-take around the empty parlor. Shivering slightly as goose-bumps skittered up her arm.

Danny was... gone. 

What? Wait? How? He was just there half a second ago. How on earth had he vanished so completely... and suddenly? Did she miss something? That wasn't possible!

Did he run out the back? If he ran out the back, then maybe she could still catch him. Use the employee exit. She thrust aside a worker as she vaulted over the counter. She internally winced as the employee hit the ground—she'd have to apologize later—but didn't stop moving. Right now, she had to reach her little brother.

She wrenched the door to the alley behind the establishment open, barely stopping to think or even hope that she could cut him off. Before he slipped through her grasp yet again.

Danny was indeed there, ducked behind a couple trashcans. Jazz positioned herself slightly behind the door, where he couldn't see her, but she could still see him. He had his back to her. He was turning his head this way and that, glancing around fitfully, as if anxious not to be seen. What was he doing? All of this behavior was far too comparable to a junkie for comfort. The shaking, the sickly visage, the mood swings, and, of course, the creeping around in a deserted alleyway.

Split-second decision time. If Jazz moved or made a single noise and alerted him of her presence, then she would get nothing but more of the same. More evasion; as he ran and hid from her as if his life depended on it. More lies. More useless dead-ends. But on the other hand, if she doesn't stop him, what could he get himself into? What has he gotten himself into?  

She was too late. Before she'd reached her decision, something made up her mind for her. An impossibly bright, blinding light flooded the small alleyway, shorting out her vision. Leaving her blinking away the sharply painful spots as she flung her hands up as a shield. And yet, she stubbornly refused the impulse to slam her eyes shut. She couldn't lose sight of her little brother.

Ah, too late. The flash had shrouded and completely obscured him.

Wait. No. That wasn't accurate. 

It wasn't lighting him up, or she would've at least still seen his silhouette, dark against the blazing white. 

No. It had almost—strange as it sounds—seemed to come from  Danny himself. Jazz opened her mouth to call out—in shock or in warning, she didn't know—but no sound came. And she could do nothing but helplessly watch as that unnatural light—that was giving her the weirdest feeling of the heebie-jeebies—proceeded to spread. Overtaking him now, engulfing his body like some hungry white-hot flame, and... 

Changing it. 

What. Was. Going. On?!

His dark hair became bleached impossibly white.  As white and searingly intense as the light had been. His pale skin—that already looked ill—now took on an even darker, almost greyish... harmful, sallow hue. With greenish sheen, almost as if something was under his skin, backlighting him. His clothes melted away, replaced by a deep black void-like substance. Almost kind of like a one-piece from his head to toe. All the deepest darkest black possible, appearing even darker thanks to the contrast of the blindingly white accents something that is like a collar, a belt, boots, and gloves. Suddenly she realizes what it reminded her of... one of their parents' jumpsuits. And when he opened his eyes, she was overwhelmed by that glaring iridescent, all-too-familiar poison green of ectoplasm.  

She hoped—in vain, and a part of her knew that—that it was just her still reeling eyesight that made him look so... blurred-out. Hard to look straight at. As if he... was out of focus and overexposed colors. The colors that were... wrong. The wrong saturation; too bright, too foreign, too intense. Not to mention the hues were wrong. The wrong colors, as if someone had taken a page from a coloring book and decided to fill in each thing with the inverse of what should be. A purple crayon for the sun, red for the grass, orange for the sky. That wasn't right. 

White for his hair, green for his eyes, and black for his body. That wasn't right.

Her little brother didn't look like... 

He... Shouldn't look like that. 

This was... impossible. Not happening. Wrong. That was the best word to match the situation. That suffocating wrongness slammed into Jazz and shook her to her very core. And came real super fricking close to making her feel faint. 

But that wasn't even the worst part. 

No. No, the absolute worst part—the part that made Jazz feel so lost, afraid, and sick to her stomach with horror. The part that made everything feel like some weird fever-dream or nightmare. The part that was warping the reality she thought she knew into something unfamiliar, indistinct, and so appalling—was... It was the fact that she recognized him—which was so ridiculously absurd! Of course, she recognized him... Why wouldn't she? How could she not? This was her baby brother! She should recognize him!—but it was more than that...

In fact, she didn't recognize him as Danny, as her little brother. No, if she had been a bit slower and missed the whole... transformation, she never would've imagined that this was Danny. Despite all the little pervertedly familiar similarities that she couldn't dare even acknowledge right about now.

No, she recognized him as someone else ... As that boy... the ghost... that had saved her life.

The ghost she had seen and talked to... 

Oh. Wait. What?!.... 

B-but... How?! 

Unaware of any of her thoughts, or even her presence, he flew off. As in actually literally flew like in the air like a bird flew off. Jazz watched in—she didn't even know: Horror? Shock? Confusion? Worry? All the above?

She didn't know.

When at last she could force her body to move again, she scrambled to where he was. 

Nothing, of course. 

He was gone, and only an eerily cold sinking feeling was any indication that he had ever even been there at all. Jazz sank to her knees, wishing she could clutch that chilled feeling, maybe use that to steady her. But no, soon that too was fading away. Leaving her with nothing. No proof that she could trust what she had just seen. No explanation of what she had just seen. And no miracle that could somehow help her little brother. 

The sound of heavy combat boots skidding on the asphalt and the lighter scuff of sneakers a second after came from behind her. It belatedly jogged Jazz's addled brain. Sam and Tucker had followed her as she followed Danny. She got up and turned to greet them, unsure how she must appear to them right about now. 

Their mouths were open, like hers probably was—although since everything was lost in a murky, dreamlike state, she couldn't really tell... 

Jazz gaped at them both, battling to get her numb mouth and thick tongue to form words. "D-did...I... W-What... d-d-id... I just see..."

Her brain was still whirling, like the ground under her feet, from whatever had just happened. And right now, it was reaching out for some information to latch onto. And then she could force the world to make sense again. It was how Jazz realized that Sam and Tucker's expression did not match the jumbled emotions she was grappling with right now. 

They looked worried, yes. But also... Cautious, and... guilty? Their shock was not for the same reason as hers; no, instead, they looked more like they had just gotten caught with their hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. 

Tucker was quicker to recover, but he was as bad at lying as Jazz had once thought Danny was: leading with the cliche of 'this isn't what it looks like.' 

"That was..."  Danny. Wh-what?! How? What? That was impossible... 

But of course, she had already seen the impossible... So what's another impossible, life-altering realization? "A g-ghost," she finished without the slightest idea of what thoughts—if any—she was actually saying out loud. Had her voice really returned? She didn't know. Her mouth was moving, but it was like there was a ringing in her ears or just muffled pressure deafening the world around her. Perhaps she was screaming her confusion to the heavens. Or muttering away as she tried to work out this newest problem. Or maybe she was still just staring at the empty alley with a slack-jawed expression and not uttering a single word. She didn't know; she was too disconnected from her own reaction to know. 

Sam took it upon herself to take charge, voice smooth and purposeful. "A ghost?" She gave a light little laugh with a shake of her head. "What? No, of course not, Jazz. You know ghosts aren't real." 

Except that's not what she knew. In fact, she knew the opposite; she knew that ghosts were real. 

Sam raised an eyebrow in a concerned 'Are you okay?' expression. Before softly and hesitantly, like she didn't want to say this but felt like she needed to. "You're starting to sound... like your parents."

From her strangely disconnected position, Jazz could see Sam's words for what they were: A calculated distraction. The perfect scapegoat. The Fenton parents had always been a flawless deterrent. Sam mentioned them, knowing exactly how loaded that statement was, to dissuade Jazz from even considering the possibility that what she saw was the truth. No, don't think or question. Instead, wrap this event up and fold it in with everything Jack and Maddie stood for, so you can dismiss it based on emotion, not facts or logic. So you can return to that knee-jerk denial and stubborn insistence that the very idea is ridiculous. But all subtly said in such a gentle tone, to project confidence and trustworthiness onto the speaker and make the listener want to give in.

Jazz knew these techniques and had even used a few herself to calm people in hysteria. Sam, no doubt, used them to lie to her own parents or persuade people to join her activist campaigns. And of course... to cover for her friends.

Ah. Right, obviously. Sam and Tucker knew. 

That was undeniable. Jazz had all but heard it straight from their own mouths. 

We're Danny's friends, we keep his secrets... from you. 

Of course, they knew. What they knew... What the actual truth was... Well, that was another matter altogether...

"Jazz?" Sam asked the other girl, who was still spacing out, thinking hard. 

"Of course." Her words came out too calm and too even. Far off, still detached as if something had switched Jazz to autopilot, she found herself playing along with Sam's plan. "Of course, you're right. My my c-crazy p-parents," Jazz massaged her temples, in a vain effort, to ground herself with some physical sensation. "Must be rubbing off on me..." Both Sam and Tucker looked relieved to hear her say that. Jazz never really considered herself a good liar... But perhaps she was. "Oh my gosh, is it already that late? I have to..." go rethink everything. Go look into and figure out what the heck I just saw. "...work on my Spirit-week speech."

Danny, her little brother, was a... ghost? 

How...? What...? 

Was that real? Could that be real?

Before... Jazz had been so certain... that ghosts themselves weren't real. But... Now... She had seen... She had... She couldn't keep denying...

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. 

Eliminate the impossible ?! But... She couldn't trust that word anymore. Because... too many impossible things turned out to be... Possible?!

Jazz meandered over to her desk like someone in a trance. Pulled out her old journal yet again. She knew what she'd find once she opened it. The statement she wished she could bury deep down and never unearth again. Ghosts are real. She was such a fool to believe that this monumentous change wouldn't... lead to anything else. That she could just go back to blissfully ignoring what she knew now. That these thoughts would just stop haunting her. 

That her life would ever be... could ever be... normal. 

That ship sailed a long time ago; you are a Fenton, after all. And now she'd finally stopped pointlessly dog-paddling after the long-gone ship because normal was as unreachable as it was subjective. 

She watched herself, as if it wasn't her conscious choice, pick up a pen. She slowly added another line. Contrary to the last time her world shattered, her hand was perfectly steady, and her writing was neat and legible.

• Affirmative: My little brother is a ghost. 

She stared at the statement, feeling her eyes bugging out of her head. Trying to decipher what she had just written.

The words swam and shifted until they might as well be in a foreign language. It didn't look any less insane, even though she could see it. Right there, written out in ink, right in front of her. 

Oh. Right. Still missing the obvious, aren't you? Guess you really are more like your parents than you ever want to admit.

New page. New problem to solve. 

Ghosts. 

Say it was true. Say that her baby brother was, actually... A ghost?!?  

Just as... a hypothetical!

Calm down... If you can't process that or deal with it in reality yet, just run through the thought experiment.  

Ask yourself the quintessential questions regarding the hypothetical situation. Questions like: What would that entail? What would that change? How would we move forward if that were true? 

Suddenly, she found herself wishing she had paid more attention to her parents' crazy theories. 

So... What did she know? What information did she have... Or could she find? Define the situation. The questions. The complications. The parameters of behavior. The terms... She needed to start at the top and go down. Break this situation down into more manageable parts.

What even are ghosts? 

Half remembered phrases drifted through her head. Strange terms she had heard over and over before, again and again, but never really understood. And she had never wanted to. 

This was getting her nowhere.  

Both unfortunately and fortunately, she knew exactly where to get her information.

Her parents were down in the lab where they had spent most of her life.  Just as Jazz had spent most of her life...  avoiding it. And anything to do with it. 

But now? With a deep breath and clenched heart, she knew what she had to do. She would descend into the depths of absurdity and madness and everything she despised, of her own free will. 

"Mom? Dad?" She hated the way the lab always made her voice sound strange. She hated the eerie, unnatural lighting. And she hated everything this place stood for. "Can I talk to you about...." She knew she would definitely regret this. But... She could do this. She had to...  For Danny. "Ghosts?" she finished, cringing as the word fell from her lips. 

Her parents lit up. So delighted at one of their kids showing a modicum of interest in their work... It almost made her feel a bit guilty. 

Almost.

"My daughter, finally joining the Fenton Family Business!" Her father roared with tears in his eyes as he ran and scooped her up into a bear hug as only Jack Fenton could. 

"No!" Jazz blurted out before she could help it, fighting for freedom from both the hug and the expectations of the Fenton name. "I am NOT joining the family business!" Absolutely not. Never in a million years. That was not a part of her meticulous years-in-the-making plan. No, she still wanted nothing to do with this. No, she was just here to... she would gather her information, figure out if her little brother really was... Figure out how to help Danny in some way... and then... One day Jazz would get out; she swears it. She swears she... she would leave all this ghost nonsense behind... 

"I'm just..." She re-collected her thoughts. Pushed all that bubbling unresolved childhood trauma back down. "Well, I... h-have some questions...  ever since seeing that... ghost... at school."

Her dad deflated a bit, but her mother still had a triumphant smile on her face and gave Jack a look that clearly meant 'don't worry, she'll come around.' Jazz managed to restrain from vehemently denying their implied presumptions. "Of course, sweetie! What do you want to know?!" her mother trilled, eager to answer any questions and impart her knowledge. 

Might as well start from the top. "What exactly... are ghosts?"

Maddie shook her head, her enthusiasm taking a hit. "Jazz, really," she put her hands on her hips in slight disappointment. "You should at least know that.  We've told you."

"Yeah, I know... but," again, Jazz felt a brief stab of guilt. "Well... I'm paying attention now," and she pulled out her latest journal as proof. 

"Ghosts are a manifestation of ectoplasm and post mortem consciousness," her mother recited. It's funny how you can hear something so many times in your life that the individual words stop having meaning. 

But, now that Jazz was focusing on that statement, it finally clicked what her mother had just said. Her mouth was dry when she asked the follow-up question. "P-post-mortem as in..." she swallowed. The word came out choked. "D-dead... So then..." there was her answer. What she was hoping wasn't true. The implications she'd been trying so hard not to think about. Oh, god. She couldn't help but break off with a whimper. 

Dead. Ghosts are dead. Danny is a ghost. If A is B, and C is A... Then. Then... Danny... is... 

No. No. No. 

What? No. B-but... 

How? 

Jazz's gaze fell on the... Portal. 

Oh. The... Accident. 

Oh, god. 

Oh, baby brother.  

When she tried to continue the conversation, it was hardly above a whisper, "So... ghosts really are... dead people?" She slumped into a chair, hands on her head, fighting back the surge of vile confusion and potent grief.

Her clueless mother chuckled a bit. "Yes, and no. That's a common misconception... What we call 'a ghost' is, in actuality, the manifestation of a person's brain waves repeating their final frequency. You know, Jazz, scientists have been looking into the exact time of death for years. With the invention of the defibrillator or life support machines, not to mention the many near-death cases... We are getting closer and closer to answering that age-old human question of 'What happens when we die?' And with any scientific practice discovering new questions along the way."

Her mom began listing out each 'fascinating question' with the help of her fingers and the calm certainty of an expert. Once again blind to anything that lay outside her area of study, such as her children. "Is there any difference between the cessation of all bodily functions and the extinction of what we call 'consciousness '? What is 'consciousness'? When does that expire? Does the body or brain die at different times? We can preserve the body while the subject is 'brain-dead,' so, yes. And if the body shuts down before the brain? We can even perform what, before modern medical practices, many would've considered the miracle of resurrection. So now that we know the body and mind die at different times, then, well... what's the next step ?" She asked with a frantic glint in her eyes, rubbing her hands together at the thought of finding these answers. "What happens when the brain dies? What happens to that sense of self and consciousness? Neuroscience believes that the brain deteriorates from the top downwards. In fact, strangely enough, EEG scans show that before the brain shuts down entirely, it often goes through a  surge of abnormally high electromagnetic activity. Granting some credence to the old notion of someone reliving key moments right before they die."

"Now," Maddie said, pausing slightly in her impassioned ramblings to take another deep breath. "This  is truly where Ectobiology starts." She was practically vibrating when she continued. Her mother was unquestionably brilliant but was also mad in a way that didn't matter whether or not her theories were correct. "Our research suggests that either after or coinciding with the cessation of bodily functions and during the slow deterioration of the brain, that 'consciousness' can essentially become stuck within that false moment. Especially if the death happened to be particularly...  violent  or unexpected." Jazz stiffened at the mention of a violent death. "So the mind—the world's most complex computer—refuses to shut down. Instead, it plays the last moments on and on, like..." Her mother put a hand to her chin, thinking of a suitable comparison. 

Her father jumped in with one of his own, "like an old scratched CD, looping forever! Remember those Jazzy? Your audiobooks we'd play in the GAV so often that they'd skip and repeat?" Ironically, that was how Jazz felt reality was flowing right about now. Slow and fast. Skipping and repeating. The very fabric of understanding and syllables of what should be recognizable words distorting until everything became garbled white noise.

Her mom smiled at her dad and then took over yet again. "Yes, just like that. Creating what we commonly refer to as 'an obsession .' And because the carbon-based body is already dead at this point, this electromagnetic pattern needs a new way to manifest. So, it draws in the para-element known as ectoplasm. Some places, like Amity, where the lines between dimensions are already thin have some trace elements of seismic ectoplasmic activity in the air and ground—as well as possibly even in the water supply—to draw on. So, we theorize it may be easier to leave a ghostly imprint behind in places like this... but that doesn't mean that ghosts can't  form outside of paranormal hubs."

"Yeah! Much of our early work was trying to stimulate the right conditions to create an ectoplasmically bonded substance. Remember Mads?" Jack added, a broad grin on his face that Maddie reflected. "To find out exactly what causes it. And how certain places become more ectoplasmically saturated. And, of course, how we could artificially recreate it. Ah, good times. And we did it, too! We eventually managed to stabilize our synthetic-ectoplasm!" He pointed to the various collections of that disgusting goop they claimed was an element outside the periodic table. They had a lot of it in the lab, in strange glowing jars and Petrie dishes and who knows what else. Jazz blinked slightly, trying in vain to get that putrid sickly shade of green to fade from her vision. And to focus on not allowing her thoughts to drift back to the sight of what possibly maybe might be her little brother with his eyes mimicking that damned portal. Or to let herself acknowledge that damned portal, in the first place. "First Rule of Thermodynamics:" her dad proudly proclaimed. "Matter cannot be either created or destroyed, just rearranged and transformed. And as much as it may not seem like it... ghosts and ectoplasm do follow that law too."

"Why?" Jazz asked, sounding a bit annoyed. "They don't seem to follow any other laws."

Her father laughed at that, "too true, Jazzy. Those spooks work contrary to the laws of physics. But that's just considering our physics. If you think about it, the very study of quantum physics seems to break our laws of nature, too; like how superposition explains how an object can be in two different places at the same time. Which, of course, at face value, seems to be impossible. Paraphysics is kinda like that. Ectoplasm has its own set of rules, but there are still rules. Much of our research is testing and figuring out those rules and how Paraphysics and Ectoplasmically based particles interact with our real-world particles. Ghosts might be powerful, but they can't just do whatever they want. They are limited by their perceptions, obsessions, and the laws their ectoplasmic construct must obey. Still, it can seem like they can do the impossible as they turn invisible, intangible, and fly and shoot lasers and stuff." he finished with a chuckle. 

Jazz also wasn't ready to go into the implications of what her little brother could do as a ghost. Although thinking about an invisible, flying, and superpowered little brother—while still incredibly weird. And completely mind-boggling. And so not something she could totally process right now—was waaay easier than... thinking about a... d-dead little brother. 

"Exactly," Maddie said, plunging back to her detailed description of whatever she was going on about. "So the electromagnetic brain waves adapt and transform using ectoplasm as the new conductor to keep itself functioning; it coagulates into a protective shell. What we theorize the 'ghost core' to be. Really, though, to answer your original question: no, ghosts are not dead people. They are only copies, a repeated thought or set of thoughts, an imitation of life, and incomplete ones at that."

Okay... but what did any of that mean in the real world? Because apparently, it all meant something in the real world. 

"Oh." her voice sounded so small. She ran a finger just under her eyes, trying to circumvent the tears that she could feel approaching. She couldn't break down. Not now. Not yet. But she couldn't help it; all their cold, clinical words were no longer meaningless. No, now they were grounded in a horrible, harsh, heartbreaking reality. 

"Yeah, it's best not to think of ghosts like people, dead or otherwise, Jazzy," Jack added softly, laying a large, comforting hand on her shoulder. "Everything we'd consider 'human' is long gone;  they are what's left behind. All those complexities of the psyche—that you love goin' on about." He smiled at her and elbowed her playfully. "Are gone. They're reduced down to the most basic desires, like animals. Well, that aaaand whatever their primary thought was at the time of ectogenesis: when the original human ceased to be and the electromagnetic waves grafted onto the ectoplasm."

Maddie nodded, "it's why we use the analogies like an echo or a footprint. Humans don't become ghosts; they leave them. So no, in the same vein, it's inaccurate to say that ghosts were once human ."