Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Seen it." Sam briefly scanned the cover of a DVD case in the rack before hastily grabbing the next one in the line. 

"Seen it." Tucker was on the parallel side of the aisle fingering through VHS cases with an equally unimpressed vigor. 

The pair of them continued their mumblings under their breath attempting to find a suitable selection for bad movie night. It's like a regular movie night. Except bad. Really, really bad. Extraordinarily bad—  so bad, it's good.

The trio would spend the afternoon idly combing the racks and aisles of the Amity Park Video Rental on the prowl for the biggest flop of a movie they could find. It was a bit of a niche hang-out. Popular with families with little kids too, which is why the teens came after Sunday. Usually, that's when most of the movies had been returned and rewound. Yet that's also when the store charged full price for candy and microwave popcorn. According to Tucker, it was a fair trade since he couldn't eat popcorn due to some butter allergy thing. Sam agreed but more from a moral standpoint on the butter than a digestive one. She knew enough unsettling facts about the dairy process than what was right for a girl her age.

The video store used to be an after-school haven for Danny and his friends. Bad movie night was an occasion for every Thursday. Though, as of recently due to Danny coming down with his… condition...  bad movie night was one of the first casualties in his social afterlife. Now, it was more of a celebratory event than a regular occurrence. Something heralded after a particularly great achievement. A treat offered by Sam and Tucker as a way to make Danny feel… like himself. Like Danny Fenton: high school freshman. 

Less of Danny Phantom: town martyr.

"I don't remember us clearing out all the bad movies in F and G. I think in the seventh grade we got as far as C." Danny called out from the other end of the section, before taking a drink from the complimentary fountain soda. He wasn't as laser-focused as his friends were. The muted trailers for the new releases looping on the CRTV suspended from the ceiling caught the corner of his eye. Flashy action movies with the latest CGI, plenty of Dinosaurs and Robots. 

Danny may have been a little out of the game when it came to popular things—  but at least before he had ghost powers he had a chance of catching up. Studying the screen he couldn't help but feel bewildered. He hadn't had much time for himself let alone the pop culture zeitgeist his peers chased. 

In all honesty, the most relaxing thing to him now was a coma. If not a coma, a thirty-six-hour nap. Nothing sounded more pleasant than his dark, air-conditioned room dotted with his glow-in-the-dark star stickers.

While in his head, the ghost boy didn't seem to notice Tucker's sheepish reply, "Oh. I just thought that was kind of a dumb rule… plus it's better to pit the movies in like-- uh, a battle of the genres. So like we get a full trifecta of bad. Bad comedy, bad horror--" he punctuated with an eyebrow wiggle directed towards Sam, "Bad romance."

"You guys want to watch more than one of these?" Danny felt his eyelid twitch. There's no way he would be able to survive roughly six hours of bargain bin b-movies and mockbusters.

Chuckling in response to Tucker, Sam chimed in, "We have to make up for lost time."  

It was that exact reason Danny couldn't find it in his slow beating heart to tell them that he was absolutely exhausted and was one strong breeze away from collapsing. When would they all get another opportunity to just turn the lights down and pretend that they were just kids? 

The world was still moving unforgivably fast, and it wouldn't be long until none of them were around to watch terrible movies. It had been some time since Danny felt the cling of his sneakers on a floor that was sticky with sugar. That smell of fresh popcorn wafted on the breeze from the front door. The way the tapes felt in his hands, the solid weight of the plastic. That weird artificial odor the film had. 

He'd never thought he'd miss it.

"Of course…" With a smirk crawling along his cheek Tucker suggested, "We could always try to see the movies in the restricted section." 

"S'not real." The ghost boy ground his teeth against the pinstriped plastic straw in his drink. He yawned still with conviction, "that's a myth. Totally fake." 

"Okay, but what better way would we celebrate fulfilling an ancient ghost prophecy, long thought of to be a myth-- than getting a movie from the legendary restricted section?" The techno-geek crossed his arms like he made a good point. In reality, he lost his place on the rack of DVDs and didn't feel like going back down the aisle to the beginning.

Manson yawned reflexively upon hearing Danny do so-- "what's the restricted section?" She questioned, turning towards the group.

"When the store first opened up, back in the late eighties, the owner Lazlow Burkowitz prided himself on having the widest selection in Amity Park." Tucker began to exposit, 

Only for Danny to interrupt, "which meant he had a ton of illegally imported movies. Bootlegs, fan translations, homemade, training tapes, pilot episodes to never released TV shows-- snuff-- who the hell knows." 

He scratched his nose, "And you tell me how a--a thirty-six-year-old divorcee paying alimony acquires a collection like that? You'd have to have mad cash to even find that stuff." 

"Lazlow could've had an inheritance," Sam shrugged, "I mean, my parents have been coasting on inheritance money for decades." 

Danny scoffed a retort, "Yeah, but most people aren't sarcastically rich."

She rolled her eyes returning to her side of the rack muttering, "Seen it, seen it… seen, seen, seen." 

Weakly, Fenton meandered through an apology. Typically Danny had a grip on his more negative and cynical tendencies. There were lapses…

His parents would often blame puberty or his lack of sleep for making him cranky. He wondered if they were right-- or if it was just his nature now. 

Tucker clapped his hands together, trying to break the tension, "Regardless! Me and Sam have two platinum member cards waiting to be punched. We have it in good faith that the cashier likes us. So I say, fellow countrymen, why not?" 

"So, just because you're buddies with the cashier; he's gonna let you into the restricted section?" Danny got up from the garishly patterned floor, "That doesn't seem very restricted. Who's the guy?" 

"Spencer Hiegler," flatly Manson laid out his stats as if it were a comprehensive ghost file, "Super senior, has a license, held back two grades for failing to meet his volunteer hours. Has more body mods than the lead singer of Tokio Hotel, but with hair taller than the Sex Pistols." 

Blinking through his confusion, Danny declared, "Spike?" 

"You know him?" 

"He's friends with my sister, he comes over for dinner sometimes— " Fenton dismissed with a wave of his hand, "it's a long story." 

"But there's no way Spike would let a couple of normies into the 'inner sanctum', even if we had you backing us up." Danny gestured to Sam's black clothes, she technically was one of Spike's people: a goth. Producing his cellphone from his pocket, Danny further explained while scrolling through his contacts to find his sister's texts, "Spike is partially mute but mostly a dick. He's… said maybe three words to me." 

"What—  no way!" Foley wanted to prove his point, "He's smiled at us before. He's cool with us." 

"Teeth or no teeth?" Danny proded, before pulling up a photo of Jazz and Spike at a poetry slam. Jasmine had offered to perform his poems if he at least entered. They got third place. Spike and Jazz were both holding the medal into the air triumphantly.

Tucker bent his body around trying to spy on Danny's slide kick phone, "Teeth. Why?"

After showing the picture to both his friends, Spike clearly smiling with his eyes, not any other part of his pierced face. The ghost boy concluded, "yeah, he wasn't smiling." 

"Oh…" the geek deflated. Foley didn't think he was being that annoying.

Sam was offended on Tucker's behalf, "What a jerk! Forget him!" Manson stamped her foot angrily, "I'm gonna go make a scene." 

"Please, god, don't." Danny groaned.

Agreeing, Tucker reluctantly added, "Yeah—  Sam don't make a scene." 

"I'm makin' a scene!" Spinning on her heels with lethality, Sam sashayed away to the cashier desk. Fake leather boots squeaking on the pastel tiled floor that separated the racks down the center of the store.

The boys followed after, lagging on her warpath. 

It was a lot of energy that could have powered on for miles but abruptly Sam found herself at the counter, ready to give Spike an earful—  only to see a hunched over and familiar blond. 

"Dash? Dash Baxter?" Sam nearly blurted the question that she already knew the answer to, "You work here now?" 

The quarterback sighed, before adjusting his bright red electric name tag pinned to his black shirt. It animated his name similar to how the news had crawler messages at the bottom of the TV. Dash took his sweet time hiding the magazine he was reading under the desk, dog-earring the page for later. Finally, he greeted them curtly with the hint of a smirk, "if it isn't my favorite freaks and geeks. What can I do as a new hire at the Amity Park Video Rental to make your day… rent-tastic ?"

Danny snorted, "firstly, I'd love to get that as my new ringtone."

"In your dreams, Fentoad," Dash hissed, "they just let anyone in this place these days…" 

"That is not any way to speak to platinum members!" Tucker showed off the shimmery keychain with the special barcode on the back, promoting Sam to do the same with her matching one.

In an overly dramatic and sarcastic way, Dash gasped clutching his chest. He threw his head back speaking to his non-existent coworkers, "Oh, right away my liege! Platinum status!" 

Then just as quickly Baxter returned to his previous pose, leaning over the counter, waiting to get back to his magazine. He raised an eyebrow, "anything else I can do for you three?" 

Still high on her fleeting annoyance with Spike, Sam thought it productive to instead work out those feelings on someone who was available. Putting her elbow onto the counter she began to nudge Dash's forearms back to his side of the register. Narrowing her eyes the goth ordered, "we want the restricted section." 

There was a pause, and the jock's face fell in skepticism. Dash processed the request, "can't you dweebs ask for something normal like— The Positively True Adventures of the Alleged Texas Cheerleader-Murdering Mom ?" 

"We're wasting our time guys, even if the restricted section was real— " Danny didn't like volunteering as the voice of reason, since at night he fought squids made of ectoplasm. He dissented, "there's no way Dash would know anything about it." 

Dash replied with a sneer, "Thanks ." 

Clicking his tongue, Danny shot the quarterback with a finger gun, "no problem, toots." 

The two stared at each other with contempt, Danny knew that Dash wasn’t going to retaliate while on duty. The ghost boy was going to exploit that for all it was worth. 

"FYI freakazoids," The jock said with finality, "We don't even call it the restricted section anymore." 

At the same time, the trio asked variations of a question that made Dash remember he wasn’t egghead smart. 

"What's it called now?" 

"Alright, what's the new name?"

"What do you call it?" 

Slowly and deliberately, the jock pantomimed zipping his mouth, turning a key and flicking it away. 

Danny herded Sam out of the way, sidling up to the counter in her place. Spike was preferred, sure, but Spike was more of his sister's friend. Probably her only friend, Danny surmised. The younger Fenton could hold his own against Dash. They were in the same ballpark at least.

All those years respectively picking on each other must have dulled the edge. Daniel didn't like to admit it; he and Dash had a rapport.

"Aw c'mon, Dash." Danny rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, playfully, "we've said some things we regret, yes-- but wouldn't you say you're above playing coy?" 

Baxter didn't budge in his vacant, somewhat stern, expression. It was clear the magazine under the register held his focus.

"I didn't want to have to do this, but you've forced my hand." Calmly Danny rested his thin hands on the counter, and began banging his balled fists rhythmically while chanting, "Restricted section! Restricted section! Give us-- the restricted section!" 

This got Tucker and eventually Sam to follow suit. All three of them chanting in unison, slamming their hands down on the desk. Causing Dash to retreat backward, straightening his posture. There was no scenario like this in the training manual. 

The outburst drew the attention of the sparse afternoon crowd. A few heads raised like dead flowers returning from winter.

"... you guys are throwing a tantrum," Dash stated, kind of blown away at the new low they've sunk to. It was admirable, how little the nerds cared about being perceived. 

The only response Baxter got was more of the repetitious demand. After a few more seconds, Dash furrowed his brow, "I do have the jurisdiction to physically remove you from the location and ban you." 

Now the trio whisper-yelled, "Restricted section! Restricted section! Give us-- the restricted section!" While only tapping their hands gently on the desk. 

Dash was unsure to be embarrassed for them or for himself having to dignify them with some kind of reply. He had to flex his lower management retail authority, "buy something or be banned for life. Your choice Fentertainment-tonight." 

Collectively the phantom unit whined and moaned. It totally reeked having Dash as a classmate and having to breathe the same air as him. Now he was ruining the one cool place in town too? It wasn't like Amity Park was suddenly in a gym drought! 

Blindly plucking a random VHS case from the new release section directly across from the register. Danny just wanted to go home. Removing his standard laminated membership card from his velcro wallet he placed it on top of the case and slid them both forward.

"Big spenders," Baxter joked. With a rather rehearsed spin of the scanning gun, he had scanned the tape and card in the blink of an eye. 

In a few keystrokes, Dash had pulled up Danny's profile to check for any outstanding fees. 

"Unsettling amounts of Scifi, check." The jock cast a few judgmental glances, "Extreme punctuality with due dates… uh-huh."

A couple of clicks and a contemplative silence later. 

"Yeah-- it's gonna be three-ninety-eight." He picked up the tape, handing it back.

Fenton instinctually reached for the VHS--

Before letting go, Dash warned, "it's gotta be back in two days. Get it?" 

"Got it." Danny strained, feigning that he cared.

"Good." The jock stuck a thumb out toward the door, "get out." 

Sam still wasn't satisfied, "aren't you supposed to foist candy or something?" 

"Are you telling me that your attitude is the product of low-blood sugar?" Dash was used to getting away with saying what he pleased. So it was easy to assume the quarterback had the upper hand. 

She took a moment to plant her feet firmly on the ground. Then politely she tucked her loose hair behind her pierced ears.

Tucker noticed that her tongue glided over her teeth through her purple lips. He crossed his arms in vindication, knowing that it was about to go down. 

Sam busted out a wicked grin, "You might be onto something there. So, I'm gonna ask you to sell me all of this--" she gestured to the chocolate bars on display by the register for impulse purchases. 

She then pointed to the candy in the racks below the register, "These too. All of it."

Grabbing fistfuls of candy Manson began to cover the counter faster than Dash could feasibly scan. Letting it rain. She was going to clean house. Sam hadn't even gotten started on the dedicated snack aisle. 

One thing people failed to understand; Sam Manson had a soul as black as her credit card. 

The line behind the kids was starting to build up. Some were impatient, others confused. However, that didn't seem to matter to Dash because all he saw was a busy line. 

"Oh yeah," Sam added, "and three slushies to-go." 

Dash stood, paralyzed with the kind of panic only a cashier could feel. The kind of stress that made you start sweating and forget your own name. He was going to be out of candy. The junior high kids would eat him alive. The candy wasn't supposed to sell out-- 

They weren't supposed to have a restock for another few days!

"I-- uh-- you can't--" Baxter tried to find the words.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I stutter?" Sam unwrapped an extra-long black licorice whip she had just bought, "You got all quiet and shit… About a minute ago it was like an evening at the Apollo up in here." 

"Now, all of a sudden it's quiet as a church." She held up her hand for a high-five from one of her boys. 

Tucker slapped her hand and held it. As if declaring the new heavy-weight champion, "That's my girl!" 

Team phantom left with their bounty in tow. Sheer plastic bags full of non-buttered popcorn and sweets were on Danny's back. Whatever didn't fit into those went into Tucker's backpack. Then Whatever didn't fit in that Sam gave away to the customers who patiently waited until Dash was done ringing everything up. 

When the trio went into the store it was still bright and sunny out-- when they left the sky was in the final stage of rich deep blue twilight before nightfall. The stars seemed placed there without thought or consequence. It reminded Danny of the ceiling of the store. It had a similar pattern of chaotic white specks. 

Though maybe the stars had a purpose besides just being briefly beautiful before combusting. It was a crisp night, finally cooling down. An uncharacteristically warm April would keep him anxious into the night about climate change, but right now it didn't matter. He was among friends, and it didn't matter. The street lights bathed them in an unflattering yellow tint. They were too happy to care. 

Happy was rarely worn among them, like a suit for a funeral. Their default had become… content. Begrudgingly content. Grateful that it wasn't any worse. 

If the insignificant corner of the world known as Amity Park wasn't in danger; it was a good day.

Sam was leading the pack forward, Tucker by her side. Weaving around each other and bumping their shoulders casually. Danny trailed behind them, happy to know that in his absence that they had become closer. It was funny to think back on the times when they could hardly stand being at the same table as each other. 

It was delightful being insignificant. 

"--I mean did we have to watch him pop two new batches of popcorn because the batch in the machine was already pre-buttered?" Fenton addressed, "I'm still the only one who's gonna eat it." 

Sam stabbed the ice gathered near the bottom of her drink, "I wanted to see if I could make him cry." 

"Watching him check the kernels one by one to see if they popped... I think it will get me through to college." Tucker said, journaling the events in his PDA.

By far this was one of their more memorable trips to the Amity Park Video Rental. Probably better than that time Danny got shoulder-deep in the claw machine. Maybe on equal footing that time Tucker got his two hundred dollar late fees canceled when he was ten by having a mock trial. 

Danny gestured with his chin to the VHS Sam was holding under her arm, "So, what movie did I pick out anyway? I didn't get a good look." 

Realizing she was so busy with enacting justice Sam nearly put bad movie night on the back burner. Switching her hands, the goth removed the tape and read the case-- she snickered, "You're not gonna believe it." 

"What?" Danny couldn't help but feel a smile crawl onto his face against his will. Sam had a pretty contagious laugh. 

She moved the VHS from her body, wordlessly showing off the case to the boys. The cover was of a group of grungy adults in baggy clothes pretending to be modern teens. The font for the title was made up of different cutouts from newspapers and magazines, it was the only thing in color on the case.

Clerks

'The low down on the over-the-counter-culture.' 

Tucker let out a nose sigh, "ironic." 

"I-- I don't get it…"

Chapter Text

With their spoils of war, they decided to take the party to Danny's house. Since Jack was known to be a bit of a leftover eating machine, they wouldn’t have to worry about wasting food. The Fenton children were like black holes; it was an inherited trait from their father. He was called the unfortunate nickname 'iron-gut' in his Colorado college days. 

The kids came through the entryway and were greeted warmly from the kitchen. Maddie poking at a TV dinner while nose deep in drawing up her latest blueprints. Jack appeared to be nursing a migraine through coffee again. He was sitting next to his wife with a sleepy sort of affection. They leaned against each other, which was an apt description of their love. 

Jack perked up seeing his son and his companions walk through the door. That was one thing he could stop worrying about for the night. 

Jack stood, "Danny!" 

Only to sit back down again when his knees decided to lock-- He acknowledged Sam and Tucker, "Free-loaders! Having a night-in?" 

"Good one, Mr Fenton," Foley probably would make a great father for how much he appreciated a decent dad joke.

Danny scratched the back of his head wanting to explain the spontaneity of their get-together, "uh yeah, we’re celebrating this big thing that happened… at uh-- school? I was gonna ask but things sort of just spiraled--" 

"Well gosh, honey! What good is being young if you can't spend some time with your friends?" Mrs Fenton began to restart her sketch. Erasing vigorously until the eraser of her pencil was nothing but rubber particles and ribbons. The frustration from her dead-end was quickly cooled by seeing her son.

Maddie leaned back into her chair, “I do hope you cram in some study time, young man. Unless you’re celebrating an A in English.” 

“Hey, a D is still passing--”  With his weak defense, Danny shrugged. 

“I know, I know, I just worry that you might get a little too complacent." Mrs Fenton hammed it up with her mad scientist laugh, "Remember, it's my evil plan to rule the world with you someday.” 

He was still young enough to be embarrassed by his parents under their roof. Danny rolled his eyes with a hint of a fond grin. Tucker and Sam would surely have to ask for the personal context of the inside joke. Considering Danny’s uncle was an evil scientist it didn’t seem to age well.

Jack held his wife’s hand tightly, “We’ve probably taken up too much of his time already. Come down, hug your decrepit old parents huh?” 

“You’re not that old dad,” the youngest Fenton wedged himself between his parent’s chairs, giving them the closest approximation of a hug with his free arm.

“There’s more salt than pepper up here,” Jack ran his gloved hand across the silver streaks in his receding hair. He then spotted the amount of junk food his kids were carrying, “Great Scott! You planning on feeding an army?” 

“We’re growing children,” Sam heckled, before heading up the stairs to prepare Danny’s VCR.

Tucker assured, "Don't worry Mr Fenton you can have whatever we don't finish." 

"Should I ask in case the police come by about the theatre you kids robbed?" Maddie patted her son's shoulder, in a faux-scolding way. 

Daniel reached into the bag pulling out two chocolate bars for his parents, "Here's the first of many kick-backs." 

Tapping the blueprint, the youngest Fenton raised an eyebrow, "Should I ask in case the Guys In White black bag us in the middle of the night?" 

He joked, but it was something that lingered in his worst-case scenario anxiety-riddled brain. 

Mrs Fenton said the usual about how it was boring adult stuff he shouldn't concern himself with. Just a little device to keep the town safe-- nothing major. 

"...I just can't seem to find the--the proper way to layer the circuits." She adjusted the zoom on her goggles, going over the schematic once more.

"I'm just the visionary, your mom is the brains. I'm here for moral support." Jack sipped his coffee. Up close Danny noticed that it was as black as Jack's gloves. He rarely took it without heavy amounts of cream-- must have been a rough day. 

Mrs Fenton pinched Mr Fenton's cheek, "He's my rubber duck." 

"I feel like we're close to a breakthrough! Just last week-- Son, you should have been there! Last week, I nearly cornered that ghost punk." Jack amid his story held his arms as if he was wielding his plasma rifle, and checking the scope. 

He elaborated, "I don't condone shooting your enemies in the back-- but seeing as I missed! I guess my morals don't amount to much. That son of a bitch is resilient..." 

Weakly Danny smiled, offering them some benign encouragement. He hugged his parents one last time, before departing up the stairs. On the third or fourth step, the ghost boy halted.

"Love ya, tiger." 

"Have fun sweetie, we love you."

He believed them. For the most part. 

If Danny Fenton were more patient he could probably afford to be invested in the plot surrounding the inner lives of convenience store clerks. His eyelids were betraying him, however. Seeing as Sam and Tucker had already seen the film before, they sat on the floor on the side of Danny’s bed linking their Gameboy advances together via a cable Tucker had tied to his belt loop.

They were playing that monster hunting game-- which felt redundant given the group’s hobbies. Danny preferred to use his pc for games. He imagined if he did get one of those handheld systems he’d lose the charger for it. Plus those games were always a little too cutesy for him. God this film was putting him to sleep!

“I’m sure this is a great movie and--” Danny yawned so hard he heard his jaw pop, “--All… but wake me up when someone gets shot or somethin’.” 

Half paying attention Tucker nodded, “uh-huh yeah, you got it.” 

Tucker was planning on sleeping over anyway. He didn't have a problem with the Fentons’ couch, he probably had a better idea of how to navigate Danny's house in the dark than his family's own apartment. 

Sam's parents were more strict on one hand and Tucker was sure she would never willingly sleepover at another person's house. There was a word for people like her. Actually, there were a lot of words. But the one Tucker more than often thought of was persnickety. it wasn't that he didn't believe Sam was delicate or anything. But she loved doing things her own way. She believed that her way was correct. She was very self-assured that way. Foley, who was quite indecisive, admired her for that. 

Though oftentimes Manson's stubbornness would isolate her from other people who didn't find it as endearing. 

Sam offered, "Okay so I got way too many sableyes trying to find a shiny. Do you want one?"

"Oh sure--" Tucker scrolled through his pokemon boxes, "I caught you a vileplume."

"You caught me a vileplume?" She was taken aback.

"It's one of oddish's evolutions," explaining, Foley pulled up its stats so Sam could see it. He rattled on about the higher defense it had compared to other poison types. 

Sam was still unconvinced. Not that she wasn't sold on an adorable chubby poisonous plant creature, that needed no introduction. Rather, she was stuck on why anyone would do something… nice. For her of all people. Normally it would be cause for suspicion. She didn't necessarily pick the sableyes for Tucker-- she just had extra. 

"Yeah I found it on route one-o-ten, I think anyway. She has a bold personality." Tucker looked at Sam as if she could relate, "do you want her?" 

"Uh… sure. Thanks," She said with an awkward air. "I didn't know they had personalities now. Kind of makes me feel bad about the ones I leave out in the tall grass." 

"She kind of reminded me of you. She's cute but tough." Foley took an unspecial sableye for his vileplume. The wonder trade had begun and each trainer was awarded their agreed-upon pokemon. 

Trainer Tucker: Sableye.

Trainer Manson: Jilaiya.

Sam queried, "Jil?"

"It's like this old vampiric lady from India. I figured you'd want a badass name." 

She resigned, "er-- yeah that's really cool actually, I just didn't think you…" 

Cared? 

"...Were interested in that kind of stuff." Sam rested her Gameboy on her lap. Her ears felt warm, which only happened when she was exceptionally angry. Rarely anything else.

Adjusting his glasses, Tucker snorted thinking that she must have been kidding, “C’mon, it’s not that weird-- I’m a nerd, yeah-- anthropology and folklore included. I’m not just a pretty face barely skating by on my technical skills.” 

“I never said that!” She playfully swatted his shoulder; the warmth from her ears spreading to the apples of her cheeks. Thankfully Sam had caked on enough pale foundation that there was no way any other pigment could escape to the surface of her face. Let the record show that Samantha Manson never called the accused ‘pretty.’

Tucker’s smile casually put his dimples on display. He rubbed his shoulder where Manson had struck him, “Yep. Cute but tough.” 

All too suddenly Tucker rose, leaving Sam off balance. She had been unaware that she was leaning on him up until now. Foley left with some mention of the restroom or something similar. Leaving Sam stunned on the blue shag rug. The movie now seemed more far off than it was before. Almost in a haze, Sam had even forgotten that she was at Danny’s house. She had forgotten that Danny was trying to sleep just above her. She definitely forgot that her curfew was in fifteen minutes. For a moment Manson was convinced that she and Tucker were in their little world. How strange. 

Scrambling to her knees Sam turned to Danny-- shaking him awake. 

With little protest, one of the ghost boy’s eyelids shot open with an intense glare. He muttered, “What?” 

In an elusive moment of teen girl insecurity, Sam demanded, “You’d tell me if I was cute right?” 

 She asked as if the compliment was a stain on her shirt she had been unconsciously wearing around--  There was a beat of silence. Danny rolled on his side away from the light of his TV and wrapped his pillow over his ears.

The overcast morning arrived unceremoniously. Tucker brought down a bowl from the cupboard and cereal from the top of the fridge. Though his nose was stuffed in his PDA monitoring the evening’s ghost migration patterns from yesterday. There wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary or troublesome. The barely sentient globs of ectoplasm like the ecto-pus usually disappeared with the rising sun anyway. Though Foley was just proud to see the sensors he modified were still holding up even in the light rain. 

He hypothesized it would be a while before they see anything substantially weird after purging the ghost zone of their tyrant king. Pariah Dark. A name that caused ghosts to shiver. Tucker on the other hand was pretty sure that a name like that was only good for the emo bands in Sam’s CD changer. No one could be too careful though, it wasn’t like the afterlife was an exact science. 

Danny trudged down the stairs, rubbing his eyes-- and holding the movie under his arm.

Tucker got his hat on, and washed the dust from his glasses, “So, are we feelin’ a healthy fiber-rich breakfast, or do we want to inject sugar and artificial sweeteners into our veins?” 

Entering the kitchen, Danny attempted to pop his neck, “I’m still hungover. We hit those slushies pretty hard.” He took a seat at the table, “Did you already make coffee?” 

Tucker knew to keep the mug on standby, “Courtesy of your sister. She left early for-- I think, for fusion-orchestra.” He slid the coffee towards his friend with some level of finesse.

The ghost boy snatched the cup near urgently, “When did she start playing an instrument?” He didn’t have time to keep up with his sister's extra credentials these days. Though it was good news that she wasn’t mixing in with his personal life, at least not for today. 

Tucker poured two bowls of the blandest cereal he could find, “She doesn’t. She’s acting as an intermediary for some conflict. The treasurer isn’t talking to the vice president. The president isn't talking to the treasurer. Because they're both cheating with the vice president’s boyfriend.” the geek dismissed, “it’s a whole thing. The way Jazz can describe the complicated minutiae about people I do not care about-- so elegantly.” 

“You seen my folks?” 

Tucker opened the fridge, only to close it disappointedly, “I assume they’re out getting milk or that zombie-like groaning from the basement must’ve been them.” 

“Oh-- boy, dry cereal.” Danny rolled his eyes, “are sure you just don’t wanna pick up something from the Nasty Burger? Your treat? They have breakfast now…"

“Tempting as that is. I'm trying to eat better," Tucker answered. 

There was a moment where Danny waited for the punchline-- the inevitable ‘sike’. He chuckled idly, assuming that Foley would crack up too. Though Tucker continued to navigate around the Fenton’s kitchen with a sense of purpose.

Nearly spilling his mug onto the floor with this loosened grip, Danny stopped laughing, “Oh, you’re serious?” 

“Ha. Ha, ha. You’re a comedian,” Tucker felt a little condescended to, “I want to eat better. I have to be able to keep up with your stupid self.” 

“Wow. I’m flattered.” Fenton raised a brow. Unsure whether or not this was a bit, “If we were on the football team I believe this is the part where I would affectionately put you into a headlock.” 

“Yeah, right back at you dude.” Tucker picked a spoonful of dry Wheaties, “Speaking of which, Dash working the video rental. Can I get a yikes?” 

He couldn’t help but scoff. Out of all the things on their plate by far Dash having a meaningless dead-end job wasn’t anything to be worried about. If anything it's where they all expected him to end up. The ghost boy nonchalantly circled the rim of his mug with his index finger, “I guarantee you after he felt the wrath of Sam yesterday he’s tenuring his resignation now.”

“In that case, we should pull double Dash duty, and avoid all the major A-list hallways.”

“That’s all of them, Tucker. We would have to ‘vertical limit’ our way along the loose bricks outside.” 

“I mean you could use your... “ Tucker craned his neck to see if there were any stray parents in the hallway. He cleared his throat in an attempt to be even more not flagrantly discrete, “Puh-howers.” 

“C’mon that’s a little first semester.” Fenton wiped his mouth, “‘sides--  Dash doesn’t scare me. I bet he’s had pimples scarier than him.” 

“Since when does Dash have acne?” 

“Everyone has acne. I don’t care if he has dermatologist money-- he has acne.” The ghost boy snapped his fingers with his sudden epiphany, “I bet he has bacne.” 

“Aw, dude!” Foley exclaimed. Spoon clattering against the bowl with a tinny sound ringing through the kitchen, “Nasty. No more talking-- I want to finish my cereal without your song of savagery.” 

“This isn’t cereal Tuck, this is… sad-- like profoundly sad.” Danny pushed around the dry oats with his spoon. Changing his mind he pulled a spotty banana from the hand. When he peeled it, the insides were revealed to be completely mealy and dark umber. Daniel didn’t feel like testing his gut today. Instead, he threw the rotting fruit into the trash-- which also appeared to be full. Pizza boxes, half-eaten yogurts, disposable gloves matted with machine oil-- it all smelled putrid and had been crescendoing. Bitterly Danny shut the lid to the trash can, “That explains all the fruit flies.” 

Tucker felt his eyes watering, “oh god-- how did we not notice that last night?” 

“I don’t even want to touch it-- ugh--” Groaning, Danny double knotted the ties and hefted the cumbersome bag to the door. It began to tear rapidly yet still maintained its shape long enough to reach the ground without disaster. 

“Your parents are not taking their last loss well, huh?” 

“You wouldn’t know it by talking to them.” Danny wiped his hands off on his jeans, “They’ve always been kind of hands-off, but this is just straight up hazardous.” 

Tucker polished off the rest of his and Danny’s cereal not wanting to stick around in the funk any longer than he had to. He sped out the door nearly tripping over his book bag. The nerd had hurriedly called out behind him about seeing Danny at the bus stop. 

Foley had said he was going to eat healthier, not any less. With that, Danny shook his head and gathered up his things for school. Suddenly there was a blur of orange--! 

Danny slammed face-first into his father's wall of a chest. They should really announce when they're going around corners huh? The youngest Fenton grunted with pain. The VHS case fell to the floor as he gripped his nose with his whole hand. The tape broke from its plastic shell. He sarcastically announced, "OW!" 

The youngest Fenton shot a glare toward his dad, only to ease off. Jack appeared lost. It looked like Mr Fenton didn't seem to know he was in his kitchen. Of course, Jack barely felt the impact of his son bumping into him, that wasn't unusual. But Jack's expression and valleys of wrinkles in his forehead-- unmistakably unfitting on his face. Like for once, he was in deep pensive thought. 

Cautiously Danny ventured, “Uh… Dad?” 

Descending from his trance, Jack blinked-- hard booting himself in real-time. He glanced down at his son and then gently corralled him out of the way before apologizing, “My head doesn’t seem to be on the right way this morning.” 

“Getting enough sleep?” Danny posited somewhat facetiously. 

Jack gestured to the puffy discoloration under his son’s eyes, “Hey, at least it's a matching set of eye luggage, bucko.” He laughed stiffly, “Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” 

If he only knew-- Danny muddled through the usual spiel, “Hitting the books, sometimes the books hit back.” 

His father patted his back, comfortingly. Jack squeezed the scruff of his neck-- something he hadn’t done since Danny was in elementary school. It was part reassuring but worrying all the same. It was as if Jack acting like Danny would suddenly just evaporate into thin air. His eyes were red and glassy. The youngest Fenton had to believe it was just an occupational hazard of pulling all-nighters. 

“Sorry-- you probably want to get a move on for school.” Jack stooped down despite his back not wanting him to. He retrieved the VHS tape Danny had dropped. Returning it to him he said, “Don’t wanna lose this.” 

“Thanks…?” Danny eyed his father suspiciously, “Are you and mom doing okay?" 

In a burst of relief or-- joy, Mr Fenton cracked his knuckles, “We’re absolutely good, we're better than good.” 

“Really?” 

“Absolutely, my boy!” Mr Fenton declared. He took in a deep breath, “Your mother and I have some big news-- huge news. I want to wait until you and your sister are both here to tell you. So if you see her, tell her to get home as soon as possible.” 

Nodding sluggishly, Danny muttered, “... Uh-huh.” 

Still, with a ten-mile wide smile on his face, Mr Fenton asked, “What stinks in here like the packer’s defense--?” 

Before Danny could tell him about the trash-- the scientist appeared to have figured it out for himself. He began to pad around the kitchen as if expecting company, “This isn’t going to do at all-- Has it really been like this--?” 

“Danny, I’m going to go to the store later, do you want anything special?” 

There had to be something wrong. Something terribly wrong. Then again before Danny could even fumble into an answer-- Jack clapped his hands together and suggested, “Fudge pops? Those were always your favorite, right?” 

Not since he was four-- but it was odd to see his father earnestly try. So he staggered through a yes. Grabbing the keys from the ceramic bowl by the door that was covered in a thin layer of dust. It was for the Fenton’s rather modest and unassuming station wagon that they had. Though after Danny was born they scarcely even mentioned it. Jack looked at the keys and how small they were in the palm of his hand. Running his thumb across a wooden fish kitschy keychain with an engraving where the scales should be. With a spin of the keys on his pinky, Mr Fenton declared his question boisterously, “Do you need a ride to school?” 

Reeling, Danny attempted to visualize his father squashed into the car and how uncomfortable what would be-- he nearly forgot to respond. He staggered through shaking his head, “uh, no thanks, Pop. I usually just take the bus with Tucker.” 

Dejectedly, Jack tutted, “Oh.” 

“Next time then, alright Kiddo?” 

“... Er, sure.” 

Sam fiddled with her locker, she couldn’t keep her hands still long enough to rotate the combination correctly. After the third or fourth attempt of trying to pry it open-- she raised her hands defeatedly. Who needs French history! Kicking the wall, Sam was painfully reminded that she wasn’t wearing her usual steel-toed boots. 

On her way back from the orchestra room wearing someone else’s morning smoothie, Jasmine sensed distress. Halting, she glanced at Sam and who glanced back at her. The elder Fenton held up her educated finger and nearly said what Sam dreaded-- 

“Don’t ask how I’m doing.” 

Jazz shrugged, “aw c’mon, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you emote before. This would be a challenge for me.” 

Sam acknowledged the bright green juice splotches that contrasted Jazz’s dark blouse, “You look like you have plenty of challenges.” 

“This?” Jasmine tried to brush off the chunkier bits of fruit clinging to her shirt, “Yeah, group therapy with a bunch of repressed band kids is an all-contact sport. Things were said, things were thrown. Nothin’ I couldn’t handle.” 

“Right…” Sam turned back to her locker wanting to continue her struggle in peace. 

Abruptly Jazz slapped her palm against the crimson locker-- popping it open and spilling the contents. Notes flying free and floating down the hall. Perhaps it worked too well. 

Sam’s flat expression couldn’t get any more flat as she sarcastically expressed, “thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Jazz said beaming, not fully understanding the extent of the goth’s ire. A few seconds of pleasant silence passed, which Jazz didn't seem to register as awkward. She didn't appear to be going anywhere.

Combing her fingers through her loose hair, Sam fussed a bit more at her appearance today. She looked at her mirror instead of giving it an obligatory once over. But from this angle it looked like Sam's face was on Jazz's body-- 

“You’re not gonna leave me alone unless I tell you what's wrong," Sam narrowed her eyes as she wiped some lipstick from her teeth, "are you?” 

“Probably not.” Jasmine leaned out from behind the locker door that blocked her.

“Tucker is… being weird.” She admitted. Not explaining how his weirdness was making her weirder by comparison. Manson jostled the books in her grip, stealing a glance at her boots to make sure her legs were still a solid foundation to hold her up. Resting her back against the wall of lockers, Sam exhaled as if even mentioning it was a load off her chest. 

The elder Fenton scrunched up her nose. Jazz did that when she was suspicious, or in a good mood. As it was paired with a crooked brow and a thoughtful pursed-lip, Sam decided that it was the first option. 

It was frivolous-- incredibly mundane and mind-numbingly pointless. Sam didn’t even know why it bothered her so much. She scratched her arm, “He called me cute. I think-- maybe.” 

Jazz failed to see the problem. Lots of people thought Sam was cute. They would never say it to her face if they wanted to live. But still, a lot of people thought so. They were intimidated by her. It could have been Jazz failed to relate being the black sheep of a lot of senior social circles. She crossed her arms, “... and did you say thank you? What was the context?"

“I mean I was too-- nevermind! Nevermind! I shouldn’t have said anything!” Was this gossiping? Is this what girl talk was? Sam didn’t want to explore that side of herself-- Why did boys have to complicate things! 

Jazz offered, "no, no, clearly this is weighing on your mind. So, tell me about it." 

“Well, with Danny being sort of the star of the show…” Manson toyed with the extra piercings in her ear, “they're just a lot of times me and Tucker hang out, alone. And It never felt like we were ever alone-- you know what I mean?” 

She stared at Sam quizzically, not with judgment of course. But like Sam was under her microscope, a bacteria to be examined. Something to be solved. 

“It's not that I feel abandoned or whatever, I’ve always been a loner-- which you’re kind of impeding by the way.” 

“Guilty.” Jazz said with a slight sing-songy tone.

“But it's so weird Tucker is like a flirt by nature but he’s never been like that with me. It's-- really concerning. Like I thought we were in a good place, that we were close." Sam found herself getting oddly choked up, "L--Like I thought he-- I didn’t think I was his type. Tucker and Danny have been like friends since the crib y’know. They only met me in middle school and before Tucker like got the idea in his head that he needed to copulate with someone otherwise he’d die alone. I’ve never really seen that side of him. I’ve never looked at him that way.” 

Jazz cocked her head, “Like how you look at Danny?”  She said with professional observation as if she wasn’t talking about her brother-- whom Sam may have had a slight crush on, yes. 

“No-- no it's not like that at all.” Sam held her arm out defensively. 

“I mean you’re not discreet about it. It just so happens Danny wouldn’t know obvious unless it fell out of the sky and hit him over the head.” Jazz then added, realizing that she was talking about Sam’s feelings, “No offense?” 

The goth brought this upon herself. She sighed, “None taken.” 

“School and being a teenager are all about making mistakes and trying new things. Trying to find your identity-- your clique. Experimentation with your friends, dating, it’s supposed to prepare you for life. For your future. It’s temporary.” Jazz looked down at the smoothie she was wearing, thanks to those kinds of mistakes, “Mostly because it doesn’t always work out.” 

“That’s what I’m worried about. See, if Tucker upsets the balance that could change--” Sam tried to grasp the word with her hand, “everything!” 

Jazz justified, “or you guys will rationalize that because you’re bonded together through something bigger than yourself, you'll move on. I’d like to think Tucker has matured more than you’re giving him credit for.” 

Hitting her own head lightly with her textbook, Sam shouted, “YOU JUST DON’T GET IT!” 

This wasn’t the first time Jazz had that screamed at her today-- it kind of hurt the second time, however. Since she considered Sam to be something like a friend to her. Friends were supposed to offer advice right? Jasmine retreated back. Not cowering but certainly hurt. 

Psychology wasn’t an exact one-size-fits-all science. The psychology of a teenage girl was even less. Jazz is a fixer. All the Fentons are to some extent. She recognized a bit too late that Sam-science was more of an art. Jazz couldn’t approach her with guidance but-- reassurance and shoulder to hypothetically cry on. At least mascara could blend with her blouse better than a heart-smart broccoli smoothie. 

A few students whispered a few things amongst themselves as they passed the two girls having their spat. A few pointed, others gave a snide laugh. 

The senior paid them no mind. Jazz admitted, “You’re right. I don’t.” 

It was rare that someone caved into Sam so easily. Manson was stunned.

“I’m willing to learn if that makes any difference…”  Jazz went into her backpack and retrieved an identical spare shirt for herself. Folding the shirt over her, not juice’d arm, she made her exit, “So if you want to explain it to me sometime later. You know where I live.” 

Sam muttered under her breath-- something mildly disparaging about the friend group she surrounded herself with. Something about being somehow stupider for hanging out with the village idiots, for defending them. Sam didn’t mean it, of course, she was frustrated. 

With ever a great ear for his students, Mr Lancer greeted her in the hallway unsympathetically, “ Sancho Panza . That's who you’re thinking of Ms Manson. You're Sancho Panza .” 

Tossing his apple into the air, he flipped the page of the novel he happened to be reading. He disappeared into a classroom just as suddenly as he arrived. 

Slamming her locker shut, she turned in the direction of her next class only to collide with Tucker with his headset on. Sam startled and clenched her fists-- certain that if she hadn’t had the sense to pin herself she would have decked him. Her hand found itself instinctively around his collar loosely bracing herself against him. Though her recovery was quick and barely noticeable unless you had eyes.

“You scared the bejesus out of me--!” Manson said breathlessly.

Tucker smirked, “My panther-like stealth skills are improving.” He motioned to the space where Jazz was a moment ago, “Did I miss anything important?" 

Sam dissuaded further questioning with a vague, "g-girl stuff." 

"Without me?" Tucker gasped in mock dramatics, "I'm hurt! Wounded even!" 

When she didn't laugh, that was the geek's first hint that something was off. He felt like he stepped in it. Foley lowered his glasses to the bridge of his nose, "For real? Girl stuff? With Jazz?" He reiterated, "... Jazz? "

"That's the story I'm sticking to." Sam rapped her knuckles against the hardcover of her textbook. She began to realize that they were both mirroring each other's body language. They arrogantly were taking up the hallway how couples did. The space between them was noticeable but they still were close enough to share a more intimate conversation. A conversation only meant for one another. 

Consciously she began to correct it. Sam straightened her posture and stood away from the lockers. Her book shielding her torso. Whereas Tucker still leaned on the wall, hands relaxed in his pockets. 

Sam had to decide if Tucker was looking at her with the exasperated fondness that a friend would or if he was looking at her… 

She had to wonder how long he had been looking at her with eyes that saw a deeper potential. 

"So, did you need something?" 

Tucker quickly retrieved his PDA, "Right! You know I love Daft Punk, but I know you love anime…" he trailed off fiddling with his is tech. Enlarging the image on the screen of the Interstella 55555 poster, "Bam!" 

"They produced this movie about these aliens who get kidnapped by a music company and brainwashed into--"

"Say more right now!" 

Excitedly, He thrust his arms into the air, "YEAH-- YEAH IT'S BASICALLY ONE GIANT MUSIC VIDEO, LIKE PINK FLOYD'S THE WALL !" 

"We have to watch this--!" Sam then realized that they were a trio and not a duo. Danny would be totally confused since he wasn't an artsy type. She stipulated, "not with Danny though, he would be so bored!" 

Agreeing, Tucker admitted, "yeah this is definitely not his type of thing. My house this weekend?" 

"Your house?" What once would have been an innocuous invite now seemed tinted differently. Sam fumbled for an excuse, "I uh-- but, I-I have the better sound system."

"Yeah, but I thought you said you don't like having company over?" 

"Right…” She reminded herself, “My mom can only be drowned out by so much french synth music.” Manson gently coaxed him, “I just think that we should wait out the waters. I’m not entirely sure we should be celebrating prematurely-- there could still be some… ghosts we haven’t accounted for.” 

Appearing at the end of the hall was a distraction in the form of Danny Fenton. Sam waved him over, hoping to kill the conversation. 

Tucker quietly directed, "we can talk about it later." 

Sam gave him a finger-gun. Acknowledging what he said but not promising to do any heavy lifting to keep that engagement. 

Dragging his feet the ghost boy wearily meandered through his routine good mornings-- how are yous. He debated on telling them about his father's latest odd behavior. He talked about his dad similarly to how others would describe the antics of the family pet. As if such actions held great significance but stripped of context meant absolutely nothing to those not involved. Since Danny's friends had normal parents. Or at the very least normal-ish parents. He began to suspect that stories about his family of scientists were unrelatable. It wasn't like it was uncommon for Danny to keep things to himself, these days at least. He'd rather not bore them to tears. 

“Do we have any fights on the books?” He stretched his back then returned to his hunched resting position, “My parents trashed the house again and it needs to be tented before the roaches start paying rent. I do not want to stay there any longer than I have to." 

Tucker reported his findings from his sensors around town, “I heard nothing on the police scanners this morning other than some mundane petty theft. Some guy has been hitting the liquor stores. Nothing really meant for us.” He playfully punched his friend’s shoulder, “plus didn’t you say you wanted some R and R?” 

“It's hard to R and R when your house smells like BO and sardines.” 

“We could hit up the bowling alley? Arcade? Laser tag?” Sam suggested equally gross and sweaty places on par with Fentonworks. 

“Maybe-- Maybe--” Fenton gave the so-so motion, “we could try another movie. I kind of feel bad for not being able to stay awake.” 

Foley teased, “Don’t even trip. You need your beauty rest, dude, trust me. This is the first morning where you didn’t look like the living dead.” 

“Romero zombie or like Kate Beckinsale in Underworld ?” The ghost boy retorted, "both dead; sliding scale of attractiveness." 

 “Dude, do not equate yourself to Kate Beckinsale .” 

In the distance where the hallway split into a fork, the left leading to the computer lab and the right leading to the library, Dash had arrived with his entourage of A-list lackeys. 

“Watch this. I’m gonna put some blood in the water.” Fenton removed his backpack, rummaging through it for the tape. He was going to drop it off after school but he might as well make it easier on Dash. That’s all this was. Convenience. Nothing vindictive or nefarious here. No sir.

“Hey, Dash! Hey!” He called out while jogging over. Dash Baxter getting a job at one of the geekiest places in town will have to knock him down a few pegs. Dash wasn’t just making minimum wage for serving adults with no reading comprehension-- Dash was in the dork business. Nudging football players twice his size out of the way, Danny continued to try and get the quarterback’s attention. 

Dash ignored him at first. Cracking his jokes, but he faltered. It wasn’t obvious to the normal unobservant A-listers but Baxter’s voice caught. He shifted, “--So then Ms Testlaff was all like ‘you can’t make a three-point shot with a medicine ball.’” 

“Dash, I got your tape. You know so you can rewind it. Like the motto says, ‘we rewind on your dime’? Because you work at the rental? The rental? The Amity Park Video Rental? The Video Rental Store where you work?” Danny kept repeating, increasing his volume with every loop.

Nothing seemed to be getting a rise out of the jock. He carried on speaking, only sporadically giving Fenton a venomous glare. This caused the twerp to be a bit bolder. 

"Alright man, your loss." Danny removed the tape from its case. Juggling between his hands as if he was losing his grip, he shouted, “I might just leave it in a car directly in sunlight all day-- hope that doesn’t damage its resale value!” 

“I’ve always wanted to see if a VHS tape could survive the drop from the roof--” 

Paulina finally acknowledged Danny, despite thinking it would make her skin break out, “Don’t you have some ghosts to talk to or something?” 

“Always a mile a minute, huh Fenton?” Kwan slapped Danny’s back, knocking the wind out of him. Kwan was perhaps the most kind out of all of the A-listers which meant his passive-aggressive act was missing the subtlety. The ghost boy had to wonder if Kwan knew about Dash’s job, or was playing defense for every 5-foot-nothing nerd. Kwan was the bouncer between the socially challenged and the socially elite. 

It didn’t deter Danny from wanting to embarrass Dash. It's certainly not hard. The jock wore enough hair product that he should legally be considered flammable. Fenton shirked off the linebacker, “Hey I’m just trying to let Dash know that I have his--” 

Danny felt his arm get yanked, nearly out of its socket! Thankfully the ghost boy had enough sense to go limp. Wearing, perhaps, the sourest expression-- Dash stared down at him. The athlete had snatched Fenton up by his wrist, letting him dangle a few centimeters off the ground. There was the reaction he was hoping for. With a smirk crawling across his cheek, Danny attempted to roll his shoulder back. 

Blue eyes locked on blue eyes there was a silent conversation happening. The conditions being that if Dash punched him, Dash would lose. If Dash made a scene, he'd lose. The question is: what exactly would Dash be losing? 

The answer wasn't nearly as complicated as the teenagers made it out to be.

Dash would have to admit that Danny Fenton got under his skin. 

Without a word, Dash held and squeezed Fenton’s thin wrist until Danny released the tape. It didn’t hurt, in case you were worried-- a lot of Danny’s senses had been dulled since the accident. The act was for the benefit of the kids that picked on him. They were placated. 

Dash pocketed the tape and explained away the encounter as, “I know a guy, wh--who knows a guy who can get-- like, all the R-rated movies from the back of Burkowitz’s place.” 

“...What was that guy’s name, Dash?” Fenton innocently inquired, cocking his head curiously. The small crowd of populars followed suit. Cheerleaders, student council, and football team all stared at Dash. The athletes would side with Dash regardless of whatever drivel fell out of his mouth. However the girls on the cheerleading team-- Paulina, Star, and Mia. They were quite judgemental and inclined to turn on the first sign of weakness. They were like heat-seeking dweeb obliterating missiles. They were detail-oriented if their manicures were anything to go by. They would need some convincing. 

“...” A bead of sweat trailed down from the jock’s hairline. Eyes darting around searching for an escape or window to throw himself out of. He focused on the cover of the Clerks VHS, “Silent… Bob?” 

 A pensive and derisive quiet hung above his peers. 

Kwan spoke up, “Uh-- yeah Robert Schwartz…” He looked up toward the ceiling, puzzled, “He graduated last year, he goes to great lakes community, right?” 

“Er-- Yeah, Silent Bob, Silent Bobby-- Bobert… shhhhhh-Schwartz.” 

Paulina tried to reaffirm, “He's the guy who hung out by Circle K, right?” 

“Exactly!” Dash exclaimed with a little too much relief. 

Talk about too much kool-aid. Sure Dash didn't get outed. But watching him dig his grave with his own hands? That was a riot. With his 'friends' ignorantly cheering him on. Danny was about to slink away when the quarterback accosted him with a vague threat, "You better believe I'll be getting a commission on this--" 

Walking backward but still confidently in the direction of his homeroom, the ghost boy gave his rejoinder, "You've got me on the edge of my seat." 

The bell rang. The halls rapidly emptied. Though the energy still lingered. Spirits and souls were just energies that had nowhere else to be. So it remained. It may have been empty but the school's hallways were stagnant with static. Crackling like ice dropped in a warm glass. Nothing was as it appeared to be. There were no heroes. There were no villains. Just kids. Spirits and souls. 

It was an average day-- at an average school in nowhere, in particular, Michigan.

Dash kept on the balls of his feet unsure whether to chase after the dork-- or turn after his rapidly disappearing friends. Though by all accounts he was loitering.

The short portly math teacher-- Falluca, poked his long nose out of his door, “Get to class! Otherwise, I’m awarding you with detention!” 

Scoffing Dash began to saunter to his class with a sarcastic march, “...I would like to thank my parents for never giving me a ride to school!”

Chapter Text

Baxter stewed in the back of the classroom. Flexing his pencil to the point where it would warp. Bend but not snap. He liked the back, it was the place he could find the least amount of attention-- which surprisingly he did not care for. He braced his pencil between his hands, taking in breaths. The quarterback had to believe that Fenton was this irritating on purpose! There was no way that was unintentional. Fenton was trying to out him for having a job.

Why would that twerp even care? Was this all because he told him that there wasn’t a chance in hell all his nerdy friends would see the restricted section of the store? It seemed a little extreme even for someone as petty as Danny Fenton. Especially since Dash was legitimately doing his job regardless of his bias towards those losers. Forever ago the quarterback went to great lengths to make sure Fenton felt included-- he even organized a party where Danny would have been the best dressed by default. Yet that was repaid by the little psycho tearing his room apart. Airing his dirty laundry for the school to see. 

Again here they were, same song, different dance. Danny was going to expose Dash.

For once Dash wished he knew something-- anything about the kid to counter it.  

“Mr Baxter, are you feeling alright?” Mr Lancer was making his rounds around the room for attendance. 

The answer was the same as it was every other day, “Great. I’m great.”

It was an affirmation with very little foundation in fact.

It was an automatic reply. Even if it was a farce; it kept people from prodding any further below the surface. Dash cleared his throat and said with certainty and clarity, “I’m doing great.” 

Lancer didn’t believe him in the slightest. His eyebrows raised while his half-lidded eyelids stayed in place. Granted he had a hard time getting the truth from any of his students. The teacher nodded, giving the teen some room. He began addressing the rest of the class, “Spring break may be fast approaching.” He stated matter of factly, “but I trust you all will get a head start on the reading. Once you get back we will be making preparations for our end-of-the-year project. A scene from a famous novel directed and edited and starring all of you…”  

 “Do not make me regret giving you creative freedom,” The teacher murmured while approaching the whiteboard, “Since the advanced literature class had a much smaller pool of students, you will be in teams of two. Books, scenes, and partners will be assigned randomly. This project will be a third of your final grade, to inspire your collaborations.” 

The books this year weren’t anything impressive. Not anything Dash hadn’t already read in his spare time. Moby Dick , Bram Stoker’s Dracula , 1984 , The Great Gatsby -- surprisingly all of them had tie-in movies which Dash could conveniently rent from the store when his eyes were too exhausted from practice. He wasn’t sure if that was an oversight or planned on Lancer’s part. He had told Kwan about his job for the sake of making cover stories. No one else needed to know, but of course, it wasn’t easy keeping a secret. 

A fleeting thought occupied his brain, he should quit. The thought wormed its way into his head. He should just quit now. Danny wasn’t going to stop-- 

“Valerie Grey and Dash Baxter. Great Gatsby, Chapter one.” 

The jock was snapped back to reality and the pencil in his hand snapped with the pressure. He stared towards the front upon hearing his name. Mr Lancer was reading two scraps of paper from a wolverines baseball hat. Baxter’s eyes immediately fell to Valerie sitting in the front row. Ever since Val’s father got sacked from Axion Labs, she had this waxy far off stare. She was exhausted all the time. Still keeping up with her studies, student council, and her afterschool job. Dash knew Val hated that book, for extremely obvious reasons. She thought the conflict of the upper crust between old and new money was… a little too close to home. Not to mention all the other baggage associated with a book made after the great depression. During the discussion of the themes she was either extremely impassioned or disinterested, withdrawn. It seemed she only had two moods these days. 

Valerie jotted down the assignment with no protest. She rested her cheek on her fist, not even turning her head to acknowledge her partner. 

Before Lancer pulled out another pair of names, Dash raised his hand, “Would it-- er, I think-- could I suggest a-a different book?” 

Maybe I could fix it. Maybe she just doesn’t like confrontation. 

“Ms Grey, would you like to change books?” Lancer lowered his reading glasses, his voice deep and smooth. Rumbly like a car engine. Idly he ran a hand through his tie.

Val also seemed to be somewhere else as she answered, “Uh-- no? No, I’m good, we’re all good. It's fine.” 

Lancer ran his thumb over his tie, interrogating a stain, “Well, you’re outvoted Mr Baxter. Sorry, better luck next time.” 

Shit.

Reciting more names out of the hat Lancer lectured on and on about the project. The words vaguely floated around the room as noise. Dash stared at Val's back unsure what he should say first. If he should apologize. If he should pretend that nothing happened. If he should… just say hello? The more he stared at her frame he began to think about the distance between them, not physically but socially. She changed seemingly overnight, virtually becoming a different person. Someone morbid, apathetic. A stranger. Though unmistakably Dash recognized her frame, the way she held herself. Even if years passed he would still be able to recognize Val as his friend. Even with the slightest mannerisms. How she unconsciously coiled her finger or her pen in the rings of her curly hair.

He could recognize his friends regardless of what clothes they were wearing or what new terrible hair trend they adopted that week. Dash believed that this was some kind of lasting symptom of affection. That people never really left his head, instead of creating an epitaph. A white cross on the side of the highway for the people they used to be. 

“Alright, now that you have your books and your partners. I would like to refer to you this--” Lancer held up a stack of worksheets with boxes and lines on it, “this is your shot sheet. You will spend the rest of class today storyboarding your scene with your partner. When we return from spring break we will move onto shooting. You are all welcome to help yourselves to whatever was left in the costume and prop loft.” 

Though with a frown he added, “Everything is up for grabs, except anything we used in the fall musical. Don’t know where those blanks and guns went off to.” 

People in the class began to disperse, grouping up with their partners. Dash meanwhile glanced down at his two pencil halves. Valerie hadn’t moved from her spot by the window. It was prime real estate really-- it had a good view of the front courtyard. It was a good reminder that there was a real world out there. It was only polite he figured as he gathered his backpack, and took the seat next to hers. He didn’t want to disturb her space so he didn’t bother to move the desk any closer. 

"Long time no see,” Val gave a smile, her Betty brown eyes were the clearest he’s ever seen them. Her skin was shimmery with her moisturizer. She always smelled nice. Like cinnamon, or like baked goods. Was that perfume or was that her shampoo-- That’s weird. No one should notice how another person smells. What is he? A bloodhound? 

Well now that he was thinking about it, she also smelled like citrus. Likely cover up the odor of the grease traps from the Nasty Burger. 

"Yeah, I wonder if this is how it's gonna feel at our ten-year reunion when we're all fat and old," Dash snorted, the words left his mouth with his usual confidence despite by-passing his brain. 

Valerie narrowed her eyes and pursed her glossed lips. 

Worried that he might have offended her, the jock quickly backpedaled, “Not that I think that would happen to you! I more so meant that it's been so long that it already feels like it's been like-- ten years since the last time we saw each other. And-- ! Like after, like, a long time people get married and get pregnant--” Dash hastily corrected himself, “Not that I think you look pregnant! I’m just saying that it's been-- I-- I miss--” 

She snickered, “I missed you too, Dash.” 

Tension bled from his shoulders as he slouched-- finally. He sighed, hoping that she was telling the truth. Even if she was just being nice, he wanted to believe it.

“How’re things going?” 

“Going, I guess.” She said noncommittally, “Sometimes being young is less fun than being dead. You still doing those drawings?” 

“Occasionally; they’re just doodles.” Dash couldn’t help his curiosity, his interest in her wellbeing. If she needed help, he had to posture like he was the dependable shoulder of the school. That was his job after all. Broaching the topic Dash scratched his neck, “How is it at the restaurant?” 

“I’m bringing home the double bacon burgers,” Val smirked defensively. Dash couldn’t imagine waiting on a bunch of mouth breathers like the athletes at the school would be the highlight of her day. She didn’t say it with pride. 

“Uh-- for the assignment, did you want to be Daisy or Nick? I figured the most interesting monologue was towards the end of the chapter when they were on the balcony, but if you have any other ideas.” It was probably a touchy subject. Baxter was stepping in it left and right.

“Ooo,” Grey feigned excitement by wiggling her fingers, “I get options.” 

“Yeah,” he chuckled earnestly, with some parts anxiety, “Yeah, it's a matter of if you should wear the flapper dress or me.” 

“Yknow you’re pretty hairless so we wouldn’t have to use Nair for you.”

“I got the calves for it.” 

“Okay but your calves and my thighs there’s nothing that could stop us Dash-a-boy.”  

They laughed like time had no meaning. It was good, it was contagious. The kind of laughter that caused your eyes to water, and your ribs to ache. Suddenly it was last year, they were freshmen, they were in the same neighborhood. Their lungs burned in tandem. He missed the feeling. 

Feelings don’t last. They never go away completely either, much like how a song never truly ended. It would loop, and fade. Repeating the chorus until there was no one left to hear it. 

A student-- Mikey, shot up and gestured to the window, “Guys! Everyone, look! Look!”

Everyone began clamoring out of their chairs, rushing in mass to the window. Some of them shoving and elbowing each other out the way to get a better vantage point. Typically this was an act of self-preservation having little to do with celebration. Valerie stayed in her seat but attempted to peer over the heads of her fellow classmates. Dash didn’t move either, cautious of another ghost attack he always knew where his exits were. It was something he was certain of and that’s where to find his outs. 

Whisperings began being thrown around. Phantom! Guys, it's him! It's really him! The Phantom! Oh my god! Oh my god, he smiled at me! No, he smiled at me! Get your own ghost! 

Admittedly, Dash’s interest was piqued… but seeing Val’s hands tense and brace against her table made him hesitate. She looked… off. She was trembling with rage. Her knuckles squeezed so hard that the veins in her hands were visible beneath her skin.

“Val…?” 

She opened her notebook to a new page before hastily saying, “I-- I gotta- I gotta go. I left my book in my locker.” 

Standing up it took her a matter of seconds to cross the floor and disappear from the classroom. Yeah, that wasn’t conspicuous at all. 

Dash called out to her but his voice was swallowed by the thunderous rapture for the Phantom. The window overlooking the courtyard was beginning to fog up from the desperate breath of ravenous fans. The Phantom stole it without intention. 

Their greedy palms were pressed to the glass for any chance to get closer to the Phantom. To catch his eye to receive some validation-- or a story to tell to their grandchildren. That time a superhero gave them a few seconds of his wandering attention. Dash would’ve felt sorry for them if he wasn’t the king sheep of the flock. He at least had to be subtle about it for the sake of his image. If it looked like he cared too much about something-- people might say things… 

After waiting what felt like a respectable amount of time, Dash rose from his desk to see what the commotion was about. In the flowerbeds, the Phantom was firing bright emerald beams from his hands creating fractures in the earth. The flowers disintegrating, browning, and wilting from the cold-heat of the blast--

H A P P Y  S P R I N G  B R E A K !  L O V E,  P H A N T O M !

Dash’s broad shoulders caused the crowd to part around him. It was cute. The jock could only dream to get away with a stunt like that. Of course-- that was the kind of casual disregard that ended in tears. Everyone remembered when the gardening club resodded the school’s lawn. That was a labor of love, up in smoke. Dead flowers had a very distinct smell of decay-- they aged at an accelerated rate and were reduced to ash being carried in the breeze.

Lancer clapped, “Alright-- Alright break it up! Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean we all can’t get on with our lives!” The teacher groaned, “He’s lucky he’s not a student in this class, otherwise his expulsion would be on sight!” 

After school was a different story of course.

Tucker was monitoring his program for any anomalies on the map. If it was behaving how it was supposed to, the map of Amity Park was supposed to light up with green blips. It was doubtful that town was-- for lack of a better word-- dead. 

Big battle aside, there had to be something. Maybe Tucker was getting antsy with no activity. He had to think his sensors were broken or they genuinely had a spring break free of bullshit. In his room, he sat hunched over his screen, dishes from missed meals piling up next to his customized, tricked-out, tower. 

The Foley Parents weren’t so hands-off like the Fentons, or aloof. They were fine with Tucker’s eccentricities as long as he stayed inside before and after curfew like a good boy and focused on his studies. Hey, it earned him a few extra bucks for allowance. Happy blissfully ignorant parents were more willing to hand over their credit cards for whatever miscellaneous expenditure that would make their tech adept son happy.

They would flip if they really knew what he got up to in his spare time. Not that they could even glean what they were looking at.

He could miss a few dinners to ‘study’ in his room as long as his grades reflected that he was top of his class. He didn’t think it would be so easy spoofing the school’s IP address in order to come up with field trips for them to sign off for. Then of course it took about the same effort to fake an email from his mother to the school rattling off excuse notes left and right. Doctor, Dentist, Behavioral Psychologist, Car mechanic, Dolphin trainer-- Tucker was pretty sure the emails never made it past the receptionist desk so it allowed him to stretch his creative muscles.

If Tucker wanted to relax he needed to stop staring at the screen. Though considering how few of his hobbies didn’t involve screens… 

Tucker instead toggled the program windows. Resting his hand on the computer tower gently as the fans responded to the sudden action. The vibrations were comforting. The modem whined and screeched as he loaded up the instant messenger like an orchestra tuning up for no one in the audience. 

Sam was online! 

The rest of his buddylist had to take a backseat. 

FriarTuck: Hey how’s it goin girl?

There was an initial delay, he had to assume that Sam was looking at something else or had another window open. Though her writing status kept changing from deleting to typing. 

GofficXroyalty666: Sup Tuck

GofficXroyalty666: u see that stunt Danny did earlier? 

FriarTuck: See it? Dude, I coordinated that-- that’s gonna look great on the front page of the CHG.

It was also a ploy to lure any ghosts out of hiding. Though Foley didn’t need her to worry unnecessarily. Sam already seemed stressed enough. She must have been more shaken by the events than he thought. Danny was more than willing to do something dumb once Tucker explained that it was for Sam. 

GofficXroyalty666: I swear u two bring out the worst in each other, ha ha. 

GofficXroyalty666: Still no sign of the undead?

FriarTuck: nope. For once, it looks like we’re sailing smooth. So that means the ground patrol can take a vacation.

GofficXroyalty666 is typing… 

GofficXroyalty666 is deleting… 

GofficXroyalty666 is— 

GofficXroyalty666: About time.

FriarTuck: You seemed kind of off today at school. Like Lancer was talking about the vietnam sit-ins and you didn’t even raise your hand.

GofficXroyalty666 is typing… 

…

… 

GofficXroyalty666 is deleting… 

GofficXroyalty666 is typing… 

GofficXroyalty666: Ive been kind of distracted, dw about it. Do u have Jazz’s buddyinfo? I need 2 talk to her about girl stuff. 

There was that phrase again. Girl stuff. What did that even mean? It wasn’t like Sam to be even a little girly. She didn’t like other girls at the school. She thought they were vapid air-heads. Tucker only ever heard her complain about them every day. It wasn’t that the group avoided Jazz either-- they just didn’t have a lot to say to her in terms of… relevant interests. Though Jasmine’s type-A personality was definitely grating on Sam. Regardless, Foley copy-pasted the information into the text box. He hoped to revive their plans from earlier. 

FriarTuck: are u and ur mom doing alright?

GofficXroyalty666: Surprisingly, we’re good. She’s been up my dad’s butt about something having to do with the budget for the landscape architect. Apparently, hedge mazes are coming back into fashion. Can i expect an rsvp to my moms garden tupperware party?

FriarTuck: LOL. I’ll bring my fanciest sweater. BI

Sarcasm was one of her natural defense mechanisms. Despite it being just text on a screen Tucker could sense her voice-- imagined her speaking those words. He knew she was being elusive because he skirted too close to… something. Tucker wasn’t the kind to add pressure. So he eased off. She would tell him if it was absolutely important.

FriarTuck: ur probably not ready to talk about it yet, and that’s fine. Im here 4 u either way. 

The following response was immediate. Offended. Though Tucker wasn’t sure what he did wrong. He had never read her wrong before. 

GofficXroyalty666: Im fine. Srsly. 

FriarTuck: I’ve known u long enough to kno that’s not tru. 

GofficXroyalty666: Seriously! Im ok! 

FriarTuck: u better tell me if ur not. 

FriarTuck: Ok? 

… 

…

GofficXroyalty666 is typing… 

Tucker took his eye off the screen for a moment. He brought up LimeWire and figured he could cheer her up with a CD. She would say it was more ethical to support indie producers directly, though who could think of ethics at a time like this? Tucker wanted to think she didn’t like him pirating music because it made him technically a ‘bad boy’. Hypothetically he would be ‘breaking federal copyright law.’ In reality, she worried he wasn’t smart enough to pull it off.

Though Foley didn’t hear anyone complaining when The Anarchist Cookbook came in handy for dispatching ghosts.

 He typed in Judas Priest , Metallica , Dream Theater , Corrosion of Conformity into the search bar watching the screen gradually fill up with eye-searing colorful blocks of text and heavily pixelated images. The images generated themselves line by line until there was some semblance of a subject. Hovering his mouse over the preview player, Tucker took a moment to lower the volume on his speakers. The last time Foley listened to some metal, he had a lot to explain to his mom. They also stayed an extra hour after church. Supposedly that was to let the lessons and hymns soak in. In reality that was a result of a Korn and Cradle of Filth mix. Tucker sometimes wished his parents cared a little less, but he knew it came from a place of love. 

Love was an untranslatable experience in most cases. It could smother you with its shelter, but suffocate you with its absence. It wasn’t finite like some believed, yet an experience that shaped your everyday routine. To some people, love was making sure you kept your nose clean— keeping you on a good path forward. Others were more subtle, quiet. A lot like the delicate and meticulous sound of Dream Theater . Compared to every other one of Sam’s favorite metal bands, their sound didn’t revolve around layering and obfuscating the deep guttural vocals. With a lot of metal, it was about getting in tune with a feral, unhinged sense of self. Saying things that needed to be said as ferociously as possible to make you feel a fraction of the pain— the anger. Tucker wasn’t a huge metalhead but after enough exposure, you could detect the nuances. There was still a modicum of control with Dream Theater . There was still a sense of harmony and cohesion. Clarity. 

“I watch you

Show me the hurt that haunts you!

Would you despise the thrill If all you hide were mine?”

“I can't hold on any longer; these feelings keep growing stronger.

Echoes that deafen the mind…

will bury my voice in their wake”

“Caught in a Web, removed from the world.

Hanging on by a thread…”

Tucker let go of a sigh he didn’t know he was holding. Yeah, music sometimes has a way of articulating the feelings trapped below the surface of your skin. The stuff that no one wanted to talk about. An affliction that was consuming you from the inside out. Having feelings for someone who definitely didn’t reciprocate. It was coming home to a house with no one waiting up for you. The lights were out and the curtains drawn. The car in the driveway was gone. It was the sound of your keys hitting the bottom of a hollow ceramic bowl.

The AOL messenger pinged. Foley removed his head from his desk and perked up.

GofficXroyalty666: Ok.

Meanwhile, Danny had been waiting in Jazz’s car for about an hour or so. The final bell had rung, and he remained. Jazz would give him the keys. He would turn on the battery, listen to music and play with the AC fans. A responsible kid would take the opportunity to get a head-start on their homework, but his neck was already stiff from sleeping on it wrong— plus routinely getting his ass kicked wasn’t exactly beneficial either. 

The thing about Jazz’s car was that it felt like a castle he was briefly the king of. Here he was, one of five cars in the parking lot, and damn it felt good. A compact eco-friendly used dinged-up piece of crap with a squeaky alternator belt, and it was his throne. Someday when Jazz left for college just maybe— maybe if he played his cards right, this squeaky piece of crap could be his. 

Danny counted the number of blue vehicles that passed. 

He was under the shadow of a dense cloud, and the parking lot darkened around him. The younger Fenton felt the serenity in one moment before it was completely shattered when his older sister popped open the back seat door. Jasmine threw her bookbag in then landed herself in the driver’s chair. 

“Sorry about that, Lancer just really wanted to grill my therapy circle because he’s got it into his head that someone, from my circle of healing, broke into the auditorium. Things got heated.” She excused herself, “Any good songs come on the radio?” 

“Uh no— Neil Diamond , Sweet Caroline ,” The ghost boy added, clearing his throat, “I mean you surround yourself with juvie jumpers. He wasn’t exactly barking up the wrong tree.” 

Ignoring the judgemental attitude of her brother he often exhibited when he was distressed. Danny was a creature of pattern and habit. He often fell into negative cycles when negative stimuli presented itself. Having witnessed the behavior manifest itself, Jazz often wondered what it would take for Danny to grow out of it. She found the most effective method was just to deny him any encouragement,  “No Billy Joel then?” 

When Danny couldn’t get a rise out of his uptight sister, he returned to the window, “Nope.” 

“Huh,” She said with some disappointment. Jazz pulled down her seat belt over her shoulder, reminding her little brother to do the same. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t need to worry about that sort of thing anymore.  His best guess was that it was a habit. Jazz’s eyes for a moment briefly locked onto twenty different targets before she mumbled through a checklist. Closing her eyes tightly, she exhaled a heavy sigh that sounded like it came from the pit of her stomach. 

“How many blue cars today?” Jasmine asked.

Danny replied wearily, “Only seven.” 

“How would you say your anxiety level was today?” She adjusted her rearview mirrors compulsively. Jazz knew he didn’t like maintaining eye contact for long periods of time. She’d find little distractions to keep her gaze busy. 

Danny secured his seatbelt, “Seriously?” 

“You don’t have to tell me, but it would put me at ease.” 

“I dunno— a two?” 

“Okay.” Jasmine said with affirmation, “Alright.” 

“How are you?” It was only fair to return the gesture. They were siblings, after all, it wasn’t like she was his actual doctor. Despite how much she postured to be. 

“Er— that’s a loaded question.” She shook her head, she was in need of a coffee. Jasmine turned over the engine to sputter, “I’m gonna try to focus on my tutoring thesis tonight. Tucker was talking me through excel in our computer programming course. I think I finally put enough data together to find a commonality with kids with divorced parents and dyslexia-slash-dyscalculia.”

Jazz’s thesis was on tutoring and education for those left behind in the educational system. She compared a pool of students with differing financial backgrounds, and differing parental statuses, using a series of timed multiplication tables paired with reading comprehension tests. The volunteers’ names were all scrubbed from the testimonials, but Danny knew them all. There were a few of the recurring faces at FentonWorks. Dash Baxter being one of them. Whenever she mentioned her thesis, Danny’s thought process naturally led back to him. It was horrible but Danny hoped that his results were somehow the worst. He wanted, desperately, for something to be wrong with that guy. Something defined by medical terms to explain why he was such a huge— 

“So, I heard you were laying into Dash earlier…”  The elder Fenton pulled forward and out of her space, she braked at the stop sign leading back into the main road. She must’ve been some kind of frazzled to have forgotten her blinker. 

“Yeah, epic, right?” Danny couldn’t believe it, Dash tattled on him to his sister. Real mature.

“No—  well, I- I mean,” Patting his shoulder comfortingly, Jazz gave his bicep a reassuring squeeze, “I’m glad you’re sticking up for yourself. But I think if you guys, like, stopped harassing each other you might find you have some things in common. As his tutor, he’s kind of—” 

The younger Fenton shoved her away, “I’m not harassing him!” 

“Okay, but what would you call it if he suddenly came up to you in the hallway with the intention to embarrass you?” Jazz thought she had a one-up on her younger brother...

Snorting, Danny gently rested his head against the passenger window with a muted— thunk—  “I’d call it an average Tuesday.”  

She didn’t laugh. Instead, the elder Fenton leaned her head towards her shoulder closest to Danny, “Is this still about Val?” 

“What?” Danny hissed, “No. Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“Danny I’m just thinking that if you and Dash can get along, life might be easier for the both of you in the end.” The elder Fenton lamented like her intellect was a burden that she had to wield for those around her. 

“When I glance at my high school yearbook, I don't see four fabulous years ahead of me, Jazz. What I'll be reminded of is what it feels like to have my underwear yanked up my ass by some big football players with arms like tree trunks.” The ghost boy slammed his back into the chair, “So, God forbid I have my fun too.” 

Accelerating, the car smoothly merged onto the main road and passed over the pothole that was just outside the school’s jurisdiction to care. The road passed by as colors and shapes. There was a field near the school that had bundles of hay rolled up under giant transmission poles that stretched toward the sky. They were like skeletons without their heads. Pyres of metal bones and wires with arms posed in praise of modern urban innovation. Their conversation passed like currents in a tower, striking quickly. There was a natural back and forth, a type of flow. However, it clotted to a halt when Valerie was brought up.

Eventually, after they were a corner away, Jazz brushed some hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, “It's okay if you still feel guilty about it, but punishing Dash isn’t going to--” 

The second the car was parked, Danny sprung up and slammed the car door shut, “Not everything has a deeper meaning! Jesus, can’t it just be that I think the guy is a preppy pain in the ass?” 

The ghost boy had turned on his heel, to see his mother and father in the living room window. Huge unnaturally happy smiles plastered onto their faces. That was weird. Danny squinted to get a better look at them. His father was wearing a grey shirt with writing on the front and an illustration of a fish. The shirt’s hem ended just a little above his gut, making it look like a cropped shirt. Jack didn’t like wearing fabric around the lab which was why he defaulted to their trademark Fenton spandex jumpsuits. The shirt was oddly familiar. 

Typically they didn’t enjoy it when Danny swore, yet there they were with that utterly unintelligent look on their faces. 

Danny snapped his fingers in remembrance, “Right— Dad wanted to talk to us.” 

“Why?” Jasmine swung her legs out of the car, “Why now did you remember?” 

Danny shrugged, “Puberty.” 

“When you’re in your thirties that excuse is not going to work!” 

“It might.” he winked, putting his hands into his pockets. 

Jazz scowled at her brother, tsking. 

Entering Fentonworks was like breathing overwhelmingly fresh air. The clutter had been significantly contained. The rotting food had been placed in the outside bins, the lids placed precariously on top of the trash. The house smelled of vanilla candles and lemon wood-polish. The coffee table was shiny enough to see your reflection in. It smelled of soap and bubbles. Like someone had been showering while doing a load of laundry. The kids curiously glanced at each other, setting their bags down by the door, thereby creating the only mess they could see. The floors had been completely vacuumed. The dust that normally floated in the light of the windows? Gone. The curtains that were normally covered in thick cobwebs and strands of ash that distorted the fabric were now swaying gently with a coming breeze. No noise from the basement, no generator humming, the kids could hear the distant sound of their neighbors' windchimes. 

“Mom? …Dad?”  Warily Jazz called, poking her head into the living room. 

“Honey!” Maddie excitedly clapped her hands, “Oh Good! Danny, you’re here too!” 

“You guys…” With his head on a swivel, Danny could hardly believe it, “You guys cleaned?” 

Mr Fenton put his hands on his hips, his shirt rising up and showing his belly. Upon closer inspection, the shirt said, ‘Why yes, I am a Bass man.’ Jack was also wearing black socks with beige sandals, with olive cargo shorts. It had been a while since either of the kids had seen their father without his caution-orange jumpsuit that they forgot how pale he actually was. He had tan lines. No child should have to see their father’s tan lines… 

Jack was practically beaming with pride, “Of course! I couldn’t have you kids coming home to a pigsty. It's not always going to be like this, obviously. But I figure with a bit of my help, you kids could help keep things from going down the tubes.” 

The kids were unsure if they were supposed to be offended. 

Mrs Fenton invited her kids to sit down, “Sweeties, we have some news to tell you, and— well, there’s really no way to time these things...” Maddie began, lacing her fingers anxiously, “See, kids-- When two people love each other very much. Like how your father and I do…” 

“Oh my god!” Jazz screamed, her nerves finally getting the better of her, “Are you guys getting a divorce?!” 

“Wait-- no not at all, Jazzy-pants, you see--” 

Jack placed his large hands on his wife’s shoulders comfortingly, “What your mother is trying to say is that… we might be pregnant.” 

Simultaneously both siblings declared their verdict, “Ew.” 

“Wait,” Jasmine wasn’t blinking and stifled an awkward giggle, “are you certain that you’re pregnant right now, mom?”

However, Danny kept his cool for significantly longer than he thought. A cool fifteen seconds of collected calm, before shattering, “Oh my god! OH MY GOD! We don’t have room for another kid here! I’m supposed to be the baby! I hate being the baby but I know I’m supposed to be the baby! I can’t take care of a kid! OH MY GOD!”

“Whoa, whoa whoa,” Jack took a knee to be on his children’s level, “Take it, easy tiger.” 

“We’re the parents, we’re supposed to take care of all our babies, even when our babies can drive— and vote— and go off to college…” Rubbing her eyes, Maddie attempted to dowse her tears, “Pardon me, I’ve been a mess all morning.” 

Jasmine found her mother’s hands, to let her know that she was still there, that she hadn’t grown up completely, “How long have you been— Have you even scheduled an appointment with a gynecologist?” 

The men in the room clutched their collective pearls at the use of the ‘forbidden’ word.

“Oh grow up!” Jazz barked before softening again for her mom’s sake, “I’m just worried at mom’s age there could be complications. She could end up being bed-ridden for a majority of the term.” 

Retracting her hand, Mrs Fenton narrowed her eyes, “I’m only thirty-eight!” 

“Mom, you can’t be thirty-eight for nine years!” Jasmine flared her nostrils— trying to broach the subject with logic and dignity, though once again her family was too immature to even parse the situation.

Jack weighed in, “Your mother can be as old as she wants to be!” 

“Can we please stop saying old?!” Mrs Fenton folded her arms against her chest, pouting. 

“I think we’re forgetting the fundamental factor here that you guys can’t take care of another child.” Obviously, Danny didn’t mean to make it sound that insulting, they did a great job making sure that he stayed alive and away from electrical sockets. But also Danny’s lack of supervision and natural curiosity was a contributing factor to his death. There was no way he could imagine this happening to someone even younger than him. “I mean you guys barely raised me. Jazz did most of the heavy lifting in that respect, and I still don’t eat all my vegetables.” 

“Jazzy-pants was a good pinch-hitter…” Jack mumbled, “All the more reason why I need to come off the bench and retire from ghost hunting.” 

“What?!”

“... What?” Jack, like most things in life, misjudged the scale of his words. 

Danny stood up from where his body was crumpled on the arm of the couch, “You’re serious?! You’d quit ghost hunting?” 

“I don’t care for that word,” Jack grumbled, but acquiesced, “and I wouldn’t stop completely but I couldn’t stifle your mother at the height of her career. So, I’m gonna be here, with you kids— full time.” 

Danny was ninety percent certain the biggest reason he was still alive and uncaptured was because his father was, fortunately, a moron. Jack Fenton was one of the most technically smart men Danny ever knew. His father was definitely book smart and nothing else. Mr Fenton knew a great deal about things no one in their right mind would care about. Yet the finesse that came to filling out paperwork or attending a school-sanctioned event alluded him.

If Mrs Fenton was left to her own devices she could probably overthrow the government and punch god in the teeth. She had tiger blood in her veins. It wasn’t that Jack held her back at all, if anything he made her patient, empathetic, a more down-to-earth individual. His father was an oafish dreamer, with never a bad thing to say about anyone. His mother was an overachiever, she came from a family of a lot of sisters so she had to prove herself above the rest. Without her husband in the way, she would have an unfiltered focus on catching the Phantom.

There would be nothing in the way of the target on Danny’s head if his dad were to retire.

Glancing at his sister, the youngest Fenton could see that she was having the exact same thought process. Jasmine spoke up, “While that is… surprisingly more progressive than I thought you’d be— what about your career dad, you’re in your prime too!” 

Maddie patted her husband’s cheek, caressing his face with affection— if they thought she was kidding it was clear that her hormones weren’t. Maddie was already on the verge of tears, that big and shiny look. 

“I’ll be okay,” His smile was still warm and genuine as it had ever been, “but more importantly I’ll be there for you kids and…” Jack rested his hand on his wife’s stomach, “unnamed Fenton project number three.” 

The clean air was now pensive. The siblings were being rattled with the impact of the future, and its infinite possibilities. They were helplessly drowning in the present, unable to say anything to make the situation pass. 

Rather strenuously, Jack announced, “I figure we could have all used a home-cooked meal.  So I made one of my mother’s favorites—” 

The kids scrambled to their battle stances, with the feral desperation a bag of alley cats would have. Whenever the kids endured a dinner put on by their parents it usually springs to life with radiation and ectoplasmic energy. Which was fun to explain to child services when Danny had a crippling fear of carrot sticks and Pampered Chef appliances.

Maddie snapped back to being frustrated, “Kids, please I didn’t have anything to do with it. Your father cooked it all himself.” 

“A real midwestern delight! Twelve pounds of coleslaw and chicken fried steak!” Jack shouted. 

The evening continued uneventfully. They sat around the table, and they ate. But they were never full. The food was delicious, empty calories smothered in butter. There was nothing they could say. Metal fork tines and the ribbed edges of knives ran against the plates. The children looked at their parents. Jack was holding Maddie’s hand as he ate which made cutting his food difficult. But he didn’t want to separate from her for a solid second. There was this old superstition that Danny’s father would tell him about, when young couples would separate their hands they would have to call out ‘bread and butter.’ Otherwise, bad luck would befall them. He didn’t know why he thought about it now.

His family was full of love. Love now stood in the face of the cruel element of time. The unknown perilous world that laid in front of them. They were flooded with fear, apprehension, terror, love, and joy. Danny couldn’t feel any of it. He hadn’t been able to taste food for a long time, so pieces of flavorless meat crawled down his throat. He speculated that something was wrong with him. If he should be happy. Something had been wrong with him for a very very long time.

Danny had his turbulent night to sleep on it. He wasn’t taking the news well. How could he? It felt as if his father decided now to cash in his fifty years of life to be a role model. It wasn’t exactly his news to break but it was still too new to touch. Danny thought most of his problems could be temporarily postponed by laying in a dark room-- letting his consciousness slip. Though like most problems they clung like dryer lint.

As usual, Tucker and Sam were preoccupied with something totally unrelated to notice. If it was important they would spill. Until that time would pass they provided a sense of normality. Pretending to be normal almost wasn't an act. Though like imitation leather it was only a cheap replacement with a limited shelf-life. 

Tucker and Danny’s advanced physics with Mr Falluca had reached its assignment period. They were supposed to be making a supply list for a lab revolving around a car made from popsicle sticks and a mousetrap. Despite it being a group project most of the eggheads in class elected to do it on their own to avoid breaking out into hives.

It seemed the allergy to fellow human beings was contagious. 

The computer lab was alive with the buzzing of the servers. The gentle but prominent shimmer of the computer fans. Eleclect students were chattering amongst each other in waves and currents. Then all too suddenly it came to a screeching halt with the sound of the phone.

The dreaded dingy plastic white phone on the teacher’s desk rang. With a garbled long whine. Mr Falluca gave it not one but several rings to gauge the reaction of the class. Could it be a dentist appointment or a suspension in progress? Falluca slowly blinked before grasping the phone. With a few nods and bored, ‘mhmm.’s, Falluca placed the phone back onto the set. In a droll tone, Mr Falluca called out, “Fenton?” 

Danny glanced around, despite obviously being the only Fenton in the computer lab. He took off his headset and rested them around his neck. Awkwardly he raised a finger, then-- staggered instead with his whole hand, “Uh, P-present?” 

“Principal's Office.” The teacher pointed towards the exit. 

This didn’t sound good. The ghost boy inched to the front of his chair hesitantly, “Now?” 

Mr Falluca finished up his signature on the hall pass with a flourish, clicking his pen, “Now.” 

Skulking to the desk, Danny crumpled the note into his hand. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and departed with a wave to Tucker who was too absorbed in his project to notice his immediate surroundings. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Danny left as quietly as the lab doors would allow him to. No one seemed to miss him as he exited. 

The hallways were empty. Despite that fact, that didn’t stop Danny from looking back over his shoulder. It was still. The bright sun outshined the flickering artificial lights inside the building. It was a reminder that Danny was in a form of a terrarium. Not quite a prison. 

There was a hint of the real world outside of the fire exits. It was only his conscience that kept him pinned to the path towards the sophomore office. Danny knew he didn’t do a damn thing! So what the hell was he in for now?! He wanted to hear his sneakers skid on the floor as he spun on his heel, sprinting, towards the outside. As if as soon as he felt the sun on his skin everything would just dissolve away.

What would he even do? Just start running? Fly until his stamina gave out a couple of states away? It seemed as good of a plan as any that his parents had come up with. Maybe life would be simpler when he graduated-- maybe he didn’t even have to be normal! Maybe this was all just grossly temporary. Maybe he’d feel better if he was a town over. Danny thought he’d have it so much better if just his last name was different. If he never had the burden to bear of being a freaky Fenton. 

That wasn’t what was in his heart. He just wanted everything to stop changing around him. He for once wanted to be in control over his own trajectory. Danny wasn’t a runner, he was barely a fighter-- So maybe he would find his sister’s car and just play hookie for a period while watching the wind blow across the parking lot and track field. Just inhaling deeply...

He doubled his already brisk pace, thankful his ratty shoes have held up this long. 

The sharp punctuation of a staple gun could be heard piercing the air. The springs in the gun clicked in a way that caused Fenton’s neck to twitch. 

A lanky ginger basketball player with a camera around his neck was nailing neon flyers to the wall. Danny nearly gagged-- Of course, he would be here. Unsurprisingly, a student who goes to Casper High would be participating in a club hosted at the school. Ornithology? Yeah, right. The rhythmic sound of the staples meeting the wall echoed down the hall. So that’s what he was calling it then? Instead of stalking he was relabeling himself as a bird perv. 

The basketball player was staring at Danny with scrutiny, with his face puckered and twisted unflatteringly. The ghost boy replied with the same expression. 

Speeding past, Danny sneered venomously, “Take a picture Weston, it’ll last longer.” 

Wes jostled his staple gun, puffing up his chest for a response, but grumbled under his breath. As though he was proving some kind of point, the shooting guard gestured to the flyer, “I-I already got two sign-ups--! So--! Yeah, soon, everybody’s gonna know!” 

Sure. Whatever you want to tell yourself. Danny snickered. A gust of wind breached the fire exit door, blowing past the two boys. Ripping the posters off the wall and sending them on a spiral to the floor. Hopefully, it would be the last time Wes would make some idle threats he couldn’t cash. Danny watched Weston as he gathered his posters from the ground. A bit more humbled now. 

Outside of the sophomore office Dash sat on a wooden bench leaning his back against the window that pointed into the student center. The jock stuck his feet out without caution and crossed them at the ankles. Arms folded, he appeared comfortable as if waiting for some time. 

Danny gave a familiar head nod which Dash did not reciprocate. Instead, the football player kept his eyes on his shoes, not out of mindless fear but rather out of defiance. Refusing to acknowledge that Danny was deserving of his eye contact. Someone was a bit of a sore loser. 

“So, you finally get busted smoking in the lavatory with Silent Bob?” 

Dash’s eyes finally found Danny’s face with a certain precision. Locking on. 

The clock that hung parallel to the bench appeared to be broken. The minute and the hour hand stuck on eight-forty forever. The seconds-hand fidgeting and bouncing between the numbers, stagnant in growth but still ticking on. Its broken staccato beat with no partnering tock for its tick was grating as the only thing worth any focus in the empty hallway. Danny found it worrisome that Dash hadn’t said a word yet. That meant he was thinking. 

Before Danny could take a seat, Principal Ishiyama opened the door to the sophomore office, she gave a slight bow to each student, “Mr Fenton, Mr Baxter, thank you for joining us.” 

“It's a bit odd that you would have me here to see Dash’s expulsion for harassment, but hey whatever gives you a sense of sadistic joy.” 

Dash sighed in response-- 

Ishiyama made a face, “Uh, Mr Baxter is--” 

“One of the sorriest excuses you’ve had for a student?” Danny quipped. 

“Er-- no-- Mr Baxter has already been given his punishment, he, in fact, tried to dissuade Mr Burkowitz from pressing charges on you and your family.” 

The words landed on him. This wouldn’t be the first time that his parents would have been sued-- it didn’t get easier to listen to. Danny deflated, “I think I’ll let you finish your thought, ma’am.” 

She tutted, “Yes, quite. Since this transaction happened on school grounds, unfortunately, I’ve had to mitigate the proceedings.” 

“Transaction, what transaction?” Fenton demanded-- wanting to know if he was being implicated in something more nefarious.

Ishiyama gestured to Dash, “As Mr Baxter has explained, instead of waiting until the end of the school day to give him the tape you rented from Mr Burkowitz’s establishment, you instead gave it to him on school grounds. Wherein the tape became damaged.” The principal’s exhaustion was audible.

“So?” Danny chuckled anxiously, “I’ll just pay for the tape, what is it like three? Five bucks?” 

Dash mumbled, “try sixty for the tape, then two thousand for the rewind machine it took down with it.” 

“No fucking way!” With a creaking voice, Danny felt everything below his neck go numb--  he had to recover quickly he gawked at his principal, “Sorry- I just-- are you actually shitting me?” 

Principal Ishiyama squeezed her tear ducts, “No. I’m afraid not, Mr Fenton. We’re not ‘shitting’ you. Is it just setting how deep in trouble you are? It's very lucky Mr Baxter was here to advocate for you otherwise you could have been held liable for felony property damage.” She rephrased, “Malicious Mischief. Forgive me, it's been a long day.” 

The ghost boy only offered a strangled reply. Before Danny could turn blue in the face from lack of taking in a breath-- The principal held up a hand to signal for him to stop.

“We tried getting ahold of your parents, to no avail.” Ishiyama rested her hand on the door leading into the sophomore office, “Dash has been here all morning and has already declined us from calling his father’s assistant to represent him. I’m giving you the option to call your sister from her class--” 

“No-- it's fine, I-I’m fine on my own,” Fenton resigned fitfully, stealing a glance at Dash who didn’t seem to be looking at him. The jock was coldly staring forward as if he was trying to picture himself anywhere but here. Danny couldn't blame him. If Dash wasn’t already in the middle of dissociating himself to the mental equivalent of a picturesque yacht, he’d be right there with him. 

Danny had to assume whatever prank Dash pulled must’ve been so poorly thought through, that it ended with both of them in the fire. Danny’s jokes were mildly inconvenient at worst, but Dash had to ante up as if it was a compulsion. Because he couldn’t stand the idea that he wasn’t winning. Any outsider could have predicted that this was the natural conclusion-- maybe not felony property damage in those exact words, but surely on a similar level. 

Isiyama led them through a beige, boring, narrow passageway, passing a desk with a bored receptionist filing her nails, to an even smaller office. With another opened door the boys wedged themselves into the door frame just barely crushing each other. Their principal should have realized how much of a production these teenagers wanted to make of this. She gave them both a forceful shove into the office. 

There was a man sitting in one of the three chairs in front of them. Danny would describe the man as the love child between that guy in the Godfather and Richard Nixon. A swarthy older fellow with a large bulbous nose, and jowls that drooped. His build was stocky, sturdy, but short. Danny very rarely was taller than someone but this man had maybe an inch or so on him. His hair was thick but sparse-- somehow he had the weakest mustache but the bushiest eyebrows. Much like Danny’s father, the man had flecks of grey splashed in odd places around his head. His arms were like barrels and filled out his silhouette where his legs could not. He was wearing a short-sleeved collared shirt that exhibited a very detailed portrait of the virgin mary on his bicep. He was unmistakably familiar in a way that was hard to place. 

The man stood and turned, with an unimpressed but furious air directed towards Danny. Pointing a sausage-link finger in blame, “Is this the guy? Is this the trouble maker I’ve been hearing so much about?” 

Dash put himself between Danny and the strange man, wanting to defuse the situation, “He’s said he’s sorry. Very very sorry.” 

Within a few seconds upon locking his sight on Danny’s face, the man appeared to be fired up. Now with a lightning rod for his ire. The small man struggled to reach around Dash’s torso to swat Danny, “This is the putz that’s costing me two grand?!”

With very little option, Danny shrank behind the jock since Dash was a walking wall of muscle, “Chill!” 

Offended by the younger generation's disrespect, the man’s eyes bulged with fury, “You chill! Testa di cazzo! Figlio di puttana! Vaffanculo!” 

Yanking on the back of Dash’s letter jacket, Fenton maneuvered his human shield-- Then leaping up, climbing Baxter like an opaque river fog enveloping a bridge. Locking his legs around the quarterback’s waist, Fenton had the high ground. 

Mrs Ishiyama found her seat at her desk, taking two ibuprofen— dry. Rolling her shoulders, she cleared her throat causing all the men in the room to snap their attention back, “Mr Burkowitz please control yourself. Mr Fenton could you—  could you please…  disembark?” 

Right, of course, this was Mr Burokwitz. Danny had only seen him puttering around the store when he was younger. Even then he never thought that he was anyone of importance that would result in him being screamed at in a foreign language. His mind couldn’t recognize Mr Burkowitz without the proper environmental context to paint the full picture. Danny hardly exchanged words with the man other than the stilted and cordial customer service variety. Except for that time Danny got his arm stuck in the claw machine, he should have recognized the caterpillar eyebrows from then. 

Fenton shook his head, shaking the quarterback’s shoulder gently, “We’re good-- we’re good, right, Dash?” 

“Get. Off.” 

Each party found a chair after Danny untangled himself. The principal brought out a yellow writing pad, “So, Danny, would you like to explain your side of the events?” 

Dash's eyes fell to Danny, his lower eyelid twitching angrily. He gripped the sleeve of his letterman, tightly, so the material squeaked. While Dash's expression was muted and restrained, Lazlow gave a traditional threatening mafia gesture-- dragging a finger across his throat. The silence was deafening as Danny eased into his abridged version of the story.

“Two days ago, I rented a tape from Dash at the store. He was very explicit that he wanted it back on time-- so I gave it back to him at school so I wouldn’t lose it. I-I realize I should have just held onto it and gone to the store but I just thought in the moment it was more convenient for both of us…” Danny kept it vague enough, scanning Dash who was still in between him and Lazlow Burkowitz. The ghost boy then added, “honest.” 

With a scoff Dash sunk further into his seat. 

“Would you say this lines up with your account, Mr Baxter?” 

The jock scowled with gritted teeth, “Yes.” 

Ishiyama encouraged the older student into speaking, “would you like to elaborate why Danny would feel pressured to return the tape to you? Or have any guesses why Danny would tamper with the tape?” 

“Hey-- I didn’t do anything!” Balling his fists Danny snapped, “It was in the same condition I got it!” 

"I don't know if I'm using this correctly-- but the way you're framing this is-- is downright Machiavellian! He's not some-- perfect infallible--"

Of course, Principal Ishiyama would never believe him. Dash was the perfect angel that got the school funding for new uniforms and new textbooks. Danny was just below a pox, some kind of walking-talking curse that the school begrudgingly acknowledged. 

Lazlow shouted above Daniel, “There was this disgusting green-- stuff-- on both the front and back. No matter what I did it wouldn’t come off.” 

Scribbling the testimonial onto the pad Ishiyama mouthed ‘green stuff’. She clicked her pen, before asking her next question, “Danny, do you have an answer?” 

"My dad--! He's constantly working with harvested ectoplasm, I dropped the tape and my dad picked it up. He was too groggy to remember to switch his gloves-- and I guess he got ectoplasm on it. And I… didn't notice."

The old man exclaimed in disbelief, “Ectoplasm? Basta!” 

"So, you're claiming ignorance." The principal concluded.  

"I'm guessing before high school principal, you majored in law…?” Danny quizzically gestured towards Ishiyama hoping that she’d cool it with the third degree. Like the next thing she would do was start combing for character witnesses.

Lazlow blustered, his face darkening, “How am I supposed to make my profits this week when I can’t even rewind my tapes?! I run a small business-- I got rent yknow!” 

“Don’t you have insurance?!” 

Wiping spit from his face, Dash finally spoke up, “Can you shout at each other instead of me?” 

Lazlow smacked his employee on the shoulder, “Switch places with me, that’s an order! I'm gonna strangle him--!"

"Look," Danny took a deep breath. This time it was his fault, he was so caught up with the immediate mundane joy of being ordinary again he seemed to forget that meant he was just a screw-up. A spectacular screw-up at that. Comic relief in someone else’s life story. Despite how much it pained him, he uttered, “I apologize. I never would do something so destructive… intentionally.” 

“That’s what the boy was telling me. He thinks you’re good stock.” Lazlow ran his fingers across his mustache in thought and rested his ankle on top of his knee. He was still simmering with a reserved sort of hostility. Burkowitz's physicality relaxed but the muscles in his face were taut.

“I only said that he hadn't graduated to explosives!” Dash defended himself. Closing his eyes tight in exasperation, “It's really my fault for taking the tape from him in the first place. I—  I could, I could like—  work overtime and—  and use my paychecks to cover the cost of a new rewind machine.” 

It felt like an episode of the Twilight Zone . Sure, Dash cared about his job. But the reality was it was some dirty hole in the wall shop of a bodega next to a nail salon with burnt-out neon. It served a purpose, certainly, but ultimately it was just another minimum wage job. He spoke with a passion seldom ever used, that Danny heard the dust in his voice. 

“Ahn…” The old man groaned in dismissal, scratching his forehead with his stubby thumb. He rubbed his fingers together to soothe himself before gradually slowing, “Fenton was it?” 

“Y--yes, sir?” Danny leaned forward, still hesitant. He wasn't looking to get reprimanded twice in one sitting..

“How long can you stand on your feet?”

“I dunno, long I guess? I waited in line for the Phantom Menace for like-- twelve hours?” 

“Alright, I’m convinced.” Burkowitz slapped his knees with both hands, “You’ve got the job.”

Chapter Text

Stunned into silence, Danny’s back found his chair. Abruptly Dash stood, taking extra care not to send his chair flying to the ground, “No-- No, absolutely not-- I can’t work with him.” 

“He’s-- no! I can’t let you hire him.” The jock kept repeating, begging for his boss to reconsider.

Lazlow looked up at his employee, squinting incredulously, “And your reasoning?” 

“...Well-- he’s--” Dash wasn’t much for words. It wasn’t that he couldn’t articulate himself at all. He was quite the conversationalist when he had a keyboard or a pen. More importantly, when the jock had time to prepare an argument, his throat wouldn’t seize. When Baxter became rapidly overwhelmed he would physically lash out. When put on the spot it felt like he was eating sand. It was a side of himself he didn’t like anyone to see, but somehow Danny always did. Dash fruitlessly gestured to Fenton-- as if Fenton’s appearance would suddenly explain every reservation. 

“He’s trouble--!” 

Despite the weak justification, Danny nodded and murmured assent. There was no possible way that he could work a job with Dash-- or any job for that matter! Being a part-time superhero without the comfort minimum wage was bad enough. There was no way he could possibly keep his lackluster grades afloat, work a nine-to-five, and fight ghosts!

Danny gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that he thought that his nails were making tears in the upholstery. It was like his blood stopped moving. As if it froze in his veins. He couldn’t exactly tell them why he couldn’t take the job-- and there was no way Danny had that much money on hand…

Lazlow nodded towards his fingers, “Do you know what this is? This is the world's smallest violin playing for the two of you.” the old man assured, “You’re going to work together to pay off his debt, and that is that.”  

It more so sounded like free labor, Fenton reckoned. He exhaled a tense laugh strictly from his chest. This couldn’t get any worse. 

Yet somehow it did, not immediately, but it was a slow sinking dread. It had to set in like a chemical stain remover. The dread you felt before taking the plunge on top of the rollercoaster’s hill. It sat in the pit of your stomach. Danny couldn’t believe his parents agreed to it, especially with his father’s sudden new lease on parenthood. Not that he was ever expecting his dad to fight for him. No, that was a bridge a bit too far for Jack to cross. His parents were left scratching their heads at how this was almost their fourth lawsuit in a year-- though thankfully it wasn’t a class action recall of one of their experimental projects gone awry. 

Did you know that when working at a video rental store you have to wear a special kind of non-slip shoe? It's so if you were to fall on shift, you couldn’t sue for injury, and your boss can't be held ‘culpable’. However, describing them as shoes was generous. They were more accurately clogs. Boxy, large, ugly clogs. Danny had to learn this while signing a hand-typed contract from Mr Burkowitz. The consent signature was rendered ironic at that point. 

These were the new shoes he could buy for the year. 

It was when his father hunched over the wheel of the family station wagon taking off the handbrake, Danny realized he was still falling. He hadn’t hit rock bottom. He was still scratching the surface. The ghost boy was still in the outfield of the broader sense of ‘worse’ that had yet to come. 

The drive was devoid of any conversation, except the radio hosts from his father’s favorite program. It was hazy to Daniel as he stared out the dirty car window. Some of the terms, and names being thrown around sparked some kind of familiar knowledge-- but the ghost boy was tuning it out, largely because it sounded like sports. Specifically football. 

Noting the glazed over look on his son’s face, Jack volunteered the car’s dashboard, “If you want we can listen to some of that, er-- grunge music-- you like so much, those food fighter guys--” 

“Are you trying to relate to me?” Danny did his best to fight the cringe that crept up his neck.

Jack didn’t let his son’s pessimistic attitude deter him from trying, “I know you’re not-- the most excited about this job, but I worked a part-time gig when I was about your age.” 

“Yeah, grandpa’s vacuum cleaner business. It taught you the only good work is the work you do yourself--” 

“I guess I must’ve worked two jobs then.” Mr Fenton hit the brake a little too hard for a red light and shifted gears awkwardly-- the car backfired, sending their nose a bit farther into the intersection than either of them would like. Jack motioned for the cars turning onto the road parallel to them to take a wider turn. 

Danny tried to hide below the windshield. He grabbed the frail interior bar above the passenger window to stabilize himself. Somehow his father managed to turn what would be a routine drop-off into a life or death affair. Despite Danny’s early expiration, he had a hunch his father’s driving would do him in first. 

Further elaborating, Jack’s large hand accidentally brushed the windshield controls, “See, your grandfather, my dad-- He didn’t think he needed to pay me, he thought the experience was enough. He thought he was enriching my life by making me recite and memorize sale-pitches. He had…” The material of his gloves squeaked under the pressure Jack was using to grip the wheel, “interesting ideas of parenting.” 

When the light turned green, it took Jack a moment to press the accelerator and switch the transmission. He shook his head with the hint of a shiver in his voice, “So… in high school, I got a second job. I worked at the supermarket. Deli counter.” 

Danny pointed out, “Uh, dad the wipers--” 

“That summer taught me a lot. Especially about meat.” Jack took the turn sharp and fast, throwing them to the opposite side of the vehicle, “I found that aside from income it truly provided me something I couldn’t give myself, and my father couldn’t give me.” 

“Please say it was a sense of direction!” Danny pressed his feet so hard into the car floor he began to cramp. He saw a pedestrian attempting to cross the last leg of the crosswalk, “BRAKE! BRAKE!” 

The pedestrian jumped back just narrowly avoiding getting clipped by the front bumper. They had a colorful string of words that were barely audible as the car sped away. 

Jack triumphantly declared, “Exactly! A sense of purpose. For the first time in my life it felt like I was needed-- that I was wanted somewhere. I made friends there. It was good for me, it really brought me out of my shell.” 

A teenager’s most dreaded metaphor-- the shell. This nonexistent thing that all adults seem to think that their children had. That they needed to be freed from. This shell was this obstacle that seemed to keep teens from acting right. Acting how their parents believed that they should. Something that he had to shed in order to become a well-adjusted grown-up. Danny was acquainted with the shell. He heard about it enough times that everyone seemed to believe that his shell was thick and impenetrable-- that he was a hard case. 

No one ever believed that the shell was in place for other people’s benefit. Most creatures that evolved a shell did so out of necessity. Jack was a scientist so he had to have known that.

Danny eyed his father-- judging by how ginormous Mr Fenton was, it was unbelievable that he wasn’t always the confident braggart who stumbled into conversations half-cocked. That somehow this was the person he grew into. This was the person Jack wanted to be. 

Puberty was going to hit him like an eighteen-wheeler, Danny resigned to his fate. 

With a few more corners and straightaways-- a lot of half stops, including rolling stops-- the station wagon lurched in front of the Amity Park Video Rental. The tangerine paint on the outside looked faded in the overcast. Water and oxidized iron stains emphasized the shadows from hard corners. The ghost boy hadn’t realized how poor the state of the building was in the last time he saw it. The open sign flickered and hummed loudly. He could see Dash at the front counter with a large stack of money in his hand-sorting the bills with a studious face. No turning back now.

Reaching across the console, Jack opened the passenger side door for his son, “I just want you to go into this not completely hating it.” 

“Not likely.” Clicking himself out of the sweaty seatbelt, Danny rolled his eyes. He didn’t want his last words to his father to be hostile. He had to choose and pick his moments. After a moment of hesitation, he didn’t want this to turn confrontational later, Daniel begrudged, “but… thanks anyway.” 

Mr Fenton shrugged, “Well, you’ve at least done what I’ve asked. Listen. Good luck today, I made you a second lunch-- so, in case you work up an appetite lifting all those movies. And I also packed the Nine Tails in case you get rob--" 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah I got it, dad, thank you.” Danny shut the car door hard, so the door wouldn’t stick. He was already filled with so much confidence. He hit the top of the car’s roof, signaling that his father should take the hint and disappear. The brown paper bag was the tried and true cliche of the blue-collar working class. Mr Fenton didn’t seem to get the memo that they weren’t supposed to be grocery store bags.

While walking through the door and sounding off the door chime, he peered inside the paper bag, it contained smaller plastic Tupperware packages, which clearly Danny’s mom bought from the Mansons, and was neatly divided into levels and sections 

Half a tray of brownies-- on top so they wouldn’t get crushed. 

A tub of potato salad, which had a strong odor like it used the expired Polish mustard.

The patented Fenton thermos which sounded like it was swimming with some dense cream-based soup. 

Patented Fenton Jack o’ Nine Tails.

A gravy-soaked brisket sandwich on rye bread with purple onions. 

A can of soda: root beer. 

And of course, a granola bar. Y’know, for a snack. 

There was no physical way he would be able to eat all of this. As Danny was analyzing the contents of the sack-- Dash had been standing rigidly at the register, “You’re late.” 

Startled from his own thoughts, Danny nearly shouted, “Hu-- Wha-- N-no, no I’m not! My shift starts at ten.” 

“And what time is it, Fenton?” 

“Ten?” He replied, stupidly, paying a glance at the digital clock on the counter. 

“Ergo, you’re late.” Dash began filtering coins through his fingers letting them rain into the till, “There’s a mini-fridge behind the counter to stick your lunch in. There’s free sodas all day in case you get thirsty, but no drinks near the register; they can cause rings-- am I coming in clear?” 

This was going to be a long day. Despite neither of them being in school at the moment, Dash thought for some reason he was in charge. That was adorable. Being told what to do and following orders was difficult for someone like Danny Fenton. Or any teenager. However, his moodiness was amplified because of his powers. Laboriously Dash explained his personal philosophy on punctuality. Which basically boiled down to:

If you’re early; you’re on time. If you’re on time; you’re late.

A Ms Teslaff original; Danny had to assume. He wasn’t sure if he could sprain the muscles in his eyes, but Baxter was certainly testing him. Danny was still a year below working age so he wouldn’t be handling any money, that was strictly Dash’s job. Each register had exactly one-hundred-eighty dollars and a handful of change. Which Dash would count at the start of the day and make a record of the amount difference at the end of the day.

Lazlow had left a hand-typed list in a large font of ‘Danny-friendly tasks’ which consisted of trivial things like restocking the restroom, cleaning the restroom, restocking the co2 for the soda machine-- cleaning the soda machine… etcetera.

The task with the most importance and highlighted several times with multiple different colors, rewinding the tapes. Which begged the question: how were they supposed to rewind anything without the machine? 

Baxter only laughed in response. 

Danny set his large lunch down on the counter with some heft, “Why do we have to open so early anyway?” He felt smug in his observation, “Most people want to rent movies after school.”

Out of nowhere an unbranded grey-ish off-white cargo truck began backing up towards the front doors-- beeping-- beeping-- beeping-- before exhaling a puff of asphalt and dirt. The engine cut and a man stepped out of the rig marching towards the bed of the truck.

The quarterback clapped a hand on Fenton’s back, dripping with passive-aggressive intent, “‘Cuz we got candy to unload and sort. I hope you like powerlifting heavy boxes and wishing you were dead!” 

Yippee… 

Upon the doors opening with a creak, it was stacked floor to ceiling with boxes full of candy. If he was younger Fenton might have said this was heaven on earth. The absolute height of luxury. Now though all he saw was a mass of cardboard. God, he missed the Box Ghost. He would have a field day with this. He stood in the shadow of the truck wondering exactly when the goal post of ‘worse’ would stop moving. 

Hopping into the truck, Dash lowered his defined forearm for Danny to climb aboard too, “Let's get to it, coworker.” 

Danny couldn’t tell if Dash deliberately chose the lighter boxes to impede his progress. However, After the umpteenth trip to the truck, it didn’t seem to matter. All the boxes seemed to cause the same section of Fenton’s spine to pinch and his muscles to seize. You’d think fighting ghosts all night would at least put some muscle on his bones-- but Fenton’s bones just didn’t take. It wasn’t just that they were heavy either, the boxes were at the right cumbersome size that he needed both arms and a knee to keep him from falling forward. The surface of the cardboard was dry but smooth, so getting a grip of any kind was impossible. 

As they got further inside the truck the darker it got-- until the tight metal walls were ice-cold to the touch. 

This round clearly went to the quarterback as he was bobbing his head along to his music player, double fisting boxes without so much as an out-of-place breath. He carried boxes under each trained arm. Fenton expected Dash to get impatient eventually. If you thought that was so Danny could get out of doing his job... you would be half correct. It just so happened that would be a happy coincidence. Dash made his approach, “C’mon we learned this in gym class, you have to use your quads to propel yourself up.” 

Fenton must have looked confused because then Dash offered to fix his stance. He didn’t know what a quad was. Was that somewhere in his chest? Because he felt some stiffness there. 

Now offering a corrective and supporting hand, Dash rested the pads of his fingers on the lower right side of Danny’s spine-- 

“AH!” Fenton winced, only hearing the impact of the box tumbling back onto the floor of the truck. Dash’s knuckles brushed against a sensitive patch of skin. An ectoplasm burn. It pulsated angrily. It still stung. 

Withdrawing his hand like he made a mistake, Dash stammered out, “Are you-- I didn’t mean to like-- did you pull something?” 

Danny grabbed his side, collapsing onto his knees but narrowly catching himself. Grunting out a reassurance, “It's nothing, it's just-- a lab accident.” 

“A lab accident?” Baxter furrowed his brow. He was concerned. Danny didn’t think he was capable of that emotion.

“My- My dad was testing out this-- uh rifle… thing?” The ghost boy lied, obviously-- poorly. Danny wasn’t used to lying to Dash. He’d never thought he had to. It wasn’t a situation he ever prepared for. He rolled onto his butt, scooting away from the quarterback. Subconsciously still holding his side, shielding his body from further attack. 

“Your dad shot you?!” 

“Oh- oh god, no!” Danny realized how that sounded, “That’s not what-- It was an accident I swear!” 

Fenton swallowed down the growing lump in his throat-- why now was he speechless? Danny’s cottonmouth had to have been the product of work. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to him. The only thing that hurt, that truly caused a painful physical reaction, was plasma weapons made by his parents’ hands. He's had a few bad burns like this before. Not one quite as large as this one but it was healing slowly but surely. Danny explained, unaware that it was closer to the truth than he'd like it to be, “He… He didn’t know it was me. My dad thought I was… a-a ghost.” 

Frowning, Dash rocked back on his legs with disbelief. He offered, “Are you okay to finish?” 

“Ye--yeah. Yeah, I can finish up.” 

“I can take a look at it--later, if-if you need it? I--” Dash cleared his throat, aloofly volunteering, “I needed someone to test out my first aid training on, anyway.” 

Fumbling with a recycled excuse, Danny forced a smile. “No, it's fine. I'm fine.”

He got back on his feet. He picked up a box. He got back to work, making another trip inside the store to add another to the pile.

The jock called out before inserting his headphones again, “Your dad should really get his eyes checked!” 

There were sporadic phone calls following unloading the truck. From the sound of it, they were platinum members talking about reserving the latest copy of newly released animated box office Darling. Mainstream kind of crap. Some rich kids would call ahead about which video game consoles they wanted to rent specifically for spring break. Dash made a great effort to write their names down and locate their prospective purchases. As well as making small talk and suggestions for other cartridges that were available. 

It was from this one half of a conversation Danny was able to piece together that Dash Baxter had never played a video game in his life. The quarterback referred to all the consoles as a ‘Nintendo.’

The jock was hunched over the counter twiddling his pen between his fingers dexterously. Fenton wouldn’t say he was spying on Dash-- they were legitimately a foot or so apart. Danny was close enough to read all the pin-buttons on Dash’s lanyard. 

Danny’s favorite one was a promotional for some kind of vampire flick. It was a Chinese take-out box leaking blood and noodles. A couple were amusing slogans, 

‘Pick your jaw up and off the floor-- I just mopped.’ 

‘We Hire Degenerates.’ 

‘Eat My Shorts’ 

Maybe the word was observing. Danny slowed restocking the candy just to watch Dash work. But the way Baxter spoke was a complete one-eighty. He spoke so softly-- as if he was talking down a feral animal.

Yet the aura that radiated off of him was no different. It ran hot and temperamental. Danny got a similar sensation passing by the black ash aftermath of a house fire on his tenspeed. An empty frame of charcoal beams. It was distracting. 

After folding the last cardboard box for the dumpster, Fenton decided to try and fit his lunch as awkwardly as he could into the store’s fridge. Danny though ended up fixating on the can of soda. Danny was kind of a big eater, he got that from his father-- but he didn’t exactly have the midwestern body type like the rest of the Fenton men. Not that Danny had ever seen his father’s family outside the comfort of a picture frame… 

Danny always kind of assumed that he was an accident. The family didn’t usually budget considering a fourth member. For his first five years of life, he mostly wore Jazz’s baby clothes until the seams popped. Some kids might’ve gotten a little upset by that fact. He might’ve become ‘resentful’ —whatever that meant. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry with his parents because he didn’t really know them. He knew them as the people whose house he lived in. That was enough right? 

Since Danny was old enough to attend school, his parents-- especially his father became enamored with their first love; science. 

He never liked rootbeer. He would drink them with his father as they dozed off together on the couch watching cartoons when he was young. The Fentons seemed to think that their children never aged. As if Jazz and Danny were fossilized in the amber of infancy. 

"Hey Dash, do you like root beer?" 

"Uh," the jock was caught off guard by such inane question, "I shouldn’t really have a lot of sugar— ” 

Oh, so he was one of those kids? Fenton decided that he could write this off now as an act of charity. Danny slid the still cold can to his coworker, "Happy spring break, don't say I never did anything for you."

Perplexed, Dash took the can regardless, "... thanks, I guess."

This seemed to spark a chord with Dash. He stood up straighter, his posture was military. However, his stern expression melted away, his eyes fixed to the can. As if it demonstrated something. Danny saw a small smirk of approval on the quarterback’s face. Just as instantly it vanished. It was a stroke of lightning, it lit up his face for a split second. Like a chaotic act of nature, it briefly felt as if that smile was always there before it wasn't. There was something innocent about it as if Danny wasn’t supposed to see it. 

The jock turned slightly towards the ghost boy, soda in hand. The condensation rolling down his hand then his wrist, then his forearm. Delicately, he gestured toward the front with the can, "did your folks drop you off?" 

"Yeah, my dad did." Danny then offered a paranoid askance, "Why?" 

"Just curious.” Dash answered with a shrug, aloofly admitting, “I didn't recognize the car-- is all." 

‘Just curious.’

Since when did Dash have original thoughts? He more than likely had enough money to pay people to think for him. Which begged the question, why was he working here in the first place? He obviously didn’t need the money. Danny had to wonder if Dash was in the same boat. Being held hostage with some kind of debt. It's not like that would make them friends, right? What happened here is just-- an elaborate facade for tips and good reviews. What happens at the store; stays at the store. 

Yet the way he interacted with customers aside from being extraordinarily rehearsed, displayed some level of-- care. 

Before Danny could stop himself, the snarky tone of his own voice hit his ears, “You want my blood type too? Social security number?”

The soda hit the counter loudly, as Dash placed a hand on his hip and opened his mouth-- 

Door chime; right on cue. A single woman wrapped in layers for the morning. Both boys behind the counter gave her their best fake smiles and artificially warm greetings. 

Leaning down using his side to Danny’s ear, Baxter spoke through his shut jaw, "Christ, Fenton-- you're a real piece of work you know that? Do you ever think that maybe people might go easier on you if you lighten up? If you haven't noticed, I'm trying to help you here." 

"Oh forgive me,” Danny did the same, keeping up the charade. Whispering through his gritted teeth, his face rapidly grew sore, “I'm sorry I don't want to make pleasantries with the guy who almost made me eat a jockstrap!" 

Annunciating a touch too clearly on ‘jockstrap,’ the woman at the coffee station pivoted her head towards them. Dash gave a tiny charismatic wave. Absolutely nothing to see here, carry on. Pay no attention to the boys behind the cash register counter. 

Ducking under the counter Fenton rummaged through the cleaning supplies-- figuring that he could knock out the easiest chore on the list. Washing the main window. He snatched the spray bottle with blue fluid in it. 

Following the ghost boy beneath the counter Dash crouched down next to him, bracing his arms against the countertop. He hissed, "Yeah and you deserved it, okay?! At least I’m honest." 

"What does that even mean?!" Danny stood in utter bafflement before falling through the gateway. Exiting from behind the register-- boldly turning his back on his senior cashier.

"You seem to think the whole world revolves around you.” Having given up being discreet, Dash kept his fists to himself-- burying them deep in his front pockets, “Sometimes you’re the nicest kid I've ever met… other times…" 

"What?" Danny dared him to finish the thought, holding the spray bottle semi-threateningly. He wasn’t a kid. He was only a few months younger than Dash. He wasn’t anyone’s kid. The word passed Dash’s lips with little resistance. However, if he said it again Danny was certain to aim for his teeth. 

"Other times I'd force-feed you a jockstrap…!" 

Yeah, someone definitely heard it that time.

After a moment, Dash’s chest heaved. He shook his head trying to deny the pain directly behind his eyes, "I don't know why I try. I'm nice to you, you bite my head off. I tell you to buzz off, you only get closer. I'm sorry whatever childhood trauma turned you into a complete asshole, but at some point, it has nothing to do with me! Do you like causing problems for everyone else so you don't have to feel so alone? Do you even care about anything besides yourself? Do you even notice that people get hurt every time you're around?!" 

Eyes shooting open, Danny was prepared to cite all the incidents where the opposite occurred. With a balled fist, he continued to bunch the damp rag against the glass, "Please-- I'm sorry you're so handsome, so rich and so talented, life must be so hard FOR YOU ." 

This was of course the time when Danny’s voice decided to jump several octaves before settling on the pitch. He sounded like a strangled cartoon mouse. The squeak was audible and bounced off the tile of the store floor-- echoing all the way to the back rows. The customer was exactly in the center of the Drama aisle, she perked her head up sensing tension. If the ghost boy knew his face had to be flushed… yet he couldn’t feel it. He clapped his hand over his mouth. The cleaning rag falling onto the floor, revealing hairline fractures in the window. The small scratches crawled outward from the impact area which was level with Danny’s head. 

Expecting Dash to hone in on a moment of weakness like the vulture he was, Danny shot a preemptive glare in retaliation.

However, the jock was just as stunned that such a sharp noise could come from someone so... small. He fumbled through his initial shock unsure where his eyes should land. Deciding that the burnt-out crimson sign for the fire exit was good enough. 

Wordlessly, they called a cease-fire. Which lasted approximately until the customer left-- now bored that the boys were no longer squabbling. There was still a lingering silence as Danny watched from the window the customer get into their car and pull out of the parking lot and onto the main road. 

The pair of them sighed. Irritatingly in sync. 

"I only asked if your parents dropped you off, 'cuz walking home alone tonight in this neighborhood is a bad idea. God-- just nevermind... Sorry!" Dash went to move— but his earphones caught on the bottle opener behind the counter. Frustrated, he lifted up his shirt and removed the leather holster for his music player. Dash nearly chucked the device under the counter with the rest of his things. The quarterback concluded that the conversation was ultimately not worth the effort. Too distracting for the work environment. With that, he stormed off to complete another task on the list. 

Haunted by the cracks in the window, Danny decided to man the helm in his superior’s absence. He leaned over Dash’s computer. His arms resting on a small shelf under the counter. He felt the smooth polished texture of an expensive magazine cover. Fenton had only picked it up to move it. The cover caught his attention. It was loud and plastered in various boyish celebrity faces. It was a saturated collage of the famous and talentless--- stars from various tv sitcoms, movies, music groups. Boxes of text were scattered around the pictures giving titles and hints at the articles inside. 

‘Ooo la la, the perfect gentleman.’

‘Who is Justin Timberlake Dating?’ 

‘Is Joey Fatone dating a fan?’ 

‘Devon candid pix! Exclusive limited edition centerfold!’  

It was a Tiger Beat. Dash had a TIGER BEAT under his workstation. Danny had to assume it was Dash’s because it had dog-eared corners that matched the same way he folded his school copy of The Great Gatsby. Fenton gave the magazine a cursory flip-through. Nothing stood out. A few things were circled with a red pen, a few filled-in quizzes here and there. 

In the room tone of the store, between cars rumbling on the street outside, the ghost could hear the tinny sound of music passing through earphones. Danny saw the back of Dash’s head poking out near the back shelves. There wasn't anything to stop him from investigating further. He was sorting tapes and checking their stickers. With caution, Danny gathered one earphone, coiling it around his finger. He rested it against his ear 

“ — thought I was whole

Why do I feel like I'm losing control?

I never thought that love could feel like this

and you've changed my world with just one kiss.

How can it be that right here with me there's an angel?

It's a miracle…”

That song was on MTV. He could visualize the terribly flamboyant dance routine that went along with it. Just barely Danny caught himself from snorting— Oh god! Dash liked boy bands?! Dash Baxter: captain of the football team liked Boy Bands?! 

Danny bit his lip to refrain from laughing. Dash Baxter was a total mo. That was the only reasonable way to justify this. This was so-- so girly! Did he want to dance like them? Did he want to dress like them? Was he studying them for a cultural project? Unlikely. Not only was Dash gayer than a male German model after a parachute of molly, he thought the height of luxury was working a dead-end retail job. Maybe the bottle-blond look was a result of frosted tips gone wrong. Was that why he gave Danny such a hard time? Because he couldn’t Hang Tough? Because Danny didn’t pierce his ears? 

Suddenly the tacky holographic tracksuits made sense. Parties with a dress code? What a flamer… 

Pocketing the magazine, the ghost boy rolled the magazine and put it in his back pocket. Leverage like this didn’t come around often. He had to find a better hiding spot for it later.

It was hours later when they were enroute to the store. 

Normally Sam and Tucker spent their days off together. It wasn’t any different from when they were ‘on duty.’ but it felt a lot less apprehensive. They would share food while window shopping around the mall, browse vinyl, and play chess in the park. It didn’t matter what they did. Sometimes they ended up at Sam’s house with her nose deep in a witchcraft novel while Tucker played with her PlayStation. He liked to play Resident Evil at her house since he was too scared to even touch his save file without back-up. Sam’s ‘back-up’ of course was usually a pat on the back and some organic tomato juice. Tucker always seemed happy no matter the situation. He seemed to flow from moment to moment, never sweating the small hang-ups. He seemed to be a natural improviser.

Which is why Sam thought he would be fine if they didn’t spend a single minute alone together. Through sheer desperation she scoured her contact list for anyone else to become their designated third wheel. Her first instant thought was Mikey since he was nice and nonthreatening and wouldn’t alter the dynamic too much, but his family was on vacation. It was vague in the way it sounded like Mikey was avoiding her. She didn’t read too much into it. 

Jazz, the second candidate, would have been happy to, though apparently she was at the OBGYN-- which Sam hung up immediately after hearing. 

Which meant Kwan was in rotation, while he was excited to get the offer of being Sam’s third choice, had already made plans with Wes. 

Wes, was her fourth hail mary. 

With no other option. Sam thought to hell with it! Why fix what isn't broken?!

And decided the perfect place to hang out all day was Danny’s new job at the video rental store. 

“Don’t you think Danny might be a little preoccupied with-- yknow, his job-- to hang out?” Foley reminded her.

“He still has time to make chit-chat in life or death situations, I’m sure he won’t mind.” Manson gained speed down the sidewalk when the store came into view. She walked swiftly, nearly breaking out into a jog. 

In the front window the boys could be seen yelling at each other. Not screaming, no not yet. But definitely not saying anything positive based on their body language. Dash was scanning a patron’s tape with the scanner— being a showboat for tips. Twirling the device around and juggling it like a gunslinger in a western, Dash had a leading man smile. Danny meanwhile had an annoyed glint in his eye. He snatched the scanning-gun away from his senior cashier and began ‘shooting’ him with beams of crimson red light. 

It looked like Dash was making the universal gesture for choking, but the glass was distorting the exchange. 

Sam peeled her face off the window and pushed through the door. A pop song floated out of the door. Already setting the tone for her irritation. She held the door open for the departing customer— 

“Trouble in paradise, boys?” she called with a wolfish grin adorning her features. 

Dash jumped like had just seen his ghost-- he inched away from the counter already surrendering, “Please, god, we just got the place fixed up.” 

“Hey Sam,” Sighing Danny, set down the scanning gun he was using to blind Dash.

“So is this an official ‘we’ now?” Sam emerged from behind the door setting off the chime, “Team Danny and Dash? Team video store?” 

Danny regarded Dash, and Dash returned the same look plus interest.

 “No.” “Not a chance in hell.” 

Manson waded into the store towards the staff-picks near the cash register, “Good to know somethings will never change.” 

“I am not afraid of you, Manson.” Dash still kept his distance as if looking at a suspiciously big spider, “but I have a louisville slugger somewhere around here for my protection.” 

Sam quirked a brow, “Somewhere?” 

“I kept using it to practice my swing on the old rotting fruit from the market across the way and-- long story short,” The jock had said as though he was bragging, “it's somewhere.” 

“Fascinating.” She declared ironically.

The glass door smacked Tucker on the forehead. Then another chime followed as the geek entered the establishment. His expression went sour as he rubbed his face. 

“Aw, man, I just cleaned that--!” Danny cried out. 

“Sorry-- I thought Sam had the door.” he gestured with his PDA in hand, “I’ve been running my ghost algorithm for the past week and-- OW!” 

Pinching his arm, Sam gestured with her eyes to Dash. Dash raised his eyebrows in reaction to this. Ghost algorithm? That sounded… lame and boring. But it also inspired wariness. The jock didn’t think the group would be interested in ghost hunting but he had been over to the Fenton’s enough times to know that Mr and Mrs Fenton offered a ghost hunting workshop. It sounded like a good idea on paper. Dash was undeniably a flyer not a fighter, so he didn’t think he needed them. If anything he believed it was an exercise in unnecessary fear mongering and the jock didn’t need excess anxiety in his life. Though he does have flashes of attending a neighborhood watch type of group for paranormal activity with Kwan, Paulina, and Mr Lancer… 

It was a blur. 

Dash had been possessed a few times. You never got used to it. Disconnecting someone from their soul after a certain period would cause irreparable damage to their mind and body. It was like being deprived of oxygen. The soul may not be aging, but the body encasing it, was. It would decay rapidly with a spirit inside causing the body to rot around it. It was odd to wake up in the middle of the road feeling that he had been flattened by piano, he could have written that off as sneaking a few bottles from Kwan’s store. 

It was disturbing when Dash was left with his ears ringing, his jaw clicking, nose bleeding. But the most terrifying was when it was discovered a chunk of his tongue had turned black, which he found out later was the early stages of uvular necrosis. It was spreading from inside his esophagus, outward to his mouth. Baxter didn’t like being scared, but being scared of ghosts was a lot better than the alternative. It kept him alive. 

Sam and Tucker were a lot braver than him, that much had been established. 

If they were ghost hunting, Dash wanted no part of it. He declared, “by all means don’t stop on my account. I’m going on break.” 

Baxter threw up his hands, giving up, grabbing his letter man before leaving, “adios, dorks.” 

“Oh, before you forget, Danny… please, with a cherry on top, clean the friggin’ fountain machine.” Door chime; exit stage left. 

“Where the heck is he going?” Tucker brandished his platinum member card from his cargo shorts, “I was going to ask him to reserve a copy of Ape Escape.” 

Danny flipped Dash the bird once the jock was across the street, “Probably gonna sit at the jack-in-the-box and fart in an eggroll, the jackass.” 

“So, I’m guessing it's not going great then?” The goth toyed with the rotating gift card display, draggin the cards up with her nail only to drop them back down onto the shelf with a satisfying metallic ring.  

“Mr Burkowitz asked me to pick up his dry cleaning later.” 

“Your boss makes you do his laundry?” 

In defeat, Danny shrugged, “I guess.” 

“That sounds like a shit job, Danny.” 

“I was thinking the same thing.” He retorted unenthusiastically, “Instead of punching me and putting me in headlocks. Dash has proven to have the range for psychological warfare.” 

Crossing his arms, Tucker was doubtful, “I’ve seen his grades. There’s no way that’s possible.” 

“I’m telling you he’s trying to get in my head.” Danny pointed to his temple.

“How?” Manson encouraged him. She had no qualms with getting even on Danny’s behalf. 

Danny narrowed his eyes, “He’s being nice to me.” 

Wiggling his fingers in dramatics, Foley mocked, “The absolute monster.” 

“Ugh, It’s fake Tucker. He’s so fake. He makes my skin crawl.” Danny grimaced, “I bet he isn’t even a real blond, his eyebrows are pitch black.” 

“Do you think Paulina’s lash extensions are any more genuine?” Sam snickered, noting the hypocrisy.

“I think as long as she bats them his way he could care less.” Turning his back, the geek sauntered down the comedy aisle, “Do you think you could rent me American Pie ?” 

“Not if I’m gonna get a call from your mom,” Fenton leaned over the register, “Why is it whenever you have porn, I get chewed out?” 

“ American Pie isn’t porn , it's cinema .” 

He wasn’t in the mood for jokes, Danny pulled at the bags underneath his eyes, “So, I was crunching the numbers. I get paid five-fifty an hour. I owe Burkowitz two-thousand-and-sixty for the damages. So at twelve hours a week, for exactly two hundred hours--  I’m gonna be here long after spring break. I’m estimating I’m going to be out of commission for at least a month.” 

Sam’s mouth fell open, “You’re kidding!” 

Shaking his head solemnly, the ghost boy begrudged, “Do I look like Seinfeld ? I have to listen to Achy Breaky Heart every hour on the hour, not by choice— but because I am being held here against my will.” 

Foley thumbed through tapes, tutting, “Yeah, you have a better than average minimum wage job like the rest of the population in suburbia. Not to mention an employee discount, free popcorn and soda— yeah, why should I feel sorry for you?” 

“Dude, I wouldn’t be in this situation, if you didn't insist that we come to the video store!” 

“You’re lashing out at me because you were irresponsible with the tape you rented…” Lowering his glasses to the bridge of his nose Tucker mumbled, “Makes sense…” 

“How do we know Dash didn’t explode the rewind machine because he hates this job too?” Sam defended Danny, “I mean, if I had to stand around all day listening to the hot one-hundred, I’d snap.” 

“The dude’s cunning, but not that subtle.” The ghost boy knew the A-lister pattern. It usually acts of incredible petty violence, like shoving, punching, locker slamming, shoulder-checking, pickpocketing, belt stealing, and texas wedgies. It was annoying, yeah but manageable. Dash wasn’t even smart enough to use a textbook to avoid leaving bruises. Not that Danny bruised anymore, but still a bit of effort was appreciated. At least in his run-ins with ghosts had substance. They weren’t boring. Dash also had a habit of stealing Danny’s pens. Probably not related to the harassment but Fenton wasn’t going to rule it out. Danny lifted the gate from behind the counter and made his way over to the soda machine with a rag in hand, “He has an alibi. Lazlow was the one who ran the tape through the machine, and it's pretty clear from the smell that it was an ecto-splosion.” He gestured to the rear fire exit with his thumb, “The burnt out husk is still in the alley if you want to check it out.” 

“Gnarly.” Tucker sucked in a breath, poor piece of machinery didn’t deserve to go out like that. He picked up a tape from the rack, “Hey Sam, you wanna rent Teen Wolf with me?” 

“No! Tucker, I don’t want to rent Teen Wolf with you! Are you nuts?!” Manson stamped her foot, “Danny needs our help!” 

Tucker exhaled calmly, putting the movie back on the shelf, “So, I’m guessin’ that's also a no on Earth Girls Are Easy ?” 

“Can you take this a little seriously, please?” Danny opened the cabinet underneath the fountain soda machine. The dark green CO2 canister hissed and churned quietly, “If I’m stuck here, then Amity Park is in danger.” 

Clicking his tongue, Tucker rolled his eyes, “If you had let me finish my thought earlier. My ghost algorithm has reported no new patterns and predicts the next ecto-surge won’t be until June. Obviously I’m still monitoring the situation, but as far you need to be concerned you are just some dude who works at a video rental store. ” 

“Tucker,” Danny said laboriously, “I need you to keep up with me, listen to me on this one— I don’t want to be here!” 

“This is one of the hottest jobs in Amity Park. This used to be the dream, man! You are surrounded by all the movies we’ve ever wanted to see, even the good ones. You are the man who can turn delicious lemonade back into lemons.” 

Sam attempted to defuse the situation, she deadpanned, “Too much sugar is bad for you.” 

“Emphasis on ‘used to be’. It feels like I’m trapped in a tomb here with all the pleasures I was denied in life.” Stooping down, Fenton turned the valve off, “Seriously! Wake up, Tucker. I have an actual job. And it's not repeating the same spiel about a rewards membership every five minutes to someone I know isn’t even listening—” Danny’s voice petered off with lack of breath, “I get enough of that with you two.” 

Tucker reeled like he had been shot. He felt his face drop like a downed bird, “... I get that you’re upset. I get it. But you can’t speak like that to me, you can’t speak that way to Sam. I can’t allow you to speak about yourself that way either.”

Glaring at him from the ground, Danny didn’t say anything. He didn’t enjoy receiving orders. Especially not someone he considered a friend. 

“You can’t keep acting like your life is over, because, newsflash, it isn’t. You’re still here; you’re still fighting.” Tucker stepped out from the comedy aisle. So Danny could see all of him. His shoulder nudged a rotating display of films on clearance causing the metal frame to creak. Foley leveled his voice, taking care that both of his feet were on the ground. He may have put his whole body into what he said but his voice was just a hair above a whisper, “Even if you are dead you can’t expect me to stop living.” 

“Tucker…” Sam uttered his name like a warning. 

The geek felt his disappointment bubble through, “It’s getting old Sam.” He gripped the fabric of his sleeves, “Kind of like how whenever Danny comes back into the picture, you forget I exist.” 

Before Manson had a chance to respond— The ghost boy growled, “Back? I never left!” 

“I don’t know if you know this Danny, but when you’re off doing god knows what in the Ghost Zone. We’re still here.” Tucker stared at Sam. He knew that she wasn’t going to back him up. His hope still lingered. It was a chip that wouldn’t mend. It didn’t break him but all anyone saw was damage.

“Stop pretending that this is easy, putz!” With coffin-pointed nails, Sam grasped Tucker’s shoulder, “I don’t know what’s going through your head, but this isn’t! About! You!” 

She shook him hard to emphasize her point, her fingers digging into his arm. She has wrenched his body too far. His torso collided into the clearance rack, knocking it down to the ground. The tapes spilled onto the carpeted aisle floor.

Wincing, Danny’s hand had flexed, severing the tube between the machine and the carbon tank. He didn’t want to see them fight, despite how much they were bugging him. 

He shirked Manson off, swatting her hand, “Wow, Shocking! Forgive me, I thought I was in a parallel universe where my opinion mattered.” Tucker spat with muted bitterness, “You guys deserve each other.” 

Tugging his hat down low, Tucker marched out of the front. Door chime. 

Sam glanced down at her hands before eventually clasping them tight together. Tight enough to cause her knuckles to whiten and her bones to draw pain. Danny looked at her, and he saw the regret that racked through her frame. Pinning some of her loose hair behind her pierced ear she assured, “Don’t worry; I’ll clean this up.” 

When you end up turning the wrench too tight you strip the screws. 

It broke.

Chapter Text

Sam had left before Dash got back from his ‘break.’ 

The break consisted of figuring out a legal way to acquire two thousand dollars so he would never have to see Danny on his side of the counter ever again. The quarterback hadn’t ruled out bank robbery yet. He thought about maybe getting a second job— use both of his paychecks to pay off Fenton’s debt. However, it's not like he’d accept the money anyway. No, it looked as if the creepy little ghost boy wanted to stick around to make sure Dash felt inadequate everywhere else too.

Dash’s dad could be of some use, perhaps. Though the jock doubted his father would even begin to understand what Dash needed the money for. He hadn’t exactly told his dad about the job. In all honesty, it never came up. They didn’t speak much unless it was about athletics. Most of the time to let his son know he made it home okay, he’d give one soft knock at the door before going to bed. And the idea of big daddy Baxter getting involved would give Danny way too much ammunition to work with when class was back in session. Untangling the problem in a manner of ways Dash still sat with his hands tied. He had paced, he had jogged, he even began to do what he did best when he needed his blood to move— one-handed push-ups— in the parking lot. 

Yes, it did look quite peculiar. 

It didn’t help. But it did give him the excuse to be too tired to thwack Fenton in the back of his head when he got too smart. This would have to be the system for the next few weeks— when Danny would inevitably piss him off Dash would excuse himself into the alley behind the store and punch the brick. If he remembered the multiplication table as Jazz had taught it to him… The minimum wage was five-fifteen an hour… at less than twenty hours a week… 

The jock held himself perpendicular to the ground, sweat rolling off his nose and into the crevices and casms of the sorching asphalt. His hand felt like a fried egg. His thoughts were stalling out like the engine of a car twice handed down with the sticking locks. 

Divide two-thousand-and-sixty by five-fifteen— C’mon Baxter; you’re in high school, it shouldn’t be this hard to carry some numbers!

It was exactly four-hundred hours. 

Dash could keep this up for a measly four-hundred hour, right? He could be close-quarters with Fenton for four-hundred hours… surely. He could survive Testlaff’s suicide drills. He could effortlessly handle freaky Fenton for four-hundred hours. If he were religious, this would be the part where he gets on his knees and prays in the silhouette of the marque. 

Two feet entered his sight. Dressed in the same black work clogs he wore now. Great, the jig was up— he couldn’t wait to hear what Danny was going to whine about now— 

Except it wasn’t Danny. It was feminine but rough cadence that nearly sent him to the ground, “Er… Dash-a-boy, did you lose a contact or something?” 

“Val!” Baxter scrambled to his feet. Thinking fast, he covered his glowing nametag, “H-ha--How’s it hangin’?” 

Giving the jock some room, Val chuckled, “I just came by to rent the Mia Farrow version of The Great Gatsby for our project.” 

She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. It looked like it pained her, “ --and get Gymkata for my dad.” 

“What a coincidence!” Dash declared boisterously, “I’m here for that too!” 

“Gymkata or our project?” 

“Project-kata,” Thinking even quicker, Baxter changed the subject, “Uh— Hey, how did you get here?” 

Swiveling her head towards the bus stop— Dash took the opportunity to pitch his name tag into the back alley. It ricocheted off of the dumpster sending a pack of stray cats scattering. Val snapped her attention back, “I just took two busses when I got off work. You will not believe the weirdos I saw; this one lady had a pigeon on her head. Just like chillin’.”

“That’s crazy!” Dash said, without fully registering anything past ‘weirdos.’ 

“I know!” Val began walking to the entrance but hesitated when she noticed her friend wasn’t tailing behind her. Perplexed, she queried, “aren’t you gonna come in too? Or do you want to keep planking in the parking lot like a roid-monkey?” 

Forcing his feet to move, one in front of the other, Baxter reluctantly agreed, “...Yep.” 

To say that teenagers were insecure was a massive understatement. However, what they chose to be sensitive about varied from day to day. Dash wasn’t particularly thrilled about the idea of anyone thinking less of him because he loved romantic comedies. Colloquially they were known as the chick flick. He enjoyed them so much that he snagged a job frequented by mouth-breathing nerds to watch them.  

The jock had a reputation to maintain. He was never too sure what that meant. His responsibilities of maintaining the ‘right’ amount of mysterious allure was incredibly taxing. His arms were getting sore from keeping everyone the right distance away. Val was one of Dash’s closest friends. He had told her most of the things that he perceived to be wrong with himself. He couldn’t let her know how pathetic he actually was without her especially if she saw who was working the counter with him. Val wasn’t a surface-level friend, but Dash wasn’t about to burst his comfort zone of trust today.

Holding the door open for her, the two had entered the store. The door rang, alerting Danny who gave a nonchalant, “Welcome in, how can I make your day— rent-tastic?” 

That wasn’t how you’re supposed to say it, Dash wanted to correct but remained silent. Danny seemed more preoccupied with picking his nails and appearing despondent. To be fair most minimum-wage employees wore that as their uniform anyway. The ghost boy didn’t look like his usual smug self, in fact, he looked a lot angrier.

Grey nudged the jock with her elbow remarking, “They just let anyone work here, huh?” 

He tried to laugh, but the noise that came out was so strained it sounded like an owl’s mating call. Steering her gently by the shoulders, Dash escorted her to the martial arts section as it was the closest to the door, hoping that Danny was too distracted to notice him re-enter. He bent his knees and crumpled his body so far down just to make sure not a single blond hair could be perceived. 

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You’re not on drugs right?” Val regarded his sudden moves with caution and concern. 

“Uh— yeah! I’m all good! All good! I just thought I would check from the bottom-up, it feels like everything you want is always on the bottom of the shelves… g, g we’re looking for a g—” 

“Why are you whispering?” Valerie spoke in her normal tone at her normal volume 

Dash blinked, “‘Cuz it's like— a video library, right? That's like the polite thing to do.” 

She couldn’t dispute his odd logic but she wasn’t going to adhere to it, “I guess.” She had a half a second before Dash was trying to shove the cassette for Gymkata into her hand. She chuckled and swatted him away, “You’re being such a goon right now. Give me a second to look around. What are you thinking about getting?” 

Gah— now she wants to make a conversation? 

Grabbing the first thing within reach, he snagged a DVD case. With an astute scholarly observation, he gave a cursory glance to the box, “I heard this was good.” 

Val looked down, “Romeo Must Die? I didn’t peg you for a Jet Li Fan.” 

“Oh— I don’t know a lot about fighting movies. I watch a lot of westerns with my dad— y’know, like, uh, Paul Newman .” 

“Oh my god, that just sounds old and boring,” She giggled while running her thumb along the cases, “how do you cope?” 

“Footloose, mostly. I think that one is in my top ten of all time. Dancing is like… I dunno-- cool.” 

“Is that anything like Flashdance ?” 

“Sorta…” Dash spoke hurriedly, he glanced to the counter to see that Danny had vanished. Okay, he would have to talk to him about leaving the counter unattended some other time, right now the quarterback was more focused on getting Val the hell out of here. 

“Did you not pay your late fees or something? You’re acting so sketchy right now.” Val shook her head with amusement. It would be in character for the meathead to totally space a due date. Which was why she expected that she would be the one doing the heavy-lifting with their English final. She followed him without the worry Dash clearly carried himself with.

Once again not giving her a fraction of a second even to parse the aisle, he had grabbed the seventies version of The Great Gatsby. It was in the flagged ‘Last Minute Book Report’ section. Next to it was the film adaptation of Wuthering Heights and Charlotte’s web. In hindsight, this part of the store wasn’t as well thought out as Burkowitz gave himself credit for. Dash handed the tape to her and turned her towards the counter. 

Grey was a little bit more annoyed by this, “Dash— are you mad at me or something?” 

“Wha— no, of course not! I just thought that we could hang out instead of…” He tried to think of the least offensive thing he could call his place of work, “being in this dweeby place.”

“That’s sweet of you…” 

Why did he detect a ‘but’ at the end of that statement? 

Val vaguely excused herself, “but I got some work I need to do.” 

“But you’ll call when you’re not working right? ‘Cuz we should… we should catch up sometime…” 

Valerie knew that wouldn’t be for a long, long time. The future was something she needed to fight for tooth and nail. She couldn’t let someone like him get mixed up in her craziness, plus it looked like he had a lot going on. She fiddled with the waistband of her work apron, “We should.” 

She wryly added, “And I can begin your karate movie education.” 

“No Mercy?” 

“No Mercy.” Grey mocked a crane-kick stance which had been outlawed in most tournaments. Playfully Val gave him a few punches to the abdomen which he felt a lot more compared to the last time she did something similar. She migrated towards the counter presenting her two tapes. 

The worst had yet to be over. 

Appearing behind the counter almost magically, Danny gave the standard customer survey, “Did you find everything alright?” 

“Could I interest you in the platinum membership card?” 

It was the script he was supposed to follow for every single customer without any deviation. Something they had so memorized, it often exited their mouths unprompted. Every single ‘no’ they received in response caused no friction. With a wicked expression, and ice-cold eyes Fenton said, “Have you checked out our staff picks?” 

Danny pointed to the rack just opposing the counter. 

Rushing to the front, Baxter knew this wasn’t going to be pretty. He skidded into the counter hitting the bottom of his ribs. Baxter stared at the now vandalized staff pick section. Spike’s side was left intact, if not shoved off to the side to display the real show. Pastel pink VHS copies of the animated Carebears movie. Specifically, The Carebears II: A New Generation. 

What once was Dash’s tastefully curated selection of John Hughes comedies and underrated classic films from the black and white era— was now replaced with direct to video sugary bears that exposited on the meaning of friendship. When did the store even stock that many copies of the same movie? Whether it was because he was mortified or because of pure unbridled shame, Dash went pale. It wasn’t that he lost the bones in his legs but he certainly felt the spotlight of whatever customers were left in the store. 

“Hey Dash, there you are, pal, I’ve been looking everywhere for you…” Fenton placed Dash’s discarded name tag into his hand, before explaining,  “Since I’m not technically a fancy ‘supervisor’ like you, I can’t actually ring up Val… So, you really came in the nick of time. I was just showing her your picks.” 

Brow knitting together, Val stuck out her bottom lip in confusion, “You work here too?” 

All Dash could see was her mouth moving. His hearing having left as a symptom of his humiliation. Whatever question she uttered, he staggered an agreement to. Wordlessly, he lifted the gate and found his place behind the counter. His body barely shoving Fenton out of the way, who was still relishing in his evil little scheme to care. Danny had that glint in his eye, that self-assured leer, that was unequivocally vile.

“Dash, why didn’t you tell me?” 

He didn’t have a good answer. 

Val pulled up on her bag, and her eyes glazed over, “I’m gonna have to pass on the tapes, I’ll… uh… I’m gonna go.” 

Without a goodbye, she marched out of the store, leaving the tapes on the counter. 

“What is wrong with you, Fenton?” Dash’s voice was hoarse and scratchy.

Truthfully, there was a lot wrong with him. It would be easier to say what was right. He was born lucky enough not to need braces. There was one thing he had going for him. This wasn’t a residual effect of his friend group up and imploding on him. No, of course not. This wasn’t a cheap way to make himself feel better. Seeing Mr Perfect down on his knees was just a happy accident. Fenton didn’t believe he was doing anything wrong, he was just getting what was owed to him. 

The question didn’t itself didn’t sting, but the tone. The tone was something the ghost boy took personally. Danny thought they had entered their lightning round of remarks, “Wrong with me? Hi, Pot, my name is Kettle. Have you noticed you’re black?” 

Dash didn’t dare look at Danny’s face unless he wanted to go ballistic. The closest thing to a friend who understood him, walked out the door and he was once again alone. Alone in this goddamn store. Surrounded by ephemeral faces who didn’t care if he died tomorrow. Yet somehow, this was his fault. It was his fault for being so guarded. It was his fault for not letting anyone ever see the imperfections that wore his skin like a costume. 

For once the jock wielded his words with precision and poison, “Someday… Someday real soon, I hope. Someone is going to get to know the ‘real’ you. And they’re not going to like what they see either.”

“If this is how emotional you get over some freakin’ Care Bears.” He didn’t figure the jock to be so… sensitive. Weak. Though it was clear the ghost boy was outpacing his peers in terms of cruelty and strength. Fenton gave an idle threat, “You’re so lucky I didn’t tell her about your NSYNC Fever.” 

Hands quickly diving under the counter for his magazine— Dash began to knock over various objects, flyers, and displays tearing apart the front desk. Papers littered the ground, Dash threw the keyboard onto the tiled floor, rummaging through the counter— 

“Uh, yeah genius, it's not there.” Sneering, Fenton watched the quarterback tie himself in knots. 

The cellophane wrappers burst into a cloud of crumbs and dust. He knew he was going to pay for that later. Dash snarled, “It’s seriously not funny.” 

“You should tell your face that, because this is hilario—” 

Abruptly in the middle of speaking Danny was nabbed by the collar of his shirt. Nose to nose. So Danny could better see what expression Dash was pulling. He enunciated, “Read my lips. It’s not funny.” 

Grinning from ear to ear, with barely a struggle Fenton simply uttered, “Ha. Ha.” 

In a voice that wasn’t his own, Dash kept hearing this siren in his head telling him to beat Fenton within an inch of his life. Despite his raised arm, Baxter couldn’t go through with it. Freaky Fenton just wasn’t worth it. He thought about that ‘accident’ Danny had mentioned before as if that had anything to do with his nightmare of a personality. He didn’t even want to look at him anymore. This had not only grown past boring, past annoying, it just made him feel sorry for Fenton mostly. Less than kindly, the quarterback dropped Danny back onto the floor, “Get out of here, Danny. You’re done. I’m done.” 

Oh, so it’s Danny now? The one thing Fenton thought he could predict— the one thing he could control without fail suddenly decided to evolve away from its pattern. 

“Aren’t you gonna you…” He wanted to fight. Danny needed to fight to prove somehow he was alive. That he was still here; that he was winning. He wanted to feel his slow pumping blood ooze through scrapes on his knuckles, “Y’know, wail on me?” 

Barely even audible Baxter mumbled, and leaned over the counter in defeat, “Get. out.”

Instead of anger, it was… disappointment. Like there was some small part in the quarterback that thought that this could work out. That somehow they wouldn’t be at each other's throats. Fenton didn’t know what the guy expected. Danny was… a monster. A ghost. A creature with a hair-trigger temper. Danny shuffled around the jock and through the gate. Exiting the store promptly. 

Danny was better off. Screw Dash Baxter. Screw his friends. Screw his family! 

Once he reached the parking lot, he saw how the sky bent at the corners. It leaned into the curve of the planet. A warm breeze hit his cheek. And he was alone. 

Chapter Text

No one could get a hold of Dash on a Saturday. Most wouldn’t want to unless they wanted to face his uncaffeinated wrath. So they stopped trying. Aside from the numerous extracurricular activities he kept adding to his packed schedule, most of his battery was spent talking down his friends from doing something stupid. When his friends remembered that he existed, that is. He seemed to skate between the worlds of being socially important as the figurehead jock-type and being just popular enough to make eye contact with his peers. It was an exhausting tightrope of hormones and puberty. It was material and skin deep. 

The A-listers were less like friends and more like an elaborate group of students whose parents all knew each other.

Kwan was perhaps the exception. He didn’t come from an extraordinarily wealthy background. The Byuns owned a liquor store in the promenade. It was enough money for a red letterman and a spot on the team. Kwan had grown up in Dash’s old neighborhood, presumably attached at the hip. He’d like to say they were still the same despite Dash now residing in uptown. However, the distance wasn't just in location. Things were a lot less complicated when they were younger—Saturdays, for instance. Dash had pre-coordinated one day out of the week where he didn't have to talk to anyone. He didn't have to fake it. 

While back reading this morning’s latest Paulina Sanchez flip out in the group chat, he happened to scroll too far-- stumbling upon an exchange between Val and someone else. Against his will, he bristled. He kept scrolling to hear her voice. It was as if he saw her in a dream, and she was walking further and further away from him while he stayed. Nailed in place. He knew he could catch up, but he was paralyzed.

He didn’t speak about it much, but he thought about Valerie Grey. Dash wouldn’t say he’s genuine friends with anyone in the A-list clique. Val was a bit different. She was always a bit different. It could have just been Dash’s bias, but he greatly admired anyone with academic intelligence. Val was on another level. She was smart and a natural on the volleyball team. She had confidence. She was a total knock-out. As well as just a great friend.

Val-ley Gurl the OG @ 6:13 pm, 1/27: the concert is gonna be killer. I hope the seats really do give you nosebleeds, lol.

Then she was gone. It was so innocuous. It wasn’t a big explosive fight, but it wasn’t a goodbye either. It was just as utterly devoid of meaning as the rest of the vapid conversations in the text chain. The evidence that she was there, however briefly. Val still persisted in memory, in the stories he'd relay to classmates. He wondered if she thought about him too. Told stories on his behalf. He hoped they were good. 

That was maybe too dramatic. It wasn’t like Val died or vanished into thin air. He spoke with her earlier this week. But it left him with no conclusion either. When he caught glimpses of her around school, he had the same undeniable sense of guilt and remorse. He knew it wasn’t his fault-- it wasn’t his fault that she left. That was her own choice. That was her decision. It was sudden and hit cold, but Val left the group. And Dash couldn’t muster enough anger to blame her. He kept repeating that in his brain.

Baxter had to wonder if she was right. She didn’t seem happier by any means. She seemed burdened somehow. He wouldn’t know where to start to help her like she had helped him countless times before. Though in terms of skills… 

Dash was great at being in the way. He was great at taking up space he thought he didn’t deserve to occupy. 

Glancing toward his window, the saturated cloudless sky looked perfect. 

Thank god it was the weekend.

Instead of giving into the compulsion of chasing down the ghost of Val, Dash sat up. Wiping the sleep from his eyes and the drool from his cheek. Leaving his phone in bed, the quarterback retrieved his robe from the back of the door. If he was going to act stupid, he couldn’t do it on an empty stomach. 

After shuffling down the stairs, Baxter sat at the island with a glass of orange juice with protein powder accumulating towards the bottom. His math notebook next to him, he was passively continuing his sketch from class. Blissfully ignoring his homework that definitely required his attention and redefined the meaning of ‘past due.’ It was a doodle of the Phantom. Out of all the ghosts in town, the Phantom was easily the most photogenic. And by that-- he was simply the easiest to draw. He was certainly the most human out of all of them. 

It was odd how the Phantom stuck out like a sore thumb against the more monstrous of Amity Park’s ghostly residents. Dash held this private belief that the ghosts would lose bits of their humanity and gradually decay away over time. Maybe the Phantom had managed to retain whatever shred he could hold onto. Surely there was a more messy scientific explanation that he wouldn’t care for. He was content with his answer. Dash was content more with a spiritual reason for the spirit activity in Amity Park, unlike some on the forums he skimmed. 

The Phantom spoke to him once. Can you believe that?

From memory, Dash reproduced a drawing of the phantom firing beams from his hands. His forearms were covered in a bubble of energy. Dash wondered if he should force himself to draw the legs this time or cheat like he always does and draw that weird— tail—  thing of his. Dash wasn’t exactly an artist, but he enjoyed a project. This also happened to be way more entertaining than negative integers. The jock always had to half-ass the face because he could never seem to get a good look. Drawing the Phantom never seemed as difficult as other subjects. Probably because Dash drew him a lot, but there was something oddly familiar about him… 

Of course, Baxter was a passing fan of the Phantom’s. Everyone was whether they’d admit it or not, didn’t matter. Parents thought the entity was dangerous, and that attracted them all the more. But Dash didn’t think he was dangerous, not in the least. That wasn’t what drew him in. The Phantom, when he was flying around, looked so free. 

But he was reckless. He had the youthful confusion radiating off of him. Like somehow, he was new, still green. Well, he did glow green, but that was beside the point. 

It was a stylistic choice that the jock made to draw the Phantom with a fierce expression. Gritted teeth and a knitted brow. Blowing away some eraser shavings, he was just about done. 

Dash contemplated if he could have toast with his one egg omelet when he heard a knock at the door. He wasn’t expecting company. Company was the furthest thing from his mind when he was in the Phantom Zone. It was an awfully formal move for his father, who kept hitting on his nurses. More than likely, it was someone peddling a fundraiser. Or someone with HOA telling him that the grass was an inch too tall again. 

He rose from the kitchen and dragged his sore body to the door. Opening it only to see-- 

“Jesus-- Fenton!” Dash closed his robe, despite wearing a conservative pair of gym shorts that ended just above his knees and a tank top. It was more unkempt than he was comfortable being around a classmate. Nearly tying it too tight, Baxter exhaled the breath that caught in his throat. 

Meanwhile, Danny had a smug smirk affixed to his face, scanning the quarterback up and down. He greeted, “Well, good morning to you too.” 

“Don’t you have anyone else to annoy?!” With nostrils flared, the jock ran a hand back through his bedhead—stray strands of blond falling in his eye-line. 

Danny held out his hand, “I just came for the keys to the shop. I know you have a set.” 

He was kidding, right? This had to be a joke! There was no way Dash had any reason to trust Danny with the keys after the amount of crap he tried to pull.  Leaning against his door frame, Baxter rolled his eyes, “Please, what kind of idiot do you take me for?” 

“I don’t think you want me to answer that question, Dash.” 

“I’m not giving you the keys--” Baxter exclaimed. He went for the handle to get the best amount of leverage for a slam, “get off my porch!” 

Interjecting his foot into the doorframe, Danny winced, “C’mon, I just want to put in some overtime and get some tapes rewound.”

They were inches apart, give or take a door blocking most of Danny’s torso. The ghost boy balled his hands together in a mock plea. 

“Forget it! I’m not wasting a Saturday with you!” Dash narrowed his eyes.

“Trust me. I’m not thrilled at the prospect of you babysitting me,” Fenton insisted, “So if you just give me the keys, I can lock up when I leave.” 

“How do you want me to list all the reasons why I shouldn’t give you the keys? Alphabetical?” The quarterback firmly reiterated, “I don’t trust you to make a hot pocket by yourself--  let alone look after the store on the second busiest day of the week.” 

Danny gesticulated towards Dash’s large-- desolate designer home, “It's not like you have anything better to do. I apologize for interrupting all the nothing on your plate.” 

He was too angry to cover his mouth when his voice cracked. He persevered.

“Gee-whiz Einstein! It's almost like it's my day off or something!” Exasperatedly, Dash pressed a wry smile on, “You don’t know a damn thing. So spare me-- alright?” 

Danny sighed-- this wasn’t what he intended to do. This wasn’t about causing each other grief. He motioned for a time out and explained, “Look-- Look, I didn’t come to fight. We do that plenty at school. I-I don’t want to spend my spring break working this job. You clearly want to get rid of me. Do us both a favor and just come in today?” he added with something approaching sincerity, “Something-- something- Idle hands, makes work easier.” 

“If that’s your idea of a rebuttal… It sounds like you could benefit from Lancer’s speech and debate club.” 

“So, are you coming?” The ghost boy cocked his head to the side appreciatively. 

After some quiet deliberation, Dash resigned. Muttering a defeat, “I need to shower. I’ll be back down in ten.” 

“Does that include time allotted for you to gel your hair?” Danny referenced the athlete’s slightly frizzy and unfettered appearance. 

All Fenton got was a fiery glare in reply. 

“... Right. So can I come insi--?” 

Door slam. 

A sharp gust of air snapped at Danny’s face. He staggered back, “Message received.” 

The ghost boy walked back to the edge of the porch, taking a seat on the stairs. 

Peering at him through the peephole, Dash scowled. He weighed the pros and cons of staying in his house lingering on the what-ifs or to go outside to the job he liked with the added baggage of a nerd to wrangle. He gripped the collar of his robe and felt his knuckles whiten. However, as always, Danny was correct. Dash didn’t have anything else to do today. Except maybe reenact that one scene from Risky Business. After all, he was dressed for it. Shaking his head, he charged up the second floor. He found his backpack and put away his sketchbook, a few pens, a couple of CDs if he was going to be there after dark. 

Dash scavenged through his hamper for anything-- 

This is what he gets for putting everything off--! He tore through the depths of his closet, shepherding stuffed bears and boxes out of the way until he found a shirt on the floor that looked clean. He lifted up the black shirt with a peeling Dumpty Humpty logo printed on the front. It will have to do. Throwing it onto his cluttered bed, he made his way to the shower. 

Could never get the hang of Saturdays. He could never relax. 

Danny perked up at the sound of jingling keys behind Dash’s door. The door opened and shut again. Dash locked his front door and turned-- jutting out his chin, signaling that they should depart. The jock was still notably not as polished as he normally was. Dash’s hair laid on his forehead, slightly curly with the humidity. Then there was the band shirt with the cut-off sleeves and plunging open sides. Paired with a black sweatshirt around his waist.

What were all of his letter jackets at the cleaners? Danny thought with a snort. Dash almost looked normal for a change. Like a real person instead of a Ken doll straight from the packaging. 

“What?” Dash barked, expecting some more trademark Fenton wit.

Danny opened his mouth, unable to come up with anything biting. For once, there was nothing about him to mock, “I forgot that you went to that concert.” 

“It sucked; I’m over them,” Dash said with a shrug.

“Are you joking? It was awesome! The performances were insane. The pyrotechnics? Insane!  If I had to lose my hearing to anything, I want it to be at a Dumpty Humpty show.” The ghost boy insisted, following Dash's heels down the stone stairs of the porch. “They played six encores! They normally only do four!” 

“You went to a different concert. You got to sit next to your friends. I was surrounded by happy idiots, and I got beer spilled all over me,” Dash trailed off, bitterly, “I only went ‘cuz Val wanted to go...” 

Freezing, the ghost boy hadn’t prepared for that response. He blinked-- stupidly. It seemed as if he was still caught in the ripple of his actions at Axion labs. Danny couldn’t outrun what he did to Val. Of course, she had friends. She still probably did. It came easy to people like her. Danny couldn’t deny that Valerie grew up shockingly fast compared to the rest of them when her dad was let go. Then, of course, there was the added bonus that she was one of the most dangerous people in Amity Park. 

She went from perky student council organizer to picking up late-night shifts at the Nasty Burger and beating Danny up one side and down the other in her free time. 

Danny was unsure what to say, “I-- I didn’t know you two were so close.” 

“Yeah, well, things change.” The athlete deflected, not wanting to remain anchored to the topic. The pair found the crosswalk. Distinctly, there were more beer bottles and trash littering the ground once they went south on Dash’s street towards the entertainment district of town, towards the convention center. Though they still had a few blocks to go. Dash impatiently punched the button for the signal. 

Danny tried to think of more topics that weren’t directly insulting to Dash. It was a herculean task. Honestly, the most awkward thing he could think to open with was the weather-- Fenton had never been one for small talk, especially if it was with people he did not like. 

“So, your robe... “ 

“Don’t—” Dash shot the twerp a look but immediately snapped his eyes back toward the sidewalk ahead of them. 

“Is it like- Japanese?” He hadn’t seen anything like it before. It was silk and kind of had a sheen-- with a floral pattern that took up the sleeves explosively. It was garish. Even Vlad, the richest, tackiest guy he knew, would recoil at just how loud it was.

Dash scratched his cheek, “It’s imported, yeah.” 

“It’s like the most colorful thing I’ve seen you wear,” Danny noted once again the Dumpty Humpty shirt with near platinum acid-washed jeans. Dash usually kept it pretty simple. 

“It was a gift, okay?!” Baxter snapped defensively, “If this is gonna work, you're gonna have to stop talking." He retrieved his music player from his pocket and stuck in his headphones. 

Danny mocked his coworker’s tone under his breath, “You’re gonna have to stop talking… Sheesh. Someone’s sensitive about his fruity little richie-rich ‘imported’ robe.” 

“Hey, Fenton?” 

“Yeah?” 

“The song hasn’t started yet.” The jock stated matter of factly. 

Fenton chuckled nervously, “I think I’ll stop talking now.” 

The Fenton parents spent the morning garnering odd second-glances from strangers in the waiting room. It wasn’t every day they saw a woman in a skin-tight jumpsuit with a utility belt. She wore the uniform of someone involved with pest control, which caused some whispers amongst the patients. They were flamingoes amongst the common pigeons. 

The waiting room was in a rigid maze-like structure like you would find on the back of a cereal box. Lines of chairs were placed against edges and hard surfaces. It smelled foreign, like antiseptic. More than likely, it was a different brand than what they bought. The waiting room was more of an alcove with a window to their back that allowed passersby’s to look inward. Posters littered the room with various diagrams that inspired more hypochondriac panic than any sense of security. There were posters that explicitly had anatomical features of the female body—the development cycle of an unborn child in the womb. The posters were still the same after nearly seventeen years. They provided minimal comfort for the expectant. 

Madeline sat uncomfortably while her daughter flipped through medical digests. Jasmine took to the environment like a fish to water. She was in her element. A pristine space with little distraction. Her daughter had her eye for detail with her father’s passion. Her son had her stoicism but his father’s sensitivity. She held her stomach and shakily exhaled. Morning sickness was always the hard part. Maddie crossed her legs at the knees and drove her heel into the ground. The pressure distracted her from her tidal waves of nausea. 

 Maddie had removed her hood hours ago due to her developing migraine. The buzzing of the fluorescents in the distance wasn’t aiding her. Maddie turned her head, rubbing her dry eyes. Was that clock right? Was it already eleven in the morning? 

“Jack?” She patted her husband’s chest. His large body tenting over her small frame, he was asleep. Jack was drooling on her shoulder, but she didn’t mind. His snoring was white noise to Maddie at this point. 

Mrs Fenton shook Mr Fenton slowly awake to not startle him. He was a lot like a bear that way. She cooed, “Jackie-- honey.” 

Jack stirred, clicking his jaw and attempting to steel himself, “What-- what is it?” 

“I appreciate you staying up to look after me, but I’m fine. I swear, “ Madeline spoke softly, “You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends, sweetie. You can’t be doing all-nighters for our upcoming patent deadline while coming with me to these appointments.” 

“I don’t sleep as good without your cold feet on the back of my knees.” He slurred before leaning back into his wife. 

She snickered. It had been the first time she had smiled all morning. It was refreshing. Maddie patted his head.

Rolling her eyes, Jazz flipped a page of a magazine. At this point, she was plotting to turn the hose on those two. Her parents were so enamored with each other— it was beginning to be too much. Literally too much. They were in the waiting room as a result of them being too much. It drove Jazz nuts. Because on paper, their relationship didn’t seem like it would work. They were too fundamentally different. In Jazz’s personal belief, you had to have common ground in order to settle the foundation for a committed relationship. Her parents loved proving her wrong just as much as they loved each other. Jasmine had to schedule her mother’s appointments. It’s not because she didn’t trust her mother to do her due diligence; she wanted it done correctly. 

Jazz believed you could tell a lot about a person by how they handle change, how they hold up in the face of adversity. Her brother, Danny, usually landed firmly in the denial/distancing camp. He was someone who couldn’t handle interpersonal confrontation well unless he caused it. He often reacted by pocketing his feelings until he found an ‘appropriate’ target.

Jazz tackled change by containing it. Minimizing it. Labeling it. She wondered what that meant. Why did she react that way? Jazz didn’t have to drive her parents to their appointment; she trusted them to get there. They were adults, after all. They never seemed to act like it. Most seventeen-year-olds in the waiting room of the reproductive health offices with their parents would be accused of being knocked up. Jazz still found it amusing that the accidental pregnancy wasn’t hers because the Fentons did everything out of order despite it being a rather retractive joke. 

Change had its place just like every occurrence in the world, yet it was the one element that people fought against at every opportunity. As if the fight itself wouldn’t end in a pine box six feet underground. Being the daughter of scientists chasing death, you grow up with certain expectations. The first being, you will die. The second, that was okay. 

As long as your life was one that you wanted to live. Jazz didn’t ask to raise her brother. She wouldn’t say it bothered her. It didn’t stunt her. She didn’t hate her parents for it. Jazz liked to take care of people; she was good at it. She could read between the lines and see those microscopic telegraphs in body language. It was her purpose that came about by a total accident. Her little brother wasn’t planned. Him dying wasn’t planned… 

It was entirely out of her control, so she leaned into the curve. 

Jazz didn’t have time to mourn.

She didn’t fully believe this pregnancy was real. She didn’t want to hear about the new names her mother thought of. She didn’t necessarily want a new sibling. Girls were tricky. Girls didn’t like Jazz. Granted, that didn’t mean boys didn’t find her off-beat either. 

Jazz couldn’t imagine going through this again. She already was an older sister. By the time Untitled Fenton Project Number Three was born, Jazz’s second act of her life would have already begun. College would have been calling. She would be halfway across the country— the world, pursuing her dream all the while someone who needed her—who needed her guidance would be left alone. There was no way Danny had enough experience to take such a position. It didn’t even look like he wanted to be home to sleep.

This kid was going to be alone. 

No longer even reading the article, Jazz just couldn’t process the words on the page. They meant nothing to her, but if she looked at one of her parents, she might scream. The drive over was at least safe. If Jasmine took the plunge through the red light, they’d all die. Where did all this anger come from? From the root, from her feet—from the tips of her chipped nails. She handled her emotions like a spent fuel rod for a nuclear reactor. 

As her mother’s name was called, she put on her best comforting smile. 

Maddie went with a nurse and disappeared through a door. Jack, now without his sun to orbit, rested his back on the glass wall and stretched. He scratched his chest—He was aimless. 

The wrinkles on his face were deep and revealed more hardships in his life than he ever spoke about. Gloved hands swatted his chin, covered in five-o-clock shadow, in attempts to perk himself up. 

Jack didn’t know there were other patients waiting to be seen. Nor did he particularly care. He spoke loudly with no discretion, “So… How’s your situation Jazzy-pants, should we schedule anything for you while we’re here?” 

Not making any eye contact, Jasmine mumbled, “... I’m good.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Pretty sure, dad!” She scowled, “I’ve been making my own appointments since I was twelve years old!” 

She spoke as if that was supposed to be biting. Jack, meanwhile, clapped his hand on her shoulder, “You’ve always been so ahead of the curve.” 

It was hard to offend someone who was too self-involved to know the difference. She wasn’t ahead of the curve when she had to drive the family tank to take Danny to the emergency room because he ate a ficus. That was a fun evening full of stomach pumps and a temperamental clutch. If you asked her parents about it, they said that was the night where their Fenton tank was deemed street legal. No memory of getting a phone call from the hospital with several confused doctors or calls from angry police officers who got their mirrors knocked off. 

“Jazz, do you remember when you were about this big?” Jack held his hands roughly a foot apart from each other how one would describe the size of a fish they caught. 

Through her child development courses, she had learned memories could form as early as fourteen months. Jazz assumed this would be a rhetorical question that would lead into a relevant anecdote— oh, look, he’s already talking.

Jack held up his forearm, “see, when you were about that big, I would let you lay on my arm since you were a perfect size. We would watch football together, cartoons too. I know it was a long time ago. It certainly feels like a long time ago…” 

“Dad! I know you’re making a mid-life crisis trip down memory lane, but I’m trying to be in the moment right now—” 

“This is me in the moment, sweetheart. Your mother thinks we’re going to have another boy. But I know it in my gut that it’s going to be a girl.” 

Jazz rubbed her temple, needing him to focus on the bigger picture, “Dad, have you held onto any of our baby clothes? Do you still have that hand-carved bassinet Aunt Alilica gave you guys? If Danny is going to pass this year, I think I should convert half of my room into a nursery…” 

“Jazzy-pants, what’re you talking about? The baby is going to be in our room.” Jack was excited to see his daughter get into the spirit of things for once, but it almost sounded like she thought they were incompetent.

“Mm…” She was wary. It was the kind of noise that one made when they disagreed with a decision—a decision they would then actively undermine. 

He didn’t care for his daughter’s implication. Wishing that he had remained asleep, Mr Fenton crossed his arms, “I’d never wanted to throw any of it out. I wanted either you or Danny to use it for your kids. It’s in a storage locker downtown. It’ll take a day or so to fish it all out. Without your brother, we might get it done faster.” 

Jazz wasn’t thrilled about the idea of getting stuck in cobwebs and leered at by the creepy storage guys— but it at least gave her something to work with. She turned another page, despite being too anxious to read. The younger Fenton sighed, “Sounds like a plan.” 

Without warning, her father dove into his jumpsuit pocket, then thrust something into her hand—an extra-large padded bandage. Jazz glanced up to her dad, raising a brow. 

“You're bleeding, sweetheart.” Jack elaborated before turning back to stare at the clock, “you’re anemic. You’ve got to watch out for that.” 

The thin wrapper paper crinkled at the slightest pressure she put on it. Jazz finally noticed the blood spurting out of the thin slash on her index finger—damn papercuts. Damn thick magazine stock. Tearing the wrapper with her teeth, she opened the top. Clumsily Jasmine folded the tan bandage over the edges of her finger. It warped and flexed, unconvinced to stick to the surface of her skin. 

Jack cracked a brief grin, “You’re killing me, girlie. Just let me do it, huh?” 

His daughter extended her hand towards her father with a pout as he smoothed out the patch job. Taking great care to make sure she could still bend her knuckle. 

“... Thanks.” 

“I’m your dad. It’s kind of my job.” 

Sam awoke with soreness in her bones like she had lost in a fistfight with a steam roller. Regret and teen angst was a full-body sport. Her throat stung. Sam didn’t think she yelled at him. However, she didn’t trust her own judgment at this point. If there was any possibility that Tucker ever liked her, that was squashed out of existence. Despite her devil-may-care appearance and attire— she couldn’t sleep knowing that she had hurt Tucker. Sam had hurt him on purpose. As soon as the words hit the air and she saw his expression shift— all she had thought about doing was apologizing. 

She was cocooned in a sheer, high-thread-count bed sheet. It was artificially tattered to show age. Really it was a birthday gift from the pottery barn. Sam had bunched in on herself, wanting to be as small as she felt. It was cool to the touch except when daylight snuck its way through the curtain. The light became absorbed in all the furniture of her room, catching the warmth she didn’t want to feel. It took her a while to rise, and her legs became further tangled into the sheet when she did. She looked and felt like an oil spill on top of the surface of the ocean waves. Sam felt like the scum of the earth, worse than the plastic soda rings that choked the sea turtles. 

Her hair that normally resided in a top knot mini pony was now covering her face in a staticky nest. Her hair was dry and frizzy, but her skin was greasy. Showering was the first thing to be deemed unnecessary in a Sam spiral. She was having an episode. The population of the rest of the world would call it deserved guilt and shame. 

Sniffling and wiping her nose— she decided it was time to turn this off—no more mushy feelings. Sam stretched across her mattress, pulling out a burgundy hair-tie. Damn. The goth had run out of black and dark purple, yet again. Rolling the stretchy material between her fingers, she needed to buck up. But what a depressing color! 

The nightgown hit the floor before her feet. While wrangling her hair into a more presentable style, she shuffled to her computer desk. The chair was an ergonomic European brand that glided around the room as if friction didn’t apply. It was wiry and thin— made from recycled material. It creaked like it was one bad lean from shattering. Sam had insisted on this chair. The faux leather chair she had last had given Tucker an allergic reaction. There wasn’t even a second thought. If it made him more comfortable, if it made him feel more at ease, Sam always chose Tucker. She always picked her friends, even if she didn’t verbalize it. Her pride stopped her throat like a cork. 

Tucker was the first friend she ever had over. One of the few that kept coming around. Sam had let him in, and in turn, Tucker had changed her from the inside out. Starting with this squeaky-ass chair. 

Driving down the power button on the tower, the computer hummed and shuddered. The vibrations from the fan traveled up her arm. For a brief moment, she could see her reflection in the black mirror with a white border. The bulky white frame came to life with a whine. The air from the tower filtered through the stickers she had placed over the vents. Something that causes any tech-lover’s chagrin. Her wallpaper was on a rotation. Some were family pictures, and some were from her solo trips to Aspen. The lake house in Jamestown… and her friends. Candid polaroids shots that Tucker gave her to scan. Her computer exploded with color and tabs. Spam mail mostly. After rummaging through junk mail and clutter, she finally found the familiar AOL homepage. 

Tucker was, unsurprisingly, still online. Without a doubt, he was still plugging away on his ghost surveillance algorithm. Despite being quite lazy, once Tucker found a task, it was difficult to get him to let it go. He was like an alligator that looked like Steve Urkel. However, he would insist he was more of a Will Smith. Sam didn’t think Will Smith would be this obsessed with proving a point. 

GofficXroyalty666: Hey Tuck.

FriarTuck is currently preoccupied with teen nonsense at the moment.

“Clearly, he is handling this maturely,” Sam muttered to herself. She didn’t think he would be so offended that she didn’t share everything with him. Cracking her knuckles, she arched them over the keyboard. 

GofficXroyalty666: I just wanted to kno if we’re still on for Interstella? 

FriarTuck is typing… 

…

FriarTuck is deleting…

…

FriarTuck is currently preoccupied with teen nonsense at the moment. 

She can see that he’s online! He can’t just not talk to her! Tucker has never once shut up in his life. This must have been physically painful for him, just as it pained Sam not to listen. She didn’t like this feeling. Sam wasn’t the type to sit at home playing with the coiled cord of the handset while waiting for a boy to call. She wasn’t suddenly going to lay on her bed, stomach down. Kicking her bunny slippers excitedly whenever she got a message back. It was so totally beneath her. 

But did it really hurt this much? Sam was stunned. 

GofficXroyalty666: I can see ur status, dingus. 

GofficXroyalty666: Srsly Tuck, Cmon ur taking this way too far. 

FriarTuck is typing… 

It remained like that for several minutes. Going back and forth between deleting and typing. Tucker didn’t mince words typically, especially about how he was feeling. He was straightforward to get a read of just by glancing at him. Not many people would say that, but Sam knew the subtler things. She thought she spoke Tucker Foley fluently. The screen was so impersonal, but it was almost like she could see his mind working.

FriarTuck: Idk where I stand with u. I’m not sure if i made it weird… So i’m giving us some space. It was fine that way b4. 

GofficXroyalty666: ur taking things out of context. 

FriarTuck: ok, then I'll make it simple.

FriarTuck: Are we friends? 

GofficXroyalty666: Of course we are. 

FriarTuck: Are we Best Friends? 

GofficXroyalty666: Duh, yes!

FriarTuck: then why don’t we act like it? 

GofficXroyalty666: What do u mean???

“Samantha! If you’re going to force us to go to this hippie convention with the common people, the least you can do is be on time!” It was her father’s voice coming from the main floor. Sam turned her head to shout a retort-- but her mind solely focused on salvaging their friendship. All that could come out was a strangled plea for her parents to wait.

The computer chimed soullessly as Tucker’s away message posted into the chatbox. 

FriarTuck Is currently preoccupied with teen nonsense at the moment. 

Fruitlessly Sam rested at her keyboard. Her fingers hitting the thick plastic keys, her nails clacking against them desperately trying to string a coherent sentence together. It was too late, and she knew that. Tucker’s username greyed out, suggesting that he shut off his computer. 

Without any other option, Sam frustratedly changed her status too. 

"I'm ready to tell you my secret. I see dead people…"

Blessed be her memory, Sam Manson.

Chapter Text

The rest of the walk was made in relative silence. That wasn’t to say Danny didn’t at all try to make Dash at least smile, though no such luck. Baxter would just sigh and glare at the street like he would rather throw himself into traffic. He would occasionally swat at the dragonflies, and use the collar of his sleeveless shirt to fan himself off. It was still warm and beautiful outside, a perfect day to be inside. No clouds, just blue and a stagnant heat that weighed around their shoulders. 

Danny could just make out the tinny sound through Dash’s earphones as a recognizable pop song. Something in the top forty. Unconsciously Danny began humming along to the tune to name it. 

“It's Jordan Knight,” Baxter muttered under his breath. 

“It's what?”

“It’s Give It To You , by Jordan Knight.” He repeated with an added deep breath. Embarrassment colored his cheeks and his words.

“Oh… He’s like a--” Fenton wanted to be sure he was correct, “backstreet… boy, right?” 

Dash blinked, cringing, “Are you trying to relate to me?” 

Well, it was worth a shot. Danny shrugged, “it kind of sounds similar to a Goo Goo Dolls song from here.” 

This was probably the closest thing they had to a positive interaction in the past half-an-hour. Danny pointed to the music player on his belt, “If you want I can get you a CD. Y’know, so you have some, like, real music to listen to.” 

The quarterback scoffed. 

“This is actually a state-of-the-art Eigerlabs Eigerman, a modified music player from Korea.” The jock clarified by removing it from his belt. Taking out his earphones Dash handed the device to Danny. Obviously, it was a very expensive piece of hardware, but Dash didn’t seem to care that much about it. He didn’t seem impressed by the things he owned, “it's in this new digital format or something? I dunno. My dad got it for me when he missed my track meet. He was on this trip abroad and-- the rest is history.” 

He pressed the device into Danny’s hand. Trailing along the cord Danny put one earphone in, still eyeing Dash hoping to continue the conversation. The sound was clear, if not a little crunchy. The song used heavy synthesized drums and-- what sounded like a calliope fusion for the high-hats. The singer has a husky yet smooth voice like rolling smoke. There was that distinct bubblegum pop overproduction where everything sounded devoid of flaws. 

“--let me know and I'll give it to you…

Just show me where I'll take you there.

Baby, you know that I'll give it to you…

Your body needs a man like me,

Anything goes when I give it to you.”

Suddenly he felt what every parent felt in the nineteen-fifties when they first saw Elvis gyrating his hips on American Bandstand . The lyrics were… not very subtle. Danny’s gaze quickly shifted to his shoes because there was no way he could look another person-- especially another dude in the eyes after listening to this. Fenton was very aware of the words at the edge of his ears.

“It's creepin’ around in your head—

me holding you down in my bed—

I'm the place to be!

And soon, you'll see…

I don't care who leads.”

Danny removed his headphone and thrusted the music player back into Dash’s stomach. Nearly knocking the wind out of him. The ghost boy found himself shouting, “Wow! That’s-- a lot to take in!” 

Dash pocketed his Eigerman admitting, “It’s-- it’s good workout music. It's usually above one-hundred-and-thirty beats per minute, so…it’s energetic.” 

“Energetic,” Danny repeated with scrutiny. There was something still strange about a near-adult man enjoying something that realistically only had appeal to the most desperate of teenage girls. 

Meeting scrutiny with scrutiny, Dash uttered a venomous, “Forget it.” 

Before correcting his posture, ceasing to meet Danny’s height. 

“You know you don’t have to stoop down so low, I’m not that short.” 

“You’re pretty short, Fentoad.” 

“I’m not short, you’re just a mountain. How’s the weather up there, meat-head?” 

“Slight chance of rain,” Dash said with a smirk on his face.

Danny looked up at Dash like he finally succumbed to all of those concussions he took on the field. The sky was totally clear, sarcastically sunny, absolutely no moisture in the air-- 

Dash stuck out his tongue.

“Don’t-- Don’t, I swear to god, Baxter--” 

With a devious expression, the quarterback inched closer.

“I will kick your ass.” Danny put a hand on Dash’s chest shoving him away. On second thought maybe he didn’t want to talk to him. They should go back to the way things were. Complete silence. At least Danny got him to smile, which in turn a small grin etched its way onto Danny’s face, “You’re disgusting!” 

“Yeah, bring all four feet of you.” Dash bounced back from the shove, using his momentum to push the ghost boy back with his shoulder. It was a bit lighter than a check he would give to a rival player, so forty/forty-five percent power. 

Danny fumbled back nearly into a line of bicycles locked to a fixture in the pavement. Fenton shot him a glare, “You wanna start running?” 

“You think you can catch me?” He wagered, subtly picking up his pace. 

The ghost boy balled his fists, feeling the cocky smirk on his face widening, “Race you to the store?” 

“Your odds of winning are about the same as you getting on the big boy rides at the county fair.” 

Rearing back Fenton bolted towards the jock. Without any wind up-- Dash broke out into a sprint. The other residents of Amity Park that happened to be using the sidewalk that morning were terrorized. They hit the walls and dove out of the way-- bike riders were used as obstacles, mothers with strollers too. People, of course, turned their heads but got back to their own business when they saw nothing evil or paranormal was chasing the two boys. 

As it turned out, Danny didn’t like losing either. He wasn’t above using his ghost powers for making parts of his body intangible. Cutting through the crowd like a hot knife through butter, he was on par with Dash in terms of speed, but endurance was something else entirely. While Danny may have abused his liberal relationship with physics, Dash was the captain of the football team. Not to mention every other team there is. The rumor that Dash’s dad bought the title was quickly put to rest in a simple foot race. 

If Baxter wasn’t preoccupied with pushing past the burning in his chest, he would have been impressed that Fenton could keep up. His feet landed in the parking lot, Danny gaining on him, “Watch the curb!” 

Dash had turn to watch Fenton eat concrete, but it was like his feet went through the yellow block. No-- that had to have been the doppler effect or trick of the sunlight. No. Dash didn’t see that. The ghost boy pulled ahead. Crossing the parking lot their footfalls became so close together they were like an animal with two heads trying to split from each other. Their hands both found the door. Laughing drunk on adrenaline, their hands scrambling to declare a victor. Though for once it didn’t seem to matter. The tips of their fingers met each other without meaning—  prying the door open only to be met with resistance. 

It was locked. 

The pair of them attempted to parse the situation. Teenage boy brains could only process so much, after all. They studied the mundane locked door with the academic fervor depicted in cave paintings about the first fire. Puzzled. Shouldn’t the person on shift today already unlocked it? 

That’s when they heard it. A displeased, misanthropic, drawn-out yawn. 

Spike wasn’t a good-looking kid. He was at one point, one had to suspect. Spike dressed to disturb and unsettle those around him; business was good. He wore heavy silver chains and jewelry. Rings with occultic runes engraved on the face, paired with nails with a cracked black topcoat. Spike’s clothes always looked used. Suppose he was environmentally conscious or just didn’t like buying new things. They always looked well past their prime, worn in and scuffed Doc Martens. At one point they could have been sold for a cool hundred dollars. His leather pants were meant to fit tight but his legs were so long and skinny that he still needed three belts to hold them on his hips. His shirt was torn just below his pectorals, and sleeveless. It’s like he had left it out to be eaten by moths. The holes that were small enough were held together by safety pins. 

His skin was so pale that the sun shimmered off of him and caught his jewelry. Spike had a thick pair of black aviators, to of course go with his ensemble. His lips, painted to match, loosely held onto a bone-white cigarette. After his yawn, his throat then caught on nasal discharge, which Spike hastily spat onto the sidewalk. Charming, wasn’t he? 

“Mornin’ Hiegler.” Dash gave a wave, wondering if his senior had seen the whole thing. He greeted him with the same energy and warmth that he would anyone on his football squad. After all they were on the same team too.

Spike gave an almost unnoticeable nod. It was more of a jaw shift if anything. While flicking some ash off the tip of his cigarette. 

It took Danny a moment to stop focusing on the door and then scan the other employee. With a gasp Fenton pointed an accusatory finger, accosting the punk, “You told Jazz you quit!” 

“Menthols. I quit menthols.” Four words. Truly Jasmine’s work in motion. She would be proud. Sorta…

 His voice was as intense as his appearance, yet still odd that a voice that deep would come from someone so young. Spike didn’t seem anymore convinced to stop smoking. Hielger regarded them how one would regard the presence of gnats. Spike’s aura should have tipped him off.

“Wo-would you mind if we covered for you?” The quarterback didn’t want his reaction to dissuade Spencer from speaking again. He just figured the intimidating young man was… shy. Despite having a tattoo and more metal in his face than Robocop , Dash genuinely thought Spike was mousy. Baxter put his hands into his pockets anxiously.

Spike sucked in the chemical-laced smoke cloud, through his nose and exhaled just as long from his mouth. Blinking slowly, like how a lizard would bask in the light of a heat lamp… he… walked off; away from the door. He sauntered in the way of the bus stop. 

The pair watched Spike make his elegant exit. 

“You think that means ‘yes’ where he’s from?” Dash nudged Danny with his elbow. 

“He’s probably gonna go see Jazz.” Danny rolled his eyes and gagged.

“Why?” Those two didn’t seem to have anything in common unless he was also a part of Jasmine’s study. Dash was a bit confused at the match-up. He didn’t know Spike that well, other than he didn’t do windows, or cleaned the coffee station properly. His smoke breaks always leaned on the long side. Certainly, he wasn’t a bad guy—Jazz might’ve had a type that Dash didn’t know about. 

Fenton shook his head, amused, “Don’t worry about it, big guy.” He shook the door, “So…” 

“So…?” 

“Dash, the keys.” 

“The…” Dash cocked his head. There was a beat of silence. He held the door and shook it the same way Danny did, “Oh, right the keys!” 

Dash removed them from his belt and undid the lock, leading the way in. He narrowed in on the wall and began to unarm the security system. Danny noticed that Dash was mouthing the numbers for the code, but didn’t bring attention to it. 

Jazz mentioned her probable diagnosis for Dash was dyscalculia. It meant that he had trouble with math— that much was obvious. But Danny wondered if it stemmed from something larger that Dash never had the chance to address on his own. Dash wasn’t unintelligent, and Danny regretted thinking that he ever was. 

Noticing the rather far-off look Danny was giving him, the quarterback pointed to the window, “you wanna do the honors?” 

Danny didn’t realize he was speaking, “huh?” 

“You can turn the sign,” The quarterback faltered to maintain his reserved affect, “if you want.” 

“...Really?” He didn’t want to come across as unironically excited by the idea, so Danny offered a sarcastic visage.

While glancing at Fenton’s smug face, Dash exhaled from his nose, “Burkowitz let me do it when I first opened. So, I figured I’d pass the torch. You don’t have to—” 

Fenton already stepped towards the window, “No, shut up, I can do it.” 

On the return trip from the Nasty Burger, Tucker’s salad jostled in the paper bag. They could figure out how to make a salad from meat yet the concept of a bag handle eluded the company. The evening was finally cooling off when Foley decided to take a walk from his computer. He could only stare at the exact same empty screen for so long. Tucker’s eyes stung at the light from the sunset. It was peach chasing the blue through the sky. Cars sped down the street, and the wind nearly whipped his hat off his head. The concrete was warped by tree roots that burst through the dirt. He stepped over the bumps in the sidewalk deftly. It was good to disconnect. He hadn’t pulled out his PDA once. Well since he and Sam were fighting his daily journal entries were a far less entertaining read. He woke up, sat at his desk, and recorded ecto-energy readings. It was so bright in the real world, Tucker nearly forgot how intense the colors were as he had spent most of the week in his room. His parents assumed because he was quiet, he was fine. For the most part, he had to agree. Physically he was fine. 

Sam would get on his nerves sometimes but he wasn’t used to being near someone who enjoyed frustrating him. It was like flipping the clock back. He couldn't fathom why she was closer to Danny of all people. When it was Tucker who invited Sam to sit with them in the sixth grade. Danny was too scared of her. Tucker didn’t think she was scary—she was drop-dead gorgeous. From the moment Tucker laid eyes on her, he knew she was special. He could see past the aloof exterior and see a person who cared—maybe too deeply. She seemingly cared about everything except for him. Next to Danny, he just became background noise. Everything that left his mouth was tv snow. He was noise. 

When she looked at him for the first time what did she even see? Was she even looking at him? Did she see him at all? Was he just as invisible as the ghosts they put away? The way she spoke about him, it’s like he was an accessory. Something she traded in when the trend died. 

Over the morning when he cut off contact with Sam, she tried calling his house phone. Which he ignored. With little option left she had resorted to sending Tucker increasingly bi-polar beeper codes. Tucker used a beeper for his various odd jobs around town. Of course, it doubled as an extremely secure and near indecipherable form of communication to telegraph the group’s ghost activities. 

Foley did not appreciate her abuse of the pager system or the incomprehensible mixed messages. Some of the highlights included of course...

Three-twenty-one. 

Please reply.

Ninety-eight*six.

Hope you’re feeling better.

Of course, when Tucker didn’t take the bait and reply— 

Three-o-three. 

Stop playing.

Half an hour later. 

Three-three-five. 

You’re crazy.

Eight-five-five-eight.

Waiting on your call.

Five minutes after that. 

Four-fifteen.

Get an attitude adjustment. 

Less than a minute later.

Three-four-three. 

Three-four-three.

Three-four-three.

Three-four-three.

Call back NOW. 

The shrill whine of the pager device caused all the people in the restaurant to recoil. Tucker must have looked like Doogie Howser MD or the world’s youngest day-trader. In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have sent back a reply, especially one so rude. But Tucker couldn’t stop himself. 

Forty-three. Sixty-six. O-twenty. Sixty-four.

He thought that had to be the end of it. Tucker had placed the beeper back on his belt and attempted to flirt with the cashier he knew he didn’t have a shot with. That was his normal it seemed. While he waited for his order, his pager had lit up aggressively. Causing the waitstaff of cute girls to giggle at him. He was making a spectacle of himself. 

Four-thirty.

You did it now, bravo.

Four-twenty

You’re in trouble now.

Thirteen-hundred 

Going out.

The last message Tucker received on his way back home was vague. Vague and ominous. That was the Sam Manson way. Before departing the Nasty Burger parking lot, his pager had whined one last time. 

Three-two-four. 

See you soon. 

The geek turned the corner of his parents’ road to see the two police squad cars curbside. The lights were off, which meant whatever emergency had been handled already. 

Making his approach he noted several of his neighbors were surrounding the building. His neighborhood was mostly elderly people who usually called upon him to fix their fax machines and at-home printer set-ups. They were well-meaning retired churchgoers who did little else other than go to bingo. They had known Tucker since he was a dot. His early memories were jumbled fragments of Honeymooners repeats. That’s probably where he got his entrepreneurial skills.

Briefly, he thought his security measures had failed— but considering how much music he illegally downloaded it would take more than two squad cars. Hurrying his pace, he approached his neighbor from three doors down, “What’s goin’ on Ms Dorothy?” 

Ms Dorothy was still in her housecoat and hair curlers. She tutted, “You’d think the world was coming to an end with all the noise.” 

“Anyone hurt?” Tucker’s gaze fell to the building, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, “any ghosts?” 

“You think the cops could handle a-a...” She gestured trying to think of the phrasing, “specter?”

Tucker nodded. Surprisingly an older person was right. The Amity Park PD was about as helpful as an umbrella after a downpour. The most they did was file paperwork. Foley adjusted his grip on the Nasty Burger bag,  “... yeah, you might be right on that Ms D.” 

“They were saying that it was a burglary gone awry.” The old woman was skeptical, “Mhm-mhmm, they’re saying it's not related to those robberies in town— but I doubt it. I doubt it. They’re just telling the old folks what they think they want to hear. It certainly gave Darryl a fright.”

Tucker could spot the elderly man refusing a foil shock blanket from the authorities. He was angrily giving them a statement while the officers in question were trying to calm his nerves. They weren’t doing a great job. Darryl Hirschbaum was a blind seventy-five-year-old widower. No family that Tucker was aware of. He didn’t seem like the type to have any valuables either. Who would target someone like that? No one with insight, that’s for sure. Tucker looked to Dorothy for confirmation, “Mr Hirschbaum?” 

“Yes… yes, he lives just one floor down. You water his plants too?” The woman stroked her wrinkly sunken cheek in thought. 

“I house sit for anyone who needs it. I never turn down a side-gig,” Tucker needed to pay for replacement PDAs somehow. He shrugged, “Except Mrs K on the main floor. She has cats. My inhaler can only do so much heavy lifting before my lungs break.”  

“For the best, she’s a Tupperware thief.” Ms D said with a wise nod. Though seeing as she was an old bat she was prone to gossip, “Stole her husband and my cake dish.” 

“I’ll check in with Mr Hirschbaum later.” Tucker moved to depart, bidding his neighbor an elbow nudge instead of a wave.

The old woman warned in a playful manner, “Stay off the fire escape unless you want to give him a heart attack.”

“He hasn’t put me in his will yet.” Tucker joked, rustling the paper bag in his arm. He fiddled with his keys for the front door. It wasn’t like he exclusively used the fire escape— except when he was avoiding his parents. It helped to get to know the locals of his building, they gave him cover. They were about old enough to remember their youth and miss it. They had the wisdom to know that teenagers needed to make mistakes in order to strengthen their resolve when things got really tough. When the rubber met the road. Tucker’s folks were more concerned that he stayed safe in a protective bubble. 

“Keep tryin’ kiddo. Bye-bye now, you be careful going up those stairs!” 

The geek rolled his eyes, “It was only one time. That floorboard was loose, and you know it!” 

The lobby had been swept since the morning. Well, it’s not every day the police get called, so the doorman wanted to give a good impression. He turned through the corridor and up the stairs. His thoughts kept drifting back to Sam and Danny. It wasn’t like Tucker hated being alone. He knew that they needed him, but he wanted to be wanted. He wanted to know that regardless of… Danny’s condition, he had meant something to them. That his life wasn’t just passing him by. There were parts of him that people would miss, surely.

The floor groaned under his weight. The building manager had to call a contractor soon to take a look at this place. The cobwebs in the nooks of the ceilings fell with their collected dust. The sun faded pinstriped wallpaper reminded the residents there that they were waiting to die. It was dreary. Sam would love it if she just ever took the time to see it. 

He entered his parent’s apartment, hanging his keys on the hook. He set his food down and popped his joints before removing his sneakers. 

Comfort was just out of reach. His pager attached to his belt began to go insane.

Foley looked at the code. 

Nine-one-one. 

Five-o-five.

Five.

One-seven-seven.

Emergency.

SOS.

S. M. 

Tucker’s stomach dropped. Sam was in trouble. It was an altered version of the code they most frequently used for ghost sightings, and attacks. The house phone rang on the kitchen wall, in his socks Tucker slipped on the tile and landed hard with a yelp. Taking a hard fall on his side, He rolled onto his back. Smooth moves, T-dog. Yanking the cord from the set the phone just barely missed the bridge of his nose. 

Foley breathed, “Hello?” 

“Tucker!” Sam was elated that he finally picked up, “Oh it’s so good to hear from you—” 

She then remembered that she was supposed to be angry with him, “I’m gonna… harm you physically in a way that is not second-degree homicide.” 

Why was she talking funny? The only time Tucker ever heard her speak that way was in front of her dad. It was stiff and uncomfortable as if she was bottling up swears. 

Tucker shook his head sitting up in the recovery position, “What happened? Where are you?” 

Her end of the call crackled like she was adjusting her set between her shoulder and her face, “... So, I may have tried to ‘break-in’ into your apartment… as friends do. I wanted to watch Interstella with you...” 

“Sam, if this is about this stupid movie—” The geek threatened, “I am this close to forgetting your number.” 

Manson parroted, “That movie is not stupid! It's cinema!” 

Taking a deep inhale, she begrudged through something that resembled the preamble of an apology, “And you wanted to watch it with me… and I totally ruined it.” 

“Yeah, I’ll say.” 

“Okay, okay— I get it!” She screamed into the receiver, nearly blowing out the speaker, “I’m terrible and self-important, and a hypocrite— and- and—  shut up and listen to me! I kind of…” There was another rustle, “got a little arrested.” 

“How do you get a little arrested?!” Tuck felt his head fall back onto the tile in disbelief.

“Well again, I thought I was breaking into your apartment. And I may have slightly miscalculated which floor you were on. Long story short, I now know what it’s like to fight a blind guy.” 

“... Why in the name of Linux would you call me?!” 

There was no reply. But he could hear her lips parting as if trying to say something. He wanted validation. He needed to know. He had to know. His ego was failing him.

“Why did you call me, Sam?” 

“Your number was the only one I could remember because I was trying to call you all day,” Sam admitted with reluctance. It was idiotic. It was so immature but she had spent all afternoon dialing and redialing as soon as she got home.  Not to mention sending him pages through her Nokia . She had a rotary for the aesthetic but it was murder on the fingers. He could hear some metal clatter against a hard surface, “...could you pick up my grandma so she could pay my bail?” 

“Your grandma?”

The afternoon rush lived up to its name. It started out subtle. It was one, then two— then an entire family and their litter. One after the other— cats and dogs living together. Swarms of customers flooded the establishment. The brass hinges of the return slot on the outside screeched with how many tapes were being deposited at once. This led to the boys having to take turns empting the overflow, occasionally leaving the desk with a line clear to the back of the store. This caused whoever remained a spike in anxiety. In reality, the task only took a few seconds, but each interval felt like a Benedict Arnold style betrayal. As if whoever went to switch the bin was somehow siding with the tidal wave of customers. They rang up patrons recycling the same script about the platinum membership, the same robotic ‘how are you?’s. At a certain point the words didn’t even sound like words anymore. They approached each interaction like it wasn’t cut from the same mold as the others. There was a rhythm. It was a bit of a dance. 

There were instances where a customer on Danny’s side wanted popcorn, and Dash had pulled out the bags from his side. If a customer wanted a large diet soda with artificial sweeteners that cause seven out of ten lab rats to become addicted? Well, Danny would be there with a cardboard cup for Dash to hand off. There was an unspoken synergy to it all, symbotic almost. Even the most annoying habits, like Fenton drumming his fingers while rounding up the total, or Dash’s insistence on addressing everyone under the age of twelve as ‘sport’ became endearing. It wasn’t a lot but there was something about each meaningless smile they received that felt earned. It wasn’t a lot but it was honest work. 

The pair spoke fast and talked harder. Clearing out the droves to the score of whatever terrible pop song was on the radio. 

Once the store was picked clean and left a disgusting wreck—Dash offered up a high-five, holding up his more than likely sprained scanner hand. Which Danny tiredly replied to.

Though of course peace was never an option… especially for Wes Weston. 

The doorbell rang. Wes strode in with the same assertive swagger as the town sheriff, “Well, well, well… well.” 

Danny elbowed Dash, “You think he’s got another one loaded?” 

Baxter snickered. 

Approaching the counter with his hands buried in his pockets. The basketball player still appeared to be wearing his camera around his neck. In case of any opportunity for a Phantom sighting. 

“Fenton,” Wes greeted curtly.

Danny rested his chin on his hand, “Weston.” 

“You two know each other?” Dash piped up. 

“We are acquainted,” The ghost boy dismissed, with a wave from his opposite hand. 

Sighing deeply, Wes turned his attention back to who he believed was in charge, “It's come to my attention, Dash, that you haven’t signed up for my ornithology club.” 

Rolling his eyes, Danny knew that birds weren’t the only thing Wes was perving on. 

Dash pursed his lip, “... Why would I sign up for a club about eye health?” 

The shooting-guard blinked and then looked the jock up and down noting that he wasn’t wearing his letterman. Weston suppressed his derision, “... T-That’s ophthalmology.” 

Unsure if the quarterback was playing dumb or if he was just too spent to be polite, Danny let his boss take the lead. Talking to Dash when he was in a mood was similar to talking to a bitchy brick wall. Danny snuck a licorice whip from his side of the counter wanting to see a popular-people fight. Though he wouldn’t necessarily say Wes Weston was your average popular. He wasn’t exactly an A-lister regular. Wes happened to have amazing skills at the hoop which elevated his subpar status. He was a bit shy so it was a shock when he proved to be an underdog. Of course, Wes still paled in comparison to Dash.

 Not that Danny actually paid attention to that sort of thing, but from what he gathered through the grapevine is that Dash was the top contender for every playable sport at Casper High. Baxter was something of a jack of all trades. He casted an awfully large shadow over the rest of the student athletes. Danny got the feeling he wasn’t exactly as well liked as he appeared to be, regardless of carrying the entire school on his extremely broad shoulders. 

Wes was a bit odd, to put it mildly. However, Danny wasn’t a mild person— Wes was a huge pain in the ass. Weston was a hall monitor since kindergarten, and it went straight to his head. To say that he was obsessed with rules was a massive understatement. Wes took even the dress code seriously. When he got sick with the flu everyone busted out their best open-toes shoes, untucked shirts and spaghetti straps for the occasion. Danny had heard he was a military brat, which might’ve explained— lot about the guy. He also heard that he was in the eagle scouts which definitely explained his habit of being in trees he shouldn’t. 

Somehow… one way or the other, Wes had become convinced he saw Danny turn into Phantom. Wes had concocted this grand notion that Danny and the Phantom were actually the same person. The cruel part is that no one believed him. 

Trading his obsession with rules, Wes had become determined to prove himself as ‘not crazy.’ 

If you thought that Danny enjoyed messing with Dash. Oh, it was a whole new ball game when it came to weaselly Wesley Weston. There were many things Danny couldn’t stand, snoops were in the top twenty. 

“Potato, potahto.” Dash pinched his tear ducts, “I don’t have time to keep up with a new club as well as my job, swim team, baseball, lacrosse, volleyball, drama club... not to mention student council…” 

Weston attempted to plead his case, “Principal Ishiyama said I needed—” 

“Damn.” Baxter slapped the counter, “nearly forgot the bake sale for the cheerleaders’ new uniforms. Then Paulina’s South American Culture Coalition… ” 

Stunned, Danny felt his jaw slack, “D-Do you have time to like— sleep with that schedule?” 

Dash’s posture crumpled slightly, though his face still displayed his ten-thousand watt smile. Sarcastically he uttered, “the light inside of me is dying.” 

Despite it clearly being a joke, Danny didn’t think it was funny. Fenton had to imagine the quarterback hooked up to a IV drip of RedBull in order to even function at a tenth of his normal. He had to wonder if a portion of Dash’s behavior had stemmed from being wound so tightly due to his insane workload. Not that it excuses it—but Danny got a little crabby when he couldn’t catch a five minute nap at his desk in Lancer’s English class. Danny had no idea, because he never thought to ask. 

“Principal Ishiyama said I needed three signatures to get my club off the ground, and I’ll be real with you… It's actually a covert gathering of like-minded individuals to record the where-abouts and comings-and-goings of everything Phantom related.” Wes leaned over the counter trying to discreetly sweeten the pot, “And I know you’re a phantom-freak.”

A smirk crept onto Danny’s face. He should be flattered, right? 

“Am not!” Dash shoved the shooting-guard back to his side of the barrier. Face red. What resulted from this accusation was probably the most juvenile series of replies Danny didn’t think his classmates were even capable of. 

Defiant, Wes retorted, “Are too!” 

“Am not!” Baxter repeated, crossing his arms over his chest, “Stop trying to embarrass me at work!” 

“Oh c’mon, it's Fenton, Dash.” Shooting a glare at the ghost boy. The look on Danny’s face told you that he got off on this sort of puppeteering. One day Wes would love to wipe that dumb look off the guy’s face. Wes scowled, “He’s already an embarrassment.” 

Having suffered worse burns from some tepid water, Danny chuckled, “Ooo scathing…” 

Dash exhaled rather seriously, “Don’t talk to him that way, Weston.” 

“Excuse me?” Wes brushed some stray hair from his eyes, just in case somehow that was affecting his perception, “You’re kidding, right…?” 

“He’s on my team.” The quarterback muttered, “I don’t talk that way to people on my team.” 

Weston could only scoff in reply. Danny must have sunk his claws in deep.

The hazy glass saw a huge red shape glide in front of it. The door chirped again. Another voice bellowed, “Wazzup! Party people!” 

Dash closed his eyes tightly, “Hey Kwan.” 

“Hey buddy!” Kwan offered up knuckles for a fist-bump, “Hey Dann’O—” 

“Don’t call me that.” Fenton clicked a pen, crossing off a task on the list that he would rather be doing instead of this arduous interaction. After they were gone, it looked like the ghost boy would be restocking the popcorn kernel drum that they used to restock the machine. It… was a good system in practice. 

“Understood.” Kwan retracted his fist and clasped his hands together. He looked down at his friend, the shooting-guard, “I told you to wait up! I needed to tie my shoe.” 

“You knew where I was going.” Wes wiped his nose. Trying to conceal his near offended tone, Weston snapped at the linebacker, “It's not like you haven’t come here without me.” 

“I’d still wait for you if your shoe was untied…” Kwan unwrapped a foil covered hot dog with ketchup, jalapenos, and what looked like cream cheese— 

Dash gestured to the wrapper, “Dude, do I have to remind you of the outside food policy every week?” 

“It's like three bites,” The line-backer spoke with his mouthful, “Coach says I have to get started bulking up for wrestling.” 

“Gimme that—!” Wes snatched the foil ball away, chastising the bigger man, “You’re already the size of a house.” 

The shooting guard turned to Dash, “Where’s the waste-basket?” 

“He can keep it, he just can’t eat it in here." 

Kwan nudged Wes with his shoulder, “did you ask him about the— the thing?” 

“Dash in his own words said he wasn’t a phantom-freak,” Wes kept giving an evil eye to Danny,  “...and apparently he’s too busy to hang with us.” 

“Aw, Dash, you don’t want to do the bird club with us?” Kwan's shoulders drooped disappointedly.

Danny remarked, “Is that what the kids are calling it now? Bird stalking ?” 

“It's bird watching — with a ‘w’ you, illiterate.” 

“I don’t think the birds feel that way.” 

Wes rubbed his thumb over the side of his hand as if he was mentally giving himself reasons to not hurt Danny. Kicking the counter was a proxy for the real thing. That is if Fenton even still felt pain… Wes was still skeptical. Vaguely Wes alluded to saying the truth of the matter, “Well sometimes the birds are doing things birds shouldn’t be doing.” 

“Weston, chill out.” The quarterback pointed a finger in warning, “I’m serious.” 

With a pout, Kwan ran a hand through his bowl-cut hair, “That sucks… but I get it man. I just figured with how much you draw Phantom in class you’d at least be curious.” 

Clearing his throat in a way to let some laughter escape his chest, Danny coughed. 

Dash did not need anymore embarrassing information to fall into Danny’s hands. He definitely didn’t need it broadcasted that he was a closested phantom-freak. Baxter loved his friend to death but once Kwan found out a piece of information, he would use it almost immediately. As if he couldn’t seem to absorb knowledge. The quarterback exclaimed, “Kwan, Jesus— Shut up!” 

“What’d I say?” the linebacker scratched his head, unaware that he had even said anything of importance. Kwan shifted gears, “that wasn’t what I was going to ask about though.” 

Groaning, Weston sharply turned to Byun, his camera banging against the front side of the desk. Wes reminded him, "I already called ahead about Space Jam ." 

Upon hearing that a pre-order needed to be filled, Danny pulled the tape up by the cardboard sleeve. He slid it onto the counter, and Dash booted up the program with one hand while scanning the case with the other. A red beam of light flashed and the transaction was completed. 

Excitedly, Kwan plucked the tape from the counter, “Awesome!” 

Now thoroughly exasperated with the two, Danny forced a smile, “Now if there isn’t anything else we can help with, have an afternoon.” 

“Don’t you mean ‘have a good afternoon’?” Wes petted his camera, trying to assess if it was damaged. However Weston soon realized that he wouldn’t even have the expertise to even parse to know if there was anything wrong with his equipment. 

“I said what I said.”

Weston turned his back to the counter, still somewhat annoyed that the interaction hadn’t leaned his way. Irate and stationary, the shooting-guard stuck up his nose, “What if I wanted to rent a tape too, huh?” 

Mocking a peppy voice, Danny bobbed his head from shoulder to shoulder, “Go ahead, there's probably something left.” 

As the two athletes feathered out from their clump right against the counter, Kwan hovered by the staff picks section “... so you wanna explain your thought process here?” 

Dash had nearly forgotten that the staff picks had been defaced. Danny winced and sucked in a breath— having largely ignored it since he arrived this morning. Avoiding eye contact with the pastel plush bears that sat across from him, Baxter drummed his fingers processing his excuse, “... it's ironic.” 

“Oh, yeah? Totally— totally… Plus—” Kwan held up his copy of Space Jam , “ Daffy Duck is, like, way cooler.” 

“Totally…” Dash agreed, being too dazed to even register the conversation. His voice didn’t even sound like his voice. He never should have told Kwan. This was supposed to be his place. His home away from home where he didn’t have any expectations. So far, like every other niche he set out to carve for himself, it failed. Maybe that’s why he had trouble sharing it. Because it was a piece of him. Baxter didn’t want to be a leader, he didn’t want to be a captain. Dash was that guy who fell asleep on his couch watching Turner Classic movies and the romance channel to feel a modicum amount of human connection. 

Everytime he was exposed it felt like teeth in his jugular. Vulnerability was like being a prey animal in the jaws of something that wasn’t even hungry. 

Wes was in the third row from the back, edutainment and documentaries, “Do you guys have Unsolved Mysteries ?”

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Danny hollered, “They’re in alphabetical order!” 

There was a beat of silence. 

“Do you have that show…” Weston was clicking his fingers trying to recall the title, “that show hosted by Riker from Star Trek The Next Gen ?” 

Jesus, Mary, John Jacob Jingle-Heimer-Schmidt— how clueless was this guy?! The ghost boy invited the basketball player to clarify himself, “Who?!” 

“You know Riker ?” Wes threw his leg in a way Danny assumed the character did on the show, “ Riker ?” 

Unsure of what to make of the bird-perv’s mind numbing stupidity, Danny cocked his head. A disastrous comment nearly snaked its way out of Fenton's body before remembering he was still at work, "... that's extremely helpful, Wes."

Kwan added into the pool of useless knowledge by expanding on that thought, “Didn’t he also play the bad guy in Gargoyles ?” 

“Yes!” Wes finally cracked his first grin since coming into the store, “You’re right! Do you guys have that show?” 

“ Gargoyles or the one that the guy from Gargoyles is in?” If it mattered, Danny could feel his blood pressure steadily rising. 

Wes confirmed, “The latter.” 

“What ladder?” Kwan had a knitted brow. 

Grinding his molars into his cheek, Danny could hardly believe the lack of brain power in the Casper High athletics department. It wasn't surprising but it was still staggering to witness in action. He worried he would contract the stupid like a second-hand high.

No— no, he made a big point not to be a judgemental person anymore. But, man, did these two make it difficult. He had to say this was more than likely the crowd he'd trust to handle jumper-cables. That was the positive he could say.

Coming to the rescue, Dash answered, " Jonathan Frakes ."

That was familiar, that name showed up a few times in history class— "Wait, that dude from the Civil War doc?" Danny stared at the ceiling, to see if whoever up there was enjoying this show too. 

“ North and South , he was also in the Waltons …” Dash yawned, “But the show Wes is talking about is Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction — it's in the B’s, toward the center on your right.” 

The athletes expressed relief and frustration that they hadn’t thought of it sooner. Danny could see Wes’ carrot colored mop change course towards the opposite end of the rack. 

Whispering to his coworker, Fenton was incredulous, “Whoa Dash, did you have that memorized?”

The quarterback didn’t want to admit he paid aggressive attention whenever Patrick Swayze was on screen parallel to Jonathan Frakes in the history drama. Or whenever Patrick Swayze was the topic of conversation, as that wasn’t the most masculine thing to be interested in.

“You have book smarts; I have… this,” In a self-deprecating way, Dash gestured to the numerous aisles that contained the wealth of video entertainment dating back to nearly the silent film era. 

The shooting-guard gave a lordly, self-serving laugh, “Found it!” 

Both boys at the register rolled their eyes while exhaling. Dash commented barely masking his growing annoyance, “Great, good for you!” 

“But on the other hand— ” Weston stroked his chin in thought.

Baxter’s head fell to the counter, where he tapped his forehead against the surface. He was going to need the jolt of energy. 

“We were planning on going to lunch.” Stretching his locked knees Danny heard his bones crackle, “But sure— sure we can keep doing this, I guess.” 

Wes called out, “Kwan, if you spot the Xfiles movie, let me know.”

“Dash, if you want to make a sucicide pact, let me know.” Imitating Wes’ nasally voice, Danny leaned down to his coworker.

Muffled from the desk, Dash hit his forehead on the desk one more time, “I’ll raise you a homicide-sucide pact.” 

Danny nodded, “Interesting… very interesting.” 

Having asked several more times as to where the Xfiles tape was located, and having to remind the athletes twice as many times that the racks were organized alphabetically by title, Wes still hadn’t left yet. Somehow Weston could turn ten minutes into an eternity. When it came to the rhythm, Wes was like an unwelcome rap interlude in a relaxed R&B piece. Wes was the cymbals that clattered together when you put them on a turbulent bus ride down a gravel road. 

Kwan stood by his friend casually pointing out more entertaining options, further mudding Wes’ already lengthy selection process. 

“I will literally pay you guys to leave!” Dash yelled from the desk, hoping that they were still listening. He could put his money where his mouth was, unlike Fenton who could just pester them into leaving with his personality.

Wes appeared in the center of the store, stomping his foot like a child, “You can buy my silence with a signature for my ornithologist club!” 

“I told you, I don’t have time—” 

“Yeah, yeah—” Wes interrupted, “You don’t even have to show up, just give me a signature!” 

Blowing a strand of hair from his eyes, Dash gave up, “Fine, whatever… if you’ll get the hell out of here.” 

Since when did Dash grovel? Danny patted his boss’s shoulder, “Hey, you know what? I’ll sign me and my friends up. You said you needed three signatures? There’s three of us.” 

A gargled noise came from Wes’ throat as if he was choking on his own tongue, “Uh— no, ew— thanks, but no.” 

“You said you needed signatures, and my signatures are just as good as anyone else’s, and you said it doesn’t matter if people show up,” Smiling, Fenton radiated an unholiness. Holding out his hand, “So... give me the paper, Weston.” 

Wes clicked his tongue, “Uh, but consider, I hate you?” 

“Feelin’ is very much mutual, pal.” Danny’s grin only got wider and his eyes looked like they were… shiny? Almost glowing? Were they always that green? 

The shooting-guard was petrified all of a sudden, “Psh— I-I just… I don’t want any losers. I want Dash.” 

Before the quarterback could defend his coworker, “Danny isn’t a—”  

“Dash. Said. No.” Fenton posed his hand like a gun. Abruptly the overhead lights began to flicker. The corpses of the insects trapped in the screens began to vibrate and twitch with the fluctuating electricity. Their silhouettes all crawled towards the center aisle casting shadow over the shooting-guard. 

“Christ, You’re a creep you know that?” Wes only lashed out because he was on the ropes. Totally not because he was actually afraid of being haunted by the semi-undead. 

Danny spat, “Takes one to know one.” 

The tense atmosphere was finally broken up by Kwan slapping the Xfiles vhs onto the counter, “Bam, found it! I’ll get this one too.” 

 “‘Kay, Wes?” Kwan phrased it as if asking for permission, but looked like he was going to make the purchase regardless.

More than happy to end this experience, Dash scanned it and ran Kwan’s card once more. Kwan with his two tapes put them into a hand sewn interior pocket of his letterman, the fabric pattern was golden brown feathers. 

Seething, Danny lowered his hand and it appeared the lights stopped flickering at the same time, now providing a steady yellow cloud over the establishment. 

“I think I’m gonna get him some ice cream, I know he says he’s lactose intolerant but it always makes him feel better,” Kwan spoke about Wes as if he was a precocious child. He pulled out some spare change from his front jeans pocket—pulling the pocket out to a dogs-ear—letting the coins rain into the tip jar. Kindly he said to Danny, “Sorry about him, he’s just having a hard day. His brothers’ kicked him out of the house.” 

Danny’s glare didn’t fade. 

Right. Kwan would one day get this kid to fist bump him. It was his mission. He knew he couldn’t be everyone’s best friend— but he had to at least try. With a wave, Kwan went back to the center of the store, “Anyway, I’ll see you at practice Dash. Keep it weird Fenton. Laterz.” 

Without exerting himself, Kwan lifted Wes up and over his shoulders in a fire-man’s carry.

“Dammit Kwan! Put me down! Let go of me!” Wes kicked and fussed, “this isn’t over— they will know the truth about you, one day!” 

Wrestling his arm away from the linebacker, there was very little that Weston could do besides shake his fist, “Mark my words, Fenton, you’ll regret messing with the likes of me!” 

The door chimed behind the pair of them. 

There was a pause before the cashiers proceeded to laugh until they cried. God, they couldn’t decide who that was more embarrassing for. Tension seemed to vanish as soon as they were left alone. Where they could just… be. 

Dash could maybe stand to share his special place with Fenton. He kept it interesting at the very least. Here the quarterback was, falling for that act of his. That act where they could be friends, like they were on the same side. At least the closest thing to friends Dash could offer. 

Opening the gate behind the counter, Dash gathered his keys, “I know Weston is a piece of work, but what’s the story there? I gotta know.” 

Without much caution or thought Danny readily admitted, “He’s got it in his head that I’m the Phantom.” 

He then remembered who he was speaking to, “He’s such a nutbar.” 

Dash studied Danny for a moment. Really looking at his coworker’s face. There was certainly a resemblance. They had a similar cute up-turned nose. Baxter pictured Danny with platinum white hair… 

Nah. Couldn’t be.

After a minute or so of uninterrupted staring, Dash shrugged it off, “Total nutbar.” 

“You have some interesting friends,” Danny jabbed, combing his fingers through his hair, wondering if there was something wrong with it. 

The quarterback mumbled inconsequentially, “... Not exactly my friends.” 

Not elaborating any further, Dash walked over to the soda machine, pressing into the spout of the iced tea dispenser. 

“Kwan is like friends with everyone; you’re really gonna make that controversial statement?” 

Shrugging, Dash toyed with the plastic straw littered with chew marks from where he ground his teeth, “We used to be really close. I’ve always had trouble with keeping friends. It feels like I can never… “ He trailed off, “It’s whatever.” 

“I can tell you for certain that Wes is like— a pathological liar.” Dash asserted after replacing his chewed up straw.

Fenton sprayed the register down in disinfectant, “So, that part about you being a phantom-freak?” 

“Greatly exaggerated.” Replying with humor, the quarterback pressed the cool damp cup to his forehead, “I mean I own a sweatshirt. That’s it.” 

Unconvinced, Danny wondered if the black sweatshirt currently residing on Dash’s waist was the one in question. It wasn’t bad if Dash was a fan… it was unexpected, sure. Ultimately it was harmless, Dash hadn’t been a threat for a long time. It was adorable. 

“Okay! I used to go on this forum!” Dash confessed after enough interrogative glances. He scratched the back of his neck, “Wes and I both went on this phantom forum run by some local dudes at the community college. At first it was just a couple hundred people, but it was still like… mind blowing. Like I forgot how big this city actually is. Then it got bigger and bigger. It stopped being this place where we could vent about the weird stuff that happened in town, and became like this quest to find answers. Wes got sucked up by it. I think it's a way to deal with his family losing his house in a fire resulting from a ghost attack— or something.” 

“He lost his house?” 

“Yeah… It was… messed up.” Dash rubbed his forehead, “the PTA put together a canned food donation, and a fundraiser to help whatever the insurance wouldn't cover. Which surprisingly didn’t mention a word about ghost attacks— go figure. I think he blamed the Phantom for it. I dunno. Accidents happen.” 

Danny mumbled and agreed. 

“Either way he started putting together these posts about how everything was either a hoax or a conspiracy against him. Overall just… making everything uncomfortable. He was either calling us all fakes, or in on it— or whatever. Soon enough people outside of town found it, and sure enough they fed his ego too.” It looked like even speaking about it caused him some kind of headache, “I could write off everything. I could’ve just said that’s his coping process. Wes being Wes. That is until the Red Huntress showed up…” 

Valerie Grey…

Knowing a bit too well where this was heading, Danny braced himself.

Baxter chuckled out a breath, “I don’t know what his goddamn problem is… But he— he seemed to think because Val stopped hanging around us, she went off and became a vigilante! Without telling us— without telling me… “

He balled a fist into his pocket before mumbling into his other hand, “She suffered just as much as he did last year, but it's like he can’t function outside of the lens of a conspiracy theory! It’s... gross.” 

There wasn’t anything he could do to fix the ripple effect his ghost side caused. It felt like the more people he saved, there were even more people’s lives he ruined. By complete and utter accident as well. Danny was speechless. What was he supposed to do? Wes… by sheer coincidence happened to be right. He was dead on the money. Danny was the phantom, and Val was the Red Huntress. Wes’s life was completely in ruins, and the phantom trio had been poking at the remains like roadkill. It affected Wes’ friends too. It clearly affected Dash. 

“...I can believe that you’re the Phantom, but I can’t believe that Val would lie to me.” 

Danny fidgeted in a way that only cemented that he was peculiar. Picking at the dry skin on his elbow, he altered his voice to further mask his identity, “uh— wh-wh-what do you mean by that?” 

It was too little too late. Dash took a sip of his iced tea, before listing off the reasons on his hand, “I mean… you being the Phantom. It's almost too obvious. He uses Fenton technology. He shows up only when you’re gone. You have similar mannerisms, similar accents… your nose scrunches up when you smile. He called me his ‘fitness buddy.’ You… gotta see it too right?” 

“But you have doubts?” 

“I’m not great with statistics but what would be the odds of something that strange happening?” 

“... pretty slim,” He lied with an awkward chuckle. Thank god Dash was so bad at math.

Dash snorted, “Exactly! Also I’ve seen you in gym class, so either you’re a method actor, or you’re not the Phantom. Seriously, I saw the guy go so fast he ran up a wall!” 

“How would that even work? Like you’re half ghost? Like you could turn it off and on? Come on, that’s stupid.” 

“Flattering.” Fenton deflated, unsure whether to be offended or relieved. 

Speaking as if he was trying to persuade himself, the quarterback stared at the tile floor. Specifically where the tile met the carpet. He pushed his shoes as far as they’d go without breaking the artificial boundary. Dash was in a box. He continued, “I… think what scares me the most is that she might be, it's so plausible. But… I’m always wrong. I’m an idiot. That’s what I know. I refuse to believe it’s true, because Val… Val couldn’t be the Red Huntress. She would have told me. It’s so stupid that I’m even having this conversation with myself, because there’s— no way its possible.”  

The hypocrisy was too obvious to ignore. The ghost boy gestured with the cleaning bottle, “You weren’t exactly honest about your job.” 

Baxter knew somehow that would come back to bite him. He gripped one of the sweatshirt sleeves he wore as a belt, “That’s not fair.” 

Dash finally looked up at Danny before giving the pitiful excuse, “No one was supposed to find out.” 

“And that makes it different from a secret… because…?” 

Restlessly, Dash bounced his leg, searching for the right phrasing that was beyond him, “...It… it just is. This place is different. I didn’t tell anyone because… then it wouldn’t be my place anymore. I couldn’t be me. So many people have this perception of me that I’m not living up to, and when I’m here, I’m just like everyone else.” 

“Wow, that is… really the definition of a first-world problem. Hanging out with the commoners—” 

“Ha ha ha, you’re hilarious.” Dash stepped off the tile by the soda machine, rolling his eyes. Making his approach back to the counter. He was getting used to his coworker’s surly demeanor. 

“No, no I’m not… I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make fun of you. I… I know something about wanting to feel like everyone else.” 

Left without much else to say, he feigned that he was messing with the displays. Dash replied with his tongue clicking against his teeth, “I’m sorry too, Fenton.” 

The conversation wasn’t over because neither party killed it. It had died of natural causes. They spoke fast, and talked harder, but there was nothing else they could say. Yet they eagerly wanted to say more. The pair sat in the shared silence comfortably. Though longing to be filled. Easy smiles unfurled on their faces.

Despite Danny not saying anything, Dash shook his shoulder, “Oh oh— shut up— shut up. I love this song.” 

Fighting through the static of the radio, the store was filled with a garbled version of George Micheal ’ s Faith . Danny could hear the sole of Dash’s sneakers bouncing to the bassline as the jock bobbed his head. 

For all his rough edges, Dash was blissfully ignorant. Daniel would never reveal his identity and he almost felt like he couldn’t. They were in the middle of what Lancer would dub a moment of dramatic irony. 

A moment of innocence that the ghost boy couldn’t spoil. Because he knew the truth. Danny was the Phantom, and Dash’s friend was the Red Huntress. 

Chapter Text

Thirty minutes until closing. Eleven pm. They were confident that no one else would be coming in. Yet they still kept the doors unlocked. Out of insistence, Dash shut off the radio for Danny. The store was cold in the artificial way only an air conditioner could provide. It was a damp kind of cool. Light dyed everything in a relaxing cyan tint. They had to wax the tile floor. It reflected the ceiling in a way that made the whole store feel like it was glowing. It felt untouched but worn in. It was natural as any fixture like a body of water. However, it was too uniform to be anything other than a man-made oasis. 

The flecks of white on the dark ceiling caught the night and reflected with the same majesty of the natural night sky. The neon was beautiful when it was dark; it created this gradient of magenta and teal that bathed the ‘horror’ section in pigment. The waxy-textured cardboard covers played off the neon. Every time Danny blinked, the store was a new shade. Either he was so exhausted that his mind finally gave out after listening to  MMMBop  one too many times, or the store was an unspoiled capitalist wasteland where convenience in video entertainment met stale popcorn. 

In the emptiness, it felt as though the two employees could finally breathe to the fullest extent of their lungs. They took their masks off. They were just two people. Two teenagers. Two kids in the deep blue light in the shape of a crown. 

He could barely detect his deodorant failing him as his baggy shirt clung to his body too familiarly. Dash wasn’t looking any better than he was this morning, except he stopped acting as soon as the last customer left.

“So I’ll have to talk to Burkowitz about the schedule, but if you’re willing to put in the work— I can make sure you get the hours you want.” Dash held his arms behind his back, lacing his fingers in a handcuff stretch. He had taken a small break to retrieve another full bin of returned tapes. 

Danny stared at the clock until the hand shifted. Twenty-nine minutes until closing. He rubbed his eyes, “That’s real nice of you, Dash.” 

“Eh,” He spoke with a smile, “Don’t get used to it.”

“No, seriously, what’s the catch?” 

Baxter wheeled the cart with all the return bins filled with unwound tapes closer to his side, “Not everything I do has a catch.” 

“Sure,” Danny murmured sarcastically. He pulled the video cart back over to his side of the register. Grabbing his white plastic winding key, Fenton got back to work. The clock continued to tick on as neither party said anything to each other. All that could be heard was winding keys scraping against the plastic as their movements became more inelegant with the night creeping in. The pace slowed tremendously, as it became difficult to even steady their hands with the repeated motion of plugging in the tool to twist the film back. They had been at this for an hour, yet it didn’t seem to end. Danny didn’t even think they were making a dent. 

Dash wasn’t deterred; he wasn’t going to let Danny ruin the moment. He was nice sometimes. It wasn’t that unusual, “No catch.” 

“You started off this morning hating my guts because I dragged you out of bed.” 

“I’m not a morning person.” The jock admitted with humor. He twirled the scanner in his hand, “Which is why I like the closing shift. It’s quiet. And I can hear the road. It’s better, I guess.” 

The words burned through his teeth, “Dash, can I ask you something?” 

“Shoot.” Dash began entering tapes into the computer log before moving them to the sorting bin. He wasn’t pigeon-typing. Though it was clumsy, it was easier than teaching Danny from scratch. The spreadsheets had all these customers organized by last name, and each name in the database led to a customer’s profile and renting history. It was color-coded by how outstanding the fees were. Unsurprisingly those who could afford to be late chose to do so. 

“Do— Do… you hate me?” 

The response was automatic and certain, “No.” 

It startled even Dash with how fast he said it. He repeated, clearing his throat. “No, I mean. I don’t like you. But I don’t… hate you.” 

“You probably should. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I’ve been acting like—” 

Another immediate response fired off from the jock, “A shithead?” 

“I was going to say, ’a jerk.’” He had been selfish, shortsighted, bitter, and irresponsible. He was acting no better than the ghosts that he fights. It just so happened he was on the winning team. Danny pointed his winding key to his superior, “But it doesn’t really matter, huh?”

Sighing, the jock asked his own question, “Do you ever get the feeling that… people would be better off not knowing who we really are.” 

“Who we really are?” Danny stretched his palm open. His joints were cramping. Looking at his senior in askance, he flexed his hands.

Baxter studied Fenton for a moment. Focusing on Danny’s nose, then his eyes. They were blue. They had always been blue. He clarified, “I mean that it feels like people take a piece of you when they leave. That it feels better to keep things… surface level. Like I dunno-- I think I have four different ways of asking ‘how are you?’ and I know regardless, they’re not gonna tell me the truth.” 

“I told Val… some stuff about me. She took it better than most. Maybe it’s selfish, but I can’t stand it. When you tell people secrets, it’s almost like they own a part of you.” 

The ghost boy accidentally scraped the winding key against the Formica counter, “... I wouldn’t worry, She’s probably already blanked it out.” 

“That’s the thing.” Dash suddenly said an inscrutable eureka expression reflected in the glass of the monitor. He hit the keys harder, “That’s the thing. I don’t want her to forget. I don’t want to forget either. It’s like tangible evidence that I trusted someone, and I’m gonna have to live with how uncomfortable it makes me.” 

Fenton couldn’t find anything else to say. Except that Dash was entirely correct. Ew. Being honest with someone-- anyone was like whittling off the most brittle piece of yourself. He couldn’t believe it. Danny didn’t want to sound defensive, “... What’s your point?” 

He smiled, “I don’t think you’ve told the truth once in your life.”

Ouch. Danny scratched his nose anxiously. Why did it sound like he was piecing something together? 

“I don’t think I ever do anything right,” Fenton had blurted out. To get Dash to ease off. It felt good to admit, though. As if experiencing a drizzle in the desert. The water mixes with the earth to create mud. He had gradually pumped the brakes on his initial statement, but it seemed there was little he could do to put the cat back in the bag. Words continued to spill out of him, “... Didn’t ever have a dog or a normal dad, I mean you’ve seen the house— Yeah, normal has never been my birthright. That’s alright. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I mean, I feel like I’m... I feel like I’m... you know... well-adjusted. But I just get so… angry.” 

“It would be concerning if you never got angry.” Dash mollified him, “No one is perfect all the time. They shouldn’t be; I think it would be bad for their health.” 

He could tell that his answer didn’t make Danny feel any better. Teenagers were just getting accustomed to empathy after all. It fit poorly, and they needed to grow into it. For a moment, he stopped typing, “Tell you what, Kemosabe, I think we all act a little human sometimes.” 

Danny wanted to object, but ultimately it resonated. The truth hurt. It could hurt so sweetly. He was still human for all its faults. Even though it felt like a distant memory. It felt like an overexposed polaroid, left to curl and melt. The ghost boy admitted, “For once, I think you’re right.” 

“Broken clock is right twice a day.” There was a defeatist tone woven into Baxter’s voice. 

“... Could I ask you something else?” 

“I don’t think I could stop you.” 

“Why do you work here? Don’t tell me that you’re saving up for a car. I know you’re loaded; you don’t need the money. Is it a punishment? Did you, like, crash the golf cart into the lake at the country club?” With each question, Danny inched closer. It was an informal interrogation. The ghost boy gestured to the jock’s entire presence, “Why are you here?” 

The jock stifled a chuckle, “I assume this is you not trying to be offensive?” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I like to waste my time.” Baxter then tried to sway the subject, picking up the receiver for the phone on the wall, “Do you think Pizza Mafia would deliver here?” 

Danny idly scratched his temple with his thumb, “I’m having a hard time believing you.” 

“That I eat carbs with this physique?” Flexing his bicep, Dash nearly clocked Danny with his elbow.

That wasn’t an answer. Danny grabbed one end of the phone. Dash hesitated; his eyes widened as if he was startled by Fenton’s bravery. His jaw unclenched, and Danny could see Dash’s gaze trembling as if he didn’t know where to look. Dash couldn’t avoid the question or Danny’s face filling up his vision. Releasing the receiver, Danny reached behind him to put the phone back onto the set.

The ghost boy quietly pleaded, “C’mon. Seriously, Why are you here?” 

“It’s nothing interesting,” Dash confessed. He now noticed that Danny had physically backed him into the corner. The wall was at his back. 

“Just tell me.” 

“I-I just like…” Dash drummed his fingers on the counter, he turned slightly, so his shoulder faced Danny, “Movies. A lot.” 

“And…?” Fenton gestured for him to continue.

“This may surprise you, but I don’t have the same opportunities as you. I don’t have NASA aspirations. Hell— I don’t even have NFL aspirations.” He shrugged, aggravated that he didn’t have a satisfactory answer. He was here; there wasn’t anything more than that. Dash sighed, “So, I thought I would do something I would be good at.” 

“You’re great at a lot of things,” Danny told him, without a hint of jealousy. He said it with his whole chest. It seemed to come not out of thin air but from the depths of his person. 

“If you can name one of them— besides football, besides sports— I will bet you a week’s worth of tapes.” 

“...” Danny pursed his lips, easing off, back towards his side of the counter, “Just because I can’t think of anything doesn’t mean you don’t have any redeeming qualities.” 

“Thanks…” Dash furrowed his brow, “I think.” 

“I’m not kidding. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone care about anything stupid as this job.” 

Bashfully, the jock glanced at Danny’s hands loosely holding the rewind key and a copy of   Re-Animator , before hastily looking back at his own work. The words fell out of his mouth and stayed there. They were the foam that sat on top of a drink, faintly sweet, evaporating just as quickly, “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Fenton.” 

“Yeah—” Flustered, Danny slid the tape down the counter for scanning, “Don’t get used to it.” 

There was a beat of silence before Danny cleaved through it, “So, what do you want to do?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Like— what do you want to do when you get out of--?” Waving his hand around the store, Danny clarified, “Here?” 

“...I think I’d want to make movies one day.” Dash finally said with some resolve, even if he thought the ‘when,’ instead of ‘if,’ was a bit too generous, “I mean, that Patrick Swayze  movie about ghosts? Uh yeah, nice thought, I guess, but totally inaccurate, right?” 

Danny didn’t mean to sound doubtful, but he was undeniably taken aback, “You’d want to make ghost movies?” 

“Other stuff too…” Dash stole another look to the counter. 

“Really?”

“I dunno, maybe not make movies…” Dash trailed off. The way he spoke, you wouldn’t think that it was something far off in the distance. He saw it. It was real. It was just over there. It was a matter of getting there. He had a shaky confidence about him, “Maybe act, perform or whatever.” 

“It’s not whatever.” Danny teased, “If it’s something you want to do, you have to do it. It’s not like we get do-overs.” 

“You seem awfully invested in my personal life all of a sudden.”

“I’m just saying if I was you, I would cash it in— do what needs to be done. We’re only here for so long. I wouldn’t wait.” The ghost boy admitted with a pained compulsive laugh, “Plus, I need someone to project onto. I’m out of practice being happy for other people.” 

“So, I’m guessing as soon as we’re back in school, I’m not gonna see this side of you ever again, huh?” 

Yeah, supposed he deserved that. Jesus, how many times did this guy watch the  Breakfast Club?  Was it inevitable that they would go back to hating each other? Danny was using him at the end of the day, but was it that obvious? Why did he mean everything he said? Danny really wanted Dash to do something with his life. Whether it be for completely selfish reasons like Danny could somehow pass Dash’s accomplishments off as his own. 

“... Probably not. But in three years when I need a job, and if this place is still in business… Do you want to be coworkers?” 

Dash sighed, futilely, “Y’know, I think I can like someone without being paid for it.” 

Briefly, it felt as if they were coasting together like a firework launched into the sky only to burst in an entirely unique combination of volatile gunpowder, sulfur, aluminum, and fire. They were the embers torn off in opposing directions, fading into nothing. They were the same. They were a speck of fire, flickering in the dark. Danny had become acutely aware of how small they were at this moment. How small his fifteen years on this planet were. His entire evening had been blown away with a few simple words. With the revelation that they were insignificant. 

Yet this feeling that they were colliding in a way never once recorded in the history of man-kind still persisted. It was a headrush of endorphins and unstable chemicals that felt limitless in their highs. Danny wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be angry, though that was already loaded in the chamber. Instead, he said nothing. For once, Danny said nothing. For the first time in a long time, he felt alive. Like his heart was beating, his blood was pumping—he wanted to scream— 

Instead, The ghost boy utilizing every ounce of control in his one-hundred-and-thirty pound body, whispered, “Thanks.” 

“No problem.” 

Twenty-five minutes until close. In sync, they whittled down their tapes to a half, then a quarter, until there were none at all. Their palms touched the empty bottom of the bin. Not to say that it was over, but it gave a preview of what was to come. Eventually, there would be nothing that gave them unity. It was a tether as much as a crutch. The tentative relationship forged from playing cards and matchsticks would collapse under the pressure of time. Inside they weren’t a jock and some creepy kid. They were equals in the job. In tandem, they realized that they needed more work because neither of them wanted to leave. 

“Uh, do you think you can do twenty more?” 

“Bet you I can do twenty-five.” Raising the ante, Danny tapped his winding key on the register counter. 

A smile reciprocated, and the apprehension vanished. Baxter rested his chin on his hand, coyly stating, “Thirty.” 

“...Thirty.” Fenton nodded affirmatively.

Grasping the cart, the keys on his hip could be heard jingling. The pins on his lanyard clattered as he journeyed to the dropbox. This gave Danny a moment to stretch and try to deny that he liked it. He didn’t want to admit that he liked the routine— the stability. If he liked it, that meant he was attached to this place.

Door chime. 

Opening his eyes, the ghost boy saw a figure crossing the floor with an aggressively wide gait. Before Danny could explain that the store would be closing soon, the man had approached the desk. He stood at a staggering six feet. A long dirt-covered billowing trench coat with empty belt loops, yet he wore a tie and collared shirt underneath that still had the dry cleaning tags attached. His face was gaunt, though Danny could barely tell because of the ski mask clinging tightly to his features. Black hair stuck out from the eyeholes, but it looked too clumped together to be authentic. 

Stomach hitting the floor, Fenton spotted the strange man clutching something near his chest. It was the silver hammer and barrel of a revolver. It caught the light and glinted— 

  This was a robbery.  

“Kid,” He began, the solid bitter scent of alcohol on his breath. He spoke softly, “You ever play Simon says?” 

Not even allowing Danny the option to think, the man ordered with a guttural snarl, “You’re gonna show me your hands. You’re gonna keep them on the counter.” 

Slowly, and calmly Fenton placed his hands on the counter. The cold metal of the barrel rested just between his eyebrows. There was a click, 

“Now that I have your attention, I’m going to need you to empty out that register.” 

On the other side of town, the wind whistled past the ears of Tucker, Sam, and Ida. Tucker’s night vision may not have been the best, but he was going to get them home. That was the determination that guided him better than any GPS could. He only had two helmets, so he handed them both off to Sam and her grandmother. They had been bickering with each other leaving him able to focus on the ride. The street was smooth, and the shine was reflected from the yellow streetlights. It was a starless and cold night. 

Sam sat behind him, clinging to his torso. Her arms coiled around him like ivy draped around an eroded stone fixture. As if she was the earth about to reclaim him. It was probably the closest they’ve been. Tucker was in her dizzying orbit. He didn’t want to think about how she smelled like wild blackberry jam that was sitting in the sun. Tucker knew she went to the farmer’s market on Saturdays. Since he was still angry, he didn’t want to ask her about it. He didn’t want to see the way she lit up when she talked about supporting local businesses. Sam would always want to share her haul. She’d like to see what moisturizers would work on his flaky joints. She would spray him with rosewater for some purpose he couldn’t fathom. Her soft hands would rub circles on his forehead— 

Remaining angry was proving to be a lot more difficult than he initially thought. 

“Dearie, I know that wild Manson blood skips a generation.” Ida was in the wind-up for a long-awaited reprimand, “Your parents are going to think I had something to do with it, and I just got my tv privileges back. Why would you go an’ concoct a ferkakta scheme like that?!” 

“Bubbe, I told you why.” 

Incredulously Ida shouted over the purr of the Vespa, “I just don’t believe you! You don’t go boy-crazy!” 

“Please— I’m not boy-crazy!” Sam yelled over her shoulder, “I wouldn’t get arrested for a boy!” 

“I got arrested for your grandfather,” Ida said with casualness as if it were as mundane as doing one’s taxes. 

The younger Manson did not care for the implication, “That’s because you both hit off a turnip truck in the old country!” 

“It was BEETS! And it was to put him through college!” 

“Bubbe! I told you, I thought it was Tucker’s apartment.” 

“So you would rob your boyfriend? My, the kids these days.” 

“I’m not her boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

The teens asserted at once. Tucker fumbled to brake for a red light. However, the accusation was one that didn’t bother him. If he was Sam’s… friend-who-happened-to-be-a-boy, it would be something he wore with great honor. But it wasn’t the truth. In reality, he was wrapped around her finger. He didn’t know what they were, and he didn’t care. Guilt flooded his mind because all Foley wanted was to be with her. It felt as natural as anything else. There was very little he believed in, but he believed in nature. The moon was real, as was the sun and gravity. Yet his feelings for Sam were something he could see the effects of every day. He found that he could care because she cared about him. He cared about himself because she cared about him. Though Tucker would never be so selfish to think that he was owed anything more than that. 

Ida gave a smug semi-gummy grin, “Sheesh, just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m deaf.” 

Tucker may have taken the wrong turn because he wanted to be in Sam’s embrace for a bit longer. Though the street signs were hard to read with the glare from the road. The group came to a halt in front of Sam’s townhouse. The lights were off, which let Sam and her grandmother loosen a breath of relief. 

Before helping Ida off the Vespa, Foley kicked down his brake. The old woman secured her shawl and found the young man’s hand, “I feel like I’m being escorted to the prime minister’s ball.” 

She snapped her fingers toward her granddaughter, “You need a good influence like him, look at his punim— this is a good boy, who is your rabbi?” 

Tucker corrected, “Actually Mrs— “

“You can call me Bubbe, dearie.” 

He blinked before continuing, “Uh, okay, Bubbe. I’m not actually Jewish.” 

Ida patted the young man’s shoulder with affection, “Nobody is perfect. Do you want a hard candy?” 

Seeing as he didn’t have much choice in the matter as she was already going into her coin purse. Tucker opened his palm to receive a strawberry packaged hard strawberry candy, the kind you would find at the doctor’s office. He nodded in thanks. 

  “I’m going to shimmy in through the living room window. Which— is funnily enough, how the ball ended much the same way.” Bubbe hobbled away with her cane.

Now with a moment alone, Sam crossed her legs at the ankle, starting up at her darkened house. He saw her tongue glide across her teeth under her stained lips. She opened her mouth to say something— 

Tucker snatched up the helmet Ida left, “You’re welcome.” 

Her lips parted, before breaking into a nervous grin that had the echoes of her grandmother’s, “I was just going to say realistically, this would be how  Can’t Buy Me Love  ended.” 

“Sam,” Tucker said flatly without a hint of humor. His dimples were replaced with an expression that read as exasperated. 

She stuffed her hands into the hand-stitched pockets of her skirt, “You’re still mad, huh?” Sam suggested semi-jokingly, “Tomorrow we can forget all about this when I reenact another botched movie ending, huh? Have some more wacky hijinks? How about it?” 

“Sam!” He snapped. Before putting on the helmet over his hat, Tucker continued his tirade, “If you’re not actually going to apologize or explain what is going on with you, then—” 

The pads of her fingertips pressed against his chest. Pinning Tucker in his place on the sidewalk, “Don’t.” 

Heart racing, Foley wondered if she could hear it too. He held himself still. Still, as he physically could. Still enough to be confused for a dead person.

“I am... “Manson took a breath in, “Sorry.”

She detested using those words, more than anything, to express her affection. Sam wasn’t so good with this ‘feelings’ crap. She wished it could be as easy as to just punch him once in the shoulder to get across that she needed him to be there to catch her fists. She needed a lightning rod. But Sam knew more than anyone that this wasn’t sustainable. They couldn’t keep going on like this. Something had to give. It might as well have been here for all the trouble she’s caused them both for tonight.

“Okay,” Tucker mumbled, unsure what else to say. 

Retracting her hand from his chest, it felt as though she stole the air right from his lungs too. With clear second thoughts, she swallowed all the doubt causing her cottonmouth. Sam admitted, “You— look— y’see, the thing is…” 

Rubbing the pit of her elbow, she grew more sheepish as another breeze tore through the street, “I haven’t been completely honest with you or myself. I was having this problem. Instead of handling it maturely and just talking to you about it… I think I just projected my feelings onto you.” 

Tucker stopped himself from getting hopeful but couldn’t help his eyes widening, “F-feelings?” 

“I was… disgusted with myself; I hated the idea that I was one of those girls who would become totally useless when they saw a guy they liked but— I… I have feelings. I have feelings, and I can’t change them! They’re valid because they’re mine… or something like that.” 

The language she was using sounded oddly familiar. Too stiff. Too studious and analytical. Way too self-aware for Sam. Suddenly the excuse she used earlier, ‘girl talk,’ made much more sense… 

Tucker didn’t expect this is how it would happen. He thought it should be at the right time and place. His hands began to tremble but quickly hid them in his armpits, which were extremely sweaty, as you might have guessed. This wasn’t supposed to happen this way at all. It’s not like he had a vision board. He at least wanted to not be in his pajama bottoms in the middle of the street while wearing his Vespa helmet over his beret. Honestly, the horrid yellow of the street lamps was the greatest equalizer; no one could pull it off in that lighting. 

Like molasses, Sam meandered to her point. Stalling as long as possible to keep a distance away from the heart of the matter, “... The truth is, I was pushing you away because I thought you had feelings for me. Obviously, I’m not the best at being a softie like you. I find it hard to be affectionate. I thought it would upset the group dynamic if you liked me, but… what I was actually doing was projecting my fears of emotional intimacy and abandonment onto you. The worst-case scenario I thought would happen is if I ever told Danny I liked him.” 

“Wait.” Tucker steepled his hands over his nose and mouth, “...   what?” 

Sam’s eyes were big and shiny— sad and blindly angry. Her tears sped down her cheeks, and snot began to leak from her nose. All composure had left her now. The floodgates were opened, and she couldn’t stop. She shivered from the wind and from the hiccups that came from her sobs. Off aways, he could hear an ambulance siren. It was the only thing he could hear. 

“I like Danny! I-- I like him! And It’s killing me! because I know he-- he’s got priorities that come before me and-- I can’t... “Wiping at her nose, she sniffled, “and if you tell anyone—” 

“Sam… I wouldn’t do you like that, c’mon.” Reluctantly the geek opened his arms, offering her a hug, “C’mon.” 

Nearly slamming into him, she buried her face into his shoulder and wailed— it was enough to rouse some neighborhood dog’s attention but not enough to cause the lights in her house to turn on. Foley patted her back with a rhythm. Rocking and swaying her, Tucker was reminded that he never got to dance with her at homecoming. That was stolen away, thanks to whatever ghost was terrorizing the town that week. Better late than never, right? 

“Thanks, Tuck.” 

“Of course... What are friends for?” 

The sirens in the distance were perhaps closer in reference to the video store. Though unfortunately, they caused the man in the mask to become more irritated and antsy. Waving his gun loosely in his grip, “Now, if you were the unintelligent kind, you might have hit the panic button underneath the counter.” 

He swayed back and forth, unsteadily as if breaking in a new pair of shoes, “Are you the unintelligent kind?”

Danny’s eyes narrowed, his brow pinched, “No.” 

“No, what?” in a languid fashion, the man asked. The spider wanted to poke at Danny. Though little did the spider know, he just met the raven. 

Cocking his head in a way that could communicate that he was paying attention while also mentally giving the guy the bird, Danny enunciated, “... No, sir. I am not the unintelligent kind.” 

“I’m glad we understand each other. I don’t believe a robbery should ruin someone’s night. I believe that this will be a great story for kids someday— it’ll give you character.” The man gestured to the register, “So, I’m going to ask you, once again: empty the register.” 

Danny had plenty of character through his various stacked and interwoven tapestry of traumas. He’s stocked full of character, thanks. It wasn’t so much the threat of being shot right between the eyes that terrified him. It was the idea that it probably wouldn’t work. The bullet would pass through his skull and into the popcorn machine behind him. His survival instinct was so embedded into him that faltering wasn’t an option. Of course, this was probably a welcome change of pace to what Danny typically dealt with. He didn’t really do ‘human crimes.’ He tried to intervene if the opportunity ever presented itself, but they just got to be too much. Danny wasn’t a maid. He could barely handle the messes he got himself into on a near-weekly basis. 

He had to play this smart. Danny already knew that he could feasibly ‘live’ through this encounter. It was a matter of convincing this man that Danny was still a regular nine-to-five under twenty-something. Danny couldn’t allow himself time to remember how ordinary people react to being shot. Eyes falling to the register, Fenton inched back. The internal debate caused him to be paralyzed. Should he risk his identity for five-fifteen an hour? He thought about the two-hundred and chunk of change in the till.

Meditating on it, he couldn’t let this guy have this money. He couldn’t let this guy getaway. It might have been the rental store tonight, but it could be Kwan’s place next. It could’ve been Dash working the counter alone— 

Bluffing, Danny took another step back, “Its m-my first day— they didn’t leave me the keys for the— “ 

“Dude, do you know how many times a week I do this?” 

Fenton believed it was a rhetorical question. 

The man kicked the revolver out of his gun, displaying five empty slots, with one bullet left. Danny could hear the muffled sound of the robber’s lips parting behind his mask, “About this many times. You don’t want to lie to me.” 

It wasn’t lying. It was stalling. Major difference. Unsurprisingly, a simple two seconds was not enough time to come up with a concrete plan. Surely, one of Danny’s powers had to be subtle enough? What would  Kevin McCallister  do? 

 Danny began to will the smallest amount of energy to his pointer finger. Whatever he had to do, he had to do it fast—-! 

 CRASH!   

A rack towards the front of the store clattered to the ground. Plastic clam-shell cases hit the floor, the impact sending the tapes across the entryway. Caught off guard, Danny didn’t do that… 

Spinning on his heel, the man pointed his gun in front of him like it was a flashlight. As if the gun would reveal to him what was waiting for him in the dark. Seizing the opportunity, Danny shot an intense beam from his eyes, grazing the perp just above his ear. Taking a chunk out of his mask, scalp, and flesh in the process. Now with the air thick with the scent of burning polyester and wool, blood fell from the man’s wound and onto his shoulder. The man grunted in pain, grabbing the side of his head. 

Rendering himself intangible for a split second, Danny fell through the counter and dove behind the horror section. Once he found the floor, he switched and returned to his physical form. Army crawling on his stomach, the ghost boy knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet. In the dim light, Danny was less preoccupied with what he could see and more about putting some distance between him and the strange man. Headfirst, Fenton felt his forehead hit something, warm— kind of soft— kind of firm... 

 OH! It was Dash!   

Danny pulled his head from Dash’s side. Relieved to see him this side of a black body bag. Dash had his hand in front of his own mouth to stifle his own shallow breath. The jock was staring forward into the legs of a cardboard cutout of Marilyn Monroe as if trying to deny the reality they were currently occupying. Shakily Baxter mouthed, “Are you okay…?”

Giving a thumbs-up in reply, Danny got to his knees in case he needed to run again.

Dash patted Danny’s shoulder before yanking Fenton towards his body. It wasn’t an act of preservation or innate human selfishness. Dash clung to him like he was a piece of driftwood in the rapids. Safety in numbers, one had to assume. The jock brought him closer because there was the lack of any adult to make it all magically disappear. Danny was the closest thing Dash had for comfort. A scarecrow of hope. 

“Where’d you go, you little shit?! ”  Footsteps could be heard pacing down the central aisle. 

The pair shuddered on the ground. They were children, so they reacted how children would. An adult man with a gun was screaming at them—and they were just kids. Dash kept fixating on that. He was sixteen, and he was going to die. He was going to die, and he would never hear his father knock on his door again. His dad didn’t even know where he was right now. He didn’t even remember saying goodbye this morning— 

Dash couldn’t believe he was going to die, and the last movie he rented was  Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey! 

Wedging away from the quarterback, Danny murmured, “Dash, he doesn’t know you’re here…” 

“Huh?” How the hell was Fenton so calm? Dash was flabbergasted— there was no way Danny was going to suggest what he thought he was going to suggest. 

Danny pinched the webbing between Dash’s thumb and pointer finger, forcing him to get a grip, “He doesn’t know you’re here. You have the best chance to get out of here and go get help.” 

“I’m not— n-no way, you’re crazy. W-we can’t split up…!” Reflexively, Dash enclosed his fist around Danny’s. 

It felt like the bones in his hands were going to pop. The ghost boy wasn’t about to debate this with a guy who got into arguments with the vending machine at school, “Dash!” 

A dull but pronounced click echoed against the tile. The man had locked himself in with the two teens. Signaling Dash to stay quiet, Danny peaked through the metal bars of the shelf. The perp idly kicked the plastic cases around as he stalked over to the fallen rack to investigate

“I’m going to cause a distraction. You’re gonna sneak up behind him and tackle him,” Danny ordered. Though it was gentle, more of a coax, “And then— then I can use the— the net my dad gave me. I-I think I left it under the counter.” 

“Wait— wait, the guy who shot you… gave you a freakin’ NET for self-defense?!” Not even mentioning how big of a gamble that was. The illusion of safety rode on the back of a very large ‘if.’

Danny barked, “Focus!” 

Wrenching his hand from Dash, the ghost boy got to his knees, “You’re gonna have to keep up with me this time.” 

“This is such a bad plan.” Baxter reiterated, placing his hand tightly on top of Danny’s shoulder, “Horrible plan.” 

“Don’t you tackle guys twice your size for fun?” 

“Yeah! But they don’t have guns!” 

“Dash, I—” as much as it pained him to say it. He glanced over his shoulder, and Daniel admitted, “I believe in you.” 

In the dark magenta lighting, the quarterback scrunched up his face in a fitful solace. Letting go, Dash wiped the corner of his eye with his shoulder. If they died, Dash was going to kill him. 

Fenton took off towards the counter, feigning that he was going for the emergency exit. Rattling the door noisily as if it were jammed. As Danny threw his weight against the door, the vibrations caused a wooden baseball bat to fall from the frame above the door, nearly landing on his head. The wooden stick bounced, each end connecting with the floor before rolling away. That certainly got the guy’s attention! 

Like an animal on the prowl, the strange man still armed with his pistol glittering in the neon bared his teeth and charged, “Now you’re gonna get it!” 

On cue, a blur of blond and black pounced. Throwing the man through an entire aisle divider, causing it to go completely belly up. The sounds of metal, cardboard, and the polypropylene VHS cassettes clashing together in a cavalcade of calamity. In seconds, hours of hard work sorting and organizing was destroyed. Both boys shared that wince of,   shit, we’re going to have to clean that up. 

Thank god, Burkowitz never left Dash totally unarmed for this exact scenario. Dash screamed, “Danny, the bat! Toss me the bat!” 

 Bat?  The ghost boy must have made a face because Dash gestured to the stick near Danny’s shoes, explaining, “The bat! The baseball kind— the stick, Fenton, it’s right next to your foot.” 

Baxter snapped his fingers to better signal the urgency of the situation, keeping his eyes glued on the perp still recovering from the hit. He couldn’t see the gun, but the fact that he knew that it was there was enough to skirt the edge of a full-blown panic. 

Danny looked at his feet. The wooden pole was adorned with a label that stated, ‘Louisville Slugger.’ He screamed his sudden epiphany, “OH, you mean the creep-stick!” 

“The- The what?” The quarterback shook his head, recalibrating around the observation. They didn’t have time for proper terminology, “Wh-whatever, hand it over!” 

Kicking the bat into his own hand, the ghost boy hurled it to Dash. Being significantly more coordinated, he caught it with one hand.  Show-off.   

“Tell ya what’s gonna happen next after I break the small fry’s arm like a wishbone,” The man’s bloodshot eyes found Dash’s face. He rose up like a horror movie slasher. He wouldn’t stop. With his bloodied hand, he pointed to Dash directly, “I’m gonna make sure your mom won’t recognize you, pretty boy.” 

Without hesitation, the man dove into his coat and produced a rusty crowbar. It clearly possessed some heft as the metal hit the floor with a dense thud. He stood with one hand in his pocket. 

Dash hurriedly reminded, “Uh, hey, didn’t you have some rope or something?!” 

 Right, the    Jack o’ Nine-Tails! 

“You got this?” Danny’s eyes flashed to the counter then returned to his coworker. 

The jock’s waning bravery aside, he wasn’t about to let Fenton best him in a battle of stupidity. Dash, with trembling confidence, spun the bat around his wrist in a precise counterclockwise circle, “I’m batting a six-fifty. I can handle this clown.” 

The ghost boy didn’t understand sports metaphors but assumed that meant ‘ good’  in so many words. He dove under the counter— Dash took the offensive. Lunging forward, he swung blindly, directly from his shoulder. The crowbar and bat clashed. The metal claw sinking into the softwood. The perp reared back, kicking Dash in the sternum. 

Air involuntarily left Baxter’s lungs. The jock could feel the tread of the shoe as an impression on his ribs. The impact nearly made Dash fall to his knees, yet he persevered through the hit. 

Sliding on his knees under the counter, Danny began to tear it apart, looking for the innocuous chrome baton. He dug through the guts of the shelves knocking down staplers, receipt paper, sticker sheets, rubber bands, and rewind keys. He ended up yanking the keyboard out of the monitor.   Where the hell is it?!  Smacking his forehead as a form of percussive maintenance, Danny began to retrace his steps. 

Wheezing out a curse, Dash braced the bat against his body in the ‘bunt’ position. He threw the man against the register. The robber landed hard on his stomach, causing the computer to shift with the impact. Danny now had another wave of debris wash over him. He craned his head upward to see two beady eyes looking down at him. Before Danny could notch another smart remark from his quiver, the man’s hand came down on the top of Fenton’s scalp. Wrenching the ghost boy by his hair— Danny yelped. 

Something… broke for a moment. All doubt or caution left Dash— and he saw red. Danny fell back onto the ground, his head still attached. Baxter’s hand latched onto the perp’s throat, closing around his windpipe, “Stay away from him!” Dash snarled a warning. The quarterback’s knuckles went white. His voice went low. Lower than Danny had ever heard it. Dash exploded, “Don’t look at him! Don’t touch him—! No one fucks with Fenton besides me.” 

Danny could see Dash pull back his arm, and he had heard the sound of the man’s nose breaking. It was like a tree being severed from its roots. The jock threw him against the wall-- the hanging displays swaying before also finding the floor.

Aw. If that statement didn’t imply that Dash would continue screwing with him, Danny’s heart almost swelled three sizes. 

Fumbling backward, the man tried to keep his body weight from sending him flat on his ass. His hand ghosted over the now crooked bridge of his nose. With a scream, the perp slashed downward with the clawed end of the crowbar. Narrowly missing the quarterback’s bicep. Dash’s footing faltered with the floor in disarray. The jock barely caught himself, overextending his reach and twisting his opposite rotator-cuff into an awkward position. He had slipped on the tapes, which now made the familiar terrain and obstacle course. Baxter held his side as if his muscles were in a stitch. He was getting tired. 

“Aren’t you two cute?” The perp tutted before spitting onto the carpet. Despite having his nose broken seconds before, he seemed rather cool, “The skinny creep and his pet ape.” 

Fenton assured with a snort, “I’m freakin’ adorable.” 

The man glared, “You’ll get yours in a second, pint-sized.” 

With the last of his strength, the jock got to his feet. Dash jabbed the bat into man’s gut—   See how he likes it! 

The man doubled in on himself in pain. The quarterback raised his weapon over his head and brought it down on his spine. Once the man hit the floor, Dash prayed quietly, “Please don’t get up, please don’t get up, please don’t get up.” 

Danny popped up behind the counter tangled in white computer chords, “Did you kill him?” 

Revising, Dash held his hands up in fright, “Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead.” 

He bit his nails and took in a sharp breath, “Wh-what do I do? Do I take off his mask?” 

“What—? I don’t know!” Danny explosively shrugged towards the robber’s body on the heap of debris, “Did you get all your crime-solving ability from  Scooby-Doo ?” 

“Hey, you know what the kids in Scooby-Doo  had , that we  don’t ? A ROPE, DANNY!” 

Danny pulled on a loose end of the wire, “Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it!” 

Fenton forgot what it was like to fight like a human. He wasn’t weak at all, but definitely a lot more fragile. He saw the sweat rivering down Dash’s face. He was awash in fear, adrenaline, and relief. Relief that he finally did  something  right. Danny saw how terrified Dash was, how incredibly fragile Dash was. 

The jock attempted to catch his breath and hunched over his knees. Earnestly, Dash suggested, “Did you check the fridge?” 

“T-th— the fridge?” Danny was dumbfounded at the response. Fenton pried open the minifridge between the two registers. There was the brown paper bag with Danny’s name written on it with a metallic green permanent marker. He tore open the paper and retrieved the baton. 

Panting, Baxter shuddered through a laugh, “Whaddya know.” 

“Broken clock…” Danny said, shaking his head in amusement. Climbing over the counter, he got into position to launch the device properly. It took him a moment to study where the release button was— hopefully, it was just as effective on criminals as it was the paranormal.

The robber’s body looked like a heap of bones on the ground, he groaned. It was like the death rattle of a rodent, partially unsettling. A curtain call with no audience. Stirring, the perp struggled against gravity. Dash messed the guy up pretty good. 

Fenton was positive that this was over, his thumb resting on the release button, “Yeah, pal it’s time to go back to your day job—” 

There was a snap. 

Like a wet towel snapping against a damp floor, as well as a-a… a blinding flash… 

Ghost sense could only do so much in terms of predicting danger. Danny was just as taken aback when the man rolled to his side, clutching the gun— the gun that Danny was sure was lost amongst the scattered tapes. It was deafening. He couldn’t have known. Somehow he should have known better than to let his guard down. But he was still human. Humans make mistakes. Fallible, small, and made in the image of error. 

Instinct fired through his nerves— without thought, Danny had snatched the hem of Dash’s shirt. Grabbing it tightly within his knuckles. They both closed their eyes reflexively, flinching into each other. Turning his back to the barrel of the pistol, Danny shielded Dash. 

Danny shielded his coworker. Danny shielded his tormentor. He shielded the kid who flicked the back of his ear in the cafeteria line. The kid who held him upside down by his cheap sneakers. Who used to squeeze his arm to cause him pain— now was squeezing his arm because he was… scared. The ghost boy didn’t know if he could outpace a bullet. He had to try. 

Dash’s name slipped out of Danny’s mouth as the intangibility spread. The hand at the bottom of Dash’s Dumpty-Humpty shirt built a bridge between both of them.

The pair of them held their breath until they burst. 

The clicking of the gun alerted them that the stranger was out of ammunition. Instantly, Danny had opened his eyes, recalling the spread. He stood in front of Dash. Blue eyes locked on green eyes. There was a silent conversation happening. 

Dash let go of Danny’s arm. 

Danny let go of Dash’s shirt. 

The man on the floor was groaning in pain but obviously amused with himself for making them sweat. Dash scowled before slamming his foot on top of the guy’s wrist, making him drop the pistol. Fenton hastily stole it. It was somehow heavier than the ghost boy imagined it would be. He used both hands to hold onto it, inspecting it. 

Baxter pinned the man’s arm to the floor, his eyes intense and dark— his glance strayed to the gun in Danny’s grasp. There was something odd about it. There were bright spots of orange around the tip of the barrel. There was still a single bullet left in the chamber. The jock blinked, “Wait… let me see that.” 

Danny passed the weapon to Dash. He clicked the chamber back into place, pulling back the hammer.

“What’re you doing?!” 

The quarterback gave a gesture for Fenton to calm down. Baxter advised, “You should cover your ears.” 

Reluctantly, Danny plugged his ears with his fingers. 

Dash aimed to the ceiling, then pulling back the hammer, he squeezed the trigger… rattling off a shot. Then a second. That same cold and violent snap sounded off each time. Lowering his arm, Baxter kicked the chamber out of the gun. Still, a single bullet remained. 

“I— I don’t understand,” The ghost boy finally vocalized. 

Dash chuckled, still perplexed, but the night was beginning to become a little clearer, “It’s… fake. I-its a prop revolver that only fires blanks.” 

Danny raised his eyebrows, “Blanks?” 

“They’re like bullets only in terms of sound and flash,” The quarterback elaborated, with a throat clear, “but they’re mostly harmless. There’s a cap that blocks the bullet from exiting from the tip. We used them in Lancer’s stage combat class.” 

Pointing out the fluorescent safety orange that stopped up the barrel, Baxter handed the prop back to the ghost boy for his peace of mind. The jock reached his point, “There was a scene in  Oklahoma!  Where the farmhand was supposed to use a knife to threaten the leads, but Lancer thought the blanks would be a better direction. He said the box of props went missing before spring break…” 

Having now pieced everything together, Danny ordered, “Take off his mask.” 

Pressing his weight onto the perp’s wrist as he stooped down, Dash removed the ski mask and jet black wig revealing a youngish haggard face with a single fluid motion. Shaggy ear-length brown hair now disheveled with the static with a matching soul-patch. Blood trailed down from his nose, rounding his chin. Eyes bulging, Dash was stunned, “Blayne?” 

Danny glanced at the kid’s face, then at Dash. Expecting a similar wave of shock, Danny was ultimately left utterly clueless. Fenton tried to provoke more information, “Friend of yours?” 

“Not exactly. Blayne is a senior on the relief team.” 

“Oh… Okay—” Danny shook his head, “Who?” 

“Fenton, over five thousand kids go to our school. You’re not going to know all of them.” 

“I’d like to know the ones who try to hold me at gunpoint!” 

Blayne coughed, his voice now leveled to a higher pitch, “more like prop-point.” 

Sternly stomping his sneaker into the other football player’s hand, Dash narrowed his eyes, “You don't get to be funny.” 

With a grunt and whimper through the pain, Blayne pleaded, “... Don’t you want to-to know why? Why I’ve been robbing people all over town?” 

Simultaneously, Danny and Dash declared a definitive “No.” 

“Don’t care.” “Could care less, actually.” 

Danny held up the Jack o’ Nine-Tails, his thumb still resting on the button. He then paid a look to his coworker, “Do you care to do the honors?” 

Baxter shook his head as he stepped away.

Hitting the mint-colored button, the mouth of the device split into four equal parts, emitting a whine before launching its coiled metal tendrils. A plastic bob carved in the shape of his father’s head stuck to the center of Blayne’s chest. Wrapping the-would-be-criminal uptight in the mechanism. There were a few seconds where all the teenagers stood in silence, expecting something to happen. 

Danny shook the baton, “C’mon now—” 

Another moment passed, and electric pulses surged from the rod and down the tendrils to Blayne, who howled, then screamed before finally falling unconscious. His eyes rolled back into his skull partially, twitching. Yeah, that looked like it hurt. 

“So, cops?” Danny wasn’t entirely sure what his responsibilities as a civilian entailed. Was this technically a citizen’s arrest? They breathed in unison. Processing what had just occurred in a few short minutes. The ghost boy, having busted wholesale ass for less, wasn’t phased. 

In that same amount of time, the quarterback had broken his classmate’s nose while his other classmate tried to take a bullet for him. Things he did not set out to do this morning. Granted, he was grateful it wasn’t a ghost. Blayne still laid unconscious, and Dash still held the bat he never thought he’d need. Baxter’s ears stopped ringing, and he finally found his voice, “Yeah, we should call the— yeah.” 

Going through what could be labeled an aftershock, Dash struggled to negotiate the phone into his hand as he still had an iron grip on the baseball bat. Pressing the numbers was another endeavor entirely. Once Dash thoroughly explained the situation, it took forty-five minutes for patrolmen to be rounded up. In that amount of time, Dash made himself a slushie. Forgetting his limited sugar consumption. Dash watched Danny, and Danny watched Blayne. It was analytical; Danny squatted down, staring at the guy as if there would be a test on him. 

Dash figured they had two different coping strategies. 

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt… tingly. When Danny stood next to him briefly, it felt like all of Dash’s atoms were being rewritten. His molecules were being rearranged— like his whole body had fallen asleep. It must have been the symptom of a near-death experience. 

Had to have been.  

Had to.

Chapter Text

Aside from stopping a petty burglary ring made up of a bunch of high school dead-beats in the first week of employment, the rest of Danny’s stint in hell passed by. It was a distraction at the end of the day. That’s what he tried to tell himself. It was wrong that he didn’t want it to end. But he had real work to do. According to Dash, the arm sling he wore for a few days for tweaking his shoulder muscle was cosmetic. It was something to put everyone at ease. 

Five weeks shouldn’t have felt so short, but Danny blinked, and it was over. He had lulled into the routine and relinquished the illusion of control. He had some shifts where he worked with Spike. They still hadn’t gotten past four words.  How are you, Danny?  Exactly four. 

He usually didn’t offer anything else past that superficial greeting. Danny had a few shifts with Mr Burkowitz-- those were…stressful. His boss had all but bit his head off when Danny took a few seconds more on his fifteen-minute break. 

Dash, on the other hand, getting him to shut up was the hard part. Surely, when Danny was much older, he would try his best to hunt down the memory of what was so funny that made Mountain Dew shoot out of their noses. The ghost boy never thought in a million years that Dash Baxter or any of his kind could be so funny. He had enjoyed his shifts with his tormentor way more than he would admit. Danny had to wonder if it was Stockholm syndrome-- but Jazz assured him it wasn’t. Of course, when spring break ended, they returned to animosity. Yet Danny could tell Dash’s heart was even less in it than before. The bullying was more now a way to create an interaction. They would exchange barbs, and they would float away. When they returned to work-- It was like nothing ever happened. Not quite friends, not acquaintances, they were strange, but not strangers. They had something akin to a rapport. Burkowitz had compared it to a buddy cop movie,  Midnight Run  specifically.

Fenton had rented it and saw a resemblance.

Danny wasn’t sure what to tell Sam and Tucker about that night. It was already on the local news. Two teenage employees of a local video rental store had pressed pause on the Amity Park crime wave. Thanks to quick thinking, Dash had broken the assailant’s nose and fractured his jaw. Danny was hardly mentioned, but he preferred it that way. He didn’t think he needed the credit. He put in a good word for his folks’ equipment. Citing it as helpful as a taser but twice as comforting. Dash was heralded as a hero, and his secret was out. Every other day it felt as if Dash was questioned about the event. A-listers who used to avoid the place like a disease now flocked in whenever Dash was on shift. Business had hit a new high. The jock excused himself more frequently, becoming overwhelmed at the crowds of people. 

Whatever difference Tucker and Sam were having appeared to have settled. Though notably, there was some friction. Like Tucker had retreated. Foley stayed later at school to focus on the AV club and newspaper. It’s like he pried himself off, but the adhesive remained. By no means was Tucker depressed, but he seemed withdrawn. Danny figured if it were necessary, Foley would tell him eventually. Sam, on the other hand… She acted like her usual abrasive self. 

His parents hadn’t switched it off either. Despite the morning sickness being just a false alarm-- they were still hopelessly devoted to each other. 

There weren’t any doubts about that, though. 

His final day was much like the day he first started. Danny had helped Dash unload the truck early in the morning. Danny was much more successful this time around, having actually listened to his coworker’s lifting advice. They opened. Then they waited. Between waitings, they had cleaned the store from top to bottom while speaking about nothing of consequence. They had carried on a debate about which fictional band would win in a battle of the bands, Wyld Stallyns from Bill and Ted’s excellent adventure, Or Spinal Tap, from This is Spinal Tap. The argument included plenty of threats, swears, and name-calling. No victor was declared as they reached another impasse. Baxter practiced his swing on old tin cans blown in from the road during their lunch break. Fenton had observed him from the curb. The jock had offered to show him sometime how-to, but Danny declined. Instead, choosing to enjoy the view. He was going to regret not wringing every last possible second of their waning friendship. For now, his heart ached like it was empty, but he couldn’t fathom why. Danny just watched the quarterback swing. 

The crowds naturally picked up in the afternoon. 

It was nothing they couldn’t handle. Numerous return customers and familiar faces approached the desk with their purchases. Congratulating the pair of them once again at catching Blayne. Having nearly forgotten that happened, Danny had blinked and nodded like he knew what they were talking about.

Two hours before closing but forty-five minutes after Danny’s last shift, Burkowitz had arrived for the switch. Lazlow had been holding two white envelopes. Payday, baby!

Excitedly Dash snatched his. 

Danny rolled his eyes, knowing that the second envelope had to have been for show. Pro-bono work really took the wind out of his sails. Danny had removed his nametag, which animated his name in green text with a fade. He set it down on the counter in anticipation. 

The short man gruffly cleared his throat, “Fenton, I need a word.” 

Dash’s smile he had plastered on his face all day finally fell. 

“Uh, okay. I’ll be right there,” Danny said with solace. He rolled his head towards his coworker, “So, I guess this is… see you later?” 

Snorting, Baxter’s eyes were half-lidded and warm, “Yeah, I’ll see you around, dweeb.” 

He punched Danny’s shoulder. Hard. 

“Wow, you’re gonna miss me that much, huh?” Danny rubbed his bicep. Still didn’t feel a thing. It was strange that he wanted to. 

The jock didn’t answer one way or the other. Dash crossed his arms, a smirk wedging its way onto his face. He glanced down at his white hightops to try and mask it, “Keep it weird, Fenton.” 

“Will do, Dash.” 

“Don’t be a ghost, huh?” 

Danny lifted the gate and followed Mr Burkowitz to the office. The office was sparsely decorated compared to the rest of the establishment. The walls had minimal detailing. The carpet, however, was still loud and patterned. One had to assume this was a budgetary constraint and not an actual design choice. A hard surface jutted out from the wall that looked to be used as a desk as it was littered with documents. A large PC like the one at the counter sat on the edge precariously. The wall table had a few picture frames and personal details. Once upon a time, it looked like Mr Burkowitz had a full life. He had an even darker tan. He was in the navy. 

There was no chair for Danny to sit in, but it didn’t appear to be that kind of talk. Lazlow pulled out his rolling chair and threw the remaining white envelope onto the wall table. It landed with a heft. 

Gesturing to the envelope, Burkowitz began uneasily, “That’s yours.”

“I figured.” Danny put his hands in his pocket.

Here’s the part where the big grand speech comes in about how he was wrong to judge Danny so harshly. Burkowitz adjusted the gold chain around his neck, “Now when I first met you, I thought you were--” 

“A no-good snot-nosed punk.” Fenton interjected, “You may have mentioned it once or twice.”

The older man deflated-- he was in the windup. Ah, well. Lazlow nodded, “Right. While I still think that you’re too smart for your own good, you’ve proven that you do have a soul somewhere under all that--” 

Burkowitz vaguely waved his hand over Danny’s aura, “teen angst.” 

Danny pursed his lips, unsure if he was supposed to be insulted, “Uh, thanks?” 

Burkowitz signed his name at the bottom of some forms before returning his attention to his employee, “I don’t pretend to understand you kids, but I see greatness in you. Spike and Dash seem to like having you around. I want to thank you for protecting my store, and I’m sorry that you had to.” 

There was sincerity being thrown his way, and Danny didn’t know how to catch it. He shrugged in vain and hoped that would suffice as a response. Danny didn’t think there was another option. He scratched his cheek, “it was no problem.” 

Being an adult Burkowitz couldn’t tell if the kid had a death wish or was upsettingly modest. It was futile. The older man sighed; he wasn’t the kid’s dad. That didn’t stop Lazlow from wanting to give the boy some guidance he would ultimately ignore. 

“Just know that there are people in this world who do see what you’re trying to do. You have more of an effect than you realize.” 

Nodding, Danny didn’t really parse what the old-timer was getting at. His parents had been waiting for him in the parking lot. 

Awkwardly, Burkowitz pushed the envelope towards his now ex-employee, “I know I discussed a part of your punishment was that all of your paycheck would go towards a new rewind machine, but the boy didn’t think it was fair that you didn’t get anything. So, here.” 

The boy? Blinking, Fenton’s head shifted over his shoulder briefly, hearing Dash laughing at something at the counter. His hand ghosted over the part of his bicep that should have been in pain. Danny grasped the envelope-- there was definitely cash in it. 

“It’s not the full amount obviously,” The older man turned to his computer, “but it’s half of whatever Baxter made.” 

That had to be at least seven hundred dollars! Danny restrained himself from tearing the top off and counting how the bills were broken. He did, however, yell, “Wow! Thanks!”

“Eh.” 

“I’m gonna buy real shoes! Haha!” 

“If that’s how you celebrate good news,” Burkowitz dismissed. 

Danny bounced on his heels, “Can I go--?”

Leaning back in his chair, it squeaked. Lazlow shooed the kid away, “Yeah, the moment passed-- beat it.”   

Tearing out of the office, the ghost boy sprinted back to the counter in unrelenting euphoria. He was about to make so many unsound financial decisions! Breaking through the gate, Danny found his purple backpack. 

Dash coyly smiled, “Well, if I didn’t know any better, you got let go.” 

“Oh, shut up, you know what you did!” Danny teased, pointing at the jock

“Can’t say that I know what you’re talking about.” Baxter denied it. He wouldn’t want to make it weirder. They had to maintain some kind of professionalism. 

Danny had too much positive energy not to throw it somewhere. He had reached his maximum capacity for excitement. Daniel fumbled with his arms for a hug before using all of his strength to shove the quarterback.

Being caught off guard this time, Dash had staggered.

“Sorry!” Fretting, Danny realized that he didn’t warn him. 

However, the jock was amused, “Don’t sweat it.” 

Before turning to the door, Danny skidded to a halt. He dove into his bag, rummaging around for something. He stuck his tongue out while he was searching, then his expression changed when his fingers grazed it. Removing a jewel CD case, he shoved it towards Dash, “I always keep good on my threats.” 

Stunned, Dash really wasn’t expecting this-- Hesitantly, he took the CD. In the back of his head, he worried that Fenton was just going to snatch it away. He inspected the case. The title was written in metallic green sharpie, ‘ Real Music: Presented by Danny and Tucker Ft. Limewire .'

Danny’s scrawl was hurried and sloppy, but it was clear that he took his time with the small doodles around the CD. Skeletons with Viking hats and what appeared to be a crude illustration of Dash jamming out. They were still terrible in every sense of the word but possessed a homemade charm. 

“I don’t even know if you’re, like, too rich to own a CD player, or whatever,” The ghost boy scratched the back of his head, “but you can use it as, like… a really small frisbee or something…?” 

Baxter chuckled, “That’s uh-- wow, I didn’t think you were serious.” 

“I can take it back if you don’t want--” 

“Wha-- no! It’s  awesome ! I’m keeping it!” Having already stored it under his workstation, Dash struggled with the redness spreading upward from his cheeks. Wringing his hands for a moment, Dash said, “Wait.” 

The keyring he wore jingled as he removed it from his belt. He plucked a single key from the ring and worked it off the hoop. Dash presented Danny with a small, unassuming brass key. He placed it into Danny’s hand, “... They call it the Backroom now. I saw Burkowitz put a copy of  Cannibal Holocaust  in there. And since you work here, you technically are entitled to a key. If you get caught, you better forget my name.” 

“Tucker is gonna flip,” In awe, Danny quickly pocketed the key. 

“Don’t mention it.” The jock raised his eyebrows, “Seriously.” 

Exiting behind the counter, Danny sped to the door. He waved and bid a loud goodbye to the entire store. 

The alarm chirped one last time as Fenton took a deep breath. The air smelled fresh and sour. Sour, like the paper plants and factories. He didn’t need to breathe, but it felt so good.

As soon as he left the door, he heard his family honking at him from their station wagon. Danny had crossed the parking lot with a spring in his step. He landed in the cushiony back seat, greeting, “Hey guys!” 

“How was your last day?” Mrs Fenton had asked, tapping her excess lipstick on a spare napkin.

Slapping his newfound riches onto the console, Danny declared his findings, “there’s something to this dead-end job thing.” 

“Don’t get any bright ideas, young man,” Mr Fenton warned, “you’re still going to college.”

Jazz sat with her legs cramped against her chest to accommodate her father better. From the other side of the back seat, she retorted, “Since there’s no new unnamed Fenton project number three on the way, we might actually afford to send you to a good school.” 

Jack patted his wife’s shoulder, “See, there are upsides to this whole menopause thing, honey--” 

Swatting his hand, Maddie cranked the air conditioner to dangerous levels, “Come back to me when you have your first hot-flash!” 

“You said the ‘m’ word, dad,” Danny scolded.

“I know what I said.” He had murmured before adjusting the temperature controls, “Say, why don’t we all use the last tank of gas in this rust bucket and go to that gelato place near the lake? Danny’s treat.”  

The ghost boy secured his seatbelt and acquiesced, “Should’ve seen that coming.” 

“You really should have,” Jazz tutted. She then declared to everyone listening, “If this thing breaks down, I am not pushing it!” 

Peeling out with a hiss where the rubber tires met the asphalt, the car lurched and backfired. Jack had executed a four-point-five turn and sped out onto the road, Causing numerous other drivers to test their brakes and their vocabulary of swear words. 

A block or so away, Sam Manson, with Tucker in tow, observed the Fenton’s car scurrying away in the distance. Tucker was roused by the noise from his PDA, “I think we just missed our boy.” 

Sam found the pockets of her skirt, “Well, that’s a bummer.” 

In spite of saying that, she put one heavy boot in front of the other towards the store. 

“Don’t you wanna turn back?” Tucker queried.

“Nah. Nah, we don’t need him to have a good time.” Sam paid a glance to her friend, “Plus, bad movie night was more of an us thing, right?” 

The geek’s eyes fell to his device before pocketing it, “Ye-yeah… it’s more of an-- ‘us’ thing. Do you want to battle later too?” 

“Oh yeah,” She scoffed, “me and Jil are gonna wreck your shit, Foley. You may have given me the weapon to your own destruction.” 

Tucker smiled weakly, “My squad of Sableeyes could surprise you.” 

Leaning, they steepled together like how couples do. They were unmistakably together. But they weren’t. They were flowers that bent with the breeze. Sam was purple like a heather or a hydrangea. Tucker didn’t know what flower he’d be. She was still wearing a dark red hairband instead of a green or black one. Tucker wanted to believe he inspired that change. Though that would have been arrogant on his part. 

“Y’know, that means Dash is still on shift, right?” Tucker arched a brow. Pushing his cheek onto the top of her head, “You think you can play nice?” 

She hummed as if pondering the thought. Sam smirked in a way that made eyes wrinkle at the corners, “I think my blood sugar is low, but I’ll see what I can do.” 

Fin.