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CONTROL + ALT + DELETE	By : acsoundwave Category: +1 through F > Danny Phantom > Het- Male/Female Views: 4265 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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CONTROL + ALT + DELETE.
Along with such computer commands as UNDO , SAVE, and SEARCH; this three-key command is t he last resort for computer users.
In order to block a computer virus, to halt pop-up ads, to terminate spyware; the inexperienced computer user may accidentally damage a critical system component.
The computer slows, or freezes due to its illness. Clicking the X to close the window fails to even shut the failing program down.
In life, as with Windows computers, the Blue Screen of Death appears. If the computer reboots, the user loses any unsaved work. If the user doesn’t restart the computer, the machine is useless.
To save necessary friendships, and renew worthwhile love; a group of young adults will discover a painful reality.
The fact that sometimes, the only choice left is to press...
= = =
CONTROL + ALT + DELETE

byline: Anubis C. Soundwave
“...what do you mean I can’t go on patrol with you!?” I spit into my cell phone. “...Danny.... I don’t understand: why can’t I come...?
“That’s bullshit, Danny.... If anything, you’ve usually endangered me.... Danny, this is getting us nowhere; if you think that you’d work better alone, then I guess I have to accept it. I don’t have to like it, though...!
“If you want me to quit screaming, then quit being an asshole...! It doesn’t suit you....
“...fine! Be that way, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!” I hang up, hurling my phone into my clothes hamper. I would wish that we’d never met, but we went that route already. I think he’s fighting Desiree now anyway.
He wants to go solo. Like he hasn’t been doing that all last year--whenever he deigned to patrol the city. To think I used to complain about being his sidekick; Danny constantly taking Tucker and me for granted. Now I’m just in the way!?
I’m sick of him making up these lame-assed excuses to sneak off with Valerie. Danny doesn’t want to be with me...and I don’t think I want to be with him. Especially not after this.
“Sammykins....” In comes my ever-cheerful mother.
“Not now, mom,” I groan. I’m not in the mood to argue about frilly dresses.
“Honey,” she smiles, “I just wanted to show you this one little dress--*”
“I don’t give a damn about your dumb dresses! Leave me the hell alone,” I spit. And I immediately regret it, as my mom’s crestfallen. Upset, she leaves my room, the white dress still in her arms.
I’ve got to consider a lock on my door...especially now that Dad’s coming inside. He’s pissed.
“I don’t know what’s going on, Samantha,” he scowls. With him angry like this, I don’t dare tell him what not to call me. “But you’ve upset your mother, and I think you need to cool off. Once you’ve done that, please apologize to her.”
Dad stiffly leaves my room.
...I need some fresh air. I grab my cell phone from the hamper and leave.
= = =
Why won’t this dumbass leave me the hell alone? Even on Saturdays he stalks me.
“Gray!” Dash, in many ways as suicidal as his recently-departed granddaddy, shuts my book. “What were you doing with Fenton?”
“Not your business,” I spit. “Now get out of my face.”
Dash ignores my demand. “You and he were making out. Considering he has a girlfriend, that doesn’t make sense.
“I want to keep order in this damned school. No more grist for the rumor mills.”
I honestly don’t know how to answer this--no, wait: yes, I do. “Let’s try minding our own business,” I smile thinly.
“Until I graduate, Gray; whatever happens in this school is my business.” Never mind that we're not even in school...
“Especially if it involves Manson.”
“Damn straight. I don’t need any more bullshit connected to those two.”
“Baxter, we cut our ties years ago.”
“That was because you were--and still are--a total bitch. Only now, you’re a total bitch on the make with some other girl’s boyfriend.”
“Ask me what I think of your opinions,” I challenge him. “Go on: ask me.” Dash remains silent.
“Thought so. Quit playing school martyr, fool," I continue, scowling. "You’d be happy to see Danny with me--your way to Manson would be clear.”
“What!?” spits Dash, his face red with anger. “I would not! I don’t want to see her unhappy because Fen-shit can’t keep his pants on around you.” Please. Freshman year, Danny had that problem with Paulina--but he got over it.(That was funny....)
“The truth is,” I sigh tiredly, “I’m sick of seeing you make retarded decisions based on your non-relationship with Cindy. You’re a wreck and a wrecking ball.”
“You mean like your workaholic-ass dad?” spits Dash, predictably.
“Please keep my daddy out of this. He has nothing to do with this.”
“That’s a lie,” counters Dash, sitting next to me. “Ever since Cindy died, your goofy dad has tried to shove us out of your life. He wants you to be an overworked robot like him, so that he can have his dead wife back.”
“Do you know who you sound like!?” He sounds like Danny, who was even more blunt than that.
“Doesn’t matter. I decided to shove you out first when I had the chance. Done deal; a lot easier than fighting to keep you in, especially when you couldn’t really hang with us after he got demoted.”
“You are an asshole.”
“Necessary part of the body. Deal with it.”
“Sure--as soon as you deal with the fact that you gave up on a good relationship with someone because you thought it mirrored your thing with Cindy. Which, by the way, you didn’t actually have.
“She needed you as a friend, and you jumped to conclusions.”
“Whoa. I don’t already feel like crap for driving her to kill herself.” Dash rolls his eyes in self-disgust.
“...Dash. You aren’t that important.” I bugged Sin. She had real problems, which she refused to elaborate on. “That had to be the millionth time you two had screamed ‘We’re not friends anymore!’, dummy.”
“She was our anchor,” I continue. “Our heart, our leader.”
“I miss her, too.” Dash winces, thinking of both Sin and his own granddaddy. (He loved his granddaddy.)
We stay silent a moment, each of us lost in our thoughts. (Dash will--no, that’s too easy....)
“I’ve thought about winning her back,” Dash sighs. “The thing is: I have to be the better man. Manson needs me as a friend right now.” He is such an idiot.
I need her to let go of Danny. “Was she your first, Dash?” I ask. “Danny was mine.”
“I was her first,” smirks Dash, twisting the answer. He knows damned well he was a virgin until he started messing with Manson.
I charitably decide to ignore this. “You at least owe it to her to let her know where your feelings are right now. That’s all I was doing with Danny. Paulina can spread whatever manure she wants.”
“...I don’t even want to hear that name anymore.” Yeah, right--although I have to hand it to Dash and Kwan for not speaking to Dizzy this long. She’ll have them wrapped around her pinkies by the end of the year, though.
= = =
“Please, listen to me. The only reason I have the nerve to say this is because I have no shot. I need to get this off my chest,” continues Dash.
“I guess you’re still thinking of me,” I smile sardonically. “And I still can’t tell you that Danny means nothing to me.”
“You can love him all you want; that doesn’t bother me anymore.” Dash shrugs. “I think you were halfway tempted the last time, though,” he adds with a smirk. (Cheap shot--he kissed me that time.)
“I’m curious, though: do you want to be with me again?” he asks.
“Honestly, I think Danny and I can work things out. And I know that’s not what you asked,” I add stupidly, blushing.
“Then answer my question.”
“...I’ve thought about it. More than once.”
“I bet you did.” Dash draws me close to him; we walk toward the park entrance.
“But it’s probably a bad idea,” I admonish.
“Maybe. That doesn’t change your increased heart rate,” Dash continues, eyes closed. “Or that gentle, soft little smile of contentment you have when you know you’re happy--like what’s probably on your face now. It doesn’t change the red you can’t seem to banish from your cheeks when I’m around.
“It’ll never change how warm and soft you are.” He stares into my eyes, stroking my cheek. “I miss you.”
“...I see.” I gently peck Dash on the cheek. “See you later; and thanks. For meeting me here.”
“Always obliged.” Dash turns right, and I head left; towards home.
= = =
Sammy swallows some air. “Mom,” she begins, “I--*”
“Honey,” I smile, “It’s clear something’s upsetting you. We’ve kvetched about dresses since you could form sentences.” That was age two; her words were “Don’t want that. Want this.” (It’s our big mother/daughter tradition.)
“I’m...trying to sort things out.” I think it has something to do with the Fenton boy.
While I like him more than I used to: after all, his parents are finally starting to make sense to me--a scary thought in itself; I’m still not convinced he’s the right person for my girl.
“Ah....” It may help to be more direct. “Is Danny hurting you?”
“What!?” she balks, staring at me wildly.
“Saying anything mean or hurtful; harming you at all?” I continue.
Sammy takes a deep breath, then levels a weak version of her sarcastic eye at me. “Mom, please quit reading those guidance department pamphlets. They have no bearing on reality.”
“Listen. I don’t want you being trapped in any situation where you’re miserable. As irritating as my mother was, even she didn’t want that for me.” Although my late mother could never express it, she really was trying to look out for me. (She was very strict, dour, and colorless; and it’s thanks to the Fentons that I know exactly why.)
“I’m not. It’s not like that.” Sammy smiles. “Danny’s not being abusive, okay? Can I reassure you on that?”
I sigh. “...no. I understand that you care about Danny, and I think he cares about you.
“But you’ve been very sulky lately, and not just on today.”
“Mom, I’m always sulky, moody, irritable, sarcastic, or cynical. My default facial expression is set to scowl.”
“I know that.” It vexes me to no end. “Despite what your face says, honey,” I continue, “I look at your eyes, and I can guess your underlying mood. I can tell the difference between normal, moody Sammykins and horribly unhappy Sammykins.
“Right now, you’re very unhappy.”
Sam groans. “You’re right,” she says dejectedly. “Still, it’s not Danny’s fault.
“It’s mine.”
“How so?” I ask.
“...I love Danny. I want to--I love him so much.”
“But...?” There’s always a catch.
“I’m also rabidly in love with my ex-boyfriend, who Danny hates--with good reason.” Another boy? Couldn't be Tucker.
Sammy stares at me, guessing my thoughts. “The boy’s not Tucker, Mom.” Then it has to be Drew’s silly, charming son.
“The other boy: is he the one sending you bouquets of red roses and white daisies?”
“Yeah.” Sammy rolls her nonetheless-shining eyes, a wry-yet-bashful grin on her face. “Can a person be obnoxious and thoughtful all at once?”
“A certain gentleman in an orange HAZMAT suit could give lectures on it,” I smirk playfully.
“Mom,” Sammy admonishes. Somehow, she thinks I’m stranger than both him and the Woman in Blue.
“Just kidding.” (Somewhat.) “This particular young man must mean a great deal to you.”
“More than I ever thought he would.” Sammy’s voice is muted, her eyes downcast.
“More than Danny?”
“Don’t say that. I don’t care if it’s--just don’t say that.” Sammy trembles.
I pull my girl into a hug. “I know you and Danny are very good friends.” (It’s what’s helped me to endure the HAZMAT couple for over ten years.) “And right now, the truth of your heart--whatever it may be--is the only way to help your situation.”
“Meaning?”
“Tell Danny the truth.” I kiss Sammy tenderly on the forehead; we pull apart.
Sammy winces, squeezing my hand as we head home from the park.
My poor, sweet little lady.
= = =
I turn from my despondent son a moment, to study three different fathers.
First is my husband; if I’m reading lips correctly, he’s worried about Sidney P’s ghost possessing him again. I don’t think my father-in-law ever let him live that down. Like his(and my) son, Drew is very silly.
Father number two, Jack Fenton, grins stupidly as Maddie suggests something called the Specter Deflector. Considering that it’s a Slinky metal color with neon green accents, I’m not interested. Drew’s adolescent fashion faux pas experience notwithstanding, I’d rather be possessed.
Dad number three: Mitch Malone. He says words to the effect of “needing protection”. It embarrasses Maddie and Caroline; Drew rolls his eyes. Jack laughs; he, Mitch, and Miles (again, my now-late father-in-law) have been the town cut-ups for thirteen years. (Before the Fentons rolled in, it was just Mitch; with my poor, balding husband as the straight man along for the ride.)
I turn back to my son, still in his funk. He watches Sammy’s every move. (Ironically, “I’ll Be Watching You” is playing, which sours Dash’s mood even more. He hates 80s love ballads.)
“You love her.”
Dash eyes me wearily. “You think?”
Of course, I’m not talking about the simple-yet-intense infatuation that teenagers easily understand. (That’s all they can think about during puberty.) Rather, it’s the less-glamorous type, where someone merely struggles to move heaven and earth for another’s well-being.
“Why won’t you fight for her?” I ask.
“Same reason,” Dash answers. No eye contact with me; just staring dully at Danny and Sammy.
I have to remember: it’s improper adolescent/young adult etiquette to talk to parents. (Even though parents--more or less--still remember being teenagers.)
“Do you want to know the moment I fell in love with you?” I smile whimsically.
This turns his head. “When?” he asks, eyeing me strangely.
“You were four.” I describe a trip to Chuck E. Cheese’s. I’d never gone; it was Drew and Dash’s second trip. (There were probably more trips for Drew, but he’d muttered something about Showbiz Pizza “being replaced by the damned rat”.)
My tow-headed lad had taken my Mommy hand in his tiny little hand. (Yes: once upon a time, Dash Baxter was small. Big for his age, definitely--when he was born, I thought I’d given birth to a three-year old--but by most adult measures, a small boy.)
He showed me the wonders of Skee-Ball and Whack-a-Mole. “Mommy, look! A tick its!” he’d said. Repeatedly. No matter how many times it happened.
Dash had continued explaining, with breathless zeal, that if you got “lots a tick its” you “get da toy!” Back in the Age of the Child, the Toy was the beginning, end, and reason for existence. Santa was God to them(with the lone exception of Danny Fenton, who hated Christmas and denied St. Nicholas' existence), and we grownups were his viceroys.
“Didn’t you love me before?” wonders Dash.
“Yes, silly.” I stroke his cheek. “Always and forever. But at that time, it hit home for me that you weren’t just ‘my child’; you were a person, someone I wanted to know more about.
“Better still, you were someone I could guide and support on his journey through life.”
I grip my son’s shoulder. “You don’t have any idea, do you?”
“Of what?” Dash stares at me.
“Of how infectious your faith is. I don’t think you ever knew how scared I was to be a mother.” Again, I take him back in time; this go-round, to the time when I was a nervous wreck who’d found out she was pregnant.
For the first time, I express to this exasperating, thoughtful, infuriating, generous...idiot (I do love him so) everything: my fears, my worries, every single impossible nightmare that I had as a new mother.
“That’s nice to know.” Dash grants me a small smile.
“You need to know something else.” I glare at the dancing couple causing Dash so much grief(really: only at the jealous idiot who gave my son a concussion last semester).
“What’s that?”
“It would have been better for both of you,” I scowl, “if you and she never had a relationship.”
Dash stares at me, then rolls his eyes. “Mom, I’m hurt; okay? But I’m still happy. I wanted what was best for both of us, and at the time, we agreed that we’d go our separate ways as a couple; and stay friendly.
“She says she’s happy with Danny. And they look pretty happy up there.” Dash closes his eyes calmly, curls his lips into a smile, and leans his head down--all very casually.
As that’s my husband’s classic schemer expression, I think I’ve once again underestimated my son.
= = =
Sam should be here in three, two, one.... Right on time.
She scowls at me. “Danny; I thought we agreed to give each other some space.”
“We did.” I just happened to change my mind about it. “But I think we should talk. As friends?” I pat her bed.
Sam joins me on the bed, rolling her eyes. “What is it?”
“I want you to hold your applause, boos, and snarky asides until I’m done, okay?” Sam nods, and I continue. “Let’s admit--right here and now--that we have a problem.”
Sam eyes me questioningly. “We’re still in love with our exes, but that’s not the main problem. While we disagree on whether each was worthy of my love or yours, they meant something to us, or we wouldn’t have opened our hearts to them in the first place.
“The fact is: we can make us work. Pushing each other away will only make things worse in the long run.
“Really,” I conclude, “it’s all a matter of staying together.”
“Danny.” Sam smiles thinly. “It’s not a matter of our exes, or how badly we want each other; it’s a matter of trusting each other. We have a trust problem.”
“So, knowing how you react near Dash when you have no intention of being with him, I’m supposed to trust you.”
“Yes.”
“I do trust you. I don’t trust him.”
“In the same vein: I trust Valerie completely. She was honest and up front with me--she wants me to dump you.” Sam laughs.
“What!?” My eyes widen.
“Thus,” continues Sam, “it’s you that I’m struggling to trust.”
“You’re still mad about me using my powers to flirt with her.” Which really was stupid; I won’t do that again.
“I want you to quit toying with both our emotions. This is beyond your general capacity for stupid.” She’s in full-on Seethe Mode, so mentioning Dash would defeat my purpose.
“Sam. I want us.” I gaze into her eyes.
Sam returns my gaze. “So do I, more than you’ve ever known.”
I take her hands in mine. “Then there’s no reason...” I smile, kissing her softly, “...why we can’t....” Another kiss, a bit more ardent. “...do this....”
The two of us kiss in earnest, only to be interrupted by a loud, piercing whistle. Damn it.
I fire towards the offending noise.
= = =
“Whoa!” objects the offender. A ghost. A kid ghost wearing a white ceramic theater mask(only with a red clown nose), about thirteen. She’s wearing an oversized long-sleeved white shirt, blue flares, black sneakers, and a New Orleans Saints ball cap.
“I haven’t tried to--and will never try to--take over Amity Park,” my visitor scoffs. “Geez, Danna-bo bana, me-mi-mo mana Phan-phanna,” she continues. “You could have hurt Egg.”
I glare at this ghost, and her stupid giant egg. “You and ‘Egg’ picked the worst possible time....” I gesture toward Sam, in bed; she fails to take the hint and scram.
“Aw...I’d apologize, but...I’m not sorry.” The girl giggles. “Walker sent me here to talk to you.”
I sigh. “About what?”
“About what’s tying me here. Sid’s already gone; other than that freak Youngblood--who wasn’t even a real kid when he died--I’m the only minor left in the Zone. The tightass wants me gone.
“To think I was finally reaching Mr. Skullhead....”
“Enough.” I slap my forehead. Sam smirks behind her hand. (Thanks to this ghost child, we are getting nowhere.... I’ll be damned if I’m not channeling Skulker.) “Who are you?” I hiss.
“I am called...Sin....” Hellishly waving red hair; evil, glowing green eyes on black sclera.
I smirk, now knowing this particular spirit anywhere. “Nice effect, Cynthia,” I sneer. “Did Ember give you pointers?”
“What!?” Sin balks. “I thought this up all by myself! Who the heck is Ember?”
“No-talent ghost rock star, flaming blue hair, stole her platform boots from Peter Criss,” Sam grins.
“We gave you the name Sin when you were alive!” I spit. “Now go away.”
“How the heck do you two know I’m Cindy Malone?” Sin snatches off the mask, miffed. “Or, her ghost.”
“You committed suicide during the middle of eighth grade?” I roll my eyes.
“Look. I don’t want any trouble, Phantom. Just help me find out what’s holding me here so I can head on to hell.”
“Why would you want to go to hell?” I wonder. From everything half this stupid town’s tried to preach to me, hell is a place that should be avoided.
Of course. Cindy’s Catholic. “Like you said: I committed suicide. I should have already gone to hell. Do not pass Purgatory, do not collect two hundred dollars.”
I snort. “Only you can tell me what’s holding you from your appointment with the Judgment.” Never mind that it’s a total crock.
Sin glares at me, then winces, slumping her shoulders. “My theory is that it’s Egg. Egg’s my responsibility, and I can’t endanger it in hell because of my choice to defy God.”
I stop myself from bellowing for the two-thousandth time that there is no divine entity. (The last time I saw anything remotely resembling her precious mythology, it was when Sam’s Israeli cousin died--a week after I first got my powers. One minute, I saw Salem with angels--at least, they looked like angels--the next, I was flat on the ground; Tucker staring over me in worry.)
“If that uncracked omelette were the problem, it’d be a matter of entrusting the egg to someone else--like your sister, maybe.” I shake my head.
“But nothing you did is holding you here.” I scramble Egg.
Sin’s eyes widen, her body trembling as her clothing reverts to her eighth-grade look. (Which was so Brady Bunch. If a person could imagine Marcia Brady with red hair, that’d be Sin Malone.)
She starts to freak, sobbing like a maniac. “...why!? Phantom, I don’t understand...!” She stares at my blank, expressionless gaze. “Are you that hard up for sex with your girlfriend?”
Yes; but that’s not the reason I broke the Egg. I laugh. “You really don’t understand. Didn’t Walker tell you about me?”
She shakes her head, still trembling; tears streak down her face.
“Sam,” I smile, “could you turn on the lights?”
Sam claps sardonically, illuminating her bedroom. “Do not sing the jingle,” she scowls.
Sin gives me another wide-eyed stare; then snorts, wiping away her tears. “Duh. Danny Fenton, Danny Phantom. And you always complained about Dash being unoriginal. Geez.
“How do you know about Danna-wanna and his powers, Sammy?” Sin smirks to my friend-slash-SO.
“Quit calling me that,” I snarl.
“I created him,” Sam smiles wickedly, answering Sin’s question. “Told you that I was a demon seed.”
Sin merely laughs. “Craig called it first.” It’s true; her goofy cousin did say that with all of Fenton Works’ inventions, it was only a matter of time before some accident gave one of us super powers. (To this day, I sometimes wonder why I had to be the One.)
“So,” sighs Sin, finally noting that nothing was inside her egg. “If it’s not Egg that ties me here, then what is?”
I close my eyes a moment, then reopen them; the same way I did when Craig paid his last visit to Amity Park. Craig had succumbed to wounds sustained during his tour of duty in an overseas war. (Another strange ghost encounter during my “rookie year”. As if Vlad and my usual Peanut Rogues’ Gallery was it.)
“First,” I say calmly, “you have to tell me the truth about what happened to you.”
= = =
“What do you mean?” asks Sin.
“What drove you to commit suicide?” I demand.
Sin winces, tears forming in her eyes again. “I was protecting my dad, okay!?” she blurts.
Sam stares wildly at our ghostly former classmate; I follow suit.
“My dad’s honor. I’ll explain more, but on two conditions.” Sin gazes stonily at the window.
“Two?” I blink, confused.
“Admit to pouring glue in my hair during second grade,” she pouts, going way off the subject, “and to cheating on that third-grade math test.”
“What does that have to do with your problems!?” I spit.
“Nothing really,” the ghostly redhead grins. “I just think your friend deserves to know that you can be really devious when you want to be.”
“I found that out on my own,” scoffs Sam wryly. “Nonetheless, Danny and Valerie proved that they didn’t cheat on that math test.”
“They managed to pass a make-up test after the fact; that proves nothing.
“Since we’re baring our souls here,” Sin continues, “I want him to confess first.”
“I freely admit to nailing you with the paste. As to the other thing,” I continue, “you have no proof. Quit fishing.”
“Nothing to fish for. You sweet-talked Valerie into helping you cheat,” smirks Sin. (Now I remember why I couldn’t stand her in grade school.) “Batted those baby blues; made the Dozer’s heart melt.”
Sam pouts smilingly at me. “You and Val did cheat on that test, didn’t you?”
“You don’t want me to believe Paulina when she fishes,” I balk, “and yet you believe Sin?”
“They may have been bosom buddies since kindergarten,” muses Sam knowingly, “but one: Sin--unlike Paulina--wasn’t an airhead. Two: you had, now have, and will always have; problems with math.”
Damn it; they’ve got me. “Alright, Sin; you’ve got me. You win.” It was an embarrassing moment of my third-grade career. Aside from the stupid CAT test, I haven’t cheated since. (Danny Fenton...gets away with nothing.)
“How do you feel?” Sam rolls her eyes.
“...settled.” Sin’s finally back to being serious.
= = =
Sin ends her narrative. I’d embrace her, but.... I hug my knees instead.
Danny studies her calmly. “I know what’s going on now.”
“Really?” Sin asks gently.
“It’s not what’s holding you here,” continues Danny stonily. “It’s who.”
I watch Danny wince, pinch the bridge of his nose, sigh, and open his eyes; a look of pained understanding in his eyes.
“Cindy,” he croaks, shaken, “go talk to your dad.”
“I-I can’t....” Sin shakes her head.
“Talk to him! He deserves to know the truth.”
“It would kill him!”
“If you don’t, you will never be free.”
Danny chuckles mirthlessly. “One of the reasons I’ve always hated you when we were kids, is because I was so jealous of you and your dad. You could talk to him about anything.”
Sin’s eyes widen, as do mine.
My beau continues. “It’s never occurred to you that most kids have a hard time relating to their parents. Kids love their parents; but wish they’d be cool, or smart, or normal.”
“What...?” Sin winces. “Do you know how much I’ve longed for my dad to have a speaking voice that actually fits his intelligence?”
“Do you know how much he hates sounding like Rocky Balboa after one too many bouts?” spits Danny hotly. “No one can possibly hate his problem more than Mitch Malone himself.
“I envy his character; his ability to let every insult he’s ever heard roll off his back. The way he’s able to shrug and pretend it doesn’t hurt to be mocked and teased for something he can’t help. For a disease that’s killing him.” Danny glares at Sin.
“Then I’m back to where I started. I already know that his congenital nerve disorder is fatal. It’s why he quit playing football. I don’t want to rush him to his grave,” Sin cries. “Katie needs him.”
“Has it occurred to you, Sin, that your father’s prepared to die?” I ask quietly. “Mitch Malone isn’t the type of person to have lingering regrets. He believes that he’s going to heaven.
“But maybe--just maybe--he couldn’t bear to go, knowing his best friend is unhappy. And most people who commit suicide do so because their unhappiness is too great to bear.”
“So you’re saying he’s stuck with being alive because....”
“...he doesn’t understand why you’re dead, and if I remember his words correctly,” Danny continues, “he said that his soul won’t rest until he knows the truth....”
Tears streak down my face; I’m not even sure why now.
Danny winces. “Go to him. Tell him.
“As long as you hold this in,” he continues, “you’ve condemned your own father to a private hell you know he doesn’t deserve--by your own rules.”
"But...."
"No. Quit making excuses; the fact is, you never told him. That's not right," counters Danny. "You left without even telling your dad why. Of course you'd stay. You know that you owe him that much, Cindy. He's your father. Maybe not your 'heavenly Father', but he is your earthly one.
“Aren’t you supposed to love your neighbor?” Danny continues, bewildered. “Your dad is--was--the closest neighbor you'd ever have. He considered you to be his best friend.
"Hasn’t your dad--just, in the end, a normal and frail human being--nonetheless given you whatever you’ve asked for?
“Presuming your God exists, and that every Christian’s so-called goal is to emulate said God’s character; wouldn’t your Christian dad--your own flesh-and-blood dad--forgive you if you just...asked?”
I smile at Sin whimsically, quoting a certain heretical carpenter-rabbi who somehow burst forth from a virgin womb.
“I think Matt, Mark, Luke, or Johnny should have added a corollary about the prodigal daughter....” Shaking her head bemusedly, Sin phases through the wall of my room; and floats off into the night.
Danny punches my arm gently. “Your dad’s going to get you for quoting the New Testament.”
“Let him try,” I quip. “Like your dad, I want the whole story.” Besides which, Dad had bought me a King James Bible when I was ten. “You have to know the Christian mind, sweetie,” he’d said.
“I wasn’t acting on a sudden belief in the nonexistent,” scoffs Danny. “I acted on what does exist. Cindy’s father is a strong, deeply philosophical man. Slow to anger, quick to turn around and forgive again.”
I graciously decide to ignore the fact that Danny had paraphrased several biblical quotes. Not that I can think about that or any of our relationship issues right now...not after this.
The freak that hurt Cindy is still out there, still free. Mitch Malone’s going to die. Despite this, Danny’s probably still thinking that Dash is trying to woo me back.
But with Dash’s grandfather dead, and his father’s best friend nearing death; I don’t think either of the living Baxters can handle the stress. Thus, I’m pretty sure Dash isn’t thinking much about girls right now.
“Danny,” I smile. “Right now, I still think it’s best for our relationship if we keep our distance.”
“...why?” Danny winces.
“Because...I really miss being your friend.” I squeeze Danny’s hand.
He studies me a moment, then turns away from me, disappointed.
= = =
I smile bemusedly at our town hero. It’s rare to actually see him once, so to see him twice is remarkable.
Unfortunately, unlike my son, I’m not much of a fan. His timing’s...lousy.
“Excuse me.” I clear my throat, still toying with the Nintendo controller. (It’s one of the old, “rectangley” ones, to quote Dash. Best system ever made, I say.)
I’ve caught his attention this go round. “Yes, Mr. Baxter?” he says.
I laugh stupidly. Dad treated Dash and myself to dinner at a French restaurant. (Which should have been a gigantic neon warning sign telling us “I’m ready to die”, as he was a total Francophobe.) The maitre’d called for “Mr. Baxter”, and we all said “yes” at once.
The Phantom raises an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“Private joke, private joke....” I wave off the question.
“...is this before or after your father died, sir?” he asks after studying me a moment.
He was there when Dad died. Hemlock poisoning. It was his tea. Dad had spent the past four years drinking hemlock tea.
Junior Foley tried to warn me. “Suicidal ideations tend to persist, especially after multiple attempts,” he’d said. In short, Dad wouldn’t have stopped until he succeeded. Only changed tactics.
I grin crudely at him. “Before.”
“I would not have foreseen the hemlock, sir. No clairvoyant or mind-reading powers in my repertoire.”
“Granted. Tell me, sir: whenever you’re not saving the city, do you double as the Grim Reaper?”
“...no!” he balks, making it sound more like a question. I don’t think he knows yet. “Someone’s dead?”
“Mr. Malone is dead.”
“What!?” Damn; the kid really didn’t expect that. Neither did I.
“I’m sorry. When Dad...died,” I wince, “you came because you sensed the presence of another ghost; therefore I thought you’d sensed Mr. Malone’s soul heading to heaven.” I shrug.
“Actually,” smiles Phantom thinly, “I expected to run into his daughter, Cindy. She was supposed to finally explain to him why she killed herself.”
I sigh. “I beat her to the punch, then.”
“Wait a minute.” The Phantom scowls fiercely; his forehead sloping forward like a Neanderthal mulling over the secret of fire, a younger Dash struggling to get the gist of a subtle insult, or fourteen-year old Danny Fenton squaring off against a basic algebra problem. (Most math is basic to me--I’m an accountant. This would undoubtedly explain why these metaphors--although Ted Lancer would tell me that grammatically, they’re similes--are so tortured.)
Our town hero clears out the cobwebs, shaking his head. “You knew the whole time?”
Pretty much a rhetorical question at this point. If I read him the names in my address book as an answer, the outraged teen rant about my cowardice would be precisely the same. One of the few aspects of my son’s personality that I share is that I don’t like to expend needless effort for the same results. (The son just took that to its most extreme conclusion.)
Therefore, my answer is brief. “Yes.”
“Were you there?” Phantom spits, trying to control his anger. “Did you watch as it happened?”
Another aspect of my son’s personality--hell, it’s practically genetic at this point--is an easily-soured temper. Right now, mine could be pressed into cheese. (That...was a pathetic metaphor.)
However, both the son and I have learned to at least feign control over it. “No, you idiot. Cindy was my best friend’s daughter. You know, the man lying dead peacefully on his couch. It really looks like he’s taking one of his naps--minus the snoring.
“She and my son shared diapers; drank from the same bottle of Enfamil, caught each other’s colds.” I stare at him. “If I ever wanted to harm her in any way, I would have preceded my father in death before I let that happen.”
Phantom studies me carefully. “So you found out after the fact.”
“And I made sure it stopped.” It required me to do things I’m not proud of, but I’m not ashamed of either.
“Like what?” He asks too many questions.
“This is a small town,” I smile. “Population-wise, it’s more or less a small city; but the atmosphere is that of a small town. Small towns can hide big secrets, when they have to.”
“What does that have to do with my question?” balks Phantom.
I wince, in pained understanding of his ignorance. “This was before your time, Phantom.”
I point to Marcy Malone’s house. “Over there is where Mitch’s father lived; where Mitch grew up. Marcy herself was born in that house, along with Janice, and the elder Mr. Malone himself.
“What do you see across the street from there?” I ask.
“The torn-down ruins of the house where the serial rapist lived,” he answers, “until he died--the day he was scheduled to be out on parole.
“The coroner ruled it a natural death.” Phantom eyes me steadily.
“Parents...will do anything, to protect their children. It’s instinctual. The more ‘evolved’ the animal is, the more lethal they become; as we humans are the creme de la creme, we can be visceral savages in that regard.
“Worse, we can feign emotional detachment even as we secretly rejoice in the death of such oxygen thieves as that cretin,” I smile blandly.
“How will Mrs. Malone and Katie take the news?” Phantom asks, changing the subject.
“Not well. No one will.” Not even the people in the world who hated him; wanted him to suffer, to thrash, to fall. Mitch said he’d rest when he learned the truth. Now, he’s resting. Eternally, and in peace.
“Mr. Baxter. Please give the Malone family...my condolences.” Phantom floats away.
And yet, my grief doesn’t leave my heart to float with him.
= = =
“...still sour, huh?” I understand that her dad died, but still. Katie's in such a funk.
“What do you think?” Katie spits. “Ms. Ishikawa referred me to this grief counselor; but I feel worse each time I'm done talking to her. Dash was referred to her, too; but oddly enough, he refused. Said something about being 'so done with too-cheerful counselors'.”
“You mean that chipper red-haired lady? No one's that happy.” Weird. I know there was a counselor who was actually a soul-sucking ghost who fed off the energy of teenagers, but Danny defeated her three years ago. Nobody except Technus would try the same trick twice.
Still, I need to get her mind off her dad's death. “You'll probably hate me,” I grin, “but I entered us in the school talent show.”
Katie stares at me. “Dani...why would you do that!?”
“To shake you out of your routine. Your rut. No need to thank me; what are friends for, right?”
“Apparently your job is to embarrass me in front of the whole school.” Katie yanks my hat down over my face. “What made you think I wanted to enter? Seriously, it's Tucker's job to embarrass us; I'd expect him to pull a stunt this stupid.”
What I've managed to learn from Danny and Tucker's meltdown(they're barely civil―whenever they speak to each other): I don't get angry when Katie blurts something designed to upset me. She's actually upset enough as it is.
Instead I inject facts as calmly as I can. “I entered you because you can sing. Beautifully. People need to see that kind of talent―and what do you know? The school's holding―get this―a talent show. You get to showcase your talent,” I grin.
“What? Fifty-seven varieties of stage fright?” Katie scowls. “I choked during show-and-tell in grade school.”
“But I've heard you sing.”
“You shouldn't spy on me using your ghost powers.”
“I didn't. Your dad pointed it out to me. We spied on you singing “O Holy Night” in your room during the holidays.” I smirk slightly, expecting her to spit “Christmas, darn it!” (She's worried about the “secularization” of Christmas and whatnot; though how she conveniently forgets her dad's lectures about the non-Christian elements--the tree and the date, to name two examples--I can never explain.)
Instead, her shoulders slump. Katie's mopey again. “That was the last Christmas I had with him.”
“Do you honestly think your dad is doing anything but laughing at your moping around?” I quip. “I bet he's probably elbowing some angel,” I continue, doing a bad impression of Mr. Malone pointing out his oh-so-sad daughter.
“I'm sure he'd understand that I'm grieving his loss.” Katie glares at me.
I'd better try another tack, though quite frankly, I'm not feeling sympathetic. “It's too late to withdraw from the competition, at any rate. May as well go through with it.”
“I'm not up to it.”
“What the hell? Katie, you've always carped about wanting to emerge from your dad and sister's shadows. Here's your shot.”
“And now you see why I can't. I don't have their confidence. I can't go onstage and humiliate myself.”
“Oh--so you're above being humiliated.”
“I can't do it. I can't take all the insults from people that don't even know me.”
“Random people made fun of your dad every day.”
“And that bothered him a lot more than he let on to people. Insults hurt.” Katie winces, knowing that she'd called me stupid about two minutes ago. “And I'm sorry.”
“Okay. You already know the worst that could possibly happen from singing in this talent show. And you've been made fun of before by the same three snotty, jealous girls.
“What would be the difference? You're as bad as Danny.” I tried to get my so-called cousin to enter, but he balked at the idea of leaving himself “wide open” to Dash's ridicule. (Never mind that the big dummy has also stopped speaking to him altogether since the lunch incident last year.)
“Except that unlike Danny," Katie scowls, "I'd never cheat on someone I claim to care about.”
My eyes widen. “I'm not even sure what you saw; but let's stick to the topic of your being a wimp.”
“I'm not being a wimp. I'm standing up to you. I won't let you guilt-trip me into doing something I don't want to do.”
Actually...that is a fair point. “So you honestly don't want to go onstage, then.”
“That's right; I don't.”
“Then we'll drop out of the competition.” I sigh. A shame really. We could have smoked them dead.
= = =
“This is your last chance to spare yourself humiliation,” smiles Olivia thinly to Katie. (Olivia Ebony Marksdale's a jealous, spiteful bitch who's been bothering Katie since they were in third grade.) “I completely understand why you'd want to withdraw.”
“Truthfully, I never wanted to enter in the first place,” counters Katie coolly. “Having to even stand on the same stage you'd be on nauseates me.”
“No; that'd be you shriveling to nothing under the spotlight.”
I watch as Dani restrains the urge to throttle Olivia. It's funny really. Danny's clone is willing to stand up for Sin's sister. But it's not fun watching girls snipe at each other like this. It's just...sad.
I walk to the sign-up table, to verify my entry. I'm acting in my own one-man play about Aldridge Foley.
Olivia rolls her eyes. Like most people in town, she's completely ignorant about Amity Park's history. “Did you make this guy up?”
The answer is no, of course; but I decide to be snarky instead. “If I did, it's a good thing I have time travel abilities; because if it weren't for Aldridge and Alvin Foley(Alvin was Aldridge's son), Amity Park wouldn't exist, and we'd both probably be picking cotton on some nondescript plantation in Walterboro, South Carolina.”
“If he gave a meaningful contribution to Black History,” counters Olivia, now in pseudo-Civil Rights Mode, “he'd be mentioned during Black History Month.” This is a sore point with me; and if my dear ancestor were alive, he'd find the person who suggested Black History Month and throttle him.
My initial reason for working on the play was because I was angry with Danny. I didn't want to damage my PDA, so I started writing down my frustrations. During my writings, I went on a tangent about Aldridge, trying to imagine him in a situation where someone he cared about was making a stupid mistake.
Then I remembered that he thought his own son made a huge mistake harboring Harriet Tubman. (That was what precipitated the One Day War, which ended up killing Aldridge's daughter.)
When I read over what I wrote, I realized that Aldridge's story was compelling. And I'm going to tell it regardless of what Olivia thinks.
And it seems that Katie agrees with me; she gives Olivia an abridged version of all my thoughts. “Tucker's not withdrawing from the talent show,” she blurts. “In fact, we're going to help him produce his play.”
Dani's eyes widen in shock. “What do you mean 'we'?” I guess she didn't get the memo.
= = =
"Once more into the breach, dear friend." I leave Dani to chat with my grief counselor. I can't stand her. I'd be better off having Olivia as my grief counselor.
We talk, with her always saying something to remind me about how stupid I can be sometimes, or how lousy my hair looks. It's like she's trying to pick and pick at me.
She starts in on my dad, and...I've had it.
"Leave my dad out of this. He's dead, and your job is to help me cope with that--not to make me feel worse."
"It's always about you, isn't it?"
"No. It's not. I really feel sorry for you. You must be a truly empty person to get your kicks picking on teenagers."
"Naturally," smirks Dani, firing the Fenton Peeler. "All she does is suck people's energy."
The counselor reveals herself as a black shadow, a ghost named Spectra. I start to get the Thermos from my backpack, only to have it snatched away by Ber Trand.(Actually, some ghost named Bertrand. How original.)
Except that Danny traps both Spectra and Bertrand in his Thermos.
"Same trick twice." Danny shakes his head. "Is it just me, Dani; or are the ghosts' schemes getting more pathetic every week?"
= = =
Forty days and forty nights. I thought we were all promised no second flood. But it’s rained like this the whole week after prom night. I hope Amity Park doesn’t wash away.
I personally feel...comforted. Most people complain about heavy rain, including Sammy(who’s worried about soil erosion). Being the odd stick at heart, I like heavy rains.
They have a soothing effect on me. It’s like the town is being cleansed.
I thumb through some old yearbooks, realizing that I don’t look as different as I remember. Other than my coiffure (more to please Pam than anything) and clothes(mostly to break the Orthodox Jew monotony of my childhood), I’m still the same lanky blond guy.
All the black and dark brown I’m wearing in most of these photos though.... Sammy would get a kick out of this.
I think that’s what shocked me about my old appearance. The only person who looked more like my daughter in youth than me is my own mother (a hell-raiser in her own right).
I can pick her usual expressions out: the Kvetch. The Scowl. The Wry Grin. If Sammy had met me back then....
But no. My only daughter was happily ensconced in my scrotum and Pam’s ovaries, not to be unleashed onto the world until May 1992. She was waiting until the other weirdos’ spawn made their respective debuts.
Mitch, naturally, was first; giving the children of this town a new use for the word “Sin”. (After Kwan, but he and the other Nagisawas moved here two years before the Fentons.)
Right behind, of course, was Baxter and Sands’ hellion; the boy with an apparent ten-year plan to seduce my child. Most of the parents pinpointed second grade; I’m banking on kindergarten. Every day that one of us picked Sammy up from school, he was there; even remembering both our birthdays.
Paulina’s father was in Mitch’s old Catholic school; Alvin, who graduated in 1986, rendered unto us his sometimes-idiotic--and thankfully harmless--son.
The Fenton clan is also from out of town; leaving us with Damon’s demon seed(who’s actually a very responsible, if irritable--young lady). Star’s parents went to AP Prep; her great-grandfather retired from Casper High in 1984.
Just when we thought it would be a weirdest kid contest between young Foley and young Baxter; my daughter was born, and silenced all doubt of weirdness when she obediently ate the disgusting paste called “creamed spinach”.
Though there’s method to the madness: if I want to bypass temptation to break kashrut, I’d go vegan. (I have no problem avoiding pork(and definitely not insects--that’s even worse!); I could even handle her strict vegetarian diet but for my love of thick, meaty steaks. (“The cow must die, Samantha, that I may live.” | “No, Daddy...!”)
My little arrow flutters downstairs, in a black and lavender negligee. She answers the door, wondering who would be crazy enough to visit her in this weather.
I merely shut the senior yearbook. As I know the man who set the precedent for crazy, rain-related stunts done in the name of love; I already know who’s downstairs.
And it feels...clean.
= = =
“What are you doing out here?” fumes Manson.
I grin, drenched to the bone. “Did you put Fenton to bed?” I ask.
“He’s asleep upstairs, anyway,” she hisses. “Are you insane?”
Worse. I’m in love. “Felt a little too hot at home, so I stepped out here in the rain to cool off.”
Manson studies me carefully. “Is it working?”
“No.”
“Come inside, then,” she scowls, granting me a scolding glare. “I have tons of dry, fluffy white towels.”
I pull Manson outside, drawing her body to mine. “I thought you’d like to play in the rain with me.”
“Great; now I’m wet,” she seethes.
“I bet you are.” Been missing this; licking her ear just right, teasing that earlobe, trailing down her neck...
...she cuts me off with a quick kiss. “Dummy. Didn’t I tell you that Danny’s asleep upstairs?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a light sleeper.”
I kiss her. “...we can play quietly.”
“This isn’t right. Dash, we shouldn’t...” Manson sighs as I trail my hands along her back.
“You worried about being caught? In this mess?” I touch her chin, tilting it up gently towards my face--and the raining, cloudy late-night sky. “It’s three in the morning, and I basically swam here.”
“And what makes you think I want to join you in suicide-by-pneumonia?”
“I know you.” I grace her with a cryptic smile. “Just enough to recognize that you’re as nuts as I am.” Hm...those smooth shoulders.
Manson winces, unsure. She carefully places an index finger onto my clothed chest. (Wet, soggy clothes that cling to my skin: I can’t wait to take them off--and not solely for conjugal bliss. In the back of my mind I’m also thinking of that fluffy white bathrobe with the matching pair of slippers.)
I’m banking on her humanity; on that passionate girl that’s very much alive. “How long has it been?” I whisper gently.
“About five hours ago,” she smiles wryly, glancing upstairs.
“That comes with the territory.” I roll my eyes at her effort to deflate my ego. (Some things never change.)
“If you’d let me finish,” I continue, nuzzling that soft spot between her neck and shoulder, “I want to know: when was the last time you made love?”
I hope my question encompasses:
“How long has it been since five minutes of sex felt like five years’ worth, yet was never enough?
“Do you remember what a great kiss feels like?
“Have you forgotten the wild joy of senseless name-screaming? The light spankings?
“Do you still feel the marks along your neck, your back, your shoulders...?
“When you wash that white peasant blouse, are you still trying to get out the grass stains from that one time...?”
It’s hard to ask all of that in one mouthful.
Manson puts that same index finger to her lips, eyeing me bashfully. “Let’s go inside,” she smiles.
“Let’s play awhile,” I counter gently; I then kiss her softly, slowly.
As that heady mouth-full-of-dark chocolate feeling courses through me, the choice is so clear. I either coax Sammy into staying in the rain with me(so I can fuck her pretty little brains out on her own doorstep), or go inside(where I’m the big, wet idiot she has to towel off).
Don’t make me let go; please don’t make me let go.
The black satin overcoat slides off Manson, revealing her creamy, slender body in a lavender satin/black lace nightie. And as she wraps her arms around my shoulders, planting a kiss along my neck; we both know that we won’t be wearing more than our smiles when this is over...
= = =
I wake to quiet male snoring in my bed. Yawning, I try to gently extricate myself from Dash's arms; only to have him draw me even closer to him.
A wonderful feeling. However, as it's happened for the third time this morning.... I'll have to make him quit feigning sleep.
"Dash," I grin. "I know you're awake. We still have to go to school."
"Hn." Dash casually keeps his eyes shut. "I know you lied about Fenton being up here last night," he murmurs in response.
"I was hoping you wouldn't figure that out," I sigh.
Dash stirs, sitting up in bed. "Do you think I would have cared?"
I scowl at him. "Sounds like a rhetorical question."
"You know me well." Dash smirks mirthlessly. "If he's going to bitch like he did during prom, we ought to give him something to bitch about."
"Stupid."
"As long as you add 'hypocrite' to the other guy, I can live with that."
"I deserve that label too, you know." After all the grief I've given Danny over his choices in girlfriends--and over his cheating on me--I not only cheat on him, but with one of his worst enemies.
Yet Dash sees me a little differently. "That's not really the case. Fenton broke you some time ago. I know he's your friend, but you don't have to be fair to him.
"Senior prom's supposed to be your moment in the sun, one of the the happiest days in your life. Ranks up there with your wedding and your first baby."
I scowl at him, although I appreciate his concern.
"Goth or no , the ideas still warm some small corner of your heart," he grins wryly.
Let me be mad at you, damn it. "Are you trying to say I was miserable during prom?" I ask.
Dash shakes his head. "You just did," he snorts.
I roll my eyes, mostly in an attempt to stave off the incoming lousy prom memories. "I never really expected much from prom, except to have a better time than I did."
"...it wasn't all bad."
"I shouldn't have to depend on you to bring the fun, you know. That's my boyfriend's job."
"I was your boyfriend at one point," Dash reminds me. The fact that I can't seem to forget it contributes to my current crisis.
"Not like it was the first time we danced together." I pull out a freshman photo of the two of us during that Halloween dance.(We made faces.) Dash wore a hideous white tux; while I wore something more...suited to the holiday. In my opinion, anyway.
Dash stares at me quizzically. "...you did look almost fuckable in that thing. Must've been the corset."
"I ought to slug you."
"Why? 'cause I said 'almost'?"
"If you hadn't said that, I would have slapped you."
"Ooh...." Dash smirks, raising an eyebrow.
When will I learn? Dash has a hard time staying serious.
And the phone rings....
= = =
Pablo scowls at me. "...chica, that was the dumbest thing I've ever seen anyone do. Don't scare me like that again."
"I just happened to notice Dash's car driving without him in it," I smile.
"So you had to jump right in front of the moving car."
"It stopped you, didn't it?"
"You're not even supposed to be in this car. Dash will go apeshit."
"Whatever. You're going to pick him up for school, right?"
"Yes...." Pablo raises an eyebrow.
"Then let's stop by Sammy's house."
"Paulina, aren't you tired of harassing that girl?"
"I'm not going to bother her; we're just bringing Dash back his car."
"You've already given her a phone call."
"Because...Dash is over at her place. Why do you think you have the car?"
"Your logic, woman: it disturbs me." Pablo cracks a slight smile.
I respond with a sly grin. "I know...."
= = =
We decided to call our school talent show Casper High-dol. Fuck me with a fork.
At least, that's what hearing some of these acts feels like.
Tucker's onstage; and thankfully, he's not singing. He's actually pretty good as an actor. Except that my ghost sense didn't go off, I'd swear that he was channeling Aldridge.
Then again, Aldridge Foley always fascinated him; and whenever something fascinates Tucker, he never shuts up about it. That aspect of my favorite classmate is why I know how Aldridge should act.
Since he's a harmless ghost, I left him alone; warning him to stay clear of Valerie Gray. Normally, I'd try to find out why a particular ghost is haunting the city, but I'm really not wanting to think about Tucker.
I actually tried to apologize to him several times for blowing up, but he keeps making it worse; so, to hell with it.
It's like everyone in school's just trying to stay away from me--outside of Sam, of course. And Valerie. Two people that really care about me.
Although Sam's being colder to me again. I can't blame her; I totally ruined her prom night.(Though I did make Valerie's night, and the night before--which is why Sam's mad.)
I'll make it up to Sam, once and for all. I'm just not sure how.
= = =
"You won. You won!" I give Katie and Miss Half-and-Half a hug.
Dani smirks. "You're hugging a ghost." Like she needs to remind me.
"You're the exception that proves the rule." I stick out my tongue.
We watch as Katie hugs Tucker. "You were great. Didn't I tell you using 'Original Sin' would work?"
"You did." Tucker smiles, slipping off the period glasses and putting back on his normal glasses.
"You look better with the other ones," I quip, albeit honestly.
"You had your chance," he smirks. I roll my eyes.
Danny appears, kind of tense. He and Tucker haven't been getting along lately.
"...congratulations." Danny shakes Tucker's hand.
"Thank you."
Danny motions as though he wants to say a million other things, then he winces and leaves.
Katie and Dani leave backstage, delirious. I knew Katie could sing, but damn.... Her daddy would be proud.
I sigh. "Tucker, why won't you forgive him? Is it because he didn't listen to you?"
"No," he answers calmly. "Anyway, I forgave him some time ago. I haven't said anything to that effect because he hasn't asked."
"He wants to apologize."
"I don't want his apology. It's not about him being sorry. It's about him--and Sam--being honest about themselves, and what the hell they want.
"That's what's best for them. As their friend, I would never accept anything less. If Danny won't see that, then he and I will have to go our separate ways. Even if we're never friends again, if he figures that out during the course of his life, I'll be happy. Same thing goes for Sam."
"You don't even seem to want them to change."
"I want them to be the two people I befriended between kindergarten and second grade."
"You could always blame us." I'm including myself with the now-fractured A-List.
Tucker laughs. "Honesty with themselves became an issue in the ninth grade, but it had nothing to do with you or the Wedgie King and his court.
I balefully note Nathan lumbering over to us.
"Okay: you didn't take up my offer to go to the prom with me this year. But there's always college homecoming...." He never gives up hope--no matter how vain.
"Nathan," I plead, "let it go."
"When will you let go of Danny?" he scowls.
Normally, I'd get angry--really upset. Unfortunately, my stalker since the sixth grade has a point. "You're probably right; it is easier said than done.
"That said," I continue, glaring at him, "we both need to try harder."
Dejected, Nathan leaves.
Tucker shakes his head. "Careful," he smiles. "You almost fell into that trap, too."
"Really...?" I quirk an eyebrow.
"If you wanted to get over Danny," he continues, adjusting his glasses, "you would have done that long before now."
"...maybe I don't want to."
"Maybe."
"Danny's...not who he used to be. I want him back, too."
"You didn't meet Danny until third grade."
"...it's complicated."
"You mean that crush you developed on him back then."
"That." I scowl at Tucker a moment. Smart ass. "And how honest he used to be about things. I miss seeing the three of you together--I don't know. Something's just...wrong."
= = =
This is the scariest school day I've ever had. Some JV morons apparently want to establish the new school order.
"We have to pick a new A-List table," bellows Eddie, the freshman quarterback. A little out of shape for the job. Squick.
"Yeah; the senior class over there," adds his zit-encrusted buddy Chad, pointing to the Table, "is sitting too close to the sun."
Rounding out this new freshman clique is Elgin Sands, a young linebacker who's too concerned about his hair. (He's the worst of them all.) "There." Elgin points to Danny and Sam's table, the couple too busy silently seething at each other to notice that their table's been targeted for a hostile takeover.
"Hey. Elgin...." I hiss. It's fun being an upperclassman. "Over here, dipstick."(Ember's taught me a lot about mockery during our bouts.)
Elgin levels a haughty glare at me. "What do you want?"
"Why are you eyeing that table? It's a bulls-eye for food fights."
"Danielle," smiles Elgin thinly. "You, being among the hoi polloi, can't possibly comprehend my position.(Total preppy.)
"That table is the center of attention. The eyes of the whole school look there.
"We merely have to persuade those two squatters to leave."
I snort. "They're seniors, Elgin. They can sit wherever they want. Furthermore, it's almost the end of the school year. No one cares."
"I care!" pouts Elgin, his ego...scuffed.(Poor baby.)
Katie, sitting next to me, shakes her head. Dash, who's at the Table, buries his head in his hands.
Chad hands Elgin a hairbrush. "Watch the coif, boss."
Elgin eyes the brush with disfavor. "I don't want to use Wade's hairbrush!" he whines, inciting the laughter of the entire varsity football team.(They must have thought that right-of-center poli-sci blog was a football website.)
Elgin walks over to the Table, glaring at the still-chuckling Dash. "We're cousins, Dashiell. Help me."
Dash snaps his fingers; summoning the "guards", who seize Elgin. "You weren't given permission to approach me. Be gone."
"Unhand me, you troglodytes." Elgin wrenches himself free of the two sophomore fullbacks. "Very well, cousin Baxter.
"With the descent of the old republic," declares he of the perfect politician's hair, dismissing our "old" A-Listers with a turn of his perfectly swollen head, "comes the dawn of a new era.
"And with that new era," Elgin blathers on...and on, "comes a new table, for a new A-List--a more refined breed of student that redefines what it means to be popular...." And he goes on...and on.... Even his father doesn't talk this much.
While Elgin does his level best to put the entire student body into a coma, Eddie decides to bug a really sour Danny.
= = =
"Dork. Dork-face." I continue ignoring this idiot.
He shoves me. "Listen up, Barf-boy." I'd laugh if this guy wasn't so pathetic. "We want this table. You and your freak girlfriend, move. Now."
I finish chewing a french fry, then finally turn to face...Eddie, I think. "No."
"Sorry, Edward," Sam quips. "It's still a free country. Yet it's this kind of brain-dead persistence," she continues with a smirk, "that makes the three of you my favorite freshmen to bait."
"You and your pansy-ass boytoy are leaving the table," counters Eddie.
"Or what?" I ask. "You gonna give me a wedgie? Slam me into a locker, swirlie me to your heart's content? Or maybe you'll just throw me in the dumpster.
"Too bad it's all been done before. And it doesn't help that you have these weak insults. Barf-boy? What the fuck are you, five? This isn't kindergarten, you jackass.
"If you want pointers on how to make my school life a living hell, you could try asking that asshat at the senior table," I continue, pointing Eddie to Dash. "That is, if you can get past his bodyguards. His own cousin couldn't, so I wouldn't hold your breath.
"Then again, maybe you should hold your breath. If your body assumes room temperature, Ed, your IQ might just rise a point or two."
Sam quirks an eyebrow, not particularly happy about my scorched-jock tirade. Whatever.
Eddie gives me a fake, nervous laugh. "You know, I don't do all that wedgie and swirlie shit. I just beat the shit out of losers like you."
"Oh," I say all too calmly, as if he'd asked me to pass the mayonnaise.(He's just a stupid kid. I'm not going to kill him...today.)
"So you're gonna move."
"No."
"What!?" bellows Eddie.
"You're a fuckwit." I shake my head. "I'm only here for one more week, and you're just now trying to establish your dominance over me? Go to hell, please."
"Make me, shit-stain."
I raise my index finger, finish eating lunch, then I stand up to tower over the dumbass."You were saying something, Ed? I can't really hear you over your friend Blather Man." I note Elgin--who's still talking about the new age of popularity or some such nonsense. (If the goal these guys have is to make it to the top of the school food chain--by making the other popular kids die of laughter; then they're geniuses.)
Eddie predictably trembles a moment, then tenses his flabby fist. "You're going down, Fen-clown!" He swings his punch, which I dodge even as I laugh my ass off. (I was a bit irritated with him at first, but...that was too...fucking...pathetic...!)
I put my hand on Eddie's shoulder. "I'll...leave. Because I feel really...sorry for you. You get points for effort...."
Sam finishes her salad. "Pitiful showing there, Edward." Rolling her eyes, she leaves the table; sparing me a glare.
What was that about? "Sam, wait...." I start to head after her, but Eddie still has to prove his bully bonafides.
"I'm not done with you!" he sputters, his voice cracking.
"I'm done with you." I snatch his hand off my arm. "Playtime is over. Get away, or I will hurt you." I leave the pudgy idiot to fume in his own stupidity.
= = =
"Hold it." Danny grips my arm. "What the hell was that for?"
"What?" I spit.
"The glare. The damned glare."
"Danny...I needed some air, so I walked outside." I free my arm from Danny's hand, then fold both arms across my chest.
"That didn't answer my question."
"...you've changed." As I speak, Danny's eyes narrow. I sigh. "No...I've changed."
Danny cocks his head to the side, losing that hostile expression...for the moment. "I'm listening."
"You remember how outspoken I was, especially in elementary school? I miss that sometimes. But even more, I miss the guy that would often speak his mind to any and all--even if he was clueless.
"He gave me the courage to speak up during grade school, and I spoke my mind a lot more around strangers because of him--because of you."
"What happened?"
"I'm turning back into that surly girl who doesn't say much. The shy part of myself never left, you know."
"You mean you don't like rocking the boat?"
"I don't like to tinker with something that's not broken. The problem that I had--before I met you and Tucker--was that I'd never speak for myself when I thought something was wrong. I'm lousy when it comes to expressing my own feelings, my own emotions."
"And that's an issue now?" Danny wonders. "Why?"
"While I can express regular, everyday feelings; I've always had the hardest time telling someone I really care about...how I truly feel. Especially when it might change the dynamics of the relationship.
"Before I became your friend, Danny; I was almost always miserable. I could name the kids who would so much as hold my hand, or play with me."
Danny, ever so patient, decides to cut me off. "I'm not really seeing the point of this, except to guess that Dash was one of those kids. That's the only logical reason I've heard so far."
"Reason for what?" I ask.
"For being his fuck-toy." Oh, to hell with this...!
= = =
"...ouch," winces a young sophomore girl.
"That hurt me, and I'm not even out there," adds a freshman.
"They're arguing."
"Past arguing. They're yelling."
My eyes widen in realization. Could it be...?
A junior's eyes sparkle with excitement. "They're breaking up!" she squeals.
"What!?" the student body cries out as one. Everyone--pretty much--rises up at once, then rush en masse to our window.
Paulina chose our spot well, no doubt about it. Ringside seats, dude.
Of course, Elgin and his pals didn't get the memo.
"Hey!" Eddie splutters. "Elgin is talking."
"Still!?" balks Dani, rolling her eyes.
"Shut up. No one cares about your freshman power struggles," spits Olivia.
"They really are going to break up," continues Dani to Olivia. "We agreed on something."
"That is one sign of the coming apocalypse," quips Katie sardonically, ignoring what could be the final episode of the Danny and Sam Show.
"I'm announcing the new popular table!" screams Elgin.
Irritated, Dash balefully explains. "As you're a transplanted preppy, I'll go real slow for you. When a long-standing teen couple is breaking up, everyone wants up to the minute play-by-play. Clique walls vanish; as you can see from all the geeks, nerds, and assorted social detrius assembled around our Table."
"Get over yourself, Baxter," scoffs a goth senior. "This is important."
"Yeah," adds his girlfriend, a cheerleader I dated two years ago. "Manson's finally had it with that idiot."
"You'd think after last year that he'd admit his interest in seeing how everything turns out," muses Paulina.
The goth-dating cheerleader sighs. "Honestly, Dash. Paulina was only trying to help."
"Help!?" spits Dash. "She caused this situation."
"True." Paulina. Ever the shameless one. "I didn't expect them to hold out this long."
"Maybe because they're friends and they wanted to be together?" Dash rolls his eyes.
"Conflagrations like this are why we don't date each other," Star reminds Dash.
Looks like it's headed toward the finale....
= = =
It's time I read the damned riot act to her--once and for all. "...truth. You want me to handle the truth? I'll hand some to you while I'm at it, Sam: you're the most conceited, selfish person I've ever met!"
Sam winces, lowering her lids in defeat. "You're right."
"And you know what--I'm...right?" Somehow, I'm still wondering if she's serious.
"The conceit was my first mistake. I thought I could 'maturely' lay aside my feelings for someone else--to devote myself to the relationship, and I stupidly expected you to do the same."
I glare at her, bracing for yet another of her non-apologies.
"No sarcasm, not this time," sighs Sam wearily. "The stakes are too high. I wasn't being mature at all. In the relationship, I was acting like the proper girlfriend, and I expected you to be the proper boyfriend. I didn't ask about your feelings; your ties once. The same way I didn't really bother to think about your opinion of my 'secret admiral' when I dated him."
I raise my hand; she allows me to interrupt. "I didn't have a problem with you dating him. The idea of you two fucking is what's disturbing. Or did you forget how my brain nearly melted," I continue, whispering into Sam's ear(our...chat...has drawn an audience), "when you dragged the idiot into a kiss?"
"I didn't forget." Sam rolls her eyes. "The thing is, he didn't forget either. That whole thing leads back to my unwillingness to be open about myself--emotions, thoughts.
"You've always acted like you're shy; but Danny: I'm the shy one." Sam--the shy one? She of the mass ultra-recyclo vegan protest marches?
"But what made you finally realize that you're selfish?" I ask.
"I wanted it all, damn it. My desire to have you as my boyfriend; it's a type of greed. I had two great relationships: the romantic one with a former enemy, and our friendship. That wasn't enough, though: I wanted the perfect relationship with my best friend-only-more.
"And I wanted it so badly that I willfully blinded myself to the realities in place. I knowingly blundered into the same trap, Danny. Remember the Relationship Trap?"
I nod. That was one of her favorite diatribes. "You probably thought you'd be different."
"I thought I could beat the odds." Sam winces again. "The sad part is, I could have avoided a lot of this."
"You could have avoided dating my worst human enemy."
Sam leans in to me. "I never dated Vlad."
"He's not exactly human, is he?"
"Neither is Paulina, yet you spent a whole semester trying to win her affections."
"You're entitled to be stupid during freshman year. Have to work out middle school trauma."
"But you don't give Dash that pass."
"He's hounded me since kindergarten. Kindergarten. When I first moved here. My sympathy for him died when the third grade class rabbit got its sex change." Damn it, Sam: let me hate him.
"Danny." Sam glares at me now. "It's like I said: I ignored the reality. I ignored the fact that you made love to Valerie freshman year." Oddly enough, Sam's not angry about that. "Huge warning sign to me--in hindsight. I dismissed my own feelings for you beforehand.
"I ignored my own need to be held and wanted and got suckered in by a poser--even though you tried to warn me about him." While I'm tempted to ask "Which one?", somehow, I think she's referring to that clown from Hungary--Hungary, Michigan.
Sam continues. "In my mind, I filtered out all the likeable things about Dash: each aspect quirky, warped, or irritating in isolation--yet together, they somehow made him more appealing than the jerk had any right to be."
"So you admit that he's a jerk!" I grin.
"I never denied that he's a jerk, you idiot! When you care about people, you don't ignore their flaws. That's one of the reasons I have to accept that this relationship...is done."
= = =
"...done. Just like that. It's not like you to give up."
"Danny, did you listen to me?" Sam's to the point of tears. "There's nothing here in the relationship: no romance, no passion."
"Where's the fight now, Sam? I thought you wanted us to happen," I counter. Now I'm pissed all over again.
"Nothing's here for the two of us. The relationship is killing us."
"If it dies," I scowl, "it's because you refuse to let your memories of Dash die."
Sam starts to counter, but takes a deep breath. "We're in the Trap. You can stay in if you like, but I want out."
"Why?"
"I'm tired of the scrutiny from the whole school, for one," she adds, glaring at our lunch audience; who peers at us through the window. "The odds-on side betting from the freshmen and sophomores is fun--I even placed a few bets myself. But the unsolicited advice, the morbid fascination of the other students--we're not people to them. We're a pair of idiots on some reality TV show come to life."
"I don't give a damn about what they think," I spit.
"Neither do I. I want out of this relationship for me, and for something between us that's more valuable and important to me than the relationship. Don't you see?" continues Sam. "It was always the relationship--never really our relationship."
"What do you mean!?" I balk.
"Oh. You know what I mean," Sam seethes. "If we were serious about the relationship--if it were our relationship--Dash and Valerie wouldn't matter. Paulina's stupidity would be irrelevant. Danny, we'd be in love; not thinking about our exes."
It's hard to refute that. I eye Sam stonily(at least that's how I feel). "Has it occurred to you, Sam, that we may have been comparing apples to oranges this whole time?
"We and Dash used to be enemies. Valerie...hell, she's still an enemy." I grin at Sam's relieved sigh that I at least understand that. "You and I, on the other hand, are friends. Good friends. We shouldn't be sniping at each other; we should work to make the relationship better."
"My expectations in this relationship are too high--precisely because of our friendship. I'm more committed to our friendship than the relationship. I expect mutual trust, damn-near unconditional acceptance of each other's flaws, and fun. I got that from Dash--and I'll be damned if I accept less than that from you."
"If you replaced 'Dash' and you with 'Valerie' and me, we'd be a mirror, Sam."
"Exactly my point; but you willfully refuse to see it--just as I did. But the scales have been lifted from my eyes," Sam continues. "Open your eyes to the present, Danny."
"The present." I stare at Sam quizzically.
"More is at stake here than this holding-hands bullshit we call a relationship."
= = =
"What the fuck!? I think we did a lot more than hold hands."
"You won't forgive him."
"Why should I? He's still an asshole."
"And you're giving said asshole power over your emotions."
"How?"
"As long as you hate him, Dash--or rather, your memories of Dash--can still hurt you. The real Dash--the guy who, thankfully, is ignoring this spat of ours--has since moved on.
"It's eating away at your soul." Sam slaps her forehead, remembering that religion holds no sway with me. "It's eating away at you.
"Because of this; you've pushed Tucker away, you've pushed Valerie to and fro, and you're pushing me too far.
"Dash bullied you since kindergarten. So what? Get over it, Danny."
= = =
"What!?" I balk.
"Forgive him. Forgive them. You lose nothing by doing that. Besides, if you don't, you will lose.
"The relationship...is over." Sam puts up both hands, palms facing me. "As a friend, I owe you that.
"Nonetheless; if you won't forgive Dash," she continues, "then our friendship is over. Through. Forever. Because I will never forgive you for destroying it; all in the name of this dead relationship."
"Why is it dead!?" I demand.
"Danny...you need to see it for yourself." Sam starts to walk away.
I grip her arm. "I want an explanation--now."
She glares at me. "Let go of me, you loser!"
I can feel something snap inside me; it takes every ounce of my being to keep my tensed fist from flying to Sam's face. "I. Am not. A loser!"
"You're right again." Sam wrenches her arm from my other hand, massaging it. I...didn't mean to hurt her at all.
Sparing me one last, scathing glance, Sam stalks away.
...I need some air.
= = =
"Danny!" I watch as the ghost halts in midair. "Turn. Around."
He complies, giving me a mirthless smirk. "You finally say my name."
"I finally know who you are." I scowl at him. "And I face my enemies."
Danny rolls his now-glowing green, yet still lovely eyes; I level my weapons at him.
"If I'd told you the truth, you still would have tried to kill me," Danny scoffs. "My own parents chase after me."
"If I did, it'd be because you lied to me. Much like now."
"Valerie: I've just had a stake driven in my back, and through my heart, by my own best friend. With the mood I'm in right now, if you attack me, I will not hold back."
"I've seen what that's like."
Danny scowls. "What you saw wasn't me attacking you; it was me attacking a ghost who had possessed your first suit.
"Speaking of which.... Hasn't it occurred to you to question where you got your technology?"
"No, because Mr. Masters told me. He gave me the tech in order to hunt down ghosts like you."
Danny smirks. "Did Mr. Masters tell you everything?"
My eyes widen, revealing that whatever Danny knows about my dad's boss, I don't know. "No, he didn't," I reluctantly admit. "What--is he a ghost, too?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," grins Danny, apparently all-too happy to reveal that bit of information. "There's a lot you don't know--about Mr. Masters, about me--and I could explain it all to you a lot better if I weren't under your gun sights."
The both of us float down into the park, powering down. "You have ten minutes."
Danny gives me a wry smile.(Damn his cuteness to hell!) "Plenty of time."
= = =
We're just hanging like this for a minute; skipping study hall. (After the "big fight", lunch was over.)
"When will you quit beating yourself up?" she asks quietly.
"Huh?"
"I don't like seeing my friends bullied," my favorite goth scowls.
Here we go, yet again. "We hashed through this already; if I hadn't been riding Fenton's ass since kindergarten, he wouldn't have been such a bastard about us dating...yadda, yadda, yadda."
"And you've stopped bugging Danny some time ago, Tucker a bit sooner; you're relatively nice to Dani. But there's still one friend you're really being an asshole with."
I stare at her, confused.(Sammy speaks in riddles sometimes.) "Who the hell are you talking about?"
She fixes her violet goth scowl on me. "You. Aren't we friends?"
"...yeah."
"That sounds like a question."
"It's the whole 'we were intimate' issue that throws me."
She sighs. "Please quit beating yourself up over Cindy. It wasn't your fault."
"I will when you do." I roll my eyes.
Sammy winces, about to confide something. "She'd...always try to include me in her world. I...sometimes.... I never tried to pull her from the brink, you know."
"You couldn't have. And neither could I.
"Remember that fire at my house I told you about," I ask, "the one that happened freshman year?"
"Yeah, I think you told me that during our first argument."
"Weird. The whole time we were together, we never had a fight. I have fights with my friends all the time."
"So do I." Sammy rolls her eyes. "Just got through with one, remember?"
"I didn't really notice. Pointedly trying to ignore you two."
"What called up the fire again? Your grandpa's suicide?" she asks.
I nod. "When Grandpa's determined to do something," I note grimly, "he does it.
"I tried everything I could. Before the fire, I had done what those stupid commercials and the equally-stupid guidance counselors told me: let someone you know and trust know about your friend's suicidal thoughts and attempts. I did that.
"I let Mom know--and she told Dad. That really pisses me off, because Dad went apeshit over the prior attempts and the damn house fire. The latter wasn't because Grandpa was trying to burn us all alive; he was trying to cover up his latest suicide attempt--death by hemlock tea. I didn't want Dad to know because I knew how he'd react."
"I don't blame him. Dash, how would you feel if your dad were the one trying to commit suicide; your girlfriend knew about it, and you didn't? Your mom did the right thing.
"She probably knows your dad's temperament even better than you do. Besides which, your dad and grandpa were very close; not as close as you were to Old Man, but your dad respected him and loved him."
"I...understand that in my head, but.... Look, I yelled at Grandma. Never did that before; it wasn't done. Dad never yelled at his grandma."
"From what Old Man told me, even he didn't have the nerve to yell at his mother."
"Yeah: 'I usually swear a lot; but when Ma is even mentioned, the curse words...evaporate. They're gone.' And as for my grandma: Dad called her a bitch to her face once. Grandpa was in the kitchen; Grandma and Dad were in the living room. This was back when Dad was about thirteen. Grandpa...decided to 'set him straight'. Never happened again."
I sigh. "Basically, I'd blamed their pending divorce for driving Grandpa to kill himself; Grandma told me, super-calm, that it wasn't anyone's fault but his.
"You think he's gonna go to hell?" I ask her.
"I...I don't know. We Saturday people only know of gehonnim," Sammy continues, "and that doesn't last forever. The closest you Sunday people have to that is Purgatory."
"But Grandpa was Presbyterian. They're Protestant. Purgatory's more of a Catholic thing."
"Martin Luther strikes again."
"Huh?"
"Protestant Reformation." Sammy smiles.
"Oh."
"Mr. Malone's probably arguing Old Man's case now."
"Yeah, and Craig's helping him."
Sammy scoffs at the name. Craig was a nut--in the lovable way. Though not as bad as his uncle was: if I'm a cross between Dobie Gills, Eddie Haskell, and Flash Thompson; then Mitch Malone was the lovechild of Rocky Balboa and the Fonz, with just a pinch of Tom Selleck.(I don't question it--it just is.)
"In Grandpa's case," I continue after laughing, "I knew what he planned to do, and I couldn't stop him. Cindy didn't talk to anyone about her real problems, and the suicide shocked everybody. Came out of nowhere."
"It was sudden. She had a really good reason--at least in her head."
"Still...I wish she'd said something about who hurt her, instead of being mad at me over Alden. I mean, she could've at least said Alden didn't rape her." Craig and I figured that out after the fact...sort of. Like Fenton had said, Craig's spirit was more or less saying good bye.
"Seriously," I continue. "I was her best friend, and I was powerless to save her. You, not being her friend, couldn't possibly reach her."
"It doesn't matter; I didn't even try."
"Listen to yourself. I understand why people take or assign blame to someone for something like suicide. It brings a sense of control.
"But facts trump feelings every time." I shut my eyes and tense my fists. "When my grandpa died, I had to accept that--once and for all.
"From then on--and from now on--I'm going to focus all my energy on things I actually can control." And as that thought moves through her mind, I steal a quick kiss.
= = =
We break the kiss. "And that was about...?" I ask.
"Us." Dash touches my chin a moment, then just stares into my eyes.
I stroke his cheek, then we kiss in earnest.
= = =
Dash reluctantly turns from kissing...Sam.(She could have at least waited....) He eyes me. "What?" he snorts.
"Sam and I need to talk," I answer.
Sam levels a glare at me. "We're through talking." She stands and leaves the broom closet.
I start to head after her, but Dash pulls me down. "Relax, champ," he grins wryly. "She may not want to talk, but I'm all ears.
"Besides," Dash continues, "I've got a few things to get off my chest, too."
"I don't have anything to say to you," I scowl.
"Perfect. Now shut up and listen."
"No. Because now I do have a few things to say. What part of 'Stay away from Sam' didn't you comprehend?"
"I didn't feel the need to, Fen-ton-of-fun. You were doing a great job of that by yourself. And that's why we're both where we are today."
Fuck this. "Round two."
"I'd be happy to beat the shit out of you," Dash grins. "But I have to keep you bruise-free for graduation. Your mom's orders."
"Heard the same thing from the bitch that spawned you."
"You're nuts, you know that?" Dash laughs, then grips my neck with one hand. "If I didn't know you were trying to pick a fight with me, I'd kill you." He shoves me away.
Except that Dash has a glint of "I'm dead serious" in his eyes, I'd...I'm not sure what I'd say.
After a few minutes of silence, Dash starts again. "Get off my back, man."
"Not happening. Not until I know what you did."
"What I did?" balks Dash.
I stare at him in disbelief. "To blind her judgment."
"Who the fuck are you?" Dash spits back.
"I'm someone who actually cares about her."
"As am I, dumbass." He rolls his eyes. "Anyway, if you cared at all, you wouldn't have lied about cheating on her. I mean, you two were dating, not fucking married.
"That's what was pushing you two apart; not me. You lied to her, and had the added stone balls--I must admit--to distrust her."
"You don't know me. You don't know anything about me!" I spit.
"You don't know me, either." Dash shakes his head. "You've gleaned things about me, you know of me, you know what I can do; but you don't know Dash Baxter."
"And I don't care."
"And thus, you lose again, Fen-ten."
"When will you quit doing that?" After thirteen years, he should be bored thinking of variations of my last name.
"I get my happy when I piss you off," he smirks. "It makes my day.
"But the party's starting to get dull, Fenton. Get over it already."
"I will not! For ten of the past thirteen years I've lived in this town you've tormented me. Mocked me, humiliated me--to say nothing of the beat downs you've given me."
"And this vindictive bullshit you've been using your friend for is supposed to be some kind of payback?"
"Hardly. I told you before," I continue hotly, "I wanted to protect her from you--from your unique brand of stupid."
Dash laughs again. "And you would have had your fucked-up wish--if you had trusted her. A lot of shit could have been avoided."
"Dash, what's done is done; as far as the fight. But to see you, happy? I don't think so."
"Get used to it." Dash grins crudely. "There'll be no more tiptoeing over tulips and around minefields, no more hopscotch over bombs, no more jumping through your flaming hoops; and the only fucking around I'll be doing is with her. So deal." Dash leaves.
Dash. Yet another reason why I don't think God exists.
= = =
The three of them should all be in here in three, two, one....
Ah, schedules. I fold my arms. "Danny," I demand, "where's Bearbert?"
"You get him back when I get the Thermos back," counters Danny, holding my dear bear hostage.(Again. He should have outgrown this.)
"And I'll give that back to you after I've caught the ghost I released."
"You released the ghost!?" balks Sam. "All this time we'd thought it was Dani."
"Tucker, could you please ask Sam why she cares?" hisses Danny.
"Jazz," says Tucker, "could you explain to them that I'm not a go-between?"
"Tucker," Sam continues, "please ask Danny to mind his own fucking business."
"Jazz," Tucker repeats, "explain to them that I won't go between them!"
I blow a whistle. "How about this: Dani, Katie and I will recapture the ghost," I continue, snatching Bearbert away from Danny, "and you three hash this out. I don't know what happened to strain your friendship, but you have to fix it together." I leave Danny's room.
= = =
After catching the ghost we'd released--it was just that dumbass Box Ghost; I decided to bug Dash again. I just wanted to know how he and Sam hooked up.
Dash demanded to see who he was talking to(which is fair); so I appeared to him in ghost mode. He had this kid-like ear-to-ear grin. (Such a Phan-boy. At least he already recognizes that I'm "the other Phantom". I can live with that.)
Anyway, he explained that Jazz suggested a certain course of action when he'd confided in her during a math tutoring session. Sophomore year.
So...Jazz had started this.
Jazz decides to take us to the NB(Nasty Burger), stating that it takes a while for fights between the Three to finish. "They're like Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman--they just have to work through it on their own."
"Might have helped if you hadn't interfered with Dash's love life," I observe.
"Huh?" Apparently, Jazz forgot about her role in the making of this disaster.
"You gave Dash advice on how to woo the girl of his dreams two years back."
Jazz thinks a moment. "...I didn't think he meant Sam."
"Clueless. Cindy and Sam were the girls he liked the most, ever since first grade," says Katie.
"And Danny," I add, "has liked Sam since the fifth grade. In a boyfriend/girlfriend kind of way. He just never really admitted it. Neither did Dash--to either Cindy or Sam."
"Until eighth grade, in Cindy's case; but she was dealing with serious issues. She always saw Dash as a brother. I know," Katie continues. "I had a crush on him."
"What about his crush on me?" balks Jazz.
"Attempted holdover from first grade." Katie shrugs. "Something happened to make Dash lose interest in you."
"Ember happened," I smirk. I explain the whole situation as Danny explained it to me.
"And both goth and jock, needing to remain true to type, ignored the other signals that they gave off. Typical," Jazz spits. "I doubt that if I knew he was referring to Sam that I would have advised him any differently. I didn't know about Danny having feelings for Sam, or vice-versa."
"You didn't know your own brother's feelings?" balks Katie.
"Danny used to give me grief over my attempts to help him with the hazardous task of ghost hunting," says Jazz. "Do you honestly think I'd give more than a cursory thought about the labyrinthine intrigue of teen romance?"
Point to Jasmine. "Okay; Dash took your advice, Sam got to know him better, and Danny--outside looking in--seethes. What do we do about the situation now?" I ask.
"Nothing." Jazz sips her milkshake. "If Danny had feelings for Sam freshman year, he should have said something to her then. Likewise for Sam; and maybe both of them were trying to work up the nerve to do it. But it never happened. Danny gave himself to another; Sam fell in love with Dash.
"I know what it's like to deal with an overprotective Danny. Overprotective and jealous must be even worse--there's no way in hell I'm getting involved in that." Jazz pulls from her milkshake again.
"Do we really want the three of them to lose their friendship over this?" asks Katie. "I don't think Tucker can handle it."
"That's up to them, isn't it?" muses Jazz.
= = =
In the middle.
To my right, my best friend since kindergarten. Behind me, curled up in a ball, my closest friend since second grade.
They're wonderful friends; I don't want to lose them. They need to talk to each other....
I've got it. Use number 878. "Danny, where's your roll of duct tape?"
"Second drawer, under the socks. You know I have to hide it from Dad." Danny rolls his eyes. (Mr. Fenton would use all of it on either Use number 5 or Use number 69.)
"Sam, I need your hand."
"I'm not cutting it off for you," she smirks. "Not that morbid yet."
"Sure." I grab Danny's hand. "Hold this for me." I put her hand in Danny's, then wrap both with the duct tape.
My friends, realizing what I did, try to pull away. When that doesn't work, Danny and Sam start to use their free hands to work at the tape--only I wrap those hands on top of the already-taped ones.
"What do you think you're doing!?" they snarl in unison, struggling against the tape. At least they agree on something.
Danny stops, remembering the obvious. "When I phase out of this, Tucker, you're gonna pay."
"If you'd put half of that energy into facing your problems, we'd all be friends again."
"A friend wouldn't tape a guy to a hypocritical slut." Danny's out of line, as I expected.
"You can be a coward and lean on your ghost powers, or you can talk to the 'slut' who's been your best friend since the second grade."
"Let Dash unwrap her. That's what he's there for, right?"
"Tucker," glares Sam, "even if he wanted to talk to me, I have nothing to say. Furthermore, I don't manipulate anyone into doing what I want, unlike a certain pathetic bastard in the room. Won't name names, though."
"And you guys never listened to me before; why should I go against the grain now?" I plug my PDA into Danny's computer, then slap some duct tape on my mouth.
Here comes my recording.

It's like this, guys. Danny, I know you can phase through the tape and all; but that's a pretty cheap way out. Still, you'll probably do it anyway--unless I give you another incentive to talk to Sam.

After this message ends, the jukebox player will remove the message from the playlist, and is set to an endless loop of me singing. That's right--the soulful, melodious voice of Tucker Foley will grace your eardrums.

As much as you profess to hate Sam right now, I know you'd still rather talk to her than listen to my mad skills.

Yes, yes; you could overshadow me and force me to take off the duct tape, but you can't shut down the program or turn off the player.

And I know you're working on an important college entrance project; do you really want to unplug the computer and start that whole thing over again? Especially as I've also disabled the auto-save feature on the computer.

The only way to reset your settings is for me to enter the command to halt the macro using my voice. And the only way you'll hear my voice again is if you either talk to each other...or learn to enjoy my singing until your PC's motherboard blows.
I sit at Danny's desk, watching him and Sam glare at me as the recording of my morning shower serenade begins.
= = =
New low, Tucker; new low. To counteract this torturous psy-ops, I scream Linkin Park--guys that Sam thinks are "whiny emo posers"--at the top of my lungs.

Crawling in my skin

These wounds, they will not heal....

Not to be outdone, Sam trots out a song from the "singing" bitch queen--who she knows I hate. (Calling what Alanis Morrissette does singing is, in my opinion, an insult to the music industry.)

And I'm here

To remind you

Of the cross I bear that you gave to me....
Mom barges in, wondering if we're tormenting someone's cat. Tucker scribbles a note and hands it to her.
"...okay. I hope you three can work through this. The masoschist of the house is out hunting ghosts solo. I...think I'll go help him out." Wincing in agony over our caterwaul, Mom flees my room and Fenton Works.
Tuck turns up the volume on his crooning. The next track of his Shower Serenade begins.
As I've said numerous times, there is no God. We get to hear the Tucker Foley rendition of "This is the Song That Doesn't End."
Midway through the second verse, I yield. "Sam," I hiss, "Tucker must pay. In order to make him pay, I propose that we bury the hatchet."
"In Tucker's skull, I hope," she grins crudely.
"No; too swift and merciful a death. What are your terms?"
"Forgive my boyfriend. Your terms." Sam studies me carefully.
I sigh. "Forgive me. Every time I've said 'I'm sorry' this past week, you wouldn't do that."
"You say 'I'm sorry' every time you say or do something wrong--even when you meant all you did or spoke. What's the point of accepting weak apologies if you don't change?"
"Some of what I did or said happened because I'd kept it bottled up too long. Others because...." Here it comes. I can't hold it back any longer. "I felt I was punishing you for dating Dash. And punishing Tucker for being so accepting of it. I had no right to do that, yet.... It's like he won't accept me, so why should I accept him?
"It kind of bugged me sometimes, when he'd just waltz over to our table. I mean, we couldn't come over to their Table, right? The casual, snarky flirting freshman year; between him and you, Sam: that irked me a lot. I know it didn't mean much to either of you then...
"...but I liked you, too. Maybe.... Maybe I should have been the one to say something. It wasn't only that I didn't want him to have you, Sam. I wanted you and Valerie--I wanted it all, too. It wasn't fair what I put Val--or you--through.
= = =
"The sad part is that he thinks Danny Phantom is the bee's knees, but that Danny Fenton is something he needs to scrape off his white sneakers. And a guy like that...could be the father of my best friend's child." Again Danny eyes my belly.
"I can't go on like this," Danny continues. "I don't want to feel this way about someone. You see something in this man that I don't see.
"I want to see it--I want to see what you see." Danny walks over to me, then gently lays his palms over my belly.
He shuts his eyes. "I want to hear it from you. I...need to hear it from you." Danny opens his eyes wearily, and gazes into mine.
I hug him; all is forgiven. "Best friends forever?"
"Forever and always." Danny pecks me on the cheek.
= = =
"I guess you don't need to hold on to Wes' ring anymore," I quip to Sam.
Danny stares at me. "...'Wes'?" he wonders, puzzled. "What are you talking about, Tuck?"
Sam hands Danny a class ring, one he'd given her to hold for Valerie way back when.
Danny chuckles. "...upside-down. Dad's idea." He rolls his eyes.
Sam touches another class ring, attached to a black satin choker; it's ruby in a white-gold setting.
"I'm guessing there will be a gold ring or two in the near future," muses Danny.
"More than likely," blushes Sam.

END
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