A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the teaser chapter! All of you are wonderful people. This chapter takes a step back and helps set the scene for that.


Earlier that day...

1. Describe the relationship between Boo Radley and Jem, Dill, and Scout. How is this relationship beneficial to each of the characters?

2. Relate the trial scene and its outcome to that of one of the underlying themes of the novel which we discussed in class. Use examples.

3. What literary device was used at the beginning of the novel? In your opinion, was its use effective? Why or why not?

Danny groaned. He finally got to an opinion question and he still couldn't answer it. Well, not really well. He'd read the first chapter, yes. He'd read the last chapter. He'd read the synopsis on the back of the book. That was about it.

He'd gotten the impression that the book wasn't actually about killing mockingbirds, but usually he had marginally better luck than this. True, Sam and Tucker had given him the abbreviated version right before class, but he couldn't remember what they'd said now. If only he'd realized that the test was today….

Suffice to say that the time he'd had once he'd remembered—two hours—wasn't enough time to read a novel. Not for him, anyway, and not when he was supposed to be paying attention in his other classes.

He should have known. Sam and Tucker had reminded him. He'd just forgotten. Somewhere between scrawling something down for the stupid essay Mr. Lancer had had due today, too, and writing a hasty lab report for biology, and fighting off all the ghosts, well, it had slipped his mind. He'd thought he'd had a day's grace.

Apparently not.

Danny's eyes slipped down to the last question.

10. Discuss the role of family and contrast today's ideology with the one described in the novel. Support your answer using examples from the Finch family. Don't forget to include Aunt Alexandra.

Why couldn't Lancer's tests be multiple choice or true or false or something? Even if just a portion of it was, it would be better than straight short answer. He'd at least have a hope of passing then.

Danny sighed. He started writing down something, figuring Lancer might, if he was feeling generous, give him credit for being creative. And he was being creative. He took what he knew, which was very little, and invented everything else, hoping his guesses were somewhat plausible within the context of the story. There were two obvious opinion questions, which he milked for all they were worth, and then he spent the rest of his time trying to jot something down elsewhere.

Not to mention trying to remember what Tucker had said about Boo Radley, and Sam about Mrs. Dubose, and what the two had been trying to tell him about the symbolism of the book's title, which was the fifth question.

Five minutes before the end of class, Danny's ghost sense went off. He was pretty certain he'd just failed another English test, but he stuck his hand in the air anyway.

"Yes, Mr. Fenton?" Lancer asked, sounding resigned.

"Can I go to the bathroom?"

Lancer sighed. "Class will be over shortly, Mr. Fenton. I would advise you use what little time you have left to finish your exam."

"Please?" Danny asked. "I'm done, and I really, really have to go." Not true, but better to hear the snickers from his classmates than to let the ghost, whoever it was, destroy more than it undoubtedly already had.

"Very well, but I want to speak to you when you come back."

Crud. Mr. Lancer had probably seen his half-finished essay. Danny had noticed him marking them while they were writing their test. "Yes, sir," he said, grabbing his backpack and dropping his test on Lancer's desk before running out of the room.

A quick transformation in the boys' washroom later, and Danny Phantom phased through the roof of the school to confront the latest ghost threat.

The Box Ghost.

Danny groaned. He could've finished his test. Not that it would've helped much, but still. "Did you have to come now?" he complained.

"Beware!" the Box Ghost cried. "I—"

"I don't care," Danny interrupted, his hands flaming green as he blasted the Box Ghost a few times. "I'm busy."

The Box Ghost kept ranting, of course, but Danny had the advantage. The Box Ghost had probably been heading for one of the supply rooms in the school again, looking for more boxes, but he'd cut him off at the pass. He stopped shooting ectoblasts long enough to unscrew the cap on the Fenton Thermos—thankfully Jazz and Sam and Tuck kept reminding him to keep one in his backpack—and turn its beam on the Box Ghost, who hadn't managed to fly very far away. With the Box Ghost trapped, Danny turned intangible and slipped down into the school again. The entire encounter hadn't lasted five minutes.

Lancer was right. He could've waited until the end of class. But he hadn't had any guarantee that it wasn't someone more destructive. Technus had tried taking over all the computers in the school last week, for instance. If Danny had ignored his ghost sense that time, the school wouldn't have any computers left.

They also wouldn't necessarily need to replace one of the walls of the computer lab, but some things were unavoidable.

The lunch bell rang. Sam and Tucker would be waiting for him by his locker, but he had to meet with Mr. Lancer. If he was lucky, it wouldn't last very long. If he wasn't, Dash would find him on his way there or back and shove him into his locker in anticipation of failing the test they'd just written.

Danny lost no time changing back to his human form and heading back to Lancer's classroom. The teacher was still there, at his desk, frowning down at a pile of papers. He looked up at Danny's hesitant knock on the door.

"Ah, Mr. Fenton," Lancer said. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"Sorry, sir," Danny mumbled. "I just, um, wasn't feeling the best."

Lancer gave him a look that told Danny he didn't believe a word. "Close the door, Mr. Fenton, and sit down. It's time we had a talk."

Oh, great. He was probably going to phone home this time. Danny should have known that having Jazz forge his parents' signatures would only get him so far. "Is it about the test?" Danny asked hesitantly. "Or the essay?"

"That's not all it's about," Lancer replied. "Your grades have not improved over the last eight months, Mr. Fenton. Longer, even. They haven't improved since that sharp decline they took, and you're giving me no reason to expect them to improve."

Danny stared at the desk and said nothing.

"Would you care to explain yourself?"

No. But Danny still didn't say anything.

"Flowers for Algernon, Danny! I'm trying to help you. At least look at me."

Danny looked up, partially because he couldn't stare at the desk forever but mostly because he was surprised that Lancer had called him 'Danny'. He did it on occasion, of course, usually when he was trying to wake him up, but it wasn't the norm by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe Lancer was trying to be less formal, to make him more comfortable. Still, Danny didn't say anything. He had a horrible feeling that if he did, the situation would just go from bad to worse. Mr. Lancer might just let him go if he saw he wasn't getting any response.

"Is it trouble at home?"

"No," Danny said immediately, but he instantly regretted it when he saw the look of triumph in Mr. Lancer's eye. He'd probably known that answer already and had just been hoping to provoke a reaction from Danny.

Unfortunately for him, it had worked.

"School, then? Perhaps in the form of Mr. Baxter?"

Danny's eyes widened, just slightly. He'd thought Lancer had ignored that because Dash was the star quarterback. Of course, Danny could count the number of times Dash had gotten punished for his bullying on one hand, but still. The fact that Lancer acknowledged it instead of explaining it away had to be an improvement of some sort.

As Danny remembered the question, though, he shook his head again. "No, Mr. Lancer. It's fine. I'm fine. Nothing's wrong."

"Mr. Fenton, you may not be as bright as your sister, but you are cleverer than you give yourself credit for."

Ouch. Was that supposed to cheer him up? But then again, Jazz was the smartest kid in school, as far as he knew. That was probably all Lancer had meant. Though he had, Danny noticed, gone back to being formal. Maybe he figured sounding stricter would be more likely to get him an answer?

"I'm trying my best, sir," Danny said.

Lancer shook his head. "You aren't," he countered. "If you put a little more effort into your studies, I'm sure you could ace every test." He paused. "Or very nearly, at least."

Danny swallowed, knowing Mr. Lancer was thinking of the 19th century poetry test he'd had him rewrite one time. He had done pretty well after Lancer had forced him to study. The teacher had even given up his time to help him. But while he'd been doing that, he'd left Sam and Tucker to deal with Technus by themselves, and they nearly hadn't managed it. He didn't want to shirk his ghost hunting responsibilities and leave it to Sam and Tuck when he was probably one of the main reasons the ghosts came through into the Real World in the first place.

"What I would like to know, Mr. Fenton, is why you don't care enough about your schoolwork to put more effort into it."

"It's not that I don't care. I'm just…busy," Danny mumbled, looking down at the desk again.

"I'm sure you are," Lancer said dryly. "Hanging with your fellow dudes, as I'm sure you would put it. I am a teacher, Danny, and contrary to popular belief, I'm not completely oblivious to the lives of my students. You're involved in something, and I think you may be in over your head."

Danny winced. "What gave you that idea?"

Mr. Lancer raised his eyebrows. "Besides your grades? You're in detention nearly every day of the week. You come to class late, leave early, or skip it altogether, and I am certainly not the only teacher in this school to doubt your feeble excuses. Not to mention," he added, "I find it rather unpleasant to mark papers which have been drooled upon."

Danny cringed. "Sorry," he murmured. Usually Sam and Tucker woke him up before it got to that point, though. Thankfully. Falling asleep in class was bad enough, but drooling was just embarrassing.

"I want to help you, Danny," Lancer said, "but you need to give me the chance, and you need to trust me. Keeping you after school to watch you do your homework isn't going to solve the problem. We both know how well that's been working so far."

Mr. Lancer was looking at him expectantly. Danny sighed. "I'm fine, Mr. Lancer. Really."

Mr. Lancer looked disappointed. "Very well, Mr. Fenton. I'll see you after school today."

"What? Why?"

"Because your essay leaves something to be desired," Lancer said. "A few supporting paragraphs and a conclusion, to be exact."

"It had a conclusion," Danny muttered.

"One incomplete sentence does not a conclusion make," Lancer returned lightly. "I'll see you later, Mr. Fenton. You may go."

Danny groaned but didn't protest. This was going to be a long day.


Over the course of his teaching career, Mr. Lancer had run into very few cases where he had been unable to get to the root of the problem of a student's troubles. However, Danny's situation was particularly vexing. He had long ago ruled out troubles at home. Though Mr. and Mrs. Fenton were undoubtedly eccentric, they were well-meaning and wanted the best for their children. Besides, he taught Jasmine Fenton as well, and she had shown no signs of distress as Danny had, and he had no doubt that she would alert someone if anything troublesome for Danny did arise at the Fenton household.

He'd become aware of Dash's bullying of Danny—and a number of other children—but hadn't found the right way to stop it without unintentionally causing Danny and the others to become targets off the school grounds. But he wasn't certain that the bullying Danny endured was the cause of his troubles. It wasn't something he could rule out easily, of course. Danny showed no physical signs of harm, and he remained in a tight friendship with Tucker Foley and Sam Manson, so his emotional state could not be in dire straits, even if it was affected.

It didn't fit with drugs or drink or gang relations or anything else of that sort. It didn't fit with any situation he could think of, to be perfectly honest. Danny didn't even have the attitude of a slacker, not really. He usually made an effort to be moderately attentive when he was in class, if only for a portion of it.

Well, excepting the times he fell asleep, which were unfortunately more common than Lancer would have liked. He didn't approve of the blank, bleary-eyed stare the boy adopted, either, when he was struggling to just barely keep his eyes open.

But what would prompt that? What was keeping him up at night?

Lancer frowned. He knew Mr. Fenton was a fan of video games, but he doubted his addiction had gone quite that far. Danny seemed to have a good sense of responsibility.

He just chose to ignore that when it came to his schoolwork, offering no good excuses for doing so.

Perhaps it was a family issue after all, but one of rebellion. He hadn't thought Maddie and Jack were particularly strict, but perhaps they had expectations that Danny didn't want to live up to, expectations on which Jazz had thrived. Yet that still didn't quite ring true. Miss Manson, after all, was clearly a teenager in rebellion against her parents, but she was still a bright student. He rather doubted she would encourage Danny to make a statement by ignoring his schoolwork, even if she didn't discourage it. If it weren't for Mr. Foley and Miss Manson, Mr. Lancer rather doubted that Danny would even be passing all the classes he was.

As far as he could tell, Danny was still trying in school. But for all of his good intentions, he did not put nearly the amount of effort into his studies that he should. That, of course, simply begged the question of what he truly was up to, and Mr. Lancer found that he'd reasoned himself back to square one, and he was none the wiser for it.

Lancer checked his watch and frowned. Danny should have been here ten minutes ago, but there was still no sign of him. Another twenty minutes passed, and Mr Lancer put his pen down with a sigh. Mr. Fenton usually wasn't one to skip his detentions, and when he did come in late, it was generally only by a few minutes.

He'd hoped to have a longer talk with Danny before phoning his parents, but clearly that wasn't going to be happening. He pulled out his cell phone and started to input the number he wished he'd never had to memorize: 555-122—

The outside wall of the room exploded inwards.

Mr. Lancer wasn't entirely sure whether he'd dropped his cell phone or if it had been knocked out of his hand by the force of the implosion, but he knew he wasn't holding it anymore. He was just thankful he'd been sitting down. And that he'd been behind his desk, which was mercifully at the front of the room and consequently had—mostly—escaped the line of fire.

Lancer dragged his eyes away from the gaping hole in the wall when he heard the debris shifting. It didn't take him long to make out the familiar outline of Danny Phantom in the rubble. It did surprise him, though. In any of the ghost fights he'd witnessed, Phantom didn't let something like being thrown through a wall stop him.

It was comforting that no ghost had followed Phantom into the school, but the fact that Phantom hadn't moved certainly wasn't.

When most of the dust had settled, Lancer carefully got to his feet. For all that he lived in Amity Park, he didn't know much about ghosts. As a general rule, he didn't trust them, and he was more terrified of them than he perhaps ought to be. But Phantom was the sole exception to that rule. Lancer couldn't necessarily verbalize all the reasons for that, but despite a few unsavoury actions in Phantom's past, the ghost seemed trustworthy.

"Phantom?" Lancer called softly as he approached. If ghosts could look ill, he certainly did. His usually-bright glow was dimmed to the point of being nonexistent, and he looked ashen. Or perhaps that was an effect of the dust. With the poor light in the room, even accounting for the sunlight streaming through the hole in the wall, it was hard to tell.

"Phantom?" Lancer called again, crouching down to get a better look at the ghost. There was still no response. Now that he was closer, however, he could see why. Sticky green ectoplasm had matted hair on one side of Phantom's head. Add that to a rather large gash on his side and a few smaller ones that were likely due to the crash, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that Phantom had been knocked out.

What Lancer found surprising was that this could even happen. He'd always figured that the ghosts that were clearly ghosts of the deceased would lose their form if they lost consciousness. He wasn't so sure about the other types of ghosts, the ones that seemed more like masses of ectoplasm bound together by some unknown force or the sort that may have once been human but had been dead so long that they'd lost any semblance of humanity they must once have had.

He knew that ectoplasm was the equivalent of a ghost's blood, that the fluid ectoplasm within their forms had slightly different properties than the solid ectoplasm that made up their exterior. Like the rest of the teachers at Casper High, he'd attended lectures hosted by Jack and Maddie Fenton. But even thinking about the glowing substance as blood made him realize just how much Phantom had lost, and it was still oozing out now.

The Fentons' Ghost Information Sessions hadn't included anything about healing ghosts or even basic anatomy. That hadn't been deemed relevant. So while he knew a few basics in terms of hunting them with the Fentons' weapons and all about a ghost's devious nature and the many ways it might try to trick you, he wasn't sure how to help the young ghost who lay before him now.

"Perhaps I should just treat him like I would a human," Lancer murmured, looking the ghost over again with a more critical eye. He'd need to apply pressure to that side wound, no doubt, and deal with his head wound. He didn't appear to have broken any bones—did ghosts have bones to break?—though he probably would have more than a few nasty bruises.

It wasn't far to the nurse's office and, therefore, access to all the medical supplies he could want. As the vice principal, he had a key to every room in the school, so accessing it would be no problem. And, if he was lucky, he could get there before anyone noticed what he was up to. He was rather surprised that the crash hadn't attracted any attention yet, but he wasn't going to question his luck. He knew things could be much worse, after all. If Miss Sanchez's group, the Phantom Phan Club, had been meeting today…. Well, he wouldn't have had any peace. Certainly Phantom wouldn't have, and now was when he needed it most.

Carefully, Lancer picked him up. The ghost was surprisingly solid. Though lighter than a human his size would have been, Phantom had more mass than Lancer had imagined a ghost would. And he wasn't as cold, either, as ghost tales from beyond Amity Park had led Lancer to believe. It was certainly nothing like handling ice.

After a moment, Phantom's eyes flickered open. They were duller than normal, the electric green blaze that normally lit them conspicuously absent. "Mr. Lancer?" he whispered.

Lancer was surprised that Phantom knew his name, but he supposed that the ghost did show up around the school regularly to fight off other ghosts. "Yes," he said gently. "Try not to move too much, Mr. Phantom. You've lost a lot of ectoplasm. I'm taking you to the nurse's office."

Phantom's eyes widened, the spark behind them flaring back to life. He shook his head. "No, I'll be fine," he said, sounding much more awake now. "That won't be necessary, uh, citizen…."

Lancer raised his eyebrows but did not stop his steady pace until he reached the nurse's office. He already had his key out, so it was simple to get into the room and leave Phantom on the bed. The ghost immediately scrambled to his feet and winced. "I wouldn't advise leaving quite yet, Phantom," Lancer said softly. "You're injured. And you don't need to worry. I'm not going to turn you over to the Fentons."

Phantom sighed and sat back down. He acted more energetic than he was, Lancer noted. He was clutching his side, for one, and his movements were careful and precise. He could undoubtedly feel every one of those scrapes. He examined the wound in his side, which was still leaking ectoplasm, and then looked back at Lancer. "Can you pass the gauze?"

"You've done this before," Mr. Lancer surmised, not sure why he was surprised.

"I've gotten injured before," Phantom said dully. "I might heal faster than a human, but this cut's deep."

"Where do you get your supplies?" Lancer asked.

Phantom didn't answer, simply taking the offered gauze and bandages and setting them down beside him. "Crud," he muttered, poking at the wound. "I should probably strip down to do this. It'll last longer." And, to Lancer's surprise, he reached up and undid a near-invisible zipper that ran up the front of his suit. He carefully eased out his right arm, hissing a bit as he jarred his side.

Mr. Lancer just stared. The ghost boy began treating his wound, cleaning it off a bit before bandaging it up as well as a professional. But even more surprising than the boy's skill was how…human he looked. Admittedly, Lancer never, on principle, stayed close to ghosts, but Phantom had always appeared less threatening than other ghosts, more, well, human, and now…. Lancer hadn't been expecting a haze rather than a defined shape beneath the boy's suit, per se, but he hadn't expected it to be so…normal.

Perhaps it was the continued lack of the ghost's bright glow. If he ignored the unnaturally white hair or eerily bright green eyes, well, Phantom wasn't much different from the students he taught. A bit too pale, and much too comfortable with battles and injuries, but nevertheless a witty, determined young man who stood up for what he believed in and strived to help others. An admirable soul.

Phantom zipped the front of his suit back up and cocked an eyebrow at Lancer. "What?"

It had to be impolite to ask a ghost how he had died or how long he had been dead, so Lancer stilled his tongue, though he couldn't help but wonder, especially since he suspected that might be the reason Phantom was much more tolerable than the other ghosts that frequented Amity Park. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked instead.

Phantom stared at him, surprised. Then he hummed out an affirmative response before elaborating, "The Red Huntress. It wasn't her initially—she came after me, not the other way around—but by the time I had Skulker trapped, she'd found me. She had to show me some of her new weapons." He rubbed one arm. "She had a few I wasn't expecting." Before Lancer could think to ask how Phantom would be expecting any of them, the ghost added, "I was trying to lose her. I didn't mean to bring the fight to the school. I mean, it worked, since I don't think she likes coming into the school like that, but…." He trailed off. "Sorry about the wall. The damage probably wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't managed to hit me."

"Do you know what she hit you with?" Lancer asked carefully.

"Something that packed a punch," Phantom replied. "Beyond that, no." He hopped off the bed. "Thanks," he said. "For, you know, not turning me in or anything. But I've got to go."

"Phantom, you don't look well," Lancer cautioned.

"I'm fine," Phantom said, but the response sounded automatic to Lancer's ears. And as chipper and cocky as Phantom was acting, Lancer had been teaching kids for enough years to be able to read between the lines. Even if Phantom wasn't admitting it, wasn't acting like it, he couldn't keep the pain he was feeling off his face, and he'd as good as admitted to worrying about the cut on his side.

Lancer gently pushed him back onto the bed. "No," he said. "Your head wound is still bleeding." Not to mention his side. Even in the time they'd been talking, Lancer could see through the tear in Phantom's suit that the gauze he'd taped over the wound was already turning green.

"Huh?" Phantom blinked and reached up. He winced as he touched a tender spot and sucked in a breath when he saw the ectoplasm on his glove. "Oh," was all he said.

"Can you even see straight?" Lancer asked doubtfully.

"I've had worse," Phantom said, though he sounded a lot more uncertain than he had a moment ago.

"Who helps you, Phantom?" Lancer asked quietly. "You can't be doing this on your own."

Phantom mumbled something incoherent and shrugged one shoulder; he was still being careful enough not to move the other more than necessary.

Lancer raised his eyebrows. "I was supposed to meet with a student today, but he decided not to show up. As such, I've time enough to look after you, and we'll spare the friends you must have the trouble of patching you up." When Phantom didn't protest, Lancer began to carefully clean the wound on his head. The ghost flinched a few times but otherwise held still.

After a few minutes, Phantom said, "I thought you were scared of ghosts."

Lancer chuckled. "Terrified, I assure you."

"Then why help me?"

"Because you need it," Lancer said, "whether you admit to that or not. And because you, Mr. Phantom, seem to do more than your fair share when it comes to protecting this town, despite your dubious nature."

"Oh. Um, thanks, I guess."

Lancer, having finished bandaging Phantom up, looked him over once more. "You still don't quite look yourself," he said.

"What do you mean?" The words came out in a rush and sounded, to Lancer's ears, slightly panicked.

Lancer frowned. "You normally seem…brighter," he finally said.

Phantom immediately held a hand in front of his face, studying it. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pressed down onto the bed. After another few seconds, he said, "Oh, crud."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

Phantom bit his lip, then admitted, "I can't, um, use my powers. Well, I can't go invisible or intangible or fly, and that's the basic stuff, so I'm assuming that if I can't do that, I can't do anything else, either." He sighed. "Serves me right for getting hit, I guess." He held up his hand again, stared at it, and shook his head. At Lancer's curious look, he explained, "I can't build up an ectoblast, either."

"There's something that can render a ghost harmless?"

"There's apparently something that can render me harmless," Phantom muttered. "That's also probably why I'm still bleeding. I'm not healing. Crud. This is not my day." He took a deep breath, seemed to make a decision, and jumped back off the bed. He wavered for a second, though whether he was unsteady on his feet because he was dizzy or simply unaccustomed to being held by gravity, Lancer couldn't say. "Thanks for all the help, Mr. Lancer, but I've got to go."

"You can't," Lancer protested, catching his arm. "With the Fentons and the Red Huntress on patrol, you'd be a sitting duck in the condition you're in."

"I don't have a choice," Phantom said, slipping out of Lancer's grip. "I'll figure this out somehow. Thanks." This time, he was out the door before Lancer could stop him.