Disclaimer: I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.
Claimer: This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.
Chapter Eleven
Picture Day's Blood Blossoms
2013.13—Picture Day/Blood Blossoms
Curiously enough, the Mansons took it a lot better than the Foleys. He's still not quite sure how Sam managed it, how she phrased the explanation to make them keep their cool like this, even though she answered all his questions: they were shocked, naturally, and then angry (was she crazy? didn't she understand how dangerous ghost hunting is?). Then the shock had died down and—this is the weird part—her dad had been curious. And through fairly innocent questions, he and Mrs. Manson actually sat down to listen to the rest.
They aren't okay with it, Sam clarified, but they've compromised. Sam will respect curfew, use the front door for the sake of her parents' sanity. She'll keep up with the piano lessons, maybe try out some wardrobe variety. (He thinks there's more to this agreement, but this is all she mentioned.) In exchange, his secret stays secret, no restraining order, no buts whenever she uses her room as an improvised ER, no qualms with her entering and leaving the Ghost Zone every evening.
This is the case about a month after his ankle broke. (Sam had calculated a six week recovery, which meant three weeks for him.) It's a Sunday, and he's flying Sam home because Tucker's parents have adamantly refused to allow their son to go out on crazy ghost-related activities during the weekends.
Cujo trails behind them. Dani's out and about with Anne and History, as she's been doing more and more often as of late. She has become Jazz's ambassador of sorts in the Ghost Zone, working out kinks in the Identity Project with Council. At first, Danny didn't want her involved in this stuff, figured it was an unfair burden to her. But Dani seems to like her job, going back and forth between Jazz's dorm at college and Council's domain. (He can't believe she has the patience to deal with them all the time.)
She is patient, so Dani's out and Cujo, welcoming the distraction, tags along for the trip to Amity. The three of them land in a small alley near Sam's house, walk the rest of the way. When she rings the doorbell, Jeremy Manson opens the door. Not the butler—Sam's dad. Always Sam's dad.
He bids Danny a good evening, as he usually does, gives him that funny look. Adds one in for Cujo.
It's difficult for Mr. Manson to reconcile the brave man on the news with the clumsy teenager that usually trips over the flowerpot at the bottom of the front steps. Danny figures this is part of the reason why the Mansons took Sam's news better than the Foleys—they keep expecting this to be some sort of joke. They deny everything inside their heads, remind themselves to bide their time, insist that everything will eventually start to make sense.
The Foleys, on the other hand, know Danny a lot better than that. They can believe that he's the ghost boy on TV, and that's scary for them. It took them years to get used to the Fentons—not out of malice, but simply because the weirdness of Danny's family does not fit into the absolute normalcy of Tucker's. Not that they're obsessed with normalcy—no, they just have a hard time digesting anything abnormal. How they've lived in Amity for so long, Danny's not sure.
So even though they haven't shunned Danny or placed any other restrictions on Tucker, they look at him different. He can take those looks from the Mansons, but from the Foleys…
They look kind of funny at Tucker, too, wondering if there's anything else he's been hiding. It reminds Danny of the way his parents first reacted: confused, feeling a little betrayed and certainly overwhelmed. And his parents are used to abnormalities.
So while Danny and Tucker have been on the sour end of these developments, Sam seems… happy. Her dad has opened the door for her every night, at midnight, for the past month. He has greeted her, asked politely how things went (though he never asks for details, which suits everyone involved just fine), bid her a good night. He's leaving on a business trip soon, and Sam actually seems kind of down about it.
Her mom is a whole other story, but this they expected. Sam still calls her "nosy"—how about this dress for today, how about learning this new language next year, how about attending this one college I've been talking about your entire life. She never asks about the ghosts, or the Ghost Zone, or Danny the human ghost king friend of her daughter's. One month, and not a word on the subject. She's simply reaped the benefits that came with their compromise.
Sam doesn't talk about her very much, proof enough to Danny that it bothers her. Normal Sam would complain to no end that her mother is enjoying this too much—and can you believe that she upped the piano lessons to thrice a week?—but this Sam mutely accepts the new shirts in varied (though dark) colors. She didn't even throw a fit when she found a pink one among the bunch; she just threw it out.
As he flies back home with Cujo, he wonders if he should press the matter. She doesn't talk about it, ever, but it's so obvious that it bothers her… He has had the same argument in his head for the past month, still hasn't asked her. Maybe he should—it's been long enough…
His train of thought is suddenly cut off: "You!" a very familiar voice calls. "It's that—that dog!"
Oh, crud.
He turns to face Valerie. Now that the ghost attacks have become less frequent, he hasn't seen her very often outside of school. As a general rule, he stays away from her. If she's out hunting, he lets her take charge. At school, he tends to turn the other way.
Things are… different now. She stopped hunting him a long time ago, thankfully, but he can't face her anymore. He can't say she scares him, but she does make something unpleasant unfold in his stomach.
When he stopped talking to her at school, she'd looked kind of hurt. He'd felt bad about it—but then, she'd put him in a whole other kind of hurt.
Though she hadn't known he was him—like his parents.
Crap. He hasn't thought about this in ages—why now? The last time he faced her like this, up in the air, secret identities and battle suits concealing them both, was the day of the incident—two, nearly three years ago. They've barely talked since. What makes today any different?
Cujo growls to his left. Oh, right. Cujo.
"He's not my—" is his immediate reaction, a deeply ingrained defense mechanism that no longer applies. "Oh, wait. He is my dog now. Cujo, back off." He thinks this through for a moment, decides he'd rather not provoke a fight. "Go home, buddy. I'll be there in a minute."
Cujo stops growling, but if a dog can glare, this is it. He turns around and crosses the park, leaves his sight as he phases through a building. Good boy, he thinks. Don't let Valerie see where you're going.
"He's your dog now?" Valerie asks.
He crosses his arms. "That's what I just said."
She makes a hmph sound. "Right. Keep him out of my sight, ghost."
"Keep yourself out of mysight, girl."
It comes out more aggressive than he means—he didn't mean that. Or did he? She's not hurt by the comment—she couldn't care less what he thinks of her—but her expression darkens.
She has kept out of his sight, he thinks. She doesn't need a reminder.
Yet a reminder is pretty much what's happening here. He thinks of that night, of the cold February air stinging his eyes while he tried to evade Valerie's attacks without hurting her. What exactly had triggered her temper, he's still not sure, but she was angry. Furious, rabid, scary. Girls are scary on their own, sure, but this time had been different—real terror settling in his gut.
Trying to reason with her had been futile and counterproductive, because she'd hit her mark. And when one of her own blasts nearly hit her, ricocheting off one of his shields, he'd still pushed her out of the way, and that one had hit him, too.
His hand immediately travels up to his side, a reflex and a reminder. Tucker tries to find humor in it (phantom pains—get it?), for the sake of lightening the mood and moving on from the incident. But no one really finds it funny.
Not even Valerie, it seems, because her expression is grim. He reminds himself that she stopped hunting him after that day.
By now, she should've left. If they ever bump into each other, hasty exits are the norm, but she's still here—studying his face, still looking dark and grim and incredibly uncomfortable. She doesn't want to be here any more than he does. So why hasn't she left?
If she won't, he will. "So, I'll just be going—"
"I see you're still friends with Manson."
Oh. So there's something she wants to discuss. "I don't think that's any of your business." It isn't. She's not supposed to know that Sam is friends with his alter ego—that's kind of the whole point of having a secret identity. But she does know, and that means she also knows that all three of them know him. It would've been a huge bummer for his fifteen-year-old self, except that he got over Valerie quickly enough after the incident.
Though he wasn't exactly subtle about the way he brushed the topic off, Valerie chooses to ignore him and says: "You carry her home often. From where, I don't think I want to know." She pauses, eyes narrowing. "I've seen how you look at her."
How does she know—hey, c'mon, he's not that obvious. Again, he tries to push the topic away, no need to dig Sam a deeper hole… "Jealous?"
She looks genuinely disturbed by the notion. "No. But I bet Fenton is."
Since when does Valerie look out for Sam? Or for him—human him—for that matter?
"Doesn't it bother you?" she continues. "She's human."
He only says it to make a point, honestly, because word vomit is a problem in his life and one has to consider that he's still looking for a way out of this conversation… "Humans don't stay human forever." He's thinking of ghosts like Desiree and Pointdexter when he says it, but the horror on Valerie's face means she's thinking of something else entirely.
"You're waiting for her to die?!" she sputters. "Do you even realize how wrong that sounds?!"
Kind of, yeah. "No! Nonononono. That's not—I'm not—no." He pauses, looks for words. "I just meant that it doesn't matter. That's all."
His expression must be a fair reflection of her own, because she does relax, just a little. She studies him closely, takes her time, and finally says: "You care about her. If you want what's best for her, you'll stay away. She's not a bad person, but she's into all sorts of creepy stuff, and I don't wanna know…" she trails off. "Nope, I don't wanna know. I don't even know why I'm bothering with this."
So she's really, genuinely looking out for Sam? "I'm wondering about that, yeah."
Her gaze travels to his side, and he suddenly understands. Kind of. "Sam and her friends—your friends, I guess—they're not half bad." She pauses, fixes him with a hard look. "Look, ghost, I've left you alone because I'll have this whole town on my back if I don't. And because…" Again, memories. "Because of stuff. But if you mess with those three's heads, you'll be answering to me. Got that?"
No, not really. He can't quite fit any of this in his head, and he doesn't have time to at least try—"Look out!"
The brief "huh?" that leaves her lips is her only indication of surprise. The years have taught her as well as they have him, and in a split second, she's facing the other way and has a gun in her hands, stance ready to shoot.
But she doesn't because—oh, shit, where to shoot?
There's about twenty of them, not really that many, except they're big. Ghosts twice the size of his parents' RV, zombie-like with lolling heads, unfocused gazes, and bright green drool slipping down their chins. They have all manner of weapons in their hands—some hold spiked clubs, others carry guns the size of the coffee table where the crown and ring are waiting for him back in the Ghost Zone.
Gee, those could come in handy right about now.
"What the…" he murmurs. He has never, ever seen these guys before—and he's been through Walker's records, so that's saying something. There's something off about them, the way ectoplasm drips down their arms and legs just as spit slips out of their mouths.
A single gunshot goes off, and then chaos.
He turns intangible just in time to avoid a machete—a machete? the heck?—and takes advantage of the drone's momentum to push him to the ground with a blast. It immediately disintegrates, which is both startling and encouraging.
Valerie seems to have figured this out as well, he thinks, as he spots her taking out three in a row.
The battle isn't quite that difficult to win—one hit takes these guys out—but it's disconcerting to have the sheer size of these ghosts encircling him, with the freakishly large guns and sticks and knives pointing from every direction.
It's over nearly as fast as it began, and he doesn't have a scratch on him. The same cannot be said for Valerie.
"There goes that sleeveless top for picture day…" he hears her mutter, somewhere to his left. He turns to see her dropping to the ground, in a far clearing at the park, board compacting and guns retracting. She's examining a cut on her shoulder.
He approaches her tentatively. From his spot a few feet away, he can see blood dripping down her arm. The cut doesn't look that deep, and probably won't scar, but it'll definitely look nasty for a couple days. And then there's the fact that a ghost made it… "You should get someone to look at it," he says, startling her. "You don't want ectoplasm floating around your bloodstream."
He would know.
"What were those things?" she asks, totally ignoring what he just said. "That was way too easy."
"I'm not sure," he shrugs. "Never seen 'em before."
She nods. "Me either." She eyes him, wary for a moment, but then sighs and turns back to her wound. She pulls a cloth out of one of her suit's many pockets and begins dabbing at it. After a few uncomfortably quiet seconds, she turns back to him with a raised eyebrow. "It's not that bad, ghost. Just because it's a different color doesn't mean it hurts any more or less than yours do." A pause, she's thinking. "Err, I think. Point is, quit staring."
He looks away. He can't remember when he last saw her injured, and though he knows he's making a big deal about it, that little cut is making his gut twist. But she doesn't need to know that. "Just different colors," he agrees. "It's the only difference."
There are several ways to interpret that statement, and she notices. "And how would you know?"
Oh, right. He's not supposed to know that—not from personal experience. "Science," he says. "We know stuff, too, you know. You seem think ghosts are like… like cavemen or something."
She gestures to the cut. "You guys fit the barbaric aspect pretty well."
"So do humans."
He mentally congratulates himself for that one. She keeps quiet.
But then she sighs, exasperated, and he feels like he's missing something. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that I saw that"—she gestures to his side—"dripping red and green like Christmas came early?"
Oh-kay. He's definitely missing something. "What are you talking—?"
"Oh, come on," she cuts him off. "It was dark out, true, but I'm not blind. Ectoplasm glows." An eyebrow rises. "Blood doesn't."
He needs a plan. ASAP. "Um…" Great plan…
She looks ecstatic—"I knew it!" The she blanches, rests her hand against a tree. "Shit, I was right."
Yes, that's nice, but what was she right about? "I'm lost."
She huffs, rolls her eyes. "No, you're not. If you must know, it started with the incident with that girl—Danielle, was it? Couldn't believe it at first, but it's kind of hard to ignore half-living, mostly-breathing proof. Yhen I saw Masters was in the same boat, so—not my imagination. Couldn't find the science to explain it, still haven't, but then I'm no scientist. Then I started noticing some strange stuff about you."
Oh, crud.
"I thought I was going crazy, just considering it. I pushed the idea to the back of my mind and eventually even forgot. Then I basically blast your insides out, Sam Manson to the rescue, and you're bleeding red. I came back to check later, you know. Blood stains on the grass. So, again, not imagining things.
"Even then, though, I tried to convince myself the blood was Manson's, that it was dark out, that I had been knocked on the head… Fast forward two years and I see you cracking Baxter's nose, and the look in your eyes… shit, Danny, why didn't you tell me?"
For a moment she watches his face, and whatever she sees in his expression ('cause he's not quite sure what he looks like just now) makes her take harsh deep breaths. She rests her back against the tree, takes off her mask and promptly covers her face with her hands. "Shit, I was right," she mumbles. "Shit, shit, shit."
He can't think, feels the word vomit coming up. "But—" he sputters, "but—you basically insinuated that Sam—that I—not I, as in me, but the other me—"
She looks a little amused, enough to stop muttering to herself and say: "I was just testing you. Had to make sure I didn't have it all wrong, that you weren't overshadowed or had some sort of split personality problem. And I had to keep up with the attitude, picking at your soft spots. Just in case." She pauses, grins. "Anyway, please. Everybody knows she's been crushing on you—Fenton you, anyway—since pre-K or something."
She has? is his first thought. Then he shakes his head, focus. "Why now?" he asks. He can't really think of anything else to say.
She hesitates. "I've been… connecting dots, let's say. As I said, your little fistfight got me thinking, so… I've been watching you—ghost you, trying to find a hole in my theory, something, I dunno. Wanted you to prove me wrong."
"Sorry to disappoint."
She looks surprised. "You're apologizing?"
"Hey, don't," he says. This is weird enough as is, and though he supposes hearing Valerie apologize would be nice, he'd rather not. "You had your… reasons, I guess. You didn't know. Kind of like my parents."
"Do they know?"
He nods. "Have for a couple months now. It's… a long story."
She eyes him. "I can tell." A sigh. "I am sorry, you know? But it sounds like shit when you put it into words, so… yeah. I spent a lot of time in denial, not wanting to admit that all this time I'd been shooting you of all people. Fat load of good it did me… I feel like shit, and deserve to, and I'm really, really sorry."
He swallows hard, nods. This isn't going quite like he'd pictured, and he doesn't know what to say.
Valerie hesitates for a moment, then adds: "I… want to know, if that's okay. About what happened after that night. You missed school for a whole week, your friends looked like crap…"
It's not a question he wants to answer, not something he likes to think about. He tries anyway, seeing the look on her face, and chooses to cut out the details. "It wasn't… that bad. Not in the way you're thinking. We told my parents I'd mucked up with some broken glass and went to the hospital—last time I ever made that mistake; it was a bad experience. Sam had to do stitches."
Her brow furrows. "But you just said you went to the hospital…"
"And, like I said, that didn't work out. Anyway, I got a few days of bed rest, which suited me perfectly, but… yeah. Bad experience. Don't kick yourself over it, though—we shouldn't have gone to a hospital, we all agreed it was a bad idea from the start."
She's definitely kicking herself over it, looking away and running her hands through her hair, murmuring to herself.
He walks over to her, places a hand on her shoulder. He immediately retracts it when he notices her shiver. "Seriously. If my parents got past it, you can, too. It's partially my fault for not telling you, anyway. Consider us even."
"Even? Are you kidding me?"
"Close to even, then." She looks at him like he's nuts, and maybe he is, but he nods earnestly anyway. "You didn't kill me, Valerie—that was Sam, actually. Except I'm not half-dead, even though at the time we did think I was, so maybe that's a moot point, but—whatever."
This conversation won't be much help if she ends up thinking he's crazy. "Look, go home. No harsh feelings, okay?" He gestures to the cut on her shoulder. "Get someone to look at that. I'm sure my parents could, or even Sam—wait, no. Bad idea. She doesn't like you." She winces, and he mentally kicks himself. That didn't come out right. "Erm, never mind. Go home, get some rest for picture day. Alright?"
She doesn't answer, just looks at him for a really, really long time. Finally she nods, clicks her feet together. She looks like she wants to say something, but in the end only turns around and flies off, leaving him to wonder what the heck just happened.
Sam doesn't know if she should be angry. He told Valerie? So what if she figured it out—he could've denied it! Right?
It's his secret, first and foremost, so technically she doesn't have the right to be angry. And if he agreed to let her parents and Tucker's know, maybe it's only fair to tell Valerie. Or maybe it's not fair at all and she has every right to be miffed.
Tucker's taking it fairly well—your choice, man. He's looking at her, then at Danny, back and forth, probably wondering if this is a precursor to another argument.
She hopes it's not. She's looking for a decent point, something that'll reason with him. But—it's Valerie! certainly doesn't cut it. "She apologized, that's great," she says without a hint of enthusiasm. "But how do we know she's being honest?"
"Because I trust her?" Danny answers. "You didn't see the look on her face, Sam."
"I'm aware." She's not about to admit that it bugs her that those two were out at night, alone, fighting ghosts side by side and slipping into heartfelt apologies shortly afterward… "She's a good actress, you know."
"And why would she lie? What—you think she's plotting my doom or something?"
"Don't you?" she asks. Then: "Don't answer. Look, she said she's been watching you for a long time—how long, we don't know. Why talk with you now? Just because she saw Cujo? And if that is her reason—which I insist it isn't—this means she still dislikes Cujo, even after almost two years of keeping a distance. Who says she doesn't still dislike you?"
"I'm not saying she doesn't dislike me, I'm saying she's not out to kill me anymore!"
"Oh, because those two things are so different for her?"
"You're basically calling her a psychopath." She nods, and he groans, exasperated. "She was looking out for you! She followed me around because she saw me with you! She told me to stay away from you guys and not mess with your heads—now why would she do that, if she knows we're friends?"
"Do the words divide and conquer ring a bell?" She frowns. "And, anyway, what do you mean she was looking out for me?"
He stutters. "She, uh, thought that you… that I…" he shakes his head. "Not the point. You're looking too much into this. Can't you just believe me when I say I trust her?"
"Uh…" Tucker cuts in. "I'll just leave you guys to it, then. Be nice. I'll see you in English."
He walks away.
Sam rubs her forehead. Though she's glad Danny told her about this early on, rather than keeping it to himself till later, she suddenly can't even think about classes or pictures. It doesn't help that he's dressed for picture day—nice jeans, nice shirt. Same hair, though. His mom lost that battle early on in his life.
"Look," he says, tone suddenly quiet. "I know you don't like her—none of you do, I get it. I don't want to fight over this, though. What's done is done, and I honestly think this isn't that bad. Don't you feel better knowing she's our ally?"
"If she's our ally," Sam argues. "I don't want to fight either, but I need to think about it. I won't say anything—to her or about her—for now, if you don't. Deal?"
He has the good sense to agree: "Deal."
They shake on it, and continue walking towards Casper's main entrance. "So," she says, looking for another topic. "Picture day."
He laughs. "Yes, picture day. Senior year picture day."
They step into the school, look around at their peers—she sees hairdos and necklines and glittering earrings. "This is going to be interesting," she says.
He snorts. "English class won't be, though. C'mon, I bet Tucker is planning my funeral as we speak."
As it turns out, Tucker is kind of jittery when they step into Lancer's room. And even after they've reassured him that this isn't going to turn ugly, he keeps glancing between them, probably waiting for him to mess up or for her to blow.
She supposes that Tucker has good reason for it. She spends the entirety of English wondering if she's overreacting or not. That evening at the hospital two years back was torture for her and her friends—and it was all her fault. Danny could've died and it would've been her fault. In her eyes, Valerie is little more than a crazy, vindictive brat that didn't take well to losing status. It's harsh judgment, true, but doesn't she deserve it? Danny—could—have—died.
But then, he could've died when she dared him into the portal.
It's not the same thing, she rationalizes. It's not. She didn't mean to hurt him—Valerie, on the other hand, wanted to see him in pain.
She doesn't hear a thing Lancer says during that first hour, and only returns to reality when the bell cuts through her thoughts; she vaguely hears him mention something about the front lawn—don't step on the flowers, he says, something about a donation for their class picture.
Picture. That's right. She follows her friends out of the room, walks down the hall and toward the main entrance. Class pictures at Casper are always taken on the front lawn, with the school in the background. She doesn't recall anything about flowers from the wall of framed pictures by Ishiyama's office, though.
She shrugs it off and continues walking. Danny and Tucker are talking about something at her side, but she's not paying attention. In her head, she's thinking about Valerie, thinking about that night at the hospital, stitches, funny blood test results and overshadowed doctors… in the background, she hears the word flowers. She can't shake the thoughts, the memories—snap out of it, she thinks.
She steps outside with her friends; the morning breeze hits her face and brings her back to normal, and they didn't notice a thing. Good. But she notices they're frozen in place, staring ahead. A funny smell reaches her; she turns to look, blinks the sun out of her eyes. "What are you guys looking—"
Red everywhere. Panic bubbling up her throat.
"Danny." She stretches an arm out in front of him, as if to keep him from taking another step. "Get out of here. Danny, you have to—"
"Hey! Get out of the way, Fenturd!"
She sees it in slow motion. Dash, with his nose patch still in place, pushing Danny to the side. Dash, walking by as if nothing. Danny, stumbling. Bypassing her outstretched arm, rolling down the stairs, bumping his head and shoulders along the way.
Her breath catches. She slips between Dash and Kwan, runs toward him, hopes he's still out of range and that the flowers won't do anything. He stumbles to the bottom of the stairwell—for a moment she panics, he's not moving. Then he groans, sitting up on the grass.
Oh, no. The grass.
Too late.
He screams. Drops to his knees. Holds his head in his hands and pulls at his hair.
It's sheer agony just to hear him. Her heart drops to her toes, she suddenly feels very cold. He's in pain, writhing and jerking from it, grass stains on his shirt. Creases along his cheeks and forehead, eyes squeezed shut tight.
She's horrified, and she's not the only one.
Three seconds ago, everyone was admiring the flowers. Spread across the lawn, more red than green on the ground. Strings of them draping from the trees, pots of them strategically spread around the lawn. So pretty, the girls were saying.
But that was three seconds ago, this is now, and Danny is still screaming. She kneels beside him, tries to pull him away.
His eyes flicker green for a moment.
Images assault her, come to life as she suddenly feels ropes digging into her skin again, her back pressed against a scratchy wooden pole. Elbows poking her ribs, forearms stiff, the circulation to her fingers cut off. Her, watching helpless while several dozen people cheer on, kill the witch, vanquish the ghost. Him, screaming. She couldn't move, couldn't help him, couldn't give Vlad a well-deserved slap. He's got the Infi-Map, they could be stuck here forever, Danny's still screaming…
Back during their adventure in Salem, Massachusetts, she hadn't been able to smell the blood blossoms. For some reason, she can now, and the stench makes her want to hurl, enough so that it pulls her out of the memory and brings her back to the twenty first century. Danny's still screaming.
She still can't move.
Tucker is saying something beside her, and she can hear Lancer and Dash in the distance, too. Danny's screaming drowns them out. She looks around, dazed. The flowers are everywhere. There's too many of them, the scent is invading her nostrils and making them itch, making her sick. There's a weight in her stomach and she feels like she might vomit. Danny's still screaming; she'd like to scream, too. "Get rid of them!" she cries. She feels sick, she's going to hurl… "Somebody, please, get rid of them!"
No one answers. No one moves. He's closing his eyes, his legs are twitching erratically. She presses her eyes shut and begs for this to be a nightmare, begs that once she opens them he won't be twitching around anymore. She cries, screams, enough so that the weight in her stomach loosens—then, absolute silence.
She's fearing the worst—why would he stop screaming, if not because...—but when she looks up, his eyes are bright blue, alive and staring right at her. He's shivering, but not screaming. No twitching.
The stench of rot reaches her nostrils. Looking around, she realizes why—bright red replaced with withered green, petals disintegrating into nothing, stems cracking. No one makes a sound.
Then: "AAAH! Ghost!"
She knows that voice. Valerie is gesturing wildly to the side of the building, feigning fear. "Everybody, run!" she shouts. "Help! There's a flower-killing, picture-ruining ghost! It almost killed Danny! Run!"
The space of a heartbeat. The girls lock eyes and Valerie nods: get out of here.
Two heartbeats. Then everyone is running and screaming, dozens of pairs of heels abandoned on the lawn as this year's senior class makes a run for time she reacts, doesn't dare lose another minute. She tells Tucker to cover for her and takes Danny by the arm. "C'mon!" she tells him.
He stands up, groaning, and runs with her through the crowd. She wants to get him as far from the school as possible, in case this is some sort of organized attack. The park is closest, too close, and her house (or his) is too obvious a hideout.
Her mind races—escape route, questions, what just happened? A donation, Lancer had said. The flowers were a donation. Who would want to donate thousands of ghost-maiming flowers for a high school class picture—to the high school with a ghost for a student?
It can't be a coincidence. She sneers. Vlad.
"Where—where are we going?" Danny asks. She doesn't answer, just keeps running. "Sam. Sam, if the school is in danger, I can't just—Sam!"
He stops, pulls on her arm to stop her, too. "Whoever sent those flowers," she says, gasping to catch her breath, "is after you. If you're not there, the person moves on to look for you. Get it?"
"But what if—"
She pulls her cell phone out of her pocket. "Tucker will let us know, then. Right now, you need to hide." She looks around. No ghosts as far as she can tell, which isn't as reassuring as she'd like, but it's good enough for now. Skulk and Lurk is just a few blocks away, and though it's not the best hiding place in the world, it's not as obvious as the Nasty Burger. The mall would be better, it's huge, but if they're attacked in there it'll be hard to keep bystanders from getting hurt.
Her heart is racing and adrenaline keeps her mind running. Hiding spot, hiding spot…
"There," Danny groans, pointing to an alley down the block. "Let's… let's stop there."
Not exactly inconspicuous, but maybe there's something to the whole hiding in plain sight thing. She nods and follows him into the alley, rests her back against the wall once they're (relatively) safe behind a set of trash cans.
She closes her eyes and catches her breath, suddenly tastes something salty in her mouth. She touches her cheek. She's… crying?
"You okay?" she asks, wiping her eyes and hoping he didn't notice. He grimaces, and she adds: "Sorry, standard question."
He sits down and rests his back on the brick wall. She kneels beside him, looks him over out of habit. She hates blood blossoms. These aren't injuries she can treat, he's in perfect shape on the outside. On the inside, though…
"My muscles have been stretched and ripped beyond repair," he says. He pulls his knees in close and clenches his teeth. "Ow. Running didn't help."
"Sorry," she says. "Had to get you out of there."
"I know."
Silence. She notices blood on his chin, just a few drops. "Split lip," she points out redundantly, just to say something.
He does the same: "Tear tracks."
She looks down. So he did notice.
"Hey," he says, ducking his head to meet her gaze. "I'm okay. Won't be doing any heavy-lifting this week, but I'm fine."
She nods, throat suddenly clogged. The adrenaline rush is long gone and now she feels weighed down. Scared. "Do you think they could have…?"
"Killed me?" She nods. "I don't know. Maybe. Certainly felt like it."
Her breath hitches, and he amends: "But they didn't."
She's suddenly startled. That's right… "Why? They just… withered. How did that happen?"
"I'm not about to question whatever miracle saved my butt, Sam."
No, no, it's more than that. Has to be. "Do you think it was planned? For the flowers to die out? Maybe the attacker just wanted to make a statement, hurt you a bit. Though why so publicly—at school? Again, for a statement? Or maybe—"
"Sam," he cuts her off. "You're shaking."
She is. In her head, he's still screaming, limbs jerking, eyes glazing over and changing colors between blinks. This will give her nightmares for years, just like the last time this happened… "You didn't hear it," she says, quiet. "You were screaming and I couldn't do anything about it."
"Could've eaten them," he tries to joke.
Her fists clench. He's right. She could've tried, at least.
He grips her chin, forces her to look at him in the eye. "Sam, it's okay. Even if you and Tucker had tried to gobble those up—heck, even if the whole school had helped—I probably would have dropped dead first. There were too many." She doesn't answer, looks away. He didn't hear it… "Sam? Sam, calm down, you're still shaking." She distantly feels his fingers gripping her hands, squeezing them tight. As tight as those ropes… "Sam, don't tell me you're going into shock. You've seen worse—snap out of it!"
She does. Her eyes open wide, the whole situation crashes down on her. She gasps, as if breaking the surface after diving too deep into the ocean, and wraps her arms around him, hiding her face in his shoulder, not wanting him to see her cry. Her voice quivers, makes her cringe in her head, as she whispers: "I was so scared."
She feels like an idiot, like a whiny and useless little chit from a cheesy action movie. That's what they always say, right? When the hero just barely escapes death while they did nothing but watch from the sidelines, scared out of their senses… that's what they say, when words fail them and sentiment takes over: I was so scared. I thought I'd never see you again. I love you.
Isn't that what they always say?
He rubs her back, at first a little hesitant, probably surprised. She never acts like this—he knows it, she knows it. But she's always in the thick of the battle with him, doing what she can, keeping her mind busy and far away from the underlying panic: he might not survive. Then, at least, she can do her best to keep him alive.
This time, though—what did she do? She just stood there, scared, screaming inside her head, looking at the scene in slow motion. She didn't do anything, she just screamed her head off and begged someone to do something while she…
"I just stood there," she murmurs, ashamed. "Totally paralyzed. I didn't do anything, I didn't—"
"And what were you going to do?" he asks. "Sam, calm down. You got me out of there. We're here, in this dump, totally safe. I feel better now." He pulls away from her grasp, holds her shoulders in front of him. "Do you feel better now?"
She nods, refusing to look weak in front of him for another second. From the look on his face, though, it's obviously not very convincing. "I'm fine," she insists. "Just being a wimp here, don't mind me."
The corners of his lips pull upward, just a little. He still adds: "If you're in shock…"
"I'm not." Her trembling lip begs to differ.
She wipes away the tears on her face, just to do something, but his hands come up to stop them. He grips her fingers tight, says: "You don't have to be brave all the time. I won't tell."
She snorts, but it comes out weak. "You'd better not."
He's holding her hands between their faces, sitting so close to her that she can feel his breath on her face. Tears drip down her chin and tickle her cheeks. She can see his pupils dilating with incredible detail, little black dots getting wider as he inches closer…
The she can't see them anymore. His eyes are closed and so are hers, and her focus shifts to the feeling of his lips pressing against hers—gently, meaning to comfort her, to snap her out of shock.
That last one might not be working so well.
Her heart speeds up, thumping in her ribcage to a strange rhythm. There's something warm in her stomach, replacing the ice that settled there earlier, spreading around her body like hot chocolate on New Year's Eve. It settles at the spot on her neck where one of his hands is holding her close, the valleys between her fingers where his clutch hers.
She's not sure who pulls away first—at some point, his lips stop caressing hers and only graze them, until they're not touching at all and suddenly his face is a few inches away.
Looking up, she notices that, unlike the kiss, his gaze isn't meant to be comforting or sweet. Nonetheless, it makes warmth rush back into her cheeks, makes her lips part just enough to let her taste his breath.
Then she's kissing him again and this time it's different, one hand in his hair and the other at his neck, both his hands on her back. Faces so close that her tears stick onto his cheeks, his nose.
His kiss feels like pulling something strange out of a dream and finally finding a name for it, like turning the lights on at night while dabbing blood off his arms, like making up after a fight and knowing nothing has changed. Like a rush of something invading her senses every time his lips pull on one of hers, teeth clashing, tongues touching.
In the only still functional part of her head, she thinks that this is exactly what she always wanted. She feels safe like this, at home, and she cherishes the feeling because that one doesn't come around quite so often.
She eventually pulls away, smiles. Dabs at the dried blood on his chin. "Split lip."
He smiles back, rubs his thumb across her cheek. "Tear tracks." He kisses her again.
"Where's Danny?" Tucker asks as he barges into the greenhouse. "What's the emergency?"
Sam beckons him over to her worktable. "He's resting," she says. "His mom is looking after him."
Tucker looks confused. "Then why am I here?"
"I…" she swallows. "I figured out what happened today. Kind of."
His stride slows. "You're being cryptic."
She nods. Her heart is beating fast, blood rushing through her body, but she feels cold. So cold. "Just… look."
He does. She's gesturing to a flowerpot on the table, holding a set of brightly colored tulips. She places a hand on them, and her voice catches as she says: "Look."
With her touch, the tulips' colors fade into dark browns and greens, the stems bend over and the petals rot.
A/N:
Hi. This chapter is long, but missing one scene (that last one was meant to be longer), which sucks for the outline. Oops.
I think I first owe a brief explanation, as I was too vague in the last chapter: Tucker and Sam were discussing whether or not to tell their parents. As explained, vaguely and briefly, they had a discussion on the matter earlier in the story's timeline (conversation that did not actually make it into the story), and took the decision to move forward with that plan. This chapter happens a month later, and their parents already know (as explained at the beginning).
Having said that… ta-da!
If anyone has any concerns on Sam's characterization, do tell! I have my reasons and logic behind her reactions and the like. Quickly, I'll say that I don't think any person can handle everything she does and not break down occasionally, and these events were extremely harsh on her.
I won't say a thing on the last scene, except this: I know what's going on (thankfully) and you guys will too, eventually.
Thank you very much for the reviews! Good news for this week: we did pass 100 reviews—thank you! The story is now past 60K and 150 pages on MS Word. This is the longest chapter yet! We're 5 chapters from the end, if I don't muck up the outline any more in the next month.
I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, that it didn't disappoint any expectations. Generally speaking, though, I'd love to hear what you think!
See you next week!
—Rose.