Why did the sun have to be, so, on fire? Did it really have to be right there in the center of the sky?
Granted, the clouds were looking a little low today— but that beautiful ball of gas trillions miles away is too damn bright.
The humidifier produced plumes of vapor. It whirred and whined before it would inevitably shut off with a hard click. The active red light would switch to green. Then the high school freshman would shuffle
The milky-grey light poured in through the window, illuminating the sheer blue curtains. Danny tugged the covers over his head. The high school freshman was practically being absorbed by layers of handmade quilts from the extended family whose names he couldn't be bothered to remember. The colors clashed, and the material was pilling like crazy over the years of use, yet the seams still held up. Danny was sure it could survive a nuclear winter. He wiggled further into his nest, curling in on himself. He was like an angry screw with no purchase, constantly twisting and flopping around.
This mattress sucks! It only makes sense since it's been in the family since the early college days. Through layers of towels and blankets, Danny could still feel the spring that pierced his side just right. What history the youngest Fenton was sleeping on, the identical twin mattress his mom would eat ramen and study for her midterms on.
He hadn't been able to get a long or comfortable night's sleep in years. Danny wouldn't bring it up on the account that his family always had unforeseen expenditures, given their profession being the village idiots. If his family was at least a few dollars in the black, it was a good month. If the lights were on, then it was a good month. It isn't like their parents didn't care, but their careers, or lack thereof, always seemed to take precedence. Right now, they were at some convention across the state. Danny preferred them there. Danny didn't like anyone acknowledging his weaknesses.
His parents constantly restated that you give up a few things chasing dreams; he just wished it wasn't a stable income.
With a sharp creak from his bedroom door that hit his clogged ears just painfully right— the younger Fenton groaned, "Jazz, let'd me sleeeeeeeeeep."
His older sister Jazz had taken the day off school to watch over him. She seemed to be under the impression that just because he was two years younger, that made him woefully inefficient at taking care of himself.
As Jasmine took wide, overdramatic steps over the piles of clutter on his bedroom floor, Danny reconsidered this stance very briefly. He racked his congested brain to remember what the carpet beneath his floor looked like. No image came to mind—the absence of anything like the grey and white checkerboard outside the border of a PNG file. Danny spent little time in his room these days; it was hard to catalog the things that were there versus the imagined. He knew it was dirty— yes, he was aware that he needed to attend to his laundry at some point. There may have been a hidden stash of forks somewhere in his dresser drawer that he didn't have time to walk back down to the kitchen— but this wasn't about that.
Danny would say ever since Jazz had found out about his… real condition, she's gone into overdrive. Not letting him have the briefest second alone. School was almost a blessing in disguise. That is, if it weren't for the younger Fenton's other problem.
Dash Baxter.
See, Dash Baxter, since elementary school, was always— looking at him. It was hard to describe. But Dash was always staring at him with the inner machinations in his shallow mind a complete mystery. If Dash weren't looking at him, then he'd speak, and truthfully nothing the athlete ever said was worth the grey matter it wasted. Dash thought he was something special because he was just like everyone else. Or, at the very least, he was like the everyone else everyone wanted to be. The exceptionally mundane. Unique in an utterly unimaginative way. He was the kind of person children dreamed of growing up to be, vague in detail but clearly having an aspirational quality. Dash Baxter was the result of a kindergartener with an aching arm held up so high declaring that they wanted to be a 'fireman.' If he were a spice, he would be flour. He was so… simple and cliche. He was a square peg that fit the square hole. Everything came so easy to someone like that. Everything he touched turned to gold. Suppose why Danny didn't like him so much was because he didn't understand the hype. Sure, if you like broad-shouldered mouth breathers, you don't have to throw the stone that hard.
Though that's neither here nor there, school was difficult enough to navigate, being a half-dead freak of nature.
Oops.
Pretend you didn't hear that part.
Right, so maybe his sister did have a reason to worry. The last time Danny had too much free time on his hands, he ended up sort of uh… killing himself? Not on purpose, mind you. However, he couldn't decide if that was better or worse. Dying on accident, that is. That's a whole can of worms Danny wouldn't want to bore you with.
She had shuffled around the debris; her approach had little bedside manner, "Danny, you're sick!"
"Thanks'd for the reminder, Captain'd obvious," Danny replied, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.
"Well, sue me for caring!" Firm in her two-year seniority over him, Jasmine stuck her bottom lip out in a pout.
He scolded her, "I'md dead, remember? This isn't exactly uncharted territory for me."
"How are the crackers sitting?" Cautiously, Jasmine peered down at the wicker waste basket near Danny's bed— it was overflowing with garbage, which was its natural state. If her brother melted a section of the carpet with his vomit— they could just throw something on top of it like a hamper, and no one would be the wiser.
"Fine'd. It's fine'd— fine'd." He took a breath before repeating, "I'm fine. I'll live… Well, not live, but— whatever." He fought his arms out of the comforter to grab one of the many water bottles lining his nightstand. His movements were sluggish and significantly weakened, and his depth perception seemed to be suffering the most. Danny ended up punching his lamp. The second try was a bit more successful. Shaking his head, he figured he could reset his eyes—
A bout of tug-of-war played out between the two over the blanket Danny was covering his face with. Seeing as Jazz was older and had much more committed to his health than he did, she was the victor. She poked his cheek, "Open your mouth; I need to take your temperature again."
"How accurate is that thing anyway?"
Jazz wiped the tip of the metal rod on the hem of her shirt, "Well, it's a meat thermometer— and people are meat, so…"
Putting a hand to his ear like he was communicating over a headset, Danny remarked, "Flawless logic Cotton'd. Let's see if her strategy pays off for her."
She rolled her eyes and placed the thermometer under his tongue.
While fluffing his pillow, Jazz could hear the red spindle rattle around the confines of the bob. It spun so wildly out of control that it was making a clicking noise. Her reaction was inscrutable, puzzled, alarmed.
Danny couldn't much tell, given how his vision was waning. Anything further than a few inches away from his face was an incomprehensible mass of shapes. With the thermometer trapped between his teeth, he asked, "How's't look?"
Lying was never her strong suit… She shrugged and vaguely said, "Well, if you were a porkchop you'd be raw?"
The elder Fenton chuckled awkwardly, "Do you think a corpse could get the flu?"
"Do I look like a doctor?" Daniel shot her glare from his covers, shirking away from her. You could be convinced by his performance he was James Caan in Misery.
It was a joke, but now she was starting to worry Danny bore more and more resemblance to the genuine article. Smiling with tense and taut lips, Jazz brushed some of the stray hair from his face, "You look like a burrito."
Danny reared his head back and sneezed—
Drenching his sister's hand in spittle.
Jazz recoiled and corrected herself, "a very, very ill burrito."
Sniffling, her brother muddled through an apology, "S-Sorry."
Wiping off her hand on her hand-me-down bell bottoms, she shrugged it off, "It's— it's cool, it's just my essay writing hand." Jasmine chuckled awkwardly, "I'll just… burn my skin off?"
"Mom keeps kerosene under the sink." Danny rolled to his side, seemingly now done with the conversation.
Sometimes he almost resembled her kid brother, who was afraid of the dark. Sometimes if she squinted just right, she was sure this was her brother. Who worried about everything and everyone. But that was such a long time ago. This was now. And now Danny Fenton was unrecognizable. Something in his heart broke during that accident, and he became this vindictive little—
"Speaking of things Mom keeps under the sink, take it easy with that cold medicine, okay?" Jasmine warned, "A little goes a long way."
There was a beat of silence before Danny scrunched further in on himself. Balling up like a dying potato bug, "Uh-huh."
"I know you want to get better as soon as possible, but this would also be a great opportunity to catch up on that homework you've been missing from Lancer's English class."
Cue beat of silence, "Uh-huh."
"I had him last year, and he's usually not this lenient with due dates."
Moment of silence, "Uh-huh."
"Are you listening to me, Danny?"
"Uh-huh."
Her jaw shifted, and crossed her arms, "You're failing the ninth grade."
"Uh-huh."
"The house is on fire."
"Uh-huh."
"You're adopted."
"Uh-huh."
"Mom and Dad surgically spliced your DNA with an elephant seal."
"Uh-huh, that's great, Jazz."
She threw up her hands in defeat, turned, and waded through the mess that was her brother's room. Jasmine reached the door, hand stabilizing her balance. Glancing over her shoulder, she sighed. It would be great if she wasn't single-handedly trying to resuscitate any semblance of motivation this kid had. It seemed the only thing that made Danny happy was something Jazz could no longer provide. Was it something she did? Was it everything?
In the absence of their parents, it was like she forfeited all rights to any sort of friendship with her younger brother. She was the enemy. She was the discipline he never learned.
Holding the door ajar, at the very last moment, Jazz added, "I'm taking the day off tomorrow to take care of you—"
The box of tissues Danny kept on his nightstand hit the wall, and the elder Fenton promptly left.
The humidifier clicked, signaling the end of the cycle. The ghost boy groaned angrily.
As threw his legs over the edge of his bed, his eyes squinted through the fading sunlight glaring off the puce liquid in the plastic bottle. His chest ached with idle rage from just laying around. Unsure if he should be grateful for the break or frustrated with the fact that he was wasting away in real-time. It would be great if he could just wake up and commit to a feeling for once. Sam and Tucker assured him multiple times that they were on top of the paranormal activity in Amity Park— which he didn't doubt, but he didn't like the idea that they could get on so quickly without him. He blinked at the bottle, not sure what he was expecting. Maybe for the bottle to blink back.
The red fluid inside seemed to be crusting to the bottom.
Did this stuff expire?
There wasn't that much left. Danny figured he didn't even need the dosage cup that came with the bottle. Bottoms up! The cherry flavor did very little to mask the concoction's real purpose. The bitterness of the medicine stayed in his mouth long after gagging it down. He could feel the liquid's warmth enter his throat and sink. It felt like it coated his heart and anchored it down to his stomach. The warmth sat at the bottom of his gut and nearly knocked him out— ugh.
He swallowed dryly. Danny wiped his swollen eyes. His head throbbed with pain, his nerves alerting him to what he already knew. He was sick. In his immense wisdom, the ghost boy fumbled with an extra-strength aspirin from its foil prison.
Down the hatch.
Wobbling to his feet with the grace of a baby doe, the ghost boy carried himself to the dresser parting waves of clothes that lined his floor. He switched the humidifier back on before crawling back into bed and drawing the covers around him tight enough to kill.
Danny then entered into a sweet medically induced stasis.
The rain was light on the windows. Tap tap tapping away like a quiet musing of an author at his typewriter. Jazz couldn't stay put in her room, knowing the house was empty and in need of people to sit in its dining room. So she went to the kitchen and tool inventory. List-making came naturally to her when she was anxious. Jasmine told her parents that they could forgo the grocery shopping because her exact words were, 'We can handle it.'
She removed the hand sanitizer from her pockets and quickly reapplied coverage to her hands, wrists, and neck. Jasmine couldn't afford to get sick now.
More accurately, it would be Jazz handling everything. As usual. That was before Danny caught pneumonia from hell from Sam. Tucker was down for quite a while himself, but he eventually recovered after a couple of days of hard sleep and round antibiotics. Tucker's immune system wasn't the best thing in the world, given that he was allergic to most fruits and had asthma already. Which made Danny's lack of upward mobility fighting this so… concerning.
Half of the battle with any sickness is mental. It was as if Danny didn't want to get better.
Jazz's homework was spread along the kitchen table in her version of order. It was controlled chaos, as her parents lovingly referred to it. Jazz knew everything had a place, and everything was in its place. Her textbooks were all open to various chapters somewhere in the middle. Though her attention lay in the empty cavernous cabinets. They were out of the dry foods they could make with minimal effort. Cereal, boxed pasta— shoot, just about anything they could just add water to. If she was truly desperate, she would stalk down to the basement and raid their mother's apocalypse rations. It was practically astronaut food.
If Danny was still nine, he would've preferred to eat the rations as some kind of training method.
Her head was pounding. With thoughts, unmitigated anxiety more than likely. So many hypotheticals and worst-case scenarios— too many. Infinite thoughts that rivaled their quantity by how much they hurt to think about.
It was selfish, but… truthfully, the elder Fenton needed a break from staring at these walls and wondering. She wanted something that she couldn't name because if she did, it would somehow make her weak. Jazz needed help.
Jazz wanted help.
Picking at a patch of dry skin on her forehead, she muttered to herself. Weighing pros and cons to her theory mutedly. Jasmine mumbled until her phone was in her hand, flipped it open, clicking down her speed dial.
The tone was automatic and cold.
Taut in the chest, Jazz smoothly exhaled until the other end picked up.
At Casper high, the last bell just rang, and buses had pulled into the port. Droves of students poured out the main corridor into the parking lot. Those who could drive did so. Pulling fast and haphazard maneuvers in their parents' least favorite cars, the seniors took off. All that the students were were bodies that needed space to occupy. It was suffocating as soon as the last bell was called. It was giving up any illusion of order.
Dash felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He snapped off from the crowd and pressed his back flat against the lockers. He just had to get out of the flow of traffic— he pried a hand from his bag and flipped open his phone.
"It's Baxter," he dully repeated into the receiver.
"Hey, don't sound too excited, ace."
Immediately correcting course, the athlete perked up, "Now, there is no way a certified genius got ahold of my number."
Jazz laughed like he knew she would.
Dash smiled to himself. His chest felt a little lighter at that. It was always good to hear her voice. He wedged his way to his locker. Pinning his phone between his shoulder and cheek, he told her, "Y'know you keep skipping class like this; your perfect attendance award is as good as mine."
Undoing his lock, he popped the door open and began to gather his gear for basketball practice. Sneakers, lucky water bottle, sweatbands— He had an hour before they officially started, but that just meant he had time to practice his free throws.
"Is it really 'perfect' attendance if they allow vacation days?"
"That's what I said!" Dash's fist hit the metal wall in exclamation. Balancing his things, he fought against his messenger bag to exchange his books with his weight packs for resistance training.
"Er—um, right… school… Are you doing anything right now?"
Dash quirked a brow at this, choosing to answer her question with one of his own, "Why? What's up?"
"Uh… I kind of have a favor to ask."
It was naive to think this was a social call. It wasn't like Jazz to be sheepish— it must've been important. Dash paused his routine and leaned to the lockers, "C'mon, out with it then. What's the story, morning glory?"
"Do you still have sixth-period English with my brother?"
Sixth-period English with Lancer wasn't as hard as everyone made it out to be. Quite frankly, it was refreshing. Dash wasn't afraid to use big words with the teacher. You read the assignment, and everything else fell into place. If you could read, congrats, they basically gave you a trophy.
Maybe it's because Dash often spent his downtime reading romance novels; he had less friction in class compared to his peers.
Oops…
Pretend you didn't hear that.
They weren't romance novels as much as they were historical fiction with light— feather-light fantasy elements—and y'know… people doing it.
Anyway, that was neither here nor there. Agatha Christie was GOAT and Lancer agreed with him
Nodding along, Dash could sense she was still withholding to avoid getting to the brunt of the ask. He spoke bluntly, "Yeah, you know that. I had to pick between advanced lit or swim team this year—" Baxter rephrased, "Seriously, what's up?"
"It's—It's nothing; you shouldn't worry about it."
"It's nothing, or I shouldn't worry about it?" Dash proded, now shutting his locker. It sounded like a problem. Baxter didn't like to brag, but he was pretty good at solving problems. Or at the very least showing up and looking scary until the problem shrank out of view.
There was some contemplative silence on the other end. Dash could see his friends waving to him at the end of the hall before the back parking lot, which was across from the gym. He waved back—telling them to go on ahead.
"So… see, the reason why I'm not at school; Danny's sick."
Baxter couldn't believe it. He blurted out without even thinking, "You're sacrificing your record for that shitbird?!"
He was met with a steely throat clear and a stern tongue click.
"What I meant to say is—" Dash scratched his forehead, "th-that's an awfully generous gesture for someone I'm sure won't fully appreciate it."
"I know historically you and my brother haven't gotten along but…"
The athlete muttered, "Historically, he's been a huge prick."
"Dash."
"Sorry." Baxter shook his head, disagreeing with his need to apologize for the truth, "But I'm not wrong! He treats you like crap, and it's not right. You shouldn't have to put up with—"
"He's failing! Okay!? And if he finds out, I told you he will literally never speak to me ever again. He's flunking out freshman year, and he doesn't seem to even care." The aspiring psych cut him off. It sounded like something fell over.
"Shit… Really?" He deflated.
"Really." She sighed again, exasperated that she needed to keep making excuses for her family, no doubt. There was some rustling on her end as though she stood up or repositioned herself, "And I get it if you want nothing to do with it, but I could use the…" Jasmine really didn't like using that word, "...the help."
You wouldn't think it, but Dash was the kind of person who had trouble telling people 'no.' There was something deep within him that needed to be needed. To be called upon in a situation of great importance because that meant someone at least thought of him. If he says no once, suddenly people stop asking.
"Jazz, I would follow you to the ends of the earth— You helped me turn my geometry grade around, and for that, I think I owe you my life." Dash was absolutely not being hyperbolic in that respect. The guy may have had the mind for literature, but he became a total caveman in the face of letters and numbers mixing. The athlete was unfiltered in his praise, "You are my shining knight in mary janes."
Then the pendulum swung back; Dash then crossed an arm over his chest, "For your brother, I would gladly skip a step and kill myself."
"Alright, none of that sounded like a refusal—" her lips parted, she was definitely smiling at the jock's dramatics, " —When can I expect to see you?"
The drizzle outside had evolved into a strong rain with a biting wind.
Paulina put up her umbrella and handed it to Kwan. Kwan logistically couldn't fit under such a small covering, so one shoulder was subjected to the rain while the other stayed perfectly dry. She was in the middle of wrapping her head around the cheer squad's coffee and snack orders from the convenience store down the hill. She was going to need all the help she could carrying everything back to the school.
"Are we missing someone?" Paulina scanned the group, quickly doing a headcount, "Where's Dash?"
"It looked like he was on the phone, last I saw?" Kwan scratched his cheek.
Wes had completely forgone an umbrella and instead of dawning a red sweatshirt about three sizes too big for his stick-like body with the sleeves torn off. Yanking on the ties for his hoodie, the shooting guard was getting antsy, "Who the hell would call him? Who else does that guy talk to besides anyone in this circle?"
"He knows we have practice—" Wesley tapped his foot and remarked under his breath, "Dumbass, should wrap it up."
Val found this humorous as she checked her phone, "Could you sound more like a jealous ex?" She tutted, "I don't think the audience knows you're obsessed with him."
The ginger shot her a look before rolling his eyes, "No thanks. I'll leave the doting girlfriend act to Star Robinson."
"Star has a crush on Dash?" Kwan cocked his head. Betraying his large intimidating exterior and appearing as more than a confused puppy. As he was cocking his head, he let the umbrella wane in his grasp, causing a small stream to pour from one of the corners. Which happened to be above Paulina's back.
The head cheerleader squealed at the cold and swatted Kwan. Calling him all manner of swears and names in Spanish.
Wes snorted at the obliviousness of their team manager, "I mean— yeah? Didn't anybody else notice?"
Valerie barely glanced up from her device, "It's hard not to notice. It's like trying to ignore a tire fire."
She was amused by the utterly clueless look on the giant's face.
Chuckling at this, Wes applauded the girl, "As always, Val gets it." He bowed dramatically in front of the volleyball player in a vain effort to catch her wandering eye, "Truly my intellectual equal of the group."
Being something of a matriarch of the group, Paulina scolded their recruit, "Don't compare yourself to excellence, Wesley. It's not a good color on you."
At this, the shooting guard pursed his lips.
Val snickered. Causing Wes to cross his arms in a huff of self-consciousness.
The exit doors burst open— Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
Emerging from the artificially lit hallways, the Casper High's starting-forward hissed at the sunlight. In his grasp, Dash had an insane quantity of assignments and worksheets. He was haphazardly stuffing them into his bookbag.
His associates all offered their lukewarm greeting.
Baxter immediately spun on his heel and made a b-line to the bike rack, not even lifting his head to even return the gesture. Fiddling with another lock, Dash didn't say a word.
The group all exchanged a curious glance with each other.
Paulina scoffed and announced caustically, "Oh, there you are, Dashie."
He hated being called Dashie.
She knows that. The now irritated starting-forward gave a small dismissive wave to his friends.
Dash mentally prepared an excuse to give them.
They're not gonna get it. They're not gonna understand.
His friends couldn't know that he was going over to see the Fentons. Kwan would do that thing where he starts reciting prayers, and Paulina would join him— fanning Dash over with cleansing incense. Wes would immediately start wrapping him up in a tinfoil safety net— and Val wouldn't do much, but she definitely would think less of him, that's for sure.
It's not that the Fentons were bad people by any means. Dash used to be quite terrified of them as a child, actually. But like most childhood fears, once you pull off the bedsheet—what you find underneath was nothing to be worried about.
That isn't to say he's not at all worried about the Fentons.
He worries for the day when the Fenton parents graduate to explosive projectiles for example.
However, under all the experimental weaponry, lawsuits, and massive amounts of property damage— the Fentons were just like everybody else. Mr Fenton always asked about Dash's games and his experiences at football camp. Mrs Fenton filled out her daily sudoku with her jet black coffee; she had fun stories about being on the farm with her sisters. There was nothing otherworldly about them except for their jobs. They weren't mad scientists or quacks, just eccentric. The problem was no one really believed that.
Dash had this bad habit of giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. It got him in more trouble than he'd admit to.
Truthfully, Dash didn't have a bad word to say about them.
Well, maybe just one.
Dickhead.
All families had bad apples, and the bad apple in the Fenton's case was their youngest, Danny Fenton.
Dash, and he had exchanged words. A lot. To put it mildly. They shared some classes together, and Danny always went out of his way to give Dash a hard time. Not to say it wasn't mutual, because it absolutely was. They'd torture each other. Mostly with Dash breaking Danny's things, throwing him around, and then Danny finding every possible way to make Dash look like a jackass. Twisting his words around or directly belittling any effort Dash put into the school. It was the classic prep v delinquent dynamic acted out on tv. Emilio Estevez and Judd Nelson of The Breakfast Club came to mind. However, no one would ever in a million years say Danny Fenton had any charisma to speak of like an actor or any human being for that matter.
Perhaps Dash's skin was so thin that it was easy to let someone who was five-foot-nothing and weighed ninety-pounds-when-wet occupy every passing angry thought. Maybe it's because Danny was the only person Dash couldn't seem to win over.
Was Dash really that hard up for approval?
Nope. No. We're not peeling back that layer of introspection today.
Rolling his jeans into cuffs at the ends, Dash turned his attention to tying his shoes, "Hey guys."
Wes nearly exploded, smacking on his chewing gum, "'Hey guys'? That's all you got!? We've been waiting around for you, for like ever, dude!" He waved his hands about, "IN THE RAIN!"
"I'm sure he's got some reasonable explanation," Val assured on his behalf, kicking her legs idly from the sculpture she was sitting on.
Yeah, Yeah, I'm working on it.
Kwan was next in the cycle of interrogation, "Where're you off to?"
"Uh…" Dash stalled out.
Just say something—! It doesn't have to be good, just as long as you commit to it.
Thinking on his feet, Baxter patted his thighs, "Well, I-I was gonna—I was gonna go rent some movies."
"Which ones?" Weston held his superior under an intense scrupulous gaze.
Brainlessly, Dash replied, "Huh?"
"What movies are you gonna rent?" Wes repeated, giving a nod and stuffing his hands into the center pocket of his sweatshirt.
"Uh…"
Suddenly it was like Dash's brain emptied of all titles. It was as if the spirit of a man born before the invention of the moving picture took the reins.
The blond's eyes must've darted a thousand places before vaguely coming up with, "The… Thing."
The conversation became stagnant for a moment before Valerie came in with the saving play, "Oh, yeah, Kurt Russel was great in that."
Dash did his best to disguise the sigh of relief that came from the very bottom of his being.
Paulina and Wes were skeptical. That isn't to say Val also didn't believe Dash, but she thought it was infinitely funnier to go along with whatever caused discord on cheer mountain.
"But you are gonna be at practice," Kwan leaned into his question, making sure he was heard, "Right?"
In the team manager's attempt to be stern, he matched the mean faces his friends were making. It would be more likely that Dash would listen to him. Though that was something a herculean task for anyone to do. Once Dash wanted to do something, it was impossible to convenience him otherwise.
Kwan emphasized his point by putting the arm that was around Paulina's waist on his hip in a way that brought to mind an authoritative parent, "I don't want to cover for you with Coach Testlaff."
Valerie Grey dissented, "Oh, c'mon, the guy is wound tighter than corkscrew— let him be late for the first time in his life."
Shaking her head, Paulina voiced her opinion on the matter, "If he's running punishment laps because he's late— Star is gonna be distracted, and I'd rather not have to add a broken neck to my pile of things to deal with."
Without even hesitating to stop, Dash continued to undo his combination lock for his bike, the dirt from the tires coming clinging to his letterman sleeves, "What's Robinson got anything to do with it?"
Wes chuckled, "Is everyone around these parts this brain dead?"
Clarifying, Val nudged the starting forward's shoulder with her shoe, "We have this working theory that Star is head-over-heels for you."
"Oh." Dash's initial reaction must've not met the group's expectations.
The way he said it— it wasn't an 'oh' of surprise that might mean he would be moved to do something about it.
In fact, in terms of 'movement,' he more or less took the information in stride. The 'oh' was more of a substitute for an 'oh, that's… fine.'
Nothing about the expression on his face seemed to communicate that he was happy to receive this news. Maybe accepting, but not pleased by any means.
"Is that all you're gonna say?" A bemused smile cracked its way onto Paulina's lips.
"Great guys, we broke him." The shooting guard quipped, his shoulders falling exhaustedly.
Kwan snapped his fingers, trying to gain back the group's goldfish-like attention span, "Hey— Hey, he's not going to be late."
He stepped closer and leaned again, "Right?"
"You're not going to flake out, right, Dash Middle Name Baxter?"
Ooo, now he was in trouble. Dash held his hands up in mock surrender, "Yeah, man; you got it. I promise I won't be late."
It seemed the group couldn't convince him to stay, so Paulina leaned onto the abstract metal sculpture Val had climbed on top of. She was curious about one thing, though, "What is your middle name anyway, Dashie?"
Wheeling his bike out of the rack, Dash quickly put up his kickstand, "You're not gonna get it out of me that easily."
Playfully Paulina hit Kwan's bicep in the vaguest hope that he would tell her, "I bet it's something embarrassing."
"Don't look at me, Polly." The team manager shrugged before gesturing to the blond with his chin, "Dash doesn't even let me call him by his first name."
Cue shock gasps.
Dash's eyes narrowed at Kwan, "DUDE."
Hand hitting her cheek, Paulina was flabbergasted, "Dashie, how long have we known each other—"
Too long— Baxter wanted to say.
"I can't believe you're keeping secrets from us!" Paulina bellowed, not caring if she was making a scene.
Wes was truthfully puzzled but in a different direction, "Did you really think his name was 'Dash'?"
He blew a watermelon pink bubble gum bubble, "That's not a name; that's an adjective."
"Verb." "It's a Verb, you stupid pube." Both Valerie and Dash corrected.
"Oh, whatever." Wesley was indifferent and flipped them the middle finger, "Eat me."
Shuffling with his bike in tow, Dash threw his leg over the seat. He waddled over to Weston and popped his chewing gum bubble. The pink mass exploded and stuck to the shooting guard's cheeks and nose.
Val, Dash, and Wes shared a laugh at this—
Bitterly Paulina drummed her fingers on her arm and demanded, "Is there anything else you wish to declare before you take off?"
Looking over his shoulder, Dash prepared for his journey from the school grounds and removed his CD player's headphones from his bag. In place of a helmet, Dash put on his headset. Adjusting his stance for his departure, Dash said in a gentle manner, "Uh, Well, I didn't want to say anything, but—"
He sucked in a breath through his teeth, "You can totally see your bra through your shirt, Sanchez."
If she had anything, she would, without question, throw something at him. Paulina could be absolutely lethal when she wanted to be, "If you think I can't find out, you underestimate my abilities Dashie." The head cheerleader added, "Or whatever your real name is."
With a scoff, Dash gave a nod to his group, "Later."
"Later," Kwan replied with a touch of annoyance. His friends were determined to see him get grey hairs before his thirties.
Val went back to her phone, "Later."
Wes pried the gum off his freckled face, "Sayonara, senator dipstick."
"With all the power you're releasing—
It isn't safe to walk the city streets alone.
Anticipation is running through me!
Let's find the key and turn this engine on.
I can feel you breathe...
I can feel your heart beat faster.
Take me home tonight!
I don't want to let you go 'til you see the light…"
The song played seamlessly once Dash hit the smoothly paved sidewalk and pushed off. The compression was a bit crunchy but there was only so much you could do with these mono recordings.
You can't live life without a soundtrack.
On his bike, Dash could practically cut through the terrain and traffic in no time. He wanted nothing more than to get this over as soon as humanly possible. With the roads slicker than he'd like them to be, Dash was able to glide on top of the asphalt. Arched over his handlebars he practically flew down the hill. Once he hit the bottom, Baxter bunny-hopped over the curb. The bike landed with perfect control and precision. The rain rolled right off his body.
The athlete thought of the last time he saw Jazz. They were listening to music in the library. Jazz wanted to test to see if memory retention and recall improved if you associated certain things with stimuli. That's where this CD came from actually. Classic Rock, anything released before nineteen-eighty-two, Dash would listen to while reading about the French political scene of the eighteenth century. That's basic Pavlov, and you'd think as human beings our brains would be more complex but as it turns out we're as simple as they come. Their friendship was sort of doctor/patient in a way. Or rather she didn't get approval from the school for a grant to get a chimp to study with so she had to make do. Hey, Dash didn't mind, he likes bananas and his comprehension rate was off the charts. He was pretty sure he was her favorite chimp.
Was it weird that he was kind of… excited to see her? Regardless of the fact she just needed a warm body to babysit her brat of a brother.
No, she's my friend. Why would that be weird? I'm overthinking this again.
It didn't make much sense, but yes, Jazz was his friend. Jasmine Fenton was smart, beautiful, and radiated light that rivaled the sun with how bright her future was going to be.
It was hard to feel worthy around someone like that.
Dash didn't really understand relationships very well. He didn't like to admit it, but he was stumbling around in the dark. It shouldn't be this hard right. If he was nice to someone and they were nice back then… they should be friends, right?
He hadn't really evolved socially since elementary school. It's no wonder his dad had to pick out his friends for him. Yeah while his friends worried about relationships and the like— he was more focused on his academic pursuits. If we could really call it that. Dash's pursuits lay in stuffing his schedule full of extracurriculars so his fairly middling GPA would be the last thing on an Ivy-league college admin officer's mind.
How could his friends even think about relationships at a time like this? They only had one freshman year, after all, it was important to get ahead.
Those runaway thoughts drifted to Star Robinson. Nice girl, bubbly, had a hard time focusing. You wouldn't know it by first glance but Star was a pre-calc wiz. No doubt she would make someone very happy. Just not Dash. Not right now.
Call him naive if you want, but Dash believed in things like true love and chivalry. Other vintage social ideas. If he committed to a relationship, he wanted it to be a genuine article. We're talking about butterflies in the stomach, jitteriness, palm-sweating, feverish feelings.
Star didn't inspire that kind of volatile reaction.
If he committed to something Dash didn't want to give anything less than his best.
Dash wanted to think Jasmine Fenton was this mythical 'one' he had his hopes pinned on. They had a certain energy when they spoke. A connection. A certain kinetic verve. They joked that he was the knight on a horse destined to save her. But they were just jokes— and Dash was terrified of horses. Jasmine did make him feel something in the stomach region, though more than likely it was indigestion stemming from insecurity. It was so hard to feel good about yourself next to someone like that. Any romantic ideas he could conjure always felt forced. And in most of his imagined future scenarios, she ended up leaving him for a neuro-surgeon named Javier. The fact of the matter is that Jazz was so mature and ambitious. She had a future. One that didn't require anyone from Amity Park to come in and ruin it. That's sort of Dash's thing. He ruins stuff.
The turn-off came up quicker than he realized. This construction zone was notorious for having cars race through it. Dash's mental reserves were separated into pedaling and spiraling apprehension about the future— he didn't even notice he was practically keeping up with the speeding traffic next to him. The road rumbled and the gravel shifted treacherously.
Pulled from his thoughts, Baxter pressed his brakes with an iron grip—he kept his weight on his back wheel to avoid flipping head first into oncoming traffic. However, this had the adverse effect of causing him to fish-tail and careen into a pricker bush— "CRAPCRAPCRAP—CRAP!"
With the harsh and abrupt tail spin, the freshman was thrown from the back of his bike. His impact was punctuated with the sound of cracking twigs. Dash's shoulder took most of the hit, but he didn't need that, did he? He was only the most valuable asset on every single team at Casper High.
Headphone wires tangled with the branches. Belongings flew out of his bag but were thankfully weighed down by the dreary afternoon downpour. If an onlooker were to happen upon the scene it would have looked like the high schooler would've just been raptured. Like he had suddenly been smote by some bored higher power. The CD began to skip on the second verse.
"I get frightened in all this darkness…
I get nightmares; I hate to sleep alone…
I need some company, a guardian angel— angel— angel— angel— angel—an—"
Well, it was certainly better than splitting his open now, wasn't it? Not by much, but still.
The bike now laid completely flat, with the wheels spinning idly in opposing directions. As if it was still being piloted. The bike was not the issue. Dash couldn't believe he was supposed to be on the road and have a license by graduation.
Emerging from the bush, Dash caught his breath. He shook out his pant legs and plucked off thorns from his jacket—Running a hand through his hair, he took a moment to take stock of what a colossal wipeout that was.
Well, it was just a couple of blocks now, it's probably better if he hoofed the rest. Picking up his bicycle, he shook his music player and flicked a few times before electing to just turn the thing off. Dash silently prayed that he didn't scratch the disk. That was really what he needed right now. Ugh—He gathered and pecked around for homework now strewn about on the foliage.
Following the avenue down, Dash found the Fentonworks building on its usual corner. Really you could see it from miles away with the large chrome observatory sitting on the roof like the cherry on top of the brick masonry. The structure dwarfed everything in the neighborhood. It would be surprising if everyone found later that the Fentons flipped this property from some factory worker who originally stayed here with ten other laborers because it was the cheapest place to live at the time. It was one of those buildings that just looked like it had a sordid history and upbringing. Certainly, the Fentons weren't the first people to grace its halls, and they wouldn't be the last if their current track record was anything to go by. It was actually kind of astonishing that the citizens of Amity Park didn't form a pitchfork and torch-style angry mob to run the ghost hunters out of town. Given the settlement's puritan roots, they had a few dozen witch artifacts in the local museum. Perhaps it was a bitter tolerance for the ghost hunter's bizarre lifestyle— or just growing laziness among the population that just looked like begrudging acceptance.
The Fentons kept things interesting around here, that was for sure.
Rolling his bike onto the dried yellowing lawn, Dash stashed it in the shadow of their staircase. He swung over the railing, and marched up the stairs—
"ACHOO!"
A scattering of birds on the powerline across the street took flight at the noise. What followed sounded like a chain of wet coughs and spit.
Jesus Christ— Dash thought. The hair on the back of his neck stood on edge. He inched back.
Is it too late to—? The athlete shook his head, disagreeing with himself. Yes, of course, it's too late, don't be an idiot. Don't turn around and run. Don't turn around. Don't run. Don't—
Before Dash even had a chance to raise a hand to knock on the front door, a hand wrapped around the collar of his shirt.
Effectively being yanked inside, the freshman stumbled into the spacious foyer of the Fenton home. He staggered in an attempt to stand straight. But Jazz's grip only tightened.
"Thank god, you're here!" She crowed.
"S-Sorry it took me so long to get over here, I stopped by every single one of his classes like you said—" his foot caught on the entryway rug.
"Oh my God, are you okay? Are you limping?" Jazz let go and checked him over for scratches.
Dash dismissed it, "No, no, just a little winded—I rode my bike here."
She eyed him suspiciously for a few moments. Specifically, she glared at the twig stuck in his gelled hair. Then she realized it wasn't important. Remembering her initial frenzy, Jazz rubbed circles on her forehead, "Gah! I won't let Danny flunk out of school just because of a little cold!"
Releasing Dash's jacket she began to pace the length of the entryway— positively fuming. It wasn't like her to get spun up. That was typically everyone else's job.
The athlete had only known her as the beacon of calm and rational thought. Jazz wasn't having a conversation, she was simply needing a place to dump the emotional baggage. She was talking at him. Not for any deeper need than to just talk and to have someone listen. Listening was enough.
"I don't know what I'm doing wrong. He's just not getting any better." She was all over the place. One shoe on, headband around her neck, clothes all out of sorts. Muttering under her breath Jazz demanded of herself, "What am I forgetting— what am I forgetting?"
Grabbing her purse from the coat rack the strap had been tangled within its arms and came clattering to the ground.
Snatching it up with trained reflexes, the starting forward grabbed it before it hit the floor.
Everything stilled for a moment. A moment bubbling and teeming with panic. Which quickly deflated. Dash flitted his gaze to her sympathetically. He replaced the coat rack, before gently putting a hand on her shoulder, "Just take a breath. Slow down."
He straightened out her earrings and nudged over her left shoe from the pile next to the door.
Jazz's focus darted and bulleted around the room, with little pause or lingering.
He assured her, "The twerp is gonna be fine and you're gonna call me up next week about the next stupid thing he does, and we're all gonna have a big laugh about it." He found her eyes, "Okay?"
It was gradual but Jasmine nodded, "Okay. You're right." She took a deep breath through her nose, "I'm just freaking out."
Out of nowhere, her knuckles landed directly on his sternum—
"Wh—What the heck was that for?!" Dash clutched his now throbbing ribs. She didn't knock the wind out of him but it was certainly stuck somewhere in his throat making his already squeaky voice all the squeakier.
"For making me worry about you too!" Jazz then wrapped an arm around her now hobbled athlete, pulling him in for something approximating an embrace. Her forehead was somewhere in his collarbone but she mumbled something close to, "I know you're not much of a hugger— but thanks."
Geez, twist both my arms why don'tcha?
Resting his chin on top of her head, Dash patted her back lightly, "I suppose one hug won't kill me…"
Jazz sniffled, and shoved him back. Out of the way of the door, "I know, Danny's too old for a babysitter, but if you could just make sure he doesn't— y'know disappear or sneak out a window or—?" A disgruntled noise escaped her throat, "I just need to get something for dinner and we're out of non-drowsy antihistamines. If you could get him started on his homework, I'd really appreciate it."
Pulling up his sleeve, he checked his watch, twenty minutes until practice started. There was no possible way he could get back in time even if he did drive— what the hell was he doing? He hated Danny Fenton! If he flunked out, why did he care? It's not his problem. Even if he hit every single green light—
Dash smiled softly, "Take a jacket, it's cats and dogs out there."
Oh, you are such a pushover.
Her posture became compromised with relief, "Thank you so so so much, Dash, I promise I'll be back as soon as I can."
My money is on her going for some milk and never setting foot in this zip code again.
Jazz swung open the door and called out a few more goodbyes over her shoulder.
Stiffly Dash waved her off. Goddamn, his big heart.
The door slammed shut and just like that the house was nearly devoid of all life. It was like a vacuum of sound. That strong instinctual yet unnatural feeling of being a 'guest' overtook his body. He didn't belong here. Dash Baxter in Fentonworks was a donor organ being rejected by a host body. It just didn't fit. None of it fit. He shouldn't be here. There was this— noise this… this odd noise, like a dense liquid stirring in the old pipes. His eyes fell to the darkened house. The lights were off in every room and the only source came from the windows. Raindrops projected shadows over the flatscreen in the den. The kitchen was small but open with a table in the center and cabinets and cupboards surrounding it. Where was that noise possibly coming from?
Beyond the kitchen was the… the lab. The basement lab that you'd imagine stay-at-home scientists would have. That was the one ground rule the Fentons seemed adamant on.
Staying out of the basement.
That's where they worked on weapons and things like that. The Fenton parents assured him that they weren't lethal to humans. But if something looked like a gun, and if something sounded like a gun— and had virtually all the same functions as the leading cause of accidental death in a suburban family home— it was better safe than sorry.
It was an out-of-body feeling, if Dash was in the theater this movie was being broadcasted he would start throwing popcorn at the screen and demand that the main character get his shit together.
The ironic part is that this Dash Baxter at peak performance, this is him at one hundred percent efficiency. He was profoundly good at making avoidable mistakes.
He stayed perfectly still, at the bottom of the stairs. Squeezing his own arm, he exhaled.
I can't believe I'm doing this.
The rainwater continued to bead off his fingertips and puddle underneath him in the entryway. With a final deep resigned groan— Dash pried his resistant legs up and ascended the staircase to the second-floor balcony. The stairwell was fit to bursting with picture frames. It seemed the family was sentimental. Everything from Jazz's first steps to Danny's first bath was cataloged along the wall. Prime blackmail material if Dash was to be so candid. He didn't Danny could crack a smile without the universe collapsing in on itself. He definitely had a happy childhood if the album on the wall was anything to go by. Rodeos and annual family fishing trips? So, they did get out of the lab on occasion then. Good for them.
So, what the hell happened?
Did the uptick in ghost activity cause some tension back at home?
Is it in a family's nature these days to just… drift apart?
Dash wasn't really equipped to answer that nor did he want to think on it further. He was just a delivery boy.
Finding the right door wasn't hard. Dash just followed the growing sense of dread until it felt just right. The floor was warped a bit under each doorway giving it that real old-fashioned spooky house creaking he heard so much about. This is going to be a delightful conversation.
"Yo, Fentonowski!"
Silence. Well, aside from taps of rain hitting the windows downstairs, and whatever was churning in the basement lab.
"Yo!" Dash repeated, clearing his throat. Did his voice always sound that high?
Nothing.
Last chance to get away. No one would think less of you for it— He pushed the door open gently. Praying that Danny wasn't doing anything too weird.
Please just be sleeping, please just be sleeping— please just be—
Dash kept his eyes on the border where the bedroom carpet met the wood of the hallway.
Blue.
Danny's room was very blue. Dash had to hypothesize that was Danny's favorite color. The walls were covered in a dark navy with black posters describing different constellations. Normal teenage boys had another kind of heavenly bodies adorning their walls. Dash hadn't seen many other of his peers' rooms, but he knew Wes and Kwan had a mess of sports-illustrated bikini models on their walls.
Dash didn't quite get why. It just kind of seemed… gross? Not the women in the posters, obviously— Obviously, gah! But just the open and brazen advertisement of it was a bit much.
Danny's posters were thankfully a lot more tame and educational. His parents seemed like the type to watch documentaries for fun and regulate how much TV watching their kids did.
Speaking of entertainment, it appeared as if the only thing that kept this bedroom from just being a livable exhibit was the sparse airplane models placed on the shelves. There was no way Danny would be patient enough for something like that. Airplanes and rockets hung near the desk from the ceiling. None that Dash immediately recognized, he got faint flashes from titles like Top Gun but no specific names came to mind. Suppose that made him bad at being a dude— he couldn't tell a Camaro from a Mustang.
Wait, no— these rockets, right those rockets those were the Gemini Shuttles. The Gemini Shuttles were crafts manned by two pilots and supervised by a team of twenty-five. They were mostly used for demonstration and endurance training for astronauts. The objective of the Gemini program was to practice things like docking and rendezvous procedures in low orbit. Wow, Dash did actually learn something from Fenton's lecture about the subject from middle school. It was kind of… it was kind of cool to see him passionate about something. Danny was still kind of human underneath it all.
Dash's eyes naturally concluded at the closet. There was a dart board with Thomas Edison's photograph in the center of it.
Impeccable aim, Baxter got a chuckle at all the geek cliches that were scattered around the room.
Was it weird he was expecting this place to be… a bit cleaner? It looked like a robbery gone wrong. Drawers spilled open, clothes freely draped over any available surface except the floor. Then when all the real estate was occupied in mountainous stacks, they wound up on the floor anyway. Overflowing waste baskets. Controllers laying about tangled with the mess— discs with no cases—cases with no discs. It was like someone put the viscera of the teenage existence put into a blender and forgot the lid. Ugh—Gotta remind myself to not touch anything.
Recognizing that he had never actually seen Danny's room before he felt kind of… weird. It was that same process of technically being a guest but not technically having permission.
"Sheesh, Fenton, I know you don't get many guests but dang."
It felt like an oven in here. The walls should've been sweating. Well, at least he didn't have to worry about getting dry. The heat in the room hit him in a single dense wave. He removed his shoulder to take off his sweatshirt underneath his letterman. Through the mess of fabric, he called out, "Alright, rise and shine, sleeping beauty! Your sister called me to—"
Smoothing his t-shirt and adjusting his clothes, Dash opened his eyes—
And Danny was floating off of his mattress.
"To…"
Not like he was above his covers and his limbs poked out through the edges— no, he was fucking floating. Fenton was in the middle of the air at least a few feet above his bed. The guy was hanging there like he was being pulled by wire in his chest because his head and legs bent like they were still being affected by gravity.
Here's the part where the leading man would shriek and run for the hills. Not Dash Baxter, nope. He just stood there with his mouth agape.
Just how sick was he?!