KatrinaKaiba: Danny didn't anticipate Valerie's extreme reaction because I didn't anticipate it. This particular section of the story was added very late in the writing process, long after the story outline was supposedly finished. I was working on the conversation in chapter seven, with Danny explaining how Sam, Tucker and Jazz are the only ones who know his secret, when all of a sudden Valerie was screaming "Hypocrite!" in my head. It was a very weird feeling.

Bushranger: What a great idea! But sadly, Jazz is not coming to Danny's rescue this time. I actually did come up with a sizable list of ways that Danny could stop her from following him, but in the end decided to leave that up to the reader's imagination.

The Person Who Writes: I'm glad you enjoyed the "was it your mother, or your father?" bit. Ever since I heard Vlad refer to Danny as a hybrid, I've been longing to find a way to address this poor use of language. Can you blame Valerie for jumping to the wrong conclusion?

Victoria Hughes: Yes, Danny is very much trying to stay in control of this situation, but he may be in over his head. The crucial question is. . . why is he doing this?

If I didn't answer your question here or privately, it's probably because the answer is coming up right now!

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Chapter 8

Despite all my meticulous planning, I had totally failed to anticipate this. I had outed Valerie to her father, while keeping my own double life a secret from my parents. And now the edge of the table was digging into my hip (I was going to have such a bruise) and the hot whine of her weapon was burning my cheek and setting my teeth on edge.

"I had a great thing going, with my Dad working nights he never suspected a thing, and then you arrogant–" she removed her hand from my throat and punched my shoulder, "self-righteous," she punched again, hard, right where Bertrand had clawed me, "patronizing," (at least she wasn't using the gun!) "hypocrite had to go and ruin it for me!"

"Okay. I totally deserved that. It was a desperation move, and a dirty trick, and I'm sorry." I was, actually. For some reason, I had never thought about the hypocrisy before; I had just filed Val's outing under 'Ends Justify the Means' and forgotten about it. Mission accomplished, ghost defeated, why dwell on the unsavory details? "I had to stop you from taking the Ecto-Skeleton. I knew you'd been injured, and I knew that I'd have a better shot at defeating the Ghost King– and I'd be less likely to die in the process. But. . . I should have found some other way to stop you."

"You sounded pretty pleased with yourself at the time. Why should I believe you now?"

"I. . . I did what I had to do. This is what I am, Val– I've had to do a lot of things that I'm not proud of. I skip school, I neglect my homework, I sneak out of my house at all hours of the night. I lie to my parents, lie to my teachers, and sometimes I take advantage of my friends. I do whatever I have to do to stop the damn ghosts, because. . . because that's what I have to do."

"You do whatever you have to do because that's what you have to do? That is the stupidest piece of circular reasoning I have ever heard. You're just like every other ghost: you do whatever you want, whenever you want, and to hell with us regular people. What makes you so damn special?"

I thought about it for a moment. Of course I was special, in a whole bunch of ways that I really didn't want to brag about while she was holding a gun to my face. But being "special" wasn't necessarily a good thing. Having ghost powers had ruined my grades and pretty much wrecked any hope I had of someday making it into the space program. I'd been pummeled, mauled, burned, crushed and tortured. I was exhausted most of the time, and my parents had started to ask me pointed questions about illegal drug use. And then there was the spirit-crushing weight of my responsibility to protect Amity Park, which I could see stretching year after year after year into the future. . . .

I sighed. "Look at it this way. I know you've got some kind of alarm, some kind of ghost sensor built into that suit of yours. If you've got the suit with you, then you'll know if there's a ghost nearby. Do you know how I can tell there's a ghost nearby? I get this disgusting, crawly feeling inside my throat, and my breath comes out all blue. And I can't turn that off! I can't leave it in my locker if I have to take a big test in 3rd period, and I can't put it away when I go to bed at night– 'cause it'll wake me up! It doesn't matter if I'm sick, if I'm injured, if I'm exhausted from being awake for three nights in a row–"

"Yeah? Well, it sounds to me like maybe you need a little parental support," she snapped. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't march right over to FentonWorks and tell your parents just how hard your life is! One good reason!"

"Because. . . because it wouldn't change things with your father, and it could make my life a lot worse. Your father tried to stop you from hunting ghosts, but my parents. . . ." I suppressed a shudder. "My parents would try to help me. They'd follow me everywhere I go, watch my every move. . . Valerie, I couldn't deal with that. Mom and Dad know so much about ghosts, but I can't have them protecting me, or controlling me, or getting in my way. Not to mention they might want to use me as a test subject, or a case study, or put me on display to prove to the world that--"

"Why should I care? I'm really not very invested in making your life easy, you know. Maybe having them on your case might keep you out of my way, the way having my father on my case has kept me out of your way!"

"Please. . . ." I hated to beg. I suddenly longed for one of our old battles, trading shots and insults high in the sky over Amity Park. Instead, I was lying here on a picnic table with her gun to my face, forcing myself not to use my powers. "Find some other way to get back at me, if you have to, but please don't tell my parents."

She finally pulled the weapon away. I let my head roll to the side, relieved and weary, then gingerly pulled myself up into a sitting position. "Maybe I'll think about it," she said. "Maybe. But I'm not anywhere near finished with the stuff you're going to have to apologize for."

Backing away slowly, keeping the gun at the ready, she retrieved a battered piece of red armor from behind her rocket sled. Without a word, she tossed it on the ground between us. A chill ran down my spine as I recognized the chest-plate of her original ghost-hunting suit, a softball-sized hole burned right through its center, green-tinged scorch marks around the edges of the hole marking the damage as my own handiwork. Not that I could ever forget doing it.

"How are you going to explain this?"

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Author's Note: I had a completely different version of Danny's "please don't tell my parents" speech drafted, and then I saw "Reality Trip." Oh, heck! I had to come up with a completely different set of reasons why Danny doesn't want his parents to know his secret. I may never be able to forgive "Reality Trip" for wasting such a magnificent source of tension and drama in the show!