Disclaimer-- Butch, not me, yada yada. This one's going to raise a few eyebrows, probably, but hey, what's life if you don't poke a few freakishly large hornets' nests...

Session 6: Dash Baxter

Age 14

"You know, that little speech on what constitutes assault wasn't just because I like the sound of my own voice," Cade said levelly. He was, to be honest, a bit surprised to see the quarterback of the football team plopped in the visitor's chair, by a scowling Mr. Lancer, of all people. Despite his status as head of Casper High's bully squad, despite his often colorful threats, Dash wasn't usually one to go beyond mild shoving and humiliation. Cramming nerds into lockers, running occupied underwear up the flagpole, and the occasional "swirlie," yes, but nothing that ever left real damage or even a mark. Today, though... he'd pinned Danny Fenton up against a wall of lockers and hit him in the stomach, hard.

Fenton had panicked and nearly put Dash through the opposite wall. Fear and adrenaline did some impressive things, and Danny's leg muscles were apparently a lot better developed than the ones in his arms.

Something set him off, and hard, Cade mused, studying the defiant expression on the teen's face. He knows he's screwed up, though he's not used to getting nailed for it. After another moment's consideration, he asked the question foremost in his mind.

"Why do you always pick on Danny Fenton, anyway? According to what I've heard, you've been stuck to him like glue since you two entered high school."

"He's an easy target?" the blond replied, wryly. "He never fights back. Or he never DID..." Dash rubbed the back of his head, wincing.

"There are much easier targets in the school. You never pay Mike Gates much attention, after all... And he wouldn't booby-trap your locker with toilet paper to get back at you. Come on, Dash, I know you've got a better answer than that."

That got a scowl. "I... He's a freak! He can't even walk down the hall without tripping over something, his PANTS fall down in public, he hangs out with Vampira and the Nerd King, and have you seen the nuts he has for parents! They're all over him like he's the greatest thing since the automatic toaster, no matter HOW much of a screw-up he is, and mine ride me twenty-four/seven to 'carry on the family pride' and not 'let them down...'" He trailed off, realizing where the flow of words had carried him.

Ahh. Now we're getting somewhere.

Dash looked up, sudden terror in his blue eyes. "You're... not going to have me taken off the team... right?"

For once, Cade was caught flat-footed. "What? What makes you ask that?"

One broad shoulder twitched. "Ms. Spectra... my last meeting with her, she said she was recommending it. That I needed to start working on my skills for surviving in the 'real world,' since all I was good at was football..."

She... That... For a moment, Cade literally saw red. Only years of practice kept him from letting out the growl building in his throat. The last thing he wanted to do right now was scare the kid in the seat across from him. But if he ever, EVER caught up to Penelope Spectra, professional censure would be the least of her worries.

Breathe. In. Out. Calm. That old Aikido master you got dragged to in college would whap you upside the head with her cane if she saw you now. With some difficulty, Cade managed to reign in his temper.

"Taking you off the team's a major step, Dash," he said, as calmly as he could. "I don't know that we need to take that yet. Why don't you tell me what made you decide this was a good day to up the ante on Fenton? You don't normally get that rough."

Dash bit his lip. "I... I flunked a test. A MAJOR one. One of Lancer's. And he doesn't cut anybody slack. If my grades go down too far, I'll get kicked off the team, and..."

And football's who you are. Or... who your parents want you to be, anyway.

"According to this file, your grades go up during the off-season, when you're not practicing so hard... so what is it? No time to study?"

"Not ENOUGH time. It takes me forever to get this stuff through my head, and its not like I'm ever going to get anywhere with my brains anyway." The teen's words carried the ring of something repeated so often that it had melted into bitter acceptance.

Cade regarded him for a long moment. "Here." Pulling a folder from one of the holders behind his desk, he tossed it to Dash. The boy opened it, frowning in puzzlement.

"What is this?"

"You tell me," Cade replied easily.

Dash shrugged, looking back at the sheet of paper in front of him. "Looks kinda like a diagram for a football play... but it doesn't make any sense."

"Read it for me."

That got him a look that plainly said "humor the crazy man," but Dash shrugged, laying the folder down on the desk.

"Okay, you've got the X's, these guys, here coming up the middle, into this group of O's here... splitting them off, getting right through... meanwhile, more of the X team are sweeping around to the sides, hemming them in... looks like they're trying to keep 'em contained while this third group heads for the goal, back here... what IS this?"

"A diagram. From my Military Tactics class, last year of college. Marines clearing a room and rescuing a hostage. Nice work, Dash, you read it perfectly." Leaning back in his chair, Cade folded his hands across his chest, stomping the grin that threatened to break out at Dash's dumbfounded expression.

"Okay, we've established that you're not dumb. You're capable of learning and abstract thought. You may not be a genius, but you CAN be taught. Ever consider tutoring?"

"Once. It didn't work out too well."

A raised eyebrow. "Who was your tutor?"

"Jazz Fenton."

That got a chuckle. "Speaking guy to guy, Dash... how much attention were you paying to the actual subject matter?"

Dash grinned back, though weakly. "Point. So... what do I do?"

Cade pulled out a notepad and scribbled some numbers down on it. "Tutors. Professional ones. Male, and a good deal older than you, so you can actually concentrate. You probably won't make straight A's, but you should be able to hit passing if you work at it. And I'll see about swinging some extra credit assignments with Lancer. Contingent, you understand, on keeping your hands OFF the other students. I catch you playing Thomas Aquinas with the lockers again, and all bets are off. Got it?"

"... Thomas who? Nah, never mind, I got the point. I promise, no more Fenton-baiting. Or anyone else."

"Then get going," the psychiatrist ordered, handing him the sheet of paper. "You've got practice."

Dash threw him a quick salute before... well, dashing out the door. Cade shook his head sadly.

"'Thomas who?' Man... doesn't anybody READ anymore?"