Author's Introduction:

I wish I could have Jhonen Vasquez's Fillerbunny open my chapters. He's far more amusing than I am. "Hi, boys and girls! It's me! Fillerbunny! And after a brief rest in the preservation fluid, which burns, they brought me back to introduce this book! Yay! Yay! (cough) Surely you are entertained!" (dances)

But I don't own Fillerbunny. Or Danny Phantom, either. (sigh)

Eye of the Beholder

A Danny Phantom fanfiction

Chapter Three: Pretty in Pink

Caroline laughs and it's raining all day, she loves to be one of the girls
Lives in the place on the side of our lives where nothing is ever put straight
Turns herself round and she smiles and she says "This is it, that's the end of the joke"
Loses herself in her dreaming and sleep and her lovers walk through in their coats
Pretty in pink
Isn't she…?
Pretty in pink
Isn't she?...

(Pretty In Pink, the Psychedelic Furs)

Lancer flicked the lights back on, and the class groaned, the sudden glare forcing them out of their afternoon comas.

"I know, I'm upset it's over, too," the teacher quipped dryly. "Now, what did that video teach you about human behavior?"

Valerie Gray sighed heavily. "Mr. Lancer, we've been watching reruns of Miami Vice for three days. When are we going to learn something about actual film technique?"

Lancer's mouth snapped into a thin line. "Had you been paying attention with an open mind, Ms. Gray, you would have learned several things already. Michael Mann was a pioneer in the 80s for his creative technique, as well as the integration of music into his teleplays."

"I'm with Valerie," Tucker said. "I don't want to watch two guys in pastel suit jackets get way more dates than I do."

The class chuckled, and Lancer rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry, Tuck," Danny sighed. "Crockett and Tubbs aren't really happy. I mean, look at their track record."

Tucker's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hat. "I am looking at their track record. They investigate their way into a new girl's life every episode!"

"Do they, Mr. Foley?" Lancer interrupted, seemingly interested in where this conversation was heading. "Mr. Fenton? Care to share your theory on Crockett and Tubbs' unhappiness?" In a slightly lower voice, he added, "And maybe prove that somebody learned something from this?"

Danny hadn't expected to be asked to expound on his theory. In truth, if he hadn't been so worked up over his own troubles, he never would have come up with it in the first place. "Um...I guess," he said.

Turning to Tucker, he said, "You're right. Crockett and Tubbs get a new girlfriend every episode. That means they never stay with one girl. They're always looking for true love, but they never find it. And it's always the same deal for them." He ticked his points off on his fingers. "If they find a girl they like, she's an enemy spy, a prostitute, or a drug addict. If she is not an enemy spy, prostitute, or addict, she's dead by the end of the episode. And they're alone again."

"You are hurting me with your geekiness, Fenton," Dash groaned.

"Shut up, Dash," Valerie said. "Maybe Danny has a point."

"Danny definitely has a point," Lancer interjected. "But such is the nature of drama. If everything turned out all right for everyone in the end, why would we be interested at all?"

There were murmurs of agreement around the room, and Danny felt his blood begin to simmer with misplaced aggression. "But that sucks," he burst out before he realized what he was doing.

All eyes swung back to him.

"Mr. Fenton? Are you all right?" Lancer asked, cocking a brow.

"No," Danny said vehemently. "I'm not all right. That's not fair. Why can't we just be happy in the end? Why do we have to suffer just so everyone else can have their drama?"

"Danny! Danny, man, calm down," Tucker said, but the words bubbled with I-can't-believe-he's-freaking-out-like-this laughter.

Lancer looked like he wanted to laugh, too, but he didn't. "Because Moonlighting was handled very, very poorly, Daniel," he sighed. "And as much as it hurts, we're going to have to pay for that for a good long while."

Danny sighed, pillowing his head on his arms. "I don't want to watch Miami Vice anymore."

"Yeah!" the rest of the class agreed.

Lancer tried to frown, but it kept bending into a smirk. "Everybody's a critic. Okay, who wants to learn about lighting techniques and camera angles?"

The class let out a brief cheer—all except for Danny, who remained very quiet for the rest of the period. Tucker kept slanting nervous sideways glances at him, and every so often Valerie would dart her eyes toward him as well.

None of this went unnoticed by Mr. Lancer. "Oh, Mr. Fenton," he called as the class was trudging out the door after the final bell. When Danny turned, he said, "Don't worry. Sometimes, despite the maelstrom that rages around him, the hero does get the girl."

Danny seemed to like that; he treated his teacher to a wry smile before continuing with his exit.

While the video essay class had been agonizing over the cruelty of drama, Sam was in home economics, having some of her own.

"Ow!" Sam's voice cracked, a squeal finding its way through her normal smooth tone. She jumped back from the stove, doubling over in pain.

Mrs. Tetschlav looked mournfully down at the shattered glass dish that had previously contained a cherry pie (now also shattered). Sighing, she addressed the rest of the class. "Pay attention, girls. Manson has just demonstrated the importance of aprons to us. Especially when wearing a miniskirt."

The home economics class had been baking pies. Sam had remembered her oven mitts but foregone an apron. Upon removing the glass baking dish from the stove, she had underestimated its weight and tried to balance it on her leg, which wasn't covered by the material of her skirt. She now had a rather unattractive burn mark across one thigh; the unexpected pain had shocked her into dropping the dish, pie and all.

"Ow, ow, ow," Sam yelped, fanning at her leg with her oven mitt. "I am getting a transfer out of here, so help me God!"

"The hell you are, Manson," Tetschlav said, rushing to put an ice pack in Sam's hands. "I'll whip you into shape if I have to use the Kitchenaid."

Sam held the ice pack to her leg and looked in horror at the Kitchenaid, which had about eighteen attachments and looked like it could puree a student in about ten seconds flat.

"On the bright side, Manson, I don't think this pie would be up to competition standard," Tetschlav sighed, looking down at the remains of the pie. "So it's no big deal that you dropped it." She squinted down at the burn on Sam's leg. "Keep that ice pack on for a few more minutes, then we'll put it in the freezer for twenty before reapplying. That burn won't like anything touching it, so be careful while you're on the floor cleaning this mess up."

Sam sank miserably to her knees to start cleaning up. She was beginning to feel like she wasn't up to competition standard.

"There's nothing wrong with my pie," Paulina trilled, brandishing a tin. "Who wants a piece?"

Feeling like Cinderella, Sam carefully collected pieces of broken glass while the rest of the class sliced into the blueberry pie Paulina had made. She could hear murmurs of appreciation and Mrs. Tetschlav's final verdict.

"Perfect. Class, pay attention to Paulina," the teacher said, waving her fork. "She's got it perfect."

Sam gritted her teeth and got to her feet, only to have a slice of blueberry pie shoved under her nose.

"Want a piece, Sam?" Paulina purred. "You heard our teacher. It's perrrrrfect..."

Home economics class was definitely not Sam's thing, but the goth was very proud. She hated to be outdone in anything, especially by someone like Paulina. The other girl held the paper plate out to her, smiling sweetly…well, it was supposed to be sweet. Instead, it looked like the permanent smile a shark's jaws were fixed in. Sam reached for the plate in defeat.

"Careful," Paulina giggled. "Don't burn yourself."

Later, Sam would decide that shoving the slice of pie into the popular girl's face probably wasn't an appropriate response. But that would be far, far later in the week, when she was dressed like a sofa and even more miserable than she was right now.

The element of surprise worked in her favor; she even had time to grind a bit of the pie into Paulina's hair before the other girl reacted. Then there were gasps, and perfectly manicured nails were raking down Sam's cheek. Like any good lieutenant, Star jumped into the fray. When asked later, Sam would not be able to remember which of them knocked her down.

"Girls!" Tetschlav bellowed, reaching into the scratching, hair-pulling dust cloud. She emerged with a struggling girl in each hand, as if she were breaking up a fight between two kittens.

"She started it!" Paulina howled, pointing her right forefinger at Sam like a pistol. There was blueberry filling matted in her hair. "You saw what she did!"

For her part, Sam merely growled. Tetschlav gave each girl a shake. "Paulina, if you could refrain from teasing Ms. Manson, perhaps these things wouldn't happen, hm?"

Sam snickered, but her face fell when the teacher's angry gaze swung to her. "You think it's funny? You're a troublemaker, Manson. You always have been."

"If you call thinking for myself being a troublemaker," Sam muttered.

"I call starting fistfights with other students being a troublemaker," Tetschlav clarified. "The two of you will stay after class to receive punishment. Now clean up this mess," she ordered, in the tone that meant, "Do what I say or I'll Kitchenaid your face."

Glaring at each other, Paulina and Sam knelt down and began cleaning up scattered bits of blueberry pie.

"Bully," Sam hissed to Paulina.

"Bitchola," Paulina shot back.

Meanwhile, Star breathed a sigh of relief from her corner of the room. Some days, it was a good thing that Paulina got all the attention.

"Are you all right, Danny?" Lancer asked after the bell had rung. He'd left the classroom to find Danny Fenton still sitting in the hallway, possibly waiting for his friends. Tucker Foley was still serving his detention for the girls' locker room, if memory served, and the scuttlebutt around the teacher's lounge was that Sam Manson was having quite a bit of trouble in Mrs. Tetschlav's home economics class. "You were very vocal in class today. Something you want to talk about?"

Danny nodded, then shook his head no, then realized how confusing that might look. "I mean, yes, I'm okay, no, there's nothing to talk about."

Lancer wasn't fooled, but he didn't push any harder as the boy rose to his feet. "How's your video essay project coming?"

Danny smiled, unable to help it. "I've got a great subject, but it's harder than I thought to film."

Lancer smirked. "Good things come when you challenge yourself."

"I sure hope so," Danny said. "See you tomor—"

"Mr. Lancer!" someone cried. "Mr. Lancer, don't go!"

Sam galloped towards them, skidding to a breathless stop. "Mr. Lancer, wait up. I need your help."

"Whoa, Sam," the teacher said, arching a brow. "Take it easy. What's the trouble? I'll help if I can."

Sam sucked in a breath and began her hard-luck story. "I signed up for shop class but they said there was no room so they put me in home ec, but I suck at girl stuff and I'm totally going to fail if I stay there. I can't get in to shop and nothing else is left but your video class. Can't you overtally me so I can get in? I'll make up the classwork. I promise!"

Mr. Lancer could have explained to Sam that there was no way he could bend the rules in her case, that she had been put into home economics for a reason, that good things came when one challenged oneself—but he was far too amused by the sight of Danny over her shoulder. As she spoke, the boy was making a slashing motion across his throat and shaking his head fiercely, all the while mouthing, "No. No," silently.

Lancer's eyes twinkled. "Now, Sam. If I let you do that, I'd have to let all the students do that and there would be absolutely no need for class programs at the beginning of the semester. I'm afraid you'll just have to learn to bake and stitch."

"Nooooooo!" Sam wailed. "I can't! You don't understand! Our next project is sewing, and she's making me—"

"End of discussion, Ms. Manson. You will remain in home economics class. And as they say on the runway—" He treated Sam to a wicked smirk, "make it work."

Sam collapsed against the wall in defeat as their teacher made his escape. Danny joined her, since there was still fifteen minutes before Tucker would be let out of detention. "I take it class isn't going..." He trailed off at the sight of a white gauze patch on her upper thigh, making the skin look almost tan by comparison. "What happened to your leg?"

Sam blushed. "Burned myself in home ec."

"On your leg? What'd you do, drop a pie plate on yourself?" Danny frowned.

She didn't answer, but blushed even more miserably, which was answer enough. "I want to transfer. This isn't fair."

Danny slung a friendly arm around her. "Who cares if you can't bake a pie? The semester will be over soon enough, and then you're taking studio art, right? You'll be head of the class."

She smiled a little at his flattery.

"Let's go see if Tuck can skip out early," Danny said. "Want to come hang out by me for a while? We can try some more shots for my video essay?"

Sam sighed. "I wish I could, but Tetschlav says I have to bake something else to make up for the pie I ruined today. With the way I bake, it'll take me all night. I thought baking was supposed to be easy."

Danny stopped walking, suddenly struck by an idea. "You go get Tucker. I have to make a phone call, okay?"

Sam looked confused, but headed for the room detention was being served in. Meanwhile, Danny punched a button on his cell phone. "Jazz? It's Danny...good, how are you? Great, that's great...listen, where do Mom and Dad keep all the stuff we used to play with when we were little?"

Tucker snorted from his perch on the Fentons' kitchen counter, trying to hold in his laughter. "Danny, you have seriously lost it, man."

"I have not lost it," Danny said calmly. "When you're teaching someone to ride a bike, you start them on training wheels. When you're teaching someone to bake a cake, you use this."

"This" was a somewhat battered Easy-Bake Oven. Years ago, it had belonged to Jazz, and had somehow miraculously escaped becoming part of one of Jack and Maddie's experiments. Danny had found it in the attic, and upon plugging it in, was delighted to see the light bulb flicker to life.

"Um...Danny?" Sam said, tearing open a packet of powdered cake mix. "I don't think this is exactly what Tetschlav has in mind."

"She just says you have to bake something, right?" Danny said. "She didn't say how. She didn't say how big. She just said bake it. Besides, this is great practice for you. It's practically the same thing as a real oven."

Sam narrowed her eyes at the plastic oven and its low-watt light bulb. "I know when you say 'practically the same thing', you actually mean 'entirely different', right?"

"Come on, Sam," Tucker cajoled. "At least give it a shot. If you screw up, we can just eat it."

Sam frowned and emptied the packet of mix into the tiny pan. "I hate you guys."

"Well, smile while you hate us," Danny said, lifting his video camera.

Sam stopped mixing batter. "No. Oh, no. I agreed to be humiliated by a toy oven. I did not agree to do it on camera."

"Need I remind you that you said you'd help me?" Danny said, centering her in the viewfinder. "Action."

"Danny, no. If I'm going to set your kitchen on fire, I do not want it recorded on videotape!" Sam protested.

"It's an Easy-Bake Oven, Sam. A hundred-watt light bulb is not going to set anything on fire. In fact, it's probably not even going to bake that sad little cake you're mixing over there," Tucker said, then remembered he was on camera, too. Looking at Danny, he said, "Is it okay if I'm in the shot, too, or do you want me to back out?" Then he covered his mouth. "Should we even be talking?"

"I don't know if we're doing audio," Danny said. "I can't decide if I want to do that, or have a soundtrack running in the background. Until I decide, if you guys are going to break the fourth wall, can you let me know first?"

Sam snorted, smoothing the top of her cake with a flat little plastic knife. "Directors," she said. Tucker chuckled.

"Besides, you need this tape," Danny said. "You know Mrs. Tetschlav is going to accuse you of just buying something and bringing it in."

Sam frowned at him, waving the tiny cake plate. "I agree she's always suspicious of me, but I doubt she's going to think this is a proxy."

"So, when she accuses you of cheating, I'll just show her this tape, and we can prove that you baked this all by your l'il self," Danny teased.

"Oh, shut up, Fenton," Sam laughed.

"Here, Tuck, take this for a second," Danny said, handing the camera off to Tucker. "Are we centered?"

"Yeah," Tucker said, looking through the viewfinder.

"Is the oven in the shot?"

"Yeah. Say it like you're a game-show host," the techno-geek laughed.

Danny flashed a big, cheesy smile. "Hi! We're Danny Fenton and Sam Manson."

"Okay, now like you're on the home shopping network," Tucker encouraged.

Not missing a beat, Danny changed his tone. "And we're here today to prove on video that Sam can bake something without burning herself or starting a fire."

"Stop the camera," Sam said, blushing. "Danny! Knock it off."

"Now like it's the number one film in America!" Tucker said, but before Danny could say another line, Sam reached for a tube of frosting. Frowning, she walked forward and squirted it over the camera lens.

"We'll be right back, after these messages," she quipped dryly.

Tucker snickered, wiping at the camera lens. "I guess it's safe to say 'cut'?" He sighed and set the camera down on the counter.

Sam stuck her tongue out at the techno-geek as he ran cold water onto a paper towel.

"You are no fun," Danny said, smiling at Sam. "Come on, Sam. You have to admit this is funny!"

Sam pouted. "Do I look like I'm laughing?"

Instead of arguing, Danny took the tube of frosting out of her hand and squirted some cherry frosting onto her nose. "Are you laughing now?"

Sam wasn't laughing; her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed to try to see her nose. "Daniel Fenton..." she said warningly.

Danny's heart was knocking excitedly against his breastbone. How far could he take this? "You look so sweet."

Sam's facial muscles were working in a way that made him think she was fighting back a smile—the stern look on her face twitched, like a television set going out of focus. It encouraged a smile of his own to tug at his lips as he stepped closer to her.

Tucker tried not to look like he was rushing to pick up the camera once again. Luckily, the room's other two occupants were far too distracted to notice.

Sam's scowl relaxed into a look of uncertainty as he closed the distance between them. If he didn't know better, he'd have said she was holding her breath. Not for the first time, he wondered what she'd do if he just swept her close and kissed her.

He didn't kiss her. He licked the frosting from her nose.

Her reaction was priceless—she leapt back and squeaked, clapping her hands over her nose. "Danny!"

"Oh my gosh!" Tucker howled, still looking into the camera's viewfinder. "Sam, you should see your face!"

"Ugh," Sam said, dashing for the tap and scrubbing at her nose fiercely with a paper towel. "Danny, are you going to be serious about this or not?"

The Easy-Bake Oven went ping.

Friday saw Sam's little Easy-Bake cake sitting proudly on the home-ec counter beside all the bigger cakes. Tucker had pouted the night before over not being able to eat it, but he'd cheered up while she was decorating it with black icing and gummy bats, since she'd let him eat the leftover gummies as well as lick the icing from the spoon. The end result--which Tetschlav had been forced to award her a "D-minus-minus" on--had actually pleased her. As she popped a gummy bat she'd palmed into her mouth, she couldn't stop her eyes from wandering over to the frosting she'd decorated the cake with.

He'd licked her nose. What had gotten into the boy?

She felt the smile curving her lips and let it come. It wasn't just the physical contact that had pleased her--although, strange as it was, it had not been unpleasant--but the unpredictability of him, his willingness to tease her in ways that would normally have had them both blushing and stammering. All their lives, she'd been telling Danny that he was unique. Special. And maybe he thought it was because of his abilities, but really, Sam thought, it was just because she couldn't think of a single other person who'd have the idea to help her with her home-ec project by way of a toy oven, then lick frosting from her nose and smile like it was all some wonderful game.

He really could be sweet...

"Stop laughing," Paulina hissed around the pins in her mouth. "If you keep moving, you're gonna make me mess this up."

Sam's smile immediately fell off her face and crashed to the floor. Tilting her head down, she looked at Paulina, who was kneeling, trying feverishly to whipstitch the hem of her sewing project.

Which Sam was currently wearing.

It was around this time that Sam decided throwing blueberry pie at Paulina hadn't been worth the momentary victory. Mrs. Tetschlav had been furious with both of them, and like Mr. Lancer, she had a flair for dealing out particularly humiliating punishments. While the other students in the class were using dressmaker's dummies to model their garments, Tetschlav was making Paulina and Sam model for each other. Today and half of next week, Sam was modeling for Paulina; then Paulina would model for her.

As punishments went, it was a gem. It involved all the best tenets of torture—doing something you didn't want to do, staying still for long periods of time, and spending that time with someone you hated. The other girls wondered why it was such a big deal, but Tetschlav had known that Paulina and Sam would punish each other far worse than she ever could.

Everyone in the class kept peeking around their dummies to stare. Sam cringed, trying to tug one of the puffy sleeves up her arm. The difference in hips and height between her and Paulina was obvious by how poorly the dress fit.

"Mrs. Tetschlav," Paulina wailed, shifting her weight back on her heels in despair. "This is a nightmare! She looks like Frankenstein's bride goes to the prom! And her blush doesn't match the dress!"

It didn't, but that was probably because the candy-pink color of the taffeta didn't match anything except itself. It had more ruffles than a bag of potato chips, and the puffy sleeves made Sam feel like she'd gotten lost on the way to a Cyndi Lauper concert.

"I am a Marshmallow Peep. Smash my head please," Sam muttered.

Tetschlav was grinning wickedly at her. "How do you feel, Manson?"

"Like an enormous pudding," said Sam. "This sucks. It doesn't fit, the material itches, the color's wrong, and it isn't me at all."

"Welcome to being punished," Tetschlav said dryly. "And stop snickering, Paulina. It's your turn next week."

Paulina frowned and tugged on Sam's skirt, hard. "Let's just get this over with, Manson. If I fail this project because of you, you and your loser friends will never be able to set foot in the cafeteria again!"

"I'm shaking in these ugly shoes you're making me wear," Sam snarled. Paulina thought she was a princess, so she'd selected a pair of platform jellies that Sam guessed were supposed to look like glass slippers. They were pinching her toes and giving her a blister where the plastic strap was rubbing against her foot.

"You have to wear the shoes, or I won't get the length right," Paulina hissed. "Now calenta—shut up! I'm having enough trouble with your figure as it is."

It's official, Sam thought. This can not get any w—

"It's about time, Mr. Fenton," Mrs. Tetschlav said dryly from the front of the room. "Although I still think you'd have better luck filming when the girls are actually done with their dresses..."

"It's not about the finished product, Mrs. Tetschlav," Danny said charmingly, walking through the door with his camera strapped to his hand. "It's about the creative process."

As soon as the other girls saw the camera, they realized what was going on and turned on the charm, cooing, "Hi Danny." By contrast, Sam gasped and drew her arms across her body, trying feebly to hide the dress. The taffeta refused to behave, springing out on all sides. Danny cocked an eyebrow, lowering his camera. "Sam, I thought you said you were working on your sewing project today."

"We're working on my sewing project," Paulina gushed, also having seen the camera. "You can film my creative process, Danny."

Still confused, Danny circled Sam, looking her up and down. Sam blushed miserably. She'd had little fantasies of the day her best friend finally looked at her the way a boy looks at a girl, and none of them had involved pink taffeta.

Paulina, for her part, was making the best out of a bad situation like a champ. "And isn't Sam just the cutest little model? I really think my design improves her look!"

"She looks like a sofa," Danny said. "An unhappy one."

"Are you getting any of this on film?" Paulina demanded, a bit of steel beneath the sugar now.

"He's not filming," Sam snapped. "In fact, he's leaving!"

"Mr. Fenton, our agreement was that you would not disturb my class," Tetschlav said warningly.

"I'm not," Danny said hurriedly. "You girls just keep working."

"No," Sam said. "You are not filming me in this nightmare frock from hell!"

"He's not filming you," Paulina said. "He's filming me! Now shut up and hold still like a good dummy." She emphasized "dummy".

Defeated, Sam glanced down at Danny. "What is going on here?"

"Lancer gave us the period free to work on our video essays," Danny explained, centering her. "I asked Mrs. Tetschlav if I could come in here and film you working."

"So why are you still filming?" she asked. "You're wasting your time. I'm not working today."

"I don't know," he said, lifting his head from the viewfinder. "It looks like working to me."

Paulina tossed a pin to the floor in disgust. "You think the dress is working? Are you blind, Danny? She looks terrible."

"It looks terrible on her," Danny said, looking through the viewfinder again. "That's not the same thing."

"That does it. Screw you guys. I'm going home," Sam said, kicking off one of the platform jellies. It slid past Paulina, who cried, "Hey!"

"Stay put, Manson," said Mrs. Tetschlav, coming to the rescue, as it were. "All right, that's it. Fenton, out. Manson, put that shoe back on and hold still. Maybe this'll teach you not to throw pies at people."

"Awww!" Danny said, shutting off his camera. "I didn't even get to film anything."

"Good," Sam said dangerously, stuffing her foot back into the shoe.

Danny looked mildly confused by the vehemence of her outburst. "I'll wait for you outside."

"Don't wait for me outside," Sam said. She had no desire to see him for the rest of the day. "Just go."

"But Sam, I'm—"

"Fenton, what part of 'don't disturb my class' don't you understand?" Tetschlav asked.

"I'm—leaving!" Danny amended, heading for the door in an uncomfortable hurry.

Sam felt her eyes stinging. Shifting her feet in the uncomfortable shoes, she felt the first trickle of blood slide down her foot.

With nothing to film and Tucker stuck in his last day of detention, Danny had decided to wait for Sam by the front doors. But when she showed up, back in her street clothes and with a murderous look on her face, she breezed right past him and strode outside.

"Sam?" Danny said, getting to his feet. "Sam, wait up!"

She didn't acknowledge him. Her walk was stiff, hands clenched into fists.

"Sam, slow down," Danny said. He practically had to jog to keep up with her. "What's wrong?"

Instead of slowing down, Sam stopped short and turned, causing him to walk into her. Shoving him back, she burst out, "You, you idiot. You're what's wrong."

"What!" Now he was thoroughly confused. "Me? What did I do?"

She was practically shaking with rage. "How dare you come into my class with that camera! Are you trying on purpose to make me feel like an idiot? Because you really don't have to bother. I feel like an idiot in there most of the time anyway, and I don't need you to capture it all on film."

Danny felt himself flush. He hadn't even considered the fact that she might have been embarrassed. "But I..."

"But nothing. I am so angry at you, Danny. Do you even know why I was modeling for Paulina? I was being punished because we got into a fistfight yesterday over a blueberry pie."

"You didn't tell me that," Danny protested. "You just said you'd burned yourself."

Sam chose not to argue this point—like a smart soldier, she was going to stick to the battle she knew she could win. "It doesn't matter, Danny! If this project is so important to you that it means you care more about your grade than the way I feel, then maybe I shouldn't help you with it."

Ouch. That stung. Danny felt his teeth grit, because the easiest way out of this was to tell her the truth about why he was making the video. If that didn't prove he cared about her, then nothing would. Looking into those sad, angry eyes, he was tempted to just tell her everything, make her stop hurting—make both of them stop hurting.

But all he got out was, "I'm sorry," and even that was a mumble.

After a silence, she started walking again, but at a normal pace. He walked beside her without speaking, giving her the space she seemed to need. He didn't ask the question till they were at her door.

"Do you want out?" His voice was scratchy with the question hidden beneath his question, the one she didn't know about, the one he was too scared to ask. "Tell me now if you do."

She sighed, looking tired. "Of course I don't want out. You know I'm down for the ride. I'm just...so mad at you right now."

Despite what she was saying, Danny was grateful for her honesty. He was pretty sure that their friendship had survived as much as it had because they were able to argue, disagree, and then get over it. He just wondered how long it was going to take her to get over this one. "I know. And you're right, and I'm sorry. I'll stop following you into everything—I'll think of something, okay?" Panic made him throw out the next sentence. "Sam, I know this doesn't make any sense right now, but I promise it will eventually. It might even be worth all this aggravation."

Now she looked openly skeptical. Not good.

"Just do me a favor, okay?" she asked wearily. "Next time you're going to humiliate me in front of my entire home ec class, can you please warn me first?" And then she shut the door.

On the way home, he cursed himself for a coward and an idiot. If he kept this charade up, he was going to end up driving Sam crazy, and things would get worse instead of better. His heart was telling him to just tell her the truth, but his head was telling him to cut his losses, and between the two was the taste of cherry frosting.

He lay on top of his covers, staring at the ceiling.

She was right, of course. She was usually right. It was one of the worst parts about arguing with her—she usually had a point.

He wondered what he'd gotten himself into with this. It had the potential to end very badly. He and Sam got along just fine when he didn't have a camera in his hand, but as soon as that RECORD light went on it was like everything went to hell. It wasn't worth losing her over.

Stars twinkled outside his window and he thought about Lancer's class earlier that day. It wasn't fair. In movies and television, people had things like fairy godparents, or little crickets who acted as their conscience, or guardian angels who told them to go back and get their high school diplomas. Everything was always spelled out so neatly for them. Where's my divine intervention? he wondered idly. It's late, and I could really use some advice right now.

So when his phone rang, it startled him to a sitting position. He glanced around the room, checked his breathing for any kind of ghost sense. Nothing.

The phone shrieked its impatience again. Who was it? God? His inner voice calling collect?

Carefully, as if it were wired to explode, he picked up the phone. "Hello?"

The caller didn't even return the greeting, simply started in on the conversation as soon as she knew he was listening. "Look, I tried to keep out of it, okay? I surfed the internet for a while, I went for a run, I took a shower—I even played Ms. Pac Man until my eyes started to hurt. But I can't stand it anymore. I have to know. Why did you need my Easy-Bake Oven?"

Danny grinned against the mouthpiece. Not an angel, not his conscience, but someone almost as good. "Hello to you, too, Jazz. Ms. Pac Man, huh? See, you are still hunting ghosts, even away from home."

"Yeah, can you ask Dad to send me more of that cereal? I like the marshmallow bits…so why did you need my oven?"

"Sam's having some trouble in home economics," Danny explained. "Tucker and I were trying to teach her to bake."

"With my toy oven? Danny, have you lost it?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Danny asked mildly, following it with a laugh. "Don't worry, I had an ulterior motive. I'm trying to make a video essay, and Sam is helping me. I wanted to film her, you know…a little out of her element."

"I can't believe she'd let you do that," Jazz said.

"She didn't let me," he said glumly. "She finally got upset today and said I was humiliating her."

"Ouch," Jazz said.

"Yeah."

"What's the video about?"

Danny sighed. "Oh, I don't want to talk about it."

"Danny, do I have to remind you that talking about our problems helps us all grow, and that—"

"I said no, okay?" he interrupted irritably.

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then Jazz said, "Wow, you're really upset about this."

"Yes, I am. Can we talk about something else, please?" Danny frowned.

"Sam will get over it, Danny. Just give her some time to cool off," Jazz said kindly.

"I don't have time to give her," Danny said. "I have to finish this project. It's really, really important."

"It's just a homework assignment," Jazz began, but Danny cut her off.

"It's not just a homework assignment! It's more than that, and if I screw this up—wait a minute, since when do you say things like 'it's just a homework assignment"!"

Jazz chuckled. "Ah, how the tables have turned since I went to college."

Danny scowled. "Fine. Make jokes. My life is going to be in shambles by the end of next week, and you're laughing about it."

He could hear the smile in Jazz's voice. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up about Sam."

Danny flopped back onto his pillow with the phone in his hand. "Yes. That's what Tucker said. I'm sure that's what everyone will say. Now, are you all going to rub it in my face, or do you have something useful to tell me?"

Jazz pretended to huff at him. "Danny, do I have to do everything for you? If you're so worried about Sam getting angry with you, why don't you just go ghost when you film her?"

Had they been in some kind of Nickelodeon cartoon or something, a light bulb might have gone bing over Danny's head. Instead, he sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes widening in surprised delight. "Jazz. I know everyone tells you this, but you are a genius."

"Duh!" Jazz said. "I expect a full report on this eventually."

Danny laughed, the knot in his stomach finally starting to relax. "And you'll get one. As soon as it's worked out. I promise."

On the night table, his cell phone started to shrill. The LCD display flashed TUCKER CALLING.

"Sounds like you're being paged," Jazz said wistfully. "Wish I could be there. Call me tomorrow, okay? Let me know how it's going with Sam."

"I will. Thanks, Jazz." Juggling phones, Danny hung up one and answered the other.

"Hey, Danny? You might want to get out here," Tucker chuckled nervously on the line. "Somebody wants to play fetch."

Danny poked his head out the window, hoping against hope he'd see not one, but two best friends waiting outside for him.

Well, almost.

"I was sort of hoping for my best friend, not man's best friend," Danny said from under a giant spectral paw.

"Can you get him to put me down?" Tucker said from the ghost dog's jaws. "He's not hurting me or anything, but this dog has a severe case of halitosis."

"This is the part where we both yell at each other for forgetting the Thermos," Danny sighed.

"Sam was supposed to bring the Thermos!" Tucker protested. "I don't know where she is. I tried her phone, and she didn't answer!"

Danny flushed miserably. Obviously Sam still didn't want to see him. He decided to play dumb. "Look, don't worry about it, okay? I'll think of something." It seemed he was saying that a lot lately.

"Think of it fast," Tucker whined. "This bites. No pun intended."

"Cujo, sit," Danny snarled, going intangible long enough to slip out from underneath the ghost dog's big foot.

"Oh, yeah, right, like that's ever worked before." Tucker, who was still hanging from the dog's teeth by his belt, folded his arms and rolled his eyes.

Danny was about to deliver a hot retort when a whistle caught everyone's attention. Cujo dropped Tucker, who landed ungracefully and scrambled away as fast as he could.

The dog's glowing red eyes searched happily for the new source of amusement, who was standing at the end of the block, waving something shiny in her hand.

"Here, Cujo," Sam said brightly, in a voice she only used for special occasions, like lying to their parents or trying to divert Lancer's attention from something they were doing. "Here, boy. Want to play?"

"Sam?" both boys called in surprise.

"Just a second," she said, making sure the dog's eyes were still tracking the object she held. "Here, Cujo. Fetch!" Almost gracefully, she threw what she was holding away from her. As it spun in an achingly lovely curve towards the horizon, Danny recognized it as the Fenton Boo-Merang.

"Nice throw, Sam," Tucker said, "but are you forgetting that that stupid thing is locked onto Danny's ecto-signature? It's just going to come right back."

"Yeah, but now we're ready," she said, tossing Danny the Thermos. "Think fast!"

Danny allowed himself a grin as he caught the Thermos, just in time for Cujo to come barreling back down the block in pursuit of his new toy.

Sam snatched the Boo-Merang out of the air as Danny flipped the switch, comforted by the familiar whine of the Thermos warming up. He tried not to keep an eye on Sam as the Thermos flared to bright life, trapping the spectral pooch inside.

"Now that is teamwork," Danny said appreciatively to Sam when things were quiet. "Thanks for the save."

"Where the hell have you been?" Tucker said, stomping over to them before Sam could answer Danny. "You think being shaken around like a chew toy is fun? You were supposed to be here an hour ago. I left you two messages, and Danny must have left you three!"

"Four," Danny corrected quietly. "It's no big, Tuck. She's here now."

Sam gave him a grateful look, which was how he knew the next words were for him, even though she was addressing Tucker. "I'm sorry, Tuck. You're right. I should have been here, and not been such a jerk."

"No, you were right," Danny said. "You weren't being a jerk."

"Hello!" Tucker said, completely oblivious to the conversation beneath the conversation. "I got chewed on by a ghost dog because Little Miss Latey-Pants over here—"

"Yes, but then she came back," Danny said, trying not to chuckle at the techno-geek. "You should forgive Sam, Tucker. I mean, that's what I would do." He glanced at Sam, who smiled, assuring him she understood his meaning.

With the mood sufficiently lightened, Sam narrowed her eyes playfully at Tucker. " 'Little Miss Latey-Pants'?"

Tucker sneered. "Not goth enough for you?"

Sam pulled Tucker's hat down over his eyes, her favorite way of ending an argument. "Come on, you wimps. I'm here now. We can start patrolling for real."

"Oh, now you're here..." Tucker said sarcastically, then added, "Although that thing with the Boo-Merang was pretty quick thinking, I'll give you that."

"Yeah," Danny agreed. "I wish I'd had my camera!"

Tucker and Sam exchanged amused glances, and Danny had a feeling they were about to join forces against him. "I'll hold him," Tucker said to Sam, "you tickle him."

Danny's eyes widened, but there wasn't enough time to go intangible before they pounced.

Author's Notes:

"Pretty In Pink" is by the Psychedelic Furs. This chapter was a toss-up between that and "Sweet Cherry Pie" by Warrant, which is one of the greatest hair-band songs ever. I decided that the former was more appropriate for this one, although the latter is still extremely funny XD. In the original cut of this chapter, I was going to have Tucker attempt to sing a few bars of the Warrant song, but the other characters begged me not to do that.

I couldn't resist adding a reference to Moonlighting, but my friend warned me I was going to have to explain it for those who might not understand it. For those unfamiliar with it, Moonlighting was a very successful TV series in the 80s, starring Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd. The best thing about Moonlighting was easily the romantic tension between the two leads. When the series came to its final season, the writers were sort of backed into a corner for a few reasons, and so they wrote the two characters finally getting romantically involved. The loss of the "will they or won't they?" tension caused the show to stagnate horribly, and it became utterly boring and unwatchable. I really feel this has made an unconscious impact on Hollywood and screenwriting in general; now everyone's afraid to let two characters fall in love for fear their show will become stale. And those of us who secretly want our characters to be allowed the luxury of a happy ending must suffer XD I agree that tension makes for a lot of fun and an overall great plot device, but can the characters at least get together in the end? How many years are we going to have to suffer for Moonlighting? XF

Please tell me Miami Vice speaks for itself. Otherwise I might have to hurt myself XD

Paulina calls Sam bitchola in home economics. Bitchola is defined on the Urban Dictionary websiteas "an affectionate term for a female friend", but I've only ever heard it on the epic South Park episode "Fat Butt and Pancake Head", where Cartman's Jennifer Lopez hand puppet greets the real J.Lo by saying, "!Hola bitchola!" in a most unfriendly manner. At any rate, it's meant to be hostile here.

After the home-ec debacle, Lancer tells Sam to "make it work"—just like Heidi Klum on Project Runway. Which is one of my guilty pleasures. XD Shoot me. Think less of me. Normally I hate reality TV, but I like that the people on Project Runway actually create something, and aren't making the show's "plot" out of being washed-up celebrities or being married to each other or something stupid like that.

I was not allowed to have an Easy-Bake Oven when I was a kid because my parents were afraid I might hurt myself. Eventually, I stole my cousin's and attempted to become a culinary genius, till I realized that a 100-watt light bulb is not enough to cook a layer cake. What the hell kind of toys were we playing with here?

"I am a Marshmallow Peep. Smash my head please." This is actually a quote from the margins of Jhonen Vasquez's "Squee's Wonderful Big Giant Book of Unspeakable Horrors". It has nothing to do with the story of Squee, it's just a little marshmallow chick hanging out in the margin. I found it hilarious, and I really like Marshmallow Peeps, but who doesn't? I have a soft plush Marshmallow Peep chick on my desk at work. I love those guys! And now they're half-price cause Easter is over. ….I think, anyway.

I was happy to include one of my favorite ghosts in this chapter—Cujo! While I'm unsure if that's what he's really called, I believe that he is referred to every so often as "Cujo", after the rabid dog in Stephen King's novel of the same name.

This seemed to take forever. I have no idea if anyone's even still reading this thing! XD

Chapter Four: Danny takes Jazz's advice. For once. Coming soon to a theater or drive-in near you!