Author's Introduction:

Yup, still writing. And making notes for the fic to follow this one. Yup, still doing it.

Going to keep writing, keep drawing. You watch me. Just watch me.

Eye of the Beholder

A Danny Phantom fanfiction

Chapter Six: Is There Something I Should Know

There's a dream that strings the road
With broken glass for us to hold
And I cut so far before I had to say
Please, please tell me now
Is there something I should know
Is there something I should say
That'll make you come my way
Do you feel the same, cause you don't let it show

(Is There Something I Should Know, Duran Duran)

Beautiful.

Dawn had lightened the sky to pale buttermilk over Amity Park. A lark serenaded the trees from its perch in a tall ash. Below, a badger's blunt footpaws churned the soil as it returned to its den. It was a beautiful morning.

Sam's cell phone shivered on the night table, ringing her alarm—the first few bars of Ministry's "Every Day Is Halloween".

With a sorrowful sound, the goth thrust a pale hand through the filmy dark of her canopy, slapping around until she knocked the phone off the night table. It stopped ringing, and she stuck her head sleepily out to look for it, covering a dainty yawn with her hand. Hair tousled, long lashes blinking, she glanced around the dim room.

"Cut!" someone yelled triumphantly. "That was perfect!"

Sam shrieked, eyes opening wide as she retreated back behind the flimsy safety of her canopy.

"Sam, wait—" The intruder thrust the canopy open without thinking and immediately received a black, faux-fur pillow to the face. "Ow!"

"Danny!" Sam hissed, the events of last night coming back to her as she dropped the pillow. "You scared me," she added, frowning at him.

He chuckled. "That's what I do. Hello, ghost boy?"

She swung the pillow again, but he ducked it. Further conversation was interrupted by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and a call of "Samantha?"

"It's my mom," Sam gasped. "Quick, Danny—"

She'd turned to call a warning to empty air.

"—hide?"

Just in time. Mrs. Manson burst into the room without knocking as was her custom. Despite the early hour, she was fully dressed and coiffed beyond all sense, drifting into the room on a cloud of Chanel no. 5. "I heard you scream, Samantha! What's wrong, sweetheart?"

Sam was already trying to shepherd her mother back out the door. "Nothing, Mom. I had that bad dream about being crowned prom queen again. Get out. I have to get ready for school."

"Sammykins, darling, you'd make a lovely prom queen!" Mrs. Manson's empty eyes bounced around the room as she turned this way and that, skirt swinging like a bell with her as the clapper. Sam followed her mother's glance nervously, but if a ghost boy was good at anything, it was hiding. Danny was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm fat, Mom," Sam threw out as a last desperate measure. "Don't look at me. Get out."

Mrs. Manson clucked her tongue as she allowed her daughter to push her out of the room. "Samantha, you are certainly not fat. You're beautiful! You're perfect—"

"Get out," Sam roared, slamming the door.

She didn't relax until she heard her mother's footsteps fade out at the end of the hall. Running a hand through her hair and sighing, she pushed the canopy aside and sat down on the bed.

Invisible fingers feathered against her sides and she squeaked, jumping. "Stop that."

Danny chuckled as he turned visible again, revealing himself to be stretched out on her bed. Instead of obeying, he tickled her lightly again, laughing as she squirmed. "You're not fat, you know."

Sam snorted, trying absently to push his hands away. "She's so full of it."

"You're beautiful." Danny mimicked Mrs. Manson, but instead of a condescending sing-song, his voice was a soft, serious purr. His fingers danced over Sam's ribs, still trying to tickle her sensitive sides. "You're perfect…"

Frowning, she pushed him so that he rolled off the bed with an exclamation, landing with a thump. "Do you want a ride to school, loser?"

Danny grinned, getting to his feet. "I was hoping you'd say that. I brought my stuff."

"Give me twenty minutes," Sam said, rising. "If you hear my mom coming back, keep out of sight."

Danny nodded, flopping back onto the bed and stretching out. This was an old game—although it seemed delightfully normal to be hiding from a girl's parents instead of from people who were trying to blast him with laser rifles.

Sam's room was shadowed and quiet—her heavy drapes blocked out a lot of the offending sunlight, and everything was dim, soft shades of grey and indigo. Danny closed his eyes, loving how comfortable this place felt to him.

Until the squeaky twist of a shower tap made his ears perk and his eyes fly open again.

For some reason, he hadn't realized that Sam's preparation for school would include things like the faint hiss of a shower while he waited in her sleepy dark room. He heard the change in the sound of the water as it fell on bare skin instead of tile and tried studiously to ignore it, but it was impossible surrounded by the dark canopy she slept under. Especially when his eyes kept bouncing to the subtly erotic elements of corset straps dangling out of her dresser drawers, when her scent of sugar and spice clung to everything.

He told himself to get a grip, to remember that it was Sam, his best friend—but that argument just didn't work anymore. There was no longer a line separating Sam-his-best-friend from Sam-the-girl-he-loved. Just like Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom, they were the same person. Sam, his best friend was Sam, the girl he loved.

Just the thought of it soothed him, and then the sound of the shower faded to a stop, and a blow-dryer clicked on, calming him even further. Nothing sexy about a blow-dryer, really.

He stared up at the canopy. This was where she slept, where she dreamed. Maybe this was where her mind had conjured the poem that he couldn't seem to get out of his head. I claim I do not love him, but still awake I lie…

So this is what it's like to wake up in Sam's bed, he thought, then immediately blushed, as if anyone could see him.

A thought struck him, and the immediacy of his video project forced his fantasies aside. Hurrying across the room, he knocked on the bathroom door, all shyness forgotten. "Sam? Don't put any makeup on yet."

"What?" Sam called over the steady whine of the blow-dryer. "What?"

He didn't want to yell. Who knew if Mrs. Manson was still lurking around the upstairs hallways? He kept knocking until the dryer stopped and she emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, almost as if she were a ghost herself. Danny was relieved to see that she was wearing a short black skirt and a purple t-shirt—normal Sam fare that, while still setting his pulse to racing somehow, didn't threaten an immediate cardiac episode.

"Okay, okay! I'm almost ready," she laughed. "What is it?"

"Did you put on makeup? I was trying to tell you not to put on any makeup," Danny said, leaning in close to examine her face.

She gave him a funny look and pushed him gently aside, picking up a black pencil and a tube of mascara from her dresser. "Nope, not yet. It's all out here. Why?"

"Wait, wait. Hold on." Danny flipped the digital screen of his camera open. "Okay. I'm just going to watch you while you get ready, okay? Just pretend I'm not here."

He made sure the mirror wouldn't reflect him as he filmed her applying eyeliner, mascara and lipstick. "Why do girls do that?"

"Do what?" Sam laughed.

"Keep their mouths open while they put on eye makeup."

She chuckled, recapping the tube and turning towards him. "Can you hand me my boots, please?"

He obeyed, then trained the camera on her as she tugged the boot on over her purple stockings. "How do I look?" she asked, smiling at him.

How did she look? She looked lovely, the same way she looked every day.

"N-nice," Danny stammered, inwardly cringing at how lame it sounded. Shutting the camera off, he grabbed his bag. "I'll meet you downstairs, okay?" He had to get out of there before she heard the frantic beating of his heart.

"Gotcha," she said cheerfully, running out her bedroom door. He could hear her calling goodbyes to a family that probably wasn't listening.

He closed his eyes and let himself drop invisibly through the floor, liking for once the feeling of things falling away beneath his feet.

Gotcha.

She certainly did.

Danny Fenton wasn't the only student at Casper High with a secret.

Dash Baxter had a dark, hidden addiction that he would die if anyone found out about, and yet, try as he might, he couldn't seem to give it up. In fact, he was trying desperately to figure out why he hadn't gotten a fix for the past few days.

All the conditions seem to be right, the jock thought in puzzlement. Why don't I have anything to show for it? He was going into intense withdrawal without his daily dosage; he refused to think about another missed day.

Okay, so I press Menu, then Function, then Time-Record? he wondered, brow furrowing. Technology was not his strong point.

He jabbed at a few buttons on his remote control. Okay. So it's Menu-Function-Time-Record-Daily, he confirmed. Then Mon-Fri…wait a second. The time should be set to one PM. Why isn't it?

The answer blinked at him in bright digital green. 12:00, 12:00, 12:00. The VCR clock had reset somehow and never been reprogrammed.

"No wonder it hasn't been taping!" Dash exclaimed, smacking a beefy fist down on the console. "Stupid lousy—where's the manual?"

He cast an agonized glance over to his desk, but all that was there was the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue and a worn, well-read copy of Nicholas Sparks' The Notebook. No time to dig through his closet for the VCR manual. Even though the Ferrari could do one-sixty without breaking a sweat, he was still going to be late for school if he didn't leave the house right now.

Muttering about "dumb stupid geek machines", the jock grabbed his books, then ran downstairs and out the door, vaulting into his Ferrari and shifting it into gear with a violent jerk of his arm. The tires shrieked in pain as he stomped on the gas pedal and pulled away from the curb.

School wasn't so bad most of the time—his coaches were always convincing his teachers to look the other way when he got bad grades, so homework was no big. There were lots of cute girls to look at and a bunch of losers to push around when he got bored. Sometimes the losers pushed back—like Danny Fenton, Sam Manson, and Tucker Foley—but they were no match for the status quo. So for the most part, Dash liked school.

But he hated, just hated to miss his soap operas.

"Wait, wait!" Danny called as Sam headed down the walk. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and turned to face him.

"Danny, we're going to be late!"

"Almost done, I promise." Danny was propping the camera on the side of Sam's stoop. "I just want a shot of both of us getting into the car, okay?" He made some adjustments, bent to look through the viewfinder, then straightened up. "Okay, go!"

They got into the car and shut the doors. "Start 'er up and go down the block," Danny instructed.

"But the camera—" Sam protested, even as she obeyed, starting the Mustang, then pulling away from the curb and heading down the block. "Danny, what about the—"

She was talking to empty air again. Arching a brow, she kept driving. Seconds later, he caught up, phasing back into the car with camera in hand. "Good job," he said, flipping the screen open and focusing on her again. "That was great!"

"Are we nearly done?" she asked, feeling a little weary of being on display. She fumbled for the radio dial, and Dumpty Humpty blasted into the car.

Danny smiled behind the viewfinder. "Almost, Sam. I promise you this is all going to be worth it. At least, I hope it will be." He shut off the camera again, adjusting the radio dial so the music wasn't so loud.

"Hey," she said, a thought striking her. "If you're done filming, you'd better get that seat belt on, pal."

He laughed at how protective she was and buckled the seat belt, the camera in his lap. "What about Tucker?" he asked as Sam purposely didn't take the turn-off for the techno-geek's house. "Aren't we going to get him?"

"He said he had to finish up his own video essay this morning," Sam answered. "Told me we should go on without him."

"Lucky me," Danny said, smiling. "I get you all to myself today."

Sam sneered. "My condolences."

Arching a brow at her, he said, "Sam, I am trying to enjoy having you all to myself, so could you please stop ruining it with your cynical remarks?"

She blinked at him, and then she laughed. A good, real Sam laugh, that carbonated sound he loved.

"What?" he asked. "What's funny?"

"You are!" was her immediate answer. "I almost believe it when you say things like that."

"Believe what?" he asked. "That you're cynical?"

"That you're lucky." She smiled, a secret, sweet little smile. "I mean, that you think you're lucky, to be stuck with me."

He returned the smile. "Believe it, Sam." A thought struck him. "I'd force you to look me in the eyes when I said it, if, you know, you weren't driving."

She laughed again, and he wanted it, he wanted that laugh forever. He wanted to be the one who could make her laugh like that.

The Mustang spit shale from beneath its tires as Sam turned into a space in the Casper High parking lot. "Too bad, Danny, you're going to have to give me up to the crowds as soon as the bell rings." She gave him a teasing smile and shifted the car into park.

After some thought, Danny grinned wickedly back. "That's what you think."

Unbuckling his seat belt, he leaned across her lap, body brushing against hers as he stretched. Sam gave a soft moue of surprise, and then Danny pressed the lock on the driver's-side door.

Sam blinked, and then that laugh was filling the car. He lay in her lap, staring up at her at the strange angle.

"I don't suck at keeping secrets, you know," he said, remembering what she'd said to him the night before.

"Mm?" she asked with a playful smile. "Oh, really?"

He smiled back. "Really. There's one big one that you don't know."

She crooked her fingers wickedly. "Do I have to tickle it out of you?"

"No." He grabbed her wrists, holding her hands immobile, grinning. "You'll know soon enough."

"How bad is it?" Tucker whined, looking at a puffy, swollen eye in Valerie's locker mirror.

"You're going to have a shiner," Valerie sighed, shutting the locker so he wouldn't have to look at his mangled reflection. "You shouldn't have gotten up in his face like that."

"I thought it was you in the suit," Tucker groaned. "Those giant padded gloves smashed my glasses-cam right into my temple! It's broken!"

"Tucker, you were the one who sneaked up behind him and yelled, 'Boo'!" Valerie protested, trying to hold in a giggle.

"I thought it was you," Tucker repeated. "And if I had scared you, you wouldn't have gone for the face."

"Oh, yes I would have," Valerie laughed. "In fact, you'd probably be dead right now."

Tucker slid down the lockers to sit on the floor, pawing at the bruised eye. "Thanks. Thanks a lot for taking my pain so seriously."

"Want to hear something stupid?" Valerie giggled, joining him on the floor. "It was sort of fun. Except the part where the mascot attacked you, I mean."

Tucker turned his head towards her sharply. "Why is that stupid? Because you had fun doing something with Bad Luck Tuck?"

Embarrassed, Valerie turned her gaze to the clean white toes of her sneakers. "I deserved that."

The tail end of Tucker's sigh turned into a laugh. "Yeah, you did. It's okay."

She raised her eyes. "Really?"

"Really. I had fun, too." His eyes—even the injured one—twinkled. "Except the part where the mascot attacked me, I mean."

Turning her body, Valerie examined Tucker's eye closely. "It's really not as bad as you think. Maybe if we put some ice on it, the swelling will go down. Let's go see if the nurse has any." Climbing back to her feet, she dusted off her skirt and held her hands out to him. "Come on, Tuckerino."

Tucker picked up his camera and extended his free hand to Val, letting her pull him to his feet. "Thanks."

"Try to look pitiful," Valerie coached. Tucker pouted. "Good!"

"Good morning," a voice called cheerfully, and Danny bounded across the hall, camera in hand and Sam in tow.

"Slow down, Danny!" Sam said, but just as cheerfully. "Hey. Tucker. Hey, Valerie."

"Look who's bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," Valerie joked. "What have you two been up to?"

Both of them immediately blushed. "Nothing!" Danny said. "We drove to school like we always do."

Tucker and Valerie exchanged amused looks. When accompanied by a blush, a Nothing was usually the best kind of a Something.

"How's the filming going?" Tucker asked.

Danny grinned. "Excellent. Sam's been great."

Sam looked pleased. "It's been really fun helping Danny out with…" She trailed off, catching sight of Tucker's eye behind his glasses. "Tucker, yikes. What happened to your eye?"

"It's a long story, Sam." Tucker laughed and pushed his glasses up to reveal the bruise. "I'm going to let the video tell it for me, actually." Laughing again, he added, "Which is probably going to involve a lot of creative editing. Good thing we've got a free period this morning."

Danny brandished his own camera. "To the editing lab!" he announced heroically.

Tucker nodded at Valerie. "Coming along?"

"I'll catch up. I want to—ask Sam something," Valerie said, eyes twinkling mischievously.

Sam didn't hear this remark; she was teasing Danny. "Make me look good, Danny," she purred, smiling at him.

"You don't need any help from me," was Danny's answer. He winked at Sam, then followed Tucker down the hall.

Sam sighed, smiling, then drifted across the hall. Valerie watched as she absently batted at the locker in front of her, fingers playing idly with the latch.

The twinkle in Valerie's eyes turned wicked. She approached Sam, who was still fumbling with the lock, and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

Sam turned, blinking as if she hadn't been expecting an interruption. "Oh, hey, Val. What are you still doing here? Don't you want to edit your video essay?"

"I've got time," Valerie answered. "There's not much left for me to edit. What about you? Where are you off to?"

"I'm trying my hardest to get out of my home-ec practical," Sam laughed. "If I get an A on my next sewing project, I'm exempt from the test, so I'm going to work on it a bit right now."

"Maybe you can model it for Danny," the other girl purred. "You two seem pretty cozy lately. What's the deal?"

The goth's pale cheek tinted red. "No deal. Danny's my best friend. You know that."

"Old news," Valerie laughed. "Come on, Sam. I promise I won't tell Tucker."

Sam jiggled the lock again, now with the ferocity of frustration. "There's nothing, Val, really. Everything's the same as always."

Valerie could barely hold back the laughter. "Whatever you say, Sam." She grinned at the goth. "By the way, that's not your locker."

Sam turned suddenly horrified eyes to the locker number. With a small sound of dismay, she hurried down the hall to her own locker.

In the interest of politeness, Valerie waited until she was gone to collapse into a fit of giggles.

Valerie made it to the video editing lab just before the bell rang to start their free period. Tucker was already complaining.

"If I had known we were going to have to transfer everything to VHS, I would have stuck with my old camera," the techno-geek groused. His brand-new, state-of-the-art camera wasn't playing very nicely with some of the more outdated equipment in the Casper High editing lab.

"What part of 'video essay' don't you understand, Foley?" Valerie chuckled good-naturedly, taking a seat next to him.

"Sam told you that your old camera was fine, Tuck," Danny said from his seat on Tucker's other side.

"Easy for you to say," Tucker grumbled, using his mouse to move the file containing his leftover footage to the Recycle Bin and right-clicking. "You're not having any trouble."

Danny wasn't. He hadn't had a whole lot of extra footage, and his audio had been easy to mix in due to the fact that he'd foregone background music. He was nearly finished.

Across the lab, Dash Baxter tipped his chair back. This was just going to be too easy. He barely had to edit his footage—it was all so awesome that he didn't want to leave any of it out. All it needed was the proper soundtrack.

Fen-tons-o-fun doesn't stand a chance of winning our bet, Dash thought gleefully. I've got the most beautiful subject in the world!

The popular bully's eyes strayed over to where Danny was smiling at his workstation. Tipping his chair as far back as he could, Dash caught a glimpse of that goth chick looking utterly miserable in a pink, frilly dress.

What the hell…?

Danny scrolled through more footage, smiling at the screen. All of the footage was of Sam—Sam laughing, Sam in a black gown, Sam looking angry at the camera.

"Isn't that the goth chick?" Dash asked, leaning rudely over Danny, peering at the screen, where Sam was onstage at the Skulk and Lurk in her purple corset and black miniskirt.

"That's…pretty hot," Dash said, sound mildly surprised at his own appreciation. "Does she have any other skirts like that?"

Danny snarled. "You'll never find out, gonad-for-brains. Get lost."

Dash snickered. "I'll get to see it when you're showin' it in class, Fenton. Jeez, if you're not going to date her, what's the big deal?"

"I am going—" Danny forced Dash away from the computer as he got to his feet on the power of his rage, but he thought better of finishing his sentence, a blush coloring his face. Instead, he poked a warning finger into Dash's chest. "Don't talk about Sam like that. And stop looking over my shoulder, Dash. Why don't you pay some attention to your own video?"

Danny pointed across the room to Dash's workstation. He was transferring his project to an old videotape he'd brought from home, and the new footage had played to its end, revealing what had been on the old tape. Overdramatic violin music played as an announcer's voice came on.

"Will Nurse Blonda ever kiss Dr. Poofeverwish? We'll return to 'All My Biceps' after these messages."

"Is that a soap opera, Dash?" Tucker snickered.

Dash shot him a hateful glare, then raced over to his workstation, muttering, "It must have been one of my mom's tapes…"

Danny rolled his eyes, turning back to his workstation. He could still hear some of the other students ragging on Dash, so he pulled a pair of headphones out of his bag and plugged them into his computer. Then only he could hear the sound on the video. He moved the footage back to the middle of Sam's poem.

"They do not come, not sleep, not love, not he I want the most. I tell myself that it's all right—I don't believe in ghosts."

Danny's brow creased in puzzlement. She did believe in ghosts—she knew they were real. What could she have meant by that?

It was probably just a poem. She was probably just playing to the interests of the crowd at the Skulk and Lurk.

"I claim I do not love him, but still awake I lie…"

A possibility hit Danny unexpectedly, turning his stomach to water and his heart to a trip-hammer.

No. It couldn't be…

Could it?

He froze the frame on Sam as she finished reciting. An expression of calm relief was on her face before the applause even started.

Relief at the unburdening, however subtle, of a secret?

Danny told himself to calm down, not to get his hopes up. It could have been just a poem. It didn't have to be based on life.

Even if it was, it could be about anyone, he warned himself.

Still…

"Dude, you okay?" Tucker's voice drifted in from somewhere beyond the headphones. "Danny? You're really pale, man."

"I'm…I'm okay," Danny said, taking the headphones off. He smiled. "I think I'm really okay."

The dodge ball thwacked Sam soundly in the stomach. "Oof!"

Fweeeeeeeet! Mrs. Tetschlav's whistle blasted from the sidelines; she jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Manson! Out!"

Pouting, Sam stomped over to the bleachers and sat down next to Danny, who'd been eliminated in the first two seconds of the game by a team effort from Dash and Kwan. She leaned close to whisper in his ear, "Can you just phase us out when the ball comes near?"

"You should be better at dodging, skinny," Danny teased, poking her sensitive sides until she squirmed. "Besides, you're always telling me not to use my powers for trivial stuff."

"Dodgeball is war," Sam huffed. "And war is not trivial."

Danny laughed. "Besides, you don't believe in ghosts. Right?"

Sam arched a dark eyebrow at him. "Are you still stuck on that stupid poem I wrote?"

He wasn't going to get a better segue than this. He warned himself not to screw it up. Trying to sound nonchalant, he asked, "What's it about, anyway?"

Sam blushed. Her thin pale fingers fidgeted as she said, "…Nothing. It's just a poem."

"Oh." He couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

She angled another suspicious glance at him. "Why? What did you think it was about?"

It was Danny's turn to blush and fidget. "Oh, well, nothing, I mean, I was just curious. I mean, well, it was pretty, um…well…it was kind of…you know, romantic. For a goth poetry slam, anyway," he amended quickly.

Sam looked suddenly very agitated. "Just forget it, okay?" she said irritably. "It was just a stupid poem. It doesn't mean anything."

Depression knifed through Danny, but he kept his voice firm as he said, "I didn't think it was stupid. I liked it. I really liked it."

Sam looked a little embarrassed at her own outburst. "Can we talk about this some other time, please?"

It was too much. Danny couldn't keep himself in check anymore. He knew he should play it cool, but all the emotions he'd been holding back for so long were bubbling to his lips, his limbs. He reached for her, wrapping his hands gently around her wrists, body turning towards hers. "When?" he asked softly. "When are we going to talk about it?" He didn't just mean her poem.

The mixture of fear and longing on her face proved to him that he hadn't been imagining things. She felt it too; she wanted it too.

It'll be good, Sam, he thought desperately. It'll be so good. Let me show you. Please.

"I…I didn't think you wanted to," she said, just above a whisper.

Danny's nerves were standing on end. She didn't think he wanted to what? Finally bring up the desperate depth of feeling that he had for her—that they both seemed to have for each other? She didn't think he wanted to pull her to him, kiss her senseless, show her with his lips and hands how he loved her?

She was scared. He understood that; he was scared too. They were best friends and they'd been through everything together. She'd stood at his side and helped him keep the most amazing secret in history. He was closer to her than to anyone else in the world. It was scary to risk all that for any reason, because things would never be the same again if it went wrong.

But it wouldn't go wrong. He knew it wouldn't, because they were so close. They knew everything there was to know about each other, all the secrets, all the fears, all the quirks and foibles that made them up.

It wouldn't go wrong, because he already loved her. And if she loved him back then the damage was already done. She wouldn't be able to ignore the feelings any more than he would.

All they had left to do was say it out loud.

Kwan caught the dodge ball. "Wahooooo!" he crowed, doing an absurd victory dance near half-court.

Fweeeeeeet! Tetschlav blew the whistle. "Nice catch, Kwan. Fenton, up on yer paws. You're back in."

Danny nearly screamed in frustration. Grinding his teeth, he jogged back onto the court, glancing back at Sam, who looked equally upset.

No. He would not let it get away from him this time. Danny's blue eyes narrowed at the other side of the gym, waiting for his chance. Nathan, who wasn't very athletic, threw the ball high and slow, and Danny surprised his classmates and Mrs. Tetschlav by leaping gracefully to grab it out of midair and cradle it against his chest. He beckoned to Sam.

Fweeet! "Atta boy, Fenton. Nice catch, good hustle. Manson, you're back in."

"Thanks," Sam said as she hurried to stand beside him.

"No big," he said, dodging a weak throw from Star.

"So what—" Sam ducked as Paulina threw the ball over her head. "—what now?"

"You said you might not have to take your home-ec practical tomorrow afternoon, right?" Danny asked.

Sam looked smug. "Only if the skirt passes inspection tomorrow, but it will. The skirt rules." Then she blinked. "Why?"

"Because I really want you to see my video essay. Maybe Lancer will let you sit in on our class if Tetschlav lets you out of the practical. Then we can talk about them both—my video and your poem."

"What?" Sam asked, sounding utterly puzzled. He didn't blame her for being confused. It definitely sounded bizarre.

"Just trust me, okay?" he said. "Do you trust me?"

Sam stopped dodging, her arms flopping to her sides in exasperation. "You know I do."

The ball thunked into her shoulder.

Fweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet! "Manson! Out!"

"Tucker!" Sam yelled, glaring at the person who threw the ball.

Tucker laughed thinly, looking guilty. "Sorry, Sam. I was aiming for Valerie!"

The owner of that name jeered from beneath the basketball hoop and pointed a mocking finger as she talked trash. "You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, Foley! Even if both your eyes were working!"

"That's it, you are so going down!" Tucker laughed from midcourt as Sam stalked back to the bleachers.

Danny had had enough. Picking up the ball that had hit Sam, he thumped it against his chest, then threw it over his shoulder. "Here, I'm out too." He walked off the court to sit tiredly next to Sam.

"What's with him?" Star wondered aloud. Valerie and Tucker exchanged knowing looks, then resumed playing Duck Hunt with each other.

Mr. Lancer was annoyed.

"No," Sam said, brushing crumbs off a black apron that she'd decorated with bats, spiders and cobwebs drawn on in paint pens. "No way."

"The Devil Wears Prada!" Lancer exclaimed, slamming both fists down on the table. "Ms. Manson, surely you understand the difficult position I'm in. Even Mrs. Tetschlav has to admit you've made remarkable strides in home economics in a very short time."

"Told you I'd whip her into shape," Tetschlav said proudly, clapping Sam on the shoulder with a meaty hand. The goth winced. "Manson's had the best turnaround I've ever seen in my class. Her grades aren't perfect, but at the rate she's going, she'll easily pass the course."

"Then studio art, here I come," Sam said happily. Casting an appreciative eye over the drawings on her apron, Lancer had no doubt she'd ace that class too. There was talent lurking in the cute little drawings.

"Perhaps I could convince Mrs. Tetschlav to award you extra credit for providing me with assistance." Lancer's eyelid twitched as he silently begged Mrs. Tetschlav with a look.

Unfortunately for Mr. Lancer, there was only one thing Mrs. Tetschlav loved more than torturing her students, and that was torturing him. "She doesn't need it, Lancer. If the skirt Manson's working on in class turns out as good as her cookies have been, she'll have raised her grades enough to be excused from our next practical."

Lancer narrowed his eyes at Tetschlav, then turned to Sam again. "Ms. Manson. I beg you to reconsider."

"Sorry, Mr. Lancer," Sam said, sampling a cookie shaped like a spider off the tray she'd recently taken out of the oven. Pronouncing it good, she proceeded to pour black sugar sprinkles over the rest of the cookies on the tray. "I hope I'm deader than an icicle in hell before I sew something outside of this class. Why don't you ask Paulina? I'm sure she'd welcome some extra credit." The goth smiled cruelly as she reached for a tube of frosting. "Rumor has it her cookie project isn't going so well."

As if on cue, Star's small nose wrinkled as she wondered aloud, "Is something burning?"

Paulina hissed at Sam, "I'm at the stove, not deaf! You just wait, you just wait, Manson!" With a sob of frustration, the popular princess wrenched a tray from the oven. Smoke wafted from eighteen identical burned lumps of dough.

Tetschlav sighed, walking over to take a look at the scorched tray. "Don't worry, Paulina. If Manson misbehaves again, she can tutor you and that will be her punishment."

Only Lancer was close enough to Sam to hear her mutter, "I'll be good." The bald teacher bit down on a laugh.

Paulina nearly turned purple with rage, but only slammed the tray down on the counter.

Sam held out a plate of the now-decorated spider-shaped cookies to Lancer. "Want to bring some of these to your video class, Mr. Lancer? They're fresh."

Lancer had to smirk at how the goth beamed with pride. "That's very nice of you, Ms. Manson," he said, taking the tray. "What brought about your new pride in home economics?"

Sam's smile was sweet and secret. "Positive reinforcement."

Lancer shook his head as he carried the tray down the hall. "I'll bet Mr. Fenton could explain that cryptic answer," he said to the cookies. They stared up at him with M & M eyes, unblinking, and their cherry-frosting smiles seemed to agree.

Mr. Lancer loved teaching. He was aware that it was largely thankless work; he knew the majority of the student body was comprised of kids who would coast through on good looks and sports stats. But he also knew there were a few genuinely reachable students out there, too. He could tell who they were by the looks of mild surprise on their faces when they realized they'd actually learned something. He'd seen that look on Danny Fenton's face the first time he'd actually aced a test; the look had crossed Tucker Foley's face when he started reeling back the information he'd gleaned from the Cram-tastic Intensive Test Prep. The teacher knew that look well, and he knew that look could eventually evolve into the look of confident pride he'd seen on Sam Manson's face when she'd offered to share the cookies she'd baked in home economics. It was that look that had Mr. Lancer racking his brain every day for lessons and assignments that would not only help his students learn, but help them think. He viewed his job as not only to teach them about literature and chemistry and biology and mathematics, but also to help them learn about their world and about themselves. Hence, the video essay projects on beauty. He wanted them to really stretch their creativity, show what they thought was lovely and amazing, and in doing so, teach him something about them.

He just hoped to hell he wouldn't have a class full of videos about Paulina.

Steeling his nerves, Mr. Lancer strode into the classroom with a confidence he didn't feel. "All right, everyone. The day of reckoning has arrived."

Laughter from the class. That was a good sign.

"First thing I want everyone to do is come up here and stack their videos on my desk. I'll be marking your names off as you come up, so anyone who doesn't have their video is in trouble. You were warned that everything was due today and you had more than enough time to finish editing."

Strangely enough, there were no groans or gasps from the class. Every single student shuffled up to the front of the room to hand in a tape. Some were already beaming with pride in their work, like Valerie Gray; others looked smug, like Dash Baxter. Lancer kept a watchful eye on Danny Fenton, but the boy just smiled to himself and stacked his video atop the rest.

Before he could wonder about that further, Lancer was distracted by the next student. "Mr. Foley, what happened to your eye?"

The owner of the injured eye winced as he rolled it. "Oh, you'll see, sir." He placed his video on the stack.

Uh oh.

Lancer took one of the spider-shaped cookies off the tray and bit into it. "Compliments of Ms. Manson," he said, displaying the tray to the rest of the class. "Quite good. Anyone?"

More than half the class was immediately back up at the desk, except for Tucker Foley, who clutched at his stomach and groaned "No more." Danny laughed and bit into a cookie.

"Okay," Lancer said. "Who wants to go first?"

Hands shot up. Another pleasant surprise.

As the class progressed, Mr. Lancer had to admit his students had done well for the most part. Heather Tansy had a fondness for birds; she'd waited with her camera in a local sanctuary waiting for some of her favorites to show up in her viewfinder. Ron Freeman had gotten permission from his sensei to film his karate class working through their kata, all moving and turning as a single unit. Monique Tate had taken footage of her newborn baby niece. Josh McGovern had propped his camera near the glass tank his pet python lived in and caught footage of it shedding its skin. Difficult skateboarding tricks, falling leaves, spiderwebs, tropical fish—seeing what his students found beautiful was an eye-opening experience for Lancer.

Some of the videos were more imaginative than others, and some were just plain funnier—Kwan, showing a creative streak that Lancer would never have attributed to him, handed in a video comprised entirely of slow-motion footage of jocks shoving members of the marching band into lockers, while a dreamy rendition of "Ave Maria" played in the background. The entire class had gotten a kick out of that—even kids who were normally victims of similar abuse. Dash Baxter laughed so hard that Lancer had to send him out into the hall for a drink of water from the fountain.

True to his word, Lancer would have found it impossible to fail any of them. He took points off here and there for editing mishaps or when he thought they'd lost an opportunity to capitalize on something, but for the most part he was giving out higher grades than he'd ever given in any class before. While the technical things might have been rusty in places, he couldn't ignore the sheer creative value of the content, which had been his biggest concern.

The teacher plucked the next video from the stack. "Well, well, Mr. Baxter. Are you ready?"

Dash turned a smug smile to Danny. 'The question is, are you ready for this, Fenton Tarantino?"

Danny made a big show of yawning and looking bored. "Laugh while you can, Dash. I've got the most beautiful subject on any of these videos."

Lancer cleared his throat, interrupting. "Gentlemen. I'm well aware that you're once again using my class as a forum for gambling. While I don't often condone such behavior, far be it from me to stop you from doing something that would motivate you to work hard in my class." Leveling his gaze on the two boys, he said, "The way I see it, if we show Mr. Baxter's video today, we'll wait until tomorrow for Mr. Fenton's. How does that sound?"

"It doesn't matter when mine's screened, it's still better than Fenton's!" Dash declared.

"I'll wait till tomorrow," Danny said coolly. "I'm not scared." And, he added in thought, maybe then Sam can see it too.

Lancer's eyes twinkled. "Done, then. Mr. Baxter, you're on." And he pressed PLAY.

Dash's video was eerily reminiscent of the early-90s Bowflex commercials on late-night television—glamorized shots of someone's overly muscled body parts. Each over-developed bicep, tricep, abdominal muscle dissolved into the next, and then the class was forced to watch a muscle flex and ripple across the entire span of someone's upper back and shoulders. The same process was repeated even more unpleasantly with the pectoral muscle.

"Ugh," Valerie Gray murmured.

Next, the viewers were treated to a series of jump cuts between the equipment in the Casper High weight room. Obnoxious techno music, heavy on the bass, played in the background, but not enough that it drowned out the clanking of the weights as the camera favored shots of the limbs being exercised, carefully avoiding the subject's face.

Finally, the theme music from 2001 accompanied a slow pan from bare feet all the way up to reveal the subject of the video was Dash Baxter himself, in his Casper High swim team Speedo. He gave the camera the standard Hollywood muscleman arm flex, and the class made some derisive sounds.

When the lights came up, everyone applauded, although whether it was in genuine appreciation or just because they were thankful that it was over, no one could tell. Lancer looked confused. "Well, well, Mr. Baxter. That was…entertaining."

"If by 'entertaining', you mean, 'hideous'," Tucker muttered.

Unfortunately, he didn't mutter it low enough. "Shut up, Foley, or I'll bench press you!" Dash snarled.

"You know, Dash, there are other cuts besides jump cuts," Danny mused.

Dash sneered, as if Danny had said exactly what he wanted to hear. "People don't want subtle filmmaking, Fenton! They want big and bold! Why do you think Schumacher directed the Batman films after Burton?"

"Do not mention those campy nightmares in my presence," Tucker said frostily. "Those sets were not Gotham City."

Like a samurai sword of reason cutting through the impending disagreement, Lancer said smoothly, "Mr. Baxter, while your video would make an excellent advertisement for, say, anabolic steroids, how exactly does it portray beauty?"

Once again, it was as if Dash had been waiting for this particular question. He leaned back in his chair, looking smug. "I just filmed the most beautiful thing I could think of!"

Valerie groaned. "You're not conceited. You're convinced."

But Lancer seemed convinced as well. "Pretty clever, Mr. Baxter," he chuckled. "While no one can argue that you didn't take a unique approach to the topic—no one," he reiterated warningly to Danny, Tucker, and Valerie, who all looked inclined to speak up, "I'm afraid I'll have to agree with Mr. Fenton on the abuse of the jump cuts. The dissolves were a nice change, but it just simply wasn't enough to offset the uniformity of your editing. Barring that, I think this deserves a solid A-minus for creativity."

Danny gritted his teeth as the bully gloated, "Beat that, Fenton Night Shyamalan."

"You'll get a twist all right, Dash," Danny snarled.

The two boys bristled at each other. Tucker prepared to jump in, but Valerie saved the day by raising her hand and trilling sweetly, "Show mine next, Mr. Lancer. Please?" She waved her hand in the air for emphasis, pottery bracelet dancing at her wrists. "Me, me next."

Lancer smiled at her exuberance and found her video in the pile on his desk. "All right, Ms. Gray. Here we are."

Valerie was obviously very proud of her video. She gave Danny and Tucker an excited grin. "Wait till you guys see this. It's going to knock your socks off."

Tucker sighed importantly, settling down in his chair. "I'm not wearing any, so that would be impressive!"

"Ew!" Valerie shuddered at the very idea, but she was still smiling as Lancer dimmed the lights.

Actually, everyone in the class had to admit Valerie's video was impressive. Soft chillout music accompanied an aerial view of Amity Park—the viewer followed the camera as it panned over the outskirts of town, the rolling hills, the forests rustling in the wind, then journeyed into the inner city. Parks, streets, neighborhoods all looked like a patchwork of order and organization from above; the people were like tiny dots on the sidewalks.

Danny especially liked the video; he knew how beautiful the view was from up there.

"There's my house!" Tucker said in a stage whisper, and Valerie whacked him with her notebook. "OW!"

"Shhhhh!" hissed the rest of the class.

Dash stretched his arms above his head and pretended to yawn loudly. "This is so boring," he groaned.

"Shhhhhh!" rehissed the class.

When the lights came up, most of the class was so relaxed they were practically comatose. Lancer was smiling at Valerie. "Impressive," he said, nodding. "Most impressive, Ms. Gray. I must ask, how did you manage an aerial pan such as this one?"

Valerie's eyes widened. Danny and Tucker knew the look of one's synapses freezing just when they had to come up with a lie. It was obvious to the two boys exactly how Valerie had filmed her video, but they doubted Mr. Lancer would accept an explanation about jet sleds just like that.

"It's not fair," Tucker said suddenly, his eyebrows dipping over his eyes as he looked at Val. "Just cause your dad works in a state-of-the-art lab shouldn't mean you get an advantage over us!"

Everyone looked at Tucker differently then—Valerie looked surprised, Lancer looked confused, and Danny looked impressed; he was always amazed at how clever he and his friends had become at thinking on their feet.

"Now, now, Mr. Foley," Lancer admonished. "Every student is allowed to use all the resources available to him or her. We can't fault Ms. Gray for taking advantage of her resources to the fullest extent." He smiled at Valerie. "Good job, Gray. A-plus."

The class oohed; it was the highest grade in the class so far.

When Lancer turned his back, Valerie treated him to a very grateful smile and a silent mouthing of "Thank you". Tucker answered with a wave and a friendly, no-big-deal smile.

"We have time for one more video, I think," Lancer said, searching through the stack of tapes. "Since you're so vocal today, Mr. Foley, how about yours?"

"Sounds good!" Tucker said, relaxing in his seat.

"Good idea, Mr. Lancer." Valerie's eyes twinkled. "I've just got to see how this one turned out."

"I'm pretty curious myself," Danny laughed.

"Prepare to be amazed," Tucker said. "I have to say, I think I've outdone myself here."

"We'll be the judge of that, Mr. Foley," Lancer quipped as he slid the tape into the VCR. The screen lit up, and Tucker sighed happily as his movie began and the opening credits were displayed:

Foley Studios presents…

The Bold and the Flame-Broiled

Tucker had also abused cuts in his film, but since the shots were little more than stills of different areas of the Nasty Burger—the exterior of the restaurant favoring the sign and the front doors; the kitchen; the fry-o-lators, the tables—they were less jump cuts and closer to smash cuts. It resembled the beginning of the sort of videos they showed potential employees at fast-food restaurants.

The camera panned across the gleaming, late-night dining floor—the establishing shot Tucker had taken. He began his spiel in a voice-over as David Rose's Holiday for Strings played in the background.

"The Nasty Burger! Hangout to Casper High students year over year, our beloved Nasty Burger is not only home to after-school hijinks, it's also a place to make new friends—like the Nasty Burger, Nasty Fries, and Mighty Meaty Cheesy Melt! Let's go meet our new pals, shall we?"

Tucker's camera was now at the register, where a Nasty Employee with long hair and mustard stains on his shirt was waiting to take his order. "Welcome to Nasty Burger. You name it, we'll fry it. How can I help you today?"

"Hello, my good sir," Tucker said. "I'm doing a documentary on your fine cuisine. I'd like to order one of everything you have, please."

The cashier didn't look impressed. "That'll be fifty-nine ninety-nine, sir."

The camera tilted towards the floor. Tucker's Timberlands were visible, and one of his hands turned his cargo pockets inside out. The search yielded a piece of lint, a ball of fuzz, a rubber band, and a ten-dollar bill.

"Maybe just a Mighty Meaty Cheesy Melt, Nasty Fries, and a Slurpster," Tucker amended sheepishly.

"Eight seventy-five, sir," the cashier droned, as if it didn't matter at all to him. And it probably didn't.

"Is it possible for me to film the miracle as it occurs?" Tucker asked excitedly. The employee turned to the mascot, who was tramping in a side door.

"He's cool, Larry," the mascot—Valerie—said. "As long as he keeps that stupid camera away from me!"

Tucker turned the camera so he was looking into the lens as he spoke. "They're going to let me film the creation of their culinary masterpieces! This truly is a magical place."

The camera wobbled its way back into the kitchen. The sound of things frying could be heard, as well as shouts of "Order up!" and the clang of silverware. A girl flipped a patty with a spatula, but missed the catch on the way down. The patty landed on the floor with a wet splat. The girl picked it up with an ungloved hand, glanced at the trash can, thought it over, then tossed the patty back onto the grill, where it landed with a hiss.

Valerie slunk down a little in her chair.

Danny swallowed hard thinking about all the patties he'd eaten at the Nasty Burger, and all the shoes that had crossed its floor. Maybe Sam was onto something with the whole ultra-recyclo-vegetarian thing.

"Now I know how people feel in a maternity ward," Tucker whispered excitedly. "Witness the miracle…"

As the camera panned over the grill, a rat could be seen scurrying near the wall. "Oh my lord," Monique whispered.

"Was that a rat?" Lancer asked, leaning closer to the screen.

"Shh!" Tucker hissed, his eyes glazed over with joy in his video.

Cheddar oozed over the Mighty Meaty Cheesy Melt, and then the camera panned over to the vat of fried cheese, up which some kind of bug was climbing.

"Gross!" Ron gasped in a stage whisper.

As the class watched in horror, the bug seemed to look around, then leapt into the cheese.

"Eeeeeek!" the class squealed. The jocks each held up a sign rating the bug's dive—2.3 from Dash, 3.0 from Kwan.

Tucker continued his narration. "Listen to that soothing sound—the bubbling of heated cheese."

"Tuck, didn't you see any of this?" Danny asked incredulously.

"You bet!" Tucker said. "Isn't it great?"

The camera zoomed into a tray full of food. "And now, we can take our spoils to a seating area and enjoy them fully." The camera panned to the tables and booths and focused, where a girl could be seen pulling a long hair out of her fries with a horrified look on her face.

"Thank you, Nasty Burger!" Tucker's narration continued. "You make life in Amity Park a better place."

The credits began to roll, accompanied by the Nasty Burger jingle. Danny felt like he'd swallowed a hairball.

Lancer had turned a bilious shade of puce; he took his place at the front of the class rather unsteadily. "Well, Mr. Foley, while I think you misunderstood the point of the assignment, I also think this was an expose long in coming."

"If I—I mean, that mascot loses their job, you're dead, Foley!" Valerie hissed.

"I'm going to throw up," Monique muttered.

"Your…er…editing was very crisp, Mr. Foley," Lancer stammered. "And your appreciation of your subject is…apparent…I don't see any problem with awarding you a B-plus…"

"Woohoo!" Tucker crowed.

The bell sounded especially abrasive against the tension in the room; Lancer looked relieved as he called, "Class dismissed!" and beat a hasty retreat to the teacher's lounge.

Late that night, Danny was at his computer, focused intently on Chip's Challenge, when a window popped up on his screen. GhostBoy, NightGirl is sending you a message. Do you wish to receive?

Danny smiled at the familiar name and clicked "Yes". A webcam link opened to reveal Sam, her face scrubbed free of makeup as if she were ready for bed, violet eyes blinking sleepily as she smiled at him.

"Ready for your big day tomorrow?" she laughed.

"It's your big day too," Danny countered. "You're the star."

She snorted. "Oh, please. Don't blame me when you get an F."

Danny grinned. "Trust me, Sam. I've got the best video in the class."

"How were the other videos?" Sam asked. "Any good?"

"Yeah," Danny said. "They were good. Kwan's was pretty funny, actually, and Valerie's was awesome. She did an entire aerial view of Amity Park from her jet sled."

"It's about time she put that sled to good use!" Sam laughed appreciatively. "I wish I'd seen that. I heard I missed Tucker's, too."

"Be glad you missed Tucker's," Danny said, cringing at the memory. "You'd have thrown up."

As it turned out, Sam wasn't so lucky. Another window popped up on Danny's screen, blocking her face. GhostBoy, FriarTuck is sending you a message. Do you wish to receive?

"Hang on a sec, Danny. Tucker's sending me a message," Sam said.

"You, too?" Danny asked. He clicked "Yes" and Tucker's panicked face filled the webcam window.

"Worst case scenario!" the techno-geek screamed. "Worst case scenario!"

"Tucker, what's wrong?" Sam asked, having opened Tucker's webcam window on her screen, too. They'd often had conversations between the three of them like this.

In his window, Tucker covered his eyes with one hand. "I'm sending you guys a link. Watch it and then HELP me figure out how to stay alive."

Danny clicked the link and opened a new window for it, jockeying the mouse around his screen so he could see both it and his two friends. Sam seemed to be doing the same; she smiled suddenly as she saw whatever it was. "Hey, Tucker, is this your video essay? Cool! I was hoping I'd get to—" The goth's face slid from happy to shocked. "Is that a rat?"

Danny turned his attention to the new window he'd opened the link in. Sure enough, there was Tucker's video essay, in all its accidentally disgusting glory. He read the header of the web site in disbelief. "Tucker, you put your video essay on YouTube?! Lancer's going to kill you for this!"

"I didn't do it," Tucker protested.hotly. "I may be stupid, but I'm not THAT stupid!"

"This stupid YouTube thing is always causing trouble," Sam groused. "Don't these people care about intellectual property and copyright violations?"

"I think it's pretty obvious that they DON'T," Tucker growled. "Danny's right. When Lancer finds out about this, I'm history."

"Maybe Lancer won't find out," Sam said hopefully, but the boys immediately snorted their disbelief.

"It's not your fault, Tuck," Danny sighed, reading the text beneath the YouTube listing. "If we explain to Lancer what happened, maybe he won't be too hard on you. After all, it's pretty obvious that you didn't do this. You're the Nasty Burger's biggest cheerleader. You wouldn't have called the video 'The Nastiest Place on Earth'."

"My poor Nasty Burger!" Tucker was practically hysterical with rage. "When Valerie finds out about this, she'll be so mad. I promised her nothing would go wrong, and we were getting along so well."

Sam sighed, looking genuinely concerned. "Tucker, don't worry. If Valerie's really your friend, she'll understand."

Tucker was not convinced. "Have you shot your bolt, Sam? She blames Danny for that time her dad lost his job and now she wants to KILL him. Can you imagine what she'll do to ME if I make her lose HER job?"

Danny tried to back Sam up. "It's just the internet, Tuck. How bad could it be?"

"JUST the internet?! Have we forgotten Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl? PARIS HILTON?!"

An eerie silence settled over cyberspace.

"You're right. You're doomed," Danny sighed.

"I know!" Tucker howled. "This is my last night ALIVE."

After a few more minutes of silence, Danny suggested, "Speaking of Doomed, you guys want to play a couple rounds before Lancer or Valerie finds Tucker?"

"You're on, GhostBoy," Sam laughed. "What about you, FriarTuck? You in?"

Tucker smiled wryly, unable to help being jollied out of his bad mood by his best friends. "Okay, but I get the first key. After all, I'm the one who's REALLY doomed!"

Let's face it. When you're a ghost, there's not a whole hell of a lot you can do to keep yourself amused without causing trouble. You can sometimes throw objects around and make spooky noises, or overshadow a student and try to hook up with the kind of person who wouldn't give you the time of day in high school. Once you had all the time in the world to do anything you wanted, you really had to rack your spectral brain to come up with something you really wanted to do.

Which was why most spirits, confused as to how to feel about their afterlife, became stuck in the same mood they were in when their spirits departed the living world. And when you died in a bad mood, you could be extremely petty. Hence the reason that a lot of ghosts, especially the ones that haunted Amity Park, were…

…well, completely immature.

Case in point—somewhere in the airy depths of cyberspace, a spirit wrapped in a bundle of code sniggered evilly at his own cleverness; he'd just played the best prank he'd come up with in weeks. Just because one was a spectral megalomaniacal genius didn't mean that everything had to be about world domination, after all, and when he'd stumbled on some pretty damning video evidence of a local fast-food chain in the Recycle Bin of a Casper High computer, he'd just had to post it somewhere it could horrify the residents of Amity Park. And where better than the internet?

Sometimes, it was just fun to mess with people.

The spirit's evil snigger gave way to a full-fledged cackle as he watched the hit counter on his YouTube video climb into the quadruple digits after just a few hours of being online. "I am Technus!" the ghost exulted. "Master of all online slander and smear campaigns! MOOHAHAHAHAHAH!"

Author's Notes:

More Duran Duran (sighs happily). Is There Something I Should Know is one of the most commonly misnamed songs the band has ever written, a fact which irks me (it is NOT called "Please Please Tell Me Now"). It was the only additional song on the 1981 album Duran Duran when it was released in the US in 1983.

My cell phone rings to Ministry's Every Day Is Halloween (when it's not ringing the Danny Phantom theme song), so I decided to give that particular goth jam to Sam, too. That song will never be anything but awesome. There's several places to find it—I currently have it on the Suicide Girls' CD Black Heart Retrospective, along with a lot of other really great songs.

Lancer's literary reference for this chapter is The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger, which is a much better book than it was a movie, but maybe I just really don't care for Anne Hathaway's acting.

It's evidenced in canon that Dash secretly likes to watch soap operas, so I couldn't resist a reference to All My Biceps, the top-rated FairyWorld soap opera, starring Wanda's "somehow hotter" sister Blonda—who, as far as I know, still hasn't won a Zappy for it!

I absolutely can't stand Nicholas Sparks' writing, especially The Notebook. It's all too smarmy for me. But given that Dash likes soap operas, I thought it might be funny if he secretly read Sparks, too. There aren't any big words for him to get stuck on or anything either. XD

Dumpty Humpty is one of Team Phantom's favorite bands. Their music is referenced in Kindred Spirits, and the band themselves make an appearance in Reality Trip as well as Shades of Gray, if I'm not mistaken.

The Bowflex was an exercise machine that was advertised by strange commercials featuring neon-lit close-ups of muscles. They were totally creepy.

Dash refers to Danny as "Fenton Tarantino" and "Fenton Night Shyamalan" in this chapter, referencing Quentin Tarantino (whose movies I adore, right down to the script for True Romance that he sold to finance Reservoir Dogs) and M. Night Shyamalan (who I really think is a one-trick pony; sure, The Sixth Sense was a great trick, but you can only do it ONCE), who Danny mocks by poking fun at the now-patented Shyamalan "twist".

Also, Tucker shows his distaste (and mine) for Joel Schumacher's ostentatious campiness in the third and fourth Batman films (Batman Forever and Batman and Robin, respectively). Not that those films aren't enjoyable for their cheesiness, but when it comes to dark and quixotic filmmaking, like any good goth girl, Tim Burton is my main man.

Even if you think you haven't heard David Rose's Holiday For Strings, you have. Either in an infomercial, or in the background of the Ren and Stimpy Show, but you've definitely heard it somewhere.

The Nasty Burger does not serve Slurpsters in canon. However, Bueno Nacho in Middleton--home of more of my animated friends, Kim Possible, Ron Stoppable, and Rufus--does.

Let's see what I remember from screenwriting:
Jump cut means to switch abruptly between different parts of a scene, usually in the interest of saving time by "skipping" extraneous footage. Smash cut is when the scene switches abruptly from one locale to the next (usually favored in slasher films just as the homicidal maniac is about to stab the screaming victim. He raises the knife high, and—smash cut to a brightly lit high school hallway or parking lot…you get the idea). Dissolve to means to fade from one scene to the next—not the same thing as a fade in to, which involves fading to black before switching scenes.

The screen names: In the DP episode Teacher of the Year (which I love!), Danny's screen name when he's playing Doomed is GhostBoy and Tucker's is FriarTuck, if we're to believe Sam when she reveals herself to be the player that's been kicking their butts, Chaos. In the Playstation2 game Nicktoons: Battle for Volcano Island (which I also love), the weird hermit-crab guy refers to her as the "Night Girl".

The last piece of this chapter is a scratch of my claws at the people who've been illegally posting the DP episodes that haven't been aired in the US yet on YouTube. I wish people would show some respect—Mr. Hartman and his staff worked very hard on those episodes, and pirating them is not okay. If these people are truly fans of the show, they'll be patient enough to wait until they're aired in the US. These are the same people, I'm sure, who are busy screaming their heads off if someone steals their art off DeviantART or their fics off here. I refuse to watch the new episodes until they're aired in the US, and it really burns my brush when people are disrespectful, so that's my way of saying "Grr" to that.

The video of Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction was one of the most searched-for videos on the internet at the time of the Super Bowl—but it still wouldn't beat Paris Hilton's tape of indiscretion. I never saw the former and would never watch the latter, and I'd like to keep it that way.

Lastly, me and my best friend LOVED to play Chip's Challenge back in the 90s. We would sit at the computer for hours playing! sighs happily. Those were the days.

If anyone's still on this ride, I am appreciative and happy to have you along! Meanwhile, I already have a bunch of notes not only for chapter seven of this story, but for a fic I want to write after this one. (Does anyone know the canon way to spell "Jazmine"?...)

Next chapter: Danny's video is finally screened, and all hell breaks loose. Not necessarily in that order.