Danny's first Day. Soccer moms, break out the tissues.

So... I have ghost powers now. Splendiforous. I'm a half ghost freak who randomly starts floating and sinking through the floor.

Well, I won't have to wait until puberty now, Bearbert has a reserved place in the chimney. I even took the care to write 'Bearbert' on a napkin and stuff it up on the spark guard.

Hey, it's the least I could do for the stuffed pile of fluff. After all, he made for awesome blackmail. Nobody will ever know the tale of the whip cream incident. Everyone's convinced the stains on the roof of my room are from dad leaving a grenade in my milkshake any how.

Well, anyway, it's the first day of High School, aren't I lucky. I just had to become a freak the day before school starts. That's karma for you, when I was born, I was chosen as its holy punching bag.

Or at least, I think that's what it meant when they put me in with the girl babies because they ran out of room in the boy's nursery, so everyone was saying how I was such a beautiful little girl... Oh yeah, in case you didn't know by now, I'M A GUY...

Ouch, gotta get on the bus, being late on the first day is an unwritten taboo among teachers. They're evil that way. Spew tons of junk about your effort and promise, but when you ask them for one second chance they slam a book in your face and ask for a thousand page essay on the necessity of discipline in society. Happened enough times I have it saved on my computer. Nobody's gotten wise to it though. Maybe the house's radiation is leaking...

Crud, missed the bus. Well, I guess I could run... But then I remembered the one fatal flaw in that plan. The thirty pounds of the dead wood they call textbooks being lugged around on my back. Oh well, like I had a choice. So, I sprinted after the yellow menace as fast as my scrawny little legs would get me there. When I say scrawny, I mean able to be compared to the pipes on those lawn chairs. I mean, barely-did-the-mile-run-in-ten-minutes scrawny.

Too bad wood doesn't have a ghost, then at least I might have something to have a conversation with besides that dang ant-sized Jazz in the back of my head yelling at me about responsibility and all that garbage.

I keep on telling that thing that I'm running as fast as I can with out risking breaking my back from the dead weight known as my 'tools toward a brighter future', but will it listen, no. I'm hoping that it'll go away eventually, but so far my attempts have been as fruitless as the apple tree dad sicced his flame thrower on last year. If you don't ask, I won't tell.

After ten or so minutes of high speed chase, I find my way to Casper High School. Casper, the name rings a bell. Wasn't he that goody two-shoes ghost that haunted some old manor? Yeah, not exactly the best name for the shark tank known as High School.

I enter the halls, seeing them pretty darn empty. That could mean one of two things. Either, A, I broke the speed of light and went back in time far enough that school hadn't opened, or I was late. Based off my PE grade, the latter seemed a lot more likely.

I look at the small slip of paper in my hand. The first class, English with Mr. Lancer. Joy to the world, I get to learn the language I'm speaking right now! I already know English, who in the heck cares about some nut case author who's only friend is a typewriter? Do I honestly need to know what a haiku was if I wanted to make it through life?

I run into the classroom, to find a class staring at me, holding in sniggers. I look down, and my pants have fallen down. I got pantsed by nothing. The air did what I'd been trying to do to a certain quarterback for years. Great first impression, Fenton. You've currently reached somewhere between band Geek and Trekkie.

I look around the room again, and realize that the teacher is writing down something on a piece of paper. Make that somewhere between a band Geek who cost the band the championships and a Trekkie who didn't know who Spok was.

I twitter over to Tucker and Sam. Yes, twitter. My pants are making weird sounds from the combination of being pulled up while walking and the gallon of bleach mom uses.

I sit by them, hiding my face behind my backpack. However, this was short lived, as my arm went through my backpack and, because karma commanded it so, right into the squishy, sticky contents of the jello cup in my lunch.

...and people say that nobody's after me. Yeah, right. The entire network of entities probably spends their Tuesday morning thinking up ways to torture me. When I pull my hand out, it is still covered small particles of jello left. Maybe Wednesday mornings too.

I look around, hoping nobody noticed. Maybe god had taken a coffee break that Tuesday morning, because nobody was looking at me.

Then, upon realizing why, I quickly take back what he said about god being busy that Tuesday. Really, he'd come to ask a friend to brainstorm with.

I look up at Mr. Lancer, who is at that moment marching down the isles, right toward my desk. Great, if it's not enough that the entire population of all powerful beings has it in for me, my English teacher does too.

He stops in front of my desk, giving me a glare as cold as the water bottle my hand slipped through on the way to its squishy destination. I give him an uneasy smirk. I am dead. I am worse than dead. I am one and a half times dead, courtesy of my dad's favorite new toy.

Mr. Lancer is about to give me the speech of a lifetime, when he hears a slight squish. He looks down, and sees that he is stepping in something green. I was about to hit myself in the head, my jello must have stuck to my hand and fallen out when I removed the sticky appendage.

I'm not just dead, I'm road kill from an 18 wheeler with a drunk driver that got stuck in a ditch and backed over my mutilated corpse getting out.

He just gives me a look so flaming I think the dry ice in the Science lab next door just melted. It would explain the fog that came out of my mouth at that moment. However, the mist is also... cold. Freako. I look around in my desk and spot a cockroach going lazily across the bottom. Normally I wouldn't care, except that it had a slight green tinge. Great. My desk is infested with dead cockroaches ghosts. Just what I wanted, a desk fell of glowing bugs.

The period passes by pretty quickly, it was the first day, so the periods are only half an hour. Just a load of mumbo jumbo about all the promise we show and all of the great things we can accomplish. I get up to leave, making sure to dodge the green stain on the floor that had, at one point, been dessert. Whether this title was lost when Mr. Lancer stepped on it or when Maddy made her own food dye is unknown.

Either way, I don't really want it in my stomach, or what ever the heck I have left after been microwaved alive yesterday, which really, is the cause of this whole mess.

Next up, the joy of algebra. Lord spare us all. I've gotten through life this far with out it, why the heck would I need it now? Letters, you see, belong in English class, not Math...

I at least get to this one in time, with my butt still safely hidden. Thank goodness, maybe karma took a three day weekend.

I sit in the second row, since Tucker and Sam aren't in this class. Lucky gits. I'm stuck with the most strict teacher in the school as far as grading goes. The door opens, and a small pudgy man comes out. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you Mr. Smith. I tell you, the Smiths are taking over. There are enough Smiths in the world, they even got their own movie. Smith, that's about as plain vanilla as you can get. Well, at least it's better than the poor sap who's named Mrs. Carp. Why that's a bad name I shouldn't even have to go in to. Let's just say that spelling runs amok in her class.

Anyway, moving on... Mr. Smith grabs his chalk and walks over to the board, Great, he's writing our death sentence. Why won't they just give us life in 9th grade and be done with it? Before our brain cells go through a small holocaust? ...Damn you vocabulary words!

He writes ymx+b. All righty then. No numbers. Superb. Wait, what in the heck? He's drawing a line on the graph board. Well, maybe I can survive. Lines are okay, I mean, at least I remember which axis is the X and which is the Y. Sometimes.

He turns to us, and asks us for the equation of the line. You know what, forget the holocaust, just nuke them all. With a half a ton of uranium and plutonium and planet-here-ium on board.

He looks down a list and calls out a name. Three guesses who, and the first two don't count. I said it before, and I'll say it again, DAMN YOU KARMA!

So, now I've been challenged with putting numbers in the place of letters, which should be against the laws of physics. It's against the laws of my brain anyway. It's a straight line, going across from the two... Well, the y setting is two, there's nothing else. I tell the teacher that, and... HOLY. FRIGGIN'. GYM SOCKS. I got it right. Well, I would start celebrating, but right now I'm more scared of what horrible event the guys upstairs have planned for me if they gave me even a slimmer of good. That, and because I've been at the top of their hit list ever since I fell asleep during the sermon. I was five, cut me a break.

Oh wait, now I remember. The person who gets the first question right of the year gets... called on the most. crap. Danny: zip; guys up stairs :2. Yep, karma's punching bag when I was born, and the old guy's having a tantrum.

Well, I was called on twice the rest of the period, wrong on both accounts. Why, pray tell, does M stand for the slope? Shouldn't it be, I don't know, S for slope? I really need to find who ever made algebra and make him acquainted to the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick. I think it applies.

Now for snack. Or, in realistic terms, fifteen minutes of sitting on your duff and telling your buddies about how mind numbingly awful your teachers are. That's about the gist of it for the first few days, same thing every school year.

I find Tucker and Sam and ask them about their second period teachers. I'm hoping karma didn't decide to spread its hatred toward my buddies. Sam has the art teacher second period, and Tucker's got Computers. They great their favorite subjects, and I'm stuck with as a Smith's class favorite. I have a horrible urge to bang my head on the table.

In fact, I do bang my head on the table, but my head just then turned invisible, so my head went through the table. Great. God hates me and he won't even let me take me frustration out on school property. This day sucks.

After fifteen or so minutes of regaling the tales of second period, the bell rings. One thing about me, I've always hated school bells. They're always so shrill and come at the least convenient times. I swear there's a little camera next to them that tells it to ring right before I get to say anything.

Anyway, so we hightailed it off. I get to go to PE next. Yay. Well, judging by my sprint this morning I think my ghost powers made me stronger. I hope.

I run into the gym, and the class is about half full by now. I look at the cursed piece of paper that tells me the schedule of my demise. Seat number 13. Yep, they definitely spend their Tuesday and Wednesday mornings finding ways to torture me.

Well, at least today is only safety rules. No weight lifting or sprinting. If I was running and suddenly sank through the floor, I don't think I can blame quick sand again. The neighbors are already getting suspicious from when I used that yesterday, I think one of them is calling the foundation guy to get his house checked for it.

The teacher comes, a real brute of a guy. Heck, it would be easy to picture him as one of those executioners that use guillotines. I learned that word in a school play, by the way. How the heck else would I know it? I mean, it's not like I study.

Then, joy to the world, he starts yelling at us about our puny little bodies and how it looks like getting hit with a brick would snap us in half. Now I'm wondering whether he was an executioner, a mercenary, or one of the green berates. Any of the three fits. My money's on Green Berate right now. Looks like a trained killer...

Of course, he makes me stand as an example of a scrawny little kid. Just wait until the growth spurt buddy. I'll be as high as you and about twice as thick.

He asks me to stand near the fence-why? Oh, great, he's comparing my limbs to the metal fence posts. Wonderful. Yes, I have straw-like limbs. We established that several years ago when Dash fit my arm through the funnel at the Science Museum. Can I go back to the people who don't want me dead now?

He shoves me back to the group, and I sit back down. All that happened past that was a load of squawking. Great.

As soon as the bell rings, I scoot my butt out of there. Art class next. If Sam is anything to go by, maybe this won't be so bad.

Strike that. It's gonna be hell and I know it ahead of time, so things are going to be planned extra badly.

First, when I sit down, I hear a slight 'splat'. I look down, and double take. I swear that jello has it out for me. How it got from Mr. Lancer's room to my seat is as of now unknown. Something tells me I'd rather not know anyway,

Well. I've got jello on my pants. Great. Jello stains never come out.

I sigh, before sitting down and moping the loss of my jeans. Yes, I have a dozen of them, but these were old. They had all the old stains, cuts, and nicks from over the years. There's still the yellow stain from that accursed mustard incident, and the red one from the food fight, and the green one from- You know what, maybe it is better I finally throw away these pants. They've turned into a stain rainbow and are really pieces of junk. A quick memory of a snipping reminded me that I got them from some garage sale a plumbers was having anyway. Lord knows what in the heck spilled on them.

I look around, and see that everyone's looking forward, the teacher has arrived. The best way to describe her was that she looked like she was straight out of those old black and white cartoons where everyone has noodle arms and legs and is bouncing. She reminded me faintly of that old sailor's girlfriend. What was her name again, Orange Juice, no no; Vinegar, nah; Olive Oil? Yeah, that's the one!

Well, at least we're working today. She wants a nature scene, okay. I grab a green brush and began the makings of a shrubbery, but my hand goes invisible and the brush falls right through my hand, leaving a nice green dagger piercing my shrub. I sigh, and the teacher comes by.

"Fenton, what is this?" she asks. Well, it started as a shrubbery, but I'm afraid that title has been lost. I tell her that I was trying to make a bush, but that my hand slipped. She clicked her tongue, damn it, can everyone besides me do that!

"So you require a shrubbery?" she asks. Yes, I require a shrubbery. I sort of established that when I tried to make one, thank you.

I nod at her, and she pats my shoulder. I killed a bush, what's the big deal?

"In art there are no mistakes, only changes our imagination commands. I look forward to seeing your work, Danny." she tells me, before heading off. So, according to her, my imagination is rebelling by putting a stake through my poor shrub's heart. Somehow I doubt that, and I think it was who ever's up there getting a kick out of my misery.

Well, I finished my shrub, and began making a river which looked a lot more like a blue snake having a seizure. The bell rang, and I packed up my stuff and headed to lunch. Nothing bad can happen at lunch, right? ...Don't answer that.

I sit down by Sam, Tucker coming from somewhere. I'm about to get up to buy lunch, since a certain gelatin based occurrence ruined the one I brought, when something grabs me by the back of my neck. Either karma took a solid form and decided to prove my theory, or I have an angry quarterback holding me for ransom.

One call of 'Fenton!' quickly solved that dilemma. I ask Dash what he wants, and, he bellows for my lunch money. Wait a second, I may have a way out of this. Let's hear it for TV!

I ask for him to set me down so I can get it, and take it out of my pocket. He then asks me to hand it over, and I set my plan in action. For all rights, purposes, etc, I'm in parentheses, and Dash is in, well, Dashes. I'm not that creative.

(what do you want, Dash?)

-Give me your lunch money-

(But I already payed you)

-no you haven't-

(Yes I have)

-If you didn't pay me, what's the money in your hand?-

brought extra)

-Just give it Fenton-

(but I already payed you.)

-I don't care. Give me your money.-

...and thus ended my trust in Monty Python to allow me to escape from Dash. Well ,for now at least. It'll all come back as soon as I hear the Spam song.

At that moment, Dash lost his temper and nailed me square on the nose. I flew back and nailed the wall. Oh sure, I lose my jello cup to it, but when it'll help, does it work? No... I land on the water fountain, banging my head on the box. Wonderful.

Well, at least I got to go home early from whiplash. No more school today! Good thing too, from what I hear the science teacher is hell and I have Lancer for History. How many classes does that man teach?

So I go home with a mountain of ice packs in my parent's glowing green RV. Great first day.

The only reason I don't jump out the window now is because I know that, either way I cut it, karma's gonna have it in for me even worse tomorrow.

Oh wait, I love this song! I'm a lumber Jack and I'm okay, I sleep all night and I work-the radio broke. That is the final cherry. As soon as I'm 18 I'm moving to some Amish village in the middle of no where and milking cows all day.