If you would like some recommended listening music, I've made a list out of the songs I cycled through while writing this chapter; please feel free to leave me songs this chapter made you think of as well. -Voorhees

-Loser Boy, Joesph Dubay
-Teen Idle, Mariana and the Diamonds
-All Eyes on Me, Bo Burnham
-The Creak in The Floor Boards, Tired Pony
-Death with Dignity + Fourth of July + To Be Alone with you, Sufjan Stevens
-Lord Huron
-The Weeknd's Afterhours album
-Machine Gun Kelly's Tickets to My Downfall Album


Prying up a piece of the cracked drywall, Dash tapped along the weakened seam with his paint knife. Once the piece relinquished its grip on the wound, he dropped the broken bits into a bucket he had recruited from the garage.

It's like he was a doctor picking out buckshot, carefully peeling back layer after layer of powder, plaster, and fiberglass. Through the skin, then muscle, until he saw bone. He saw the buckled two-by-four, and it began to settle in just how out of his depth he was.

The young man sat back on his knees, bowed his head, and sighed— "You're haunted. That's all you'll ever be, Baxter."

An ironic smile twitched on his lips as he was helpless to do anything else.

He had spent the better half of the day picking bits of his computer off the floor. He tried to put it off, but the monitor's glittery glass shards seemed to glare threateningly back at him from within the dimly lit carpet flooring.

On top of that, the sharp smell was getting to him, too. Ectoplasm had a certain odor, something akin to death but not quite. It always smelled worse in its more active state, where it was more malleable and clung to everything. Like some sort of fungus or mold, it rotted all it touched. Leaving only dim, congealed stains behind once its hunger was satisfied.

Live as long as Dash had in Amity Park; it's surprising what you learn about ectoplasm.

For example, it doesn't come off plaster very well!

Gathering the bottle of bleach at his side, Dash turned it upside-down onto the sponge he had scattered amongst his supplies.

It was this rinse-and-repeat cycle of smoothing the hole in the wall, chipping away the jagged edges, sanding it down, picking up charred and broken shards of the plastic computer shell, and then combating the stain with the bleach using both sides of the sponge. It was a push-and-pull relationship with the task. It seemed like it would never end. Even if he cleaned up this mess, there would inevitably be a spot he missed or another ghost attack on the horizon that would render all of the effort pointless.

Day after day, Sisyphus rolled his boulder up the mountain, only to reach the top and have it all come crashing down. In the pantheon of divine punishments, Dash always thought the Greeks had this obsession with repetition. Sisyphus and his boulder that would supposedly grant the path to the Elysian fields— Prometheus, the fire bringer, cursed for all eternity to have his liver pecked out by eagles, only to have it be restored by nightfall.

The key difference between the two was that Sisyphus always had the option to stop. As a mortal who cheated death, he got off remarkably well. It was his insufferable ego that was his downfall, as with all these characters in these stories.

Sisyphus could've stopped at any time. He could have had a blissful existence as most souls did in the Asphodel meadow. But Sisyphus, as the man who outwitted and caged death, thought he deserved better; he deserved to be remembered. He was a victim of his ambition, and his punishment would last as long as it took the lesson to sink in.

Sisphyus didn't give up, but he always could. In fact, giving up and giving in were integral to the point. Sisphyus only ever had to lean in and accept that he had lost.

Though, maybe you become exhausted from losing.

Dash's arm began to cramp with the repetitive motion of scrubbing. As he began to switch arms, his eyes were drawn to the scratch on his right bicep. Dash couldn't help but fixate on it. It was just that, a scratch. He muddled through scrapes, bumps, and bruises worse than this. However, none were quite as stubborn as this one. It didn't hurt, but it was a reminder.

It was starting to blur together. All the near-death experiences… He's considered lucky. He has his doubts.

Some would be jealous that the Phantom got that close to him, even if it was just to hurt him. He couldn't fathom the motives of such a creature but found himself trying regardless.

That had to be it, right?

The Phantom wanted to hurt him. But who would believe that? Who could he even tell about the encounter? Who would even care? They would think he was making it up! They'd think he'd gone the same way as Weston.

Maybe the Phantom wasn't the good guy everyone cast him to be. Maybe the Phantom had people he didn't want to let down too. Maybe all Dash could see was this uninhibited being of light floating amongst the power lines and clouds because that's all he wanted to see?

Dash had been there, too. He's still there. Dealing with life's curveballs as they come. Taking every hit you're given only to get back up again. It was enough to make him scream. Dash wished he could get away with breaking a wall or two, then maybe he wouldn't feel so… so—

The more thought he gave the chore in front of him, the more it felt like he should be wearing gloves or a filtration mask— but, if Dash was honest, he didn't care. The skin on his palms tingled, but it didn't hurt.

He was hopelessly alive. Resigned to his fate in either conclusion. Continuing to look towards his approaching future with gritted teeth, a haggard stare, and apathetic optimism. Because, Jesus Christ, things had to get better— they had to.

It all would end soon. Football season would be over, and no matter the result— it would be over.

Hopelessly alive. The affirmation sounded like a filler track for some emo band Manson would listen to and lord over his head.

The living teen snorted to himself, still unconvinced to move from his spot on the floor until the job was done.

We all were in a losing war with time.

No one got out of it alive, regardless of the weapons you brought to the table.

Music at least made it all bearable.

That's really what he needed.

Before Dash could push himself up to find his CD player, his cell phone rattled on his desk, then it began to ring with this annoying song—

It was crunchy through his phone's mono speaker, but the chorus of the song was easy to pick up.

'I'm a gummy bear. Yes, I'm a gummy bear!'

'Oh, a yummy, funny, lucky gummy bear!'

Rolling his eyes, Dash sighed. Not a day goes by where he didn't want to kick Wes' ass for changing his ringtone during a sleepover that seemed like a lifetime ago.

'Gummy Gummy, Gummy Gummy, Gum—'

Wrenching his arm behind him to his desk, he picked up the call, "It's Baxter."

When the connection was clear, the voice on the other end was smirking at him, "Don't sound too excited, vato."

The quarterback huffed before squeezing his tear ducts, "Hey, Paul."

"Dashie." The cheerleader purred humorously.

Running his fingers along his cheek with exhaustion, "Did you need somethin'?"

He yawned, wondering how late it was.

"Considering you haven't blown up my phone yet, I'm guessing you haven't seen the care package I put together for you?" There was the sharp snap of her flipping the pages of a magazine on the other end.

Glancing at his watch, Dash raised his brow, "You wanted to call me at nine o'clock because I didn't thank you for coating my locker in a fresh layer of 'school spirit'?"

"That was Star's idea—"

"Of course it was." Baxter blinked away, sleep pooling in the corner of his eyes.

Paulina snickered, "When Testlaff told her that she was your cheerleader, it was like a declaration that no craft store was safe."

"I still have glitter on my jacket!" Pinning his phone to his shoulder, Dash spat, "I can't decide which is harder to get out— Ectoplasm or friggin' glitter."

The head cheerleader continued to laugh at him, "You're the only person I know that can turn lemonade back into lemons, Dash."

Quietly, the quarterback retorted, "Too much sugar is bad for you."

"Will you just open your bag already?"

Dash tore his eyes over to his bed, "Duffle or messenger?"

Her patience was waning quickly; Paulina replied, "Messenger."

"Hold on." He grunted as he got to his feet.

"I'm not keeping you from anything, right?"

Dash could feel the busted drywall staring right through him, "... S'nothin' I was just… It's nothing."

That's funny.

Baxter whipped his head around, phone fumbling in his grip as his eyes darted back and forth, searching for anyone who could've come home without him hearing it.

No one. There was no one here.

He exhaled heavily until his lungs burned. It was late, and he was tired. That's it.

"What's funny?" Getting a better grasp on his cell, Dash asked—nearly demanded. His heart stuttered, and his voice hitched, still processing the false alarm.

"Huh?" Sanchez's voice crackled through the receiver.

It didn't sound like Paulina, but it had to have been her.

Dash softened, if only slightly, "I-I thought… did—did you say something just now?"

Puzzled, the constant stream of page flips abruptly stopped on her end, "I just asked if you were busy. I was thinking, me and you could have uh…" She hummed, "What do you call it? 'Spa day'?"

"What?" Dash cocked his head and put a hand on his hip as if he was about to scold her for being frivolous.

"—Just open your bag already, Dashie!"

He adjusted his jaw and did as she asked. Taking tentative steps towards his bed, he found his bag and began to rifle through it for anything unusual. Eventually, the search produced a white box wrapped in a single twine bow lengthwise across. It was about the size of a textbook, nearly an eighth of the weight. With a single hand, the quarterback inspected the box as if it were going to suddenly burst and explode. Even with the ginger and careful movement, the contents of the box rattled against the lid.

"Paul, have I ever mentioned you're like the Unabomber if he was in a pink crop top?" The quarterback questioned, "Seriously, how did you get this into my bag when I wasn't looking?"

"You have a lot of trouble saying 'thank you.' You ever look into that?"

He relented, "You're right." He repeated, "You're right. I'm sorry, I'm being ridiculous."

Then, with a sigh, Dash quietly said, "Thanks."

Sanchez snorted, "So, are you going to open it or what?"

"Fine." The quarterback once again leaned his head into the crook of his shoulder, leaving his hands free.

With a few tugs, the bow came undone, and he wrapped the twine around his knuckles before removing the lid.

The box contained a nail file, clear coat conditioner, black polish, sheet mask packets, and a weird brown… fuzzy thing.

"Well, do you love it, or do you just love it?" She burst into giggles and declared his stunned silence as a success, "Isn't it to die for, mi hermano?"

Dash squinted at the contents, "I have no idea what I'm looking at."

"Oh, the headband? It's to keep your hair out of the face mask. It's also totes adorbs, isn't it?"

Dash ran a hand through his hair; it was still nice and short, with an unreasonable amount of military-grade gel to make sure he always looked presentable. There was virtually nothing to keep up. He glared down at the headband, "...Does this thing have ears on it?"

He could hear her smile through the phone, "It's a bear!"

That offered some explanation. She wanted him to look stupid. Clearly.

Dash felt his eyes wander towards his closet, where the doors were hard at work, keeping hidden his shameful amount of plushies and collectibles. He really didn't like people knowing about his more feminine interests, mostly due to the mocking and bullying that often quickly accompanies the discovery. His face reddened, "I think the worst thing about you and Kwan dating is that you now know way too much about me."

"We've known each other for so long, Dashie. It's honestly hard to tell where we bleed through." She was struggling with her phrasing, but its ineloquence made it sound more genuine. Sometimes, due to the language barrier, it felt as if she spoke in poetry and riddles.

The cheerleader mused, "And he only tells me the good things."

Good things—Dash felt his reaction get caught in his throat and die in his chest. He wanted to laugh. It felt like a joke. He was too used to meeting any faint praise with an equal dose of irony. It was as natural as breathing to him.

It was at times like these he began to wonder if other people thought this way, too. Did they, too, hide from compliments like one would sleepily draw the curtains on a too-bright morning sun?

"I'm guessin' he put you up to this." The blond winced through a smile, "—Never known you to do nice things all on your own."

Paulina didn't seem offended by the assertion. Her response was direct and blunt, "We're all worried about you, vato."

Paulina Sanchez didn't make a habit of showing kindness to other people. No big grand displays of warmth. It was in these hidden moments, closer to midnight, where the affection she denied would show itself. These quiet moments where expectations were gone, and there was no performance she had to adhere to.

"Uh-huh." Dash was skeptical.

The rustling on the other end sounded like she was sitting up and bringing her magazine along with her; she grunted as she adjusted her posture, "And when people worry, they break out. And I, for one, do not condone sharing a yearbook page with your pizza-face."

"That's my girl." Baxter picked up his box, "See, now that's more what I was expecting, Paul."

"Oh, yeah," Like she suddenly remembered something, Paulina added, "I also don't mind being the only one brave enough to tell you your roots are baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad."

Baxter tucked the box under his arm and switched his cell to his left ear as he got to the bedroom door and twisted the knob, "Normally, I have to pay to be berated this thoroughly over the phone."

"And here I've been, doing it for free for years!"

The stark silence in the house seemed to find any opening it could like a flood. It was oppressive and predatory, this empty house of his. The creak of the door opening seemed to call out to the lower floor, only to be met with nothing.

The way the sound bent around the hallways and tall ceiling that overlooked the living room felt unfamiliar to him now.

There was this sharpness he felt at his neck, like someone was looking at him. He got this compulsion to close his door behind him. So he did. The click of the latch hitting the copper strike in the frame caused him to exhale wearily.

Dash peered down the hall towards his parents' bedroom. The door was also closed to him. His Dad typically locked it out of habit before he left. Yet this brought the quarterback no comfort that there wasn't something just beyond it.

Why did he feel like there was a stranger in the house? The simple answer was he was the stranger.

It could have something to do with the pictures decorating the wall. None of them had him in it. So many were just random grab-bag memories, some pre-divorce, some post-divorce, but Dash was never the focus. He never wanted to be, but it would be a relief just to be asked. He found himself staring at frames, and the only place he could find himself was in the reflection.

The few seconds he spent in the hall were hurried, like a soldier attempting to find cover from shells once he was compromised.

It was cold tonight.

Colder than it had any right to be—Dash thought as the soles of his feet made contact with the hallway floor. It was the middle of spring; he shouldn't be contemplating putting on a hoodie. Yes, the sudden rain was unexpected, but it was April, so really, how unexpected was—

Sorry.

This time, the quarterback thought the noise came from the stairs just to his left. Taking the phone from his ear, he glared in that direction. Baxter's response was immediate and annoyed, more frustrated with himself than whatever imaginary entity could be there, "Hello?"

Nothing. Of course. He was alone.

He's hearing things. He's seeing things out of the corner of his eyes; all they were was just shadows of shadows.

"—Talking to perrito?"

The sound of another person's voice was alien to him for a second at most. Shifting his grip on the box, he was prepared to use it as a projectile, yet it was nothing. Dash kept his eyes on the stairs as if someone were to come traipsing up them, "S-sorry, did you— did you say something?"

Sanchez repeated, "Were you talking to your dog?"

"He's outside." Dash thought out loud, trying to rationalize what was happening, "Pookie's outside. I was cleaning up some glass, and I—and I didn't want him to eat it…"

"Glass?"

Still transfixed on the stairs, Baxter mumbled through her concern, "Something broke. I broke it. Fell off my desk, and it… it broke."

It wasn't a lie if it was easier than the truth; that's his justification.

Initially, Paulina didn't say anything. It was like she was digesting his answer piece by piece. It was that lawyer aura about her. Even her speechlessness felt judgemental and interrogative. Eventually, she asked, "You've been sleeping okay, right?"

"Yeah, for the most part." Shrugging, the quarterback tore his eyes away from the stairs and to the bathroom door.

Halting, Dash snapped his head back towards his parents' room, "I need to check something. Hold on."

"Ugh, fine— I guess you're allowed! It's supposedly a free country, after all. Just don't take too long. These face masks won't apply themselves!" She teased him, "And I will be waiting."

It was a small detour, about ten steps out of his way to his right. The light from the ceiling didn't seem to reach the farthest corner of the hall. It would have been gnawing at the back of his mind if he didn't check the lock. Obviously, there was nothing there; this was just a validation of that belief. Evidence to support the theory that Dash was indeed alone in the house. He needed to feel the lock. He needed to feel his hand abruptly stop when he twisted the handle. The fact that he hadn't done so earlier was only causing his doubt to bloom and unfurl into paranoia.

When the door rattled in protest, not once, not twice, but five times did Baxter truly believe that the door was locked. The jock threw his head back like trying to feel a rain of relief pour over him.

He was fine.

"Are you almost readyyyyyy?" The cheerleader badgered him in a playful, sing-songy tone.

He nearly jumped six feet and then some out of his skin.

With great haste, Dash came back towards the light and entered the bathroom. He shut the door behind him as shaking hands landed on the flat switch that started the vent and caused the light to pop to life.

"Uh, Y-yeah—yeah… I'm—I'm ready." He took a moment to steady himself. There was no reason to tremble.

This was just more evidence reminding him not to trust his thoughts and mental clarity after nine o'clock.

He set the box down on the hamper before starting the sink. Catching a glance in the vanity at these supposed 'bad' roots Paulina had mentioned, he wondered how he could have ignored them for so long. Baxter remarked, "Yikes. That's… woof— That's pretty bad."

"All you need is some TLC. And you should probably shave, too."

"Don't know how the Long Island Medium is going to help me," Dash murmured.

"...cabròn." She could say she didn't find it funny, but it was pretty clever.

Smirking to himself, he wanted to believe it was, in a small way, a symptom of hanging around Fenton nearly all week.

He took the opportunity to find a ledge on the sink to put his phone on, "It's the green button that's the speaker phone, right?"

"You hang around your dad so much you're gonna turn into an old man—" Her exasperation was exaggerated, but Paulina must've told him this hundreds of times already, "Si. Verde."

After pressing the green button, Paulina's voice now projected and bounced off the cold tile walls of the bathroom.

"Verde…" Dash repeated. He muttered to himself the mnemonic device from class, "Verde, Azul-eh, Rolo, Armadillo, Gris, Blanco, Marado." With a hum, Dash concluded, "And those are the colors of the rainbow."

"... Your accent is disgusting," Sanchez stated with no remorse to speak of.

"It's still coming out Irish, isn't it?" He furrowed his brow—

Still reeling, the cheerleader was stunned and appalled by the horrid pronunciation that graced her ears, "I have no idea what that was; It's disgusting, though."

Her quiet, cutting, and monotone voice always managed to make him laugh.

"Actually, that reminds me. Dashie, what if we dye your hair?"

"I thought that's what I was doing, Paul." He said while opening the cabinet to find the developer and bowl.

"No—no, like I'm sayin', what if tomorrow at school you, like, debut a completely zafado color."

Scoffing, Dash attempted to clear his part to get a better look at the problem, "I feel like I've been your test subject plenty enough as it is."

"Aw, I know you love it! You get to feel pretty!"

"Not as pretty as you," Dash replied quietly. Sometimes, he wished he could be as pretty as her. Maybe he could have been a better girl—who knows.

"What about a streak? Ooo—ooo, what about…" There was rustling on her end of the call again. It sounded like she was trying to thumb through her trash fashion magazine to find a specific page, "Puntas… Icy tips?"

Dash cocked his head while scavenging around for the dye brush, "Icy…?"

Then, all at once, he realized as his face got hot again, "Oh god, you're talking about frosted tips."

"It would be so cute! None of the other guys in school have done it!"

"Uh, yeah! Paul, because a lot of guys don't wanna get their asses kicked by seniors!"

What're you so afraid of?

Dash felt his gaze tear away from the sink drain and back at his face, "I'd look… stupid."

It was nearly a plea. A whimper, really.

He didn't even mean to say it. It had slipped out. His voice cracked, and he hated himself even more. It was like his body wanted to betray him at every instant.

Baxter didn't like what was staring at him.

Paulina was right; he needed to shave. Patches of stubble made his once smooth skin unrecognizable to the touch. It was hard to believe that this was him. It was horrible, and it looked even worse.

In his head, he didn't think he was bound to a physical body, just a consciousness that would float aimlessly from room to room. The body was a means to an end. It reminded him that he was here. That life was passing him by too quickly for him to parse. He didn't like how it looked at him. He didn't like it, period. Long and gawky in some places, too wide and broad in others. Much too big and took up too much room. He wasn't an adult, yet he looked too much like one.

All at once, he was in kindergarten picking at a scab on his knee, decorating a teddy bear with a bandaid on the same knee; he had closed his eyes when he looked at the sun— then it was night, and he was here.

Desperately, he wished he could stop looking.

"It's just a joke! Take a chill pill!" Paulina eased off. She assured him that she wouldn't use the power of peer pressure to do something so lame.

"—Thought since you know all the words to 'Larger Than Life'— you might like the, uh, icy tips."

The quarterback closed his eyes, he let his head fall, his chin touching his chest, "I know all the words to 'I Want It That Way.'"

Turning slightly to his phone, He corrected her again, "—And it's frosted tips."

Like a stain, someone would see it so plainly.

He didn't want to call attention to himself. He got the feeling it was obvious what was wrong with him if people looked long enough.

So… Why give them any reason?

By holding himself so rigidly to expectations with no allowance for error… maybe people already knew, only pretending not to notice for his sake. To preserve what fragile dignity they thought he was owed.

Like a ghost, maybe that's all Dash really wanted. To be seen.

After pouring the developer into the bowl, he stirred it a few times, gathering it onto the brush. He thought about how he didn't even bother with the yellow dye anymore, so he went to strip the pigment straight from his hair. There was this undefinable motivation to try and explore the sadness this caused him, so he ignored it.

He was born into a world that didn't care about him, and that was fine. He thought he could make peace with that because they needed him. That was the key difference. People relied on him. He was worth more miserable and alive than finally at peace. People would suspect something is wrong if he didn't look like 'himself,' whoever that person is.

So, he lived only out of obligation. He survived. He felt like a machine most days. Only getting by on what he could.

Perhaps asking for more—asking for happiness—or demanding that happiness be given to him was too much. If somehow the crooked young man couldn't find his happiness from the crooked and broken things surrounding him, then he shouldn't be entitled to joy in any capacity.

The theory he was kicking around as of late was that he was born wrong— period.

Wrong place.

Wrong time.

Wrong body.

Wrong face.

As if existence would somehow be tolerable if everything was skewed to the left, if a few variables might be different, he might not even be here.

He believed that's what intellectuals called 'The butterfly effect.'

Dash called it depression when he felt brave enough.

Not that he would ever say these thoughts out loud or ever give it a name.

Paulina sensed she had hurt him somehow, "I think the all-platinum look is better. It makes you look more… edgy… mysterious. Kind of like that ghost boy!"

His breath caught, and the quarterback choked on nothing—

The jock adjusted his grip on the brush to one that was lethally tight, "Th-that's not…I—That's—"

She interjected, "I know— I know, he stole his look from you— I know—"

"No, seriously, Paulina, I—"

"Oh, did Kwan tell you what song he picked for his walk-on music at the Civil War game?" The cheerleader cut him off, rushing to change the subject.

"Uh, no… no, wh-what did he pick?" He was rattled and hoped it wasn't obvious. He thought he was going to snap at her—

"He didn't tell me! I was hopin' he told you."

With shaking hands, Dash applied the purple chemical directly to his dark roots. He likely got more developer on the collar of his shirt than he had originally planned. The black fabric of most of his shirts were permanently speckled and singed.

"It's-It's probably some—something stupid." The quarterback surmised, "Something stupid and probably by Smash Mouth."

Paulina's cackle echoed off the walls.

By the time she settled, Dash decided to wash off his hands from his chores. Bits of debris and rubble loosened from his skin and fell to the ceramic bottom of the sink.

"Have you decided on your walk-on music, at least?"

Dash tutted, "No." He scoffed, "Mostly because I am not Randy The Macho Man Savage."

"Orale!" She exclaimed, "You had the entire day off to think of something!"

"Yeah— Yeah, a day off because someone vandalized the buses for some stupid decades-long rivalry." Dash shook his head. "I can't believe it made the news."

"Kwan said you seemed spooked by it…"

Hesitantly, he admitted. "I guess I was…" Then, he corrected himself quietly, "—Still kinda am."

"It's just… I-I've never... it's starting to feel like… the end. The end of something big, y'know? My jaw hurts from clenching it so much. Like I'm bracing for something, and I have no idea what—" He then laughed; it was a compulsive thing to deal with his never-ending stream of anxieties. He laughed because he didn't want to give people the idea that he was actually hurting.

After cleaning off his hands with scalding hot water, the tingling once present was replaced by a concentrated throbbing in his palms.

Steam took residence on the mirror as the sound of rushing water seemed to trickle from nerve to nerve in an effort to relax him. The sound replaced whatever he thought he heard. It replaced the little hateful voice in his head with a blissful buzz.

"Did you see if the cops had any leads on a suspect?" The cheerleader was far away now, like she was reaching for something in her comfortable bed across town.

Attempting to recollect the news broadcast that he caught earlier, Dash explained, "I think I shut it off before they declared anything. It was making me nauseous."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

He had been hearing this question a lot recently. Each time, he always had a twitch before he could conjure an answer. A twitch, a tick, a shudder of some kind.

"I'm just… tired, s'all." Dash ran his wet hands over his face. He wanted to say more, but the words would come out all wrong.

Sanchez chirped, seemingly not reading in between the lines, "Remember to exfoliate! You have the snake skin!"

"Yeah, yeah…" The quarterback rolled his eyes before fumbling for the sugar scrub in the care package.

It's probably good for her to have something to focus her energy on, Dash decided.

Not that Kwan would put up much of a fight; he was simply too competent in taking care of himself. Paulina needed something to work on. Something to cultivate and see the results of.

Dash believed this could be because she was an only child and the youngest cousin. Though by the way she spoke to him sometimes, you'd think what Paulina really wanted was a pet.

He couldn't picture her with a dog or anything that had fur. Paulina had a lot of expensive clothes after all.

"I think Testlaff suggested Hard to Handle."

"Que?"

"The walk-on music. Testlaff gave us some recommendations. Mine was Hard to Handle." The jock clarified himself in big dumb blunt sentences as he spread a concoction of black sugar, milkweed extract, strawberry acid, and honey between his fingers and then along the right side of his jaw.

The mixture always seemed cool to the touch. One had to suspect it was on purpose. A relaxing agent for the skin to reduce redness or something similar. Its chill was only amplified by an uncharacteristically cold and rain-soaked evening.

Dash continued to work in the sugar, from his jaw to his cheeks to his nose—feeling the grains not only scrape the dead skin on his face but chip away at the calluses on his hands.

"I don't think I've heard that one…" Sanchez thought out loud, trailing off expectantly.

"Well, hey, don't look at me; I can't carry a tune in a bucket," The quarterback rubbed the sides of his nose, which always seemed to be the prime real estate for his breakouts.

She was no doubt pouting when she said, "Killjoy."

"I sang ABBA at your birthday, and I think that should be enough."

"Fernando should be your walk-on theme," The cheerleader suggested somewhat facetiously.

"Not a chance in hell, Paul."

"Boo…!" She cried in mock hysterics, "Tomato! Tomato! Boo!"

He chuckled.

Working the granules of sugar into nothing made him feel… softer. It made him feel more like the him he wanted to be. Like each dead skin cell removed undid all the mess that puberty and hormones left behind, and he was clean.

A weight was lifted. If only momentarily.

Peach-colored chunks of the face cream splattered to the bottom of the sink as he rinsed off his face, mingling the crumbs of plaster.

Dash wondered what Fenton would pick for his walk-out song. Probably American Idiot, an excellent punchline that would be followed up with him turning his back and laughing with his friends. If Dash asked him while Jazz was in the room, maybe something nicer. Maybe…he didn't know. Barbie Girl.

Wait. Dammit.

While grabbing his phone off the hamper, he hit himself with it. Then again.

One more time for percussive maintenance.

He really had to stop doing that. He had to stop missing a person just saw two days ago.

When would enough be enough, already—

With a noise stuck between a growl and a snort, Dash gestured to himself in the mirror with his opposing hand—get a grip.

It gave him a headache; that's all love was good for. A splitting headache, one that you could feel just behind your eyes. Dash had been getting them a lot more recently, usually just after hanging around Fenton. It was like a caffeine crash.

But it wasn't just his head. If a doctor asked him to identify where exactly it hurt— it was everywhere. A full body ache. No identifiable pain scale.

"You still there?"

A lot of this was mourning. Mourning the time wasted and going through the wreckage. What could be saved? Could they even be saved?

What was the endgame? What did Dash think was going to come of this? Nothing good. Nothing stable.

It seemed Dash didn't know how to live without that grief.

"...Yeah. Still here." His voice was thick and uneven, like he had been screaming for hours before.

Just barely—he wanted to add.

If Dash was Danny's friend—what would that even look like? Would the Fenton parents adopt him as well as they did Manson or Foley? Would they all come to his games so Dash could have something besides a section of empty seats? Would Dash still be the one taking the pictures, or would he be in them?

Danny Fenton had that air about him. That mind propelled him forward to do whatever it is that he was going to do. And he didn't care if he was wrong. That kinetic energy. Radiant in motion, always in the process of going somewhere, never really staying anywhere.

Dash couldn't decide if he hated that or was jealous that he couldn't pull it off.

If he was friends with Danny Fenton… then could he be satisfied? Would he finally be close enough?

Danny always seemed so touchy-feely with his friends. If they were friends, would Danny touch him that way? Would he sling his arm around Dash's shoulder, would they nudge shoulders in the hall, would they hold hands, would they–

Whoa. No. Stop. No. No—

That's… not how it's supposed to go.

Baxter didn't like thinking about this sort of thing. It doesn't go further. It can't go further. Not without someone getting hurt.

But Dash… didn't mind. Dash didn't mind if it was him.

Something's on your mind, isn't it?

He swallowed. Blinking rapidly.

Face flushed, Dash's exhaustion challenged his ability to stand upright. His knees shifted under him like the floor was moving without permission. It was like his blood pressure abruptly plateaued. He clambered to find the edge of his bathtub under him.

Tearing away from lights, from the mirror, and the ceiling, Dash bowed his head to the floor until everything stopped throbbing.

Despite his best convictions, he was hungry and tired, stupid and sixteen— and most pressing of all— alone. He was entirely alone. There was no one physically there to stop him from doing something… drastic.

Not that he would ever hurt himself. No. No. That would be stupid. He had so much to live for. Someone had to make sure his Dad took his medication, and someone had to feed the dog.

Just like someone had to play along with Paulina's antics.

But the thought was there. It hung there.

Heavy and swinging precariously like an ornate chandelier suspended above a hard and unforgiving floor, the thought was there. A glittering bauble, people wondered how, by all odds, it managed to stay up there, and with bated breath, they would wait for its inevitable fall.

Dash was just a car crash in the making, just another ghost story in lieu of a conclusion.

A diamond needing pressure, then to be consumed, then to be pawned when the love faded.

The image that always came to his mind when he thought about lighting himself ablaze was his peers lining up with marshmallows to roast over the fire.

It's just human nature, really, to gather around and stare at disaster. There was something compelling about watching a tornado touching down for the first time, all from the safety of your porch miles away.

It hung there by a single durable and undaunted thread of consciousness.

The quarterback was sure he had a reason to live outside of serving someone else. He would find it eventually, he hoped.

Rocking slightly, he adjusted his posture on the ledge of the tub. It was all so absurd. He could kill himself, but instead, he was dying his hair. It made about as much sense as anything else in this interesting week he was having.

"—What do you think?"

Oh— he probably should have been paying attention there—

"Wh—huh?" Baxter blinked, finding himself staring at the door. There was that thought, buried in his head again, buried in a tomb of blood and muscle. Wondering if there was some brave hero on the other side of it, waiting for their cue to save Dash from himself.

"—Of the song?" Paulina reiterated, "The one coach wanted for you?"

"I'll probably stick with it. I know it's not very… 'me'— but whatever, y'know? I don't think it matters that much. It's a crowd-pleaser choice. I'll grow into it, I guess." Dash crossed an arm over his chest to rub the sleeve of his shirt over the wrappings of his wound. The cut was scabbing over.

"And what song feels like 'you' then?"

Giving it some thought, the jock answered, "... 'Still Standing' or maybe 'Keep Yourself Alive'?"

He swung his leg around, entering the empty claw-foot bathtub and sinking below the brim. Dash yawned, "... 'Under Pressure' feels… appropriate."

The cheerleader queried, "Are you in the bathtub right now? It sounds so… cómo se dice… echo-y." p

Dash stated, his head still foggy with sleep and anxiety, "Uh, yeah— yeah. I felt a little light-headed…" He blew a raspberry, "So, bathtub."

"You're gonna fall asleep in there, aren't you, vato?"

With a snort, the quarterback replied, "Probably."

"You can be such a dummy sometimes," she said with a kind of cheekiness that crackled warmly through the receiver.

He wondered if 'dummy' meant something different in her neck of the woods— considering she called him that more times than his name. He was too afraid to ask. With a sluggish nod that was limited by the bathtub's wall, he agreed, "Sometimes."

Resting the back of his skull onto the cast-iron cradle, he wanted to close his eyes— but he still had so much to do. So he lay there paralyzed by all the unfinished things, only staring up at the ceiling. Dazed.

It felt like since he was born, he was running out of time.

Someday, maybe soon, he would never get another random Paulina check-in. It was terrifying to think about.

But right now, this was nice. It was nice to talk about nothing in particular.

"When we were really little—" In a moment, she was excited about something, gradually speaking faster and faster, "Like, back when I had my hair all trenza'd, you 'member, right? I had drawn on a marker unibrow for Frida?" She was rambling about memories that had no connection to each other, "Folks wouldn't let us have sleepovers— so you'd call me every Saturday night when the guy with the rubber chickens would show a scary movie?"

Upon realizing what she was talking about, Dash sat up, causing the phone on his chest to tumble further down his stomach, "Oh my god, The Svengeist Show?"

He repeated once he fumbled his cell, making sure the device didn't fold in on itself, and end the call, "The Svengeist show? The guy with the rubber chickens, that Svengeist?"

Elated, Paulina giggled and squealed, "Si, Si—Yes! Svengeist!"

Every Saturday night, a local station would air one classic black-and-white horror movie from times long gone. The effects were all practical and didn't have the level of polish of the modern blockbusters. With birds on strings, clay skeletons, giants made from paper mache, and chocolate syrup blood, it didn't seem to fool Paulina, but it absolutely gave Dash vivid nightmares as a child.

The movies didn't have anything on the host himself, Svengeist. He was an extraordinarily thin and wiry man clad in a black suit with a light blue undershirt. The fashion and look of the character never seemed consistent besides the idea that he was supposed to be a zombie or a ghost lost at sea. You could see that there was some influence of the time the show was created in the seventies by the ample amount of male cleavage and chest hair.

Svengeist had a mess of curly black hair that seemed tucked into a worn fisherman's cap that he would, on occasion, remove to reveal that the top of his skull had been surgically extracted to 'air out his brain.'

The show had a lot of visual gags and cringe-worthy puns, they weren't always that morbid. In later episodes, Svengeist kept his cap firmly on because too many parents complained. That, or the effect, was much too expensive to replicate on the show's obvious shoestring budget.

The host of the program wore dead face, a type of costume makeup Paulina adored. It emphasized the wearer's skull and its natural contours, giving a more gaunt corpse-like appearance. Black ink surrounded Svengeist's eye sockets and highlighted his green eyes. The most alive thing about Svengeist were his eyes, always wide and smiling— usually because the jokes only ever got a laugh out of him.

Svengeist was a compelling character, offering hints at a tragic backstory that befell him that he hid under a dense layer of bad comedy and movie trivia.

There was one time when he was hosting a showing of The Manster, a scene ended with the protagonist's wife in great peril, so Svengeist broke out a cartoonishly tiny child's piano decorated with cobwebs for the commercial bumper and serenaded the audience with a haunting rendition of Hopelessly Devoted To You from the musical Grease.

To say that Dash was obsessed was an understatement. Looking back on it in hindsight, Baxter might have had a crush on that goofy television host. It offered some explanation as to why Dash would be white-knuckling it through horror flicks every Saturday night.

"They're playing our fave tonight! El Criatura from the Black Lagoon!" There was rustling on the other end of the call; no doubt Paulina was trying to find her remote to flip the correct channel in the ocean of her bedsheets and pillows.

"No kidding?" Dash was taken aback by how sentimental she was tonight.

"You remember how we used to watch this, right? I would basically narrate all the freaky parts while you had your eyes closed—"

"Yeah, you'd always say, 'Oh, it's safe to come out!' —right at the worst of it." he teasingly chastised her.

Sanchez offered her defense, a bit breathless, while tearing her sheets apart, "How else were you going to toughen up, huh, playboy?"

If she were in the same room, she would probably punch his shoulder.

The fact that Dash was probably the only one in school who could talk back to her, so in some respect, her theory held water. On the other hand, it was unsure how much of that was Dash being tough and how much of it was Paulina going easy on him.

"You were always so shy and quiet— you were lucky to have me around."

It was odd that she spoke of him as he existed as an entirely different person because, by all accounts, he still felt very afraid. Yet the memory was so distant and fuzzy under the thin veneer of 'better times' that maybe he didn't want to believe he was always like this.

"Now you've gone off and got yourself a girlfriend. So I think I deserve credit for that."

The light in the bathroom flickered.

Off… then on.

A long enough pause to notice but not to worry about. It's old wiring.

Dash continued to dispute this, "I don't have a—!" Frustratedly, he attempted to explain the only way he thought he could, "There's no… girl."

Coyly, the cheerleader murmured, "Uh-huh, right."

His voice cracked, "I'm serious!"

Another surge went through the lights.

Off, then on.

"So, are you home all by yourself tonight, stud?" She loved to beat a dead horse, that's for sure.

"I got the house to myself, yeah." He sleepily nodded, "Dad's gone. He's doin'— he's burning the midnight oil or whatever." The jock relayed with none of the fanfare typically associated with a teenage boy left in charge. He had become bored with it. It held allure at first like all things do when they're new. Dash could sneak down the road a ways to the convenience store and be back before anyone would know.

It was like he had pulled the wool over everybody. No one knew.

When Dash was particularly restless, he would walk around his one-stop-light town, street lamps bathing the desolate roads in an orange light that looked like a root beer float smelled. He'd pace the whole town until he got tired. Through his neighborhood, to the church, to the school, to the library. Occasionally, peeking into the darkened buildings, wondering if he was the only one awake. He would pick a direction and just… walk.

Sometimes, he wouldn't put much thought into it. He had known if he had gone west if he had passed the city park and the swan pond and ended his trek at the bridge. If he went east, he always found himself at the defunct train depot. People said that the tracks were haunted by two lovers—

It was ironic, given that every place in town was also haunted.

And it was when he saw the abandoned boxcars littered with graffiti that Dash realized that it was the kind of place you go into and you don't really come back from. It was the place people go to disappear.

This freedom everyone craved— and a vacuum of crushing loneliness existed between the strings of a Thaumatrope. Always somewhere navigating between being the bird and being the cage.

It was freedom because it was negligence.

They fed each other.

Some days, he'd get angry about it. Worried more often than not. Then, it would be quelled by a well-meaning friend who didn't have such a 'luxury.'

Sanchez tried to come up with some kind of excuse on behalf of Dash's father, "He probably gets as nervous about these games as you do."

"… It's not that ...uh, his brother—" Dash explained strenuously, "My uncle— well, he would have been my uncle… apparently he died when he was my age. It was a very sudden… kind of death. And my Dad doesn't really… talk about it or mention it? I dunno. He was pretty young when it happened. I think that has… something to do with it."

"It's hard to imagine your Dad… sad. He always seems like he's smiling or telling a joke or..." There was this metallic scraping— Paulina had this habit of running her sharpened nails along the golden chain of her necklace, "I'm sorry."

"Nah. It's cool. How were you supposed to know?" Dash shrugged.

He insisted that it didn't bother him, "I'm just cursed. That's how it is."

"Cursed?"

"... Uh yeah, dunno if you heard, but our school is haunted?" Dash remarked sarcastically, "And the rest of our town, too, but—"

He could tell by her humming on her end of the line she had no earthly idea what he was talking about.

"—The quarterback curse? You've seriously never heard of that?"

The jock clarified within an exasperated sigh, "It's an urban legend, just this thing that used to scare freshmen at sleepovers…"

"I'll be totally honest, vato, I don't really keep up with Pigskin Americano…?" Paulina was bashful.

"Right, so, the quarterback curse…" Dash pressed his tear ducts.

"It started in the fifties; there was this kid. This guy. Sidney Poindexter." It always made him nervous to say his name out loud. Calling out the tormented soul by name. An extended invitation through the shrouded, murky veil of life and death.

The jock took care not to make the same mistake, "This kid… he was basically tortured for four years."

"Some kids had spread the rumor that his family were communist sympathizers, and that landed him in trouble with the local PD— but since no one in town really liked them, the evidence sort of just… didn't matter."

"The son of the sheriff, Richie Hardy, the class of nineteen-sixty-two's quarterback, basically made Sidney's life a nightmare."

"What happened to him…? Sidney?" Paulina wasn't as bothered by hauntings; she seemed to have a soft spot for them… the ghosts. It was a trait the pair shared. But she knew how cruel people could be. She knew better than anyone.

"It would be easier to say what Hardy didn't do to him." Letting his knees slack and extending his legs towards the other side of the tub, Dash fought a yawn. He had disturbed a gathering of water, and it had landed on the top of his bare foot.

Dash glared at the wall in front of him, from the drain to the copper shower head. There was the ghost of droplets there, poised on the rim, daring to fall. It was strange because he didn't remember taking a shower today. By all accounts, he hadn't used it for the past two days because he had been staying on and off with Kwan—

It should be bone dry.

Shaking his head, Dash squashed the intrusive thoughts that someone had been living in his walls or— or god knows what—

It was a leak. It's an old house. It's those damn cast iron pipes.

Dash continued to stare and deny that they were there at all.

How long could he pretend that something wasn't there?

"... There was one report that Hardy locked Sidney in the gymnasium over a long weekend." He found himself saying, just to fill the silence.

"Wait with, like, no food or anything?" Paulina asked with a sudden surprise.

Shrugging, Dash while scratching along his part, the chemicals on his scalp making his skin irritated, "Hardy would say he 'wanted to test the limits of Poindexter's imagination.'"

"It wasn't the extended stay in the gym that got Poindexter in the end though…" He gathered his knees to his chest and rested his chin on his arm.

He thought about his own death and what it would be like. If he could have a say in it. If he could have some control for once in his life.

Dash's mind was a minefield. A slurry of unrelated yet somehow interconnecting chaotic thoughts— but tonight? It was slow. Calm. Just like the water that skirted on the edge of the shower faucet.

"The story goes, there was a gas leak in nineteen-sixty-two, killed about fifteen-ish—thirty-ish kids. People can never seem to make up their minds, and no one knows how it started, or what pipe burst— or what— still didn't change that a bunch of people died." Dash rested his head on the wall of the bathtub, his clammy forehead in sharp contrast to the ice-cold surface.

The jock mumbled and let the echo put in the work for him, "Sidney's cause of death was actually inconsistent with the rest of the victims. Like, he died from asphyxiation, yeah, but his neck was broken. No gas ever found in his lungs."

"Richie survived, though. Not a scratch on him, not a hair out of place. By all accounts, he wasn't really the same after that. Nobody really was. It was kind of the widely held belief that he had something to do with it since he tormented Sidney the most. Shortly after, he started acting erratically and started talking to people that weren't there. Seeing things nobody else saw. That sort of thing. It all came to a head during the playoffs for their championship."

Rubbing his eye, Dash gradually slowed and rested his palm in the groove of the socket, "He had apparently been up all night, unable to sleep because he claimed Sidney was calling his house."

"Then at half time, he calmly got off the bench and walked off the field, and climbed up to the school roof and… swan dive."

… It felt like a lifetime in the silence.

Dash's hand eventually fell back onto his lap. He stared up at the ceiling.

Paulina gradually began to work her way back to speaking, "...No kidding?"

"Nope." He elaborated further, his voice growing more and more quieter, "The communism angle was totally speculated, but there is some evidence in the town's registry that the Poindexter's could have been directly tied to the survivors of the witch massacre about two hundred years ago— but none of that really matters—"

With an anxious chuckle, Paulina attempted to lighten the mood, "Yeah… There's something about people always trying to find answers in a horror movie that annoys me."

"If you go back, you can see it." He muttered, mostly to himself, "The curse."

"Always the quarterbacks, not always dead. Sometimes just miserable. Divorced. Addicts. Jail. Blown knees, busted spines. Still here. Still in Amity Park." Dash continued to squint at the ceiling light, waiting for the flicker. He searched for… something, God, or maybe the closest approximation of it, and only his ceiling stared back at him.

"That guy who runs the Nasty Burger? Irving Burns? He was the quarterback before he got expelled. Then Clay…"

Dash swallowed and repeated, "Clay… Clay Weston and the fire last year."

The lump in his throat only grew.

Off… then on.

"Wh-what's funny is that I wasn't even… I wasn't even the first choice." He fought to not say anything, but he found it impossible. He sniffled, propping his knee up and attempting to sit up to get more air. Curling in more towards his right side.

"Testlaff, she wanted… She wanted Pritchett. Pritchett was supposed to… then he broke his collarbone before tryouts."

Off.

Dash didn't even perk up at the sudden darkness.

It was just the storm. It had to be. Dash always had a thing about lightning when he was younger.

The bathroom was only illuminated by the glow of his cell phone. It was a whisper of life, still persisting.

"Why did'ja call me, Paulina? I'm only gonna depress ya."

The light came back in a gradual exhale, a trembling, weak pulse. A stuttering, blinking sun on the verge of being completely snuffed.

"If I'm honest," she began reluctantly, "I've been getting this bad feeling lately. Didn't want to be alone."

It's the curse. He was sure of it.

"Y'know you have a boyfriend for that." Dash tried to make himself annoyed but couldn't stomach it tonight, "Where's he this fine evening?"

She deflected, "It's complicated."

"It shouldn't be."

"It just is." Paulina sighed, "Kwan… he's good for a fun time. But when stuff gets hard, he just… he just makes me feel more alone."

Not afraid of the answer, Dash queried, "Is there someone else? Besides Kwan?"

"No…" She cleared her throat and repeated, "No."

Sanchez would, of course, be defensive over an accusation like that. It took her a moment to defuse herself— to realize Dash wasn't like all the other harpies in their friend group. He just wanted to help. A noise escaped her, a noise like a forlorn door hinge that needed oil, before she said, "... That's the… That's it—That's the thing. There is no one else. Nobody."

"You just don't feel that way about him anymore?" The quarterback attempted to plant the lead.

"I feel like… I can't like— it's so stupid."

Dash didn't say anything, waiting for her to talk herself into circles and then tell him what the actual problem was.

"I don't… I-I don't think I can love him in the right way. Like he's expecting something I just cannot do. It doesn't come naturally to me. I can't love them in a way that's… 'normal'… or whatever." For the first time since Dash could remember, Paulina pleaded, "Does that make sense? Any sense at all?"

His brow furrowed as he tried to understand what she meant. Kwan wasn't the kind to force anyone, let alone a girl, into something they If anything they weren't ready for, his mom would kill him.

Dash had the exact opposite problem; it was getting people to reciprocate that didn't stick.

"—My god, here you are thinking you're cursed by some kid from fifty years ago, and I'm, like, dealing with this sitcom crap."

He chuckled weakly, picking at a hole in his jeans, "No, no… For real, I need sitcom crap. Need it like—like I need daily vitamins."

She giggled, more of a scoff, really. It was faint, but it was genuine.

"Paul, don't be calling yourself stupid now. Especially not over someone like Kwan. I know he's our friend, but the truth is Kwan and I— well, as Fenton would say…" Dash rested his eyes and, in a defeated fashion, raised his brows, "He would say… we were only allowed into the gene pool because the lifeguard was out to lunch."

As the evening marched perilously on, they were drawing quieter and quieter. The mood wasn't dire or urgent. But the kind of wishful thinking and vows you made to a friend in the middle of the night, shared between anecdotes and listless dreams about a better future. Because right now, the night was dark, but that only meant the sunrise would be around the bend.

Paulina's line shifted and crackled, "I dunno about you, vato, but I miss when things weren't so…"

"Complicated?" Dash finished her thought.

"Si."

It's amazing what you held onto when it felt like the end of the world.

Why did the world always have to end when you were a teenager? It ended every night, only to begin anew every morning. It was exhausting.

So many emotions in a body and brain not yet equipped to deal with it all yet.

Yearning to be an adult, but with none of the responsibility, only the freedom.

Yearning to be close but not to touch because then the dream would end.

Danny probably said that to him months ago, yet he still relished in acknowledgment. The briefest validation that Danny thought about him at all. Dash wanted nothing more to exist in Fenton's universe, but he doubted there was room.

Eventually, Paulina spoke up, "You know… I kind of hope you're right about you not having a girlfriend."

"What'd you mean?" Dash rolled his head away from the wall of the bathtub.

"Ever since we were little, you've always wanted to— you've always wanted someone." She diagnosed it plainly, "Obsessed with romance and all that mushy stuff."

"I wouldn't say obsessed—"

Paulina pressed, "You've dreamed about this ever since you saw your first black-and-white movie."

Shifting his jaw and clicking his tongue, Dash flatly said, "It was Casablanca—"

"I know whoever she is… if she's even real—"

"There's no girl!" Baxter declared, wanting nothing more than to be understo—

"I know she isn't going to love you in the way that you deserve." As soon as it left her mouth, the words just… sat there.

The light flickered but in a steady, driven rhythm.

Off. On. Off. On. Off. On—

Between pulses, it was as if when it was on, the light would explode with its blinding brightness.

Shifting uncomfortably, shoulder blades tensed and fighting against the bathtub, Dash smacked the wall behind him—

The light complied, albeit with protest. The heated fuse let out this unhealthy clicking scratch from the porcelain fixture, but it remained on.

"And… I-I—" Through the static, she exclaimed with most of the anger being directly pointed at herself, "—I hope that it doesn't work out. Because there's something horrible in my brain that can't stand the idea of you being happier than me."

Dash only blinked, and his jaw hung open, then closing rapidly— How was he supposed to respond to that?

"It…It just… it's not fair." Sanchez mumbled, sheepish like a child being told to come in from the downpour, "Like I've been waiting for so long, and the only thing that keeps me going like everything is all fine is knowing you're waiting for the same thing I am."

"That must make me sound like a real bitch, huh?"

"...I don't think I can be mad at you for that."

"You totally should be, though." Paulina added, "I want you to be. You should be mad at me, and obviously, you should be happy— regardless of me."

His expression dropped any tension in it as the quarterback tried to be more awake and present to comfort his friend, "I-I can't be mad at you, Paul; I'm not any different."

She didn't say anything for a moment.

"I'd get so angry sometimes I could hardly breathe because I thought— when is it my turn? When do I get to be happy? How long can I coast with nothing? I don't think it was jealousy because I never felt like I deserved it more… I just… I was so…" His mouth ran dry.

His thoughts drifted back to Danny again. Somehow, his head always led back there. It just made sense.

Dash always wondered what exactly he said or what he did that made Danny hate him so much. Did he even hate him, or was that just an act? Maybe Dash was so terrified of being rejected he never even noticed.

Maybe what Dash hated the most about the ghost boy is that no matter what—Dash couldn't free himself from loving Fenton.

"I'd just think that's how it'll be. I'll just burn forever until there's nothing left." Dash scratched the notch in his right eyebrow, running his thumb along the scar there, "Eventually, I think… I think you just become numb. Deny that you ever wanted anything in the first place…"

He could hear her fidgeting on the other end of the line.

More than likely weighing her responses.

"I think I always root for Critura because he sees these people that look so much like him, standing on two legs and everything. They swim how he swims, maybe a little slower, but hey, everyone starts somewhere…! Then he sees that woman. All he wants… is friendship, and then gets thrown in a cage."

"Critura is lonely. We all are. He just didn't understand."

"You think if Sidney was in our time or we were in his—" Was all she could muster to realign the focus of the evening.

On the same wavelength, Dash nodded slowly, "I'd try to be his friend. I'd try. I don't know if I'd do a great job, but…"

She softly argued, "Then I don't think you have anything to worry about. Sidney Poindexter wouldn't have a grudge against someone like you."

"I don't know where people get this notion that I'm a good person." He exhaled in a bitter laugh. There was that self-deprecation that he mistook for humility.

"You remember how we became friends, right?"

"uh, yeah, I think your mom and my mom went to the same book club—"

"Okay, ha ha, yes, that's how we met—" She deadpanned, "But how we became friends is—"

If Dash had to guess, Paulina was scratching the side of her nose, she often did that when she was embarrassed, "it's t-totally different."

"When Ricky Marsh spilled that ant farm down my back, you always stood behind me after that…" Sanchez trailed off, waiting for the words to come to her. She knew exactly what she wanted to say, but it was so much easier to say in Spanish— "I was such a brat back then… and—and you still took care of me."

"Marsh— man," Dash figured she didn't want to acknowledge that lapse in her usually unflinchingly brutal demeanor. So instead, he dismissed it, "That kid is still a piece of work."

"Yeah, and he wouldn't stop asking me to do the hat dance," Paulina's sneer permeated every word.

Snapping his fingers, Dash said, "Now, it's coming back to me."

"You punched him pretty hard."

"He punched me pretty hard too."

They laughed, together this time, in a discordant unity. They laughed until Dash started to wheeze. His chest ached—

No matter how much it hurts, they should both be happy.

"Hey," Paulina sniffled, "Uh, the timer went off a little while ago… for your hair."

"Aw, you mean I don't get to have this burny-itchy feeling on my head forever?" He poked at her, wanting to hear her laugh again.

"Stupid." She called him.

Finding the muscles in his legs, the jock stood up. He lazily swung his leg over the wall of the bathtub and staggered to the sink.

Washing out the bowl he was using until the water ran clear, he filled it up and poured it over his head, rinsing it of any developer.

Using both of his hands, he toweled off his head in a chaotic motion, drying out his hair before opening the door. His renewed short hair now sticking up in all matter of directions, Baxter disregarded the towel and threw it on top of the hamper.

"You should grab, like, a snack or something, so we can do this spa-day-slash-sleepover official," She suggested, then the receiver brushed against her shirt as she moved, "Oh, popcorn. That's what I needed this whole time. Popcorn."

"Did you know there was actually two guys who played the gill-man?" Dash said as he groggily shuffled to his stairs. As he grasped the arm rail, the presence he thought he felt was far away now, or it was never there, to begin with. He took the first step down, swaying from foot to foot like he was sleepwalking.

"Yeah, the first guy, Ben Chapman, was like a green beret in the Korean war or something; he had like the silver and bronze stars and a purple heart for his injuries. He's the one who played the Gill-man on land. He got cast because he was, like, huge— like six-five or six-six? Big guy." Dash answered and explained his own question, "The production was so bad on the movie that he or the other guy playing the Gill-man didn't get credited. The director said it like it was super important that the public never see the monster as just a guy in a costume— so there aren't like a lot of set photos with them."

"So, cool…" Paulina was mumbling and translating the directions for her microwavable popcorn on the other end of the line.

"The second guy, Ricou Browning, was actually a high school gym coach who, like, did those underwater mermaid shows— like the kind they do in Vegas, y'know? The camera crew for the movie was scouting the location where he worked, and he was giving them the tour, and then they just gave him the part! How crazy is that?" Dash yawned and added, without thinking, "He was really hot."

Between beeping, swearing, and eventual kernel pops, the cheerleader asked, "He was really what?"

"He was…" Dash blinked, only to realize he had no idea how to excuse that lapse. He forgot who he was talking to. He halted on the last step before entering his living room.

"H-he could, like, hold his breath for like four minutes. That's insane!" He strained through a laugh; Dash held his neck like he wanted to choke himself, "Haha— If I became uh, like, uh, strong enough swimmer, I-I could… to-totally be the next Gill-man."

"Oh my god, like one of those cheesy sequels— What do they call it? Son of the Gill-man? Gill-man junior? Those are so stupid!" She cackled.

"Yeah, so… so stupid." Dash rounded the corner, cutting through the main hallway behind the main door. Going further into this mausoleum of his. The kitchen was dark, save for the light just above the sink and the various small red dots that lined the fridge and coffee maker. His hand fell from his throat to lazily rub his collarbone.

The dark patches of hair on his arms were standing on end. Skin broke out in gooseflesh.

He should know his kitchen like the back of his hand. He's snuck down at midnight plenty of times not to wake anyone with any misstep. He should know his house since he's lived in it the majority of his life— but at this moment— He didn't. Dash's hand reached for the ceiling light switch off to the side of the archway, his fingers barely grazing it on the first attempt. It was imperative that Dash kept his eyes glued to the glass door that led to the backyard. All the foliage and tree branches seem to blur into dark matter.

The quarterback once more found himself confronted by a door he didn't want to open. Despite seeing the other side of it firsthand, there was still a great reluctance to move. He was worried about inviting something into this house that would refuse to leave. The glass reflected the kitchen, creating a seamless extension of the room. It reflected himself, but once again, there was something to criticize.

There was something indescribably off about the darkened glass.

And that uneasiness did not seem to vanish when the light above the counter island clicked on, expunging every corner of darkness. It eliminated the silence by filling it with a subtle hum.

The fridge's ice maker loudly dropped another block in its internal system— causing the jock to startle in place.

"Jesus—" He swore under his breath and continued forward, clutching his phone all the tighter. It was his last possible lifeline, after all.

Hurrying across the kitchen to the back door, Dash flung open the door and called into the blackness, "Pookie, c'mere boy! It's time to come inside!"

Expecting his dog to come running, Dash became confused after he was met with nothing but the sound of frogs and crickets. The storm was still gathering overhead, driving all signs of life from their hiding places.

Wetting his lips, Dash whistled, low and long. Yet no chihuahua bounding up the deck steps eagerly shaking off the rain dew onto the carpet.

"C'mon, Pookie, we're turning in for the night! Bedtime, buddy!" He ventured down the steps but did not leave the glowing halo of light provided by the kitchen. Not stepping a toe beyond the boundary.

His heartbeat was starting to pick up the pace. The quarterback didn't think that his dog was strong enough to dig his way under the gate. The last thing he needed was to roam his neighborhood barefoot.

"Pookie?" Turning his phone screen to the backyard, Dash swept it across the grass.

Dash put his hand in front of his mouth to muffle his breathing. Because if he was quiet, he thought he could hear something.

Growling?

The beam of light landed on the brown bundle of fur, hunched over a mass and chewing.

The tension in Dash's shoulders dissipated and gently made his approach, "Oh, thank god."

Paulina's voice crackled through the speaker, "Is everything okay? Did you find perro? Hellooooo—"

She continued to try and grab at his attention, but Dash remained oblivious in favor of trying to get a better look at whatever his dog was gnawing at.

Pookie didn't seem to notice anything unusual as he was more focused on taking down whatever prey he had caught. Not so much lifting his head to greet his master. The dog only snorted and huffed—

"What the…?" Dash reached for the thing. Pookie did not give it up, leading Dash to pick up both the thing and the now dangling dog.

Baxter remarked, "A pig ear?"

It was a hunk of veiny flesh about twice the size of Dash's chihuahua, bigger than the palm of Dash's hand.

Still hanging from the deep-fried swine by his teeth, the dog growled.

"Drop it!"

The dog was resistant.

"Pookie, drop it!" He ordered.

Upon hearing his master's distress, Pookie let go and fell onto the grass.

Perplexed, Dash glanced over the severed animal ear in his hand, "Where did you…? Where did this come from?"

There was still a tag attached via a twine string around the narrow cartilage— the part of the ear that would have connected back into the pig's skull.

This must've been bought recently— The jock theorized.

In the outskirts of the light, a shadow darted in front of the source. Organic in shape— a person was in his kitchen. He thought he heard something impact with the tile floor inside.

Snapping his head around to the kitchen, he subdued his reaction.

"Dashie? Are you still there? Dash…?" Paulina's voice had trouble reaching him.

Phone by his side, his heart pounded in his ears. He was breathing against his will. Raising his cell back to his ear, Dash, with the last of his composure, stated, "Paulina… I-I'm gonna have… I'm gonna have to—to call you back..."

"Que?! What about our movie?"

Body racked with tremors, Dash uttered, "Th—There's someone in my kitchen…"


I figured I'd save all my talking toward the end- What a chapter, huh? Sorry, it's all one huge conversation between two people, but it felt important to me, so I wrote it. I think this ended up being close to 38 pages long, close to 13k words for one chapter drop.
I felt really bad because this year, I couldn't meet my goal and do one Invisobang piece as well as keep up with my daily activities/job, and this fic. I felt so terrible that every time I saw someone post their invisobang piece, I had to turn off my phone for a while. So I want these next two chapters to be good, better than good if I can. For those who know, my mom has been sick since I was thirteen years old (I'm twenty-three next November), and her health took a few hard turns this summer, as well as the stability of our housing situation. I had a pretty bad breakdown in July, but I'm okay. Thankfully, most of the issues have been solved, and we are retaining ownership of our property for the time being; we're out of the woods, but we still have some work ahead of us.
For those of you who leave comments and critiques, I wanted to let you know I do see them, and I am keeping a lot of notes from the feedback. We're reaching the part of the story where I originally got disappointed with the first run and decided to rewrite it, and I took about six months off. I got a few comments of general confusion the first time around, and I got so insecure and anxious that no one would see what I 'see' with this fic. And in some parts, that's still true. My editor has encouraged me to finish the rest of the story before implementing the quality of life changes, like fixing the wandering perspective and clarity, so please bear with us.

I've always been a bit of a perfectionist, and I'm attempting to curb that. That's probably why you guys haven't seen a lot of progress on the other fics- I'm kind of paralyzed.

So, as for the chapter itself, there are some things I do want to give some insight into. Paulina, or at least how I like to write her, is Aromantic. I've been kind of sprinkling hints throughout the story, but I figure now would be the place to really dig into it. She's aromantic, and she doesn't know it yet. Not being aromantic myself, I really wanted to do the experience justice, having so many aromantic friends.
I didn't really have a good coming-out experience, which I'm sure you all can tell by the... *everything* about this fic. So I wanted to kind of capture a lot of the emotions of being in the closet.
As for Dash, with the line "Maybe he could have been better as a girl." It doesn't really have any deeper meaning- I am a transmasculine, so some of my writing does come off as very "aimless queer yearning." I remember being very young and wishing I could have been born a girl because it was an experience totally alien to me. I guess it was like wishing to be a boy, but I already knew I was supposed to be one- if that makes any sense?
Either way, Dash, for the most part, is Asexual to me, definitely more of a romantic- but still very gay.

If you guys still have more questions or feedback, I'd really love to hear it- I also answer questions and dms on my blog too. -Voorhees