Sal here. The structure of this story will be a little different from ITYOTC. Only Danny's viewpoint is told in the present voice, while the adults speak in the past. Danny's a child, so he's going to only see as far as now, whereas adults are technically more adept at retelling events from memory. I say this to avoid any possible confusion, and to assure you the difference is intentional. Now, onward!
Danny
"And so then, subtract the blabbity blah blah, carry the one, some more boring stuff about stupid dumb numbers and then you get da derp da derp da derpidy derp."
At least, that's what it sounds like Ms. Rydinger is saying as she scribbles ugly numbers on the whiteboard with a squeaky green marker. I'm not really listening. I'm staring down at my activity sheet, doodling in the margins, coloring in the triangles of the fours and the two closed circles of the eights, humming a song I heard someone listening to in the hall.
I am so bored. I mean, REALLY bored. If I could, I'd take out my yo-yo right now and just sit here watching it bounce up and down on the string. But Ms. Rydinger is no fun. She lets people play on their phones and watch videos while she's talking, but once she took my yo-yo away and kept it in her desk until class was over, saying I was being distracting. How can you be distracting when you're sitting in the back row? It's not fair.
I hate math. Uncle John always is telling me that it's actually a lot of fun, and Mom says it's really important that I do well in it now if I want to go to college later, but I still hate it. In fact, I hate it so much that I decide to write "I hate math" on my homework. But Ms. Rydinger won't know that's what it says. She can't read Japanese. Only one person I know can read and speak it, and that's my art teacher, Ms. Yamaguchi- and she's actually from Japan. She teaches me a new word in Japanese every day.
With a yawn, I reach down into my backpack; I just heard my phone buzz. Ms. Rydinger doesn't like us to mess with our phones while she's teaching, but she never does catch me looking. After all, I am Danny Phantom.
It's a message from my mom's Cousin Roxie. I roll my eyes, and push my glasses further up my nose so I can see better. It says, "Is your mom picking you up today?"
I send back, "Let me C." So I text Mom really quick, see what she says. Hopefully, she is. Picking me up, I mean. Roxie is really nice, but she's also really weird. All she listens to is old country music. I'd much rather get picked up by Mom; she's weird too, but I'm used to it- and she lets me listen to my music all the way home.
I ride home with Cousin Roxie almost every day, and our neighbor, Mr. Adams, is the one who drives me in the morning. I will never take the bus again as long as I live. I rode one once last year. Buses are trashed and smell awful- and anyway, when I told Mom about the weird-shaped drawing I saw on the seat in front of me, something that kind of looked like a dog's bone, her eyes got really big and scary, and she said quietly, "Okay, yeah, we're going to have to figure something else out."
She still hasn't told me what that picture was. I asked, but all she said was, "Tell you when you're older." And that always means, "Never."
My phone buzzes again; quickly I flip it open, and grin. "Yes, I am! Love you, see you in a bit!" she sent. So I type in "YAY" and an open-mouthed smiley face, and I'm just about to let Cousin Roxie know when...
"Danny?"
I jump a little, and look up. All the kids are staring at me, and so is Ms. Rydinger.
"We're waiting."
Aw, man. I've been spotted. "For what?"
A couple of kids laugh. Ms. Rydinger looks like she's getting mad. "You, to come up and solve this problem on the board."
I blink again, right after hitting the send button on my phone, nod and say, "Oh! Yes, ma'am!"
I arch my brow like all the superheroes do in the cartoons, hop out from behind my desk in the back of the room, and march with my head high, stomping my feet with every step, all the way to the front. I pick up one of her markers -a red one, which is the next best thing after purple- and I look back over my shoulder, and waggle my eyebrows, the way Mom does when she's feeling silly. Everyone laughs, especially my friend Lauren.
"Danny," Ms. Rydinger warns me. I'm about to get in trouble- but I know how to fix that. I did this before with Ms. Yamaguchi, and it worked great. I saw it in one of Mom's old black and white movies. Don't know which one, though.
As soon as I finish the problem (which I get right), I walk up to Ms. Rydinger's desk and hold out my hand to her. She doesn't know what I'm doing, so puts out her hand as well, I guess to shake it. But I don't. Instead, I bend over her hand, and kiss it.
"Wha- Danny- I-" she splutters, while all the other kids either say "Ooo..." or "Dude, that is so gross!" But I just march the same way back to my desk.
"What'd you do that for, bro?" one of my classmates, Jamal, asks me.
I shrug. "'Cause it works."
And in the next ten minutes of class, she doesn't say anything else about it. Lauren looks back at me, her freckly face all screwed up like she wants to laugh. I stick my tongue out at her, which actually does get her to start giggling again. I'm okay, for now.
But then, math class is over, and it's time for us to go home. I start packing my things into my bag and put on my coat. But just before I can walk out, Ms. Rydinger says, "Danny, may I see you a moment, please?"
I swallow, and walk up to her desk. She still isn't happy with me, but at least now she's not angrily squinting like she needs to borrow my big hipster glasses. Ms. Rydinger doesn't like me very much, but that's okay; I don't like her, either. She's a mean, fat old lady with two ferrets, who picks on me all the time. And I can tell she's going to pick on me now.
She opens her mouth. Okay, here we go. "Danny, what happened today?"
I frown. "What happened?"
"Would you mind explaining what made you do that?"
"Ms. Rydinger, all I did was kiss your hand-"
"Do you believe that was the right thing to do?"
I bite my lip and remember what happened the last time I talked back to Ms. Rydinger. I didn't go to the principal's office or anything, but she gave my mom a phone call- and after that we had a long, long talk about what I am not to do or say to Ms. Rydinger.
"No, ma'am," I whisper.
"You're not a bad student, Danny," Ms. Rydinger backs off. "You make excellent grades, you're one of the better students I've had. And the problem itself, I believe it's really not your fault. It's just- I've gone over your health records, and according to that, it seems like you've never been to a child psychiatrist, is that true?"
"Uh... Maybe?" Child psychiatrist? I know what a psychiatrist is, Mom says it's what she does, "but with pills." I don't like pills.
"You really are a good boy, Danny, all things considered," she says (Then why are you even talking to me right now, Ms. Rydinger?). "Your only problem- it seems to me, and I'm not a professional, but I've seen this before, and it can be treated- seems to be-" and she says a phrase that I really can't understand. I can't tell if she said "an excessive personality" or "an excess of personality." Either way, I'm confused.
But she goes on. "And it typically runs in the family. Does your mother act out in a similar manner to you?"
"Why are you asking me about-"
"I'm simply curious."
I shake my head. "Not really."
"What about your fa- um, paternal unit?"
"Huh?"
"Your father, Danny. Does he have a history of- oh. Never mind. I'm sorry."
But I answer her anyway, shrugging. "I don't know."
I never met my father. Mom says he disappeared when I was very young. I know Uncle John used to work with him -he's not actually my uncle, he just likes me to call him that- but that's pretty much all. The only things we have related to him Mom keeps in a locked box in her closet, and she only lets me look at them on special occasions, like my birthday and on Christmas- and sometimes, if I've done something really nice or gotten a really good grade on a big test, she'll pull down the box and go through them if I ask for it, telling me what each thing means.
"Long story short," Ms. Rydinger says quickly, "I think that over the weekend, you two need to explore the possibility of... um..."
"What?"
"I- uh, I'll just send your mother an email- don't worry, it's not because you're in trouble, I want to help you, and I think this will. Help, I mean."
"Oh, okay," I nod. "Can I go now, please?"
"Of course," she smiles. "And in the future, Danny, please don't kiss me on the hand or anywhere else. It's not - polite."
It was back then, I grumble to myself. But to Ms. Rydinger, I just nod and say, "Yes, ma'am. Goodbye."
Lauren is waiting for me at the door like she always does; this isn't the first time Ms. Rydinger has kept me after class to have a talk with me. "You coming home with us today, Danny?"
She's Mr. Adams's daughter,so we come to school together in the morning. But I shake my head. "Mom's picking me up."
"Oh, okay."
"If you want, you can come back with us," I offer hopefully. "There's room in the car."
"My dad's probably already in line," she says, tucking her red hair behind her ear. "But I would so come with you if he wasn't."
I smile. Lauren is the best.
At the pick-up, my friends kid me about being a teacher's pet. So I say back, quoting Bender, "Bite my shiny metal BEEP. You guys are just jealous 'cause she thinks I'm the best."
But deep down I'm still wondering what Ms. Rydinger meant. Excessive or excess of? What does that mean?
Luckily, I'm just about to find out. Only two minutes or so, I wait after Lauren leaves, playing with my trusty yo-yo and singing Bruno Mars along with Jamal when I hear my name called.
"Samuels!"
I look up and there's our car, the red Jetta that Mom drives. I grin. Even though it's freezing outside, patches of ice and snow everywhere, she's got the windows rolled down, blasting one of my favorite songs -"Raspberry Beret," off Prince's 1985 album Around the World in a Day.
Mom sticks her head out the window, the wind blowing her hair wildly around. She doesn't wear her hair like a lot of moms- you know, really short or shoulder-length. It's long and light brown except for two streaks of white that used to make her look like Rogue, but she dyes them the regular color so no one knows.
She lowers her sunglasses, and calls to me in her funny half-British accent, "All right, offspring, let's go!"
Jamal turns to me. "That's your mom?"
I nod happily.
"She's hot."
"Aw, shut up." But my cheeks heat up. Jamal's sort of right. Because as moms go, she is very pretty. That doesn't mean I'm not a little embarrassed that one of my friends thinks I have a hot mom. Throwing my yo-yo into my bag, I run on over to the car.
"Hi, sweetie," she greets me as I clamber into the front seat and close the door.
"Konnichiwa!" I say. Before we pull out I poke my head out the window and yell goodbye to Jamal. Then we roll up the windows and turn on the heater full blast. Mom really is weird; she drives around with the windows open in freezing weather and only heats up the car when I get in. For a few minutes we don't talk, and just sing along with Prince.
Prince, man. He's so cool. He's the best singer and guitarist ever. I have six of his albums, and for Christmas I've asked for a few more, and the video of his Detroit concert from 1986; that's the only full concert I haven't seen.
Once the song ends, Mom finally turns to me and says, "So, how was your day?"
"Sonohi wa junchōdesu," I say automatically. That means, "The day goes well." Ms. Yamaguchi had taught me all the basic greetings and responses in the first month, so now we had moved on to the more interesting words.
"What was the word of the day?"
"Um," I think aloud, trying to remember. "It was hashi- um, hashiwowataru. Yeah."
"Say that three times fast," she smiles. "What does that mean?"
"'To cross a bridge.' In art class we were using chalky stuff on black construction paper, and we drew bridges from the real world into a fairy tale world type thing. So that was my word today."
"Hashi-wa-wo-tara?"
"Taru."
"Oh, okay. Hashiwawotaru. To cross a bridge. Domo arigato, Daniel-san."
I bow my head a little. "Doitashimashite." And then I remember that my day actually wasn't all that okay. "Mom?"
"Yes, Danny?"
"What's it mean, excess of personality?"
She frowns. "What?"
"Ms. Rydinger said I had that. I think. She either said I have an excessive, or an excess of, personality. What's that mean?"
"Which one?"
"Both."
"I think she meant excess of, because I've never heard of an excessive personality before."
"Is that bad?"
"Well, what was the context? Why did she say it?"
I pause a minute and look out the window. But Mom's already onto me; she sighs and with a smile in her voice, asks, "Danny, what happened this time?"
"Nothing, nothing, I just- I just kissed her hand."
"You what?"
"It's not like I never did that before, Ms. Yamaguchi didn't mind!"
"Danny, you know what a short fuse she has, why did-" But then she stops, and shakes her head. "Oh, never mind the why. I know why." She sighs again- but this time it's much heavier.
After a minute, she finally answers me. "First off, Danny, like I told you, please don't give Ms. Rydinger a reason to send me another email. In other words, don't do that again."
"I won't," I agree. "But still, what did she mean, the whole 'excess of' thing?"
"She simply meant, that you're unique," Mom says. "And unique, in the sense of the way you are unique, she just doesn't know how to deal with. You have a lot of personality- and personality in kids your age isn't all that common, especially these days. You know, most kids just sit there looking at their phones to amuse themselves, while you sit there drawing, and singing out loud. She's not used to that."
I shrug. That sort of makes sense, I guess. "I don't want to be weird, Mom."
We're at a stoplight; Mom reaches over and runs her fingers through my hair. "You're not weird, sweetie."
"But I feel like I am. Nobody acts like I do, I just- I don't know. I feel like maybe I am."
She looks at me. "Do you think I'm weird?"
"A little."
Mom throws her head back and laughs. "But in a good way!" I add quickly.
"Danny, it's all right. When I was your age, I used to feel a lot like you. I know I'm different, in just the same way you are different. We don't gel, fit the mold. That's just who we are. And as you get older, and meet more people who are also different, you'll find that to be an easier burden to bear."
"Was Dad weird, too? I mean- was he different?"
Her smile vanishes. Oops. I shouldn't have asked that- but I don't take it back. I want to know.
Mom doesn't answer for a while. I watch her bite her bottom lip and start winding her fingers in the gold chain around her neck. The light changes color; we lurch forward, start driving again.
After another deep breath, she whispers, "Your father- was very different."
"Did he have an excess of personality, too?"
Slowly, she nods. "Oh, yes. He- Your father- I'll say it this way: he could walk into a room full of people, people he probably never met before in his life. And every head would turn, all eyes would be on him. He didn't have to say one word, all he had to do was show up, and the whole tone would change. He had this way about him, this energy... this magic..."
"Wow," I say. "He must have been the coolest."
"Mm-hm," she nods again. "Your father... was very cool..."
That's all she says- and from the way she sounds, I decide I had better not press further. Whenever I bring my dad up, ask questions about him, she either doesn't answer me at all- or, if she does, always looks so unhappy, and she almost seems to sink into herself a little- but she doesn't cry. I've never seen her cry, and I never want to. So I don't ask very often. As many questions as I have, I save them for Uncle John and Aunt Veronica. Only they tell me anything useful.
I just wish I at least knew how my father looked- or that I could have met him, and remembered something about him for myself, before he went away.
After a little while, Mom snaps out of it and she's normal again. "By the way, Danny, I do have that talk to go to tonight, so I'm probably-"
"Talk?" I squint.
"Yes. Stuart is giving that talk in front of all his colleagues, and he wants me to be there as a kind of cheerleader, emotional support, what have you."
That sounds so boring. With my fingers crossed that she will say no, I ask, "Am I coming too?"
"No, that's what I'm saying. I was going to call Roxie to kind of keep an eye on you-"
"Roxie?" I cry. Oh, no, that's even worse! "Couldn't I just stay with the Adamses tonight?"
"Lauren's got something going on tonight-"
"Oh, yeah. Basketball practice."
"And you know how fond Cousin Roxie is of you-"
"But, Mom, she's too fond! She's always fawning over me, it's so awkward- can I come with you instead? Please?"
It's better to be bored than fawned over, the way Cousin Roxie fawns over me.
"Danny, I don't think that's such a good idea. Stuart didn't say anything about you coming along-"
"Did he say anything about me not coming?"
"Don't interrupt me please."
"But Mom..."
That's pretty much how the rest of the drive goes, all the way until we hashiwowataru and reach our neighborhood.