Chapter 21: "Gravestones, Gravel, and One Very Lucky Bat"
In which Danny discovers that street fights aren't like the movies—and that baseball bats are surprisingly versatile.
Here's sothing I never thought I'd say: I walked into school and people didn't look at like I was a walking wedgie magnet.
No, seriously. The usual sideways glances, snickers, and "Hey Fenton, your pants on backwards again?" jokes were noticeably absent. It was like the whole school had been body-snatched and replaced with semi-decent humans. Even the vending machine didn't eat my dollar this ti. Coincidence? I think not.
Sam, Tucker, and I were strutting down the hallway like we owned the place. Not in a "we're too cool for this school" way—more like, "we survived ghost training and leg day, and we dare you to ss with us" kind of vibe. Tucker even had his hoodie unzipped halfway like he was so kind of ani protagonist mid-power arc. Sam looked like she could crush soone's soul with a stare. I was just trying to keep up.
The change wasn't subtle. People noticed. And not in a "Look, the nerds are role-playing again" way. No, this was different. They respected us. Even the teachers had stopped giving that "we'll just pass you so you go away" look. Mrs. Thorne actually gave a thumbs up in algebra. I'm still trying to decide if I should be honored or afraid.
Now, don't get wrong. I wasn't suddenly the King of Casper High. I didn't have a locker shrine or a fan club (though Tucker claims he heard whispers). But for once, I didn't feel like a loser trying to cosplay confidence. I felt it. In my spine. In my bones. In my probably-bruised ribs from training, but hey, progress hurts.
And speaking of growth—Dash was suspended. Sothing about "excessive testosterone and a locker door." I won't say I smiled when I heard. But I definitely didn't cry.
The best part? Pauline walked past and did not get my attention. I let her walk by. She even flipped her hair. Old Danny would've written sonnets in her honor. New Danny just nodded and kept moving.
Why? Because I finally realized sothing: chasing people who don't see your worth is like yelling into a void—just louder and sadder. If she didn't care about who I really was, then I wasn't going to waste my ti. Unless she sent a handwritten apology with cookies. Then maybe we'd talk.
But honestly, my mind was elsewhere.
Because after our mission last night (which included ghosts, a sentient trash can, and Sam drop-kicking a poltergeist), I finally had enough points to unlock a new skill.
Riding.
Motorcycle riding, to be specific.
More importantly: Fireblade riding. That glorious, red-hot beast waiting for like a loyal steed forged in the fires of coolness and probable death.
I opened my ntal nu like a kid checking their loot box. The glowing "Unlock: Riding Skill" button stared at , whispering promises of wind in my hair and epic entrances.
That's when Naruto's voice piped up in my head. Of course.
"There are better options, like Perfect Body Art or Wind-Step Movent. Both improve survival. Your current body is barely at soldier level."
Barely. At. Soldier. Level.
"Thanks for the ego boost," I muttered.
"I'm not here to flatter you. I'm here to train you. Make smart choices."
I stared at the options. Perfect Body Art—super strength, speed, durability. Wind-Step Movent—faster dodging, cooler fights. All very logical. Sensible. Wise.
And yet... Fireblade.
There was just sothing poetic about earning the right to ride that thing. Like it symbolized everything I was becoming. Not a reckless kid. Not a coward. But soone in control. Soone on a journey. Soone who could drive.
So naturally, I chose Riding.
Naruto sighed in my head like a disappointed sensei. But he didn't stop . And that was the point. This was my path. My story.
And possibly my funeral.
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You ever have one of those days where everything clicks? Like, the universe finally stops throwing anvils at your face and goes, "You know what? Let's give this kid a break." Yeah. Today was that kind of day.
After school, Sam, Tucker, and I hung out in our usual spot behind the gym. There's sothing sacred about those crumbling bleachers—the way they creak when you sit down, the sll of sweat and spray paint, the occasional pigeon watching you like it knows your secrets. It was ho.
Tucker was tinkering with his wrist console, muttering about drones and thermal sensors, while Sam threw him increasingly sarcastic comntary.
"Careful, Tuck. Last ti you 'upgraded' that thing, it nearly fried your eyebrows off."
"That was one ti," he huffed, then looked at . "Okay, maybe two."
We laughed. And not the awkward, "I'm-trying-to-fit-in" kind of laugh. It was the real kind—the we've-been-through-stuff laugh. The I'd-fight-ghosts-for-you kind.
I didn't realize it until recently, but monts like these? They're worth their weight in ectoplasm.
Eventually, Tucker waved us off to go help his grandma with sothing techy (or possibly to avoid Sam's relentless teasing), which left just and Sam.
And that's when things got...soft.
We wandered over to the park. The sun was doing that golden-hour thing where everything looks like it belongs in a movie montage. Birds were chirping, kids were screaming in the distance (because this is Amity Park, and soone probably summoned a sli monster again), and the breeze was just warm enough to make you forget your hoodie at ho.
Sam nudged my shoulder, smirking. "You're quiet."
"I'm thinking."
"Dangerous," she said, mock gasping. "Should I alert the authorities?"
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help smiling. "Just...stuff. You. This. Us."
She arched an eyebrow, that trademark Sam look that said 'I'm intrigued, but I'll pretend not to be so you keep talking.'
So I did.
"Today felt... different. Not because Dash wasn't around to shove into a locker. Or because teachers didn't assu I was sleeping through class. It was us. We're changing. Getting stronger. Smarter. Better."
She reached out and laced her fingers through mine. "You're changing, Danny. You're finally seeing what was right in front of you."
I swear, if my heart beat any faster, it would've phased straight through my ribs. I looked at her—really looked at her. The purple streak in her hair catching the fading sunlight, the way her eyeliner made her eyes look like they held galaxies, and that smirk that said she could destroy you or kiss you depending on how the conversation went.
And then she kissed .
Not the awkward, TV-drama first kiss where soone sneezes halfway through or soone's dad walks in. No, this was real. Warm, steady, and... familiar. Like I'd done this in a dream a hundred tis but never realized I could just do it in real life.
She pulled back just enough to whisper, "Took you long enough."
"I'm a slow learner," I mumbled, slightly dazed.
She bumped her forehead against mine. "But you're worth the wait."
Cue internal system crash. I swear I heard my brain go Windows XP shutdown noise.
"Sotis people search the horizon for treasure and forget the gold sitting beside them." Naruto had said to him on the first day to explain why Sam.
I used to think that kind of talk was corny fortune-cookie wisdom. But now? Now it made sense.
I'd spent years trying to figure out who I was, what I was ant to be, chasing after popularity, approval, answers. But the people who mattered had always been beside . Helping. Believing. Loving , even when I didn't love myself.
Today, I held Sam's hand. And it wasn't just a romance thing. It was a finally getting it thing.
Maybe Naruto really was a wise old ninja sage.
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You ever get the feeling soone dropped you in the deep end of a shark tank and yelled, "Swim, champ!"?
Yeah, that was my vibe walking into my first "part-ti job."
Most teens get to work retail, maybe flip so burgers or babysit a gremlin in diapers. ? I get a supernatural ninja ghost ntor giving missions like "Hey, go shut down an ard drug operation near a cetery." No training wheels. No backup. Just vibes.
To be fair, Naruto did say it was a test. Which, I think, is his go-to phrase for, "I'm about to throw you into mortal peril, don't die."
I approached the graveyard just as the sun dipped below the skyline, casting a dramatic orange glow across the tombstones. Very cinematic. Very spooky. Very please-don't-let--get-shot-today.
There they were—five guys lounging under the big gnarly tree near the far edge of the cetery. Smoking, laughing, one of them picking his teeth with a butterfly knife like it was a toothpick. You know, just your average drug-dealing aesthetic. All of them wore cheap jackets, slicked-back hair, and an aura of we've-done-prison-ti-but-we're-still-unimpressive.
For a second, I thought about calling in sick. But then Naruto's voice echoed in my head again: "You wanted responsibility, right?"
Fine. Responsibility. Confidence. Swagger. All that stuff.
I straightened my jacket (okay, hoodie), cracked my knuckles (quietly, because it hurt), and strolled up like I owned the place.
"Hey, fellas," I called out casually, hands in my pockets like I wasn't currently standing ten feet from five career criminals.
They all turned. One of them, the beefiest, squinted at . "What, you get lost, kid? Halloween's not for another five months."
"Nah," I said, flashing a grin. "I just figured I'd drop by and remind you that dealing discount cocaine in front of dead people is kind of tacky."
There was a pause. One of the thugs actually snorted. "You got a death wish or sothing?"
"Not really. I just have a strict no-drugs-near-haunted-graves policy. Bad for the ghost economy."
"Man, what's this kid talking about?" another thug muttered.
They stood up, weapons flashing at their belts—knives, a bat, a chain, and yes, a very illegal amount of firearms. Except... I knew sothing they didn't.
Naruto had jamd all their guns. Like, magically. They were basically holding overpriced tal sticks and didn't even know it.
I tilted my head, still grinning. "Tell you what," I said, "I'll give you a head start. Pack up your overpriced chalk dust and leave the city before you embarrass yourselves."
The leader pulled out his gun and pointed it straight at my forehead.
Click.
Nothing.
He blinked, tapped the side of it, then tried again. Click-click-click. Still nothing.
He looked confused.
I smiled wider. "Oh no, don't tell the warranty expired. You really should've sprung for ghost-proof weapons."
The guy cursed and tried again, and that's when the others caught on. They pulled out their guns too. All of them jamd. Clicks and curses filled the air like a symphony of frustrated cri.
I took a step forward, my voice lower now. "Still feel tough?"
The leader growled and drew his knife instead, cracking his knuckles. "You're dead at, punk."
I gave a dramatic sigh. "Why is it always 'you're dead at'? No one ever says, 'Hey, good job standing up for your neighborhood, mysterious and charming teen vigilante.'
Then I raised my fists, my stance shifting into what I hoped looked like the right pose from training.
"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Let's see if those shadowboxing sessions paid off."
They charged.
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So, quick question:
Have you ever had your face introduced to the business end of a steel-toed boot while trying to swing a baseball bat at a guy who looks like he eats drywall for breakfast?
No?
Then congratulations, you're smarter than .
Because that's exactly how my night started after I decided to open my heroic career with a five-on-one street brawl in a graveyard.
To be fair, I wasn't entirely stupid. I brought my lucky baseball bat. You know, the one from my little league days that still had a dent from when I hit a ho run off Coach Reynolds' car. That bat and I have history.
And thank every ghost in the Zone I had it, because without it, I'd be very dead.
They charged, yelling sothing very inspirational like, "GET HIM!"
I swung the bat like my life depended on it—which, spoiler alert, it did. The first guy got a solid WHACK to the stomach and folded like a beach chair. Unfortunately, the second guy caught in the ribs with a chain. I'd like to tell you I took it like a stoic ani protagonist.
Nah. I scread.
Then I tripped over a gravestone.
Not my proudest mont.
But! As fate would have it, I landed near a sharp rock. Instinct kicked in. I grabbed it and flung it straight into one guy's face.
He dropped like his Wi-Fi just disconnected.
Two down. Three to go.
The others were smarter now. They circled, coordinated. One ca at with a knife. I ducked—sort of. He cut my hoodie sleeve but missed the arm. I rewarded him with a bat swing straight to the kneecap.
CRACK.
He went down wailing, while I went down wheezing. My lungs were burning, my bat arm felt like jelly, and my side? Definitely bruised. Possibly cracked.
One of the thugs tackled . I smashed the back of his head into a gravestone. Not heroic, but effective. Sorry, Old Man Jenkins. Your tombstone just saved my butt.
Now it was just and the leader. Bloody. Bruised. Staring each other down.
"You're just a kid," he spat, limping toward .
"Yeah," I coughed. "A kid with a bat and nothing to lose."
We clashed.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't cool. I hit him. He hit . I tripped him. He elbowed . We wrestled in the mud like two angry raccoons until I finally slamd my bat down on his chest with everything I had left.
He didn't get back up.
I stood there, swaying like a tree in a windstorm, trying not to pass out or throw up.
Five thugs. All down. ? Still standing. Barely.
My bat? Covered in scratches and ghost goop (don't ask). My body? A beautiful canvas of bruises.
But I'd won.
Naruto's voice echoed in my head again, calm and annoying as ever:
"Good. You used the world around you. That's what being a ninja is. You fought smart. And you fought from the heart."
"Gee, thanks," I muttered, limping ho like a drunk penguin. "Can't wait to do this never again."
But deep down... I felt proud.
I'd done sothing dangerous. Dumb? Yeah. Reckless? Definitely.
But I stood my ground. For the city. For the mission. For myself.
And maybe next ti... I'll bring two bats.
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