Word Count: 1304

Summary: When his parents make a decision that severely alters Danny's school life, the teenager has a spot of trouble with his teacher. One-shot.

Danny was angry. No, not angry, pissed. Seething. Because his parents couldn't just keep their noses out of his business. He'd gotten so used to them being used to him and his secretive nature, he'd never thought they'd go this far.

He knew he couldn't get out of it. He couldn't escape; he could probably kill his teacher and they'd keep him in school, they were so hellbent to learn what was wrong with him.

His scowl deepened, and his eyes darkened. He tapped his pencil against the workbook open on the desk. What class was it right now, history? Like he cared. It had been a long time since he worried about schoolwork. Far too long.

"We want you to be prepared for college, Danny!" his mother had cried. "And with your grades like they are, we might have to hold you back! We just want what's best for you."

His parents meant well, and he knew this. He wasn't angry at them, so much as he was infuriated that he hadn't seen the signs. His mother's worried looks. Her questions at dinner, more probing than usual. Maybe, if he wasn't so goddamn tired all the time, he would have noticed. Maybe if he wasn't so caught up saving the town from destruction, he would have been able to hide the fact that he was.

More than anything, Danny wanted a day off. He wanted one day where he could just relax, free of anxiety over school or ghosts or anything. A day he could hang out with Tucker and Sam and be a normal teenager. A day without the Vice Principal breathing down his neck.

"Danny," Lancer sighed, closing his eyes in frustration. "You know I'm not releasing you until you finish your work for today. I will come to your house, and I will sit with you, with this workbook in front of you, until you're done."

Danny scoffed. "Look, can you just get off my back?" he asked. "I don't think you understand how little I care. I don't want to go to college. I'm fine where I am."

His teacher frowned. "You need to go to college, Danny," he said, the irritation in his tone melting away to reveal concern. "You can't get a good job in this country without a degree. Don't you see how much your parents worry? Don't you want to graduate?"

"I don't need to graduate," his student mumbled in return. "I know what I'm going to do for the rest of my life, and it's got nothing to do with high school, except maybe PE."

"Wuthering Heights," Lancer mumbled, obviously annoyed his efforts to motivate his student had failed. "Danny, I don't mean to be rude, but a fifteen year old's life plans rarely work out. When you're older, you'll regret sacrificing your education for… whatever your goal is."

This earned the middle-aged man a cold, furious glare. "God, you've got no idea," he mumbled. He closed his eyes for a moment, clenching his fists, and opened them again, giving his teacher a steely look.

"I'll do your work," he bit out. "How many more pages of this workbook before I can be let out?"

In theory, Lancer should have been happy that his testy student had finally conceded and decided to work with him. Lancer's face, however, told a different story. The middle aged man's defeated gaze fell to the desk he was sitting at.

"Finish pages 133-135 and you can go home."

"Thank you," huffed Danny, and he began speeding through the text, scratching his pencil at the page every few seconds.

A few minutes passed, and while the silence between them wasn't comfortable, it wasn't unbearable. Danny could tell, from the way his teacher opened his mouth every few seconds before closing it, from the looks in his eyes like he was going over a mental checklist, that his teacher had something he wanted to say. Had this been a new day, a new struggle with the man that would not let him give up, Danny probably would have spoken to him first, goading him into what the teacher wanted to say. Today, however, Danny was absolutely spent, and he held not a shred of sympathy for Mr. Lancer or his task.

Lancer cleared his throat. Fun, another lecture, Danny thought.

"Danny, I'm sure you've probably figured this out, but our arrangement isn't just for your torment." Danny rolled his eyes at that. "Your parents are scared you won't finish high school, and your opportunities to get into a good university are sinking as we speak. We don't just want you to give the minimum effort. We want you to love learning again."

Danny sighed. He knew he should just finish his work and go; he had said what he wanted to say multiple times today, to no avail. Still, he wanted to let the words out of his mouth and out his mind. He hoped telling Lancer would make the man understand something, although he suspected it would go over as well as the rest of his explanations.

"Mr. Lancer," he began, "Learning is the very least of my problems. I just don't care anymore; school isn't fun at all, and boring teachers teaching dry material doesn't appeal to me. I'm ready to be done with high school, and I know what I'm going to do. I know you seem to think I don't have a clue about the future or adult life, but you're wrong. Even if I wanted to do something else, to go to college… I can't. It's my duty. I'm preparing for it in my own way, and high school doesn't factor in."

Lancer raised his eyebrows, intrigued at Danny's words. The teenager almost regretted speaking to his teacher, but he decided what was done was done, and so he returned to his work.

"Danny," his teacher breathed, soft as a feather, "is it ghost hunting?"

The boy froze. His breathing quickened, and he broke out into a cold sweat. Lancer can't know, he can't! His blue eyes, which appeared more turquoise than usual, widened, and his grip tightened on his pencil.

In Lancer's slight upturn of his lips, Danny could see that his reaction had not helped him. God, no, he knows! What am I going to do?

"Danny," his teacher said, and Danny stared the man down, a lump in his throat. "You don't have to take over your parents, no matter what they say."

At the man's words, Danny felt his anxiety melt away. He regained his composure quite quickly. Of course, Lancer hadn't known about Phantom. No one knew, besides Sam, Tucker, and Jazz. And now, thankfully, his Vice Principal would not be enlightened.

"No, no, I'm not taking over my parents," Danny whispered, smiling. "That's their niche, I'll leave them to it. I'm crap at it, anyway."

Lancer's new expression indicated surprise, but Danny didn't care. He hadn't been found out. Lancer seemed to sigh, as if he would ask more questions another day.

"Looks like you're done kiddo," he said, and inside, Danny cheered. "Go ahead and pack up."

Without another word, Danny raced to get his work together. When it was all arranged and in his arms, he sped out of his desk and to the door, fiddling with the golden doorknob. He was almost through, almost escaped, when Lancer cleared his throat again.

Danny sighed, and looked over to the man. His expression bleak, he answered, "Yes?"

The middle aged man smirked. "It's pronounced neesh, Danny, not nitch. Don't dishonor the French."

Danny laughed. "Thanks, Mr. Lancer." He stumbled out the door, to his locker, and glanced at his watch. The blinking green screen informed his that it was 4:30. Just in time for Nasty Burger, he thought.

I feel as bleh about this fic as you do.