To say I did my research on ghost after the run in with Danny Phantom is an understatement.

I freaking breathe that stuff.

I'm sitting at my desk researching Danny Phantom on google. I click on the first link and it says…

July, 2013

The first sighting of Danny Phantom was May 30, 2013, since April 2013, both sightings in San Francisco. Danny Phantom, as well as other ghost, have been sighted mostly in the France area, and less in the American area, since 2010.

San Francisco? That's where Danny's from. Maybe I should ask him about it. And 2010? That was the year I started freshman year. What happen that year to make Phantom move to France?

And more importantly, why do I care?

********************************DS***************************************

One week into school, and I'm knee-deep in Fancy International Education.

Professeur Cole's syllabus is free of the usual Shakespeare and Steinbeck, and instead, we're focusing on translated works. Every morning she hosts the discussion of Like Water for Chocolate as if we were a book club and not some boring, required class.

So English is excellent.

On the other hand, my French teacher is clearly illiterate. How else to explain the fact that despite the name of our textbook—Level One French—Professeur Gillet insists on speaking in French only? She also calls on me a dozen times a day. I never know the answer.

Dash calls her Madame Guillotine. This is also excellent.

He's taken the class before, which is helpful but obviously not really helpful, as he failed it the first go-round. Dash has blond hair and is buff and plays football and basketball and is always wearing his Leatherman jacket. Several girls have a crush on him. He's also in my history class. I'm with the juniors, because the seniors take government, and I've already studied it. So I sit between Dash and Tucker.

Tucker is quiet and reserved in class, but outside of it, his sense of humor is similar to Danny's. It's easy to understand why they're such good friends. Meredith says they idolize each other, Tucker because of Danny's innate charisma, and Danny because Tucker is an astounding technology freak. I rarely see Tucker without his head staring at his PDA.

But the most notable aspect of my new education is the one that takes place outside of class. The one never mentioned in the glossy brochures. And that is this: attending boarding school is like living inside a high school. I can't get away. Even when I'm in my bedroom, my ears are blasted by pop music, fistfights over washing machines, and drunk dancing in the stairwell. Meredith claims it'll settle down once the novelty wears off for the juniors, but I'm not holding my breath.

However.

It's Friday night, and Résidence Lambert has cleared out. My classmates are hitting the bars, and I have peace for the first time. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe I'm back home. Except for the opera. The Opera Diva sings most evenings at the restaurant across the street. For someone with such a huge voice, she's surprisingly small. She's also one of those people who shaves her eyebrows and draws them back on with a pencil. She looks like an extra from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Bridge calls as I'm watching Rushmore from the comfort of my mini-bed. It's the film that launched Wes Anderson. Wes is amazing, a true auteur involved in every aspect of production, with a trademark style recognizable in any frame—wistful and quirky, deadpan and dark. Rushmore is one of my favorites. It's about a guy named Max Fischer who is obsessed with, among many things, the private school that kicked him out. What would my life be like if I were as passionate about SOAP as Max is about Rushmore Academy? For starters, I probably wouldn't be alone in my bedroom covered in white pimple cream.

"Sammmmmmm," Bridge says. "I haaaaate themmmm."

She didn't get section leader in band. Which is bull, because everyone knows she's the most talented drummer in school. The percussion instructor gave it to Kevin Quiggley, because he thought the guys on the drumline wouldn't respect Bridge as a leader—because she's a girl.

Yeah, well, now they won't. Sexist pig.

So Bridge hates band and hates the instructor and hates Kevin, who is a twerp with a disproportionately large ego. "Just wait," I say. "Soon you'll be the next Meg White or Sheila E., and Kevin Quiggley will brag about how he knew you back when. And then when he approaches you after some big show, expecting special treatment and a backstage pass? You can sashay right past him without so much as a backward glance."

I hear the weary smile in her voice. "Why'd you move away again, Sandy?"

"Because my father is made of suck."

"The purest strain, dude."

We talk until three a.m., so I don't wake up until early afternoon. I scramble to get dressed before the cafeteria closes. It's only open for brunch on Saturdays and Sundays. It's quiet when I arrive, but Valerie and Tucker and Danny are seated at their usual table.

The pressure is on. They've teased me all week, because I've avoided anything that requires ordering. I've made excuses ( "Nothing tastes better than bread," "Ravioli is overrated"), but I can't avoid it forever. Monsieur Boutin is working the counter again. I grab a tray and take a deep breath.

"Bonjour, uh . . . soup? Sopa? S'il vous plaît?"

"Hello" and "please." I've learned the polite words first, in hopes that the French will forgive me for butchering the remainder of their beautiful language. I point to the vat of orangey-red soup. Butternut squash, I think. The smell is extraordinary, like sage and autumn. It's early September, and the weather is still warm. When does fall come to Paris?

"Ah! Soupe," he gently corrects.

"Sí, soupe. I mean, oui. Oui!" My cheeks burn. "And, um, the uh—salad-green thingy?"

Monsieur Boutin laughs. It's a jolly, bowl-full-of-jelly, Santa Claus laugh. "Oui. You know, you may speek Ingleesh to me. I understand eet vairy well."

My blush deepens. Of course he'd speak English in an American school. And I've been living on stupid pears and baguettes for five days. He hands me a bowl of soup and a small plate of salad, and my stomach rumbles at the sight of hot food.

"Merci," I say.

"De rien. You're welcome. And I 'ope you don't skeep meals to avoid me anymore!" He places his hand on his chest, as if brokenhearted. I smile and shake my head no. I can do this. I can do this. I can—

"NOW THAT WASN'T SO TERRIBLE, WAS IT, SAM?" Danny hollers from the other side of the cafeteria.

I spin around and give him the finger down low, hoping Monsieur Boutin can't see. Danny responds by grinning and flicks me off back, Monsieur Boutin tuts behind me with good nature. I pay for my meal and take the seat next to Danny. "Thanks, because I llve the attention as it is."

"My pleasure." He's wearing the same clothing as yesterday, jeans and a ratty T-shirt.

I wonder if he slept at Ellie's. That's probably why he hasn't changed his clothes. He rides the métro to her college every night, and they hang out there. Valerie and Mer have been worked up, like maybe Ellie thinks she's too good for them now.

"You know, Sam," Valerie says, "most Parisians understand English. You don't have to be so shy."

Yeah. Thanks for pointing that out now.

Tucker puts his hands behind his head and tilts back his chair. "That's true," he says. "I barely speak a word, and I get by."

"That's not something I'd brag about." Valerie wrinkles her nose, and Tucker snaps forward in his chair to kiss it.

"Christ, there they go again." Danny scratches his head and looks away.

"Have they always been this bad?" I ask, lowering my voice.

"No. Last year they were worse."

"Yikes. Been together long, then?"

"Er, last winter?"

"That's quite a while."

He shrugs and I pause, debating whether I want to know the answer to my next question. Probably not, but I ask anyway. "How long have you and Ellie been dating?"

Danny thinks for a moment. "About a year now, I suppose." He takes a sip of coffee—everyone here seems to drink it—then slams down the cup with a loud CLUNK that startles Valerie and Tucker. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says. "Did that bother you?"

He turns to me and opens his blue eyes wide in exasperation. I suck in my breath. Even when he's annoyed, he's beautiful. Comparing him to Gregor isn't even possible. Danny is a different kind of attractive, a different species altogether.

"Change of subject." He points a finger at me. "I thought southern belles were supposed to have southern accents."

I shake my head. "Only when I talk to my mom. Then it slips out because she has one. Most people in Amity don't have an accent. It's pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though," I add jokingly.

"Fo' shiz," he replies.

I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. Danny gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I'm laughing, too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. "Fo'. Shiz." He repeats it solemnly.

Cough cough. "Please don't ever stop saying that. It's too—" I gasp. "Much."

"You oughtn't to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions."

"My birthday is in February." Cough choke wheeze. "Please don't forget."

"And mine was yesterday," he says.

"No, it wasn't."

"Yes. It was." He mops the remainder of my spewed lunch from the tabletop. I try to take the napkins to clean it myself, but he waves my hand away.

"It's the truth," Tucker says. "I forgot, man. Happy belated birthday."

"It wasn't really your birthday, was it? You would've said something."

"I'm serious. Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday." He shrugs and tosses the napkins onto his empty tray. "My family isn't one for cakes and party hats."

"But you have to have cake on your birthday," I say. "It's the rules. It's the best part." I remember the Star Wars cake Mom and Bridge and I made for Seany last summer. It was lime green and shaped like Yoda's head. Bridge even bought cotton candy for his ear hair.

"This is exactly why I never bring it up, you know."

"But you did something special last night, right? I mean, Ellie took you out?"

He picks up his coffee, and then sets it back down again without drinking. "My birthday is just another day. And I'm fine with that. I don't need the cake, I promise. Although my sister Jazz is coming to see my tomorrow to hang out."

"Okay, okay. Fine." I raise my hands in surrender. "I won't wish you happy birthday. Or even a belated happy Friday. And I would love to meet your sister."

"Oh, you can wish me happy Friday." He smiles again. "I have no objection to Fridays. And I'm sure she wants to meet you too. "

Wait, does that mean she knows about me? Does he talk about me?

"Speaking of," Valerie says to me. "Why didn't you go out with us last night?"

"I had plans. With my friend. Bridgette. And I've been doing some personal research."

All three of them stare, waiting for further explanation.

"Phone plans."

"But you've been out this week?" Danny asks. "You've actually left campus?"

"Sure." Because I have. To get to other parts of campus.

Danny raises his eyebrows. "You are such a liar."

"Let me get this straight." Tucker places his hands in prayer position. His fingers are slender, like the rest of his body. "You've been in Paris for an entire week and have yet to see the city? Any part of it?"

"I went out with my parents last weekend. I saw the Eiffel Tower." From a distance.

"With your parents, brilliant. And your plans for tonight?" Danny asks. "Washing some laundry, perhaps? Scrubbing the shower? And what personal research are you doing exactly?"

"Hey. Scrubbing is underrated. And ghost research.

Danny turns strangely silent and Tucker busts out laughing.

Valerie furrows her brow. "What, why? Is it because of the ghost attack a few days ago? Please don't tell me you're turning into a crazy Phantom fan girl like Paulina."

"Do I look like someone who would turn into a fan girl? I mean he's cute and all, but still. And Phantom said something to me that made me wonder what little I know about what's going on. I mean, Amity Park is one of the most places spectral activities, or was until 3 years ago."

"Why do you care about it so much? Have you ever been attacked by a ghost other than the previous one?"

"Of course, everyone in Amity has."

We were silent for a few minutes until Tucker cleared his throat. "So, he's cute huh?"

"Oh please Tucker, lots of people are cute. That doesn't mean I'm going to drop my pants for them. Plus, he's dead."

Danny's being strangely quiet.

"Well back to the other topic then. Let's go over the facts one more time," Tucker says. "This is your first weekend away from home?"

"Yes."

"Your first weekend without parental supervision?"

"Yes."

"Your first weekend without parental supervision in Paris? And you want to spend it in your bedroom? Alone?" He and Valerie exchange pitying glances. I look at Danny for help, but find him staring at me with his head tilted to the side nervously.

"What?" I ask, irritated. "Soup on my chin? Green bean between my teeth?"

Danny smiles to himself. "I like your stripe," he finally says. He reaches out and touches it lightly. "You have perfect hair."

For the person who asked, Jazz is in college but will be showing herself soon and Tuck will be in here a reasonable amount.

Also, someone asked me if I can do a companion novel with Danny's point of view. If enough people start to review I might. Also, tell me if you want me to write one and if I should post it during 'Sam and the French Kiss' or after.