The morning sun over New York City was surprisingly bright, reflecting off the glass of distant skyscrapers and making the pavement shimmer. For most five-year-olds, today was a daunting leap into the unknown. For me, it was a bizarre exercise in regression.
"Do you have everything that you need, Danny? Your emergency contact card? The extra pair of socks in case you jump in a puddle?"
Mom was in full 'Maddie Fenton' mode. She was currently kneeling in front of me on the sidewalk, adjusting my collar for the fifth time. She looked radiant and far more excited than I felt, her jumpsuit replaced by a sensible but stylish trench coat for the public outing.
"Mom, I'm fine," I said, offering a practiced, reassuring smile. "It's just kindergarten. I'm pretty sure the curriculum won't involve anything I can't handle."
Maddie paused, her eyes softening. She reached out and ruffled my hair, ignoring the fact that she'd just spent three minutes combing it. "I know you're smart, honey. Maybe too smart. Just… try to have fun? Make some friends. Not everyone has to be a scientist to be worth talking to."
I nodded, feeling a small pang of guilt. To her, I was a gifted child who spent too much time in books. To me, I was a man trying to remember how to play with blocks so I wouldn't look like a freak.
We arrived at the gates of PS-118, a red-brick elementary school that felt like a fortress of primary colors and high-pitched screaming. The air smelled like floor wax, pencil shavings, and a hint of apple juice.
"I'll be right here at three o'clock to pick you up," Mom said, giving me one last, bone-crushing hug. "Go get 'em, tiger."
I watched her walk away, feeling a strange sense of abandonment as I turned toward the classroom. Room 102. I adjusted the straps of my backpack and stepped inside.
The room was a chaotic blur. Kids were crying, kids were running, and one boy in the corner was trying to eat a blue crayon. I sighed and scanned the room for a place to sit. Most of the tables were already claimed by groups of toddlers who seemed to have formed alliances in the five minutes since the doors opened.
Then, I saw him.
Sitting at a circular table near the back was a kid with a red beret perched precariously on his head. He was ignored by the chaos around him, his entire focus dedicated to a small, electronic handheld device that looked suspiciously like a dismantled calculator. His tongue was poked out in concentration as he poked at its innards with a plastic toothpick.
I walked over and pulled out the chair next to him. "Is that a customized Texas Instruments?" I asked, unable to help myself.
The kid jumped, nearly dropping the device. He looked at me through a pair of glasses that were slightly too large for his face. "It's a masterpiece," he corrected, his voice surprisingly high but confident. "I'm trying to see if I can make it play a simple version of Snake. My name's Tucker. Tucker Foley. My dad says I'm going to be the next Howard Stark, minus the flying cars."
I grinned, genuinely impressed by the kid's ambition. "Danny Fenton. And you might want to check the capacitor on the left; it looks a little loose."
Tucker's eyes widened. He looked back at his device, then back at me. "You know what a capacitor is? Man, I thought I was going to be the only genius in this place."
"Just a hobby," I lied smoothly.
Before we could continue our technical breakdown, the chair on the other side of the table was kicked out—literally. A girl with dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail and an expression of pure, unadulterated boredom sat down. She was wearing a black jumper over a purple shirt, a stark contrast to the bright pinks and yellows favored by the other girls in the room.
She dropped a heavy-looking book on the table. The Lorax.
"This place is a nightmare," she stated, not looking at either of us. "The teacher is already trying to segregate us by 'interest groups.' It's a blatant attempt at social engineering."
Tucker blinked, his "masterpiece" forgotten for a moment. "I like your hat," he offered tentatively.
"It's not a hat, it's a statement," she replied, finally looking at us. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and fiercely independent. "I'm Sam. Sam Manson. And if either of you tries to talk to me about dolls or the 'color of the day,' I'm leaving."
I chuckled, leaning back in my tiny plastic chair. "Don't worry, Sam. Tucker here is too busy trying to build a supercomputer out of a calculator, and I'm just trying to survive until recess."
Sam looked at the dismantled calculator, then at me, then at Tucker. A small, almost imperceptible smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Fine. But I'm not sharing my snacks. They're organic, and my grandmother says 'refined sugar is the devil's playground.'"
"Deal," Tucker said, already returning to his tinkering. "As long as you don't mind the smell of ozone if this thing blows up."
The morning proceeded in a blur of mundane activities. We had to endure "Circle Time," where we introduced ourselves. I kept my introduction brief, noting my interest in "astronomy"—a safe, kid-friendly version of my actual interest in the physics of space. Tucker talked about "gadgets," and Sam gave a surprisingly spirited defense of the school's recycling program that left our teacher, Mrs. Gable, looking very confused.
By the time lunch rolled around, the three of us had formed a sort of silent pact. We were the "Other" table. We didn't fit into the boisterous athletic group, nor the quiet group that sat perfectly still.
As we sat in the cafeteria—a cavernous room that echoed with the clatter of plastic trays—I watched my two new companions. Tucker was showing off a "meat-free" lunch that Sam had clearly influenced, though he was eyeing my ham sandwich with a look of longing.
"So, Danny," Sam said, poking at her salad. "What's the deal with your parents? My parents are obsessed with 'social standing.' It's exhausting."
"My parents?" I thought about the massive neon sign on our roof and the basement full of ghost-hunting equipment. "They're scientists. They study… unconventional energy and phenomena."
"Like UFOs?" Tucker asked, his mouth full of a carrot stick.
"More like ghosts," I said.
Tucker choked slightly, and Sam's eyebrows shot up.
"Ghosts?" Sam repeated, leaning in. "That's actually… cool. Most parents are so boring. Do they actually find anything?"
"They're convinced they will," I said, leaning on my hand. "They think there's a whole dimension of 'ecto-energy' out there. Most people think they're a bit crazy."
"People thought Steve Rogers was a crazy experiment until he punched a Nazi in the face," Tucker pointed out, regaining his composure. "In this world, 'crazy' is just a word for 'ahead of your time.'"
I looked at Tucker, surprised by the insight. He was right. In a world that had seen a Super Soldier and the birth of modern technology, who was I to say what was impossible? I didn't believe in ghosts—not really—but I did believe in my parents' passion.
"I like you guys," I said, and for the first time since I'd woken up in this five-year-old body, it didn't feel like I was acting. "I think we're going to get along just fine."
Sam grunted, though she pushed a small container of organic grapes toward the center of the table. "Just don't make it weird, Fenton."
"Yeah," Tucker added, grinning as he finally managed to make his calculator emit a triumphant beep. "We've got a lot of work to do. I'm thinking by third grade, we can automate the school's vending machines."
As the bell rang to signal the end of lunch, I followed them back to class. I had come to school expecting a prison sentence of boredom. Instead, I had found a tech-obsessed optimist and a cynical environmentalist.
Maybe this "second life" thing wasn't going to be so lonely after all. I didn't have any grand destiny or knowledge of what the future held; I just had a backpack, two weird friends, and a city full of possibilities. And for now, that was more than enough.