Author's Note: Yet another new story. Hope you enjoy reading this one and I would love to hear what you think, as per usual.
Chapter One: Arrival
Smallville. It was the bane of Miranda's existence. The last place she ever thought she would end up. The last place she ever wanted to end up.
She stared out the window of her mother's Lincoln Navigator and sighed, pulling her long brunette mane into a high bun. Acres of cornfields flew by as they sped along a two lane highway.
"You'll never believe who called me last night," Lisa Richardson said to her daughter.
"Who?" Miranda's voice was flat. Her mother was exiling her to a small town—clearly determined to ruin her dream. In her opinion, there was no reason to be more than civil to the old hag.
"Leslie gave me a ring last night," her mother said happily, "from Julliard."
Miranda had to admit that this bit of news was slightly exciting. Her older sister was a very talented dancer—just as Miranda was—but she hadn't said more than a happy birthday to either of the Richardson women in over three years. Leslie was the type to run out as soon as she hit eighteen, wanting to do everything her way. Consequences be damned.
Maybe if Leslie hadn't left, things wouldn't be so tense between Miranda and her mother right now. Miranda felt bad for only children at that moment.
Even dangling the prospect of hearing from her sister, however, wouldn't cause Miranda to warm up to her mother.
"Cool."
"She told me that the ballet program is absolutely fabulous. The director apparently travelled with the Royal Danish Ballet. She—"
"I know."
Her mother stopped and fixed her with a look. "You do?"
Miranda nodded. "I checked into Julliard a while back. Before—"
"Leslie said she's adjusting well," her mother said brightly—too brightly to be normal. "The girls in her company are apparently just awful, but well you know ballerinas."
"Of course," Miranda sighed.
"Oh! As I said, the director was the prima ballerina for the Royal Danish Ballet and she's decided to put on a spring production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Of course, Leslie will get a starring role, as she is wont to do—"
"Mom," Miranda interrupted.
"Do you think she'll invite us to the production? I hope so—"
"Mom," Miranda said more forcefully.
"What Miranda?" She asked, irritated at having been interrupted.
"Can we not talk about this? I just want to get some sleep," Miranda lied.
"Oh." Her mother's expression sobered significantly. She recovered it quickly and replaced her frown with a smile. "Yes, well we wouldn't want you to be dead on your feet when you meet the Kents. Martha is a very dear friend of mine."
"Mhmm," Miranda muttered, purposely turning her head away from her mother.
Despite the fact that Miranda wasn't allowed to dance anymore, most of her bags were still filled with her leotards and tights—there was probably a case of Rosen in there too. Maybe even some rolls of toe tape.
Whatever items Miranda had been able to keep had been hidden away into her suitcases. They were small momentous, reminiscent of her entire life's work.
Even now, instead of wearing jeans and t-shirt she favored tight fitting black leggings—they reminded her of tights—and had on her lucky leg warmers underneath her Ugg boots. Never mind the fact that she didn't need them to keep her feet warm; some habits could not be broken after years and years of repeating them.
The Kent farm was just as Miranda had pictured it would be. They had a fair amount of land and the house seemed to be right out of a Little House on the Prairie novel. She had expected to see cows roaming the grounds and chickens shitting all over the place but that wasn't exactly the case. The farm seemed rather homey to Miranda, especially considering the fact that she had grown up in a high rise building in Metropolis.
Maybe the chickens were out back.
The house itself was painted a pale yellow and was complemented by the perfectly pristine white windowsills. Miranda decided she rather liked the garden out in front—there were multitudes of flowers growing through the small fenced off area.
At least it's pretty, Miranda internally sighed. The way the late afternoon sun was hitting the roof shingles made the house look brighter somehow.
"Lisa! Is that you?" A red headed woman—obviously Martha Kent—was now standing on the porch, having just come out of the house. Behind her stood an older looking blonde man—Jonathan Kent, no doubt—and a tall, handsome boy about her own age—Clark.
"Martha!" Miranda's mother squealed. The two older women met somewhere in the middle and embraced each other.
Miranda stood next to the car, awkwardly waiting on the side. She glanced up at the other Kents and saw that they were smiling.
"Miranda!" Lisa snapped. "Don't just stand there staring, introduce yourself!"
Miranda's face reddened as she walked over towards Martha and her mother. She managed to put on a shy smile despite the discomfort she was feeling. "Hi Mrs. Kent."
"Martha, honey," the woman said kindly, reaching forward to embrace her. "My goodness you've grown!"
Miranda looked slightly nonplussed at this comment. To her knowledge, she had never met the Kents. Martha laughed, an embarrassed smile flitting across her pretty features. "Of course you probably don't remember me. I saw you when you were ye high." She waved her hand around mid-thigh level and smiled.
"Boys! Come on down!" Martha called out, turning around. Turning back to Lisa she smiled and said, "She looks just like you."
"Doesn't she?" Lisa grinned, smoothing a hand over her daughter's hair.
As if everything were perfectly fine. Miranda had to force herself not to slide away from her mom as Jonathan and Clark came to stand next to Martha.
"Hello Lisa," Jonathan greeted her good-naturedly, with a kiss on the cheek. "It's good to see you."
"Jonathan," she said fondly. "And Clark! You're so tall now!"
"Mrs. Richardson," Clark said, allowing my mother to hug him. Clearly, everyone here but Miranda knew each other.
Martha seemed to be the only one noticing the stiff smile and awkward body position that Miranda was currently holding. "Miranda this is Jonathan, my husband, and Clark, our son."
"N-nice to meet you," Miranda managed. She mentally smacked herself for reverting back to her shy manner of speaking. It was a habit she was trying desperately to curb.
"Martha why don't we take this inside?" Jonathan suggested.
"Good idea. Lisa, please tell me you'll stay for lunch?" Martha asked.
"That would be wonderful," she squealed.
"Clark, why don't you help Miranda with her things," Jonathan suggested as he watched the two women scamper off into the house. "I've just got to clean up in the barn a bit. Good to have you with us, Miranda."
On that note, Jonathan Kent excused himself, leaving Clark and Miranda alone. Miranda stood there, her arms and shoulders crumpled inward—the telltale sign that she was uncomfortable.
Clark smiled at her, showing off a perfect, pearly white smile. "I'm Clark." He stuck his hand out—my God it's huge, Miranda thought—and they shook, her small hand being completely enveloped in his larger one.
"Miranda," she said quietly.
The two of them stood there for a moment, which was just enough time for the awkwardness to seep into the atmosphere. Clark stared at Miranda while Miranda looked anywhere but at Clark.
"Well, those bags aren't going to move themselves," Clark said cheerfully. Miranda looked up, her hazel eyes meeting his incredibly clear blue ones.
"Uhh yeah—I mean yes," Miranda stammered, opening up the trunk of the car.
Clark whistled, taking in all of the boxes and bags that completely filled up the back of the large SUV. "You sure you brought enough stuff?"
Miranda glanced at Clark nervously, wondering if he thought her shallow already. Noticing her nervous look, Clark laughed. "Don't worry, I'm just kidding."
"Oh, right," Miranda said, forcing a laugh. Which only made things more awkward.
"Why don't I handle the boxes?" Clark suggested. Miranda shrugged and slid two of her duffels onto one shoulder and grabbed her purse with her free hand. Clark picked up a few—no, five—boxes by himself and led the way into the house. An amazed Miranda followed closely behind him.
Between the two of them it only took a few minutes to unload all of Miranda's things and take the upstairs into the guest room. By the time they went downstairs, lunch was already waiting for them on the table and Jonathan Kent had returned to the house.
Miranda slid into the seat next to Clark and across from Martha, deciding it was safer than sitting next to her mom. The adults smiled at the two of them, then at each other, sharing a secret look that obviously meant, "Look how cute they are!"
Miranda had to refrain from gagging. It appeared that the Kents and her mother had already fixed their plates full of fruit salad and sandwiches, leaving Clark and Miranda plenty of food.
Clark immediately started piling his plate high with—Good Lord, three sandwiches?—as much food as he could possibly stuff onto the white china. Miranda waited patiently for her turn.
"Clark," Jonathan coughed, glancing at Miranda.
"Right, sorry," Clark laughed, setting his plate down. "Go ahead."
Miranda quickly scooped some fruit onto her plate and half of a sandwich, smiling gratefully at Mrs. Kent.
"So, Miranda," Jonathan said, to break the silence, "Martha told me you're a dancer."
"That's correct," Miranda said quietly.
"Well," Miranda's mom put in awkwardly, "she's taking a little break right now. Leslie, on the other hand—"
"What kind of dance?" Clark said to Miranda.
"Ballet," she sighed, pushing the fruit on her plate around. Her mother sent a covert glare towards Miranda and she spooned a piece of cantaloupe into her mouth, reluctantly.
"That must be tough," Clark laughed, "but you look like a ballerina."
A flutter of pride raced through Miranda's heart. "You think so?'
"Yeah I—"
"Leslie was just accepted into Julliard this summer and she's going be enrolling for the fall semester," Lisa said to Martha. "Of course she's already taken the place by storm. You know Leslie."
"That I do," Martha laughed.
"She may not look like you," Jonathan laughed, "but she sure acts like you did at her age."
"Oh," my mother tsked, good-naturedly, "don't say that! Leslie would never forgive you." The adults all shared a laugh as they began digging into their food.
Miranda sat awkwardly there, as the conversation turned—as it always did—to Leslie's greatest accomplishments.
If anyone had looked into the window of the Kent's house at that moment they might have seen a lot of things. They might have seen the picture of old friends reminiscing together. They might have seen a loving mother in Lisa Richardson as she raved about her eldest daughter. They might have seen the close relationships that the Kent's so obviously shared with each other.
But no one would've seen Miranda Richardson. She was just a regular girl—now that her dream had been taken from her—pushing food around on her plate one more time, if only to make it look as if she were trying to get better.