'Cynthia Gunther is as normal as you can get. She drives to school, eats lunch with her small group of friends, and goes home to do homework: a normal day. She doesn't long for dangerous exploits like most do, but often she does wonder…what would it be like? To be irregular, different, out of the ordinary.'
I sigh, letting my exhaustion and boredom echo in my breath, and I lean back in my worn-down office chair. The Torch is a mess, probably because I let Kiyoko stay the night homecoming, which I found lame that I still hadn't cleaned it up. I would probably good-cop Peter into doing it for me, since he never had anything better to do with his time.
Looming deadlines have always messed my sleep schedule up, and part of my sanity, as well, so here I was, forging through the late night hours. I wish I was more like Kiyo, because God knows where she is right now, except in her bed. Peter, however, worked at his uncle's farm 24/7 and couldn't afford to stay up late, no matter how much he wanted to stay with me at the Torch.
You see, Smallville High's like an aquarium. There are the groupies who the popular hunters particularly go after, the sharks who can smell girls from a mile away, and the loners who avoid it all as much as possible. This isn't very easy, since, like an aquarium, we are all held in the same glass cage we call 'high school'.
And, goodie for me, I get to write about it every week. As the daughter of a long line of journalists who was born with no interest whatsoever to convey the messages the student body wanted to hear, I was stuck between a high school and a hard place.
"Cynth, what're you doing?" I hear behind me and smiled knowingly. I felt my chair spin around and I laughed as the dizziness set in. Kiyoko "Kiyo" Mori has been my best friend since 7th grade, where she'd just moved from Smallville from Metropolis—this explained the resistance to sleep and the all-nighter gene.
"Eh, nothing much." I reply vaguely and shrug, closing my laptop in the process and earning an infamous raised eyebrow from Kiyo.
"What's that?" Ever the curious one.
"You know, crazy deadlines, Principal Reynolds on my back, the regular."
Kiyo crosses her arms and frowns, chiding with the usual mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "Come on, Cynth, I can always tell when you're lying. So what's got your tongue in a twist?"
I run my hands through my short, choppy brown hair and answer with a slight bitter edge in the fear of being teased, "I'm writing about myself. Well, not about myself—the person I want to be. I have to admit, Kiyo, I feel a little jealous of you, since you go on, like, adventures and stuff. Like, all of the time."
Kiyo's eyebrows knit together and she nods understandingly. I can recognize the confusion, the pity, the anger at herself for having not noticed this before, all racing through her head and reflecting in her determined amber eyes.
In a sudden emotional deluge, she rushes forward and squeezes me with whatever superhuman strength she seems to have every time she does this. I would have told her it was okay, but I couldn't breathe. Instead, I pat her softly on the back while she lets loose a flood of random mumbled stuttered apologies, gripping my entire being with her hold and friendship.
"I'm sorry, I should have noticed this before, and maybe I should take you out some night, tonight even — is tonight good? Applebee's? The crappy pool place downtown?"
"No, it's fine, Kiyo." I reassured, realizing that she had finally let me go to speak.
"You're sure?" she wails and gives me a look that beat my kitten at home—weak and pleading. I nod and smile like she is a kindergartener who'd gotten the answer right on a question I'd asked the class.
"Good." She breathes and hugs me one last time, before giving me her adorable dimpled smile.
"Hey, guys, I was wondering…" we hear at the end of the room and turn to see Peter, who has just entered the room, his regular geeky glasses and button-up shirt included. He looks embarrassed at having just walked upon such an expressive meeting between his two best friends, and blushes before turning to leave the room.
"C'mon, Peter. What is it?" Kiyo asks and pats the spot on the top of the newspaper desk next to her. "We were just hanging out. By the way, you wanna join Cynth and me? We're going to crash the proverbial party at O'Hara's."
"I never said I was going to do that." I protest vehemently. Kiyo rolls her eyes but visibly brightens as Peter comes over to sit down by us. He sighs deeply, the stressed-out, life-is-hard-but-I'll-put-on-a-show sigh. And he isn't joking—he doesn't joke about things like that, he just asks if you're okay.
Kiyo and I exchange a meaningful look that shares an entire conversation:
Me: We have to talk to him.
Kiyo: Maybe it's those low-cortical football babies again.
Me: This somehow seems more serious. Let's ask.
We look at Peter, who quips dryly, "Let me guess, you guys want to do your own Dr. Phil thing. I'm sorry, girls, but you're going to have to find some other poor sucker."
Both of us pout until I ask sweetly (I was always better at the puppy-eyes), "What's the matter, Peter?" Kiyo gives her best innocent look she can manage, which is always hard since she possesses the most mischievous eyes in the world.
Peter looks away with a smile on his face, trying to avoid total subjection, but he fails, and eventually gives up, and we see the grin fade.
"I went to the Talon this morning. Thought I'd get a cappuccino, you know. I was just sitting there when this guy, like, my mom's age, came up to me and just sat down at my table. I didn't know what to say or anything, especially because he just looked so…I don't know; familiar. Like I'd seen him on TV or something."
He paused and shifted his balance on the desk, all the while Kiyo and I listening intently, our eyebrows automatically magnets of worry. He continued, "He handed me this card and told me to call him later in the day, when I was alone. I haven't done it yet—I'm really confused."
I glanced at Kiyo, the same distress that I felt in her gaze, then asked somewhat weakly, "So…did he just, like, leave after that?"
Peter looked equally, if not more disturbed than us as he answered, "Actually, he, um…." He gulped. "Said that he was my father."
Kiyo and I collectively gasp. How could this be happening? It was like a soap opera, but of Smallville proportions—hugely important to us but not many others. Peter? Having a dad? We'd grown up together, with him as a sort of older brother. He'd been just fine with my dad as a father figure, since his own father had supposedly died when he was just two. Not true any longer, I guess.
Eventually Kiyo stutters out, her shock mirroring her actions and tone, "Wait—who is this guy? Did he tell you his name? What about that card?" Her skin is even more pale than usual, and her already huge amber eyes have seemed to have grown exponentially, as I can see clearly since she is leaning forward so much.
"Yeah. He told me his name was Oliver Queen."