The Millionaire's Daughter

by elleindie

When Lana Lang moves to Smallville, she finds herself caught up in her father's business deals with partner Lex Luthor, choosing between love and honesty, & solving Clark Kent's mystery. Can she survive a world where knowing too much can cost one's life?

3. Chapter 3

Clark didn't feel well. His chest felt heavy, and his head was spinning more than was normal. Well, spinning head syndrome wasn't ever normal.

Driving didn't seem to be an option, and Clark really didn't know where to go—home felt like light-years away and just held silence, which promised more brooding—so he turned right around and went back into the Talon. At least there he could have some peace and non-quiet. Nice and comfortable to not think about Alicia and that kiss from seven months ago.

He sat down on the comfy curved couch in the corner, his back sinking into the cushions as he rested his head in his hands. Why now? Did Alicia think she'd be able to come back to everything the way it was? Did she not pause to think about whether or not he'd met someone since?

Which, of course, he hadn't . . . unless you counted Lana . . . and Lana was practically a stranger.

Duh.

What to do? Alicia used to be one of his best friends, and seeing her again definitely brought back that feeling of nostalgia . . . and of course he liked her . . . but was it in the same way she liked him? Argh! Seventeen and not even sure how to distinguish friend like from more-than-friend like. He should have been paying attention during Alicia's popularity lessons instead of doodling Kryptonian symbols on the edge of his notebook. Surely there had been a lecture on this particular subject in the midst of all those "what to wear" and "what not to do in public" speeches.

And there was the fact that, even if he was sure of his feelings, she didn't know of his abilities. Was it worth it to start something if he'd just look like a delusional with multiple-personality disorder? Clark was betting not.

He was running through the possible conversations he could have with Alicia about his abilities, most of which ending with a screaming, running Alicia, when the door opened with a short tinkling of bell and a small gust of cool breeze. It ruffled Clark's hair and he looked up, semi-annoyed at the distraction.

Chloe and Pete were nudging each other, each grinning and glaring at one another. Arguing. But not bad arguing. Just . . . Chloe and Pete arguing. The party of at the quarry must have been boring without being able to drink. Chloe swung her head in Clark's direction and grinned. She elbowed Pete and said, "Toldja he was here."

Pete rolled his eyes. "I never argued with you!"

Clark straightened up, his hands in his lap. "Hey guys."

Pete plopped down next to him and punched him in the arm. "How's it going, Sheriff Kent?"

Clark grinned as Pete shook out his hand. "Fine."

Chloe perched herself on a chair across from the couch. "Why are you at the Talon? Isn't it past your bedtime?"

Clark smirked. "I ran into Alicia. Or, she almost ran over me, more accurately."

"Baker?" Pete's voice stretched an octave. Clark chuckled.

"Do we know any other Alicia's?"

"Alicia Silverstone?"

"Ha."

Chloe leaned against the back of her chair, swinging her purse over the back of it. "So she's back from Metropolis?" She shrugged. "Did she say why?"

"She got tired of it."

Chloe scoffed. "I don't know how anyone can grow tired of Metropolis."

"Well, not everyone's an investigative journalist, Chlo."

Chloe stuck her tongue out at Pete and the door opened again.

"Thanks, Toby. I'll be home soon enough."

Clark looked up for the sweet, melodious voice he shouldn't have recognized, but did anyways. Her long raven hair was hiding her face as she tucked her keys into the pocket of those jeans that gave him a tiny glimpse of what lay beneath them . . . the golden skin just about her knee seemed to shimmer slightly. She straightened up, a thin hand pushing dark hair out of hazel eyes that immediately connected with his.

It was like the air around them filled with tangible, corporeal electricity; he couldn't look away from her, even if he wanted to. She looked exactly the way she had earlier, but she had a different air about her; maybe it was because she was out of her element, no longer cooped up in an ancient castle.

Whatever the cause was, Clark liked the change.

"Hey, Lana."

Lana paused. Clark was perhaps the last person she expected to run into; Chloe and Pete had described him as a homebody. So to see him sitting in the Talon by himself threw her off her game. Her reply was short.

"Hi."

Chloe looked between the two of them; the chemistry between them was so thick she could have lit it with a Bunsen burner. "I'd introduce you two but from what Lana's said, I'm too late."

Pete snickered. "Pies."

Clark did a double take. Chloe and Lana knew each other? "How'd you two meet?"

Chloe shrugged. "Lana showed up at the quarry. Whitney Fordman tried to capture her attention but we were too busy telling her embarrassing stories." Her eyes glittered menacingly. Clark only hoped she hadn't shared the story about when Pete snuck them into a strip club. The only reason Chloe had gone along was to watch Clark's reaction when Pete bought him a lap dance.

Of course, they got kicked out a few minutes later, but it was still worth it, in Pete's opinion.

Lana raised an eyebrow and looked at Chloe. She suddenly felt awkward – like she wasn't dressed nicely enough. Or, more accurately, like she was going to be sick. Clark was a nice enough guy, but these butterflies were more than she could handle.

"Well, I've got my keys, so I really should get going," she said. "Wouldn't want to make my dad too mad." Yeah, right.

Chloe cocked and eyebrow and stared at her. "No coffee?" Lana shook her head. Chloe shrugged. "Alright then." She glanced at Clark, who was inconspicuously trying to watch Lana. "Uhm, well . . . Pete and I will just stay here and get our coffee . . . Clark, would you mind running Lana out to her car? It's on Wayson's Road, down by the quarry. Unless you're busy, of course."

Lana froze; she hadn't thought of Chloe as being annoying until right this second. Clark's cheeks turned a slight pink, his lips pursed in a mixture of pleasure and humility. Yeah; this was a regular occurrence. It seemed Chloe's sole intent was to embarrass her large friend.

Finally, though, he said, "Sure. If Lana doesn't object."

Lana shook her head. Yes, I object. Well, not really. Only because I'm afraid being cooped up in a truck with you for any amount of extended time will make me so nervous that I might end up ruining your upholstery. Which I really hope doesn't happen, because not only would you never look at me the same way again, but how in the world would I explain that to my boyfriend? Hey, Jason? I like this guy enough that I threw up all over him and his truck. Is that normal? Are you jealous?

"That's fine."

Clark smiled lightly and stood up, stretching his hand into his pocket and pulling out his own keys. Chloe wagged an eyebrow at Pete, who glared at her. Clark led her back out of the coffee shop, but not before she turned to look back at Chloe, setting her with a glare that Pete cringed away from. Chloe only grinned smugly.

As Clark held open the door for her, she heard Pete mutter, "And the point of that was?"

Chloe's reply sent a strangely pleasant chill down her back.

"They'll thank me later."

Clark's old Dodge was surprisingly quiet and comfortable. She barely felt the potholes as they turned onto Wayson's Road, but the shocks were still such that she could feel them. Before, in her BMW, she hadn't.

His large fingers messed with the dial on the radio, trying to coax a clear channel to come through. Nothing came up but semi-static-y Willie Nelson, so he stopped adjusting and put both hands on the wheel. The only noise was the crooning of Somebody Pick Up My Pieces, a Willie song she hadn't heard before.

Don't follow my footsteps,
Step over my trail.
The road is too narrow,
And your footing could fail.
And the fall to the bottom
Could tear you apart;
And they'll be picking up pieces
Of you and your heart.

She listened to the song for a while before the lack of conversation got to Clark. He cleared his throat and, fearing his voice might crack, turned to Lana.

"So, will you be starting school soon?"

Lana pulled her eyes away form the window and glanced up at him. Even sitting down, she had to look up. "Yeah. Monday."

Clark nodded. "That's great. I'm sure you'll like it, it's really not as bad as everyone says." He glanced at her sideways through the darkness of the cab. "Where did you go before?"

"Excelsior in Metropolis. It was private." Lana glanced down at her hands. "I guess here I don't have to worry about uniforms, huh?"

Clark grinned at the windshield. "No uniforms."

"That's good; the same skirt and blazer every day was really cramping my style."

Clark chuckled, causing an unexpected smile to spread across Lana's features. She tried to smother it, only succeeding in turning it into a grin. Which refused to budge.

The truth was, making Clark laugh and smile made her happy. Cut and dry. No way around it. No use in hiding it, either; she turned to look at him.

In the filtered moonlight shining through the cab of the truck, his features were all highlighted and low-lighted, making his face a mysterious, shadowy work of art. His high cheekbones were pale, the hollows of his cheeks dark in shadow. The straight edge of his nose was perfect, rounding at the tip and leading down to slightly protruding, pink lips, which hovered over a strong chin. His jawline was sharp and highlighted by the moon; his neck was sculpted and muscular. His dark, curly hair was shiny, soft-looking. She wanted to reach out and touch it.

The thing about Clark was, next to him, she felt inadequate. She knew she was pretty; when she was six, she began karate lessons—a requirement from her mother. Later she found out that Laura feared Lana would have a harder time than most girls, that her looks would make her a target for predators, and therefore took every precaution so that Lana could protect herself. She'd always been fairly popular with boys, despite not wanting anything to do with them—Jason was her first relationship, and that had started because he'd protected her from a guy who "got what he wanted and wanted what he saw." It was easy to fall for him: he was the hero, she was the damsel, and he'd saved her. It was only natural.

But sitting next to Clark felt like she was sitting next to a great piece of art—Michelangelo's David, perhaps, or better; it was hard to choose, because no sculpture she could think of could half compare to the beauty beside her. His perfections were only heightened by whatever flaws he did have; a small scar above his lip that barely reflected the moonlight, the way his skin on his cheeks was constantly a blushed pink color. She felt insufficient, normal beside him, despite her glowing skin, deep hazel eyes. It couldn't compare to the preternatural splendor in the driver's seat.

However, Clark felt completely the opposite; his clumsily large hands and goofy grin couldn't dream to measure up to the easy grace of Lana's movements and smile; she moved seamlessly, as if she were floating in a calmly ebbing pool. Clark had been taking in every detail in small glimpses, trying to commit every finite feature to memory. Why, he wasn't sure; Lana compelled him to do things he'd never thought to do before. Never had a grace this strong, this intoxicating, been in his presence; he felt the need to grasp onto it and never forget, as if in some inexplicable way her effortlessness could contradict his ineptness.

He gave her a sideways look, and found that she was staring at him carefully, as if she'd found a novel to be read in his features. Instead of looking away, embarrassed, he captured her gaze in his; she found it impossible to look away.

His eyes were fathoms of deep, rolling waves, crashing into one another and creating the most beautiful rainbow of blues, greens, and grays she's ever seen. His eyes were light, but never dull; the moonlight shining on them caused the flecks of different colors – gold, hazel, deepest emerald – to shimmer like cascading jewels, framed by soft lids and long lashes. It was hard to imagine seeing anything more beautiful; the bluest water, sunlight on fresh snow, iced-over pines – nothing compared.

She was entranced, and didn't notice they'd begun to veer off the road until Clark jerked the wheel and the truck back to the middle of the lane.

The spell was broken; Lana looked out the windshield to see that they were slowly approaching the gorge. The tall mountains of gravel peeked out, white and ghostly. She began to search for her car, hoping Clark wouldn't hit it with his truck before she spotted it.

"So, uhm," he said, clearing his throat; he was obviously trying to deflect the awkward moment. "Why'd you move to Smallville?"

Lana furrowed her eyebrows, glaring through the glass. "I honestly couldn't tell you."

Clark cocked an eyebrow. "You mean, you don't know?"

Lana sighed and leaned back in her seat. The truck crawled to a halt. "My dad told me it was something to do with a business opportunity." Smiling, she added, "What opportunity Smallville holds, I haven't the faintest idea."

She glanced up at Clark, who was frowning at the steering wheel. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said quickly. She hadn't meant to offend him if she had; perhaps he was one of those that loved his town, never wanted to leave it. More power to him.

"No, it's fine, it's just . . . I don't understand why your father wouldn't explain everything to you before uprooting you. I mean," he added, throwing her an apologetic look, "my family believes in honesty, and that keeping secrets like that is a sure-fire way to ruin a relationship." No need to mention it's kind of a double standard… but that's a special situation.

Lana frowned. "Your parents seem like good people, but not everyone can live like that. Sometimes you have to keep a secret to save someone."

Clark exhaled loudly. "Believe me, no one understands that better than I do. But I'd think if your father wanted you to be happy, he'd tell you why you moved here . . . don't you?"

Lana's expression darkened and she looked at her hands, which were folded in her lap. Her voice was weak, quiet – just below a murmur. Quiet enough to go unnoticed by human ears. "Her hasn't cared about my happiness since Mom died."

Clark's jaw dropped in surprise; he was sure she hadn't meant for him to hear that, but he had, and he had a hard time believing it. That Lana could think so lowly of her father, of herself, made Clark wonder if life behind those castle walls was as glamorous and some would have it sound.

"I'm sure that's not the truth," he said quietly. Lana's eyes snapped up to meet his, and he swore he could see the faint glimmer of a tear trail down her cheek. She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips.

"It doesn't matter."

She pushed the truck door open and landed on the road, gravel crunching beneath her feet. She shut the door a little to hard; it slammed and the clang of metal filled the night. On the other side, Clark had jumped out as well. She started walking before he did, but it didn't take long for him to catch up.

"Lana, are you sure you don't want to talk?" He lagged behind only slightly, and by choice. It would have been effortless to stop her in her tracks. "I'm a completely unbiased listener."

"No, Clark," she said over her shoulder. Her car should be somewhere close. "I've already told you more than I should have."

"If you bottle it up, it only gets worse."

"Thanks for the warning." Her eyes searched the darkness, but saw nothing. Cursing, she dug in her pocket for her keys; when her fingers wrapped around them, she pulled them out and pounded the unlock button with her thumb. Twenty feet in front of her, a dome light flared and a small horn honked.

Clark sighed, exasperated. "Lana, listen!" He took two long strides and planted himself in front of her, one of his large hands on each of her shoulders. "I know what it's like to feel like you're alone, like no one cares, I honestly do. But if you let it consume you, then you're no better than those people who don't give a damn." His expression softened, and he tilted his head to look into her eyes easier. "If you don't take care of yourself first, then no one will."

Lana stared up into the oceanic eyes. His words made sense, they really did. Which was more than she had expected from the farm boy. "I'm sorry, Clark," she said, facing him with a penetrating gaze. "You tried, you honestly did." She smiled up at him, wanting to trace his lips with her finger, a completely non-realistic urge. "But you don't even know me."

She pushed past him, fighting the urge to break down into unreasonable tears, and climbed into the drivers' seat, the engine revving to life as she shoved the key into the ignition. As she pulled a U-turn and drove past him, she thought she saw Clark's lips from her name through the darkness and her disobedient tears.

He almost didn't answer his phone as it rang from its place on the trunk; he barely glanced at it long enough to see it was Chloe calling, no doubt wondering what happened while taking Lana to her car. He threw it a dirty look before reconsidering and flipping it open; he hadn't even put it to his ear before Chloe's voice came through the line.

"Tell me everything!"

Clark frowned at the receiver. "There's nothing to tell."

Or at least, nothing he wanted Chloe to get her hands on; it was evident that Lana hadn't intended revealing as much as she did tonight to Clark, and he doubted she wanted Chloe to know. Clark didn't want Chloe to know. The investigative journalist in her would take over until she dug herself into too deep a hole, and would ruin any chance of a friendship with Lana. Clark didn't want that.

Chloe's skepticism flowed thick. "Right. If there really wasn't, how come she tore through town like a bat outta hell, little regard for pedestrians or light poles?"

Clark straightened up. "Why, did something happen?" A strew of scenarios – most of them involving a mangled little black car and Jaws of Life – ran rampant through his mind.

"No, but that doesn't cover up that something obviously happened between you two."

Clark leaned back and sighed. "We had a small misunderstanding." He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of crickets. "It not really your business, though."

Silence. Icy, prickly, deadly silence from Chloe that sent a wave of chills down his spine. "Chloe?" Still nothing. "Chloe, come on. I don't mean it in a bad way. You know that if I told you, you wouldn't be able to leave her alone about it, and I don't want you to bother her about this."

"If I knew what it was I'd know if I'd bother her about it."

"Nice try; I'm not telling. It's her business; I wasn't supposed to hear it."

Chloe's excitement mounted. "Oooh, this must be some good dirt if Miss Millionaire didn't want Fort Knox to know."

Clark chuckled, knowing when to stop before crossing the boundary of accidentally letting something slip. "Good night, Chloe."

"Yeah, g'night. See you Monday."

Clark chuckled at Chloe's disdain as he hit the end button and tossed the phone onto the couch beside him. His fingers went immediately to his hair, tugging slightly – his key concentration habit.

He wanted to know what Lana had been through to distrust her father so much. What could possibly happen to ruin a relationship so? He knew of people who were annoyed or embarrassed by their parents, but . . . Lana's oath in the truck made it seem like her father was self-possessed, that he didn't take into consideration Lana's feelings on any matter. Could that be true? Could Lewis, the semi-kind man he'd met earlier, really have such disregard for his only daughter?

You don't even know me. Clark was beginning to realize the intensity of that statement.

Because when it all came down to it, Lana and Clark were strangers to one another; Clark knew nothing about her, and therefore this urge to protect her was completely irrational. He'd chalk it up to friendship, or his desire to be able to call her his friend, but he had to question his motives.

He buried his head in his hands. This couldn't be fair, that Clark could care so much about people. It just wasn't natural.

Duh, Clark. You're about as natural as a McDonald's Fillet'O'Fish.

Clack, clack, clack. The sound of stiletto boot heels climbing the wooden steps broke Clark from his self-pity.

"You know, Clark, this loft could do with a good, thorough cleaning."

His head snapped up to see Alicia mounting the steps and appraising the space. She frowned at the traces of dust on the tabletops.

"Alicia, it's a barn."

"A barn you spend ninety-nine point nine percent of your time in."

Clark smirked. "Your father let you out?"

Alicia cocked an eyebrow and rolled her eyes. "I actually kinda snuck out . . . out my window and down the trellis? He was drinking in his den anyways so he didn't hear my car."

"So rebellious."

Alicia nodded and plopped down on the couch, one leg tucked under the other and her arm hooked over the back. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

Clark looked down at his hands. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Alicia grinned and cocked her head to the side. "I kind of dropped a lot of information on you and left."

Clark laughed. "No, the opposite; you barely told me anything and left."

"Well, we both agree on the last part."

Clark straightened up and looked at her. "Alicia, be serious for a minute."

"Alright." He watched as she squared her shoulders, sat stark straight, and faced him, all triviality aside. "I'm serious."

Clark tossed one of the lumpy throw pillows at her – which she deflected with an arm before sticking her tongue out at him – and sighed loudly. "You haven't changed at all, have you? Still that same facetious girl."

She smiled proudly for a moment, but then her eyes darkened; again, Clark got the feeling that she held a deep, dark secret, one she didn't want anyone to know and never planned on sharing. But Clark had seen through her in the Talon, and it was only a matter of time before he did again . . .

She furrowed her eyebrows, and looked down at the fabric of the couch. "I'm really not, Clark. The same, that is. That's what scares me."

Clark frowned. "And are you planning on telling me, or just leaving again instead?"

She glanced up at him with a melancholy grin and shrugged. "I could, but I'm afraid I'd bore you . . ." When Clark made a small sound of disbelief, she rolled her eyes and added, "Or worse, you'd never look at me the same."

Clark cocked his head and turned to his side, so he was facing her. She was looking down again, so he reached out with a hand and lifted her chin.

"Nothing could do that, alright?"

She blinked and nodded. "I know." She giggled. "You're really something, you know. Never judgmental, always looking for the good in others." She stared into his deep, soulful eyes. "I think that's part of the reason I'm so intimidated by you; I feel I'll never measure up to your standards of goodness."

Clark shook his head. "I don't have a standard of goodness, Alicia. Everyone's different, and everyone is good in his or her own way. They just have to see it in themselves so others can see it as well."

"But you see it no matter what."

Clark shrugged, and pursed his lips. "It's not easy, if that's what you're implying. Sometimes I have to look harder than I would with someone who isn't as complex."

"So complex people are harder to read."

"Of course they are."

"Am I complex?"

Clark paused. It felt like a trick question. "You are on some counts."

"And on others?"

Clark smiled sweetly. "On others, you're fairly transparent. But only when transparency is a good thing, really."

"So I'm transparent. That's ironic, actually; my favorite color is clear."

Clark raised an eyebrow. "Ha."

Alicia smiled – a forced, unfamiliar smile that Clark didn't like – and pulled her knees up to her chin. Taking a deep breath, she said quickly, "I got caught up in some bad things in Metropolis."

Clark nodded slowly. "Care to elaborate?"

Alicia opened her mouth, then shook her head. "This doesn't feel right."

Clark furrowed his eyebrows, but was interrupted when Alicia nudged him with her foot; when he got the idea, he stood up and allowed her to stretch out on the couch, her hands entwined and resting on her stomach. When she was finished, she smiled up at Clark and nodded. "Continue, Dr. Phil."

Clark rolled his eyes and perched atop his trunk. "Okay, elaborate. And no excuses, or I'm charging you for my services."

Alicia nodded with a fading smile and exhaled loudly. "Hmm."

"Any time you're ready."

"It's just . . . it sounds really bad."

"Did you kill someone?"

"Maybe; would you look at me differently?"

"Eh. Not that I'm condoning murder, but you're not the type to go psycho-killer."

"Thanks, that means a lot."

Clark could tell she was being serious. Her eyes were trained on a rafter and her forehead was wrinkled in frustration; she pursed her lips, twitched her hands.

"What could possibly be so bad that you don't want to tell me?" Or worse, what could I have possibly done to make you not trust me? He kept this worry quiet.

Suddenly she had swung her legs over the side of the couch and caught Clark's face in her hands, so that she was eye to eye with him. Surprised, but unmoving, Clark studied what was there.

Her skin was darker than it had been, as well as looking more worn, more brittle. It was a small difference, only noticeable at such a close proximity. Her eyes looked heavy, rimmed with dark circles covered expertly with makeup. She was still pretty, but there were now small lines in her skin, wrinkles in her forehead that had been permanently carved there.

Clark hadn't noticed, but Alicia had changed much more than some blonde highlights and a deeper tan. The worst part, perhaps, were her once-crystalline blue eyes; what were once so clear, so shockingly blue, were now dull, tired. They didn't have the same spark, the same twinkle of excitement.

It felt as if that part of her was gone, and it sent a chill through Clark.

Before he could ask what was really wrong, she'd leaned in and caught his lips; he moved his hands from his lap to her waist, but before he could do much more, she had pulled away, a rogue tear trail leading down her cheek.

"I'm sorry, Clark."

She slipped out of his grip quickly and easily and was out of the loft before he could react; he stood up and watched the stairs but she was long gone. The sound of her car in the lane below barely made it past his jumbled thoughts, and he collapsed on the couch, head in hands.

"So am I," he muttered roughly, to the empty loft and heartless night beyond.

-- -- --

Tobias didn't ask questions when she parked the car abruptly, dusty and streaked, and climbed out, wiping the back of her hand across he cheek to get rid of the stray trails left there. Surely her makeup had begun to smudge, and her eyes must have been red and puffy, but he took no notice; he put the keys away when Lana handed them to him and helped her sneak into the mansion unnoticed by Lewis, who was reportedly last seen in the den-which was on the far end of the castle, a safe distance away from the staircase leading to her bedroom—going over business acquisitions.

She climbed the stairs dejectedly and when she reached her bedroom, she closed and locked the door behind her, hopeful to avoid any further human interaction for the night, since she'd had her share between drunken football players and eyes so deep they'd pull any secret out with a few moment's notice . . .

This wasn't doing her any good. Any thought of the bright Pacific eyes that had almost broken through her carefully-constructed reserve earlier was bringing back either a fresh wave of tears or regret that she hadn't opened up to anyone. Damn him, with his piercing eyes and trustful features . . .

And that gaze they'd held in the truck. Lana's thoughts jumbled at the memory of it, but it felt . . . real. More real than any gaze she'd ever held with Jason. More reassuring than anything she'd ever experienced before.

Maybe it was because something lay behind those sparkling, kind eyes—a good, pure soul, kind spirit? Or was there more—much more—that he was hiding, unwilling and unable to show anyone except his closest loved ones?

Ugh. Why was she worried about it?

She plopped down on her bed and picked up her phone, which was lying in the exact spot she'd recalled earlier. The screen stated that there were two missed calls and three unanswered texts waiting for her, all from the same number.

Jason had called, first to tell her that there was a possibility that he could visit Smallville sometime, but it was still a small chance; the second, to ask worriedly why she hadn't answered her phone or the text he'd sent. The texts were all short, simple, and to the point:

You alright? Didn't answer phone. Call back. Love.

Lana, something wrong? Please, call. Love.

Call me ASAP. I'm worried.

No "love" on the last. Just a short, rushed question; it was sweet enough, that Jason was worried about her, but it was lost on her through her own worries. She hit the reply button with her forefinger and typed a short, straightforward response:

I'm fine; left my phone at home and went out. No need to worry. Sorry.

She turned her phone on silent and placed it carefully on the bedside table, next to her alarm clock. There would be no calls, coming or going, tonight; she didn't have the energy to deal with it. She was too self-involved at the moment to find the energy, either.

There was a soft knock on her door and Lana stood up slowly; if it were her father, it wouldn't go well at all. But luckily the voice on the other side belonged to Anne, an older woman who worked in the kitchen. She held a tray with a mug and a kettle on it; smiling at Lana, she told her it was hot chocolate and to feel free to leave the tray outside the door when she was finished. Lana nodded thankfully and looked at the tray wearily, with a sad memory.

It had been raining all day, a stormy, unusually cold June night just weeks before the accident. Her mom had made her hot chocolate, a favorite for chilly nights when emotional distress was at a peak. Lana had had a fight with Jason, their largest in two years of a relationship. While Lana sipped, Laura rubbed her back and murmured soft advice . . .

"You can't take all the responsibility, Lana. He needs to do his part to reconcile what's been lost."

Lana set down her mug. "That's just it; I don't know what it is we've lost." She laughed humorlessly. "It seems s o. . . stupid. That we could get this far and argue about something so pointless, let everything we've worked so hard to build crash around us and just watch."

A ring. A stupid ring that Lana wouldn't accept. A 'token of loyalty and love,' he'd said, but to her it seemed a step she wasn't ready to take. A promise ring pledged a wedding, love, a family . . . but she couldn't do it yet. She was sixteen.

Laura giggled. "That's what men do, darling. They evade and dismiss. What you won't apologize for, they never will, and it will either get swept under the rug or be the end of a good thing. Either way, you'll find out which way your relationship was headed before the disagreement."

Lana looked up at her mother, amazed. "Did you ever consider an advice column? How do you know all this?"

Laura's gaze had then fallen to the counter, her lips sad, as she urged Lana to go to sleep. "It's almost midnight…"

It was the last good piece of advice Laura had given her daughter, and Lana cherished it. Perhaps that was dooming her relationship with Jason, constantly looking for signs that what they had would crumble. If it did fall apart, then who was she to say it wasn't fate?

Fate. She cursed her father for having it inscribed on a shiny black tombstone. That wasn't fate, Dad. That was stupidity.

She kicked her shoes off and swung her legs up over the bed, lying on her side. Her lights were still on, glaring brightly off the window, the night outside making the glass a dark, ominous mirror. She closed her eyes, wishing she could just go home.

"Lana?"

Clark was standing behind her. She spun, so she could look into those blue eyes. Or were they green? She couldn't decide.

He was smiling softly, his features even more angelic in the soft glowing light that seemed to surround him. He was inhumanly beautifully; heart-shatteringly, devastatingly divine. She blinked her eyes against the perfection. It wasn't natural, but she couldn't resist.

A strong hand reached out and she slipped hers into it; his skin was soft, warm, welcoming. His fingers enveloped hers and she followed him backwards, until he stopped and she fell into him.

His arms wrapped around her waist and picked her up slightly, so that they were face to face. With a soft, delicious sigh, he leaned forward ever so slightly . . .

Lana had never felt, never tasted anything like Clark. He was heaven; purity and perfection in a soft blue tee shirt, with lips sweeter than the sweetest fruit she'd ever dared to taste. Apple, perhaps? But better.

Forbidden fruit. That's what he was. Because a familiar voice was calling her away from Clark and his faultless kiss, one she didn't want to hear, and certainly not now.

"Lana, what are you doing?"

She turned halfheartedly to a dejected-looking Jason. Jason? He was surrounded in a dull, pulsing light that didn't have half the effect Clark's had; but, of course, it was a shame to think Jason could compare to Clark in any way. "Lana, why?"

It was heartbreaking. But Lana had no choice; it was either stay with Clark and be happy or leave with Jason, wondering what would have happened next, what could have been. Just as she turned to Clark to capture his lips in hers, he shook his head and released her so she slid effortlessly to the white, bottomless floor. There she continued to fall, away from Clark and Jason both, who both watched down on her with sad eyes.

But falling wasn't so bad. It felt more like . . . flying. Or floating. Peaceful, smooth.

Until her feet hit rain-soaked concrete and she was looking onto an entirely different scene; a mangled car, an ambulance, a ragged-looking Lewis watching on, his eyes wide and his reactions slowed due to the alcohol; he sported a cut above his eye and his sweater was blood-stained – whether it was his blood or someone else's, no one was sure.

Lana watched, from a different vantage point, as her memory played out; soon enough her black BMW pulled up and she watched herself climb out, her hair flying and her face wild as she tried to push past emergency workers. "Mom!" she watched herself scream, slowly breaking down into a mess of sobs and tears. "Mom!"

Lana sat up with a jolt, her tee shirt sticking to her as she was damp with cold sweat, and her eyes flaring painfully to adjust to the darkness. Someone had shut them off for her since she'd fallen asleep, and the tray of hot chocolate was no longer on the table inside the door. Disoriented, Lana stood up slowly, trying to remember what had just happened in her dream. The latter part she'd never been able to forget, but the beginning was new, foreign. It scared her, and excited her at the same time.

Bu why Clark was the object of her dream wasn't clear yet, other than that she'd been thinking about him just before falling asleep . . .

She remembered the taste of his lips, and wondered if anything could possibly compare to it. It'd been her imagination working wildly in overdrive, but she couldn't keep her mind from wondering what his lips really did taste like. Could it compare? Would it be better?

She shook her head and changed into a pair of cotton pajama shorts and a white tank top, dropping her Rolling Stones shirt into the hamper. As she slid back into her bed, the last thing she saw was a flashing little red light on her phone, alerting her to a missed call, most likely from Jason. She reached over and turned the phone off with a small sigh before sinking off into a dream-cluttered sleep.

-- -- --

Sunday had been slow, and Clark was itching for a chance to get away from the chores he'd been doing. Chores didn't usually bother him—the fact that he could do two hours' work in ten minutes helped—but when there were bigger things on his mind, chores took a backseat. Jonathan had even chided him when he accidentally poured too much feed into the cows' trough and allowed the hose to run freely into the pasture, causing a large muddy mess. It was a first, and an incident that Clark rather preferred to avoid in the future.

Only one good thing had come from his uneventful weekend – his paper for honors writing was finished and ready to hand in that morning, mainly due to Chloe's organizational skills. Otherwise, Clark knew the task would have been impossible; the paper would have required complete concentration without the outline, and that was something he just couldn't do. Alicia and Lana wouldn't let him, from their own respective places in the back of his mind.

So Monday morning arose fresh and sunny, with crisp September dew on the grass and the cornstalks still growing green and eight foot tall in the fields. Harvest would be coming up sooner than anyone was ready, and Clark groaned at this thought. If his parents would have let him, he could have the whole job done within a day or two. Instead, he was confined to a large, loud, hot machine, churning out dust and dried cornstalks.

The Dodge rumbled at him when he started it, pushing it down the dirt lane and kicking up a cloud of dust behind. He passed the turn-off for Swann mansion with a pang, but didn't look at it; he kept his eyes trained on the road ahead, not glancing in his rearview mirror when the sound of a small car pulled out onto the lane behind him. Concentration. He'd need it to get through the school day.

He reached Smallville High within ten minutes, pulling into a parking space beside a yellow Cobalt and pulling out the key. As the engine purred to a halt, he turned to see Lana's little black BMW pulling into the space directly behind his. She pulled her bag off the passenger seat and got out of the car, straightening out her shirt as she stood. She was dressed in a green Henley with a white tank top beneath; even from a distance Clark noticed how the green of her shirt offset her hazel eyes. He had to tear his eyes away from her before she caught him.

Chloe made it easier.

"Clark!"

He turned and was almost hit in the face with a yellow folder. Raising an eyebrow and taking it from her, he studied its contents. Random newspaper clippings, a few Post-It's with untidy scrawl across them, a crumpled piece of paper, and an official-looking document with a bunch of numbers on it.

"What is this?"

"Evidence! I did the research part, you get started on development."

"Development of what, Chloe? This is a random assortment of crap."

"A theory. There's a method to my madness, Clark, trust me. I'll explain during fourth period."

She took back the folder and walked alongside him, glancing over at Lana, and then back at him. Lana was busy on her phone, which had just rung a few moments ago. Currently she was whispering hurriedly into it, seemingly trying to convince whomever was on the other end that she couldn't talk.

"I'm at school! . . . . Yes, really, I'm in the parking lot! . . . Why would I lie about that? . . . You're being ridiculous. I'll call you after school," she said, rolling her eyes as she shoved keys into purse. "Yes. Bye . . .. You, too. Bye."

Clark looked away before Lana punched the end button aggressively, but Chloe hadn't. When Lana looked up, she smiled sheepishly at Chloe. "Hey."

Chloe grinned and nodded. "Hey, Lana. What was that about?"

Clark closed his eyes. Chloe was never one to recognize personal boundaries.

"Oh, just . . . you know guys. When you don't call them back, they freak out."

Clark's eyes had flown open at the word "guys," and he'd craned his neck around to peer at Lana for a split-second. Guy? As in, boyfriend guy?

Chloe glanced up at Clark and then laughed. "I always heard it was the other way around, you know, with girls doing the overreacting."

Lana shrugged and raised an eyebrow. "I always had too, until I met Jason." She laughed quietly and then looked over Chloe's head at Clark. "Good morning, Clark."

He offered her a small smile and nodded. "'Morning, Lana."

Chloe looked at them both before disguising a giggle as a cough and turning back to Lana. "What class do you have first hour?"

Lana went off into an explanation of her schedule, but Clark zoned out. Guy. Specifically, Jason. He groaned inwardly. Not that he'd really weighed it as an option, but he hadn't even thought about a boyfriend in the picture. But of course, that was stupidity on his part; Lana was sure to have someone she called her own; she was much too beautiful to go unnoticed, too beautiful to not have a boyfriend.

Then Clark felt stupid. He was jealous because a girl he'd known less than a day had a boyfriend already. A girl he barely knew, had only talked to for a grand total of, at most, twenty minutes . . .

"Earth to Clark."

He blinked. "Yeah?"

"You can show Lana to first hour English, right? It's your first class too."

He swallowed and then nodded. "Uh, yeah, no problem."

Lana glanced up at him again. "How is Labsforth?"

Clark shrugged. "He's alright, but he loves Shakespeare. Sometimes keeping up with his comparisons to Hamlet and the Capulets is harder than actually reading the stuff without a translator."

Lana perked up and grinned. "Shakespeare's my favorite."

Chloe grinned. "I think we have Labsforth's new teacher's pet on our hands."

Lana blushed as Clark held the door open for them; they continued to explain classes and teachers to Lana—Chloe doing most of the talking—before they reached a teal-green door with a small gold plaque on it that read THE TORCH. Chloe stopped and pulled out a key. As she opened the door, she bowed to Clark and Lana. "I take my leave." She pointed at Clark. "Fourth hour."

He nodded and turned to Lana. "Did you need to go to a locker or something?"

She nodded and held out her paper; Clark glanced down and quickly spotted the locker number. "309 . . . that's just around the corner. Come on."

He led her down the hallway, past giggling freshmen loitering in the halls and football players guffawing loudly. Clark noticed Whitney Fordman to his left, getting ready to shout something crude at Lana, but with a fierce glare, Fordman backed down.

They rounded the corner and located the right locker; when Lana looked at the lock, then at him, a confused look in her eyes, Clark sidestepped the minefield.

"It's your birthday."

She nodded and spun the dial quickly; he didn't watch but listened for the click of the gears working to unlock, hoping it worked. When three clicks sounded—with help of super hearing—and she pulled up on the little button, the door popped open to reveal the inside of the empty yellow locker.

She quickly and efficiently pulled books out of her bag and lined them up in her locker, leaving the English text out. When she'd closed the door, she turned to Clark.

"Ready."

He nodded and led her down the hallway, turning left up a stairway. They pushed past a group of girls wearing cheerleading outfits, a few of whom turned to study Lana with looks that even Clark could translate: they either screamed jealousy, or inexplicable loathing for the beautiful new girl. The only thing Clark didn't know was that half that jealousy and hatred was because Lana's personal tour guide was none other than Kent himself.

When Lana noticed the prickly glares, she cleared her throat and prodded Clark in the back lightly, urging him faster. When they reached the top of the stairs, Lana rolled her eyes.

"Another reason not to join the cheer squad."

Clark chuckled, but then stopped. Was it safe to assume that she'd forgotten about Saturday night? Or was she trying avoiding the subject just as deftly as he was? Lana noticed his contemplative state and took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry about the other night."

From her hesitant tone, Clark guessed the latter. He furrowed his eyebrows and shrugged with one shoulder. "Don't worry about it."

"No, I was really pretty sour about the whole thing."

He shook his head. "Not really; you were protecting your right to privacy. If there's anyone who understands that, it's me."

Lana gazed up at him as they walked. He was looking at the posters hanging from the walls, touting pep rallies, clubs and organizations, and Homecoming, which was apparently coming up next month. For some reason, she didn't question him. He had an air of knowing more than he should, of having to hide a secret. She wondered vaguely if he'd ever trust her enough to confide in her, if she couldn't confide in him?

He looked down and caught her gaze, and again, she was trapped. His eyes pulled her in, making it impossible to look away, or even dream of doing so. God, how was it possible one person could possess all the beauty and the quiet power he seemed to? And so effortlessly, as if he didn't even know it.

He blinked and she looked away. Shaking his head, he pointed at a door to their right, in front of which a group of students was standing, leaning against the walls and talking about plans; for weekend parties, for school-night parties, for parties right after school. Clark shook his head as they pushed passed the group and into the classroom. The curse of a small town was that all the teens turned into alcoholics, for lack of more interesting things to do. Good thing Clark never had that problem—he was too busy thwarting misguided meteor-infectees to bother. Besides, he was fairly sure the stuff wouldn't affect him, and there didn't seem to be a point in wasting his time or money.

Clark put his books down at his regular table and sat down on the stool, but with a quick glance realized that Lana was standing just inside the door, hesitant. When he furrowed his eyebrows at her, she shrugged. "Where should I…?"

Clark grinned and motioned to the seat right beside him; his table only had two people, and they were Pete and himself. Lana slipped gracefully onto the stool in front of him, pulling out the text and a notebook and pen. When she was done, she leaned on the table with an elbow, her chin resting on her fist as she looked down at the spiral binding of her purple notebook.

"So, I take it you don't like Shakespeare." When Clark gave her a confused look, she shrugged. "'Sometimes keeping up with his comparisons to Hamlet and the Capulets is harder than actually reading the stuff without a translator'?"

Clark nodded and grinned. "All those 'hath's' and 'doth's' and 'thee's' and thou's' get kind of confusing after four or five pages."

Lana giggled. "You just need to have a good grip on metaphors." When Clark grimaced, she smiled wider. "Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she."

Clark stared at her, befuddled. "That's . . . nice."

She giggled again. "It's Romeo; he was always quite the romantic, no?" When Clark's eyes glazed over in puzzlement, she rolled her eyes with a smile. "What does that mean to you? How do you understand it?"

Clark tried to remember what she'd quoted, but was finding that the way she'd quoted was sticking rather than the actual words. Sun killing the moon, who is jealous of a fair…

"I honestly don't know what to tell you."

"Because you're picturing the sun wielding an axe and murdering the moon, right?"

Clark nodded; Lana's nose crinkled in silent laughter.

"That's the curse of teenage boys; they're all too violent and literal. Romeo wasn't referring to the sun actually killing the moon; it was a metaphor. When Juliet appears on her balcony, she appears like the sun at dawn, her light overpowering the moon's merely reflected brilliance. Romeo can't help but be entranced."

Clark nodded. "And he couldn't just tell her she was beautiful?"

"Then it wouldn't be as romantic."

Clark furrowed his eyebrows to respond, but was interrupted my Mr. Labsforth, who called the class into submission just as the bell rang and Pete slipped into his seat beside Clark. He gave Clark an arrogant smile and turned to Labsforth, who was asking for their papers. Clark passed his forward and noticed a piece of paper slid towards him, with loopy handwriting on it.

How would you tell a girl she was beautiful? Just give her a pie?

Clark had to stifle a laugh as he pulled out a pen. No, fresh chocolate chip cookies. He pushed the paper back to her, watching as her nose crinkled again and she scribbled out a reply. This was much better than instant messaging or texting. She pushed the paper back towards him.

Pies are much better.

Is it really about pies? I thought it was about romanticism.

It is. But do pies compare to cookies? Flaky, fruity and sugary vs. floury, crumbly, and chocolaty?

Is 'chocolaty' a word?

Of course it is.

Well, then, I guess pies are better. But I still don't get it.

Lana frowned at him, as if trying to communicate the point through telepathy. When he raised his eyebrows and shrugged, she leaned over the paper. A half-minute later, she pushed it across the Formica towards him.

Romeo preferred pies, too. It wasn't enough to just say, "Juliet is so beautiful, nothing could compare;" it had much more effect to compare her to the moon, the epitome of beauty. He saw Juliet as his light; at the Capulet's ball, he mentioned that she taught the torch to burn bright. When he poisoned himself because Juliet was 'dead,' he said the light had been extinguished.

And that's romantic.

Isn't it?

Clark looked up at her; she was looking at the paper, her eyes studying all the words there. As if she could feel his gaze, she looked up at him, her eyes portraying her belief in her theory. Clark sighed.

I guess. So you're saying every girl would rather have a pie than a cookie.

Lana smiled. Absolutely.

Then I guess I'm not a very romantic person.

Don't worry; everyone has the capability, they just need the desire and the right person to bring it out.

Clark read this line four times before Labsforth's voice broke through his thoughts and broke his concentration on her loopy scrawl.

"Mr. Kent, maybe you can tell us."

He blinked. Crap! The one time he didn't care to pay attention, he was called on. He looked at Lana, who was watching him, amused. Pete was shaking with invisible giggles.

"Um. . . I'm s-sorry, Mr. Labsforth. . ."

"Pay attention next time, Mr. Kent. Can anyone tell us what point Hawthorne was trying to convey in The Scarlet Letter? What was the idea?"

Lana's hand rose timidly when no one else's did. Labsforth pointed at her, and she took a deep breath.

"Hawthorne's central idea was the analysis of hidden sin and exposed sin." She stopped there, but it was apparent that she knew much more.

Labsforth crossed his arms across his chest and sat on his desk. "Go on."

"Well . . . Hester's scarlet 'A' allowed her to move on with her life; she wasn't bound by this secret that she had sinned, that she'd committed adultery. She could live her life as freely as her punishment would allow; it even became a legend, of sorts, that the 'A' allowed her to possess the ability to help people." She paused, taking a deep breath. "However, because Dimmesdale kept his part of the secret hidden, it slowly ate away at him. He couldn't live, because he couldn't be free. The same predicament held true for Chillingworth. Their secrets eventually killed them, or turned them evil, in Chillingworth's case."

Labsforth stared at her proudly. "Miss Lang, is it?"

Lana nodded silently. Every student in the room was watching her, as if she'd grown horns.

"Welcome to Smallville, Miss Lang." He offered her a small smile before turning to the whiteboard and writing, in large black letters, PEARL: The effects of hidden and exposed sin on the product of the initial sin.

Clark put his pen back to the paper. He could risk not paying attention. How do you know all that?

Advanced placement program. Literature, English, and writing were my forte at Excelsior.

Clark shook his head. English nerd, he scribbled, and stuck his tongue out at her as he passed it across.

Flannel king.

He frowned at her. If you're going to be mean, I'm not replying.

You already have.

After her last statement, she'd scrawled a little smiley face of sorts; a capital 'X', followed by a capital 'P'. When he looked up at her, she clenched her eyes shut and stuck out her tongue, causing him to laugh out loud.

"Kent!"

He swiftly tucked the note into his pocket and waited for Labsforth to bear down on him. "May I ask what's so funny? I wasn't under the impression that the effect of her mother's secrecy and her unknown father on little Pearl was particularly hilarious."

Lana spoke up. "I'm sorry, Mr. Labsforth, it was my fault."

Labsforth's frosty gaze turned to his newest student, disappointment littering his expression. "Your fault, Miss Lang? How so?"

Clark glared at her, willing her to stop with his eyes, which were smoldering at her.

"I was explaining to him the scene where Pearl throws cockleburs at Dimmesdale. My description caused him to laugh."

Labsforth backed off a little, but still threw a dirty look at Clark, who sank down as low as his stool would allow, his cheeks blushing furiously.

When the bell rang, roughly half an hour later, Clark followed Lana out into the hall, who started laughing once they were free of the classroom. Clark glared at her as they walked.

"I'll have you know, that's the first time I've gotten yelled at in a class."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"Geesh, Clark. Loosen up a bit. Life's no fun if you don't get into a bit of trouble."

Pete had followed them and caught Clark by the back of his shirt, slowing him down. Lana continued to walk, and Pete hit Clark on the shoulder.

"Dude, what happened?"

Clark furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"I thought Alicia came back to town. What happened to her? Why are you and Lang so close?"

Clark rolled his eyes and began to walk again. "I don't know what you're talking about. She was explaining Shakespeare to me."

A loud and implicative "Oooooooh" from behind him caused him to stop abruptly, so that Pete ran into his elbow. Pete made a whooshing sound as the air got knocked out of his lungs.

"Nothing happened, okay? You're turning into Chloe."

Through his gasps for air, Pete managed to get out, "That's low, man."

Clark rolled his eyes and continued down the stairs. When they reached Lana's locker, she closed the door and turned around.

"What class do you have now?" he asked, while Pete tagged along like a lost puppy. Lana grimaced.

"Calculus."

Clark grinned. "You're waltzing into my territory, now."

Pete stared, wide-eyed, at his friend. "When people start talking math, I'm out."

He passed them and continued to the hallway with a wave. Lana watched him go before turning back to Clark.

"So you have Calculus, too?"

Clark nodded. "Follow me, English Nerd. You're about to see how the Math Master does work."

The math lab was full of long tables, much like the ones in the English room, and the ones in the science lab. In fact, a lot of classes had lab tables, only four or five having actual desks. Clark hadn't ever thought about it, but Lana pointed it out quickly.

"Did your school get a deal on lab tables or something?" Looking around at the gray-topped tables lined with stools, she added, "Buy five, get fifty free?"

"No, actually, there was a sale on gray Formica. Compared to the blue, they just couldn't sell it." Spiky blonde hair bopped past them to stand in front of Clark, smiling. "Pell wouldn't accept the, 'the Torch deadline is tomorrow and I'm swamped' excuse again, so I'm forced to join you all in the math lab today." She grimaced at Clark. "If you help me pass today, I'll let you off lunch duty."

Clark rolled his eyes. When Lana furrowed her eyebrows at them, Chloe explained.

"Clark writes the lunch menus for the school paper. Mainly because he lacks the talent required for writing anything decent enough to publish to the public."

Clark grinned at her acerbically. "Thanks, Chloe. I appreciate it."

She beamed a hundred-watt smile and turned to bebop towards the lab table Clark usually occupied. There were only four seats at this one, rather than six. Which meant there were fewer people asking if they could get his answers, since they'd been forbidden from walking around. Clark had to hand it to Mr. Pell; the man was observant, and the latest rule saved Clark from becoming the Homework Help Hotline.

Lana took the seat across from Chloe, toying with the supply baskets in the middle of the table; lined up in a neat row were little plastic baskets, each one holding a different mathematical device; one held rulers, another held compasses; there were graphing calculators in one (some parents had refused to spend up to a hundred bucks on a calculator, so the school had funded them for students without), and graph paper in another.

"Clark, I was wondering when I'd… see… you . . ."

Clark spun; behind him was a blonde ponytail and a blue sweater that highlighted blue eyes – still dull, but as if sleep had made them a little brighter. Only marginally, but enough that they didn't seem hollow, at least.

"Hi, Alicia."

But Alicia's eyes were trained on Lana, who hadn't noticed; she was digging around in her bag.

"Chloe, do you have a pencil I could borrow? I lost mine somewhere between English and note-passing with . . ."

Lana had looked up by now, and was caught in Alicia's gaze. With a deep breath and sticking her chin up slightly, as if re-asserting her independence to someone who was threatening to take it away, she grinned tightly. "Hello, Alicia."

Alicia's head cocked to the side; Clark was watching the exchange nervously, ready to interject if they pounced on each other, which, with the icy tension between them, felt imminent.

"Lana. I didn't know you were moving to Smallville." With a small smirk, she narrowed her eyes. "How quaint."

Lana smiled wider; it seemed she was trying to counter sass with sugar. "Small town air could do a soul good. I see you thought the same – good idea."

Alicia's eyes narrowed further still, so that Clark wondered if she could see anything. Laughing nervously and standing up, he offered Alicia his seat – allowing her to sit next to Lana seemed to be a bad idea. A very bad idea. "Uh, Alicia, it seems I don't, er, have to introduce you to Lana . . .?"

He looked at Chloe for help, but she was grinning wildly. Chloe liked no entertainment better than free entertainment, and a catfight would definitely qualify.

Hopefully Clark could avoid that.

Alicia slipped carefully onto Clark's abandoned seat and watched him carefully as he took the one next to Lana. Lana watched too, and when Clark was settled, she turned to him, assumedly doing her best to ignore the long blonde on the other side. "Have you got a pencil I could borrow, Clark?"

He nodded and pushed a red mechanical towards her. She grinned in thanks and opened her book, looking over the material. Alicia took her silence as an opportunity, and offered Clark a sickly sweet smile. One Clark didn't like.

"So, Mr. Kent," she said, her voice dripping with unfamiliar honey. This is certainly not the same Alicia Baker, Clark thought ruefully. "What do you say about picking up your old position as Calculus tutor?" She batted her eyelashes, and he heard Lana snort beside him—a small, unassuming sound he was sure neither Chloe nor Alicia had heard.

"Uh, I dunno, Alicia. Harvest is coming up…"

"Harvest isn't for another month, doof."

"I still have to get ready. The John Deere hasn't run in weeks and the International gave up completely, Dad said there's no chance of fixing it without a hefty wallet."

Alicia rolled her eyes. "Farmers."

Chloe turned to Alicia. "Someone's gotta do some work around here."

"Hey, Chloe."

"How was Metropolis?"

"It was alright, a little loud…"

The two girls sank into a discussion of Metropolis life; Chloe exclaiming her desire to live there and Alicia shooting down all Chloe's aspirations with the gritty truth.

"The subways are so manky."

"Aww, really?"

Clark zoned out from the girl talk and pulled out his and Lana's note from earlier. Pulling out a pen, he quickly scrawled: How do you and Alicia know each other?

Lana glanced at it, reading it before he'd finished writing. She shook her head, and Clark took it to mean she'd explain later.

Mr. Pell started class a few minutes later, and thankfully Clark was absorbed enough in the subject matter that his worries about Alicia and Lana and catfights and conflicting feelings were all a non-issue. He took careful notes, knowing most of the lesson already, but keeping up just in case.

Mr. Pell's voice dragged a bit, but Clark didn't notice through the numbers. In fact, most of the students complained about sleepiness and the inability to pay attention. It was easy to spot at lease three pairs of eyes floating off into some far away place that had nothing to do with Smallville High and Calculus class.

When Mr. Pell's lecturing stopped and they were given free time to work on homework, Lana looked up at Clark, a hopeless look in her eyes, before glancing down at his tedious notes.

"How do you do that?"

"He's a genius." Chloe was rereading her scattered notes carefully, trying to sort out the derivatives and logarithms.

Clark shook his head. "I'm not a genius."

"Yes, you are." Chloe grinned up at them both. Alicia, who had fallen asleep on her arms, blinked and straightened up. "You get straight A's in classes no one else can even begin to comprehend, you're all the teacher's favorite student—"

"Eh, not so much Labsforth anymore." When Chloe's eyes widened, Clark shrugged. "I guess he was offended when I laughed during his lecture on Pearl. Whatever Pearl is."

"Hester Prynne and Arthur Dimmesdale's illegitimate daughter."

Clark gave Lana a sardonic look before turning back to Chloe. "And you're making it seem worse than it is. I just pay attention."

"Sure helps to have a photographic and audio-graphic memory. I still wonder why you even take notes."

He raised his eyebrows at Chloe, who noticed a moment too late that she'd let something slip that Lana maybe shouldn't have known. Lana turned to him.

"Photographic memory, huh."

"Uh, yeah."

"Impressive."

He shook his head again and bent over his homework. He began writing out numbers and equations, his hand and mind going so fast that Lana and Chloe couldn't keep up. Chloe frowned.

"What's that say?" she asked, pointing at a scribbled line upside down and pursing her lips.

"A function f is differentiable at x = a if and only if f has both a right-hand derivative and a left-hand derivative at x = a and both of these derivatives are equal."

Chloe furrowed her eyebrows. "And that means something?"

"It's a corollary."

"Ooooh-kay."

Chloe's pencil dropped to the table and she closed her notebook; Mr. Pell gave her a short glance but didn't bother to reprimand her.

Lana was tapping her borrowed pencil on the edge of the desk, frowning at her notes. Alicia kept glancing at her across the table, annoyance apparent in her eyes. Lana didn't seem to notice; that, or she had noticed, and didn't care. Either way, Clark knew the situation was going way downhill when Alicia's head snapped up to glare at Lana.

"Do you mind?"

Lana paused mid-tap and laid her pencil down carefully. Her voice was quiet, but gave Clark chills.

"I'm sorry, your majesty. May I get you anything else? Tylenol for your hangover, maybe?"

Alicia's tone jumped an octave in bitterness. "I'm not hung over."

Lana grinned. "That's a first. You've joined an AA group, then?"

Chloe, sensing a display of claws, took evasive action. She captured Alicia's attention—which proved rather difficult, considering her blue gaze was locked fiercely on Lana's hazel one—and began asking her more questions about Metropolis.

"Where'd you go to school? I heard MHS has a nice facility."

Alicia's expression still read loathing. "I went to Excelsior."

Chloe's eyebrows widened, and he mouth opened in a small "o" of surprise. "Excelsior? But they're really esteemed . . . only take on the best."

Alicia shot her a withering gaze and closed her books, packing them into her bag quickly. She hopped from her stool and approached Mr. Pell; Clark, Chloe, and Lana all watched her carefully.

"I'm not feeling well. May I go to the office?"

Pell granted her request and Alicia pushed out the door, not glancing backward at any of them. When the door had swung shut again, Chloe turned to Clark and Lana, grinning.

"Did I say something?"

Clark didn't answer; he had turned to Lana, who was raised her eyebrows at him.

"Excelsior?"

"Yeah. Alicia Baker never was the type I could really get along with well."

Chloe stopped them. "That's an understatement. What I want to know is what caused her the desire to send you telepathic death wishes."

Lana shrugged. "She never had the ability to tell herself to butt out of other's business. And it didn't help that she came to school drunk a lot of times."

Clark choked. "Drunk? Alicia?"

Lana nodded. "She always smelled like Schnapps. Eventually she started disappearing from classes and lunch hour. When she got kicked out—"

When Chloe and Clark both made sounds of disbelief, Lana stopped. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you."

Chloe glared at her. "No, no, go on! You're getting to the good part! Goody-goody Alicia got kicked out?"

Lana clamped her hand over her mouth and shook her head. Clark's thoughts spun.

So Alicia had become an alcoholic and had been expelled from Excelsior. He was disappointed in her, but most of all he felt sorry for her. Clark knew Alicia's father was distant; he was far from unloving, but he seemed to think money equaled happiness, and therefore Alicia had no real reason to be unhappy. He blamed her father more than Alicia herself, for not being there when his daughter needed him. Perhaps the situation could have been avoided…

Chloe had urged Lana to continue. "She was rumored to have bought her way into school. God knows she didn't have the grades to keep up. She was failing five of eight classes before they expelled her."

Clark cleared his throat. "Maybe Lana was right, this doesn't seem right."

Chloe frowned at him and showed all signs of arguing, but he held her off with a hand. "Just drop it, Chloe."

Chloe's face fell and she snapped her book shut loudly. "Fine. But if Lana can't tell me now I'll drag it out of her later."

Lana giggled embarrassedly, but soon fell quiet. She felt horrible; Alicia was apparently a friend of Clark's, and though Lana couldn't personally stand her, a friend of Clark's couldn't be all bad.

Tell that to the girls she ruined at Excelsior. Boyfriends, best friends, booze. Any and all things left in her wake were or should be declared a disaster zone.

Hurricane Alicia. Ha. It suits her.

She told her subconscious—the part that hated Alicia with all her being—to shut up and behave. She wasn't sure how she could hate someone so much—they'd only known each other a few short months.

But then again, a few moments could change everything. Why not months?

The bell broke them all out of their individual reminisces and they packed up quickly, making it out of the door close to the front of the herd of students pushing and pulling, avoiding the worst of the mosh pit.

As they walked through the hall, they were all rather unusually quiet. Chloe walked between Lana and Clark, both of whom looked very distant; Clark's eyes were unfocused and trained on the floor just a half-foot beyond where his feet landed with each step; Lana, clutching her books tightly and glaring at some spot straight ahead of her. Finally, Chloe cracked.

"Someone speak, so I don't think I've completely lost my mind."

Clark blinked and looked down at her; she was twirling a pencil expertly between her fingers like a miniature baton, a nervous habit of hers. "Calm down, Chlo. That'll be the fifth pencil you've broken in a month."

She glared up at him and tucked the pencil behind her ear.

When they reached the cafeteria five minutes later, Clark glanced around quickly; it was full of loud, boisterous students; some were pushing one another out of line, others were arguing and negotiating over the last apple. But there was no sign of Alicia, and Clark wondered where she'd gone. Was she still in the office? Had she gone home, sick? Or was what Lana said true, and she'd snuck off somewhere…?

Clark refused to believe the worst in people. Assuming one of the first two options was correct and pushing all thoughts about it out of his mind, he joined the line with Chloe and Lana, listening dejectedly as they reassumed their discussion over classes and teachers from early that morning.

When they'd each received their trays—Lana had opted for only a salad, as the tuna casserole looked rather mysterious and she wasn't in the mood for food poisoning—they found Pete at a table, already finishing his tuna and digging into a thick piece of chocolate cake.

Chloe stared at him in disgust.

"Wha'?" he said, his mouth open, chocolate icing clinging to his lip.

"Pig," she said, enunciating very clearly. Pete rolled his eyes and washed his cake down with milk.

"So," he said, grinning up at Lana and Clark. "How was Calculus? Did Clark show off his super math abilities?"

Clark smirked at him before placing his tray on the table and sliding into the seat. Chloe had claimed the one next to Pete, so Lana was sitting next to Clark.

Then a couple of loud jocks sat on Clark's left, forcing him to scoot over to avoid squishing any of them. Which put Clark and Lana close. Almost uncomfortably close.

Clark's arms were pinned at his side awkwardly, making it difficult for him to raise his fork to his mouth. Lana, trying to avoid falling off the end of the bench and onto the floor, pushed herself back farther onto the seat, causing her arm to brush across Clark's. And they both jumped.

Because when Lana's soft, bronze skin made contact with Clark's, they'd both felt it. The jolt of electricity. The initial shock, much like touching a TV screen after dragging one's socks across the carpet. Not unpleasant, just strange. And it had run up the length of their arms, straight to each of their chests. They both turned to look at each other at the same moment, eyes wide in surprise.

"I'm sorry," they both said, small smiles claiming each set of lips. Clark shook his head slightly, never breaking eye contact.

To be truthful, it was the first time Clark had ever felt a jolt of any kind of electricity. Usually it was just redirected to whatever was closest to him, traveling through his body but never affecting him. The lightning strike in his freshman year had been painful, but not from the electricity; kryptonite had been the culprit there, a piercing, stabbing, horrible pain that he felt whenever the stuff was around. There was no mistaking that. And he could think of no other feeling like the one he'd just received from the feel of Lana's skin.

It was . . . exhilarating.

He watched Lana carefully, his expression somewhat amused. Lana's brow creased in confusion, and she giggled uncertainly.

"Are you alright, Clark?"

He was aware that Pete and Chloe were still sitting across from them, watching him worriedly. Damn. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah. I'm fine." With a small confused look, he said, "That was weird."

Weird wasn't the word for it. Through all the things he'd experienced—meteor freaks, three headed cows, body snatchers—nothing compared to the feeling he'd just received from the mere hint of Lana's skin on his. It taunted him; he wasn't used the experience, but so thoroughly wanted to become accustomed to it. He wanted to feel her skin, feel that shock of electricity—of pure, unadulterated chemistry in its purest, rawest form—as he studied those hazel eyes and the secrets they held. Because he could get lost in those orbs. He feared that one day he would become lost in her gaze, and wouldn't realize it.

She nodded slowly, her eyes still trained on him. "Yeah."

Chloe cleared her throat, and Lana blinked. "Well, as interesting as this is, the Torch is calling me," she said dramatically, standing up and taking her tray with her. Before she left, she nudged Pete with the toe of her shoe and he stood up too.

"Yeah, Torch stuff," he said, looking at Clark, bewildered. "See you next hour?"

Clark nodded, then looked down at his tray, his cheeks growing warm.

Alone. His friends had left him alone. Well, there were a bunch of rowdy jocks to his left. And a beautiful, unbidden, unavailable girl on his right.

He'd need all the strength in the entire known universe to survive to fourth hour free period.

-- -- --

Clark all but collapsed into his favorite spinny chair, his head hitting the headrest and his eyes sliding closed. A long, loud sigh of relief slid past his lips—white, from being bitten—and his arms fell to his sides. Relaxation.

Thank god.

"Whoa."

His eyes snapped open to Pete standing over him, waving a hand back and forth across his vision. "You 'kay?"

Clark shrugged and fell back to his relaxed position. "Dunno."

The door banged open again and Chloe staked through, her hands full of folders containing notes, pictures, articles, copies, bios, Post It notes, and anything else she'd gotten her hands on over the past week. Under her arm was tucked a yellow folder, along with a few stray copies of last week's Torch.

Once she spotted Clark, however, she dropped everything on the nearest desk, sending up a small flurry of peppermint wrappers, Post It's, and corners of papers with numbers and names written on them. Chloe ignored the messy blizzard and watched Clark.

"What happened?"

Clark sat up and buried his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His reply was mumbled beyond recognition.

"Okay, Clark?" Chloe said, perching herself on the edge of the desk and crossing her arms. Clark looked up at her. She pointed between herself and Pete. "We don't have superhearing."

He exhaled through his nose and shook his head. "Nothing happened."

Pete furrowed his eyebrows. "But—"

"No, honestly, nothing happened." He looked up at them both imploringly. "We barely talked. She didn't eat anything. We barely looked at each other." When Pete raised his eyebrows at him, he reiterated, "Nothing."

The fact was, Clark had spent most of the lunch hour chewing on his lips, willing something semi-decent to come to his tongue, but nothing did. Just stupid comments like, "that salad looks good," or "this tuna tastes like sand." And he'd have smacked himself for saying that, let alone would Chloe.

Chloe, who was grinning at him like a fool.

"What?" he said, aggravated. He didn't find it funny. He'd found it rather maddening, having a lovely girl beside him that he couldn't talk to and that wouldn't talk to him. Perhaps the greatest torture he'd ever endured.

Her lips curled even more, her green eyes glittering. "You have to know."

He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and shook his head. "Know what, Chloe?"

She giggled. "You're so clueless sometimes, Clark."

Pete nodded.

Clark shook his head. "Okay, just spill what you know."

"Not just what I know. What everybody who's been paying attention knows." She pulled a square piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it, waving it in front of him. He recognized the two types of handwriting and caught a glimpse of the words.

Words he and Lana had written earlier that morning in English.

He was quicker than she; he reached out and snatched the paper away, leaving in intact. He folded it and glared at her. "Where did you get this? It was in my pocket." Last he'd checked, Chloe couldn't pick pockets.

She shrugged, unabashed. "It was on the ground at lunch. I picked up out of pure curiosity, but when I realized what it was, I figured you wouldn't want anyone else getting their hands on it." By the way his cheeks turned pink, she assumed she was correct.

"Yeah, Well," he said, tucking it in his front pocket of his jeans. "Thanks, I guess. Although I don't appreciate you reading our private conversation."

Chloe grinned and shook her head. "What a conversation it was. I doubt you saw it, but that thing was riddled with double meanings."

Clark shook his head. "No. You may have read deeper into it, but we were merely discussing Shakespeare."

"Just so happens that Shakespeare is one of the most romantic writers, huh?"

"Drop it, Chloe."

She held up her hands. "Fine. But there will come a time when I can safely say 'I told you so,' and you will not refrain me from doing so." She raised her eyebrows at him before sliding off the desk and tossing him the yellow folder. "There. Look through that again."

He flipped it open and was confronted with a picture of a bald man in a dark suit; he was smiling for the camera, purely a public relations shot. He was no older than twenty-five, but his posture and his dress told Clark he was and had been in the business world for a long time. Clark looked up at Chloe, waving the picture. "Who's this?"

"Lex Luthor," she said, unwrapping a peppermint—her number one concentration treat in the office. "Twenty-two, single, and inheritor of the Luthor fortune." At the look on Clark's face that told him he had a semi-formed connection, she sighed and popped the mint in her mouth before giving him a 'go-ahead' gesture with her hand. "First thing that came to mind."

Clark furrowed his eyebrows even further. "Luthor sounds familiar."

"That's because he's the very Luthor of LuthorCorp. Actually, he's working on a subsidiary called LexCorp. They started out with fertilizer but under Lex's reign had reached out to public works—building housing shelters, donating money to disaster funds—and creating military programs and weapons. The ultimate monopolizing power in the corporate world."

Clark continued to flip through the folder. Beneath the picture was a short article about a LuthorCorp project being abandoned due to a 'tragic malfunction.' Beneath that was an obituary.

Lionel Luthor, CEO and founder of LuthorCorp based in Metropolis, was killed early Saturday morning, May 17th, at 6:38 am when the small, private-owned jet Luthor was traveling in mysteriously crashed near the Panama Canal zone. The reason for the accident is unknown, and efforts to salvage the wreckage have been halted as no survivors are believed to remain. Small pieces of the wreckage have turned up on shore, but nothing conducive to the investigation. Luthor was 59 and is survived by son, Alexander.

Clark flipped the obituary over, looking for a year, but didn't find one; on the opposite side was a Classified ad calling for a trained massage therapist. He waved it at Chloe.

"When was this?"

"Last spring," she said, not looking up from her organizing task; she was transferring articles from folders into other ones, filing documents in the file cabinets painted with a huge, colorful crow carrying a lighted torch. Clark looked back down at the article for a moment, before continuing through the folder.

There were articles upon articles, all clipped from the Daily Planet, informing readers about new projects, old projects, abandoned projects, and successful projects (although, Clark could already see, there were more of the former than the latter). There were articles about the Luthors at charity events, and more recent articles about Lex donating millions to charity, scholarship funds, the building of schools in third-world countries, and an unimaginable amount invested in the military.

Then there were pictures, explanations of Greek mythology; pictures of Prometheus, Athena, Zeus, and others he didn't recognize. Beneath the picture of Aphrodite was a biography of sorts of Epimetheus, reading:

Epimetheus was a stupid Titan, whose name means "afterthought". In some accounts he is delegated, along with his brother Prometheus by Zeus, to create mankind by assigning traits and genes. He also accepted the gift of Pandora from Zeus, which lead to the introduction of evil into the world.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Clark laid down the folder and logged onto the computer in front of him. Pete came up from behind, watching as Clark pulled up a search engine and typed in Epimetheus. Clicking on the first link, he waited for he page to load.

When it finally did, Pete frowned at the Wikipedia page devoted to Epimetheus. "Dude, don't trust that site."

Clark frowned up at him. "Why?"

Pete simply shook his head. Chloe answered for him.

"Because he tried to 'paraphrase' from it for a history assignment and got busted. Apparently the war of 1812 didn't start in 1816."

Clark sniggered at Pete before returning his attention to the web page. "I'll take my chances with Epimetheus."

Chloe looked up from her filing. "Epimetheus? If you're looking up the project, you won't find it online." She closed the file drawer. "It's confidential."

Clark raised his eyebrows at her. "And you found out about it, how, exactly?"

She shrugged and mumbled something about 'stumbling on it' before raising her tone. "Read it aloud."

He cleared his throat, his eyes skimming the passage. "Epimetheus was the brother of Prometheus, a pair of titans who 'acted as representatives of mankind.' They were the inseparable sons of Iapetus . . . While Prometheus is characterized as ingenious and clever, Epimetheus is depicted as foolish."

Chloe nodded and came to stand behind Clark. "Yeah, yeah, I could have told you as much." She leaned over him slightly, reading the article herself. "It says that according to Plato, the twins were in charge of giving traits to newly-created animals; Epimetheus gave a positive trait to every animal, as was his responsibility, but because he lacked foresight, when it came time to give man a positive trait, there wasn't anything left." She furrowed brow at the screen. "It also says that Prometheus stole fire from Zeus and gave it to man, which he apparently created, and as punishment, was tied to the top of a mountain and visited by an eagle, who ate his liver everyday." She shuddered. "Ew."

Pete then spoke up. "But if he was a titan, shouldn't he have been immortal?"

Clark nodded. "His liver grew back everyday, and the eagle came back everyday as well. It says he was in constant pain."

Pete grimaced. "Hell of a way to go." He shrugged. "Or, you know, not go..."

Chloe ignored him and skimmed over the rest of the article quickly. "Apparently liver-eating wasn't enough for Zeus, and he punished Epimetheus by sending him Pandora. Prometheus, being gifted with foresight, had warned Epimetheus not to accept any gift from the gods." She looked up at them. "Because he accepted, and because Herod had created Pandora and given her the gift of curiosity, she opened the 'box' we all know from common folklore." She raised her eyebrows and her green eyes glimmered. "The box, which more correctly termed as a jar, held all the evil and misfortunes known to mankind."

"Well, curiosity did kill the cat."

Clark was still reading. "It says that Pandora closed the jar before hope could be destroyed, which is why mankind always holds hope in times of disaster." He looked up at Chloe. "So what does this have to do with LuthorCorp?"

Chloe leaned against the desk, staring into the corner. "I'm not sure. I just stumbled across the name of the project—Epimetheus. I'm assuming Lex has a thing for mythology, because he's named most of his projects after it—Ares, Veritas."

"What are those about?"

"Well," Chloe said, comandeering Clark's keyboard and typing in the searchbox, "Ares is the Greek god of warfare. Or bloodlust, slaughter personified. Not a nice guy. I couldn't find any solid information about Lex's project, but I'd say it wasn't exactly well-intentioned."

"And Veritas?" Pete asked.

Chloe frowned. "That one's more difficult. I found even less information about it than the others. "The only thing I found out was that Veritas, in Roman mythology, was the goddess of truth."

"Well, it doesn't sound evil."

Chloe turned to look at Pete. "Well, think about it this way. What would happen if you were forced to tell every truth you've ever known, spilled every secret that you've tried to keep? If you betrayed all your friends, your parents, yourself?"

"Oh," Pete said simply.

They both looked down at Clark, who was watching the screen carefully. Feeling their eyes, he looked up. "What? You already know my feelings on the subject."

There was a silent agreement between them all: Veritas could not be harmless, whatever it was.

Chloe broke the silence. "But I don't have any solid evidence on any of them yet, so all this searching is helpful, but we don't know what to trust."

The door banged open then, and a frazzled Alicia slipped through the door before it slammed shut again. Chloe straightened up, hands on hip, her expression interrogative from the start. Clark, sensing the barrage of questions Chloe guaranteed, stepped between them, looking at Alicia, his eyes betraying his worry and disappointment. Clark didn't have to say anything.

She tried to act cool.

"Hey, guys," she said casually. She leaned against the door lighty. "Need some air, y'know?"

Clark and Chloe continued to stare at her. Pete, oblivious, remained in the background.

"That little snitch told you everything."

Clark frowned at her. "Lana only told us what you should have in the first place." He took a step closer lowered his voice, but kept his arms crossed. "Friends are there for you, Lish. They're supposed to be. You need to let them help you."

She'd grimaced at her old nickname. "Don't call me that."

Clark shrugged. "Fine. But if you need help, we're here." He turned around to look at Chloe, who nodded resolutely, and Pete, who didn't move but was agreeable to whatever it was Clark was implying.

Alicia grimaced again and pinched the bridge of her nose. One session of rehab and when you get back to it, it stings like a mother.

And the mood swings were ten times worse.

Clark had reached out for her when she'd shown the small sign of pain. He was closer now, his hand on her elbow. "Alicia? Are you alright?"

"Clark, I appreciate the whole 'good boy' charade and everything, I really do. But I need you," she said, putting one hand on his chest, and placing the other a little lower on his stomach, "to back off."

She shoved him backwards, and he willingly moved back a foot. With a disgusted look around the Torch, she went back into the hallway, allowing the door to slam behind her. Pete let out a long sigh.

"What's up with her?" He looked between Clark and Chloe, who both stared at each other, worried.

If they were both right, if they'd both read the signs correctly, then there was only one thing to assume:

Alicia had a lot more than just an alcohol problem.