To Study (Insects)
Chapter 1: Different
The best thing about living in Kansas, was that nothing ever happened.
There was a mile wide sprawl of corn that was breathtaking to few; it had started out as nothing much but rows upon rows of dirt that now bore sprawls of golden richness that could truly blind any tourist with its beauty. Most of it was picked and sold—Kansas was full of rural farmers and farmers markets, but some just stayed for show.
And the Farmers Market typically consisted of stay-at-home mothers trying to sell their overpriced sugary sweet lemon bars to any sucker who would pay seven dollars for four measly pieces.
Most of the teens at the local high school got rides home from their parents, but Connie Mayfield knew that you couldn't pay her Father, Walter, to pick his daughter up from school. If he did, then he'd no doubt miss a rerun of Baywatch, and that simply couldn't happen.
A tune that rivaled the airiness of a flute flew from the 14 year olds mouth on her long walk home. Connie Mayfield whistled a nonchalant melody as her uneven pace took her closer to home. The young girl had a lot on her mind; there was a test on Friday that was covering another form of division that looked to confusing to follow, and Alice's birthday party was on Saturday and getting a gift for the little girl who had everything was harder than it seemed.
The years of gifts consisting of dolls and bright hair brushes were long over. Maybe she'd like a new bracelet or a set of earrings.
An irregular rock bumped against the tip of her shoe and she grinned, lobbing it off into the cornfield, a little thud echoing through the golden maze.
It was tempting—the idea of taking the not so short shortcut through the tall stalks, if just to feel a little more free for just a moment, but the sounds of distress just up ahead had her little sneakers speeding up. She turned to the bend and grew furious at the sight of three boys throwing around her friend.
"Hey!" she bellowed, running closer before screeching to a halt in front of the teen holding up her friend by the lip of his shirt, "Leave him alone!"
Isaiah Matthews grinned with his fist still clutching the younger boy's shirt, "Oooo, is this your girlfriend, Kent?"
Clark Kent sneered up at the taller boy, fists clenching in rage.
"Leave her alone," he grit out, watching Isaiah sneer with confidence.
"I didn't take you for a pussy, Kent, but I guess I was wrong." He dropped Clark with a grin and sauntered to the near growling girl.
"Connie, right? My dad says you Mayfield's are trailer trash, and I can see where he gets that from."
His eyes gave her a visible up-and-down, "No wonder only a freak would like you."
The words had barely left his mouth before Clark launched himself onto the back of the bully, pummeling him to the ground with hateful eyes. The two other lackeys ran, but Connie went and pulled Clark back before he did something he'd regret. The two of them fell away from the older boy, watching him with guarded eyes.
Isaiah spat at ground near their feet, "Fucking freaks."
Connie waited until he was out of sight, turning to Clark and frowning at his disheveled appearance. "You know, I'm not always gonna be here to save you, Clark."
He wiped away the sheen of dirt and sweat covering his upper lip, refusing to meet her eyes. "I didn't need your help. I could've handled it."
"Oh yeah, you totally had it under control," she mocked with pursed lips.
He frowned at her sarcasm and picked up his dirtied school bag, looking down the path home. It was a quick walk to the farm, and mom had probably already started dinner, which is why it made no sense when he turned and muttered, "Can I walk you home?"
Her eyes went wide at his question, upper teeth nibbling on her pink lip, shrugging, "Sure, if you want."
They both nodded and started a slow walk to the Mayfield's. Connie's fingers twitched at her side while different conversation starters nearly passed through her lips every few seconds. The urge to ask why he never fought back, why he let people call him a freak raced through her mind, but only silence hung between them. It was almost annoying that he never stood up for himself.
There was something mysterious about Clark that intrigued her 14-year-old brain; no one had ever let him live down that time he'd locked himself in a closet (and torched the doorknob till it was bright red).
He was just the guy who kept to himself most of the time.
And still she kept on eye on him the entire time, watching his own twitching fingers pick at the loose lining of his jeans, lip biting in a matter similar to her own, brows furrowing in thought, though they always did that. He looked cute when he was deep in thought.
Cute? I think Clark is… cute?
A deep redness flooded her cheeks and her lips pursed into a thin line, trying not to visibly speed away from the other boy, but Clark noticed everything. There was something keen about the way his mind worked; almost predatorial.
"Are you okay?" he asked, the cute furrow in his brow deep as she faced him while willing away the redness of her juvenile cheeks.
She nodded but didn't meet his blue eyes. They were like oceans—I'd swim in Clark's eyes if he'd ask—and her stomach always fluttered when he looked at her.
She expected them to fall back into silence, now halfway to the Mayfield farm, but Clark piped up, "Are you excited for the field trip tomorrow?"
A flutter of excitement rang through her veins, but she held back and simply nodded. "It'll be a nice change from sitting inside all day." Clark nodded along with her running words, "I heard the museum has a section on insects and their habitats, and I hope they have a butterfly display. Or—or maybe a real entomologist will be there."
Now bugs, those were cool. Anything from crickets to butterflies to beetles, each one more interesting than the last…except arachnids. You could keep those eight-legged freaks as far away as humanly possibly.
Clark slowed their pace but kept his distance, "Is that what you wanna be when you grow up?"
She grinned and tried to slow the internal monologue of bug talk.
"I think when I grow up, I'll leave this place behind and follow my dreams." She said.
"And I guess those dreams do include insects of all types. They really do get a bad reputation sometimes. I think they're just as delicate and interesting as humans."
"Really?" Clark wrinkled in his nose, "My dad sprays the fields for bugs in the summer." She hit his shoulder as he let out a snort, "I think I've squashed a few flies for mom too."
She shook her head and couldn't see Clark staring at her golden locks as they shined in the sun. "You're the worst, Kent."
The both chuckled and came to a halt in front of the Mayfield farm. It was more run down than the other houses in the area and the roof could've been mistaken for caving in, and she knew it looked worse on the inside. The moldy green color of the roof had seen better days, and the porch could barely hold the old rocking chair that her dad liked to sit on in the mornings. Clark would never know how the inside looked even worse.
"Do you know what you wanna be when you grow up?" She asked with a soft smile, taking no offense as Clark tried, once again, not to meet her eyes. The swoop of his brown hair was nearing the tops of his eyes, but she knew he wasn't inclined to cut it. He didn't buzz his hair like the other boys.
"I…" He paused, foot kicking the uneven dirt under his shoes. He bit his lip lower lip and finally, after what seemed like an eternity, met her honey eyes.
"Yes?"
He took a deep breath and lightly shrugged, "Sometimes, I feel like I don't know who I am. I think I wanna figure that out first, ya know?"
No, she didn't know but asking Clark to explain how he felt could feel like pulling teeth. Golden honey stared into the aquamarine sea, two sets of young lips wet and wanting, and Connie picked at her pants, nails bending with surprising force.
The door to the Mayfield hold slammed with a grotesque force, and the two teens jumped away from one another as Walter Mayfield grunted his way to them, to Clark.
"'Thought I told you to stay away from my daughter, Kent!" Walter bellowed, nearing the fourteen-year-old clear-eyed boy who showed no sign of backing down with his head held high and chest jutted out. "I don't want you lookin' at her, touchin' her—"
Connie finally yelled, "Dad!" and stood between him and Clark, protecting her friend from the unjustified anger of her dad.
She felt Clark's fingers grip the back of her shirt and tug her closer, just as Walter stood over them with beady eyes and steam shooting from his ears.
"Get in the house, Connie." Her dad growled, never looking away from Clark.
But she shook her head and pushed against her dad's chest, ignoring Clark's fingers still gripping the back of her shirt. "We weren't doing anything, go back inside, please."
A startled yelp left her throat as her dad's strong fist lurched her forward by the front of her shirt, throwing her to the ground and out of Clark's grip. The air left her lungs and the dirt felt dry under her fingertips, watching as Clark seemed to vibrate in place, glaring deadly at Walter.
"If I ever see you 'round here again, Kent," He spat, "I'll make you wish you were never born. Are we clear?"
The threat hung between the adult and young teen,, and Clark tightly nodded and stalked off down the dirt path, not once looking back at Connie, never seeing the tears in her eyes.
Walter stared down at his daughter with a sneer, "Get inside. I won't say it again."
The dried dirt caked under her nails as she scrambled to stand and bolt inside, not taking note of the woman asleep on the couch that she'd never seen before, or the beer bottles covering the kitchen counters. The stairs creaked as she fled upstairs and shut her bedroom door, clicking the latch in place. A heaviness sat in her chest as her backpack thumped to the floor.
Beaded tears fell down her thick cheeks and light cries sounded through the room.
"—I want that boy away from my son!" the mother of Peter Ross screeched from the Principal's office. "Am I the only one who understands the situation? That boy lifted a bus from a lake. A bus! What kind of monster are we allowing to walk with our children?"
The meek father of Alice pepped up, "But—But he did save them, right?"
"It doesn't matter, Martin. I don't feel safe with him here, and neither should any of you."
Martha Kent hung her head and left the Principal's office, ignoring the calls from the desperate parents. There was nothing else she needed to hear from them, especially insults about her son. The door shut with a click, and her heels clipped the floor with each step.
She did her best to smile at Clark, but he'd always seen right through that. He sat up straight and looked her in the eyes, his soft voice rivaling his posture, "How did it go?"
She knew Clark had heard every word already and that lying would only make him defensive. "About as well as you'd expect, honey." She patted his shoulder and ushered him to stand, "C'mon, let's go home."
The car ride was silent aside from the tapping of Clark's blunt nails on the fabric of his jeans, and the shaking of his leg. He was such a nervous boy—her Clark—and it pained her heart to see him to try to hide how this whole thing was tearing him up inside. They normally played the radio, Clark usually flipped stations and rarely settled on just one, but silence was all they heard.
Jonathon Kent watched his wife pull up, and frowned as Clark bolted from the passenger seat and fled into the backyard. He stepped outside just as Martha shut off the car and gingerly stepped out, walking into her husband's arms with a deep sigh. Exhaustion ran deep in her veins, and Jonathon wished he could take it away.
"That bad, huh?" He muttered into her brown locks, feeling her nod into his chest.
"Talk to him." She begged, trying to keep the tears at bay, "I think…I think it's time he…" They both turned to face the barn with heavy hearts, knowing this would be for the best.
Jonathon nodded and released Martha, shooting a thin-lipped smile her way as he made his way to the backyard. His heart thumped as he eyed his son, whose legs were hanging off the back of his pickup, shoulders hunched in his blue hoodie. As he got closer, he could hear the sniffles from his son.
"Clark." His son turned and wiped away the wetness on his cheeks. "I just wanna know what happened. I'm not mad, I promise."
Jonathon sat next to his son and watched his boys lip quiver. His words came out with a thin veil of pain, "I wasn't thinking, Dad." A hiccup escaped his throat. "She was so scared… I just couldn't let her die."
The water was rising too fast—it was cold and soaked the kids instantly— and Clark watched as Connie grew frantic in her efforts to open the window enough to crawl out, or maybe she was trying her best to keep the water from flooding the already half submerged bus. Cries and screams rang through the drowning bus, and Clark swam, trying his best to make it to Connie.
"Connie!" He yelled, reaching forward to snag her shirt and pull her away from the stream of flowing water.
"Oh god, Clark! We're gonna die!" Her screams were shrill and almost hurt his ears, but the smell of her fear mixed with the smell of tears and piss coming off the other students had him looking for a way out.
But the water was nearing the top of the bus, and all he could hear was her cries.
"Son, I thought we talked about this." He started, patting his own thigh, "We have to keep what you can do a secret."
"They were all going to drown, how could I have done nothing? They didn't deserve to die."
"Clark, I just—" Jonathon paused, watching the sunshine across the cornfield that spanned miles upon miles. It was an array of reds that shined upon the old graying barn. "I just want to protect you, son. And sometimes, when people see something they don't understand, they get scared and lash out. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to you."
And finally, Clark asked the question that Jonathon had known would always come.
"Why am I like this, dad? Why am I so different from everyone else?"
Memories of finding their son, raising him to be the young man who sat at his side—through all the times he'd been different than the other kids, and knowing all of the hardships that were yet to come. It was almost enough to make him cry.
Jonathon stood up from the truck and stood in front of his son, placing both hands on his small shoulders. "I'm going to show you something, son, and it may make things make a bit more sense. But no matter what—" He pressed his palm to his sons chest and smiled,
"You are my son."