Thanks for all the reviews! Hope this doesn't turn out to be a
disappointment. I wasn't planning on continuing the story, but due to
requests, I decided what the hell.
And since I forgot the last time:
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, all the freaky incidents mentioned are from past episodes of Smallville, etc.
* * * * * *
CHLOE
Once again it's a busy night at The Beanery, ladies and gentlemen.
On a Friday night at 9:30 p.m. where other kids in other parts of this country would be shooting up right now and dancing in Ecstasy frenzied madness on the dance floor, you will find most of the teenage population of Smallville in this little coffee shop. Reason being? Elementary my dear Watson: there's nothing else to do in Smallville.
I'm even surprised that they manage to do at least that.
Smallville, despite the meteorites scattered every ten feet away from each other, is the safest place in town. In your dreams, anyway. Due to my observant nature (and recent findings, attempted murders, mutilation of jock in boiler room, my last dating expedition, etc.) I have come to realize that Smallville is, contrary to everyone's blind eye, not as safe as it seems. If I walked outside right now, I would not be surprised if I see a man/thing with his head under one arm and a leg missing limping towards me and attempt to bite/suck/rip off my head and leg in a quest to replace his own.
But then, I wouldn't worry because Clark would save me.
If he's not too wrapped up in Lana Lang.
Anyway, I digress. Weird things happen in Smallville. Didn't your friend recently freeze himself in the lake? Wasn't there a murderer on the streets killing people with a piano string? Didn't that once-fat chick try to suck the fat out of your body? Didn't your football coach spontaneously burst into flames in the showers? Yeah, explain that away, my good friends. The Denial Defense will not stay up long.
If it wasn't in my nature to be nosy and I didn't have a farm boy around to miraculously save me when I need him to, I would be cowering in a corner of my room right now, with bills of future years of therapy on my father's desk.
Anyway, back to The Beanery.
This is a typical Friday night at The Beanery. You walk in and of course, the first thing you see are the jocks. Very understandable, due to the fact that they're highest on the social ladder (what with being unbeatable and all) and they're all using the same bright yellow and red football jackets. Believe me, there is no better way to tell us mortal folks that they are football heroes than wearing those jackets.
Off to the side, and sometimes on their laps, are the cheerleaders. Enough said.
Another scan around the room tells me that Pete Ross is not here.
A quick glance at the Jock Brigade tells me that Whitney Fordman isn't here either. Which, of course, could only mean one thing: Clark is yapping up as much lovely and tragic Lana Lang goodness as he can before the No. 1 jock, Lana Lang's boyfriend, shows up.
And then, Whitney would stroll in, pointedly ignore Clark, and Lana would get all flustered in that cute way which would tell any normal person that she was obviously getting down to some serious flirting with the pretty farm boy. Clark would have that severely disappointed look on his face (there is no hiding anything when it comes to Clark's face). Whitney would try to act all strong and jock-like and pretend to not be bothered by the fact that his pristine girlfriend has been flirting with a guy who looks like he'd be on a billboard in Calvin Klein underwear if he lived in New York instead of Smallville. Oh, the games people play.
But Whitney's not here yet, and like the past two weeks, he might not even show up. Makes me wonder what he's been doing with his time.
So, Clark's with Lana (can't leave the fragile girl alone, God forbid she might break), and if my memory serves me correctly, there would be one other loner aside from my pathetic self at The Beanery tonight. Another quick scan around the room and I locate Mr. Lex Luthor in all his greatness on a red couch, looking very much out of place in his dark suit and bald head, taking the fact that Clark Kent has ditched him once again pretty coolly, if truth be told.
I don't think I'd be that cool about it. Experience tells me that something would break into tiny little splinters, and I highly suspect that 'something' to be my own heart… if truth be told.
Anyway.
This means only one thing: I don't have a soul to drink my coffee with.
And, believe me, that fact is pretty depressing.
When you're the girl with the fur-lined jackets and the blonde hair and the camera in her hand and the laptop over her shoulder, you can feel pretty invisible. The only thing that reminds people of my existence in this high school is my name printed on weekly editions of The Torch, and sometimes that's the only thing that reminds me of my own existence.
So, the same like 9:30 p.m. on every Friday night, after I finish the paste- ups for The Torch, ready to be printed and handed out by Monday morning, I walk into The Beanery, and no one notices.
But why would they? I'm invisible because they choose for me to be invisible. Everyone knows about Chloe Sullivan! Smelling of ink and glue and whatever breed of germ the Torch office collects. The girl who loves all things weird. The girl who pokes her nose where she's not wanted. The Eccentric One, or maybe that's too kind. The Oddball. The Weird Chick.
The resident weird chick of Smallville. Maybe I should put it up in neon lights above my head: 'This Girl Loves All Things Freaky and Alien. Stay Away If You Value Your Normal Lives'.
Contrary to everyone's beliefs, that's not entirely true. There's nothing alien about Clark.
Or Pete. Or my Dad.
Anyway.
So, of course, my unspoken coffee date is once again preoccupied by what I can only describe as a much better-looking distraction, and I am left to my own defenses. I glance at the corner again. Lex Luthor sits by himself, amiable and out of place, entertained by observing how sheep interact with each other, probably content on the fact that he's already above the peer pressure age to be bothered by trivial things like this and that everyone's properly intimidated by him.
Actually, he looks more tired than amiable tonight.
I wonder why he even comes here. There's always a chance that he would wind up sitting alone. But maybe that doesn't bother him.
Then again, the same can be said for me. Why do I come here?
It's the caffeine. Definitely the caffeine.
Still, I feel an ever so slight twinge of resentment at the fact that our social lives are wholly dependent on whether or not Lana Lang decides to show up alone or with company.
So, viewing my options and realizing that I have none, I come to the same conclusion as every Friday. Lex Luthor is the soul I will have coffee with.
That is, if he doesn't mind my company, because he's looking a bit short- tempered at the moment. Then again, doesn't he usually.
Plus, besides Clark's unnatural ease with him, a few Fridays in Mr. Luthor's company isn't enough for anyone to be endeared by his personality, or any less wary of it.
Fighting my usual first seconds of hesitation (yes, Mr. Luthor intimidates all of Smallville, myself included - add the fact that he's my father's boss), I stride purposefully to the corner of The Beanery like a girl on a mission.
Lex Luthor watches me approach him and I almost lose my nerve.
How does he do that? Just look you dead in the eye and reduce you to nothingness.
"All alone tonight, Mr. Luthor?" I greet.
"As usual, I came with Clark," he replies. "As usual, he found someone prettier."
I glance behind me and feign disinterest at the sight of Clark and Lana (don't even ask why I do this). When I turn back I realize I'm still under Lex Luthor's watchful gaze.
"So, seeing as you're alone and I'm alone," I fight for the words. "May I join you?"
"Certainly."
And so, I shrug off my discomfort, plop myself down on the couch in front of him, like many other Friday nights before, and smile at him.
And no matter how tired he looks, Lex Luthor would find the energy to smile back at me.
Then we'd sit back in each other's company, drown our sorrows in caffeine, and talk the night away. And I would wonder what it was that made me nervous about him in the first place.
And sometimes, only sometimes, I'd forget that Clark was even there.
And since I forgot the last time:
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, all the freaky incidents mentioned are from past episodes of Smallville, etc.
* * * * * *
CHLOE
Once again it's a busy night at The Beanery, ladies and gentlemen.
On a Friday night at 9:30 p.m. where other kids in other parts of this country would be shooting up right now and dancing in Ecstasy frenzied madness on the dance floor, you will find most of the teenage population of Smallville in this little coffee shop. Reason being? Elementary my dear Watson: there's nothing else to do in Smallville.
I'm even surprised that they manage to do at least that.
Smallville, despite the meteorites scattered every ten feet away from each other, is the safest place in town. In your dreams, anyway. Due to my observant nature (and recent findings, attempted murders, mutilation of jock in boiler room, my last dating expedition, etc.) I have come to realize that Smallville is, contrary to everyone's blind eye, not as safe as it seems. If I walked outside right now, I would not be surprised if I see a man/thing with his head under one arm and a leg missing limping towards me and attempt to bite/suck/rip off my head and leg in a quest to replace his own.
But then, I wouldn't worry because Clark would save me.
If he's not too wrapped up in Lana Lang.
Anyway, I digress. Weird things happen in Smallville. Didn't your friend recently freeze himself in the lake? Wasn't there a murderer on the streets killing people with a piano string? Didn't that once-fat chick try to suck the fat out of your body? Didn't your football coach spontaneously burst into flames in the showers? Yeah, explain that away, my good friends. The Denial Defense will not stay up long.
If it wasn't in my nature to be nosy and I didn't have a farm boy around to miraculously save me when I need him to, I would be cowering in a corner of my room right now, with bills of future years of therapy on my father's desk.
Anyway, back to The Beanery.
This is a typical Friday night at The Beanery. You walk in and of course, the first thing you see are the jocks. Very understandable, due to the fact that they're highest on the social ladder (what with being unbeatable and all) and they're all using the same bright yellow and red football jackets. Believe me, there is no better way to tell us mortal folks that they are football heroes than wearing those jackets.
Off to the side, and sometimes on their laps, are the cheerleaders. Enough said.
Another scan around the room tells me that Pete Ross is not here.
A quick glance at the Jock Brigade tells me that Whitney Fordman isn't here either. Which, of course, could only mean one thing: Clark is yapping up as much lovely and tragic Lana Lang goodness as he can before the No. 1 jock, Lana Lang's boyfriend, shows up.
And then, Whitney would stroll in, pointedly ignore Clark, and Lana would get all flustered in that cute way which would tell any normal person that she was obviously getting down to some serious flirting with the pretty farm boy. Clark would have that severely disappointed look on his face (there is no hiding anything when it comes to Clark's face). Whitney would try to act all strong and jock-like and pretend to not be bothered by the fact that his pristine girlfriend has been flirting with a guy who looks like he'd be on a billboard in Calvin Klein underwear if he lived in New York instead of Smallville. Oh, the games people play.
But Whitney's not here yet, and like the past two weeks, he might not even show up. Makes me wonder what he's been doing with his time.
So, Clark's with Lana (can't leave the fragile girl alone, God forbid she might break), and if my memory serves me correctly, there would be one other loner aside from my pathetic self at The Beanery tonight. Another quick scan around the room and I locate Mr. Lex Luthor in all his greatness on a red couch, looking very much out of place in his dark suit and bald head, taking the fact that Clark Kent has ditched him once again pretty coolly, if truth be told.
I don't think I'd be that cool about it. Experience tells me that something would break into tiny little splinters, and I highly suspect that 'something' to be my own heart… if truth be told.
Anyway.
This means only one thing: I don't have a soul to drink my coffee with.
And, believe me, that fact is pretty depressing.
When you're the girl with the fur-lined jackets and the blonde hair and the camera in her hand and the laptop over her shoulder, you can feel pretty invisible. The only thing that reminds people of my existence in this high school is my name printed on weekly editions of The Torch, and sometimes that's the only thing that reminds me of my own existence.
So, the same like 9:30 p.m. on every Friday night, after I finish the paste- ups for The Torch, ready to be printed and handed out by Monday morning, I walk into The Beanery, and no one notices.
But why would they? I'm invisible because they choose for me to be invisible. Everyone knows about Chloe Sullivan! Smelling of ink and glue and whatever breed of germ the Torch office collects. The girl who loves all things weird. The girl who pokes her nose where she's not wanted. The Eccentric One, or maybe that's too kind. The Oddball. The Weird Chick.
The resident weird chick of Smallville. Maybe I should put it up in neon lights above my head: 'This Girl Loves All Things Freaky and Alien. Stay Away If You Value Your Normal Lives'.
Contrary to everyone's beliefs, that's not entirely true. There's nothing alien about Clark.
Or Pete. Or my Dad.
Anyway.
So, of course, my unspoken coffee date is once again preoccupied by what I can only describe as a much better-looking distraction, and I am left to my own defenses. I glance at the corner again. Lex Luthor sits by himself, amiable and out of place, entertained by observing how sheep interact with each other, probably content on the fact that he's already above the peer pressure age to be bothered by trivial things like this and that everyone's properly intimidated by him.
Actually, he looks more tired than amiable tonight.
I wonder why he even comes here. There's always a chance that he would wind up sitting alone. But maybe that doesn't bother him.
Then again, the same can be said for me. Why do I come here?
It's the caffeine. Definitely the caffeine.
Still, I feel an ever so slight twinge of resentment at the fact that our social lives are wholly dependent on whether or not Lana Lang decides to show up alone or with company.
So, viewing my options and realizing that I have none, I come to the same conclusion as every Friday. Lex Luthor is the soul I will have coffee with.
That is, if he doesn't mind my company, because he's looking a bit short- tempered at the moment. Then again, doesn't he usually.
Plus, besides Clark's unnatural ease with him, a few Fridays in Mr. Luthor's company isn't enough for anyone to be endeared by his personality, or any less wary of it.
Fighting my usual first seconds of hesitation (yes, Mr. Luthor intimidates all of Smallville, myself included - add the fact that he's my father's boss), I stride purposefully to the corner of The Beanery like a girl on a mission.
Lex Luthor watches me approach him and I almost lose my nerve.
How does he do that? Just look you dead in the eye and reduce you to nothingness.
"All alone tonight, Mr. Luthor?" I greet.
"As usual, I came with Clark," he replies. "As usual, he found someone prettier."
I glance behind me and feign disinterest at the sight of Clark and Lana (don't even ask why I do this). When I turn back I realize I'm still under Lex Luthor's watchful gaze.
"So, seeing as you're alone and I'm alone," I fight for the words. "May I join you?"
"Certainly."
And so, I shrug off my discomfort, plop myself down on the couch in front of him, like many other Friday nights before, and smile at him.
And no matter how tired he looks, Lex Luthor would find the energy to smile back at me.
Then we'd sit back in each other's company, drown our sorrows in caffeine, and talk the night away. And I would wonder what it was that made me nervous about him in the first place.
And sometimes, only sometimes, I'd forget that Clark was even there.