[A/N: So here's Chapter 2. Finally, eh? I had a dry spell for a while
there, and for that I am sincerely sorry. But I'm still alive, not to
worry. I think this is the longest single chapter I've written to date.
I've got the inspirational powers of Incubus and Dispatch to thank for
that. But there'll be a steady stream of updates for a while, because I've
taken the liberty of mapping out the next 4 or 5 chapters. Intuitive! By
the way, if anyone has any ideas about "Secrets of Secrets", one of my
other fics in progress, lemme know. I don't wanna stop that one, or this
one either, for that matter! So it's in your hands. You must review! But
read this first, of course.]
Chapter 2 - Playing Pretend
Martha Kent couldn't help but smile contentedly to herself as she glanced over at her precious little boy, now perched precociously on his stomach in front of the Kent's single television, waving his feet in the air to the tune of the "Care Bears" theme song. As a new Barbie commercial popped up in replacement of the bright cartoon, Clark turned to his mother suddenly.
"I feel better now, Mommy. Can I call Pete and ask him to come over?"
Martha sighed in confusion. "Don't you have the 24-hour bug, honey? By my watch, it's only been 30 minutes."
Clark just shrugged, bringing his shoulders up to his ears and down again in one quick, yet majestic, motion. It was a trait he had obviously developed from mimicking Jonathon.
She let out another audible breath, this time in disbelief, and sat daintily on the couch behind her son. "Clark, baby, did you fake your sickness?"
The lively six-year-old shook his head back and forth with surprising rigor. "Nuh-uh, Mom. That would be Wrong. I just hurted, is all."
"So much so that it scared your teacher, Pete, and that Erica girl half to death?"
"I guess. I was okay one second, and then I was really sick. Isn't that what usually happens? I mean, when you and Dad and Pete are sick?"
The distressed mother invited her son to sit in her lap, an invitation to which he obliged willingly. "That's not quite how it normally works, sweetie," she said carefully.
Clark nodded his head as he quickly scurried back to the TV.
"Oh."
Oh, dear, this won't be easy, Martha said to herself as she prepared herself.
"Clark, honey, remember that talk we had about having to keep some secrets?" Clark did, and he nodded to tell her so. "Well, baby, this'll have to be another one to add to our little list. See, you might get sick differently than me, or Daddy, or Pete. For all I know, you might not get sick at all, and that's what I thought until today. I don't know what it is that made you sick, but we'll find out, because it doesn't seem to make other people sick. You're just going to have to hang in there and pretend for a while that you do get sick like us. Can you do that, sweet? Do you know what I'm saying?"
"A.little," he responded, retreating a bit. "I can do that; I mean, lie and stuff."
"Oh honey! No, that's not what I mean at all!" This is going down the toilet! she thought. "No, baby, don't lie! Lying is Wrong. Don't do that."
Clark's face contorted in befuddlement. "But.you said.pretend, and don't tell people stuff. Isn't that lying?"
"Well, yes, you're right, to a certain extent," she admitted, taking little Clark onto her lap once more. "But, in your situation, it's more like a game of Pretend. Miss Suggett tells me you like to play Pretend, Clark."
The raven-haired boy couldn't half but nod at the truth. Martha hoped to God that her son might at least look at her, but he remained contemplatively playing with a fray on his already-too-small jeans.
"So," Martha continued, "think of it as if your life is just one big game of Pretend. Doesn't that sound fun, Clark?"
"Not really," Clark scoffed, on the verge of tears. "I like Pretend because you can be anything you want, sure. I mean, I always wanted to be a singer in a band, or a movie star, or a superhero or something, or even just normal." At this, Martha began to protest, but Clark just continued without acknowledging the motion. "But I also like the way you can just turn it off if you want, and go back to being you when Miss Suggett claps her hands. I like when it's not for forever, and you can pick to be a astronaut this time, and it doesn't have to anything to do with the fact that you were a doctor last time. I like the choice, and the freedom." He sniffed and rolled defiantly off his mother again, back to being a complicated toddler after proving his point.
Martha was momentarily paralyzed by this sudden burst of eloquence coming from her son who had only been speaking English for three years. Maybe there was something to this genius theory Jonathon had.
"Okay, Clark, I understand what you're saying," struggled Martha, "but-"
She stopped at a sudden sound, like plastic cracking. She glanced around, and after making sure so one was around and nothing fell, she settled her eyes back on Clark's eager face. Except now, it looked guilty.
In the three years since the Kent's had adopted Clark, there had been only two remotely strange incidences, not including the meteor shower itself, and the fact that an interstellar space-pod was now rusting in their storm cellar. The second was today's surprise illness, as Clark had never been afflicted by any kind of disease as long as his adoptive parents had known him. This in itself is strange, Martha supposed, but this sudden vulnerability worried her more.
The first odd occurrence was the preceding fall, coinciding with the debut of a new line-up of children's programming. Eager to see Clark fit in with his peers, Jonathon and Martha has allowed their son to watch an hour of television after he returned from the school day, and then have him do his chores.
Martha was thrilled with the new development after observing one unsuspecting Thursday afternoon. Standing in the door frame to the den, she saw her son interact vigorously with a cartoon featuring good-natured bears and rainbows. It was a miracle that it kept her hyper little boy so subdued and mellow. After viewing fifteen minutes of this one-sided interaction, she gave her silent approval and left hey son to his devices.
Exactly 24 minutes later, while coring apples for the night's desert, she heard a crash and a bold outcry from the direction of the den.
"Jonathon!" she called out of instinct while running towards the commotion. Her husband appeared at the kitchen's screen door in record time and asked frantically, "What? Are you okay? Is Clark okay?"
At the door to the den where Martha had stood so peacefully not an hour before, she was now frozen, shell-shocked. Jonathon ran to her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, trying very hard not to have a similar reaction.
With a fight scene starring the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers as a backdrop, Clark was having a kung-fu match with the wall. And winning. Jonathon guessed the holes were at least six inches in diameter, and he could see clearly into his bedroom through them.
Martha was the first to recover. She dashed to her son, forcefully clasped her hands around his wrists. She had an odd sense that he could easily break free of her not-so-feeble grasp, but she felt him hold back, and finally give in.
Jonathon hurried to his wife's side at her silent insistence. He bent down at the waist so he was eye-level with Clark.
"Now, I don't know what happened, son," he began, quickly surveying the damage once more, "but it doesn't look too good. Can you tell me who did this?"
An inaudible mumble escaped the small boy's lips.
"Excuse me?" pushed Martha, not to be left out in the discipline.
"Me. I did it." The guilty boy buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"H-how?" stammered Jonathon in complete disbelief.
That shrug responded. "I dunno. Felt like it."
Martha sent her husband the we'll-talk-about-this later look as he lead their son to his room. But just before they were gone, she piped in with one more question.
"Clark? What show is this?"
"'Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers'," he said with so much pride the she almost felt guilty to ban it from the house forever.
"Clark? What was that noise?"
"Dunno," was the sullen response.
"Are you sure?" One thing that Martha Kent knew about her son was that if she asked long enough, he would eventually say anything she wanted him to. Beneath his stubborn six-year-old exterior lay the the heart of a regular George Washington - he could not tell a lie.
Wordlessly, Clark pushed his closed fist toward his mother and opened it slowly. Inside was the battered figure of a pink and white-clad superhero, it's arm detached. Martha had no doubt the damage was the fault of her son (how he did it, she still had no clue), but where he had gotten the tiny statue was beyond her.
Martha suddenly flashed back to this month's trip to the Wal-Mart outside Metropolis. She remembered skimming through the toy section in search of a gift for Clark and dwelling on a display of action figures that seemed to be very popular. The only reason she had not snatched one up with its sale price was the cardboard sign looming over her. MIGHTY MORPHIN' POWER RANGERS. No way, no how was she bringing that violent garbage back to her stable, normal, violence-free home and mucking up the place. Again.
But she had seen Theresa Ross there, with her cart of goodies. She had made small-talk with the woman, and it seemed that Clark and Theresa's son Pete were becoming quite the dynamic duo in their first grade.
"Pete just loves these Power Rangers," gushed the other woman, snatching up two of the action figures. "He's such a little romantic, he's already picked a pairing!" She proudly displayed her choices: a red one, and a pink.
"Is this Pete's Pink Ranger, young man?"
"Yeah," Clark mumbled so quietly that Martha asked him to repeat himself.
"And how, again, did it come into your custody?"
"Pete let me borrow it for Show an' Tell. You know I don't got nothing to show!"
"You do, so, have things to show at Show and Tell, young man! I will show you next week, when you have to bring something in of your own. Did you tell the teacher that this was yours?"
Clark shook his head so that the dark hairs flew about his face. "Miss Suggett never got to me. I got sick in the middle of Lana's turn."
Martha nodded at the realization. "And you never got to give Pete his Pink Ranger back?"
This time the shake of Clark's head was positive. He glanced at the clock quickly, then told his mother that he better get to Pete quickly, because he'll be missing his toy.
"Alright," sighed Martha, and she went to call Theresa about a play date.
Chapter 2 - Playing Pretend
Martha Kent couldn't help but smile contentedly to herself as she glanced over at her precious little boy, now perched precociously on his stomach in front of the Kent's single television, waving his feet in the air to the tune of the "Care Bears" theme song. As a new Barbie commercial popped up in replacement of the bright cartoon, Clark turned to his mother suddenly.
"I feel better now, Mommy. Can I call Pete and ask him to come over?"
Martha sighed in confusion. "Don't you have the 24-hour bug, honey? By my watch, it's only been 30 minutes."
Clark just shrugged, bringing his shoulders up to his ears and down again in one quick, yet majestic, motion. It was a trait he had obviously developed from mimicking Jonathon.
She let out another audible breath, this time in disbelief, and sat daintily on the couch behind her son. "Clark, baby, did you fake your sickness?"
The lively six-year-old shook his head back and forth with surprising rigor. "Nuh-uh, Mom. That would be Wrong. I just hurted, is all."
"So much so that it scared your teacher, Pete, and that Erica girl half to death?"
"I guess. I was okay one second, and then I was really sick. Isn't that what usually happens? I mean, when you and Dad and Pete are sick?"
The distressed mother invited her son to sit in her lap, an invitation to which he obliged willingly. "That's not quite how it normally works, sweetie," she said carefully.
Clark nodded his head as he quickly scurried back to the TV.
"Oh."
Oh, dear, this won't be easy, Martha said to herself as she prepared herself.
"Clark, honey, remember that talk we had about having to keep some secrets?" Clark did, and he nodded to tell her so. "Well, baby, this'll have to be another one to add to our little list. See, you might get sick differently than me, or Daddy, or Pete. For all I know, you might not get sick at all, and that's what I thought until today. I don't know what it is that made you sick, but we'll find out, because it doesn't seem to make other people sick. You're just going to have to hang in there and pretend for a while that you do get sick like us. Can you do that, sweet? Do you know what I'm saying?"
"A.little," he responded, retreating a bit. "I can do that; I mean, lie and stuff."
"Oh honey! No, that's not what I mean at all!" This is going down the toilet! she thought. "No, baby, don't lie! Lying is Wrong. Don't do that."
Clark's face contorted in befuddlement. "But.you said.pretend, and don't tell people stuff. Isn't that lying?"
"Well, yes, you're right, to a certain extent," she admitted, taking little Clark onto her lap once more. "But, in your situation, it's more like a game of Pretend. Miss Suggett tells me you like to play Pretend, Clark."
The raven-haired boy couldn't half but nod at the truth. Martha hoped to God that her son might at least look at her, but he remained contemplatively playing with a fray on his already-too-small jeans.
"So," Martha continued, "think of it as if your life is just one big game of Pretend. Doesn't that sound fun, Clark?"
"Not really," Clark scoffed, on the verge of tears. "I like Pretend because you can be anything you want, sure. I mean, I always wanted to be a singer in a band, or a movie star, or a superhero or something, or even just normal." At this, Martha began to protest, but Clark just continued without acknowledging the motion. "But I also like the way you can just turn it off if you want, and go back to being you when Miss Suggett claps her hands. I like when it's not for forever, and you can pick to be a astronaut this time, and it doesn't have to anything to do with the fact that you were a doctor last time. I like the choice, and the freedom." He sniffed and rolled defiantly off his mother again, back to being a complicated toddler after proving his point.
Martha was momentarily paralyzed by this sudden burst of eloquence coming from her son who had only been speaking English for three years. Maybe there was something to this genius theory Jonathon had.
"Okay, Clark, I understand what you're saying," struggled Martha, "but-"
She stopped at a sudden sound, like plastic cracking. She glanced around, and after making sure so one was around and nothing fell, she settled her eyes back on Clark's eager face. Except now, it looked guilty.
In the three years since the Kent's had adopted Clark, there had been only two remotely strange incidences, not including the meteor shower itself, and the fact that an interstellar space-pod was now rusting in their storm cellar. The second was today's surprise illness, as Clark had never been afflicted by any kind of disease as long as his adoptive parents had known him. This in itself is strange, Martha supposed, but this sudden vulnerability worried her more.
The first odd occurrence was the preceding fall, coinciding with the debut of a new line-up of children's programming. Eager to see Clark fit in with his peers, Jonathon and Martha has allowed their son to watch an hour of television after he returned from the school day, and then have him do his chores.
Martha was thrilled with the new development after observing one unsuspecting Thursday afternoon. Standing in the door frame to the den, she saw her son interact vigorously with a cartoon featuring good-natured bears and rainbows. It was a miracle that it kept her hyper little boy so subdued and mellow. After viewing fifteen minutes of this one-sided interaction, she gave her silent approval and left hey son to his devices.
Exactly 24 minutes later, while coring apples for the night's desert, she heard a crash and a bold outcry from the direction of the den.
"Jonathon!" she called out of instinct while running towards the commotion. Her husband appeared at the kitchen's screen door in record time and asked frantically, "What? Are you okay? Is Clark okay?"
At the door to the den where Martha had stood so peacefully not an hour before, she was now frozen, shell-shocked. Jonathon ran to her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, trying very hard not to have a similar reaction.
With a fight scene starring the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers as a backdrop, Clark was having a kung-fu match with the wall. And winning. Jonathon guessed the holes were at least six inches in diameter, and he could see clearly into his bedroom through them.
Martha was the first to recover. She dashed to her son, forcefully clasped her hands around his wrists. She had an odd sense that he could easily break free of her not-so-feeble grasp, but she felt him hold back, and finally give in.
Jonathon hurried to his wife's side at her silent insistence. He bent down at the waist so he was eye-level with Clark.
"Now, I don't know what happened, son," he began, quickly surveying the damage once more, "but it doesn't look too good. Can you tell me who did this?"
An inaudible mumble escaped the small boy's lips.
"Excuse me?" pushed Martha, not to be left out in the discipline.
"Me. I did it." The guilty boy buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"H-how?" stammered Jonathon in complete disbelief.
That shrug responded. "I dunno. Felt like it."
Martha sent her husband the we'll-talk-about-this later look as he lead their son to his room. But just before they were gone, she piped in with one more question.
"Clark? What show is this?"
"'Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers'," he said with so much pride the she almost felt guilty to ban it from the house forever.
"Clark? What was that noise?"
"Dunno," was the sullen response.
"Are you sure?" One thing that Martha Kent knew about her son was that if she asked long enough, he would eventually say anything she wanted him to. Beneath his stubborn six-year-old exterior lay the the heart of a regular George Washington - he could not tell a lie.
Wordlessly, Clark pushed his closed fist toward his mother and opened it slowly. Inside was the battered figure of a pink and white-clad superhero, it's arm detached. Martha had no doubt the damage was the fault of her son (how he did it, she still had no clue), but where he had gotten the tiny statue was beyond her.
Martha suddenly flashed back to this month's trip to the Wal-Mart outside Metropolis. She remembered skimming through the toy section in search of a gift for Clark and dwelling on a display of action figures that seemed to be very popular. The only reason she had not snatched one up with its sale price was the cardboard sign looming over her. MIGHTY MORPHIN' POWER RANGERS. No way, no how was she bringing that violent garbage back to her stable, normal, violence-free home and mucking up the place. Again.
But she had seen Theresa Ross there, with her cart of goodies. She had made small-talk with the woman, and it seemed that Clark and Theresa's son Pete were becoming quite the dynamic duo in their first grade.
"Pete just loves these Power Rangers," gushed the other woman, snatching up two of the action figures. "He's such a little romantic, he's already picked a pairing!" She proudly displayed her choices: a red one, and a pink.
"Is this Pete's Pink Ranger, young man?"
"Yeah," Clark mumbled so quietly that Martha asked him to repeat himself.
"And how, again, did it come into your custody?"
"Pete let me borrow it for Show an' Tell. You know I don't got nothing to show!"
"You do, so, have things to show at Show and Tell, young man! I will show you next week, when you have to bring something in of your own. Did you tell the teacher that this was yours?"
Clark shook his head so that the dark hairs flew about his face. "Miss Suggett never got to me. I got sick in the middle of Lana's turn."
Martha nodded at the realization. "And you never got to give Pete his Pink Ranger back?"
This time the shake of Clark's head was positive. He glanced at the clock quickly, then told his mother that he better get to Pete quickly, because he'll be missing his toy.
"Alright," sighed Martha, and she went to call Theresa about a play date.