CHLOE
I was seriously tempted to do the whole Prom date scene.
You know, handsome Prom date arrives then waits downstairs with your parents, all the while keeping an eye on the top of the stairs, and there I will emerge, ravishingly gorgeous, and with the background music of the said parents murmuring about how beautiful I look, I begin my descent down the stairs, all the while keeping my eyes locked with my Prom date, and ironically enough never falling down.
Rationality came flying down soon after that, reminding me that this will never happen for two very good reasons: the first is that there is no way I'll be able to walk down those steps in these heels without keeping my gaze strapped firmly on my feet and where it's heading. The second is the fact that my date is not an average high school boy but my Dad's boss, and there is no way in hell that I'm leaving both of them alone. It would make for an extremely awkward situation.
So fifteen minutes before schedule, I tottered carefully downstairs and joined my father in the living room, where he paced anxiously.
And Dad, who was still managing to blame the whole thing on Clark, got misty-eyed at the sight of me and I got my first ego boost of the evening. That is, before he almost dislodged the lilies from my carefully hair- sprayed and damn expensive French twist by hugging me fiercely.
"Dad…" I whined, trying to keep my hair intact.
"Chloe, you look stunning," he said, smiling broadly. "Your date is a very lucky boy..." and then he stopped, remembering all too clearly that my date is not at all a boy and instead, a man, and when I come to think about it, not all that lucky either.
And so he realized that I wouldn't be showing the five hard-working hour display of totally manmade beauty to a fellow high school miscreant, but rather, his miscreant boss.
Putting aside his camera with a sigh (obviously an evening he won't be willing to remember), he asked sullenly, "What time is Mr. Luthor picking you up?" Probably calling him Mr. Luthor in an attempt to make me feel worse. It worked.
"He should be here in fifteen minutes," I informed him, and that would be the last thing I say in the next fifteen minutes.
I hoped beyond hope that Lex would get here on time. Uncomfortable silences are the worse kind of torment any self-respecting human could endure.
LEX
Half an hour before I leave to collect my designated Prom date/interview and I'm at war with my tie.
Which just adds another piece of evidence to the list of reasons as to why life is so damn ironic. The one thing that I had the least concern over would be the one thing that will serve to irritate me tonight.
I yank it off, take several calming breaths, and try again.
Considering that I've been wearing ties for as far as I can remember and have since qualified as an expert in the art of grooming, I have to question myself as to why, at the ripe old age of 21, it would be so difficult now.
The answer only proves to annoy me further: my palms are sweaty.
For a man who is considered by his associates and acquaintances alike as inhuman, this is an unknown terrain that I have wandered into.
I take off the tie and choose one of a less slippery material than silk. Practicality will have to do tonight.
My sane mind reminds me that practicality would be canceling this date.
But I don't quit. Come rain, shine or reputation, I'm not a quitter.
A good fifteen minutes wasted, and finally satisfied with my tie, I shrug on my jacket and give myself a final once-over in the full-length mirror in front of me.
My image smirks at my effort. Going through pains to get ready for a date.
I re-assert myself. This is how I prepare for all my dates. Chloe is no different.
Or maybe, she is, because I don't remember a 16-year old girl in my history with the opposite sex, even when I was 16 years old myself. And there is no meteorite formula in the world that can jumpstart her five years ahead of her age to make her 21, and sufficient enough in age for my world to accept her. And vice versa.
I might not give a shit about what people think about me, but I have a reputation to uphold, a plant to run, and a father to overtake. I don't need another black spot on my reputation to make these future plans go awry.
Were it for my reputation alone, I wouldn't have had time for her anyway.
Hold on to that logic, Luthor.
However, the physical being does not operate on logic, and my palms are still sweating in result of this. Not to mention the feeling of dread at the question that maybe my caution has come too late.
CHLOE
The silence is killing me.
My father has been sitting on the couch opposite me in silence, total and absolute silence, for the past unwavering fifteen minutes, disrupted every 20 seconds by the sound of my dress rustling as I bring my wrist up to my eyes to check my watch.
Fifteen minutes of gut-wrenching silence and I'm starting to think that the only way I'll be able to release myself from this torture is by slitting my wrists and mercifully dying.
And to make it worse, the silence has made it insufferably impossible for me to not think about Lex Luthor.
Yes, I know I'm stuck with the guy for one whole evening where chances of avoiding him would be a God sent miracle, but I need to clear my mind now. Before I go through this evening's festivities fogged with the thought of how good he looks in a suit (and I'm pretty sure he'll look good) and not being able to concentrate on the task at hand: the interview.
The reason I agreed to all of this.
Yes, Chloe Sullivan, that IS the reason.
What I don't need now is to be plagued with the single repetitive sentence doing the tango in my brain: You're beautiful Chloe. You're beautiful Chloe. You're…
My cell phone rings and I hold onto it for dead life, or maybe dear sanity.
It's Lex.
LEX
After last minute scrutinizing in the mirror and managing a degree of success in tucking away all irrepressible thoughts of Chloe into a deep and dark corner of my mind, I walk down my driveway to my car. Loose in my hands are a bouquet of lilies and a corsage, swinging by my side, a hard attempt at being casual.
However I stop short at the sight of my limousine pulling up behind my Jaguar. The same limousine I had sent to the Kent farm half an hour ago.
My driver explained that the tall boy sent him back.
And through my head came a couple of likely scenarios, until I manage to set apart the most reasonable.
Since it's highly improbable that Clark would decide that his father's beaten truck would be sufficient enough in its dusty seats for Lana's pristine ass and sufficient enough in transport to coach the Homecoming Queen to the Prom, I hazard another guess.
A call to the Kent farm, and a talk with Martha Kent confirmed what I suspected: the inevitable Prom Queen has her witless and matching Prom King back in her arms and has screwed my best friend over.
At which point I cannot help but feel contempt for Lana.
Deciding that Chloe would have to wait, albeit the certainty that she would not be happy about it, I make a detour to the Kent farm, calling Chloe on the way to tell her I'll be late.
CHLOE
"How's my beautiful Prom date?" says the dry tone of voice, coming from an equally dry man who has no idea of what pains I have had to go through to look this good and to be ready at this time so he would have a both striking and prompt Prom date.
The lash I have ready for him is at the tip of my tongue. Remembering my father however, I meekly make my way to the kitchen.
In the confines of my kitchen, "Your beautiful Prom date is sweating in her beautiful dress waiting. Where the hell are you?"
"I apologize."
Convenient. "Convenient."
"I'm going to be a bit late, Chloe."
I make a noise that resembles a dying bird. "Why?"
Silence on the other line greets my question before he finally comes up with a dissatisfying, "I'm not sure."
I make the noise again.
"I'm sorry," he repeats.
"Good."
"Just wait for me." With that remark the romantically foolish Chloe (the one who has watched When Harry Met Sally until the script has been imprinted on my brain) comes out bursting with song at the memory of Daniel Day-Lewis telling Madeleine Stowe to stay alive, because he'll find her, with fierce and angst-ridden passion. Never mind that the person who has said my little romantic line said it with the sincerity of a dead fish.
I feel, unfortunately, breathless. Not the condition you want to be in during a crucial verbal banter moment. I look for sarcasm, come up empty- handed, and decide to stay with annoyed. "I'm a very, very impatient girl. How long?"
"I'm not sure."
The romantically foolish Chloe punctures like a balloon and is quickly replaced with normal and paranoid Chloe. "Are you chickening out on me?" I ask suspiciously.
There's a sound on the other line. It sounds like someone's chuckling, but that can't be possible, because Lex Luthor doesn't chuckle. "I don't do chickening out."
Huh. "Right."
"Look, don't get your panties in a twist, Chloe. Be patient. I'll be there."
I gasp, romantically foolish, normal and paranoid, everything gone and replaced with the instinct to kill. The NERVE. "Listen, buster, if you think for one second that you've got ANY effect on my underwear then you've got another think coming and soooo fast."
"I'll see you later," he says ignoring me, and cuts off my incoming and exceedingly disastrous rant by hanging up.
I stare indignantly at the phone in my hand, seriously tempted to call the bastard back when I realize that my father is in the kitchen with me, and, in all probability, heard the underwear comment.
"So he'll be a little late," Dad says, dryly. Which sucks, because I've had all the dryness I can take tonight, especially when considering the fact that there'll be a lot more coming. The King of Dry Comments is my Prom date, after all.
I take a few deep calming breaths and try to smile convincingly, and say, in the manner of Vanna White, "He's a bit held up."
"Just hope he doesn't stand you up," he replies, a little grimly, walking out of the kitchen.
Stand me up? If he values his health he sure as hell better not think it.
LEX
She acts like I'm going to stand her up. Girls, no matter how diverse they are, have a special breed of Intense Paranoia in their blood. Combined with Chloe's impatience and self-destructive insecurity (as much as she might deny it) makes for an explosive combination, and I decide that I will try and quicken the business with Clark as speedily as is humanly possible.
Reaching the Kent farm, I ignore the house and go straight to the barn, knowing all too well that this is his favorite venue to mope. Clark's Kingdom of Brood. Personally, if I were to brood anywhere my last choice would be a barn that smells like shit, but I'll tolerate it for Clark's sake.
And true enough, there I see Clark, my best friend, standing alone, dressed in a dark blue suit instead of red flannel, bouquet of yellow roses in one hand and a corsage in the other, eyes staring off into space.
Amazing how a man can be rendered pathetic by the power of a female.
I acutely remember sniffing a bouquet of lilies like an idiot earlier this afternoon and feel immensely for my dejected friend.
A heartbroken boy of steel.
I sigh. "Clark."
I was seriously tempted to do the whole Prom date scene.
You know, handsome Prom date arrives then waits downstairs with your parents, all the while keeping an eye on the top of the stairs, and there I will emerge, ravishingly gorgeous, and with the background music of the said parents murmuring about how beautiful I look, I begin my descent down the stairs, all the while keeping my eyes locked with my Prom date, and ironically enough never falling down.
Rationality came flying down soon after that, reminding me that this will never happen for two very good reasons: the first is that there is no way I'll be able to walk down those steps in these heels without keeping my gaze strapped firmly on my feet and where it's heading. The second is the fact that my date is not an average high school boy but my Dad's boss, and there is no way in hell that I'm leaving both of them alone. It would make for an extremely awkward situation.
So fifteen minutes before schedule, I tottered carefully downstairs and joined my father in the living room, where he paced anxiously.
And Dad, who was still managing to blame the whole thing on Clark, got misty-eyed at the sight of me and I got my first ego boost of the evening. That is, before he almost dislodged the lilies from my carefully hair- sprayed and damn expensive French twist by hugging me fiercely.
"Dad…" I whined, trying to keep my hair intact.
"Chloe, you look stunning," he said, smiling broadly. "Your date is a very lucky boy..." and then he stopped, remembering all too clearly that my date is not at all a boy and instead, a man, and when I come to think about it, not all that lucky either.
And so he realized that I wouldn't be showing the five hard-working hour display of totally manmade beauty to a fellow high school miscreant, but rather, his miscreant boss.
Putting aside his camera with a sigh (obviously an evening he won't be willing to remember), he asked sullenly, "What time is Mr. Luthor picking you up?" Probably calling him Mr. Luthor in an attempt to make me feel worse. It worked.
"He should be here in fifteen minutes," I informed him, and that would be the last thing I say in the next fifteen minutes.
I hoped beyond hope that Lex would get here on time. Uncomfortable silences are the worse kind of torment any self-respecting human could endure.
LEX
Half an hour before I leave to collect my designated Prom date/interview and I'm at war with my tie.
Which just adds another piece of evidence to the list of reasons as to why life is so damn ironic. The one thing that I had the least concern over would be the one thing that will serve to irritate me tonight.
I yank it off, take several calming breaths, and try again.
Considering that I've been wearing ties for as far as I can remember and have since qualified as an expert in the art of grooming, I have to question myself as to why, at the ripe old age of 21, it would be so difficult now.
The answer only proves to annoy me further: my palms are sweaty.
For a man who is considered by his associates and acquaintances alike as inhuman, this is an unknown terrain that I have wandered into.
I take off the tie and choose one of a less slippery material than silk. Practicality will have to do tonight.
My sane mind reminds me that practicality would be canceling this date.
But I don't quit. Come rain, shine or reputation, I'm not a quitter.
A good fifteen minutes wasted, and finally satisfied with my tie, I shrug on my jacket and give myself a final once-over in the full-length mirror in front of me.
My image smirks at my effort. Going through pains to get ready for a date.
I re-assert myself. This is how I prepare for all my dates. Chloe is no different.
Or maybe, she is, because I don't remember a 16-year old girl in my history with the opposite sex, even when I was 16 years old myself. And there is no meteorite formula in the world that can jumpstart her five years ahead of her age to make her 21, and sufficient enough in age for my world to accept her. And vice versa.
I might not give a shit about what people think about me, but I have a reputation to uphold, a plant to run, and a father to overtake. I don't need another black spot on my reputation to make these future plans go awry.
Were it for my reputation alone, I wouldn't have had time for her anyway.
Hold on to that logic, Luthor.
However, the physical being does not operate on logic, and my palms are still sweating in result of this. Not to mention the feeling of dread at the question that maybe my caution has come too late.
CHLOE
The silence is killing me.
My father has been sitting on the couch opposite me in silence, total and absolute silence, for the past unwavering fifteen minutes, disrupted every 20 seconds by the sound of my dress rustling as I bring my wrist up to my eyes to check my watch.
Fifteen minutes of gut-wrenching silence and I'm starting to think that the only way I'll be able to release myself from this torture is by slitting my wrists and mercifully dying.
And to make it worse, the silence has made it insufferably impossible for me to not think about Lex Luthor.
Yes, I know I'm stuck with the guy for one whole evening where chances of avoiding him would be a God sent miracle, but I need to clear my mind now. Before I go through this evening's festivities fogged with the thought of how good he looks in a suit (and I'm pretty sure he'll look good) and not being able to concentrate on the task at hand: the interview.
The reason I agreed to all of this.
Yes, Chloe Sullivan, that IS the reason.
What I don't need now is to be plagued with the single repetitive sentence doing the tango in my brain: You're beautiful Chloe. You're beautiful Chloe. You're…
My cell phone rings and I hold onto it for dead life, or maybe dear sanity.
It's Lex.
LEX
After last minute scrutinizing in the mirror and managing a degree of success in tucking away all irrepressible thoughts of Chloe into a deep and dark corner of my mind, I walk down my driveway to my car. Loose in my hands are a bouquet of lilies and a corsage, swinging by my side, a hard attempt at being casual.
However I stop short at the sight of my limousine pulling up behind my Jaguar. The same limousine I had sent to the Kent farm half an hour ago.
My driver explained that the tall boy sent him back.
And through my head came a couple of likely scenarios, until I manage to set apart the most reasonable.
Since it's highly improbable that Clark would decide that his father's beaten truck would be sufficient enough in its dusty seats for Lana's pristine ass and sufficient enough in transport to coach the Homecoming Queen to the Prom, I hazard another guess.
A call to the Kent farm, and a talk with Martha Kent confirmed what I suspected: the inevitable Prom Queen has her witless and matching Prom King back in her arms and has screwed my best friend over.
At which point I cannot help but feel contempt for Lana.
Deciding that Chloe would have to wait, albeit the certainty that she would not be happy about it, I make a detour to the Kent farm, calling Chloe on the way to tell her I'll be late.
CHLOE
"How's my beautiful Prom date?" says the dry tone of voice, coming from an equally dry man who has no idea of what pains I have had to go through to look this good and to be ready at this time so he would have a both striking and prompt Prom date.
The lash I have ready for him is at the tip of my tongue. Remembering my father however, I meekly make my way to the kitchen.
In the confines of my kitchen, "Your beautiful Prom date is sweating in her beautiful dress waiting. Where the hell are you?"
"I apologize."
Convenient. "Convenient."
"I'm going to be a bit late, Chloe."
I make a noise that resembles a dying bird. "Why?"
Silence on the other line greets my question before he finally comes up with a dissatisfying, "I'm not sure."
I make the noise again.
"I'm sorry," he repeats.
"Good."
"Just wait for me." With that remark the romantically foolish Chloe (the one who has watched When Harry Met Sally until the script has been imprinted on my brain) comes out bursting with song at the memory of Daniel Day-Lewis telling Madeleine Stowe to stay alive, because he'll find her, with fierce and angst-ridden passion. Never mind that the person who has said my little romantic line said it with the sincerity of a dead fish.
I feel, unfortunately, breathless. Not the condition you want to be in during a crucial verbal banter moment. I look for sarcasm, come up empty- handed, and decide to stay with annoyed. "I'm a very, very impatient girl. How long?"
"I'm not sure."
The romantically foolish Chloe punctures like a balloon and is quickly replaced with normal and paranoid Chloe. "Are you chickening out on me?" I ask suspiciously.
There's a sound on the other line. It sounds like someone's chuckling, but that can't be possible, because Lex Luthor doesn't chuckle. "I don't do chickening out."
Huh. "Right."
"Look, don't get your panties in a twist, Chloe. Be patient. I'll be there."
I gasp, romantically foolish, normal and paranoid, everything gone and replaced with the instinct to kill. The NERVE. "Listen, buster, if you think for one second that you've got ANY effect on my underwear then you've got another think coming and soooo fast."
"I'll see you later," he says ignoring me, and cuts off my incoming and exceedingly disastrous rant by hanging up.
I stare indignantly at the phone in my hand, seriously tempted to call the bastard back when I realize that my father is in the kitchen with me, and, in all probability, heard the underwear comment.
"So he'll be a little late," Dad says, dryly. Which sucks, because I've had all the dryness I can take tonight, especially when considering the fact that there'll be a lot more coming. The King of Dry Comments is my Prom date, after all.
I take a few deep calming breaths and try to smile convincingly, and say, in the manner of Vanna White, "He's a bit held up."
"Just hope he doesn't stand you up," he replies, a little grimly, walking out of the kitchen.
Stand me up? If he values his health he sure as hell better not think it.
LEX
She acts like I'm going to stand her up. Girls, no matter how diverse they are, have a special breed of Intense Paranoia in their blood. Combined with Chloe's impatience and self-destructive insecurity (as much as she might deny it) makes for an explosive combination, and I decide that I will try and quicken the business with Clark as speedily as is humanly possible.
Reaching the Kent farm, I ignore the house and go straight to the barn, knowing all too well that this is his favorite venue to mope. Clark's Kingdom of Brood. Personally, if I were to brood anywhere my last choice would be a barn that smells like shit, but I'll tolerate it for Clark's sake.
And true enough, there I see Clark, my best friend, standing alone, dressed in a dark blue suit instead of red flannel, bouquet of yellow roses in one hand and a corsage in the other, eyes staring off into space.
Amazing how a man can be rendered pathetic by the power of a female.
I acutely remember sniffing a bouquet of lilies like an idiot earlier this afternoon and feel immensely for my dejected friend.
A heartbroken boy of steel.
I sigh. "Clark."