This chapter has been revised upon the advice of someone who flamed my
fanfic. Her feedback was pretty stupid, but it made me realize that I had
to make the unconventional nature of the relationship between Chloe and her
Dad a lot more explicit to make the events of this chapter plausible. So,
thanks, lame flamer!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
IX.
Never before had Whitney met anyone who could type on a laptop in a moving vehicle, theorize on meteor rock mutations in Smallville, cry over unrequited love, stuff her face with glazed chocolate donuts, groove to the Pink song on the radio, AND complain about his driving all at once. She talked so much—by turns muffled by the donuts and then rattling clear as a bell and then back to snarfing—that an hour and a half into their trip, he was seriously starting to regret having invited her along. What had he been thinking? What had possessed him to invite this peculiar, vaguely irritating person to spend the next eight or nine hours of his life with him?
Oh, yeah. Because he was a big sap who couldn't stand to see a girl cry. Even a girl that was cheerfully capable of getting on his last nerve. Besides, maybe it was masochistic empathy, but he hated seeing someone attempt something they were passionate about, only to have their attempt squashed by life's circumstances and unthinking cruelty. He realized that what had happened today between them all would be no big deal in anyone's version of "the long run." But… Chloe's eyes had been blazing with determination when she had tried to get that scoop about Good Samaritan Charities, and it had been a righteous cause. He had to grudgingly admit that she'd deserved that story for her paper, and Kent had to come along and piss on her parade like he usually did.
Kent and Lana.
He flinched at the reminder, although a quick glancing check assured him that it had gone unnoticed by Chloe, who was still prattling on obliviously to her father on the cell phone.
It should really have come to no surprise to Whitney that apparently Chloe's father could gab just as much as Chloe could. She and Mr. Sullivan had spent a solid twenty minutes apparently interrupting and speaking over each other continually. Hell, that's what he assumed was going on, as it had mostly been a continual monologue on Chloe's end, so that the only way Whitney could tell that her father was talking too was the fact that her monologue seemed to occasionally include responses to actual questions.
It was impressive, really, this mode of communication that the Sullivans had apparently worked out among themselves. He was starting to get the strong impression that Chloe never did things the conventional, easy way.
What had most impressed Whitney, though, was the easy manner in which arguing over Chloe's curfew and the sheer boneheadedness of her impromptu departure for Metropolis with a boy she barely knew seemed to be so amicably interspersed with innocuous dialogue about Chloe's day, their new cat, Gabe's muffler (it was making a weird wheezing noise), the previous evening's episode of Six Feet Under (from what Whitney could tell, some woman named Ruth seemed to be both Gabe and Chloe's favorite character, although during one particularly long lapse in Chloe's chattering—and by long, he meant ten seconds or so-- it appeared Gabe didn't quite get one of the plot points of the last episode, so Chloe had to explain it-- twice) and a short, but apparently happy reminiscence of the disastrous last time the Sullivans had tried to barbecue.
Whitney found himself wondering when these people ever had time to do anything *but* talk. Exactly how long was it going to take the girl to explain that she was going to be home late? And he felt an instantaneous and childish pang of envy at the warm camaraderie that she and Mr. Sullivan seemed to share, at the way in which Chloe's features were relaxed and bright. There was certainly no such phenomenon happening at the Fordman house.
His own house had always been a remarkably quiet place interrupted with occasional exclamations —eerily quiet now, since his father's booming voice was no longer resonating through the hallways with demands and appraisals. By contrast, his mother was a very slight woman whose tentative voice rarely rose above a whisper. Whitney often thought she seemed to be walking on eggshells, which was strange, really, as no one in the house had a particularly bad temper. His father wasn't an especially violent man … but then, his father sure wasn't the type to ever be afraid to be heard.
The elder Mr. Fordman was a man whose interpersonal skills had been conditioned by a lifetime of giving orders to employees. A good employee, he often informed his family, was never defiant; if an employee ever was, it was with full knowledge that there would be swift consequences, which most often included quickly meted-out disapproval, restriction of privileges, and, depending on the severity of the infraction, a thorough and public tongue-lashing. With no doubt the best of intentions (which paved the way to hell, as Whitney's granny had often pointed out), Mr. Fordman had run his household very much the way he'd run his store his entire life. A successful system was, after all, a successful system, and why tamper with success?
Whitney sometimes—only fleetingly, really—recalled that as a small child, upon hearing his father wax philosophical about this analogy, he'd been secretly terrified of being fired. Stupid now, but back then its probability had been decided upon with the kind of assured finality one rarely retains past age ten. His mother had only smiled wanly and smoothed his hair down when he'd expressed this fear to her. Called him silly, maybe. He couldn't remember.
Whitney had almost tuned Chloe's incessant stream of chattering out when he realized Chloe was actually talking to *him*. "—wants to know if you're a safe driver."
"If I'm—" the question took him aback, and he remembered with embarrassment that this was the third truck he'd owned in a year. "Sheeyeah. I'm freakin' a great driver," he said, entirely too defensive.
She blinked at him, and peered at his speedometer, noting that he immediately slowed down nearly 15 mph under her scrutiny. Giving him a very hard look indeed, she said into the phone breezily, "Yeah Daddy, don't worry, he drives like a grandmother."
"Damn straight," Whitney muttered, doggedly not meeting her gaze.
She ignored him. "OK, Daddy. I know, I know. I—" she paused and pressed the phone against her shoulder to mute it. "My Dad wants to know what time I'll be home."
"I dunno. Midnight, maybe," he shrugged, surreptitiously speeding up again. "I mean, you know, at night the roads are empty and I can usually make the trip in two hours--"
"I can't tell my Dad that!" She hissed. Then, sighing, she said into the phone, "We'll be home by midnight. Yeah, I know it's a—no, I'm going to get all my homework done on the way and back, I promise. No, I know, it's not a regular thing. Sure. No, I will. Like I said, he's a really safe driver."
"I am!" Whitney added for emphasis. Chloe ducked her head, hiding a knowing grin.
"OK. I love you too. I will." She hung up, and fingered the keypad thoughtfully. Whitney gave her a passing glance.
"Something wrong?"
"Nah," Chloe said, giving him a small smile. "Just that-" She rolled her eyes at her own sentimentality. "My mom lives in Metropolis and-- I dunno."
"Oh." Whitney leaned back in his seat some, feeling awkward suddenly. "You wanna stop by and see her? I can drop you off when I—"
"No, it's OK," Chloe hurried to interrupt him. "I mean, I can't just drop by unannounced. She's… probably not even home."
"You should give her a call. Maybe--"
"Butt out, Fordman." But her tone was teasing, light… if a little wistful. He just nodded briskly, keeping his gaze fixed on the road.
"I can't believe he didn't flip out that you just took off like that."
Chloe shrugged and smiled to herself with great affection. "My parents were kind of hippies in their day. You know. Peace, love, granola. Lots of pot."
Whitney glanced between her and the road, incredulous. He'd never heard of parents like that. He tried to picture his dad in a headband and love beads, hair and beard long and grizzly, and he nearly swerved off the road in shock at the very thought.
"Wow. Can't imagine what that's like."
"It's cool most of the time," Chloe said. "I mean… I know it sounds crazy, but when I was younger, I kind of wished they were a little stricter. You know, more like other people's parents. But now it's mostly cool. Despite the fact that he totally makes me want to hide under my bed with his corny jokes sometimes… we're really close. I mean, I know I'm lucky, you know? My dad trusts me a lot, and I can pretty much talk to him about anything."
"My dad is *nothing* like that," Whitney blurted out. He suddenly looked ashamed at the admission.
"Yeah?" Chloe asked, suddenly feeling strangely cautious. "What's he like?"
"Uh. Well." Whitney sighed. "He's used to being his own boss, I guess." And everybody else's, he added to himself silently. "He's the kind of guy that wore suits to school when he was a kid. You know?"
"Wow," Chloe murmured. "I guess that explains a lot."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just that maybe being a little uptight runs in the Fordman family," she murmured casually.
"I'm not uptight!!" But the irony of his overly intense response wasn't lost on either of them. He glared at the road ahead of him in defeat as she hid her smirk into her shoulder, feigning a gaze out the window instead.
They drove in easy silence for a few minutes, lost in thought about the place ahead of them and its inhabitants, until the phone's jingly ring tone jarred them both from their contemplating.
"The Nutcracker Suite as a ring tone?" Chloe muttered, fumbling for the phone. "Lana's got a little Russian fixation, huh?" She pressed the TALK button and put the phone to her ear in one swift movement.
Chloe opened her mouth to say "Hello", but never quite made it. In fact, she seemed to be having a hard time finding any place in the other person's conversation to get a word in edgewise, which was, for Chloe, remarkable unto itself. It didn't take long for her to thrust out the phone towards him with barely concealed derision.
"It's for you," she said flatly. After a questioning, cocked eyebrow from him, she added in her most saccharinely sarcastic voice, "It's Lana. I believe she's looking for you. She sounds a little tiny bit upset."
Whitney tapped his fingers on the steering wheel cagily before taking the phone with a resigned sigh. "Hey, it's me," he said. The faint chirruping immediately stopped. "Chloe. It was Chloe." Another pause, and more eye- rolling from Whitney. His eyes met Chloe's in a silent plea for—something. Rescue, maybe, she thought.
"Right now? I'm on my way to Metropolis to drop stuff off for my Dad. Why?" Whitney winced at the response, whatever it was, and raised his voice in accordance. "You were busy! Anyway, I didn't realize your phone was in my truck until a half hour out of Smallville!" Chloe snorted at the lie, and he made a face at her.
"I can't believe you're— Lana, it's not like that!" The decibel level of his voice went up a few more notches. Finally, he sighed, exasperated, and visibly forced himself to calm down. "This is ridiculous. I'm driving right now. I can't talk. I'll give you your phone tomorr—"
Another interruption, and he seemed to deflate. "Sure, Lana. Whatever. We'll talk tomorrow. I'm hanging up now," he added meaningfully, but still he waited a few seconds before saying, "Goodbye." And purposefully pressed END.
"Wow. What was her malfunction?" Chloe asked. "Or should I not even ask?"
"She's annoyed that I took off with her phone," he answered, not meeting her eyes. And that I took off with Chloe Sullivan in the passenger seat, he added silently, but made no show of that tidbit.
Chloe grinned. "Well, you know, all those important phone calls she's got to make, I'm sure…"
"Do you mind?"
"Sorry," she said. She was painfully aware that she probably looked less than contrite, though.
"Lately all she does is get pissed at me," he muttered under his breath, then added, a little louder, more sharply: "Of course, Kent's always there to pick up the slack and make her feel better." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and quickly tacked on a "Sorry" at her deflated expression.
"It's reality, isn't it?" she shrugged, sounding far more chipper than she felt. "The more I hear and see things like that, the better, I think. Cause… I think I'm the kind of person who… who only learns things the hard way. You know?" She gave a short, mirthless laugh, bashful at the admission, and was surprised to see his face break out into a tentative smile to match.
"Heh. Me, too." His features suddenly grew dark, and his eyes narrowed. "You know what he gave Lana for her birthday this year?"
"No," Chloe said glumly. "Although he did have the bad taste to ask me to help pick out clothes for her party."
"Jesus, he's such a jerk," Whitney's voice was laced with incredulity.
"He didn't—I mean, he doesn't really know—"
"No way you're gonna write that one off," He shook his head. "You can't tell me he doesn't know you have a thing for him. He's not stupid. Well… not *that* stupid, anyway."
"I like to think I hide it well."
Whitney bit his lip.
"Shut up. I so do."
"I didn't say anything," Whitney said, all innocence.
Chloe regarded him with a hard look, then softened. "So… what did he get her?"
"Oh. Jeez." Whitney shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "So I spend like three *weeks* looking for a first-edition copy of her favorite book, right?"
"Right… heard about that one."
"After looking in maybe a hundred different bookstores and antique shops and crap like that, over four counties, I finally find it in this used book store way the fuck out past Metropolis, this hole in the wall." His acrimony was mounting visibly with every word. "Like a five hour drive outta Smallville. It cost me a fortune!"
"Very nice of you," Chloe conceded neutrally.
"Thanks," he grumbled. "Not that I'm complaining, cause really, she loved it. Really loved it. But Kent—Kent had to top that, of course. He got Luthor to rent him some movie projector, and recreated a freaking drive through movie theatre against his damn barn for her, all because it reminded Lana of her last birthday with her parents."
Chloe was floored. "Are you kidding me?"
"Can you believe that shit? My book's probably sitting under a pile of dirty socks under her bed."
"Wow."
"What?"
"Nothing," Chloe shook her head, her eyebrows furrowed together in embarrassment. "It's just that he got me a… a gift certificate to Footlocker. For *my* birthday last year."
"Oh, real suave, Kent."
"I haven't used it yet. You want it?"
"Sure." And he gave a sly smile at the thought.
Chloe suddenly grinned conspiratorially. "So, uh… Lex got him the projector, huh?"
"Yeah."
They exchanged knowing glances, and burst into snickers in unison.
"Gosh, Lex is such a romantic!" Chloe cooed, batting her eyelashes, and Whitney play-grimaced.
"Anything for Clarkie, I'm sure," he crowed. Then he smirked. "Tell you what-- I'll get you, like, your own synchronized swimming show or a lawn full of ice sculptures or something for your next birthday. Just to piss Clark off."
"Oh, perfect," Chloe snapped, sitting up indignantly. "You know, just the other day I was saying to myself, what my life is really missing is for me to be right in the middle of a pissing contest between Whitney and Clark. Over Lana. That would totally make my freaking year."
Whitney cleared his throat, looking more than a little guilty. "I didn't mean it like that."
Chloe clicked her tongue. "Boys are clueless nerds."
"Yeah? At least we're predictable," he shot back evenly. "Girls are crazy."
Her mouth dropped. "Crazy? CRAZY?" She raised both eyebrows at him in chastisement. "Wait, you're judging *my* sanity?" The implications hung entirely too heavy between them just then, and he only glowered mutely at the road ahead, throwing her only the briefest of glares.
Chloe stayed silently contemplating for a few seconds, then seemed to get a second wind. "And you know what, as much as you complain about Clark, Lana is still with you. After everything he's done for her, and everything you've done to him. So you can't even complain because you're in the lead here, in case you haven't noticed."
Whitney's eyes widened, still on the empty stretch of road ahead, as Lana's words last week came to him, unbidden.
*I feel like I'm trapped in this relationship out of guilt.*
He shuddered and drew a shaky breath. "You know what? It doesn't feel like I'm winning," he confessed quietly.
"Then why?" she asked him, leaning forward over her now-closed laptop. "I'm sorry if it's not my business, but why do you even stick around if you know it's a losing battle? You could have any girl in school." She blushed, and hurried to add awkwardly, "You know. Almost. Why let yourself be humiliated like that? Tell me to butt out if you want, it's just—"
"No, it's OK," he said, looking defeated. "It's because I—" Whitney sighed tensely, a slow blush creeping high onto his cheeks—something she'd never seen before. It made him look years younger, and he looked terribly unhappy with himself. Chloe nodded knowingly.
"Because you *love* her," she said, unable to completely eradicate the sarcasm from her voice. He neither agreed nor disagreed; just rolled his eyes and looked even more uncomfortable.
"Well, I guess that's sort of sweet," she said, wholly underwhelmed. "Hopeless, but sweet." She glanced out the window. The streets were getting busier and more and more houses and buildings were lining them now. Soon she'd see the familiar cityscape of Metropolis looming before them; the knowledge relaxed her inexplicably.
"Like you're any better," he retorted awkwardly, and after far too long.
Nonetheless, her lips twisted in acknowledgement. "Well, I guess one good thing's come out of this," she sighed. "Or semi-good, at least. I mean, I'm cool with the fact that I don't think you're a useless, brainless jock anymore."
Whitney nodded pragmatically. "Yeah, I guess that's cool. Now I know you're not that annoying. Mostly."
"Wow, and he's a sweettalker too," she drawled, squinting at him. "Jeez, shut up, will you? I'm trying to say something here."
"Uh. OK."
"OK… it's like… I dunno, I feel like we're—" she searched for the right turn of phrase, and finally decided upon, "Kindred spirits in second- rateness. Yeah." She gave him an almost affectionate smile.
He blinked. "Thanks. Uh. I think."
"You know what I mean."
"I… *think*." He gave her a suspicious look, then his features relaxed. "Y'know, you could go out with a lot of guys and quit pining for Kent too."
"Right," she drawled, barely amused. "I'm beating the guys off me with a stick."
"You could be. If you wanted. A lotta guys on the team had kind of a thing for you."
"You've officially lost what little mind you had, Fordman. Ever get checked out for head injuries? I hear they can induce psychosis."
"Come on, it's true," he nodded, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "Probably cause you rag on us so much. You should have heard how rowdy they got when they found out I'd started working on the paper. Some of them think you'd be a real challenge."
"I can't tell you how flattered I am," she told him sarcastically. "Really. That just totally made my whole night. You just can't possibly know. And you know what, right after I get a lobotomy, I'll be sure to give them all my number."
"It's OK, it's already on the locker room wall," he deadpanned, and burst into laughter at the expression on her face. "I'm kidding!" he protested, dodging a flurry of objects being flung from the passenger side.
"Oh. You were kidding?" she asked, trying desperately to not sound disappointed. "So… they don't think I'm a challenge…or… anything like that. I mean."
"Yeah, no, I meant about your phone number."
"Mmkay... Totally confused here, gotta admit."
"Never mind!" He blew air between his teeth. "Jeez, you're a pain in the*ass* sometimes." But it was said entirely without rancor, and she smiled.
"I aim to please."
He made a turn, and suddenly the ecru mammoth of Metropolis General's exterior loomed before them without any warning. Whitney's features had instantly switched from amusement to a terribly guarded expression, and his gazed darted about the entire building.
"Wow, we're here already," she mused.
"I was doing eighty five on the highway," he admitted absently.
"Yeah, by the way, are you aware that you drive like a friggin' maniac?"
"Hey, I drive fast, but I drive safe."
"Famous last words."
"You're here in one piece, aren't you?"
"But for the grace of God."
He swiped the ticket that the parking entrance machine had spat out at him, and he shoved it in Chloe's direction. "Pain in my *ass*," he muttered again.
She smiled smugly as she tucked the ticket into her bag.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
In the end, she had met Mr. Fordman for all of three seconds, with her hanging awkwardly in the doorway to his private hospital room as the man gave her a hard suspicious stare before accusatorily croaking out to Whitney, "Where's Lana?"
Whitney had taken that as his cue to hurriedly rifle through his knapsack and dig out a decrepit looking notebook, thrusting it at Chloe while ushering her out into the hallway.
"It's my article for this week's paper," he explained in a hushed voice. "Maybe you can go over it while I wrap things up with my Dad. I dunno." She had nodded, silent and smart enough to keep the concern out of her expression.
It had been hard to concentrate on Whitney's article, though. She found her attention continually zoning back onto the fugue being formed by the two very different male voices on the other side of the door. The words were muffled, but the tones consisted of one man's gravelly, slow diction, in varying degrees of imposing staccato, and another, younger man's light baritone, uncharacteristically never rising above a patient, measured volume.
So the older Fordman turned out to be someone who had finally managed to cow Whitney Fordman, surly arrogance and all. Chloe knew she could have been gloating, but instead she could only shift uncomfortably in the stiff hospital chair and try her mightiest to focus on something other than the tension in the conversation she couldn't quite make out. Her uncanny hearing detected notes of protest and growing frustration in Whitney's voice, and she instantly realized he would not be coming out of there whistling a happy tune at all.
She finally was able to train her attention on the task at hand, and settled down to read Whitney's latest article. What she read made her eyes grow wide. He had ever so cavalierly disregarded the assignment she'd requested and instead decided to write on the topic of his choice. Not totally against the rules, granted, but definitely bucking tradition. Instead of covering junior varsity wrestling tryouts, Whitney had written a rallying account of how he'd learned to appreciate the value of supporting women's sports through his last few assignments on the Torch. He had, for good measure, tacked on a carefully constructed argument at the end about why it was the moral obligation of every Smallville High sports fan to do so. He criticized those who would cry and "completely freak out" (*OK, that'll have to go*, Chloe thought, chewing on her poised red pen) over men's football and then jeer hypocritically at the thought of attending a game of the equally superlative girls' basketball team.
It was quite an effective diatribe. Of course, the students were used to seeing Chloe rant on a weekly basis about just such topics… but coming from Whitney, it would carry a completely different impact.
"Well, how do you like that," Chloe murmured, duly impressed. "Whitney Fordman, champion feminist. Will wonders never cease."
A few more minutes of red scribbling and corrections passed before the sudden click of the door made her start. She hurriedly stood and began collecting her belongings as Whitney made his way into the hallway, knapsack in hand, his expression one of utter whitewash.
"Went that good, huh?" she asked gently. He just shook his head silently and stared at the ceiling in frustration.
"Wh… what happened?" Her voice was quiet, unsure. He just continued to shake his head slowly, eyebrows furrowing, his gaze fixed on the now-locked door as though it could give him any kind of answer.
"Same crap as always," he said after a moment. "The books are a mess, my mother is useless and so am I, I'm lazy and I don't give a shit about anything important…" his voice broke off and he let out a tired breath. "Actually… now that I've lost my chance at that scholarship, my father thinks I should just drop out of school." He didn't meet her eyes as he started down the hall without notice.
Chloe's mouth dropped in brief shock, and she had to scramble to catch up. "Whitney—don't do that, OK? Please don't do that."
"Well," he started, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "It's not like I have to worry about my future, right? I mean if I didn't go back tomorrow, I'd have a job for the rest of my life."
"You mean the job you currently loathe with a fire of a thousand exploding suns?"
"That's the one," he nodded grimly, still not looking at her.
"Well, I think that would be criminal," she told him, fully indignant, and with enough force to compel him to finally give her a sidelong glance.
"Criminal, huh?" he snorted. "I'm not exactly a scholar anyway…"
"Granted, you will never win a Pulitzer," she conceded, "But you're not exactly a Neanderthal, either." She stopped him with her hand on his arm, turning him to face her. "Your writing has been really sharp, Whitney. This last one—whoa. It sincerely blew me away. You're not a dumb guy, y'know. You could get into college on an academic scholarship."
He let out a dry laugh. "I'm a solid B student," he confessed. "With football, I never really had time to really throw myself into schoolwork."
"You'd still be able to get in, and you could try out for the team when the time comes."
"How would I even begin to pay for that? I don't have a penny saved up for college. I was counting on it all being paid for when the time came. So much for not being an idiot, huh?" He sounded utterly disgusted with himself, and she frowned, dismayed.
"You can go to a state college, then," Chloe insisted, her voice nearly pleading. "They have payment plans and they're cheap, and you could still play football and maybe transfer and—there's a whole hell of a lot you can do. You're just—just being a total fatalist."
"I'm being a fatalist?"
"Yes! And it's ridiculously melodramatic, because hello? You're only seventeen."
"Eighteen next month."
"Big deal!" And she smacked him with his own notebook, making him cock an eyebrow at her. "I can't even believe you're falling for your Dad's crap like that. I can't believe you want to get out of Smallville that badly and then you give up at the first setback and you're going to—to just piss it all away by dropping out of school! Oooh, I could just smack you!"
"You already did," he pointed out glumly.
"Whatever!" She blew air between her teeth and stared at him. "The point is that if you drop out of high school with only four months left to graduate and resign yourself to something you completely don't want, then yeah, you are a total moron. I mean, you'd be, like, King of the Morons. But you'd only be doing it because you want to, because if a stupid freshmen like me can see a dozen different ways for you to get exactly what you really want, then it can't be all that impossible. Of course, if you're just looking for a way to secure yourself a lifetime of feeling sorry for yourself—"
"I'm not feeling—" but he paused, and chewed on his bottom lip. "OK, you know what? It's really hard to think straight and think all positive when someone is telling you that you will never get to where you want to be, all right?"
She smacked him again.
"Again with the notebook," he grumbled. "What was that for?"
"My dad says that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
Whitney stared at her flatly. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that if your dad is only capable of shooting down everything you hope for, then, duh, logic dictates that you don't turn to him for support about things like this." She sighed, collecting herself, and began again: "You turn to your friends. You turn to Lana. Don't roll your eyes; if you can't turn to her, then what the hell do you have her there for?"
The question was innocuously asked, but it gave him sharp pause just then, because it suddenly hit him that he no longer had an answer to that question—not one he could be sure of.
Maybe she saw this in his face, because she quickly changed course: "You know, I thought we were supposed to cheer ourselves up on this trip. And I dunno about you, but so far, this has been kind of a downer."
"I'm sorry. It's just--"
"I swear to God, Fordman, if you ever let me finish anything I say, I will die a happy woman."
"Yeah, well, if I ever let you finish, I'd probably die waiting for you to finish." Amusement was creeping back into his eyes, and she visibly relaxed at that.
"Uh, yeah, whatever *that* means," she scoffed playfully. "Anyway, I propose that as long as we're here in the great city of Metropolis, we should pay a visit to what's indisputably the Happiest Place On Earth."
His mouth twisted into a teasing grin. "Tijuana, Mexico?"
She groaned audibly and threw up her hands in disgust. "I think I honestly might hate you," she cried as she dragged him by a sleeve toward the exit elevator.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
::: sings :::: This is the fic that never ends :::sings:::. It just goes on and on my friends!! I promise only 4 more chapters. Many thanks to my eagle-eyed betas, Tresca and wook, to whom any shred of coherence in this chapter is due. Also, I'd like to thank Tresca for helping me make Whitney sound a LOT less like Robin Williams. Chapter 10 will be up by 4/5/2002.
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IX.
Never before had Whitney met anyone who could type on a laptop in a moving vehicle, theorize on meteor rock mutations in Smallville, cry over unrequited love, stuff her face with glazed chocolate donuts, groove to the Pink song on the radio, AND complain about his driving all at once. She talked so much—by turns muffled by the donuts and then rattling clear as a bell and then back to snarfing—that an hour and a half into their trip, he was seriously starting to regret having invited her along. What had he been thinking? What had possessed him to invite this peculiar, vaguely irritating person to spend the next eight or nine hours of his life with him?
Oh, yeah. Because he was a big sap who couldn't stand to see a girl cry. Even a girl that was cheerfully capable of getting on his last nerve. Besides, maybe it was masochistic empathy, but he hated seeing someone attempt something they were passionate about, only to have their attempt squashed by life's circumstances and unthinking cruelty. He realized that what had happened today between them all would be no big deal in anyone's version of "the long run." But… Chloe's eyes had been blazing with determination when she had tried to get that scoop about Good Samaritan Charities, and it had been a righteous cause. He had to grudgingly admit that she'd deserved that story for her paper, and Kent had to come along and piss on her parade like he usually did.
Kent and Lana.
He flinched at the reminder, although a quick glancing check assured him that it had gone unnoticed by Chloe, who was still prattling on obliviously to her father on the cell phone.
It should really have come to no surprise to Whitney that apparently Chloe's father could gab just as much as Chloe could. She and Mr. Sullivan had spent a solid twenty minutes apparently interrupting and speaking over each other continually. Hell, that's what he assumed was going on, as it had mostly been a continual monologue on Chloe's end, so that the only way Whitney could tell that her father was talking too was the fact that her monologue seemed to occasionally include responses to actual questions.
It was impressive, really, this mode of communication that the Sullivans had apparently worked out among themselves. He was starting to get the strong impression that Chloe never did things the conventional, easy way.
What had most impressed Whitney, though, was the easy manner in which arguing over Chloe's curfew and the sheer boneheadedness of her impromptu departure for Metropolis with a boy she barely knew seemed to be so amicably interspersed with innocuous dialogue about Chloe's day, their new cat, Gabe's muffler (it was making a weird wheezing noise), the previous evening's episode of Six Feet Under (from what Whitney could tell, some woman named Ruth seemed to be both Gabe and Chloe's favorite character, although during one particularly long lapse in Chloe's chattering—and by long, he meant ten seconds or so-- it appeared Gabe didn't quite get one of the plot points of the last episode, so Chloe had to explain it-- twice) and a short, but apparently happy reminiscence of the disastrous last time the Sullivans had tried to barbecue.
Whitney found himself wondering when these people ever had time to do anything *but* talk. Exactly how long was it going to take the girl to explain that she was going to be home late? And he felt an instantaneous and childish pang of envy at the warm camaraderie that she and Mr. Sullivan seemed to share, at the way in which Chloe's features were relaxed and bright. There was certainly no such phenomenon happening at the Fordman house.
His own house had always been a remarkably quiet place interrupted with occasional exclamations —eerily quiet now, since his father's booming voice was no longer resonating through the hallways with demands and appraisals. By contrast, his mother was a very slight woman whose tentative voice rarely rose above a whisper. Whitney often thought she seemed to be walking on eggshells, which was strange, really, as no one in the house had a particularly bad temper. His father wasn't an especially violent man … but then, his father sure wasn't the type to ever be afraid to be heard.
The elder Mr. Fordman was a man whose interpersonal skills had been conditioned by a lifetime of giving orders to employees. A good employee, he often informed his family, was never defiant; if an employee ever was, it was with full knowledge that there would be swift consequences, which most often included quickly meted-out disapproval, restriction of privileges, and, depending on the severity of the infraction, a thorough and public tongue-lashing. With no doubt the best of intentions (which paved the way to hell, as Whitney's granny had often pointed out), Mr. Fordman had run his household very much the way he'd run his store his entire life. A successful system was, after all, a successful system, and why tamper with success?
Whitney sometimes—only fleetingly, really—recalled that as a small child, upon hearing his father wax philosophical about this analogy, he'd been secretly terrified of being fired. Stupid now, but back then its probability had been decided upon with the kind of assured finality one rarely retains past age ten. His mother had only smiled wanly and smoothed his hair down when he'd expressed this fear to her. Called him silly, maybe. He couldn't remember.
Whitney had almost tuned Chloe's incessant stream of chattering out when he realized Chloe was actually talking to *him*. "—wants to know if you're a safe driver."
"If I'm—" the question took him aback, and he remembered with embarrassment that this was the third truck he'd owned in a year. "Sheeyeah. I'm freakin' a great driver," he said, entirely too defensive.
She blinked at him, and peered at his speedometer, noting that he immediately slowed down nearly 15 mph under her scrutiny. Giving him a very hard look indeed, she said into the phone breezily, "Yeah Daddy, don't worry, he drives like a grandmother."
"Damn straight," Whitney muttered, doggedly not meeting her gaze.
She ignored him. "OK, Daddy. I know, I know. I—" she paused and pressed the phone against her shoulder to mute it. "My Dad wants to know what time I'll be home."
"I dunno. Midnight, maybe," he shrugged, surreptitiously speeding up again. "I mean, you know, at night the roads are empty and I can usually make the trip in two hours--"
"I can't tell my Dad that!" She hissed. Then, sighing, she said into the phone, "We'll be home by midnight. Yeah, I know it's a—no, I'm going to get all my homework done on the way and back, I promise. No, I know, it's not a regular thing. Sure. No, I will. Like I said, he's a really safe driver."
"I am!" Whitney added for emphasis. Chloe ducked her head, hiding a knowing grin.
"OK. I love you too. I will." She hung up, and fingered the keypad thoughtfully. Whitney gave her a passing glance.
"Something wrong?"
"Nah," Chloe said, giving him a small smile. "Just that-" She rolled her eyes at her own sentimentality. "My mom lives in Metropolis and-- I dunno."
"Oh." Whitney leaned back in his seat some, feeling awkward suddenly. "You wanna stop by and see her? I can drop you off when I—"
"No, it's OK," Chloe hurried to interrupt him. "I mean, I can't just drop by unannounced. She's… probably not even home."
"You should give her a call. Maybe--"
"Butt out, Fordman." But her tone was teasing, light… if a little wistful. He just nodded briskly, keeping his gaze fixed on the road.
"I can't believe he didn't flip out that you just took off like that."
Chloe shrugged and smiled to herself with great affection. "My parents were kind of hippies in their day. You know. Peace, love, granola. Lots of pot."
Whitney glanced between her and the road, incredulous. He'd never heard of parents like that. He tried to picture his dad in a headband and love beads, hair and beard long and grizzly, and he nearly swerved off the road in shock at the very thought.
"Wow. Can't imagine what that's like."
"It's cool most of the time," Chloe said. "I mean… I know it sounds crazy, but when I was younger, I kind of wished they were a little stricter. You know, more like other people's parents. But now it's mostly cool. Despite the fact that he totally makes me want to hide under my bed with his corny jokes sometimes… we're really close. I mean, I know I'm lucky, you know? My dad trusts me a lot, and I can pretty much talk to him about anything."
"My dad is *nothing* like that," Whitney blurted out. He suddenly looked ashamed at the admission.
"Yeah?" Chloe asked, suddenly feeling strangely cautious. "What's he like?"
"Uh. Well." Whitney sighed. "He's used to being his own boss, I guess." And everybody else's, he added to himself silently. "He's the kind of guy that wore suits to school when he was a kid. You know?"
"Wow," Chloe murmured. "I guess that explains a lot."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just that maybe being a little uptight runs in the Fordman family," she murmured casually.
"I'm not uptight!!" But the irony of his overly intense response wasn't lost on either of them. He glared at the road ahead of him in defeat as she hid her smirk into her shoulder, feigning a gaze out the window instead.
They drove in easy silence for a few minutes, lost in thought about the place ahead of them and its inhabitants, until the phone's jingly ring tone jarred them both from their contemplating.
"The Nutcracker Suite as a ring tone?" Chloe muttered, fumbling for the phone. "Lana's got a little Russian fixation, huh?" She pressed the TALK button and put the phone to her ear in one swift movement.
Chloe opened her mouth to say "Hello", but never quite made it. In fact, she seemed to be having a hard time finding any place in the other person's conversation to get a word in edgewise, which was, for Chloe, remarkable unto itself. It didn't take long for her to thrust out the phone towards him with barely concealed derision.
"It's for you," she said flatly. After a questioning, cocked eyebrow from him, she added in her most saccharinely sarcastic voice, "It's Lana. I believe she's looking for you. She sounds a little tiny bit upset."
Whitney tapped his fingers on the steering wheel cagily before taking the phone with a resigned sigh. "Hey, it's me," he said. The faint chirruping immediately stopped. "Chloe. It was Chloe." Another pause, and more eye- rolling from Whitney. His eyes met Chloe's in a silent plea for—something. Rescue, maybe, she thought.
"Right now? I'm on my way to Metropolis to drop stuff off for my Dad. Why?" Whitney winced at the response, whatever it was, and raised his voice in accordance. "You were busy! Anyway, I didn't realize your phone was in my truck until a half hour out of Smallville!" Chloe snorted at the lie, and he made a face at her.
"I can't believe you're— Lana, it's not like that!" The decibel level of his voice went up a few more notches. Finally, he sighed, exasperated, and visibly forced himself to calm down. "This is ridiculous. I'm driving right now. I can't talk. I'll give you your phone tomorr—"
Another interruption, and he seemed to deflate. "Sure, Lana. Whatever. We'll talk tomorrow. I'm hanging up now," he added meaningfully, but still he waited a few seconds before saying, "Goodbye." And purposefully pressed END.
"Wow. What was her malfunction?" Chloe asked. "Or should I not even ask?"
"She's annoyed that I took off with her phone," he answered, not meeting her eyes. And that I took off with Chloe Sullivan in the passenger seat, he added silently, but made no show of that tidbit.
Chloe grinned. "Well, you know, all those important phone calls she's got to make, I'm sure…"
"Do you mind?"
"Sorry," she said. She was painfully aware that she probably looked less than contrite, though.
"Lately all she does is get pissed at me," he muttered under his breath, then added, a little louder, more sharply: "Of course, Kent's always there to pick up the slack and make her feel better." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and quickly tacked on a "Sorry" at her deflated expression.
"It's reality, isn't it?" she shrugged, sounding far more chipper than she felt. "The more I hear and see things like that, the better, I think. Cause… I think I'm the kind of person who… who only learns things the hard way. You know?" She gave a short, mirthless laugh, bashful at the admission, and was surprised to see his face break out into a tentative smile to match.
"Heh. Me, too." His features suddenly grew dark, and his eyes narrowed. "You know what he gave Lana for her birthday this year?"
"No," Chloe said glumly. "Although he did have the bad taste to ask me to help pick out clothes for her party."
"Jesus, he's such a jerk," Whitney's voice was laced with incredulity.
"He didn't—I mean, he doesn't really know—"
"No way you're gonna write that one off," He shook his head. "You can't tell me he doesn't know you have a thing for him. He's not stupid. Well… not *that* stupid, anyway."
"I like to think I hide it well."
Whitney bit his lip.
"Shut up. I so do."
"I didn't say anything," Whitney said, all innocence.
Chloe regarded him with a hard look, then softened. "So… what did he get her?"
"Oh. Jeez." Whitney shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "So I spend like three *weeks* looking for a first-edition copy of her favorite book, right?"
"Right… heard about that one."
"After looking in maybe a hundred different bookstores and antique shops and crap like that, over four counties, I finally find it in this used book store way the fuck out past Metropolis, this hole in the wall." His acrimony was mounting visibly with every word. "Like a five hour drive outta Smallville. It cost me a fortune!"
"Very nice of you," Chloe conceded neutrally.
"Thanks," he grumbled. "Not that I'm complaining, cause really, she loved it. Really loved it. But Kent—Kent had to top that, of course. He got Luthor to rent him some movie projector, and recreated a freaking drive through movie theatre against his damn barn for her, all because it reminded Lana of her last birthday with her parents."
Chloe was floored. "Are you kidding me?"
"Can you believe that shit? My book's probably sitting under a pile of dirty socks under her bed."
"Wow."
"What?"
"Nothing," Chloe shook her head, her eyebrows furrowed together in embarrassment. "It's just that he got me a… a gift certificate to Footlocker. For *my* birthday last year."
"Oh, real suave, Kent."
"I haven't used it yet. You want it?"
"Sure." And he gave a sly smile at the thought.
Chloe suddenly grinned conspiratorially. "So, uh… Lex got him the projector, huh?"
"Yeah."
They exchanged knowing glances, and burst into snickers in unison.
"Gosh, Lex is such a romantic!" Chloe cooed, batting her eyelashes, and Whitney play-grimaced.
"Anything for Clarkie, I'm sure," he crowed. Then he smirked. "Tell you what-- I'll get you, like, your own synchronized swimming show or a lawn full of ice sculptures or something for your next birthday. Just to piss Clark off."
"Oh, perfect," Chloe snapped, sitting up indignantly. "You know, just the other day I was saying to myself, what my life is really missing is for me to be right in the middle of a pissing contest between Whitney and Clark. Over Lana. That would totally make my freaking year."
Whitney cleared his throat, looking more than a little guilty. "I didn't mean it like that."
Chloe clicked her tongue. "Boys are clueless nerds."
"Yeah? At least we're predictable," he shot back evenly. "Girls are crazy."
Her mouth dropped. "Crazy? CRAZY?" She raised both eyebrows at him in chastisement. "Wait, you're judging *my* sanity?" The implications hung entirely too heavy between them just then, and he only glowered mutely at the road ahead, throwing her only the briefest of glares.
Chloe stayed silently contemplating for a few seconds, then seemed to get a second wind. "And you know what, as much as you complain about Clark, Lana is still with you. After everything he's done for her, and everything you've done to him. So you can't even complain because you're in the lead here, in case you haven't noticed."
Whitney's eyes widened, still on the empty stretch of road ahead, as Lana's words last week came to him, unbidden.
*I feel like I'm trapped in this relationship out of guilt.*
He shuddered and drew a shaky breath. "You know what? It doesn't feel like I'm winning," he confessed quietly.
"Then why?" she asked him, leaning forward over her now-closed laptop. "I'm sorry if it's not my business, but why do you even stick around if you know it's a losing battle? You could have any girl in school." She blushed, and hurried to add awkwardly, "You know. Almost. Why let yourself be humiliated like that? Tell me to butt out if you want, it's just—"
"No, it's OK," he said, looking defeated. "It's because I—" Whitney sighed tensely, a slow blush creeping high onto his cheeks—something she'd never seen before. It made him look years younger, and he looked terribly unhappy with himself. Chloe nodded knowingly.
"Because you *love* her," she said, unable to completely eradicate the sarcasm from her voice. He neither agreed nor disagreed; just rolled his eyes and looked even more uncomfortable.
"Well, I guess that's sort of sweet," she said, wholly underwhelmed. "Hopeless, but sweet." She glanced out the window. The streets were getting busier and more and more houses and buildings were lining them now. Soon she'd see the familiar cityscape of Metropolis looming before them; the knowledge relaxed her inexplicably.
"Like you're any better," he retorted awkwardly, and after far too long.
Nonetheless, her lips twisted in acknowledgement. "Well, I guess one good thing's come out of this," she sighed. "Or semi-good, at least. I mean, I'm cool with the fact that I don't think you're a useless, brainless jock anymore."
Whitney nodded pragmatically. "Yeah, I guess that's cool. Now I know you're not that annoying. Mostly."
"Wow, and he's a sweettalker too," she drawled, squinting at him. "Jeez, shut up, will you? I'm trying to say something here."
"Uh. OK."
"OK… it's like… I dunno, I feel like we're—" she searched for the right turn of phrase, and finally decided upon, "Kindred spirits in second- rateness. Yeah." She gave him an almost affectionate smile.
He blinked. "Thanks. Uh. I think."
"You know what I mean."
"I… *think*." He gave her a suspicious look, then his features relaxed. "Y'know, you could go out with a lot of guys and quit pining for Kent too."
"Right," she drawled, barely amused. "I'm beating the guys off me with a stick."
"You could be. If you wanted. A lotta guys on the team had kind of a thing for you."
"You've officially lost what little mind you had, Fordman. Ever get checked out for head injuries? I hear they can induce psychosis."
"Come on, it's true," he nodded, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "Probably cause you rag on us so much. You should have heard how rowdy they got when they found out I'd started working on the paper. Some of them think you'd be a real challenge."
"I can't tell you how flattered I am," she told him sarcastically. "Really. That just totally made my whole night. You just can't possibly know. And you know what, right after I get a lobotomy, I'll be sure to give them all my number."
"It's OK, it's already on the locker room wall," he deadpanned, and burst into laughter at the expression on her face. "I'm kidding!" he protested, dodging a flurry of objects being flung from the passenger side.
"Oh. You were kidding?" she asked, trying desperately to not sound disappointed. "So… they don't think I'm a challenge…or… anything like that. I mean."
"Yeah, no, I meant about your phone number."
"Mmkay... Totally confused here, gotta admit."
"Never mind!" He blew air between his teeth. "Jeez, you're a pain in the*ass* sometimes." But it was said entirely without rancor, and she smiled.
"I aim to please."
He made a turn, and suddenly the ecru mammoth of Metropolis General's exterior loomed before them without any warning. Whitney's features had instantly switched from amusement to a terribly guarded expression, and his gazed darted about the entire building.
"Wow, we're here already," she mused.
"I was doing eighty five on the highway," he admitted absently.
"Yeah, by the way, are you aware that you drive like a friggin' maniac?"
"Hey, I drive fast, but I drive safe."
"Famous last words."
"You're here in one piece, aren't you?"
"But for the grace of God."
He swiped the ticket that the parking entrance machine had spat out at him, and he shoved it in Chloe's direction. "Pain in my *ass*," he muttered again.
She smiled smugly as she tucked the ticket into her bag.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
In the end, she had met Mr. Fordman for all of three seconds, with her hanging awkwardly in the doorway to his private hospital room as the man gave her a hard suspicious stare before accusatorily croaking out to Whitney, "Where's Lana?"
Whitney had taken that as his cue to hurriedly rifle through his knapsack and dig out a decrepit looking notebook, thrusting it at Chloe while ushering her out into the hallway.
"It's my article for this week's paper," he explained in a hushed voice. "Maybe you can go over it while I wrap things up with my Dad. I dunno." She had nodded, silent and smart enough to keep the concern out of her expression.
It had been hard to concentrate on Whitney's article, though. She found her attention continually zoning back onto the fugue being formed by the two very different male voices on the other side of the door. The words were muffled, but the tones consisted of one man's gravelly, slow diction, in varying degrees of imposing staccato, and another, younger man's light baritone, uncharacteristically never rising above a patient, measured volume.
So the older Fordman turned out to be someone who had finally managed to cow Whitney Fordman, surly arrogance and all. Chloe knew she could have been gloating, but instead she could only shift uncomfortably in the stiff hospital chair and try her mightiest to focus on something other than the tension in the conversation she couldn't quite make out. Her uncanny hearing detected notes of protest and growing frustration in Whitney's voice, and she instantly realized he would not be coming out of there whistling a happy tune at all.
She finally was able to train her attention on the task at hand, and settled down to read Whitney's latest article. What she read made her eyes grow wide. He had ever so cavalierly disregarded the assignment she'd requested and instead decided to write on the topic of his choice. Not totally against the rules, granted, but definitely bucking tradition. Instead of covering junior varsity wrestling tryouts, Whitney had written a rallying account of how he'd learned to appreciate the value of supporting women's sports through his last few assignments on the Torch. He had, for good measure, tacked on a carefully constructed argument at the end about why it was the moral obligation of every Smallville High sports fan to do so. He criticized those who would cry and "completely freak out" (*OK, that'll have to go*, Chloe thought, chewing on her poised red pen) over men's football and then jeer hypocritically at the thought of attending a game of the equally superlative girls' basketball team.
It was quite an effective diatribe. Of course, the students were used to seeing Chloe rant on a weekly basis about just such topics… but coming from Whitney, it would carry a completely different impact.
"Well, how do you like that," Chloe murmured, duly impressed. "Whitney Fordman, champion feminist. Will wonders never cease."
A few more minutes of red scribbling and corrections passed before the sudden click of the door made her start. She hurriedly stood and began collecting her belongings as Whitney made his way into the hallway, knapsack in hand, his expression one of utter whitewash.
"Went that good, huh?" she asked gently. He just shook his head silently and stared at the ceiling in frustration.
"Wh… what happened?" Her voice was quiet, unsure. He just continued to shake his head slowly, eyebrows furrowing, his gaze fixed on the now-locked door as though it could give him any kind of answer.
"Same crap as always," he said after a moment. "The books are a mess, my mother is useless and so am I, I'm lazy and I don't give a shit about anything important…" his voice broke off and he let out a tired breath. "Actually… now that I've lost my chance at that scholarship, my father thinks I should just drop out of school." He didn't meet her eyes as he started down the hall without notice.
Chloe's mouth dropped in brief shock, and she had to scramble to catch up. "Whitney—don't do that, OK? Please don't do that."
"Well," he started, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "It's not like I have to worry about my future, right? I mean if I didn't go back tomorrow, I'd have a job for the rest of my life."
"You mean the job you currently loathe with a fire of a thousand exploding suns?"
"That's the one," he nodded grimly, still not looking at her.
"Well, I think that would be criminal," she told him, fully indignant, and with enough force to compel him to finally give her a sidelong glance.
"Criminal, huh?" he snorted. "I'm not exactly a scholar anyway…"
"Granted, you will never win a Pulitzer," she conceded, "But you're not exactly a Neanderthal, either." She stopped him with her hand on his arm, turning him to face her. "Your writing has been really sharp, Whitney. This last one—whoa. It sincerely blew me away. You're not a dumb guy, y'know. You could get into college on an academic scholarship."
He let out a dry laugh. "I'm a solid B student," he confessed. "With football, I never really had time to really throw myself into schoolwork."
"You'd still be able to get in, and you could try out for the team when the time comes."
"How would I even begin to pay for that? I don't have a penny saved up for college. I was counting on it all being paid for when the time came. So much for not being an idiot, huh?" He sounded utterly disgusted with himself, and she frowned, dismayed.
"You can go to a state college, then," Chloe insisted, her voice nearly pleading. "They have payment plans and they're cheap, and you could still play football and maybe transfer and—there's a whole hell of a lot you can do. You're just—just being a total fatalist."
"I'm being a fatalist?"
"Yes! And it's ridiculously melodramatic, because hello? You're only seventeen."
"Eighteen next month."
"Big deal!" And she smacked him with his own notebook, making him cock an eyebrow at her. "I can't even believe you're falling for your Dad's crap like that. I can't believe you want to get out of Smallville that badly and then you give up at the first setback and you're going to—to just piss it all away by dropping out of school! Oooh, I could just smack you!"
"You already did," he pointed out glumly.
"Whatever!" She blew air between her teeth and stared at him. "The point is that if you drop out of high school with only four months left to graduate and resign yourself to something you completely don't want, then yeah, you are a total moron. I mean, you'd be, like, King of the Morons. But you'd only be doing it because you want to, because if a stupid freshmen like me can see a dozen different ways for you to get exactly what you really want, then it can't be all that impossible. Of course, if you're just looking for a way to secure yourself a lifetime of feeling sorry for yourself—"
"I'm not feeling—" but he paused, and chewed on his bottom lip. "OK, you know what? It's really hard to think straight and think all positive when someone is telling you that you will never get to where you want to be, all right?"
She smacked him again.
"Again with the notebook," he grumbled. "What was that for?"
"My dad says that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
Whitney stared at her flatly. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that if your dad is only capable of shooting down everything you hope for, then, duh, logic dictates that you don't turn to him for support about things like this." She sighed, collecting herself, and began again: "You turn to your friends. You turn to Lana. Don't roll your eyes; if you can't turn to her, then what the hell do you have her there for?"
The question was innocuously asked, but it gave him sharp pause just then, because it suddenly hit him that he no longer had an answer to that question—not one he could be sure of.
Maybe she saw this in his face, because she quickly changed course: "You know, I thought we were supposed to cheer ourselves up on this trip. And I dunno about you, but so far, this has been kind of a downer."
"I'm sorry. It's just--"
"I swear to God, Fordman, if you ever let me finish anything I say, I will die a happy woman."
"Yeah, well, if I ever let you finish, I'd probably die waiting for you to finish." Amusement was creeping back into his eyes, and she visibly relaxed at that.
"Uh, yeah, whatever *that* means," she scoffed playfully. "Anyway, I propose that as long as we're here in the great city of Metropolis, we should pay a visit to what's indisputably the Happiest Place On Earth."
His mouth twisted into a teasing grin. "Tijuana, Mexico?"
She groaned audibly and threw up her hands in disgust. "I think I honestly might hate you," she cried as she dragged him by a sleeve toward the exit elevator.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
::: sings :::: This is the fic that never ends :::sings:::. It just goes on and on my friends!! I promise only 4 more chapters. Many thanks to my eagle-eyed betas, Tresca and wook, to whom any shred of coherence in this chapter is due. Also, I'd like to thank Tresca for helping me make Whitney sound a LOT less like Robin Williams. Chapter 10 will be up by 4/5/2002.