They continued to eat and talk and even laugh, and soon they had all forgotten the tangible awkwardness that had previously lain in the large hall. He didn't know why he didn't ask her out right then. Maybe it slipped his mind, or maybe it didn't seem an appropriate time to bring it up. People may have stared at them but they didn't notice, least of all Clark, who was intoxicated with Lana's laugh and the occasional, accidental touch of her leg against his. When lunch ended it was a shock, as if they had only been talking for a few minutes instead of the forty-five that had passed. Clark offered to walk Lana to class, but she was fine on her own and thanked him for his consideration. The lingering glances she gave him as she walked away were enough to keep him going through the snide glances, snickers and staring eyes that followed him once he had been seen walking through the hallways with the now-available Lana Lang.

"You can stop staring now, Clark," Chloe said dryly. "She's turned the corner."

Clark suddenly noticed his friend standing next to him. "I wasn't staring!" he protested weakly.

Chloe rolled her eyes. She didn't even have to say Yeah, right. "So you've got Math next?"

"No, it's cancelled today," he remembered.

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, why don't you stop by the Torch? We're short hands and, who knows, maybe you can write."

"Hey, I can write," Clark said in a mock-defensive tone. "Just watch me."

"That's the spirit!" she said cheerily, and dragged him by the arm in the general direction of the Torch office.

When they got there, Pete was showing Anna, his latest "trophy," as he put it, how to use the computer.

"Hey," Chloe said, snapping into business mode, "date's over. Get to class, you two."

Anna smiled shyly at Clark as Pete led her out the door with one hand on her back. The short football player turned his head as they left and gave his friends an ecstatic grin, displaying his joy at his newest find. Clark gave him an encouraging smile.

Chloe had forgotten Pete existed as she started bringing up files, connecting to the internet, sorting through hard copies of new leads, and directing Clark to the second computer all at once. Clark felt slightly overwhelmed.

"How does all this work again?"

"Here," she said, thrusting out her hand. He took from her a piece of paper with some scribbling on it.

"What's this?" he asked, squinting as he tried to read the words.

"It's my latest idea. Picture this," she said, holding up her hands as screen frames. "In The Off-Season: What Jocks Do When They Actually Have to Work." She grinned at Clark. "What do you think?"

He hesitated. "A little harsh, wouldn't you say?"

She shook her head emphatically. "Nothing's harsh, Clark, you'll have to learn that. Whatever gets people buying the papers."

He looked at her skeptically. "Chloe, the paper is free." Her answering look could have frozen Satan. Quickly he changed the subject. "So what's the story?"

She beamed at him. "Well, I found out some stuff from Trevor, and I was going to interview Whitney, but let's just say now's not the best time! Anyway." Clark was amazed. Her brain was moving much faster than usual, which was really something for Chloe. He was reminded of a fly, buzzing hysterically to an object, bouncing off, and zooming to the next like some ridiculous imitation of a ping-pong ball. "It turns out that most of the football players who apply for jobs at the bookstores and convenience stores get turned down. They're only accepted as farmhands and at Pizza Hut or something. Get it?"

Clark took a wild stab. "Industrial bias based on education stereotypes?"

Chloe's smile was worth the guess. "Hey," she told him slyly. "You might turn out all right as a reporter after all."

He faked seriousness. "Now, about my salary…"

Chloe giggled and thrust a few files at him. "Here're the commercial records of the past eighteen months. Summer's in a separate file in the back and this doesn't specifically track jocks, so you'll have to look them up." Still smiling, she started moving away. "You're on your own, Mr. Reporter! I've got work to do!"

He gave her a winning grin and looked down at the manila folders in his hands. Well, he told himself seriously. Here begins my career as a reporter. The hilarity of that statement kept him smiling through the rest of the period as he sat at the second computer, looking up the work permits of the tenth grade football players.