It occurred to me for about ten seconds that evening that it might be a smart idea to have Clark and Pete help me with the legwork on the story about the explosion, but I was already developing a fiercely proprietary interest in the thing. Happens sometimes. I can't get worked up over what brand of tater tots they're serving in the cafeteria these days, but a mystery stirs up my childhood ambition toward intrepid-girl-detective-ism.

Of course, nothing barring an act of god would've kept them (and anyone who wanted to know, really) from finding out exactly what happened to Dr. Richter and how I'd played a tiny part in it. They cornered me at my locker after lunch the next day, both wearing bright red kool-aid mustaches. That particular piece of ridiculousness helped hold my resolve to the sticking place. I was about to lie, horribly and thoroughly, to the two people I was usually first to confide in.

There's poetic justice in that, I realize. Something changed in our three musketeers dynamic about a year and a half ago, after that Hindenburg of a dance but before my hastily-devised experiment in Sullivan-Lang cohabitation. It's between Clark and Pete and it definitely smells like a secret to me, only I've never quite gotten up the nerve to demand access. I'm too afraid that they'll kick me out of the clubhouse and then where would I be? Maybe not so far from where I am now and there's something in that too. Prosaic justice maybe?

Game day and the hallway was a noisy maze of red and yellow letterman jackets and pompoms. At least baseball season is generally less heinous than football season, right? I mean, Kansas? Football? They go together like ham 'n' eggs. Practically the state religion.

"You okay, Chlo?" Clark asked, taking my non-bandaged hand in that way that invariably used to make me melt until about a year ago. Chloe Sullivan! Now with liquid center!

"I'm standing here, aren't I?" I reminded him gently.

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Yeah. Good point. I just feel like there's something I could've done..."

I shook my head. "You can't save everyone, Clark," I said. "And besides, I wasn't even the one who needed saving." He looked pointedly at my bandages. "Hey, that's just the idiot tax, okay?"

"You tried to save him, Chloe. That's not stupid," Pete cut in.

I sighed and shook my head. "I know that. I just feel...bad. Dr. Richter deserves way more attention than I do. He's the one who's..." I couldn't finish. My mouth worked, up and down, guppified.

Pete took pity on me. "I guess the Torch gets an exclusive on this one though, huh?" Then he seemed to realize what he'd just said and his eyes got really huge. "Not that it's cool to take advantage of...I mean...Dr. Richter..."

Then it was my turn. "I wasn't actually planning on writing a story about it."

Clark dropped my hand and covered my forehead. "She's not feverish."

"You're kidding." Pete had this goofy grin on then.

"A good journalist has to be objective. I don't see how I can be when I was basically at ground zero."

They looked lost and confused. Because, up until about 30 seconds before that, I was their ball-breaking nosy journalist of a friend. Those characteristics helped them tell me apart from everyone else. I felt a twinge of regret that I was lying so totally. On the other hand, I couldn't have them underfoot or in danger. It wasn't fair and it would have been wrong to have them take the risk.

"If you say so, Chlo," Clark said, still confused. "We'll see ya later, okay?"

"Yeah," I agreed, "but you guys might want to wipe your faces. It looks like you've been drinking red 40, neat." Pete looked quizzical. "Kool-aid with lunch?" I suggested helpfully.

Two sets of fingers flew up in embarrassment. It was wrong to laugh at a time like that, but I couldn't help the chuckles that rolled through me. It was so simple and stupid and perfect. Maybe I was losing my mind. What a comfort that would be.

* * *

Kind of amazing to think about what one summer at the Planet did for my hometown credibility as a journalist. People I used to have to wheedle and cajole practically until the cows come home...well, they're exactly not breaking down doors to talk to me yet, but they're not throwing up any shiny new steel-reinforced ones either.

I hadn't spent as much time poking around in LexCorp's wheelings and dealings as I did in LuthorCorp's and even then there wasn't much poking that I did do. I mean, I never could get wholly behind Lex's hard-nosed conviction that his father is, in fact, the Prince of Darkness, but on good days, I'm smart enough to recognize that going up against the Luthors single-handed isn't the best approach. But then, just when I was wishing I had even one solid inside source, my well-considered hands-off policy was definitely coming back to bite me in the ass, and not in that fun way either.

I chewed absently on the end of a pen, thinking simultaneously about the necessity of good sources and the best possible way to phrase the headline for Jenny's review of some action-adventure, shoot 'em up something-or-other movie. The last time I saw a movie in the theater...

I didn't even wanna think about it. Depressing.

All I could come up with in the second category were various Principal un-approved things involving the word "ass" in some way. I dropped the pen and tugged at my hair. Maybe I could coax inspiration that way. I rolled my head back, peering upside down at the wall clock. Eight p.m. Damn. Good thing Dad was out of town. I love him, I really really do, but I can only camp out at the Torch like that when I know he's not around. That way there's no chance that I'll feel guilty about not spending every iota of my free time with him. It also helps that I know he won't be calling a million times to ask me when I'm coming home. Dad and I have this kind of bashful co-dependency thing going on. We love to see each other, but I think we're also both afraid of crowding each other too.

My most productive hours are always after the official school day ends, not only because it gets so quiet, but because it's not everyone who's got the right to be here. Stupid little power trip, isn't it? Well, it's all mine.

I raised my hands over my head, stretching and letting the vectors of possible dinners develop in my brain: was the bread moldy? did we have any peanut butter? was it crunchy or smooth? what if I just scrapped the peanut butter sandwich thing and made an omelet or something? did I have enough money for pizza? In the midst of considering that final option, I was gathering my things and heading into the hallway. The key was practically turned in the lock when the phone inside the office rang. Shit. I threw open the door and promptly tripped over the cardboard filing box that holds all the back issues from the past few years. I really should just spend the 20 bucks for a real McCoy filing cabinet. The phone was still ringing.

"I'm coming!" I told it angrily. Reaching long, I snatched up the receiver. "Smallville Torch."

"Chloe? Is that you?"

It was John. At least I was pretty sure it was. Hard to tell because his voice was really weird. Scared. "Yeah, it's me. You sound awful."

"I...something happened, Chloe."

"What is it?"

"I can't really talk right now. But I overheard something about Dr. Richter." It was obvious that John was broken up over it, whatever it was.

Ask for a source and ye shall receive. "Have you told the sheriff yet?"

"No, not yet."

I didn't like that. "Why not?" Good journalism is one thing, but obstruction of justice is something else altogether.

"I'm not sure there's anything he can do."

I was simultaneously intrigued and concerned. Pragmatically I knew the situation was absurd. What on earth could I do that the sheriff couldn't? Subjectively, I was completely thrilled that John wanted my help before anyone else's. "Do you want to meet me somewhere?"

"I'd better not right now," he said, sounding calmer.

Wait just a goddamn second. What was happening? That sinking feeling? That sickness pooling in the pit of the stomach? That was my story slip slidin' away. "John, I'm coming to see you." I prayed wildly to those fickle gods of journalism that I wasn't pushing him too hard. He was quiet for a long long long time. I knew he hadn't hung up because I could hear him breathing. "John?"

"Okay. Tomorrow. I have to think." He laughed and it was a little hysterical.

Before, I think, I lied. Smallville might be the weirdness capital of the planet, but, somehow, people here aren't any more prepared to absorb un-ordinary tragedies than anyone else. That's comforting in a way.

"Great. How about six-ish? Is that okay? I'll come over."

"Sure." He hung up. I was standing there in the dim office, staring at the phone. What could possibly have John so rattled? He was a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, not in the boring way that description's usually used, just in that you couldn't imagine an uncharitable thought ever occurring to him. He was a volunteer EMT for god's sake. I shook my head and left for real, locking the door behind me.

Even thought it was only a little after eight, Smallville's streets were pretty empty. I made it home in record time and eased gratefully into my pajamas (man-style with an abstract, red and white flower print). Then I padded downstairs, on the hunt for dinner. I hoisted myself up to kneel on the kitchen counter so I could easily dig through the cabinets. Could someone tell me why we have about 10 million cans of condensed milk? I don't even know what condensed milk is good for. Looked to me like Dad was stocking up on paprika too. I found a lonely packet of Easy Mac behind the cans and decided that my lucky star was definitely out.

While I measured out the right amount of water, I tried my best not to think about John and what he might tell me and how worried he sounded. Compartmentalize, Sullivan. Control your rabid journalistic instincts for once. Distracted, I didn't bother to wait until the powdered cheese thickened around the noodles. I bolted the Easy Mac, barely tasting its fake cheesy goodness.

I was John's friend, wasn't I? I really should make sure he's okay.

Decision made, I pulled on my tennis shoes, no socks, and threw on my coat over my pajamas. Keys? Check. Camera? Check. Tape recorder? Check. I wasn't exactly running out the front door, but I wasn't exactly walking either.

* * *

Ahh! It's been too long since I've updated! Mea culpa. I promise never to let it sit this long again. In apology, please accept this 2-chapter chunk of Telling.