"Claaaark!" Martha's morning song soars through the air, "Breakfast is ready!" She scrapes bacon from a pan, flipping it over with a smile. Letting out a giggle, she remembers a few days ago when Clark said something terribly out of character, but uniquely teenager. When he took his breakfast plate from her, he inhaled the bacon's aroma and monotoned, "Mmmm, meat."
Martha turns around ready to reminisce with her son, but surprisingly, he's not there. For the first time in recent memory Martha has to repeat, " Claaark? Breakfast!"
Clark is typically an early riser, whether it's because of his abilities or the fact that he was raised on a farm. But today, Clark opens his eyes putting an end to a restless night of sleep. He just couldn't get his mind to shut up. All night worries about Chloe, and what he had said to her, crept into his dreams preventing him from reaching the blissful state of slumber.
For a third time now Clark hears the agitated, perhaps even worried, voice of his mother calling him down for breakfast. With no time to shower he stretches his long reach out to his dresser for his maximum-strength deodorant, slathers it under each arm, and pulls on a shirt conveniently nearby with no thought as to whether its clean or not.
Clark reaches the top of the stairs and sees the most disapproving look his mother has ever given him this early in the morning. He tries a shrug and a half smile to reassure her, which just provokes a truly reproachful sneer.
"I guess true teenage habits have finally reached the Kryptonian solar system," Martha says as she moves back to the kitchen. "Your father needs to see you before you head off to school."
Clark stumbles down the stairs just as Martha drops his breakfast plate on the table. She finally gets a good look at him.
"Did you even comb your hair?" she asks, placing down the pitcher of orange juice. Without giving him a moment to respond, she stretches her leg under the table, hooking her foot around a small stool she has squirreled away for just such an occasion. She climbs up the two steps, reducing the height distance between herself, and her statuesque son. Holding him still with a firm hand on his shoulder, she licks her fingers, proceeding to fix his disheveled hair.
Wiggling free of her grip, he pours himself a tall glass of juice, sitting down in front of his breakfast.
Martha climbs off her pedestal, satisfied with her son's appearance. Despite the fact that Johnathan is only Clark's adoptive father, she can't help but think that his rugged good looks helped contribute to the handsome young man Clark has grown up to be.
"Why the late start?" Martha inquires, but already knowing the answer she leads with her next question, "Or, why did you get in so late?" Her son possesses many wonderful gifts, but being able to carry off a poker face is not one of them.
Clark shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Although an extraordinary teenager, he's still a boy, and Martha knows far too well that boys are every bit as tight lipped as men. Johnathan is twice as tight lipped as normal men, and Clark had the potential of being twice as so as him. Martha was determined to not let that happen.
"I saw you leave the Talon last night with Chloe," Martha says, watching him carefully out of the corner of her eye. It's immediately clear she has struck the right chord. "You did kind of ignore her a bit in favor of Lana," his mother adds, pretending to be occupied with her cooking, but still watching him like a hawk.
Martha sees Clark's eyes roll at the mention of Lana; an unconscious reaction to the dizzying roller coaster he had been stuck on for way too long. It was becoming somewhat exhausting always feeling the need to redefine their relationship. In his fruitless pursuit of Lana he somehow tossed aside a friendship far more promising. How was it that he had been blinded for so long by the one who asks so many questions instead of recognizing the one who holds all the answers?
"Yeah," Clark finally answers rubbing his eye in an attempt to hide any uncontrollable reaction his mother could latch on to and dig deeper into his life. "She was a little sore at me for it."
Despite his best efforts to hide, Martha picks up on something, and seizes the opportunity to dig deeper. She moves to the table, sitting across from the seat Clark has taken. "Clark, sweetie, Chloe's had a tough year. The type of year where she needs her friends more than ever."
"She doesn't talk about it much really," Clark says bluntly, pushing his chair away from the table, hoping to end the conversation. There's nothing worse than discussing your social life with your mom.
"Perhaps she's picked up your habits of secrecy," she probes.
"That's ironic," Clark smiles actually impressed at himself for correctly using that word, "seeing as you taught me to be that way." He hopes this new course will deflect her from his private life.
"I never taught you to be secretive about your feelings, Clark. I've always been very clear about that."
"Girls are never clear about anything, Mom," Clark miscalculates, immediately knowing that his Mom will seize this opportunity.
"Girls might not always say exactly what they mean, but they choose their words very carefully to tell you everything. All you have to do is listen equally as carefully." Martha says, satisfied that she's given great advice that should unlock vast mysteries for her son.
Clark drains his glass of juice using it as an excuse to not respond. He checks his watch, thankful that school's start is impending. "Yeah, I'll listen harder, Mom." A quick peck on the cheek signals his escape from more embarrassing talk with his mother.
x x x x
"Clark?" Johnathan calls out from across the yard. "Son, have you seen--"
"I forgot my history book up in the loft," Clark bellows using any excuse to avoid parental meddling this morning. He rounds the corner of the barn and slips in. His broad steps cross the distance between him and the stairs in a mere second, and he doesn't even have to use his super speed.
"Clark!" Confounded, Johnathan cuts across the yard, finding him. "This is important."
Clark's shoe pivots on the first step up into the loft so that he may turn to face his father.
"I filled up three tanks of gas yesterday for the tractor, and left them right over there," Johnathan informs him pointing to three impressions in the hay. "Now I can't find them."
"Maybe it's just another senior moment, eh Dad?" Clark jokes.
"I'm not that old yet, son. Seriously, what do you think happened to them?"
Clark shrugs, and then answers, "I don't know."
"Well, could you give a quick peek around the property and see if you can't spot them?" Johnathan asks humbly, truly worried that he may have actually just had a senior moment.
"Sure thing, Dad, just let me get my book," Clark bounds up the stairs to his loft. Without glancing around much, he fixates on his book, snatching it and tucking it away in his bag. He steps over to the hay door to look out over the property.
A hand falls to Clark's shoulder, reflexively spinning him around. In doing so he brushes a painter's easel which falls harmlessly to the empty couch.
"Well, do you see them?" Johnathan asks.
Clark turns his eyes back to the property, scanning it. "There they are."
x x x x
At the end of their driveway, Johnathan picks up the bone dry tanks, dusting them off.
"Looks like your gas was stolen," Clark surmises."
Johnathan can't hide the look of disappointment on his face. Not with himself so much as with the world, and what's become of it.
"You know what your problem is, Dad?" Clark asks but then answers his own question, "You're too trusting."
Johnathan blows deflated air through his lips. "I suppose so. But, you better head off to school."
x x x x
A stream of dust piles through an open field, Clark speeding to school. His thoughts return to Chloe and the events of last night. He knows he screwed up, he just can't quite figure out how.
Suddenly, the sight of a tiny flower stops him in his tracks. Aside from a little dust he just kicked up on it by his abrupt stop, he's discovered the perfect little daisy.
Maybe his mom was right, maybe he needs to throw a little attention Chloe's way. She didn't typically go for 'girl stuff,' but she was still a girl.
He leans down and picks it the flower, a smile creeping across his lips as his large hands cradle the seemingly perfect 'I'm sorry' gift. As he shields the delicate little flower from the wind, he can't help but think how much this sunny little bloom reminds him of Chloe; a fragile and beautiful thing that you can walk past a thousand times and never notice until one day your eyes truly open and allow you to appreciate the treasure God has created for you to enjoy.
He brings the flower up to his nose, breathing in the delicate fragrance, finally understanding what his mother meant. When Chloe speaks to him today, he'll listen. Even to the words she doesn't say.
x x x x
Clark weaves in and out of the crowds of teens in packs out front of the school. Still clutching the tiny, but perfect daisy, he moves as though he's on a mission to deliver the Holy Grail, excited for his eyes to meet Chloe's and start down the road of the renewal of their friendship.
As breathless as this superman can be, he pulls open one of the large double doors, only to be quickly stopped by the oddest site he's ever seen in Smallville; not a single edition of The Torch graces the wooden newspaper rack.
