"How was school today, honey?" Lois asked. Jason gave her a look that was purely teenaged Lane. He was a freshman in high school, and it came with the discovery of hormones and other hazards of teenaged existence, such as the development of the family wit.
"I don't know," he said, unzipping his bag and rummaging around in the layers of crumpled papers within. "How was blinking? How was digesting? How was breathing?"
She looked at him, nonplussed.
"I think the answer to your question is 'routine'," Jason finished, setting two sheets of rumpled paper on the counter next to the cutting board and taking the rest of the mess with him out of the room.
Lois tried very hard not to laugh. She really did. But it was funny.
"Damn," she muttered when the chuckle escaped. The thing about super-powered children was that they could hear it when she gave in to a laugh after they'd left the room, even when laughing would encourage incredibly annoying habits.
Shaking her head, she set aside her pen and picked up his papers—the first was a permission slip to visit the planetarium, the other was his report card.
She supposed she could excuse him the development of her own caustic sense of humor if he'd inherited his father's penchant for straight A's.