“Read through chapter 8 this weekend and come prepared to talk about it Monday,” Clark said as he glanced at the clock over his classroom door. The second hand crept toward the twelve over a soundtrack of rustling as twenty-five students shoved folders and books into backpacks. “Be thinking about Holden as you read. Is he a reliable narrator? Do you agree with his descriptions of those around him?”
The bell rang and his students dashed for the door, eager to start their weekends.
Clark gathered up the papers he needed to grade over the weekend and stuffed them in his bag. He opened his lesson plans for the next week, intending to go over them, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He looked up and saw Travis holding up a fistful of papers.
“Do you have a second to look this over for me?” he asked.
Clark nodded, and Travis entered the classroom, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and handed him the article he was working on for next week’s Tiger Times about standardized test scores and college admissions. Clark read through it quickly, nodding as he read.
“It’s a good start,” he said. “You’ve got all the basics covered about how the tests are scored and what the scores mean in terms of admission rates. I want to know more about how this affects our school. What kind of test prep options do we have here? What do other schools in our area offer? What about in Wichita? How heavily do colleges weigh these scores compared to GPA or extracurriculars? What are students here doing to prepare and stay competitive with other students? I see you have a couple quotes from students in the article, but they are just giving us basic information about the test that you could write without a quote. Use your quotes to tell us a story. Dig a little deeper with the students you interviewed – how are they feeling about their scores? What plans are riding on those scores?”
Travis nodded eagerly, taking the papers back and jotting down a few quick notes.
“See what you can add to it this weekend from interviewing your classmates and bring it to our meeting on Monday with a list of questions for other sources like local school systems or test prep companies, and we’ll work on how to reach those sources.”
Travis smiled widely. “Sounds good,” he said. “Thanks, Coach!”
He turned and took off into the hallway, and Clark shook his head. When he first started teaching, he had tried so hard to enforce a rule that his players only call him coach during practices, games, and official team meetings. In the classroom, he was their teacher, not their football coach, and he wanted to emphasize that he was their teacher first, coach second.
But it had been a losing battle. It wasn’t just his players that called him coach – it was all the students, and the teachers, and even members of the community. He had come to see it for the sign of respect it was. And in reality, teaching wasn’t that different from coaching. He was guiding and molding his students both on and off the field.
He went back to his lesson plans, but hadn’t gotten far when Lana poked her head in the room.
“Hey!” she said. “I’m heading out. Are you coming over early tomorrow?”
He nodded. “What time do you want me?”
“The party starts at two. You want to come over at noon and have lunch and then we’ll finish setting up? Sophie already badgered me into putting up most of the decorations last night, so there’s not a whole lot to do.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Do you want me to pick up something for lunch?”
She shook her head. “We can just have sandwiches. There’s going to be so much food at the party. The kids are probably going to be too excited to eat. It’ll be a waste.”
He nodded his agreement, and Lana ducked back out, heading home. He finished up his lesson plans quickly, without any more interruptions, and gathered his things.
He said goodbye to a few lingering teachers on his way to his truck, but the halls and the parking lot were mostly empty. The baseball team jogged by, warming up before their practice, and they huffed out a collective greeting. About half the team were also members of his football team. In a school their size, teams were constantly struggling to find enough players to fill the rosters, and there was no way for students to specialize in just one sport or activity if they wanted to field teams year round.
The school sat five miles outside town, surrounded by corn fields and cows pastures. The teachers’ lot was located on the north side of the building, facing a field of cows, grazing peacefully in the warm afternoon sun. He opened his truck door and tossed his bag in the passenger seat.
The drive home was seven minutes, eight if he caught the red light at the single intersection between the school and his house. The warmth of the spring afternoon had melted the last of the snow and brought everyone out of hibernation. He parked in his driveway and waved to his next door neighbor, an elderly woman with a wicked sense of humor, as she rocked on her porch swing.
He exited his truck just in time to say hello to Jenny Prichard, who had been Jenny Smythe back when they had been in school together, as she pushed a stroller down the sidewalk past his house. Her older boy, who was in Sophie’s kindergarten class, motored along beside her on a scooter.
“Hey, Clark!” she called.
“Hi, Coach!” her little boy called. “High five?”
Clark smiled and crouched, and the little boy dropped his scooter and came running, jumping up and smacking his hand with all the strength he could muster.
“Ow,” Clark said, shaking his hand. “You’re getting awfully strong.”
Jenny rolled her eyes and smiled.
“Where are you going?” Clark asked.
“To the library!” the little boy answered.
“And then to the square to burn off some of that energy,” Jenny muttered, making Clark laugh.
“Be a good listener for your Mama,” Clark said seriously. “And make sure you help her cross the street safely.”
The little boy stood up taller, serious about his important duties.
“I’ll hold her hand,” he said, and Clark nodded approvingly.
He scurried back to his mother’s side and Clark winked at her over his head. “See ya, Jen. Tell Charlie I said hi.”
“Will do!” she said, turning her attention back to the little boy and his scooter. “Come on, Ethan. Let’s get moving.”
Clark went inside, dropped his keys on the table, and walked through the living room and into his small home office. He dropped his bag on the floor next to his desk, his eyes going automatically to the computer.
He forced himself to turn and walk back out of the room without turning it on, and strode through the living room into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and stared blankly at the contents for a minute before giving up.
He closed the door and walked back to the office, sliding into his desk chair and booting up the computer. When he had spoken briefly to Lois on Wednesday, and she had suggested they email, he’d had a moment of panic. He had neither internet connection nor email address. Smallville was not exactly on the cutting edge of new technology, and though a few friends had been urging him to get online, he hadn’t bothered to do it yet and wasn’t entirely sure how one even went about obtaining an email address.
He was about to make a phone call enlisting help, when he remembered the stack of mail that had accumulated while he was in Florida still sitting on his kitchen counter. He was almost certain there was at least one of those trial disks for AOL that seemed to arrive almost daily at this point. Sure enough, there had been two, each boasting a thousand free minutes of internet services.
Clark had grabbed a disk, and dove headfirst into the world of email, creating an account and tapping out his first message then and there. He had spent more time editing than writing, trying to achieve just the right easy going tone that would make her feel comfortable enough to respond. And then he had waited.
He knew she wouldn’t be able to respond that night, out on her stakeout, but all day at work the next day, he had thought about his inbox, eager to check it as soon as he got home. There had been nothing waiting for him. He had checked in almost hourly after that, plugging in his phone cord and dialing up, the terrible scratchy, screeching sound making his cringe each time, just in case she was working late and would still reply. By eight, he had conceded that she wasn’t going to respond. He had forced himself to watch a documentary on TV and catch up on some grading. But his mind would not stop wandering to her, wondering if she was really going to reply or if the email suggestion had been a polite brush off.
His computer fully booted up, he plugged in the phone cord and dialed up, taking a deep breath before opening his inbox. He was so tense he nearly jumped at the automated “you’ve got mail!” notification.
He saw her name and couldn’t stop the giant grin that spread across his face. He clicked, waiting impatiently for the message to load. As soon as he saw the first line, he started laughing.
From: Lois Lane <lane.lois@dailyplanet.com>
To: Clark Kent <cjkent@aol.com>
Subject: Re: Hello
Date: April 27, 1995, 8:34am
I swear to god, if you tell me Holden Caulfield is your favorite character and Salinger is your literary hero, I will delete this email and never speak to you again. Catcher in the Rye is the most overrated, overread drivel ever forced upon me in high school. I cannot believe you are inflicting that horror on your students.
Holden Caulfield is an unbearable, privileged brat, and Salinger doesn’t even write him that way intentionally, as a criticism. We’re supposed to identify with this guy and find him admirable because he speaks candidly and doesn’t shy away from harsh truths? I will tell you a harsh truth: Holden is an insufferable jerk who has no idea what it’s like to have a real problem.
I should not even reply to the rest of your email until you reassure me that you are only teaching Catcher in the Rye because it is required and that you agree with me.
Deep breath. I have faith that you are more enlightened than Mrs. Whitaker, who gave me a B+ on my 10th grade English midterm for being “too strident” and “unbalanced” in my analysis of Holden Caulfield. Please tell me I’m right.
Also please tell me what else you are teaching your other classes so I can decide how horrified I need to be about the state of your syllabi.
I’m glad your students enjoyed their time at the beach over the weekend. They deserved some time to let loose and have fun. And I love that they are now quoting me to you — turnabout being fair play and all.
The weather here was just as awful as predicted, and this investigation is going nowhere, so the stakeouts were both miserable and pointless. This is going to be a long-term project, so I’ll have to work on it bit by bit when I’m not busy with other articles.
My editor pulled me off it yesterday to work on a story about a string of arsons, so I got a reprieve from stakeouts, but then I wound up reeking of smoke so badly that I had to rush home after work and shower before my taekwondo practice, so I didn’t wind up giving my classmates lung damage. My job is very glamorous. You should be jealous.
What are you doing this weekend? What sorts of things are there to do for fun in Smallville? Cow tipping? Corn mazes?
Tell me all about your exciting weekend plans. And I’m serious about the Salinger thing. I need some reassurance fast before I block your email address and run for the hills.
Lois
Clark sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. He could almost hear her voice berating him about Holden Caulfield. He would give anything to be back in Miami with her in person, but this email was the next best thing. He should have known that her personality and voice would shine through in her emails, given her obvious skill with the written language, but he had somehow expected their correspondence to be more formal and stilted. This…this was Lois Lane through and through.
He read the whole email again, leisurely this time, his heart twisting in his chest even as he couldn’t stop grinning. She was incredible.
He was dying to whip off a reply immediately, but he forced himself to wait. She had taken two days to reply to him. He didn’t want to look desperate. Besides, he needed time to get the reply just right.
He turned off the computer and went back to the kitchen, too excited now to focus on food. He needed to burn off some energy. He zipped up to his bedroom and changed into running clothes, then jogged down his front steps and followed the path to the sidewalk, taking off at a brisk run.
He waved at a few neighbors as he ran past, itching to pick up some real speed. After a mile, the houses began to spread out and after one more mile the houses turned to fields. It was early spring, the fields still empty, so they offered him no cover. But as he turned down a dirt road, jogging past the barren fields, he scanned his surroundings and was satisfied that he was alone.
And then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone, above the clouds. He barrel rolled a few times and accelerated, heading due north, intent on finding somewhere remote enough to let him get up to full speed.
****
Clark knocked on the door perfunctorily and then opened it, peeking his head inside.
“I heard a rumor there’s a birthday girl-”
“Uncle Clark!” She launched herself into his arms, a blur of blond hair and giggles.
He tossed her into the air and caught her again, delighting in her laughter.
“Sophie, your mother’s looking for you,” Pete said with a grin, entering the foyer from the living room. “She wants to know where you want the balloons.”
Sophie took off for the backyard, and Pete clapped Clark on the arm. “Thanks for coming. Lana’s about to drive me crazy. You’d think we were entertaining royalty, not our families and a handful of kids from Sophie’s kindergarten class.”
Clark laughed. Lana had always been a bit…intense when it came to hosting.
“She told me yesterday the decorations were up and there wasn’t much left to do.”
“Yeah, that’s what she told me last night. But she’s been running around like a chicken with her head cut off all morning. Cleaning. Blowing up balloons. Prepping food. I tried to help, and she yelled at me to get out of her way if I was just going to slow her down.”
They both laughed. Lana’s bark was far worse than her bite, and they knew her well enough to recognize the manic stage of her party prep cycle. Soon she would have everything under control and up to her standards, and she would be mingling with guests insisting it was all nothing and no trouble at all.
“Apparently I’m supposed to be on lunch duty,” Pete said. “She’s in the backyard if you want to brave her wrath. Good luck.”
Clark made his way out back and found Lana tying bunches of balloons to the patio furniture.
“Thank god,” she said when she saw him. “Someone competent.”
Clark rolled his eyes. Her jabs at Pete might be awkward or uncomfortable if he didn’t know for a fact that she utterly adored her husband. For twelve years, the two of them had pretended they couldn’t stand each other and only tolerated one another for the sake of their mutual best friend. Once they had finally admitted they were head over heels, old habits died hard. They still liked to get in their digs, but no one around them gave it the least bit of credence.
An hour and a half later, the last of the decorations were hung, the party snacks were in their serving dishes or warming in the oven, and the children had been sent to their rooms to change. Lana had disappeared up the stairs to change as well, and Pete and Clark sat in a comfortable silence on the couch watching ESPN.
The doorbell rang, and Clark and Pete looked at each warily.
“Clark!” Lana called from upstairs. “That’s probably your parents!”
Clark shrugged at Pete and stood from the couch. A quick glance over the top of his glasses confirmed Lana’s prediction. He walked quickly to the front door and ushered them in. His mother was carrying a large covered plate, and he realized she must have been in charge of the cake.
“Here, Mom, let me take that,” he said, lifting the plate from her hands. He carried it into the kitchen while his dad helped her out of her coat and then removed his own. They appeared beside him in the kitchen a moment later, and he hugged them both.
“I didn’t realize you were bringing the cake,” he said.
Martha shrugged. “Lana said Sophie asked for my double chocolate cake. Who can resist that request? She asked for the recipe, and I offered to make it myself. I know how busy she is.”
Clark grinned at the twinkle in her eye, knowing full well what she actually meant was that she knew how crazy Lana drove everyone when she was hosting parties.
Lana appeared just then, hugging his parents and thanking them for coming and bringing the cake. She had changed into a dress and heels, and her messy ponytail had been tamed into soft waves. Pete appeared in the kitchen doorway, and whistled at her, eliciting a blush that made him laugh. She went straight to his arms, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said with a grin.
“Really?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Because an hour ago you told me get my worthless butt out of your way or-” she cut him off with a hand over his mouth.
“I changed my mind,” she said with a laugh, kissing him again.
Clark rolled his eyes at them good naturedly, but the affection he generally felt for them when they were sweet with each other was joined today by an unfamiliar longing. He had resigned himself so long ago to never having what they had that he rarely allowed himself to even think about it. But now…he wanted this so badly. The easy familiarity, the sweet affection, the flirty sideways glances in public.
Lana turned then and must have caught something in his gaze, because she raised an eyebrow curiously.
“Get a room,” he teased.
“Oh, I know you are not going to lecture me about public displays of affection after last week,” she said, eyebrows raised, gauntlet thrown.
His smile disappeared. “Lana,” he said warningly, but it was too late. Every eye in the kitchen was on him. He sighed and shook his head at her.
“Oops,” she said, with a smile that said she was anything but sorry.
“Clark?” his mother asked, and the hopeful look on her face cut him to the quick. He knew how much she wanted him to have a normal life, to find someone who loved him. But it was so complicated.
“It’s nothing, Mom,” he said, shooting Lana a pleading look.
“How is Lois, Clark? Have you called her yet? You have called her, right?” Lana was loving every minute of this torture and he vowed to get his revenge eventually.
“Lois?” his mother asked.
Clark sighed. “Lois Lane,” he said. “The Pulitzer winner I told you about who was giving the speech at the award ceremony on the last night of the conference?”
His mother nodded eagerly, and a part of him wanted to give in and gush about the incredible woman he met and how much he liked her and how desperately he wanted to get to know her better.
“We wound up running into each other on Thursday and spending a little time together. She had dinner with us – all of us – on Thursday, and was very generous with her time, talking to the kids about career options and such.”
“Well, that was nice of her,” his father said, and Clark shot him a grateful look, hopeful that would be the end of the conversation.
But of course Lana couldn’t let it go. “And then she and Clark had drinks. And then she showed up at breakfast the next morning. And then he sat with his arm around her during the morning sessions on Friday.”
Clark scrubbed a hand across his eyes and massaged his temples briefly, his jaw clenched so tight he was sure it would hurt if he could feel pain. “Lana is exaggerating-”
“She was freaking gorgeous,” Lana added. “And clearly smart and successful. And I happen to know she gave him her number. So? Did you call her, or did you chicken out?”
All eyes were on him. “I called her,” he admitted finally. “She’s really busy with work right now, but we’ve been emailing-”
“Emailing?” Martha said, shocked. She had been an early adopter of the new technology, embracing the ability to reach out to old friends who had moved away. She had extolled the virtues of email to him in the past, but he had remained unconvinced. “When did you get an email address?”
Clark stuttered a non-reply, and she laughed. “I see. Well, if she was worth opening an email account for, she must be something.”
“Did I mention she was gorgeous?” Lana teased.
“It’s not like that,” he said. “We’re just friends. Barely even that. We just enjoyed talking at the conference and thought it would be nice to continue getting to know each other better. She lives in Metropolis, and she has a very busy life.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about her,” Martha said gleefully.
Clark scowled. “Lana’s blowing this all out of proportion. There’s nothing to tell. Really.”
The doorbell rang, and he heard Sophie clatter down the stairs yelling, “I’ll get it!”
They dispersed, and Clark wanted to kiss whoever had shown up early, taking the attention of him at least for the moment. But he was sure he was going to hear more about this later.
Last edited by AnnieM; 06/07/22 06:10 AM.
