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~late September
It wasn’t politically correct to call it ‘Indian Summer’ anymore, but Smallville was never on the leading edge of social trends. The day of the meteor shower—fourteen years ago exactly, in just two or three weeks—had been the only time Smallville led in anything, in fact, unless you were really crazy about creamed corn. Even now, in late September, when the leaves were supposed to be turning colors and the farmers were preparing to harvest the pre-creamed corn, Smallville was stuck in the middle again—the middle of the region’s biggest drought since before the old-timers in the Lowell County Nursing Home could remember, or so they all told Clark when he visited them with his mother on the weekends.
It hadn’t rained for weeks, that much was certain. The air was hot and shimmery, full of dust that coated everything, even Lex’s expensive cars in their climate-controlled garage. His chauffer, Lars, was going crazy because he couldn’t even wash the dust off them—not only would it have to be a daily effort, because the dust seemed to creep back in the night, but also car-washing was currently prohibited by county ordinance, to cut back on water use. A mere ordinance wouldn’t have stopped Lex, of course, but driving through the dusty, dry town in a shiny, clean car would have been a little too obvious. So the Porsches and Ferraris and Lamborghinis were as dusty as the Dodges and Fords and Chevrolets, and the castle’s lawn was as brown and crispy and dead as anyone else’s, because lawn-watering was currently forbidden, as well.
Clark had spent a few hours wondering if there was something he could do about it, but he somehow got the feeling that in real life, you couldn’t grab rainclouds and drag them to where you wanted them, like the superheroes did in the comic books. Plus he’d have to be able to fly to do that, and that just wasn’t happening.
So instead he thought about other things. He thought about the girls that pranced around school in their little tank tops with the spaghetti straps, in their little shorts that actually looked kind of uncomfortable to sit down in, with their endless tanned legs and equally endless variety of sandals. Not everyone had endless tanned legs, of course, and not everyone really ought to be wearing a tiny, stretchy tank top, but Clark wasn’t picky. Especially not lately. Melissa Maplethorpe was built like a block of cheese; her best friend Cindy Williamson resembled a gangly, overgrown bean pole. They had never caught Clark’s eye before, but still as they walked past him in the hall he found himself following their movements, thinking words like flesh and skin and hot and hard and soft and sweat and hurriedly telling Pete he thought he’d seen a lizard tail dart out of one of their shorts, so perhaps they were meteor mutants, and that’s why he was staring.
He thought about Lana, very pink and pastel and sweet in her little outfits, the tops never too tight, the shorts never too skimpy. Even if her make-up was a little... troweled-on for his liking, her hair was always straight and shiny, her eyes deep and moist. Moist. He thought about how they would widen, how her strawberry-pink lips would fold into an ‘O,’ how the long, slender column of her throat would arch underneath him... And then Clark looked down and realized that his pen had leaked all over his hand, right in the middle of Lit class, and no, he didn’t mean that euphemistically—blue-black ink, sticky and acrid-smelling, had exploded out the end of the pen, coating the desk, the paper, and himself, almost like it had boiled right out. Well. At least he got to go to the bathroom for a few minutes and wash up.
He thought about Chloe, who preferred lime green or electric yellow or blinding orange tank tops, with plunging V-necks that showed off the natural endowments Lana could only achieve with illusion or surgery. Chloe, in those tight and slightly tasteless skirts, the ones with a swirling pattern that mesmerized Clark and made him dizzy, the ones that were just ugly enough to make you think she didn’t mean to be sexy in them... but then she was anyway, because Chloe was just d—n good-looking even if she wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. She would be tougher, he wouldn’t worry so much about breaking her like he did Lana, and her little white teeth would be sharp, biting into his neck (not that they would leave a mark, unfortunately), and his t-shirt would have rips from her fingernails, when he lifted her onto that filing cabinet right there, or against the door to the Torch offices, and—well, sometimes the chairs did become sticky in the heat, when the varnish melted off onto students’ clothes... but didn’t that usually happen with wooden chairs, not plastic? And why would it happen at all in the library, which was air-conditioned? How the h—l was he going to explain plastic melted onto the back of his jeans and t-shirt to his mother on laundry day?
One person he tried, very very studiously, to not think about was—Alice. Alice in her short, flirty skirts, in her tight, dark shirts that stood out from the pastels and brights in the hallways of Smallville High like a piece of exotic dark chocolate in a box full of vanilla buttercreams. He didn’t dare think about her boots, with the intricate buckles he could spend hours toying with, the supple curves more perfect than any leg except perhaps for the one they were on, the way the thick heels tipped her forward a little like she was leaning right towards him. He refused to picture the dark curls framing her pale skin, both likely as smooth as satin, the blue eyes that both stabbed and drowned him, her full lips, cherry red, pulled into that little smile that was shy despite the skirt and the shirt and the boots, the smile that was just for him. She was tall, too, which was a plus, because he could just back her against a wall, not worry about propping her up on something so he wouldn’t have to snap his neck looming over her, and he knew that she would feel solid and real underneath him, more substantial than Lana, more patient than Chloe, toying with him, teasing him, meeting him stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust, moan for—
Clark Kent was horny as h—l. And if he kept setting his pillow on fire every time he tried to take the edge off, he was going to be a jangled wreck of nerves by the end of the week. Not to mention out of pillows.
“I think it must be some kind of meteor effect,” Chloe decided, popping another Cheeto into her mouth. She had eaten half the bag already, despite the Coco Puffs she’d had for breakfast and the chocolate peanut butter granola bar she’d consumed on the way to school.
Pete whipped his head back to face her, and Chloe rolled her eyes as she saw he’d been watching some half-dressed twit saunter by, using the hot weather as an excuse to raid her lingerie drawer instead of her closet. “Uh... meteor?” he repeated dully, making an effort to chime in.
“Pete, please try to pay attention,” she insisted, with some irritation. D—n, they were making Cheeto bags small these days. She might have to buy some more and investigate whether they were really filled to the stated weight. She tossed the empty bag in the trashcan beside the Torch offices and continued, “Last week, Lana was swearing up and down that she was going to ‘take things slow’ with David, that she wasn’t going to get into another relationship so quickly. As if the year she and Clark spent dancing around each other counted as ‘quickly.’” Chloe’s tone of voice indicated her disdain for this notion. She gave Pete a sudden dubious look and asked sharply, “Are you listening to me?”
Pete jerked his eyes up a few inches, guiltily, and Chloe realized she’d been sucking the orange Cheeto powder off her fingers. She stopped immediately. “Anyway,” she went on determinedly, and Pete schooled his features into an expression resembling interest, “Saturday night I walk into my living room and find the two of them sucking face so diligently, you’d think he had a piece of cheese wedged in his throat and only her tongue could dislodge it.”
Even Pete had to grimace at that particular imagery. “Um, that doesn’t really seem that sinister to me, Chloe,” he admitted hesitantly. “Maybe she just changed her mind?”
“Pete,” Chloe chided, disappointed. “This is Lana Lang we’re talking about. ‘Take it slow’ means glaciers will alter the landscape before he gets to second base. Saturday night was lightspeed.” Pete was noticeably unconvinced. “Okay, how about this,” Chloe tried. “I asked her about it later”—she saw Pete’s look—“as a concerned friend, and she said she was really kind of embarrassed about it and didn’t know what came over her.” Chloe crossed her arms in satisfaction. “So what do you think about that?”
“Um... I think it sounds like one of the milder Afterschool Specials,” Pete confessed, wincing in advance.
Chloe looked distinctly put out. Unfortunately the use of that phrase made Pete think of other things, so he quickly turned away. “Alright, fine,” Chloe conceded. “If Lana isn’t evidence enough, just look around.” Easy enough. Pete was doing that already. Chloe directed his gaze towards one end of the hall. “What do you see?”
Pete shrugged. “Um, students, lockers, the water fountain—hey, that blond is really hot. I didn’t even know she was dating that...” Pete squinted at the boy as he came up for air at the end of the hall. “Isn’t he in the Science Club?” Chloe made a noise of encouragement behind him. “And Brandy Whatshername is going totally PDA with her boyfriend.” He glanced in the other direction, where at least three more couples were unabashedly making out in the hallway. “Wow. Guess the, um, Love Bug is really going around these days.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Meteor effects, Pete!” she corrected. “Use the proper terminology! Obviously, this is some kind of widespread hormonal effect. The thing we have to figure out is—is it radiating from one particular person, or is the cause non-biological, such as contamination of the water supply?”
Pete blinked at her, and she had a feeling he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. Then he grinned suddenly. “The Homecoming Dance is in just a couple weeks,” he reminded her. “Have you got someone to go with yet?”
Momentarily thrown by the change in subject, Chloe replied with only a surprised, “No.”
“Wanna go with me?”
Chloe narrowed her eyes at him, as if searching for possible antennae sprouting from Pete’s head. “As friends?” she asked suspiciously.
“Well...” Pete hedged, still unexpectedly bold. “I was kind of thinking, friends with potential.”
Chloe was taken aback. “Oh. Um. Well.” Pete waggled his eyebrows at her. “Do you have a candy bar?” she blurted suddenly. “I really need some chocolate.”
Pete ignored the attempt at distraction. “Come on, Chloe. What do you say?” he cajoled.
“Um... Okay,” she squeaked, still looking a little blindsided. “Friends with potential.”
“Great!” Pete enthused, grin enormous. “You know, you’re pretty cute when you start talking about meteor rock theories.”
Chloe felt her cheeks turn pink. “Um. Thanks. Pete.” She pointed in a random direction, indicating it as her target. “I’m going to go scope the vending machines now. I’ll see you later, okay?”
“That’s so cute!” Lana gushed, wrinkling her nose with delight. Chloe grimaced a bit and Lana’s face immediately fell. “It’s not cute?”
“It’s just—weird,” Chloe decided, taking another bite of her Snickers bar.
“Don’t you want to go to the dance with Pete?” Lana questioned with concern, leaning across her desk at the Torch.
“Well—sure,” the blond admitted, propping a foot up on a nearby table. “We’ve gone to dances together before. Just not as—friends with potential.”
Lana waved her hesitations off. “Come on, Chloe, it’s just ‘potential,’” she reasoned. “It’s not an actual date. But would there be something wrong with an actual date?”
“I... don’t know.” Lana sighed in exasperation. “I refuse to be trapped into something when I may not be in full control of my faculties,” Chloe continued defensively.
Lana rolled her eyes. “The Meteor Love Bug theory again?”
“I have evidence,” Chloe insisted. Lana raised an eyebrow. “Okay, well, I have ideas,” she corrected. “The inexplicable rise in public displays of affection between normally discreet individuals? The halls are practically lined with couples who can’t keep their hands off each other, and the Talon has turned into Make-Out Central. I even saw Mr. and Mrs. Johanssen smooching at the post office the other day.”
Lana frowned. “I didn’t even know there was a ‘Mrs. Johanssen.’”
“Well if there isn’t already, there will be soon,” Chloe surmised. She tossed the Snickers wrapper in the trash can, where it landed atop several other junk food wrappers and bags. “And what about the heatwave?”
“Chloe!” Lana protested. “You’re not linking the weather into this, are you?”
“Just hear me out,” Chloe insisted. “Meteor mutant is sending out intense signals of lust—“
Lana sat down on the edge of the table facing Chloe. “But why would they do that?” she interrupted.
“Well, I don’t exactly know,” Chloe admitted. For some reason she noted that Lana’s tank top was peach today, not pink. “It might be unintentional...”
Lana leaned forward a little, gazing at Chloe intently. “You mean, they’re feeling... lust”—Lana’s cheeks went a little pink when she said the word—“and they can’t help but project it to everyone in the area? I don’t know about that, Chloe.”
Chloe lifted her gaze from Lana’s necklace to her eyes. “Um, well, I guess—lust pretty much describes the usual teenage condition. If it is a teenager, I mean.” She was having trouble concentrating—perhaps the A/C had gone out again, and that was why the room was heating up. “But maybe, their lust is—unsatisfied. And the longer they go without—satisfaction, the more they project.”
Lana shifted on the edge of the table. She was feeling kind of fidgety today. Lately, in fact. “And this affects the weather because...?”
“Frustration and no sex equals drought,” Chloe tried to explain. She really wished she had another chocolate bar. “Once the tension is released—maybe we’ll have rain.”
Lana shook her head. “It just seems so far-fetched, Chloe,” she decided, squirming again. Chloe watched her intently. “I mean, okay, maybe I was moving a little faster with David than I had intended to”—Chloe raised an eyebrow but Lana pushed on after giving her a small glare—“but I don’t think my...” There was a crumb of chocolate near Chloe’s lip. “...hormones are being controlled by some... outside... force...” It was very distracting. Lana blinked quickly, trying to focus on what she’d been saying. “I don’t think I’m acting... unusually...”
Lana reached out a slender finger and brushed the melting chocolate from Chloe’s lip onto the tip; it was halfway back to her mouth before she froze. Both girls looked at each other, eyes wide, then they simultaneously blushed and looked away. Chloe straightened in her seat and Lana hopped off the desk and sat on the other side of it, wiping the chocolate off on a tissue.
“Um, anyway,” Lana continued, too brightly, “David and I are going to the Homecoming Dance together, so we’ll all be together as couples.”
“Pete and I are not a couple,” Chloe insisted, rummaging in her desk drawer. She knew she had an old, half-melted Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in there somewhere.
“Oh, but I forgot about Clark,” Lana realized, disappointed.
“Now there’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear from Lana Lang,” Chloe teased sharply, yanking out the dusty candy and inspecting it. It looked safe, once she picked out a stray staple.
“Oh, Chloe, don’t eat that,” Lana insisted, her nose crinkling with disgust. “Come on, let’s go back to the vending machine, I’ve got some change.”
Chloe shrugged and the two girls headed out of the offices, keeping a careful distance apart. “I just hope they aren’t out of Hershey bars,” Chloe was saying as they rounded a corner. “There was only one left when I was...” She paused as she and Lana stopped walking and stared at the sight in front of them. When the silence became too oppressive—after about five seconds—Chloe sputtered, “Somehow, I don’t think you have to worry about Clark not having a date.” At least, he and Alice ought to be dating soon, since they were having sex in the hallway.
Okay, perhaps not exactly having sex. In fact, if Chloe looked carefully—and she was—they weren’t even touching. Clark hadn’t had a proper haircut in months, and the normally sheared black curls were becoming more obvious as they brushed against his neck. His white t-shirt was old and didn’t quite fit right, which meant it was a little tight, which wasn’t a problem at all for her, and the same issue seemed to plague his blue jeans. He couldn’t possibly have grown more over the summer, he was already huge—uh, height-wise, that is. Alice’s hair was curly and dark too, kind of wavy at the moment, brushed to one side, and when she turned a bit Chloe could see that her red tank top had a picture of a spider on it with the phrase, “I made this web just for you.” Subtle. Not. Granted, her black shorts weren’t as short or as tight as some others Chloe had seen around the last few days, but they sure weren’t bloomers either. And how her feet could survive knee-high lace-up black go-go boots in this weather, Chloe had no idea. So they were both fully clothed. But somehow, it was still sex.
Alice was leaning against the wall, shoulders back, hips forward just a bit, blinking coyly up at Clark, with a little crooked smile. Clark had one hand on the wall beside her head and the other on the bookbag strap over his shoulder, and he was grinning down at her—not very far down, it should be noted. He said something, and she laughed a little bit, and he leaned closer another half-inch, and Chloe felt her breath hitch. And she heard Lana’s breath hitch. Guess this was one meteor effect Clark wasn’t immune to, Chloe decided. Because as eclectic as she considered herself, she just couldn’t see the All-American Farmboy falling for the Innuendo-Bearing Goth Girl on his own.
Alice said something, and Clark’s smile changed, and his gaze flickered down a few inches towards her lips, and Alice started to move towards him just a little bit, and—
“Get a room!” The two of them jumped apart, startled, Clark blushing red of course, and Chloe wondered who had yelled that. Then she realized it had been her—mostly because of Lana’s surprised but not displeased expression.
Clark glared at them, but the moment seemed to be over because he stepped back from Alice, and Chloe felt it was safe to grab Lana’s arm and drag her back around the corner. “I’ve got it!” she hissed excitedly. “What if—Alice is the meteor mutant?”
“Oh, Chloe, don’t be silly,” Lana told her. “Alice isn’t even from Smallville. Honestly, I really think all this heat has gone to your brain,” the brunette continued. “It’s probably not a meteor effect at all, just normal...” Lana trailed off as she realized Chloe was still holding her arm. And that Lana’s hand, which had gone to Chloe’s to pry it off, was just sitting there happily atop Chloe’s pencil-callused, slightly sticky fingers. The two girls jumped back from each other simultaneously. “I need some chocolate,” Lana decided, gaze turning like a laser beam towards the vending machines.
“Me, too!” Chloe seconded.
Clark really didn’t understand why he was sweating. He had tried to think about it logically—he didn’t feel hot, the heat didn’t bother him, so he didn’t need to sweat to cool off. But yet, he did. Not a lot—not really gross like some of the guys he’d seen at school who practically flung sweat off onto innocent bystanders when they turned a corner. But he was definitely perspiring.
It was weird. But at least it made him fit in a little better—after all, stuck in the close loft, with the hot air from the ground rising up to choke them and the straw seeming to radiate heat, he ought be sweating. Alice was, at least, which didn’t surprise him at all given those boots she was wearing which he WAS NOT THINKING ABOUT. Clark guiltily dropped his head back to his chemistry homework and tried to scribble out the next equation from the book that he’d need. The words were starting to lose focus, though, as he felt himself drifting off a bit, thinking about the red ribbed tank top Alice was wearing. Why did they call them ‘ribs’? he wondered idly, anything to avoid chemistry homework. Real ribs were for support and protection. Sure, they curved around the internal organs, much like the ribs in Alice’s shirt... curved... around her... external parts... but, uh, they were... flexible... molding... not stiff, not hard...
A rumble of thunder in the distance made Clark nearly jump out of his chair. Alice met his eyes only briefly, her pale face a little flushed, and seemed a bit dazed herself. Clark was glad he at least wasn’t the only one daydreaming when they should be working. Although he doubted Alice would appreciate what he was daydreaming about. Although, maybe... maybe she would.
“Do you think it will rain finally?” she asked, nodding out the opening of the loft towards the huge black raincloud gathering to the west. Humidity hung in the air around them like a wet wool blanket.
Clark shrugged, staring at the cloud to avoid staring anywhere else. “That’s the fourth raincloud we’ve had in the last couple weeks,” he pointed out. “And none of them actually rained, not around here, anyway.” He sighed and turned back to his homework with resignation. “It’ll probably just pass us by again.”
Note: After this story Alice and Clark officially start dating.