THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE, Part 2

By Christopher Leeson
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"Okay, everyone, stay calm," Martha Kent said, though her own hands were trembling. "The best way to handle a problem is to take it one step at a time." She drew a steadying breath. "If you have to impersonate a girl cousin, Clark, you need to start immediately, before anyone sees you and starts a lot of rumors. For one thing, we need to get you into girls' clothing. And to protect ourselves from being overheard, we have to call you Claire as much as possible."

Claire's throat tightened. "I don't like the sound of this."

“Does anyone have a better idea?”

Jonathan merely shrugged. “No,” the girl admitted with a sigh.

Martha retrieved a measuring tape from a drawer. After taking Claire's measurements, she drove into town. It was late-afternoon before she returned with armfuls of shopping bags rustling.

Both her husband and son were in the living room. Claire peered at their contents with super-vision and felt her stomach drop.

"If you don’t become yourself by morning," Martha explained, "we'll have to register you with the school as a new student. Unfortunately, the dress code requires girls to wear dresses or skirts. I took that into account when I was shopping for you."

"I hope I wake up as my old self tomorrow," Claire said with a hollowed-out voice.

“Besides the clothing, we'll have to stick with the story we’ve already told Lana,” said Pa Kent. “You'll be posing as our niece Claire, the daughter of my brother Roger."

"Claire..." she said, trying out the name. It felt foreign to her tongue. "Well, what does it matter?” the girl said. “Names are the least of my problems."

Just then, the teenager noticed a flat box with a cellophane window. Through it, a white brassiere lay folded in tissue paper. The sight made her teeth clench.

"It may take you a while to get used to wearing different clothing," Martha continued gently. "You’ll need practice walking around and doing chores wearing skirts. I’ll call the school on Monday and say Clark that went to Florida to help his uncle."

Claire shook her head, wordless and woeful.

Martha next led her upstairs to Clark's bedroom and placed the bags on the comforter. Claire held up a skirt as pink as cotton candy. "I can't wear my super suit under a dress! The pants' legs will show," she complained.

Martha crossed her arms, considering. "That's true. Maybe I should alter your super suit by removing the pants legs. Wearing the red trunks alone will look typically feminine."

"Not yet!" Claire croaked with dismay. "That will ruin my costume. Maybe this—whatever this thing is—will wear off before I start school."

"Hopefully so. But until it does, we’ll have to make do. You can wear bright red spanky pants like girls do in athletic competitions. They'll closely resemble your super trunks." Martha's expression softened. "Just remember, they won't be indestructible. You'll need to be careful not to burn or tear them."

Claire's face contorted again.

"And we'll have to get you new girl-style glasses," Martha continued. "You don't need prescription lenses, so second-hand spectacles from any thrift shop will serve. You'll have to avoid projecting your heat vision through them, though. They won't be invulnerable like the lenses we made from your spaceship's windows."

"I think I'm going to be too sick to attend school this fall," Claire muttered.

#

Claire woke up the next morning and touched herself, hoping to feel a male body. But she didn’t. Ma Kent called her down for breakfast, and her first full day as a girl was spent undergoing a strange sort of education. Martha instructed Claire on how to talk like a girl—heel to toe, hips swaying subtly. She learned how to move using smaller and more contained gestures. She practiced speaking with a higher-pitched voice, using softer inflections.

On the evening before Claire's morning debut at school, Martha assembled a suitable outfit and placed it into a cardboard box—a white blouse with pearl buttons and a pink skirt that fell just below the knee. The teen managed not to wince before her mother left the room.

#

After Claire set out for school the next morning, Jonathan placed a "Closed" sign in the store window. Clark's room had to be remade into a girl’s room, and so both parents devoted the day to refurnishing it. Clark's belongings—baseball glove, science books, wall pictures, model airplanes—were spirited away to a hidden room in the tunnel system.

By afternoon, the boy’s room had undergone a gender metamorphosis with the dresser and closet now filled with new items, including shoes. Martha's childhood dressing table, rescued from attic storage, now occupied one corner, cluttered with combs, hairpins, brushes, and cosmetics. A Disney Snow White tray perched on its surface, holding a selection of costume jewelry.

When Claire came home late that afternoon, she burst through the door with indignation radiating from every angle of her body. With exasperation, she told the story of her day. Everyone at school had asked questions and plagued her with sideways glances and whispered speculation. She’d heard someone say, "She walks funny.”

But a deeper indignation burned beneath the surface irritation. The initial state of dazed disbelief had given way to anger. After school had let out, fate had subjected Claire to another indignity. Wanting solitary time to think, Claire had walked to the county fairgrounds. There, a girl performer suddenly made a bad trapeze swing, barely caught herself, and was hanging on with one hand. More swiftly than the eye could follow, Claire had switched into her super garb. An instant later, people saw a stranger coming from the sky wearing a shirt and cape like Superboy's. Just then, the artiste lost her grip, but the newcomer caught her in strong arms before she could strike the ground.

Fair-goers rushed up around the rescuer and the rescued. “Who are you?” one asked Claire. “Why are you wearing Superboy’s cape and emblem?”

Impulsively, the super stranger introduced herself.

“Call me Super-Sister. I’m Superboy’s sister. We were reared on different planets. But now my brother’s gone off to my home world, and until he comes back, I’ll be staying on Earth to keep it safe.”

"Will you be able to handle all the trouble that Superboy had to deal with?" asked a fair-goer.

"Why shouldn't I be able to?" Super-Sister challenged.

"You're only a girl!"

The newly christened Super-Sister had flown off without answering, but in the evening privacy of the Kent home, she couldn’t help swearing aloud. "People instantly considered me second-rate to Superboy, his inferior imitator. This is all happened because I foolishly helped a witch from outer space. My whole life is ruined! Even after people saw me save a life, they didn’t give me any credit! If that’s the way they want it, let them help themselves from now on! I’m through wasting my time getting them out of trouble!"

Martha didn’t want to make her daughter even angrier by arguing. She could only hope Claire's angry declaration sprang from wounded pride rather than a changed personality.

#

On Thursday morning, Claire Kent began her second school day. Her super-hearing caught whispers coming from every direction, just like the day before.

Why were they all so curious about the way she walked, how she held her books, where her eyes landed? She just wanted to be treated as normal. Instead, she felt like she was navigating a minefield sown with embarrassing mistakes.

But not all the talk was about Claire Kent. People were excited about a flying girl called Super-Sister suddenly appearing at the fair. Supposedly, she was Superboy’s sister, with triggered dismay because Superboy had supposedly departed Earth. For the time being, his sister would fill his cape and boots.

When her first class ended, Claire was spotted by Lana Lang. The redheaded junior was in the locker area with a cluster of girlfriends. Lana waved enthusiastically. "Claire!"

"Hey, Lana," Claire called back. "Morning, everyone!"

Lana touched her arm and hurriedly introduced her to the group, all of whom Claire had already met as Clark. With forced smiles and bland pleasantries, she excused herself and hurried off to class. “Join us at our lunch table,” Lana called out from behind. Claire paused and promised she would, but on the inside her being a center of attention felt like an itch she couldn't scratch.

Later, Claire duly ate lunch with Lana's group, too self-conscious to contribute very much to the conversation. One girl brought made an issue about disliking gym class because it required group showers.

That comment splashed Claire like ice water. The next Wednesday would be her first girls' gym class. If the sport played then were vigorous, she would have to shower with the nude girls, too. Her mind raced, trying to think of some way to avoid it.

Across the cafeteria, a tall, blond boy named Pete Ross stood watching Claire. Peter Ross had heard that a new girl had started school just the day before, but he hadn’t glimpsed her until now. The Kent girl impressed him as being athletic and pretty, but also rather ill at ease among the group of girls. He was inclined to suppose that she might be shy when meeting new people.

But when he saw her face from closer angle, Pete noticed her uncanny resemblance to Clark Kent!

He immediately made a mental tie-in with the story of a super-powered girl who had appeared and called herself Super-Sister? He had seen the newspaper in the library. It had showed a photograph taken at the fairgrounds that depicted a black-haired girl dressed in a version of Superboy’s costume, though her red trunks displayed a very nice pair of legs. It wasn’t lost on him that her resemblance to Clark also meant she resembled Superboy. She could very well be his sister.

But why should a human member of the Kent family look so much like Clark Kent? They wouldn’t be blood cousins, since Clark had been adopted.

Peter Ross thought back to that life-changing night when he went camping with Clark Kent and others. A lightning flash had betrayed Clark stripping down to his Superboy suit. This had made Pete one of the very few who knew Superboy’s secret identity. Ma and Pa Kent would also know, but who else? As far as he knew, Pete thought he was the only one outside the family who held the secret knowledge.

While it was remotely possible that the mysterious Superboy might have a look-alike sister, there was no reason she should resemble Claire Kent or Superboy. He realized that he had probably just intuited the secret identity of Super-Sister. The strange situation at once captured Pete Ross’s imagination, and he wanted to find out what, exactly, was going on.

Between classes an hour later, Pete stationed himself in the hallway, hoping to see Claire pass by. When she appeared, he walked fast and approached her.

"Hi, Claire," he called. "Your cousin Clark and I are good friends. Welcome to Smallville. How do you like it here so far?"

Claire glanced up at the boy, now looking taller than he had before. "Hi, Pete. I haven't seen enough of the town yet to feel like I know it yet."

Pete took note that she knew his name without him introducing himself. Would Superboy have prepped her on such a small detail before leaving Earth? "Smallville's a great place," he said, concealing his surprise. "Lots of interesting things happen around here. Superboy, especially, has always kept this town lively."

“I’ve heard so much about Superboy. I’m hoping I can catch sight of him while I’m in Smallville,” Claire replied.

"I hear he's left Earth," Pete stated, watching her face. "If that’s true, you unfortunately won't get a chance to meet him.”

“That’s too bad,” the girl replied.

Luckily, he left us with a replacement,” Pete pressed. “A girl called Super-Sister showed up at the fair, calling herself Suberboy’s sister. Pretty crazy, huh?"

"Yeah, crazy," Claire agreed guardedly.
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"I heard about you’re arrival last night," Pete continued. "They say you're Clark Kent's cousin. Clark and I are good friends. Do you know Clark very well?"

Claire's held her expression neutral. "I only know him from letters and photos that his folks exchange with my dad. I never got to meet him in person."

Pete smiled. "When you meet him, you’ll see what a great guy he is." The boy then paused. "Where is he now? The word’s out that Clark’s out of town. The strange thing is that when I spoke to him last Friday, he never told me he was going anywhere."

"He's working for my dad in Florida,” explained Claire. “Clark'll attend school locally there until our house is remodeled. We hope he’ll be back before Christmas."

"He’s lucky to be earning money toward college," Pete remarked.

“Yes...lucky. Excuse me, I have another class.”

All afternoon, Peter Ross thought about the suddenly-expanded Superboy clan. It wasn’t anything that Claire had said or done, when he sat in class afterwards, a small bell of inspiration tinkled in his mind. Claire Kent might be Clark’s true sister, but there was another possibility. It was an idea so strange that he at first tried to reject it.

Pete knew many stories of the strange experiences Superboy had already undergone. There was Red Kryptonite, for instance, which could impose extreme physical or mental changes on him. What if something had changed Clark’s shape? What if Claire were actually Clark Kent in a female form?

Red Kryptonite? Maybe. Or were sudden sex changes normal for Kryptonian people?

If that were so, Clark would have to live with it. But what if this change wasn’t normal?

If Clark had suffered an involuntary metamorphosis, he must be crawling out of his skin. If he needed help, Pete was ready to give him what he needed. But how could he tell her that? Claire didn’t know how much he knew about her secrets. Claire would dodge any pointed question. Clark had been a master at explaining away strange happenings. For now, Pete couldn’t do much to help, but he wanted to be ready if some chance arose.

Over the weekend, Claire resumed her studies in female behavior, devouring books at super-speed—The Girl's Guide to Absolutely Everything, etiquette manuals, fashion magazines. She didn’t care about patrolling as Super-Sister. No one had appreciated Superboy’s protection, so why should they respect Super-Sister any better?

The school on Monday morning buzzed with energy. Though everything around Claire looked familiar, there was a spirit of strangeness everywhere. It was like the change in her own life had changed everything else along with it.

Attending her first morning class, she kept her eyes open, as if there was something to learn about the old, familiar surroundings. Her recent reading had prompted her to carefully observe the nuances of female behavior. Girls often huddled together, she noticed, forming protective clusters, sharing secrets in lowered voices. They lived in a world that was different from the boys’.

Boys, on the other hand, told coarse jokes, roughhoused, and bantered challengingly. Clark had been comfortable enough in that crowd, but Claire felt adrift around both sexes now. The genders related to her in unfamiliar ways, distinctly different from before. Looking for the narrow track of acceptable behavior was like exploring an unmapped jungle.

As the home economics teacher began her lesson, Claire tried to focus, but her mind was swinging like storm clouds. No one seemed to notice the empty spot that Clark’s disappearance had left. It didn’t appear like anyone missed him. Why? Was he such a bad guy? Admittedly, Clark had cultivated privacy and had held himself aloof because his role as Superboy mattered more than anything else. He never signed up for after-school activities, always falling back on the excuse that his dad needed help at the store.

But what about now? Claire’s life had changed drastically. Once, her being Superboy meant everything. Now the bare thought of going on patrol as a girl embarrassed her. Wouldn’t anyone who saw her think of her as just a poor imitation of Superboy?

Claire sorely missed her super role. That missing part made her entire life feel empty. Thinking back, Clark’s life felt like a void. He had had no close friends other than Peter Ross. But Claire now felt guarded around Pete. She didn’t suppose the old friendship could work any longer. Friendships between boys and girls had a dynamic very different from friendships between boys. She supposed there had to be a workable system of interacting between the sexes, but that was something that Claire hadn’t figured out as yet.

In the home ec class, the teacher droned on about proper table settings, Claire sighed. For the sake of appearances, she had to pretend that all these lessons were important as long as this transformation lasted. And what were the odds that it might last forever? While she waited for that day, Clark's life drifted away like a mist. Day by day, the sheer momentum of the changing days was forcing her to create a new way of life from the ground up—and it was a girl's way of life.

What a depressing thought.

At lunchtime, Claire noticed an arm waving her way on the other side of the cafeteria. Lana stood there next to her chair. Not wanting to be remain alone, despite her melancholy, Claire picked her way through the lunch-hour crowd.

"Hey, Claire," Lana greeted cheerfully. "How was your weekend?"

Claire forced a smile. "Mostly,I worked at Uncle Jonathan’s store. I'm still getting used to what Smallville has to offer."

Lana nodded sympathetically. "I can imagine. But don't worry—everybody is saying they like you! Smallville might seem tiny, but it's got a big heart." She paused, eyes bright. "Say, the homecoming dance is coming up soon. I know you don't know many boys yet. Would you want me to help set you up with someone?"

"I—I never liked the idea of blind dating," Claire replied quickly. "I think matches should come together more naturally."

"Don't say no too quickly," Lana cautioned. "There are a lot of good guys in Smallville. The trick is to find a way to meet them. Boys are so shy!"

Claire grimaced. "At the best of times, I'm nervous about meeting new people."

"Well, if you change your mind, just let me know!"

Later, in science class, Claire's imagination carried her away from her mundane surroundings. "Claire!" Mr. Harris called sharply. "Would you mind answering the question I just asked you?"

Claire looked up, blinking. "I'm s-sorry, Mr. Harris. What did you ask?"

The class tittered. Claire felt warmth flood her face. Mr. Harris sighed. "I asked you to give me the chemical formula for table salt."

Claire nodded. "The formula is NaCl. Sodium chloride."

"Correct. But please try to look more attentive, especially when you actually are being attentive."

#

Resting back on her pillow that evening, all Claire could think about was showering with the girls on Wednesday. She didn’t know any way to avoid it. And it wouldn’t be any one-time thing. Showering would be mandatory after every vigorous phys ed class for the rest of the school year.

A ringing alarm jolted Claire awake Tuesday morning. She lay motionless and stared at the ceiling, dreading the day ahead. She didn’t expect much from it except additional mortification.

She dragged herself to the closet and selected clothes for school. At least Ma Kent hadn't bought her any miniskirts. Shorts were shorts, but miniskirts were something different. Miniskirts sent a social signal that Claire Kent didn’t want to send.

Downstairs, the smell of pancakes and bacon filled the air. Her parents greeted her with encouraging smiles at the breakfast table. Claire almost wished they looked as agitated as she felt. How could they behave as though this Alice-in-Wonderland existence was natural?

"Good morning, Claire," Jonathan said pleasantly. "Ma made your favorite—blueberry pancakes."

Claire managed a tight smile as she took her usual chair. "Thanks, Mom."

Despite the smiles, no one said very much before Claire got up to leave the house. On the way to school, she saw an out-of-state car turn the wrong way onto a one-way street, into the path of an oncoming van traveling the speed limit.

Using super-speed, Claire could have stopped the accident. But an inner voice held her back: It's not your concern.

The vehicles collided with a sickening crunch of metal and breaking glass.

Claire tried to remain angry at the world all the way to school. She often nursed her anger because it kept her from thinking about the unnecessary collision she had caused by her inaction.

Damn it! She thought bitterly. Why should careless people’s accidents be her responsibility?

Preoccupied, the girl drifted through the entire morning inattentively. After lunch, she went to math class. When she stepped into math class, she felt a tug on her clothing. Her second step brought disaster. With a ripping sound, her skirt tore away, and Claire Kent stood exposed—bare below the waist in bright red spanky pants showing off her pale legs. Her skirt had caught on an insufficiently driven nail protruding from the door frame that was undergoing repair.

Laughter erupted like a detonation. Claire stood frozen with every eye fixed upon her. She grabbed the torn skirt from the nail and wrapped it around her waist like a towel. The kids were still laughing, and she saw that Pete Ross was laughing, too.

Claire darted out of the classroom. With blurring speed, she reached home in seconds. Tears were tickling her cheeks.

Tears!

She gritted her teeth. Tears were for girls.

As soon as she had changed clothes, she returned to school in a blur of speed. For the rest of the day, she imagined the whole student body laughing at her. And she started to check ahead with supervision, too, so that she could avoid Pete Ross.

Her sleek body warmed with indignation. He had laughed at her, too!

#

At home that evening, Claire sat on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, staring out the window at the setting sun. The sun’s rays would have blinded normal eyes, but Claire’s super eyes could have safely inspected sunspots on the star’s surface. Recent events continued to play over and over in her mind, like a film reel stuck on repeat. Emotion tied hard knots inside her, frustration, fear, and a deep sense of loss.

A soft knock interrupted her brooding. Martha poked her head in, smiling warmly.

“Claire, honey, you seemed sort of down-spirited at supper. I thought you might like some company.”

Claire forced a small smile. “Thanks, Mom. You’re right. At school, I’m surrounded by crowds, but I feel so alone there.”

Martha crossed the space between them and sat on the bed’s edge. “Is that why you look so glum?”

Suddenly, Claire was babbling out the whole mortifying story in detail.

“That was very unfortunate,” Martha commiserated.

“It’s worse than that. I’ve lost the only friend I ever had.”

“Not Lana?”

“No, Pete Ross.”

Martha’s brow furrowed. “Why? What did he say to you?”

“I avoided talking to him. I didn’t want to go anywhere near him. He shouldn’t have treated me that way.”

Martha shifted to be closer to her daughter. “You know, sweetheart, life has a way of throwing us curveballs. But it’s how we handle those curveballs that decides the direction our lives take.” She drew Claire into a hug.

Claire, accepting the embrace, melted into her mother’s warmth. “That’s what worries me—how my life is going,” she whispered.

“Where do you think it’s going, darling?” Martha asked.

“I wish I knew.”

Her mother paused, considering her mood. “Well, tomorrow is another day.”

“I hope tomorrow never comes. Tomorrow, I’ll have to shower with the girls!” She let her upper body fall back onto the mattress.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3.

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE in Smallville, Part 3
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Claire had dressed and returned to school before anyone realized she'd left the building. Keeping her eyes carefully averted from her classmates' faces, she slipped into math class and took her seat. Determined not to act embarrassed, she forced herself through the remaining periods with grim resolve, then headed to the hall where her locker was.

Spotting Lana sitting with friends, Claire made her way over. She didn't particularly need company, but wanted feedback about whether she'd become the school's laughingstock.

"Hey, Claire," Lana said, voice subdued with sympathy. "I heard what happened. It must have been terrible."

Claire forced a smile. "I'm good, thanks."

"You must have gone home to change," Lana observed.

"I did, but I came right back." Claire kept her tone light, dismissive.
Lana nodded approvingly. "That's the spirit. Embarrassing moments are all part of high school life."

While they chatted about homework and weekend plans, Claire noticed Pete leaning against the wall near the nearest exit door. The sight of him sent a fresh wave of anger washing through her chest. Because he'd laughed at her humiliation, their friendship was over.

The seething girl didn't want to talk to him, but she wasn't such a coward that she'd run away from a confrontation either. She tried walking past him without making eye contact.

"Claire, wait up!" Pete called, fast-stepping up beside her.

Claire spun to face him, eyes flashing with ire. "What do you want, Pete?"

"What's wrong? You sound angry. I just want to talk."

"I saw you laughing at me, just like all the others," Claire accused, her voice sharp as broken glass.

"I didn't laugh at you!"

"Don't lie. I saw the smirk on your face!"

"I wasn't laughing or smirking." Pete's voice remained steady, earnest. "I smiled to encourage you, to say that I was on your side."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" Claire demanded.

Pete shook his head, frustration creeping into his expression. "You should know me better than that!" He suddenly caught himself. How much could he reveal without admitting what he suspected?

"I'm not sure I know you at all," Claire said coldly.

"Isn't it possible you misunderstood what my smile meant?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore, Pete." Claire's anger deflated slightly into weariness. "I just want to stop thinking about that stupid incident."

"You can believe this," Pete said, stepping closer. "I was your cousin's best friend, and for his sake, I want you to have a good time in Smallville. I'd like to become your friend as much as I was his."

"I've got to go shop downtown," Claire said, pulling away from the conversation.

"Can I keep you company?"

"No!" The word came out sharper than she'd intended. Without another glance, Claire turned and walked away, leaving Pete standing alone by the exit.

#

Less than half an hour later, Pete stood outside the Kent home, his mind racing. When Claire lost her skirt that afternoon, he'd noticed something crucial—what she was wearing underneath were red trunks that looked exactly like Super-Sister's costume in the county fair photographs.

He'd been ninety-five percent certain that Claire was Clark. Now he was more than ninety-nine percent sure she was also Super-Sister. To reach absolute certainty, he needed to talk to the Kents while Claire was still away shopping.

This had been the Kents' home since they'd sold the farm and moved into town. Jonathan had been too restless for genuine retirement and had partnered with the increasingly infirm grocer, Abe McKinny. After only a few months, McKinny's health deteriorated further, and he retired completely. Jonathan gradually bought out Abe's share and continued as sole owner. Clark had helped him on weekends and after school.

Taking a deep breath, Pete strode up the walk and knocked on the front door. Martha Kent answered, wearing a warm smile.

"Pete, what a pleasant surprise! What brings you by?"

Pete returned the smile casually. "Hi, Mrs. Kent. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by. I heard Clark will be out of town for a while. Is Mr. Kent around?"

Martha nodded. "He's out back in the garden. You're welcome to join him."
Pete walked around the house to the backyard, where he found Jonathan Kent harvesting watermelons. The melons looked heavy, so Pete offered to help load them into the wheelbarrow.

"Much obliged," Mr. Kent said, straightening with a grunt.

As they worked together, Pete gathered his thoughts. He wanted to see if Jonathan would tell him anything believable about Clark's sudden disappearance.

"Mr. Kent," Pete began carefully, "I was wondering why Clark went off so suddenly. Is he all right?"

Jonathan looked up thoughtfully. "Clark's with his uncle. Roger's not as young as he used to be, and he needs help to do home repairs before winter. In return, he sent Claire here to fill in for Clark at the store."

"Could you give me the phone number of where Clark is? I'd like to keep in touch."

"That's inconvenient," Jonathan said with a sigh. "Roger's an eccentric guy. He got so steamed when his phone bill went up a few months ago that he had it taken out. Since then, we've been communicating by postcard."

This didn't sound credible, but Pete kept his expression neutral. "It's good to hear that Clark will be earning college money," he said lightly. "How does Claire like Smallville?"

"She seems to like it fine. But isn't that a question you could ask the young lady herself at school?"

"So far, we haven't had a proper conversation together. I was hoping she and I could change that."

"She's up in her room. If you have time now, the two of you can have a friendly chat."

Pete hadn't expected to encounter Claire at home. But it was hard to predict the movements of a girl who traveled at super-speed.

"She might be tired after school."

"She's always full of energy," Mr. Kent said. "Please push the wheelbarrow into the garage for me. Then we'll call Claire downstairs."

Pete wheeled the heavy load into the garage, then followed Jonathan into the house. Foreboding prickled along his spine. Claire was already angry with him—there was every chance this meeting might not go well.

Claire sat on the living room couch, looking up in surprise when Pete entered behind her uncle. Pete offered a tentative smile, trying to gauge her reaction without seeming obvious.

"Claire," Jonathan began, "Pete stopped by to say hi. He says the two of you haven't had the opportunity to get to know each other properly yet."

Claire's eyebrows raised, though her expression remained guarded. "Oh, really?"

"While you two talk," Jonathan continued, "I'll go help Martha get supper on the table. You're welcome to join us, Pete."

"Thank you," Pete said. He waited until the old man was out of earshot before addressing Claire. He had to think quickly to explain why he'd come here directly from school.

"Ahh, Claire, you left school so quickly that I wasn't able to tell you why I wanted to speak to you." He took a breath. "I've been building up courage the last couple of days to ask you to the Homecoming dance next Saturday night—as my date. Getting to know the kids when they're out having fun could be a good way to feel at home in Smallville."

"I see," Claire replied without warmth. "That's... very kind of you, Pete. But I'm still not sure what to make of you."

Pete nodded in understanding. "No pressure, Claire. I just thought that the best way to take my measure is to spend some time together at an easy-going social function. You may not have noticed, but life in Smallville can be fun." He paused. "If you change your mind about my invitation, the offer stands."

Claire returned only a small, uncertain smile. "Thank you, Pete. I'll let you know by next Saturday." With that, she stood and returned upstairs.

#

Pete remained alone in the living room, mind racing. Martha poked her head out from the kitchen. "Are you two done with your talk already?"

"I guess so. I invited her to the Homecoming dance, and she said she'd think about it."

"That's very good." Martha smiled warmly. "Listen, I'll do my best to encourage our lovely niece to go with you. Jonathan already invited you to supper. If you wait around, the two of you can resume your conversation."

"That would be wonderful," Pete said. Inwardly, he wondered how he had stepped into this. Taking Claire on a date hadn't been on his mind when he'd arrived.

#

Claire came downstairs to her mother's call and looked dismayed to see Pete seated at the supper table. After her rejection, she hadn't expected him to stay.

"We've had Pete over many a time," Pa Kent said. "We've known him for years now."

"Sure," Claire replied, taking her usual place at the table—which was next to Pete in the guest chair. Usually, he ate at the foot of the table. She wondered if her parents had deliberately put them side-by-side. If so, what did they think they were doing?

The four ate quietly. Ma and Pa Kent finished quickly and left the kitchen with transparent haste, leaving Claire and Pete sitting alone.

"Claire," Pete began, keeping his voice steady. "I understand that you're going through a lot right now—being away from home and friends, starting school in a new town. I respect that. But you haven't smiled much since you arrived, and I'd like to change that."

Claire's eyes met Pete's. "Pete, I appreciate your offer," she replied, tone measured. "But I just don't have the right headspace for party-going. I have a lot of heavy stuff to sort out."

"Is there anything I can help with?"

"I'm pretty sure you can't. Most of it is personal."

"I get that, Claire," he said, having expected her refusal. "I just want you to know that if you need another friend in this town, I'll do all I can to make you feel welcome."

"Like I said, I'll think about it," she said finally.

Pete smiled. "That's all I ask, Claire. I'd like to get to know you better. If you have the same qualities as your cousin, you have to be a very nice person."

#

After Pete made his goodbyes, Claire returned to her room.
Sitting on her bed, Claire's thoughts tumbled through her mind like autumn leaves in a gust of wind. She'd only been a girl for a few days, and already a boy had asked her to a dance. That was almost funny.

But instinct told her there might be more to Pete's behavior than he was admitting. It was like she'd suddenly lost her ability to read him.

Had Pete laughed at her, or had it only seemed that way? Could she have misunderstood? She could see planets light-years away, but had no power to look back in time and see what had happened in that Smallville classroom only a few hours ago.

As she sank her head into the pillow, she couldn't help wondering whether it was a mistake to stay cut off from social interaction as long as she remained a girl. There was no way to know how long her condition would last—or even if it would ever end. She didn’t want anyone she knew to see her this way. Unfortunately, even though a Kryptonian would be safe anywhere she traveled, Claire Kent had no place to go where she'd have friends and family.

She winced. The thought of going to a dance with a boy was surreal. What next? Would Pete be asking for movie dates, lunches, picnics, or a trip out to Milford Lake for a swim?

Part of her didn't want to push Pete away. Pete's friendship was one of the few things she might salvage from her old life. She didn't want to let anything so important slip away. But dating would compel her to play "girl" with Pete, and she wasn't sure she could pull that off. Embarrassment and Kryptonite were the only things her invulnerability couldn't ward off.

She reached for the phone, then settled back against the pillow. Pete might not be home yet. Also, the dance was more than a week away. If she called him so soon, it might make her seem flighty. Worse, she might sound too eager. That might send Pete the wrong message. For appearance's sake, she would wait until the following night to accept his invitation.

Claire turned out the light and pressed her face into the pillow. She wondered whether natural sleep would come, or whether she'd have to slip into a meditative trance to escape from the thoughts buzzing through her mind like angry wasps.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4

The New Girl in Smallville, Part 4

By Christopher Leeson
.

Claire woke on Wednesday morning with a sigh that turned into a moan. Today would be her first gym class with the girls—and worse, her first shower with them. She lay staring at the ceiling, searching for any reasonable way to avoid what was coming.

"Claire! Breakfast!" Martha called from downstairs.

Claire sighed again. Her parents rarely addressed her as "Clark" anymore. That made sense—careless words could be overheard—but it left her feeling bereft of her identity.

With reluctance, she pushed herself out of bed and dressed deliberately, unconsciously delaying her journey downstairs. She'd packed her gym clothes the night before—loose shorts and a t-shirt as required by school rules. If she'd had a human physique, her stomach would have been churning.

"You look pale," Jonathan remarked as Claire slumped into her chair at the breakfast table.

"It's shower day," she mumbled, poking at her scrambled eggs without enthusiasm.

Martha placed a glass of orange juice in front of her. "I know you're dreading it, but try to think of it as... research."

"Research?" Claire looked up, skeptical.

"Yes," Martha continued, taking her seat. "You'll be experiencing something from a culture you're not familiar with. Consider it an anthropological study."

Jonathan nodded. “Your mother's right. This will differ from showering with boys, but not as much as you think. At least, I assume that will be true.”

"That's just it," Claire said, finally taking a bite of toast. "It feels completely different. Back then, I was a guy among guys. Now I'm... I don't know what I am."

Martha reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "You're our daughter. And you're going to get through this day just like you've gotten through the others."

Claire almost asked her parents not to call her "daughter," but said nothing. What was the use?

#

The gymnasium echoed with squeaking sneakers and the hollow thump of volleyballs bouncing across the floor. So far, Claire had managed to participate in the game without drawing attention to herself. As Clark, she'd learned to modulate her strength and speed to appear human. She deliberately missed as many shots as she made. That part of life was no different from being Clark—one reason she, like him, disliked sports. In sports, you were supposed to show your best. But to a super-powered person, it was all performance, revealing nothing about her true capabilities.

Now the bell rang, signaling the end of class. The dreaded moment was approaching.

It wasn't just embarrassment at being among naked girls. It was something deeper, something worse. Becoming just one more nude girl amid a crowd of them would be like making a public declaration that she was just one of the girls.

"Kent! Collins! Rivera! You're on equipment duty!" Coach Bradley called out, pointing to the volleyball nets.

Claire felt a flash of relief—cleanup would delay her trip to the shower room for a few extra minutes. She joined Pamela Collins and Marisa Rivera in gathering the volleyballs and taking down the nets.

"How are you finding gym class, Claire?" Marisa asked as they worked.

"It's fine," Claire replied, carefully folding the net. "About what I expected."

Pamela laughed. "I hope you're not as shy as I am when it comes to showering."

"It's never my favorite part of gym class, either," Claire replied carefully.

As they finished storing the equipment, Claire could hear voices and laughter drifting from the shower room. A couple of girls had already finished and were heading back to their lockers, bodies draped in long white towels.

"Come on," Pamela said, nudging Claire toward the locker room.

Claire did as her companions did—stripped completely and placed her clothing in her assigned locker. The three of them walked into the noisy, steamy communal shower area. The floor was warm from hot water flowing over it. The Kents had taught Clark never to look under people's clothing with his X-ray vision. Claire, therefore, scrupulously avoided gazing at the other girls.

"I guess you are pretty shy," Pamela observed.

"Yeah," Claire murmured.

"Your old school had gym class too, didn't it?"

"It did. But nudity has always been a thing with me."

"Same here. To fight it, I remind myself that nobody's looking at me. They're all too worried about how they look."

Claire nodded, hoping she was right. With a deep breath, she followed Pamela toward the showers. Steam enveloped them both as they entered, partially obscuring Claire’s view of the dozen or so girls already showering. Claire hurried to an unoccupied shower-head in the corner and stepped under its lukewarm spray.

The water temperature barely registered on her impervious skin. She was too busy trying to appear casual. A burst of laughter erupted a few showers down, making her startle.

"Can you believe what Jenny told him?" someone was saying. "She should have died first!!"

"What did she say?" her companion asked. When her friend informed her in a whisper so low that only Claire could hear it, the girl exclaimed, "She didn't!"

It was silly talk, but at least nobody was staring her way. The girls were casually chattering, complaining about tests, discussing weekend plans—oblivious to their state of undress. Claire noticed they shared shampoo, something boys never did. More and more, she noticed that girls acted as a group much more than boys did. Males preferred to be individualists. The easy camaraderie that girls shared was markedly different from the boisterousness of a boys' locker room. There, interaction usually involved snapping towels or competitive boasting.

"Earth to Claire," Pamela's voice broke through her thoughts. "You're zoning out. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sorry," Claire replied and reached for the soap to appear busy. "Just thinking about the quiz coming up in social studies."

Pamela lowered her voice. "I thought you might be thinking about Pete. What’s with him? He's been asking people about you."

Claire's hands paused in soaping herself. "What kind of questions?"

"Just... questions. Like what you're interested in, what’s your personality? I think you’ve got his attention."

The heat rising to Claire’s cheeks had nothing to do with the shower temperature. "He asked me to the homecoming."

Pamela's eyes widened. "No way! What did you say?"

"I told him I'd think about it. But I'm probably going to say yes."

Pamela reacted with mild surprise. "Really? Pete's a nice guy and all, but I didn't think he’d be your type."

"Why? What's wrong with Pete?" Claire asked defensively.

"Nothing's wrong with him. He’s a good guy, but good guys don’t make the best boyfriends.

"So, what should a person look for in a boyfriend?" Claire asked, holding back a frown. Clark had been a good guy, too. He knew what it was like to get very little attention from girls, too. "What sort of boys do you like?”

"If my parents like a boy, that’s a bad sign. The cool boys are the ones who bring excitement with them through the door! Polite boys make dull dates." Pamela paused a beat to wring the streaming water from her hair. "But I get it. New school, new town—it makes sense that you'd want to start local dating with safe and predictable."

Claire wondered how many girls thought the way Pamela did. Despite all the dating disasters girls seemed to undergo with "unpredictable" guys, were they really determined to avoid the "nice guys." She remembered how Clark had been placed in Lana Lang's "friend zone" as early as grade school. In high school, Lana had dated several boys, but was always to busy to have time for Clark, unless she wanted his help her with a project.

Claire caught the towel thrown to her by the student assisting the teacher as she left the shower. While drying her hair, she reflected that talking casually to a nude girl felt strange—but not as strange as she'd expected.

By the time she reached her locker, Claire had made a decision. She was definitely going to call Pete that evening. There was no reason nice guys always had to come in.

#

At home after school, Claire stood above the telephone as it were a deadly weapon. She'd rehearsed what she wanted to say in her mind all afternoon, but now the memorized words seemed to have evaporated.

With determination, she picked up the receiver and dialed. A familiar voice answered on the second ring. "Hello? Ross residence."

"Hi, Pete? It's Claire."

A brief pause. "Claire! Hi! I didn't expect to be hearing from you — so soon, I mean."

Claire twisted the phone cord around a finger. "I've been thinking about your invitation."

"And?" Pete sounded cautious, ready for anything.

"I'd like to go with you. To homecoming, I mean."

"That's great!" The youth’s blurted out. "I promise you'll have a good time. The decorating committee has been working on at developing the 'Starry Night' theme."

"Stars are nice," Claire replied, having flown among actual stars carrying out super missions.

"If you're pressed to get a dress in time, I could ask my cousin. She has several left over from her high school days—"

"I don’t know if getting a dress will be a big problem. I’ll ask Aunt Martha and see what she thinks."

"Good. If I can help with things, just let me know."

They chatted awkwardly for a few more minutes before Claire used the excuse of homework to end the call. She left the hall and flopped back-first on her bed.

"You're going to the dance?" Mrs. Kent asked from the doorway, her face lighting up. "I overheard. That's wonderful!"

Claire looked at her mother, wondering why someone going to a simple dance seemed like such earthshaking news. "If you say so."

"We'll need to get you a proper dress. There's a boutique in Metropolis that will surely have something right for you."Mom, I don't want you spending good money on anything so silly. Pete said I could borrow one of his cousin's dresses."

"Nonsense," Martha said firmly. "Girls have to have things of their own! I'd be glad to help you find something exactly right for your first dance."

Claire fixed her mother with an incredulous stare. "Ma, I don't consider myself a real girl. And this isn't even my 'first dance.' It's just that I never had a dance date before. It's no big deal. Let's not treat it as some kind of milestone."

Martha's smile faltered. "I know you're uncomfortable being... a girl. But while you're in this situation, why not have a little fun with it?"

Claire had no answer to a question so absurd. The idea of making herself pretty and dating a boy wouldn't feel like fun. It would feel like the double-cross of the person she really was.

She replied with a shrug and said, “We'll do what you think is best.” Even if she didn't expect going to a dance as a girl would be any fun, there was no reason to rain on her mother’s parade.

#

Metropolis sprawled along the Kansas-Missouri line. Before the name change in the nineteenth century, it had been called Kansas City. The Kansas part of the metropolitan area, by the way, was still called Kansas City.

The boutique Mrs. Kent led her to was smaller than Claire had expected, tucked between a bookstore and a café on a tree-lined street. A bell jingled as they entered, and a middle-aged woman with a tape measure draped around her neck looked up from behind the counter.

"Welcome to Eloise's," she greeted them warmly. "How can I help you ladies today?"

"My daughter needs a dress for her school dance," Martha explained. "Something smart but age-appropriate. She'll be eighteen next month."

"Mini-dresses are becoming very popular, even for high school girls," the clerk said. "Would your lovely daughter like to follow the trend?"

"No!" Claire spoke up quickly. "Let's be traditional."

"I would have to agree," Martha added.

The clerk—presumably Eloise herself—emerged from behind the counter to appraise Claire with a professional eye. "First formal dance?" she asked kindly.

Claire nodded mutely.

"Well, no wonder you're nervous. We'll find you something you'll feel comfortable wearing," Eloise promised. "Any particular colors you're drawn to?"

Claire glanced at Martha for input. Mrs. Kent jumped in smoothly. "She'd look lovely in black, don't you think?"

Eloise tilted her head, studying Claire. "Yes, basic black would complement her hair wonderfully. But no need to be hasty. I make it the rule to let the customer decide. "Is that all right, Claire?" she asked.

"Peachy," the teen replied in a low and grumbly tone.

What followed was an hour of Claire being ushered in and out of a dressing room, trying on more dresses than she'd worn so far during her entire life as Claire. Some choices were out of the question—too revealing, too juvenile, too elaborate.

Then Claire slipped into a tea-length dress of black acetate. The bodice had princess seams and a low neckline framed by spaghetti straps. A narrow satin belt in the same color cinched the waist, highlighting her figure. Her arms and shoulders would be left bare. Fortunately, she’d be immune to the September chill.

Looking at herself in this dress made Claire feel strange. The girl she saw in the mirror was so different from Clark Kent that her eyes almost refused to accept that she was looking at herself.

The fashionably-dressed maiden stepped out to find out what her mother thought.

"You should wear it with high heels," Eloise suggested. "And maybe a little pearl necklace if you have one. Her hair should be styled in a soft bouffant or a sleek flip, with a coordinating satin ribbon."

Claire tried not to grit her teeth. What she saw in the mirror was definitely not what she felt inside. But she was mostly going through this because it was something that her mother so much wanted to do.

"How do you like that one?" Mrs. Kent asked.

"I haven't seen anything better," she said, keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.

Eloise nodded approvingly. "It suits you. Classic, not trying too hard. And you were right, Mrs. Kent—the color black was the perfect choice."

After the dress was measured for minor alterations, Martha turned Claire’s attention toward accessories. With Claire's permission, she selected a pair of stiletto heels. Martha soon picked out a pair of simple studs: clear, round stones the diameter of a dime, cut with ruthless precision so that even under the harsh fluorescent lights they scattered sharp, convincing rainbows.”

Martha made her choices in full knowledge that her super-powered daughter could walk on such heels without soreness or any balance problems. Finally, the measurements were taken, and a deal was struck.

This came none too soon for Claire. She was relieved to take the dress off and pack it into its box. It was like it had been whispering to her things that she didn't want to hear. Also, it made her look like somebody--some thing--she knew that she wasn't. That made her feel very, very unready for what was coming next.

And that feeling terrified her more than any villain she'd ever faced.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 5

By Christopher Leeson
.

The New Girl in Smallville

Part 5: Saturday Preparations

As Claire and Martha drove back to Smallville with their purchases, Claire’s mind kept circling back to one worrisome thought: what if the other dancers actually noticed her? What if Pete Ross took one look at her dolled up like a prom queen candidate and got ideas?

Martha glanced across at her daughter. "Penny for your thoughts," she said.

"I’m just wondering whether I've lost my mind," Claire replied. "Three weeks ago, I was Clark Kent, farm boy. Now here I am, buying party dresses and going to dances with boys."

Martha's smile was gentle but knowing. “Doing little things like this will protect your secret identity. The more you show people you’re different from Clark Kent, the safer it will be. Anyway, I wanted to ask whether shopping for a pretty dress was as awful as you expected?”

Claire grimaced thoughtfully. "I don’t know if it was better or worse, but it certainly differed from what I expected. That's the worst thing."

"How so?"

“I went into the shop thinking I'd hate every minute. But when I put that black dress on..." Claire trailed off, staring out the window at a red barn sliding past."Ma, is it normal for clothes to make a person change their mood? “

"What sort of change did you feel?"

"Can a change of clothes make you feel like you’ve become a different person?"

Martha reached over and patted Claire's knee. "Not usually, but it’s common for clothing to give you a different point of view. They can help you see yourself in a new way. I suppose it’s like an ordinary young man looking at himself in a smart uniform for the first time. I’d be more worried if you didn’t feel differently after seeing yourself in new clothing."

"But I’d prefer to feel mad or frustrated. I don’t want to feel good about what’s been forced upon me."

“Darling, for the time being, you don’t have any choice about how you look. Don’t exhaust yourself over things you can’t help. Just accept things as they happen. Happy people have clear minds.”

“Asking me to be happy is expecting a lot.”

Martha shook her head. “Instinct tells me that you won’t be a girl forever. You should look at this as a learning experience. After being a girl, you’ll understand women so much better.”

“If this is the price of understanding, I’d prefer to stay ignorant.”

“All I’m saying is that a positive feeling is a blessing, not a problem. You’ve heard what they say. If you have a lemon, make lemonade.”

“That shop made me very uncomfortable.”

"Why?"

“I was forced to act as though I was a person completely different from what I am. The more I give in to the situation and go with the flow, the more I worry that I’ll lose the person I used to be.”

Martha showed her serious mood with a sigh. "The best thing you can do is to let your girl-feelings and your boy feelings work things out on their own. Think about things you can do something about. It takes strength to avoid distractions, but you’re strong and can do it if you try, sweetheart.”

Claire shook her head. “I’ve never felt less strong than I do now.”

“Just don’t forget what you still have. That includes having folks who love their daughter as much as they ever loved their son.”

“Please, Mom, don’t call me your daughter. That's embarrassing.”

The dash radio crackled ended its musical program and joined in with the local news. Claire tensed as a voice spoke the name of her super alter-ego.

“...Still no word from Super-Sister. She’s ever said why she didn’t help with the warehouse fire on Route 54. Mayor Henderson expressed disappointment that Smallville's new protector has not been as responsive to emergencies as her predecessor.”

"Superboy never missed a crisis," came the interviewee’s response. "It makes you wonder how committed Super-Sister is to filling her brother’s shoes. I’m guessing that she’s a very different person from her brother. I can’t criticize a female for acting like a female, but some girls aren’t temperamentally suited to performing male-type jobs."

Claire's jaw tightened. They didn’t know what they were talking about! Why didn’t they use their own resources instead of waiting for rescue? Other towns, those without a super protector, protected their people without a superhero helping them.

Martha clicked off the radio. "Don't let that silly talk get to you."

"I won’t," Claire lied, crossing her arms.

#

On Saturday morning, Martha informed her daughter at the breakfast table that she had arranged for her to have a beauty appointment in Metropolis.

"Beauty appointments?" Claire repeated weakly from the other side of her oatmeal bowl. “Can’t I just wash my face and comb my hair?”

“You need to have your face and hair fixed, dear. My own skills aren’t good enough to prepare you for a dance as important as this one.”

Jonathan looked up from his newspaper, trying hard not to grin. "Sounds like your mother isn’t going to stop until you end up a raving beauty, princess."

"Don't call me that," Claire muttered weakly, too heartsick to shout. Shopping for dresses and trying them on was one thing. But hair and makeup? Going that extreme felt like crossing a line she might not return from.

But her mother seemed dead-set on improving her appearance, and she didn’t want to dampen the spirits of someone she loved so much.

#

In less than three hours, they were passing through the glass door of "Gilda's Beauty Salon" in downtown Metropolis. The place had an atmosphere like an alien planet—hairspray, lotion, nail polish, and powerful scents like a garden center. Every surface gleamed with chrome, and the air hummed with hair dryers and feminine chatter.

Claire stopped dead in the aisle. "Ma, this is too much for me."

"You’re better than that. This place isn’t nearly as bad as some outlaws you’ve dealt with," Martha said. "Think of it as... research."

"Research into what? Medieval torture techniques?"

“You’re exaggerating. You only have to be wary about is letting them trim your hair. If they break their scissors on your invulnerable locks, our goose is cooked.”

Claire nodded. “I’ll say that I’m letting my hair grow down to the middle of my back.”

A platinum blonde in her forties approached them, stepping quickly despite her very high stilettos. The stylist’s hair was teased so high it defied both gravity and good taste. "You must be Claire! I'm Gilda. Your mother told me you’re getting ready for your first formal dance. How exciting!"

Claire managed a weak smile. "Yeah. Exciting."

Gilda led them deeper into the salon, past women in various states of beautification. One was sitting under a hair dryer that looked like a space helmet, and another was receiving a paint job on her nails. A third sat back in a strange chair while a stylist fitted her with hair curlers the size of soup cans.

"Don't look so worried, honey," Gilda chirped as she steered Claire toward a piece of furniture that looked like it was designed for executions, not beauty treatments. “We won’t stop until we’ve made you look like a Hollywood starlet!”

"I’d be satisfied just looking ‘presentable,’" Claire said, settling gingerly into the chair. “I’m dating a schoolboy, not Rock Hudson."

Gilda laughed as loudly as wind chimes in a northwester. "You're naturally funny, sweetie! I can tell we're going to get along just fine."

Claire sat down, and Gilda draped a pink plastic cape around her shoulders. The mirror told the girl that she looked like an astronaut about to be shot into space.

Gilda combed through Claire’s thick black hair. "You must have quite a boyfriend to be this determined to impress him. Is he tall, dark, and handsome?"

Claire blinked. "Pete? He's... good to hang around with. He’s taller than me, but that’s a low bar. His hair is blond, and he has freckles."

“Sweet!” the stylist declared. “Those boys-next-door types make the best husbands. Don’t trust the slicked-down types with their expensive cars. They’ll praise you to the sky, but end up breaking your heart." Gilda began sectioning off Claire's hair with clips. "I'm thinking we should go with a soft bouffant, as your aunt’s note suggested. Nothing too high, since that might make you look too tall. Perhaps we should give you a little flip at the ends? I’m thinking of making you into Jackie Kennedy, only younger.”

"I don't know what any of that means," Claire admitted.

"It means you're going to end up looking like a million bucks, sugar."

Gilda started the torture session. She wielded brushes, combs, curlers, and sprays with the efficiency of a battlefield surgeon. She teased, smoothed, pinned, and sprayed, all while keeping up a running commentary loaded with fashion news and the latest Hollywood gossip.

"Hold still, doll. I'm going to do your back section now. If you don’t get a big, hard kiss tonight, it won’t be my fault."

Claire gripped the arms of the chair as Gilda used a miniature rake to attack her hair. The teen guessed that if she hadn’t been invulnerable, she thought the operation would hurt like hell. Before her hair appointment, Claire had no idea how unpleasant being a girl could be.

"If you feel like yelling in pain, don’t be ashamed to,” said Gilda. “Hair-pulling pain, like giving birth, opens the door to beauty.”

"From what I’ve seen, pain only opens the door to more pain," Claire muttered. "But don’t slow down. I want to get this hair job done as soon as possible."

“I‘ll try, but art takes time. Before you leave, I want to give you every ounce of beauty your aunt is paying for.”

Twenty minutes later, Gilda spun the chair around and looked at the work of art she had created."Ta-da! What do you think?"

The girl Claire saw in the mirror was practically a stranger. Her hair had been transformed into a rounded bouffant that made her more feminine and sophisticated-looking. The style was no towering beehive; it was just high enough to frame her features attractively.

"Wow," she whispered. "I look..."

"Like a movie star!" Gilda beamed. "After we send you to Dolores for makeup, you’ll be nominated for an Academy Award."

Claire winced. "Can’t we keep things simple? I don't want to look like a... I mean that I don’t want to look like I’m too hard. Most boys can tell at a glance when a girl looks phony."

"Honey, your bone structure is what’s doing all the hard work. I’ll give you just a little enhancement to bring out those gorgeous eyes and cheekbones you have. You ought to think about going into professional modelling."

Dolores, the cosmetologist, came by to fetch her for the makeup chair. Claire found herself face-to-face with an arsenal of brushes, sponges, compacts, and tubes. They looked as if they belonged in a chemistry lab.

"Now, don't you worry," said Dolores. Her own face was so perfectly painted that she looked like a department store mannequin. "You exude so much natural beauty that we only have to even out your complexion, define those eyes, and add a little color to your cheeks and lips. Nothing dramatic."

“Claire grimaced nervously. "I thought my eyes were pretty well-defined already.”

"Oh, honey, you wouldn’t believe how much a little mascara and liner is going to do for them."

Claire now endured the longest thirty minutes of her life. She sat rigid as Dolores dabbed foundation on her face and brushed powder across her cheeks. After all that, she approached the girl with an eyeliner that looked suspiciously like a weapon. “What is all this for?” she wondered. She was going to a simple school dance, not a Riviera nightclub.

Next came the mascara wand. "Look up," Dolores instructed. "Don't blink."

Claire wasn’t afraid of losing an eye. She was invulnerable. What hurt her most was the mortification of undergoing this prolonged ordeal.

Claire closed her eyes and tried to think calming thoughts, mostly scenes of beauty observed in places where few mortals had ever gone. But one nagging thought held on to her: What am I doing? This isn't me. This isn't who I am.

But, finally, when Dolores spun her chair around to face the mirror, Claire's grumbling thoughts faded away. The girl she saw looking back at her was still recognizably Claire Kent, but she had been well disguised. Her blinking eyes looked larger, more luminous. Her cheekbones seemed more defined. Clair’s lips, perfected by pink gloss, were really something.

"Good gracious," breathed Martha, now standing behind her chair. "Claire, you're beautiful."

The girl could see what her mother was calling “beautiful.” Claire touched her cheek tentatively, half-expecting the makeup to smudge like war paint. “Whoever that is, it’s not me,” she whispered.

"It's the woman inside you looking out," Dolores said while cleaning her brushes. "You're seeing yourself at your best. It’s your inner Miss Hyde, the part of you who goes to dances and dates any boy she likes. If someone put together like you is not married by the age of twenty-five, I’m a monkey’s aunt!”

“We don’t want to look too far ahead,” Martha admonished gently.

The necessary work completed, mother and daughter went home. Once there, Claire retreated to her room, her mind in a whirl from all that had happened. The first thing she did was to take another look at herself in the mirror. Even away from the salon lights, her face still had an intense femininity that made her stomach flip. Having been a boy herself, Claire realized that when she met boys, she’d be a red cape flapping in front of a herd of Kansas bulls.

Then Martha knocked on her door.

"Claire? Pete just called. He'll be here at seven-thirty."

Seven-thirty. Claire glanced at her alarm clock. It was already six-fifteen. Time to get dressed.

She slipped out of her town clothes, changed her underthings, and stepped into the dress. The fabric slid over her skin as smoothly as water, and when she zipped up, the dress reinforced the magic created by her hair and makeup. All the beautification taken together made her look curvier and more grown-up. But the elegant transformation came with an emotional wallop. She appeared to have changed into a totally different person. Worse than that, she felt differently, too.

That inner feeling was what worried her the most.

She, who had been Superboy, the world-famous being who had fought creatures from outer space, was suddenly afraid that she wouldn’t know how to look normal in public, dressed like this, or how to say the correct things to people. Without fully understanding it, she realized that there was more to being a woman than merely the science of basic anatomy.

She donned the black pumps next. Thanks to her super-balance, Claire could walk in heels as easily as sneakers, but the extra height they lent her made her taller. More elegant. More... female. This female thing suddenly felt so powerful that she dearly wished that she could escape back into simple, austere boyhood right this minute.

After collecting herself, a last check in the mirror reconfirmed the degree to which she looked stunning. The dress hugged her figure without being too tight; the heels made her legs look longer, and her professionally styled hair and makeup completed the transformation from a small-town girl to a sophisticate. This was the last body in the world that she wanted to take out before the eyes of the public.

A crazy string of events had forced her into a role she didn’t want, a role she didn’t know how to play!

"Claire!" Jonathan called from downstairs. "Your young man's here!"

Her young man! The implications of that phrase made Claire's stomach flutter. This whole situation was too strange to be real! She grabbed the small black purse Martha had bought to match the dress and equipped it at super speed. Then the teen girl took a deep breath and stepped lightly on her high heels to the stairs.

Pete Ross was looking up at her from the Kent living room. His rented suit was a size too large and he looked uncomfortable wearing it. His fair hair had been slicked back with pomade, and he was clutching a corsage box more like an explosive device than a gift.

With his mouth falling open, he breathed. "Holy cow."

Claire felt her cheeks flush warm under her face powder. "Hi, Pete."

"You... wow. You look..." He said no more, having forgotten how to utter coherent speech.

"Different?" Claire suggested, descending the stairs with careful grace. “Phony?”

"Beautiful," Pete managed. "I mean, you always looked nice, but tonight you look... Gosh, Claire, you look like you belong in a magazine."

Jonathan cleared his throat meaningfully, and Pete jumped to attention. "Oh! I brought you a corsage." He fumbled with the box, finally extracting a small arrangement of white orchids. "I wasn't sure what color your dress would be, so I went with white. I hope that's okay."

Claire took it from his nervous hands. "It's perfect," she said. She wasn’t sure how to put it on correctly, but fortunately, Martha stepped in to help pin it to her dress.

"You two make a lovely couple," Mrs. Kent said, stepping back to admire Claire she would a bird of paradise. "Jonathan, get the camera!" she called out.

"Ma, no pictures!" Claire said quickly, but it was too late. Jonathan was already pointing his Kodak Instamatic her way.

"Just one or two," he promised. "For posterity."

The next few minutes were a flurry of posed photographs with Claire and Pete standing awkwardly by the fireplace, with Pete pretending to pin the corsage on Claire’s shoulder, and both of them smiling with the forced brightness of people who knew they were being immortalized on film.

Finally, blessedly, it was time to go.

"Have her home by midnight," Jonathan told Pete sternly, sounding every bit like a protective father with a daughter.

"Yes, sir," Pete replied, as gravely as a man facing a firing squad.

"And drive carefully. The streets can be tricky at night."

"I will, Mr. Kent."

Claire rescued her date by fast walking before her father could issue additional stern warnings. "We should go,” she said. “We don't want to be late."

Pete offered his arm. Then he blinked, as if his gesture had been a mistake. When Claire took his hand, their touch sent a tremble running through her. She gritted her teeth. Some superhero she was!

"You kids have fun," Martha called after them.

As the young people walked toward Pete's family’s Buick, Claire caught sight of their reflection in the car's window—a young couple dressed for an elegant evening. This was so crazy! The girl wondered whether anyone else saw that as clearly as she did.

"You really look incredible tonight," Pete said as he opened the passenger door. “I’m flabbergasted. But in a good way.” He clammed up suddenly, as if realizing that he had said more than he had intended to.

Claire slid into the seat, careful not to wrinkle her dress. "Thanks. You look pretty sharp yourself."

It was true. His bow tie was straight, and he smelled faintly of Old Spice aftershave.

As Pete walked around to the driver's side, Claire took a moment to collect her thoughts. How had this impossible situation come about? In a few minutes, she knew, they'd be at the school together, a boy and girl couple. Theyed be surrounded by classmates they knew. How was she supposed to impersonate a boy’s dance date and not embarrass not only herself, but Pete as well? Though Clark had already read books on countless subjects, at blurring speed, she’d never read anything specific about teen dating etiquette.

Pete took his seat and drew the keys from his pocket. "Nervous?" he asked as he started the engine.

"A little," Claire admitted. "You?"

"Terrified," he said with a grin. "But I enjoy being terrified this way. It’s like being at the top of an exciting roller coaster."

Claire smiled. Her own feelings ran along those same lines.

During the drive toward Smallville High, the girl watched the familiar intersections roll past. Everything looked unchanged, but Claire felt like a spacefarer on an entirely new world. She was still Clark Kent, but tonight, for better or worse, she was also Claire Kent. She was living as the new girl in Smallville, a person who had incomprehensibly gotten roped into a date with a boy.

In a minute, the gymnasium lights came into view. They saw that student cars had nearly filled the school parking lot. Using x-ray vision, she saw couples moving to music, the girls arrayed in colorful dresses, and the boys mostly wearing dark suits.

"Ready?" Pete asked while turning into a parking space.

Claire took a deep breath and checked her reflection one last time in the side-view mirror. The serious-faced girl blinking back at her was poised, pretty, and—hopefully—ready for anything. Inside, she felt like she was going into battle.

"I’m ready," she said, her tone so grave that she hoped her dance date hadn’t noticed.

Whatever happened that night, it would be an unforgettable experience.

Of that, she was sure.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 6

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE
by Christopher Leeson
 
Part Six: Homecoming

They passed through the double doors and made the walk to the gymnasium, a journey Claire had made countless times as Clark, but never like this. The big room had been transformed with crepe paper streamers, and with white tag-board stars hung from the steel rafters with fishing line. They looked pathetic in Claire's eyes, for her super-vision allowed her to gaze outward to real stars in space. The air around them was laden with the scent of cheap perfume, competing with the odor of the industrial-floor wax covering the floor. A backdrop for photos had been erected at the far end, already surrounded by giggling couples.

They paused by the big easel that held pictures of the dance attendees when they were much younger.

Pete extracted a snapshot from his pocket. “I brought a photo of myself from my first year at Smallville High. Should I pin yours up, too?”

Claire shook her head. “I didn’t bring any photos with me from Florida. I wasn't expecting to be invited to parties and dances.”

“Why? Don’t you like parties and dances?” her escort asked.

“Less than most girls do. My favorite hobby is reading.”

“You’re a lot like your cousin Clark that way,” said Pete while pinning his photo to the board. Next, they drifted toward the refreshment table. Already, the dance floor was teeming with students doing an energetic Watusi, with arms swinging and hips swaying to the pulsing beat.

Pete offered his arm to Claire with exaggerated formality. “Shall we, milady?”

She forced a smile and took it, as it was the expected thing.

As the pair approached the dancing area, several heads turned their way. Claire felt a rush of self-consciousness, but Pete looked pleased with himself. Claire guessed that having the good-looking new girl on his arm was earning him respect from the high school crowd.

The music soon trailed off, and the dancers dispersed in a burst of chatter and laughter.

“Punch?” Pete suggested, gesturing toward the refreshment table. His date nodded and led her across the room.

Claire surveyed the gymnasium with an anthropologist’s detachment. Girls clustered in tight groups, whispering and laughing, casting occasional glances toward the boys who stood in packs near the walls. When the Twist started up, couples hurried back to the dance floor, some close together, others maintaining a shy distance. It was like watching an elaborate mating ritual from a National Geographic newsreel.

“Have you ever done the twist?” Pete asked.

“I haven’t had the chance. But I saw this guy on TV showing the moves to the audience. Basically, you make your right foot look like you’re putting out a cigarette on the floor, while moving your hands like you’re drying your lower back with a towel.”

“Yeah, that’s the twist!” He handed her a filled cup. “So, what’s your first impression of Smallville High’s party scene?”

“Well, it’s lively, but it fortunately doesn’t look dangerous,” Claire replied dryly. “I haven’t been to many school dances, but it seems to be hard to make a gymnasium look like anything except a gymnasium.”

 Pete grinned. “I can agree with that. From my experience, gym dances are pretty standard—awkward teens, wallflowers, punch with too much sugar, and music that’s already six months out of date.”

 “I’m going to need your help to keep me from becoming a wallflower,” Claire said. “I let my aunt go overboard fixing me up, so I'd make a good impression on my classmates.”

 “You'll make a good impression on people if they see you dancing.”

"I suppose that's how it works."

 “Then we’ll have to dance, I suppose,” Pete said, extending his hand.

Claire hesitated. She had boned up on dancing by watching youth spots with her super-vision over the last couple days. But now, being asked in public to dance with a boy, she felt daunted. Still, not dancing might make her seem shy or stuck-up, and she didn't want to stand out in any way.

 “Sure,” she said, taking his hand.

Pete led her to the dance floor. The twist didn’t require them to touch, a detail Claire secretly appreciated. With no required coordination between partners, Pete and Claire began grinding down imaginary cigarettes and vigorously drying themselves with invisible towels.

“You look so serious,” Pete whispered. “Dancing is supposed to make a person happy!”

"Sorry," said Claire, "I was thinking about the next biology test. She now forced herself to relax and let the music guide her movements. The next dance was the Swim—a series of arm movements mimicking a swimmer’s front stroke, side stroke, and backstroke, using a move called the “Cannonball,” which meant pinching your nose shut and bending your knees as if going underwater. Gradually, moving to the music became almost natural.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” Pete said, smiling.

“Thanks,” Claire quipped. “What I like about dancing is that it’s easier than rocket science!”

“Which class teaches rocket science?”

“Dummy!" she said

Pete smiled, this time, with no need to force it.

Between dances, they ladled more punch and munched on treats—mostly pastries from the local bakery. When they spoke, they carefully avoided sensitive topics. It was hard for Claire to get her mind around being on a date with a boy.

The next dance was the Mashed Potato, whose simple moves involved clicking heels and making side kicks. Some couples got into trouble when they tried to dance too fast, but Claire, accustomed to super-speed, had no difficulty keeping pace.

They left the dance floor when the song ended. On the way back to the tables, a commotion erupted near the gymnasium entrance doors. The principal’s voice crackled over the speaker system:

“Attention, students. I’ve just been informed that there’s been an accident on Highway 7. A tanker truck has overturned, and there’s a chemical spill. Emergency services are responding, but as a precaution, we’re going to keep everyone on the school grounds until further notice.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as students scattered across the large enclosure to talk excitedly to one another. Claire tensed, her enhanced hearing already picking up siren wails from the edge of town.

“Highway 7!?" exclaimed Pete. "If the chemicals pour into the reservoir, the whole town will be cooked!”

He didn’t need to expand the thought. Miller’s Creek ran along Hightway 7 and fed directly into Smallville’s reservoir—the town’s major water supply. If toxic chemicals contaminated it, the whole town would have to alternate water sources for weeks, maybe months.

A strange look came into her date’s eyes. “You wait here and be safe,” he said. “I want to go to my car radio and find out what other stations are reporting!” He hurried off. Claire looked after him. Pete was always rushing off in tense moments. He'd been doing that for as long as she’d known him.

But his retreat had provided her with room to react to the emergency. A toxic spill would plague Smallville for months if she didn’t act immediately. The contamination would make life and business hard for everyone in Smallville, including her parents.

She hurried toward the girls’ bathroom, her mind racing. It had large windows and, she could exit the school unseen, just as Clark had gotten used to doing from boys’ bath rooms. She had fortunately brought Super-Sister costume with her, compressed to the size of a handkerchief inside her clutch purse.

Thought still angry at the town, letting Smallville get poisoned was more revenge than she wanted to take.

Claire looked at the costume in her purse, and then looked at her own reflection in the lavatory mirror—the elegant dress, the styled hair, the corsage on her left shoulder. Even now, it was hard to believe that that appearance was now her own.

Claire changed clothes in a blur of speed. She took the man-made material of her dress out the window with her, and hid it at super-speed inside the utility shed standing on the lawn outside the gymnasium.

Cloaked by speed and darkness, Super-Sister arrived at the accident scene in seconds. The tanker truck had jackknifed across Highway 7, coming to rest on its side, bleeding pungent fumes and green toxicity. The tank's leakage formed an expanding pool was runneling toward the nearby creek. Emergency vehicles were still arriving and creating a perimeter, their flashing lights illuminating the grim faces of firefighters in chemical suits moving in to contain the poisonous streams.

Claire hovered above, assessing the situation with super-vision. Hairline fractures spider-webbed across the tanker’s main compartment. It was only minutes away from a catastrophic rupture that would dump thousands of gallons of industrial chemicals directly into the watershed.

She descended in front of the incident commander, who looked up in surprise.

“Wellll! You’re that new super-girl, ain’t ya?” said a uniformed man.

“Yes,” Claire replied. “Let me help. That tanker’s about to rupture.”

The commander—a veteran firefighter named Reilly—eyed her skeptically, his thumbs hooked in his turnout gear. “We got us some chemical hazard protocols to handle this, Missy. You got the same grit as Superboy? You sure you won’t go gettin’ yourself hurt?”

Claire said, “I can fly through stars! Caustic chemicals can’t hurt me. Are the chemicals explosive or combustible?”

“Naw, but they’re nasty-toxic! Real foul stuff.”

“I should be able to weld the fractures with my heat vision and then move the tanker away from the creek.”

Reilly hesitated, weighing his options. Claire could sense his reluctance to trust an unknown super-being—especially an unfamiliar female one. But his tone, oddly enough, sounded like a teacher concerned for the safety of a child.

“Boss!” one of the hazard techs called out, his vowels flat and hard. “Da pressure’s climbin’ fast in dere. Deese chemicals are startin' to jet, and any second now, da whole ting’s gonna bust wide open. We gotta move it, yeah? We gotta go!”

Reilly’s jaw tightened. “All right,” he barked at Claire. “Missy, do what ya can. But if I tell ya to stand down, you do as you’re told—we clear?”

Rather than reminding him again of her indestructibility, Claire simply nodded. She was determined to do what she had to do, no matter what the local fire chief thought about it.

Super-Sister took to the air again and positioned herself above the damaged tanker. Using her super-vision, she identified each point of structural failure and began applying pinpoint beams of heat vision to weld the fractures. The metal glowed red, then white-hot as it melted and fused.

As she worked, a new sound reached her ears—a low rumbling from beneath the ground. With her attention divided between delicate welding work and this fresh development, she almost missed the subtle shift in the earth beneath the tanker.

“Everyone back!” Claire shouted as realization struck. “The ground is unstable!”

Her warning came just as the saturated soil allowed the tanker to slide downhill, pulling asphalt and dirt with it in a growing avalanche. Emergency workers scrambled backward as Claire abandoned her welding and dove to grab the tank.

The eighteen-wheeler’s weight was nothing to her Kryptonian strength, but its awkward shape and the slick chemicals coating it made it difficult to seize a secure grip. As she struggled to stabilize it, one of the hazard technicians lost his footing on the muddy slope and tumbled toward a contaminated puddle.

Claire faced an instant decision: secure the tanker or save the technician. With a frustrated grunt, she set the tanker down on a stable section of ground and streaked toward the falling tech, catching him inches before momentum could roll him across the poisoned ground.

“I’ve got you,” she assured the man, lifting him and placing him on his feet behind the emergency line.

But in those few crucial seconds, gravity reasserted its hold on the truck. It was sliding again, its massive bulk picking up momentum as it headed for the creek.

Claire flashed back, grabbed the truck’s front axle, and dug her heels into the ground. Her boots sank into the mud beneath her, but she held firm. Its weight was nothing compared to her strength, but the physics of shifting terrain made the operation touch-and-go.

With a last surge of determination, she lifted the tanker entirely, hovering a few feet above the treacherous ground. “I need somewhere to put this!” she called to Chief Reilly.

He pointed to a flat, paved area well away from the creek. “Take it to the park! Containment pools are being set up there!”

Claire carefully transported her awkward load to the designated area, setting it down with precision atop the plastic containment barriers the emergency team had rapidly deployed.

As soon as the tanker was no longer an immediate source of contamination, she returned to the creek bank and used her super-breath to freeze the chemical trail that had almost reached the water’s edge.

Then she dove into the muddy ground and, by shoving, created a dike of mud to block the flow-way of the deadly chemicals. That would give the rescue team time to deal with the contained toxins.

“Are you able to contain things now?” Super-Sister asked the members of the wide-eyed hazard team.

Chief Reilly approached at a fast trot, looking less skeptical than before. “Good work, Missy,” he acknowledged. “This could’da gone wrong-side up without you pitching in!”

“Just doing what needs to be done,” Super-Sister replied, concealing her dislike for being called “Missy.”

“You’re really Superboy’s sistah?” one of the younger firefighters asked.

Claire hesitated, then answered vaguely. “Something like that. “But I can’t talk now. I have an emergency to handle elsewhere.

“Woman’s work is nevah done,” the young worker quipped with a broad, admiring smile.

Super-Sister inwardly winced. Here was yet another male who thought she was pretty!

“Wait!” Reilly called as the super-heroine was preparing to take off. “Whacha call yourself? I need a handle for the report.”

“I keep my identity secret, Chief. Just call me “Super-Sister,” she said. That name left an unpleasant taste in her mouth, but she needed to protect her secret identities. If people learned that Superboy had turned into a girl, she’d live the rest of her life in humiliation.

She backed away into the clear and sprang into the sky, her cape snapping. She needed to speed back and make it look as if she had never left the homecoming dance.

Super-Sister felt dazed by a tangle of emotions. Hopefully, this successful rescue would prove her the equal of Superboy — a recognition that her pride demanded.

With scant loss of time, Claire recovered her party clothes from the utility shed and slipped back indoors through the bathroom window. She flashed into her party dress. If lucky, with the confusion in the gymnasium, no one would have noticed her absence. A quick glance at the mirror warned her that her cheek was smudged and the wind had made a mess of her hair.

She clenched her teeth. People would more easily notice a girl in dishabille than they would the almost-invisible Clark Kent. Higher expectations for girls weren’t fair, but those were the cards she’d been dealt.

A hyper-speed washing and combing made her presentable. Finally, with a deep breath, Claire pushed open the lavatory door, walked at merely human speed down the short hall, and stepped through the pneumatic door into the decorated gymnasium.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 7

Super-Sister has dealt with a runaway truck loaded with toxic chemicals. Now all she has to do is figure out with the rest of her life.

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE: An Adventure of Super-Sister, Chapter 7

By Christopher Leeson

The dance floor’s mood had shifted. Students huddled around transistor radios, whispering about the truck accident and the mysterious super‑girl who’d swooped in to help. Claire held her face calm as she scanned the room for Pete.

She spotted him by the punch bowl. His face brightened when he saw her.

“Thought you got lost,” he said. “You were gone a while.”

“Sorry,” she replied. “I called my folks. Long line for the phone.”

Pete remembered how Clark had used to give similar weak excuses. “Hey—did you hear? That Super‑Sister gal handled the wreck,” he said.

Claire's eyes widened. “Really? Well… that’s good. Sounds like she’s as handy as Superboy was.”

Pete shrugged thoughtfully. “Makes me wonder if she’s not as good a person as he was.”

Claire shifted her weight. “Guess we’ll find out. Unless she flies off home.”

“As long as she's here, I hope folks don’t take her for granted, like they did with him.”

“I know. That’s people for you,” Claire said quietly.

“Do you believe that people can change?” Pete asked.

Claire winced at that, but before she could answer, the principal’s voice boomed over the speakers.

“Good news, everyone!” He rapidly described the rescue action Super-Sister had performed for Smallville.

The band struck up the Hand Jive, and the crowd cheered. The tension in the room almost instantly vanished.

Pete offered his hand. “Dance again?”

She hesitated only a moment. “Sure. That’s why we’re here.”

They went out onto the floor, trying to get with the new steps. Two hours remained before the Homecoming dance ended. That was a long time, and Claire hoped nothing else would go wrong before she could leave.

Between songs, Pete grinned. “Your cousin’s not much of a dancer. But you’ve got something—kind of a natural grace.”

“I don’t know Clark well,” she said lightly, “but anybody can learn if they try.”

Before Pete could answer, Lana appeared, smiling brightly.

“Pete, you owe me a dance,” she said.

Claire blinked. “You promised Lana a dance?”

Pete looked sheepish. “Yeah, when I thought you’d left. Lana and I go way back.”

Lana tugged him toward the floor. Claire stepped aside. She had no claim on him. With nothing else to do, she drifted to the bleachers where there was a group of girls she knew.

Pamela Collins waved her over. “Claire! Come sit up here.”

Claire approached cautiously.

“That dress is gorgeous,” Pamela said. “Where’d you find it?”

“A boutique in Metropolis,” Claire answered.

Madison, sitting cross‑legged, chimed in. “It’s sharp. And you dance real smooth. Not show‑offy—just… nice.”

Claire smiled. “Thanks.”

The girls returned to their chatter—records, hairstyles, boys. Claire listened more than she spoke, trying to grasp how ordinary girls were supposed to think.

Then Pamela leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Okay, spill it. What’s going on with you and Pete Ross? You two look pretty cozy.”

Claire felt heat rise in her cheeks. “We’re just friends.”

Madison snorted softly. “Hope so. Lana’s got her eye on him tonight.”

“Let her,” Claire said. “Pete’s a good guy. He deserves to have the best kind of girl.”

Pamela raised an eyebrow. “You’re not jealous? Not even a little?”

“No,” Claire said honestly. “I want good things for both of them.”

The music stopped, and Pete approached, slightly out of breath.

"Have fun?"

"It was nice," he said breathlessly. “Lana was asking about you.”

“About me?” Claire asked warily. “Why?”

“She says you’re… mysterious.”

Claire sighed. “That’s her polite way of saying she can’t figure me out. What’d you tell her?”

“That you’re nice. And friendly.” His expression was unreadable.

They spent the rest of the evening talking and dancing. Pete kept her punch glass filled and introduced her to his classmates. Claire did her best to stay in character, but was relieved when the principal announced the last dance.

For an entire night, her impersonation of an ordinary girl had held together. Still, she felt a pang for Clark’s paltry social life. Maybe he’d let Superboy consume too much of it. And maybe she—Claire—was letting Super‑Sister do the same.

When the band fell silent, Pete guided her off the floor.

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “You make good company.” He hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”

Claire stiffened. “What?”

“Would you want to get ice cream with me sometime? Just as friends.”

“I like ice cream,” she said after a pause.

Pete smiled. “Good. And hey—if you want to see other people, that’s fine. I just hope Smallville ends up being a good place for you. Maybe even one of your best memories.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “You’ve helped with that already.”

The ride home was quiet and comfortable. Pete walked her to the door.

“I’d say it was a good night,” he remarked.

“It was,” Claire replied. Any night that went by without a social disaster was a good night.

Claire wondered if Pete might try to kiss her, but, instead, he cleared his throat and said. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she echoed.

With a departing nod, he turned and walked to his car.

#

Inside, Jonathan and Martha rose eagerly. Claire recounted the night, including the chemical spill. She reserved her more troubling thoughts for herself.

“People on the radio are talking about the accident,” Jonathan said. “Sounds like Super‑Sister’s every bit the guardian Superboy was.”

Hearing the word was stung. In her own mind, Superboy was still here. She wished this confusing chapter of her life would end.

Martha beamed. “You’ve shown this town how lucky they are to have Super-Sister around, Claire.”

Claire forced a small shrug. "I hope they still think that tomorrow. Without my help, the town might’ve had to evacuate. I couldn’t let that happen just because I was angry.”

#

Alone in her room, Claire unpinned her corsage. She turned and saw her reflection in the mirror—the black dress, the soft features. She saw a girl that she still didn’t quite believe was herself.

Who was she? Claire Kent, a schoolgirl who’d danced and chatted like any other? Or Super‑Sister, a super being who saved lives?

Or was she neither?

She placed the corsage in her parents’ keepsake box. How long will this masquerade have to go on? The thought chilled her. For how long would her future be like the last three weeks had been?

She changed into the pajamas her mother had bought—another reminder of the changes she had to get used to. Playing the role of an “ordinary girl” had taken over her life. She didn't like it, but if she made a mistake and revealed her alien origin, it would endanger her parents and others.

Claire lay back, remembering Pamela’s locker‑room wisdom: “The only thing you can control in life is how you show up for it.” Was she talking about clothes—or something deeper?

After she turned out the lights, sleep came easily, as it always had. But her dreams brought no comfort.

#

She stood on a sunlit Colorado hilltop. Shar‑La appeared, the cursed ring on her finger glowing.

“Awaken, Superboy!” the alien woman barked.

Claire looked down at herself—and gasped. She was Superboy again! “You changed me back?”

“You were never a girl,” Shar‑La said. “The ring compels a target to believe in a new reality.”

“All of it… was in my head?”

“Yes. You deserved it -- and I hope you learned something.”

Anger washed over him. The woman whose life he'd save had given him a mortifying experience for no good reason. His impulse was to tell her exactly what he felt, but instead apologized quickly, not wishing to anger the witch. "Yes, I made a mistake, and I learned something..."

But the scene dimmed. The sun vanished. The mountain dissolved—

Claire jolted awake in darkness. She touched her body in desperate hope.

To her dismay, she was still Claire. Still Super‑Sister.

Heart pounding, the teen girl rushed to the mirror. Her super‑sight confirmed every detail—the slender frame, the fine features, the dark hair brushing her shoulders.

The dream had been a lie.

She pressed her palms to the glass. “Damn it… damn it…”

Her knees buckled, and she sank to her knees. Another day. Smallville would wake to another peaceful morning. Everyone in it would do all right. Only Claire Kent had to live in turmoil.

She glanced up at the ceiling. Shar‑La was gone, far beyond reach. Why would she ever return? Everything about life on earth had affronted her. She was the kind who did casual damage and then moved on.

Again, Claire touched the bodily curves she hadn’t asked for. Was this outrageous situation only temporary, as her mother kept saying? Or would she be trapped like this forever?

Her mind rebelled at the thought. While everyone else was living his own life, she had to live as a different person.

The girl clenched her fists, breath shaking. There had to be a way back to where she belonged! Another alien might come offering help. Her Kryptonian body might eventually reject the change. Something—anything—could happen.

Claire leaned her forehead against the cool glass. The Boy of Steel had been invulnerable. He could fly through a star, so how had Shar-La’s magic overcome him? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t logical.

“Please,” she whispered, “let this end.”

Outside, it was growing lighter, and birds sang. Cars started. Life went on.

For everyone but her.

What future awaited her? Girl‑talk with Lana? Ice cream with Pete? A closet full of dresses? None of it belonged in her life.

Yet, every morning, she woke up hoping—aching—that when she opened her eyes, she would be Superboy.

It was that hope, and nothing else, that gave her the strength she needed to keep going.

THE END