kent

steve rogers

Clark is not at school today and Carly is lonely. Already disastrous thoughts fester in her mind: has he contracted the bubonic plague? are space monkeys after him? has he been taken hostage by a band of pirates? Or is it somehow her fault? Had some supervillain in the world discovered that there is a superhero living in Staten Island but had abducted the wrong person?

School is boring when there is minus one friend, and the inability to focus on any of the day’s lessons has caused a flood of improbable events to circulate through her brain. Carly doesn’t think she has ever packed up her belongings so quickly when the final bell rings. English had dragged on for astonishingly lengthy period of time, and Carly speedwalks to her bus. She plops into one of the seats in the front row and fiddles with the zippers on her backpack, anxious to leave the yellow vehicle.

She knows it is stupid to be so worried about Clark, because he’s probably fine. But somehow, she is suffering from withdrawal or something, because she feels this urge to check up on him. Carly drums her fingers along the seat, and stares out the window, trying to pretend that she is totally fine with being caught in traffic.

The kids on the bus talk loudly, trying their very best to annoy the bus driver who has long since grown accustomed to their rowdy behavior. So long as they don’t stand while the bus is in motion or get into any physical fights, the driver will not raise her voice or even spare a glance at the rearview mirror.

Finally, the bus pulls up at her stop, and Carly heads to her house. She acts as naturally as possible, but as soon as the bus rounds the corner, she takes to the air. It takes her a while to navigate to Clark’s house from the sky-- her normal commute only spans from her home to New York City-- but eventually she finds the street he lives on.

But now that she is here, she feels a little bit ridiculous, and she walks to the front door in an uneven gait. Part of her vying to continue walking forward and the other part of her saying that she should just go home. What is she doing here anyways? Eventually, the part that wants to see Clark wins out, and she slowly walks up the driveway and to the front door. It is large and wooden, a bit overbearing when not expecting a visitor. Cautiously, Carly raises her finger to the doorbell. She presses so very lightly, as if the delicate nudge will result in a quieter sound, but she can still hear the chime echo throughout the house.

No sooner has the sound died down that she hears a thud hit the ground inside. Curious, she cups her hand to the window by the door and peers inside. She sees the television shut off and hears scuffling on the floor.

Carly rolls her eyes. “Clark. It’s me! Open up.”

Sure enough, Clark walks around the corner and stumbles to the doorway. A blanket is draped over his shoulders and he opens the door with one hand. The other hand is clutching a tissue box.

“What are you doing here? He asks, stuffily. His nose is red from blowing it all day and eyes are shiny with a slight fever. The glasses on his face are slightly askew and he does not have another hand to fix them. She steps inside, taking her shoes off at the door.

Her cheeks turn slightly pink, and she wishes that she could blame it on the cold, but it is a mild fifty-five degrees outside. She has bared much colder when the wind is smacking against her face in the nighttime. This is tropical in comparison. “I dunno. I guess I was just worried.”

He blinks at her and closes the door. He produces a tissue from the Kleenex box, and waves it in the air with some finesse. “I’m sick,” he says, blowing his nose for emphasis.

Carly shrugs, “Yeah, well. I’m still staying. You don’t have like swine flu or anything do you?”

He coughs into his shirt sleeve, “Nah. Just a really bad cold. I’ve been drinking chicken noodle soup, like nonstop all day.” He pulls the blanket closer to himself. “You should probably go. I don’t want you to get sick.”