"...Ok...here I am in my really small, sorry cozy dorm room. As you can see, they have provided us with the finest in prison-grade mattresses. I'll demonstrate by bouncing on the bed a little...did you get that? It didn't even move. But, good for the back right? Ok...over here we have your standard desk, and yes Mom I'll straighten it up later, I just got here, and I'm still organizing—stop frowning!. Ok, over there is a bed identical to mine. It belongs to my roommate, who I met briefly when he ran in here with his mother who was wearing at least sixty dead animals on her back, but they had to meet his father for lunch or something, anyway, they barely looked in my direction. Don't worry; I'm sure he's very friendly. Oh! My view. If you look out the window and straight across you can see the main school building. I'll be taking all my Science and English classes there. Oh and if I lean out the window, I can almost show you the faculty housing. Some teachers actually live here even though they don't have to. Well...I guess that's it for now. I have orientation in the morning. This is really strange for all of us I know, and I promise you I will do my best to enjoy myself, and not get into any trouble. I'll call you this weekend like I promised. I know you'd like me to call everyday, and I'd love that too, but we promised I would try to be more independent and learn to be on my own...so I'm going to try that. Ok...I'd better clean up this mess before my roommate gets back. I love you both, and don't worry, please, I'm fine."
Clark ended his message with the biggest, brightest smile he could manage—one he hoped his always-perceptive mother didn't see right through. He shut the camera off and flopped back on the bed, willing the lump in his throat to go away. Who ever heard of a sixteen year old crying because he missed his parents?
Clark heard voices, speaking in excited hushed tones. Then he heard giggling, and feet running across the wooden floor. He shut his eyes tighter, trying to dislodge the dream, but it became more vivid, his bed even rattled in response, jostling his body and causing the wooden frame of his bed to groan. For a moment he thought maybe he was in the throes of a possession, but could an alien be possessed? Just when he was going to try and recall that movie he saw the other night about a girl and a demon, his shoulder was shoved hard, and the laughter got even louder. Clark realized it was obviously time to open his eyes.
He turned towards the laughter, opening his eyes to see a boy with sandy brown hair and squinting gray eyes grinning at him mischievously.
"Man, I've never seen anyone sleep so hard. I thought you might be dead or something. Though there is the urban legend that if your roommate dies you gets an automatic 4.0, so I wouldn't have complained too much. I'm Braden, some jerks call me Bradey, but I never answer to it. You're Clark Kent right? Family owns Natural Earth Food stores?"
Clark was still trying to come out of his haze and realize where he was and the identity of the person talking to him. Braden, right, Prescott, otherwise known as the roommate he met briefly earlier. He sat up on his bed, wondering when he fell asleep exactly, racking his brain trying to remember what he could of the short biography about his roommate that had been sent along with his welcome packet; he guessed Braden received the same information about him. Finally remembering himself, he stood and held out his hand.
"Yes, I'm Clark. Sorry, I must have—"
"Wow, you're pretty tall huh? Guess you're dethroning me as tallest guy in the Hall. How tall are you?"
Clark wondered if he ever stopped talking. "Uh...not really sure..."
Braden swung Clark around, pressing his back to his. "I'd say at least 6'4'. I'm only 6'1 myself." He stepped away from Clark shaking his head in amazement, seeming to admire this new turn of events. Clark just stood there, still trying to catch up.
"So, lets go." He pulled on Clark's arm, leading him to the door. Clark allowed himself to be pulled, not wanting to accidentally misjudge his strength and hurt Braden in the first five minutes they know each other. He remembered the first time he didn't allow himself to be dragged by his friend Pete—it resulted in a dislocated shoulder and a lot of pain for his friend. He still remembered running as fast as the wind, not stopping until he got to their barn, where he hid under a hayloft. It'd taken both parents hours of patient talking and finally a call from Pete's Mom to coax him out of the barn and convince him he wasn't a monster.
"Clark? Come on." Clark shook himself out of his thoughts; he'd have to remember to try harder not to slip away into his own subconscious if he wanted to make friends.
"Where are we going?"
"Dinner. Its six o'clock, and I'm starving. I've been trying to wake you for like ten minutes, I thought we should eat our first dinner of the semester together, and then I can introduce you to all the crew. They've been wanting to scope you out since I found out we were going to be roommates."
Clark was about to ask what happened to his old roommate, but as he'd already learned Braden didn't need to be asked anything, he was more than happy to keep talking.
"My old roommate's Dad is heading up some operations in Switzerland of all fucking places this year, and decided they needed to bond or something ridiculous like that, so he dragged poor Dean along with him. Sucks, we were roommates for like four years."
"Oh, I'm sorry..."
But Braden just gave him a dazzling smile. "Its fine, I mean change is good right? Damn wait til' they see how tall you are. They're going to flip! You're pretty good looking too, but I don't know if that's good or bad yet." Braden laughed at his own joke and together they walked down the hall, Braden leading the way, still laughing.
As he followed Braden into the Great Hall, he paused on the threshold. The room both excited and intimidated him. It was nothing like the expansive cafeteria at Smallville High. There, the tables where a mish-mash of old and new, all with the same industrial metal, the older ones topped with a fake surface that was supposed to resemble wood, and usually scarred by the hundreds of students over the years who'd tried to pull back the layers to expose the farce. Everyone usually paired off in groups, some rowdy, some introverted, the whole room alive with a sea of different colors and activity.
But this couldn't have been more different. The walls were covered in dark mahogany, more closely resembling the many drawing rooms of his father's investors he'd seen over years, than the eating hall of teenage males. The only lighting illuminating the room came from ornate brass wall sconces adorning each wall panel; together they gave off a diffused gentle glow, that matched the solemn tapestries hanging at either end of the hall depicting boys dressed in similar garb eating at those very tables decades ago. And in sharp contrast of the dizzying array of colors that could be found in Smallville High on any given day—there was only one prominent color in the room—blue. Though they weren't required to wear their uniforms just yet, they were required to dress in code for dinner. So everywhere he looked, he saw white and blue shirts, with dark navy trousers. He took a quick glance down at his own pale blue button-down and navy pants, and felt a small comfort that he didn't stand out for once.
Braden was eyeing him curiously and walked back, slipping an arm around his shoulder affectionately. "Don't worry Clark, I know it all looks a little scary, but trust me, you'll fit right in."
Clark gave him a weak smile in response, and let himself be ushered over to a table closest to the high arched windows.
"Well, here he is guys—in the flesh. Clark Kent everyone."
Eight pairs of eyes looked up from their place settings at once. All with same quizzical, slightly bemused expression. Clark stood there awkwardly, waiting for the introductions. Remembering the constant flow of information Braden assaulted him with the entire walk there, he knew that four of the ten most important families in Metropolis were represented at the dining hall table, composing "the crew" as Braden kept referring to them.
He watched each of them eye him with a mixture of interest and trepidation as they stood one by one to greet him. The first to stand and offer his hand was a boy with jet black curls, and skin the color of cinnamon toast. He introduced himself as Kennedy Prescott, son of President and CEO of Prescott Publishing, Metropolis's largest distributor of magazines catering to the young urban professional. Clark wondered if he was expected to recite his family's resume in response. Kennedy feigned consternation when Braden told them his family's business, and the other boys seemed to follow suit when he was introduced to them as well. Each expression giving way to a look of recognition—immediately followed with, "oh right, my mother insists our cook shop there…" or something similar. He tried not to feel too offended.
It wasn't until half way through dinner that his surroundings actually seemed to sink in. Instead of sitting in their dining room with his father, waiting for his mother to bring out the always still warm sweet rolls they had with every dinner, he was sitting here, one among a couple of hundred, trying not to be overwhelmed by the constant din of overactive teenage boys. He felt a sudden sadness that settled somewhere in his abdomen and he regretted insisting that his parents not call him his first night there.
Braden claimed he would fit right in, but he wondered how as he listened politely to their conversations, never really feeling a moment where he thought he could interject anything of importance. As the dinner hour moved on he felt more and more distant and lonely, and couldn't wait to be back in his room so he could stop pretending to be cheerful.
A staff of men and women dressed in white aprons swept into the room to remove their dinner plates. The food wasn't bad, definitely better than the mystery concoctions he'd seen in his previous cafeteria experience, but it didn't touch the culinary expertise of Martha Kent. The beef roast had been too dry, and even drowning it in the accompanying gravy didn't help matters. His spirits didn't improve any when Braden informed him that this was a special dinner, and the normal daily meals weren't nearly as nice. Clark sighed and handed his mostly empty plate to the server with a quiet "thank you".
Now that dinner was finished, the noise in the room rose sharply as everyone started talking excitedly at their seats with nothing else to do. Clark wondered why they simply couldn't leave, when a loud clanging of a bell answered his question. The noise simmered to a low hum, finally settling into complete silence only broken by the occasional cough or sniffle.
A tall man with mixed gray hair and a youthful face, with only the deep lines etched there revealing his true age, stood on the elevated platform at the far end of the hall with a long table behind him. Braden leaned over and whispered that normally all the department heads sat at the table and ate dinner with them.
"Good evening young men. I'll try and make this brief because I know how eager each of you must be to start on the delicious dessert prepared for you this evening, which the department heads and myself will be joining you for. Many of you know me well, but for the benefit of any new students and freshmen." Clark could have sworn his eyes met his for a moment.
"I am Headmaster Winchester, head of Excelsior Prep. I oversee the faculty and Dean of Students, and try to be a mentor to every student here. This year we're doing things a little differently. You will have your full orientation in the morning, and tonight will be only to meet your new teacher and socialize amongst yourselves. I trust each of you will welcome our new student entering the junior class, Clark Kent."
A few heads turned to look in his direction, and Clark felt his cheeks flush deep red.
"Now, we are happy to welcome a new teacher this year, who is also an alumni of Excelsior Prep. He'll be taking over Economics for third year students, and teaching a philosophy class. Please welcome Lex Luthor to the Excelsior family."
The shock was too great for many boys to hide their gasps, and soon the noise in the room elevated again. Winchester cleared his throat and the room became silent again, and a tall, impossibly bald man entered through a side door and joined the Headmaster at the podium.
The boys around him continued to whisper furiously. Clark knew the name of course; everyone in Metropolis did. The Luthors were the most powerful family in the city, some say in the country. The family only consisted of Lex and his father now, with his father running Luthorcorp solely. Clarks till remembered the scandal it caused when upon graduating Princeton, Lex decided to relinquish his rightful place beside his father. He made a simple speech to the press, denouncing everything his father stood for, turning his back on Luthorcorp entirely. He then entered a teachers college in Metropolis and had kept a low profile every since.
There'd been many whispers and rumors about the real reason Lex had denied his inheritance. Drugs, mental illness, even homicide—the rumors grew wilder in the weeks surrounding the announcement even creeping its way to his family's dinner table at home.
Clark remembered his father being very annoyed at how willing people were to believe gossip; saying how brave Lex was for doing what he did, that it took a lot of guts and tenacity few men possessed to walk out on everything you'd been raised to be, and to see his father for what he truly was and he'd gladly give him a job one day.
Clark watched him now, standing in front of them, addressing the students simply, completely unselfconscious of his appearance. For the first time that evening, Clark really listened to what was being said.
"I won't pretend it's not strange for you all to see me standing here, claiming to be your new professor of economics. But I hope any preconceived notions you may have of me, don't get in the way of what I think could be a very promising relationship." He paused, surveying the now attentive faces.
"I come from the same place as most of you, and I understand you better than most are able to, through no fault of their own. I'd like to offer you my insight of the world you're about to be thrust into, and if you'll let me, offer you guidance."
He smiled good-naturedly, it faltered only when he eyes rested on Clark's rapt expression, but only for an imperceptible moment.
"Well, I don't want to keep you from dessert any longer. Those of you who take my class, will find out enough eventually."
He gave a polite nod, to even politer applause, though Clark would swear it was tinged with sincere enthusiasm. He smiled to himself; he couldn't wait to tell his Dad who'd be teaching his Economics class.
The fact that Lex Luthor was now part of Excelsior faculty was all anyone could talk about the entire way back to their dorms. Clark was forgotten completely by the crew, which was fine with him. Braden in particular seemed excited by the new subject, and now prattled on at length while they changed for bed.
"I mean, why would a billionaire's son become a teacher?! That's nuts!"
Clark pulled his shirt off, rummaging through his still unpacked luggage for a t-shirt.
"I don't see what's so nuts about it, I remember what he said when he turned down the position of VP, he said he wanted nothing to do with ruining Metropolis."
Braden leaned back on his bed, clad in just purple boxers; the only part of their wardrobe they'd have any control over all year. Clark would soon come to find that it was fashionable for most of the boys to get the most outrageous and colorful boxers they could find.
"Oh you believe that nonsense about his Dad being all evil? Plenty of rich men throughout history have been accused of the same thing. Most of it is bullshit."
Clark slipped out of his pants, revealing his very boring pale blue boxers. "Maybe so, but I think Lex Luthor would know better than anyone whether or not his father was really as bad as most claim."
Braden just shrugged, already growing bored with the subject.
"Maybe, still you'd think he'd start his own company or something, not come back to his old school to teach us idiots."
Clark just shrugged with a smile, and slipped his t-shirt over his head. Braden watched as he stretched his arms to pull on the tee.
"You're pretty ripped Kent." Clark eyed him curiously, and he added, "You'll have to show me your workout routine. I'm positively scrawny."
Clark ignored the strange uneasy feeling that suddenly crept over him, and nodded, pulling on his pajama bottoms hastily and climbed into bed.