If it had been a Thursday, Clark wouldn’t have had to ride the bus home. His pa came into town on Thursdays to get groceries and talk with the other farmers at the barber shop or Sullivan’s repair barn, and then he’d pick up Clark from school and they’d drive home together - sometime’s Pa even let Clark drive the truck. But it was not a Thursday. It was a Wednesday, and Clark had to ride the bus home.
Clark had always hated the bus - it was full of rowdy, bullying kids, it smelled, and the seats were somehow more uncomfortable than his stiff wooden desk in Mrs. Brigham’s class. But now after the Accident, Clark hated it even more.
The Accident, as it was called in the Kent household (though the rest of the town referred to it as the Miracle), had happened five months ago. Clark had been riding the bus home from school (it had been a Tuesday) when oncoming traffic and a blown tire caused the bus to swerve into the Arkansas River where it passed under the highway. Lots of moms said that angels must’ve been watching the bus because it didn’t land in the middle of the river but close enough to the bank that the driver was able to get everyone to safety with almost no injuries. That’s why it was called the Miracle. The only problem was that unless Clark himself was an angel, the moms were all wrong.
He remembered it clearly - Clark had a sharp memory like that. He had been trying to ignore Pete, the would-be bully of the ninth grade, when the bus swerved and splashed down in the deepest part of the river, immediately filling with water. Some of the girls had started screaming and Clark himself had been frozen with terror, gripping the stupid seat like his life depended on it because for all he knew, they might die in a few minutes. It was only when he saw the dent he left in the metal that Clark realized that he could do something about that.
So Clark Kent, the quiet kid who never got anything less than an A- and always had his nose stuck in history and philosophy books, the one that never got in trouble with the teacher and the only boy in his grade to not have gone out with a girl, surprised the entire freshman grade of Smallville High School when he pushed the bus out of the river. He might have been proud when they all turned to stare at him, but instead Clark had been downright terrified.
He didn’t like to think about it. He still didn’t quite like to think about what happened afterwards either. He just wanted to go home and pet his dog, and then tomorrow he could ride back from school with his Pa. So he hefted his backpack, boarded the bus, and took his usual spot next to the window where he could watch the fields go by on the four-mile ride home.
Unless the bus was very full, Clark usually sat on his own, mostly because no one wanted to sit next to that kid. The bus was not full today, so it was a bit of a surprise when Whitney Fordham of the twelfth grade sat down next to him.
“Whatcha up to, Kent?” Whitney asked casually, adjusting his letterman jacket as he did. Clark did his best to ignore the fact that Whitney was in the aisle seat and blocking his way off of the bus, and simply shrugged in response as he watched the older boy out of the corner of his eye
“Watching the wheat. Mister Shelley at the gas station says it’ll be ready for harvest by the end of the month.”
“You doing anything this evening?”
“Just homework and chores,” Clark shrugged again, glancing back out the window when he felt something hard and cold bump against his side. He turned to see what it was only to immediately recognize that Fordham was holding a pistol beneath his jacket, and said pistol was now covertly pressed against Clark’s ribs.
Clark swallowed hard and didn’t move.
“You’re going to get off at the Bravermans’ place,” Whitney told him in a low voice, “I’ll be right behind you. You’re going to do exactly as I say, else I’ll start using this gun for what it was made for - and not just on you, Kent.”
Okay. Okay, the Bravermans lived about half-a-mile from here. Clark just had to keep very still and not do anything to piss Whitney off and maybe Whitney wouldn’t shoot anyone if Clark did what he was told. He wished it was a Thursday. He wouldn’t have had to ride the bus if it’d been a Thursday.
The bus slowed and came to a stop at the end of the Braverman’s driveway, and Clark obediently followed Whitney when the boy stood up alongside Kelsie Braverman, the only person who was genuinely supposed to get off here. She shot the pair of boys an inquisitive glance when they exited the bus outside her house, but recognized Whitney as a friend of her brother and thought nothing of it when they followed her up the driveway.
Clark watched Kelsie run inside the house as he was herded by Whitney and his pistol towards a nearby tractor shed where two boys he recognized from the football team were lounging in the shade. They exchanged a silent nod with Clark’s captor before leading them ‘round the back of the shed to where an old station wagon was parked. Fordham waved the gun towards it, signalling that Clark was to get in. Knowing better than to argue with someone holding a pistol, he obeyed, silently clambering into the back seat just as the two senior boys from the football team got in next to him - one on his right and the other on his left, trapping Clark in the middle.
It was at that moment that he noticed there was someone in the driver’s seat, and they turned to face him with a grin - a grin Clark had become very accustomed with, mostly because he was constantly avoiding it.
“Relax, Kent,” Kenny Braverman told him, smirking as he drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, “We just want to talk, that’s all.”
Clark folded his arms over his chest, partly to show Braverman that he wasn’t going to be shoved around this time and partly because he was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic with the two linebackers squeezed into the car on either side of him.
“What do you want to talk about?” Clark asked quietly, bunching his shoulders as he leaned forward in his seat so the boys wouldn’t press so tightly against him.
“We heard ‘bout what you did at the river back in April,” Whitney answered as he climbed into the passenger seat, fixing Clark with a hard stare, “You’ve got a bunch of people fooled, Kent. Even my mom, and that lady ain’t easily fooled.”
That earned a round of chuckles from the linebackers and another smirk from Braverman, who continued where Fordham had left off, “What Whit is saying is that we know what you did. You covered up your trick pretty well, I’ll admit, and you were clever enough to let a few witnesses see just to make sure the rumor spread.”
“What rumor?” Clark asked skeptically, and Braverman’s smile instantly turned sour.
“The rumor that little Clark Kent is strong as hell’s teeth and not to be messed with. And that is where we’re going to prove you wrong.”
Clark paled visibly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I-I don’t know what you mean, just let me out of the car, Kenny-”
“What, so you can go around spreading more lies? I’ll tell you what I mean, Kent,” Braverman growled, “I mean that we won’t stand for any more of this ‘Clark pushed the bus out of the river’ nonsense that’s been going around at school. It’s a lie, a barefaced lie, and we don’t like liars or pretenders or freaks - which if the story is true, you would be all three. The lie makes you look strong, which is how we know it’s a lie because Clark Kent isn’t strong. He’s a puny momma’s boy who can’t even throw a fuckin’ punch-”
Braverman shot his friend a look that could curdle milk, to which Whitney lowered his eyes and started fiddling with his pistol, but luckily the conversation didn’t progress any further as Kenny put the car into gear.
“Where are we going?” Clark asked timidly as they rolled down the driveway, and Braverman grinned wolfishly at him in the rearview mirror.
“Somewhere where we can prove how strong you ain’t.”
The words sent a shiver down Clark’s spine, and he realized that the last time he’d been this scared had been the day he’d pushed the bus out of the river. The car pulled onto the highway and they drove along in tense silence for a bit, their prisoner still tucked uncomfortably between his captors, before someone pulled a joint out of their pocket. A minute later it was lit and passed around the car to everyone but Clark, who was secretly gagging from the strong smell and doing his best not to breathe it in. Kenny took the fewest drags from the cigarette because he was driving, but that didn’t stop him from laughing with the other boys whenever they made a stupid joke or pointed out roadkill on the side of the highway as they chattered excitedly - apparently the marijuana made him easily distracted.
“Man, you’re in for a treat!” Whitney laughed loudly over the sound of the radio about twenty minutes into the drive, swiveling in his chair to address Clark with wide eyes as he exclaimed, “I’ma aim for your balls when we get to the field - you’re gonna cry for sure. How ‘bout that, strongboy?”
Oh, Clark thought. Oh. He had sorta hoped that they’d just throw him in the creek like they’d done with Brian Melbourne back in eighth grade, or maybe lock him in a shed somewhere so he could break out after they left, but this sounded worse. They were gonna beat him up bad, it sounded like, maybe even shoot him - and Clark seriously doubted they’d give him a ride home when it was over. So, he reasoned, he had to get away before they got to wherever they were going. And the only way to do that was to stop the car.
Pa sometimes let Clark drive the harvester. He always said Clark would do just fine - and Clark did do just fine - but if for some reason he needed help or the brake was being fiddly again (old farm equipment was like that, and it was always repaired quickly and temporarily), he just had to pull it onto the field border where the long grass and rough ground would slow it down some. He figured the same would go for cars.
Clark leaned forward in his seat about, his knees tucked up against the central console and his arms resting on top of it in a way that made it look as if he were only trying to get comfortable between the two large boys taking up the majority of the back seat - though that may have been one of the reasons he moved, it was mostly so that he could reach the steering wheel. Braverman was distracted, the cigarette in his mouth and his window rolled down as he pointed out some coot’s farm where the harvest workers sometimes sold beer to teens if you asked nicely and had plenty of cash on hand. Clark didn’t hesitate to take advantage of Kenny’s preoccupation, and quickly leaned forward to grab the wheel and yank it as far to the right as he could.
The result was instantaneous. The station wagon spun off of the highway and onto the grass beside it, sliding down into a ditch before something hard hit the front of the car and Clark was thrown back in his seat with his eyes shut tight against the flying glass from the shattered windshield.
He wasn’t sure how long it was before he opened his eyes to piercing sunlight shining in through the back window of the station wagon and wispy smoke filling the front of the car, accompanied by the eerie silence of four unmoving bodies. It’d… it’d worked, the car had stopped - mostly because it had run into a telephone pole on the side of the road and nearly crushed the hood in two. Clark’s very first thought was that he had to get away, he had to get out of the car, and so managed to shove the unconscious linebacker to his left aside enough for him to reach the door handle and wiggle his way out of the car, hardly noticing how hard he was breathing. It was only when he stumbled outside onto the side of the road that he realized what he had done.
Oh, Clark thought. Oh.
It felt loud - very loud, just like when his mom said he was having a sensory overload - and even the comforting rustle of the grass in the wind was overwhelming to his ears. The car was still trying to run, the engine choking and sputtering and making an awful smell that didn’t do much to cover up the scent of blood that lingered all over the vehicle and all over Clark and all over his hands-
Clark spent the next two minutes losing the contents of his stomach in the grass, and the next two minutes after that trying to wipe the football player’s blood off of his hands. He’d… he had hurt them, it was Clark’s fault they had crashed and they were bleeding and he… he didn’t know what to do… he-he hurt them… he had to get help.
The boys hadn’t bothered to blindfold him during the ride (not that it would help much, considering that Clark could see through just about everything he tried), so he had a pretty decent idea of where he was and he knew that the Coopers lived about a half-a-mile east of here. The Coopers had a phone, maybe they would let him call the police.
Clark was a good runner. It took him less than three minutes to reach their property line and sprint up the driveway, panting hard as he mounted the porch steps and paused a moment to calm his breathing and brush his dark hair out of his face before ringing the doorbell. He could hear the chime ringing throughout the farmhouse, followed a few seconds later by approaching footsteps before Missus Cooper opened the door.
“Oh, you’re Martha’s boy!” the woman beamed, instantly recognizing him, “Lord, I hardly recognized you without your church clothes on. Cole, isn’t it? Or Clem? Nevermind your name - what on Earth are you doing out here?”
“My name’s Clark Kent, ma’am,” he answered patiently, “I was wondering if I could borrow your phone for a moment, it’s a bit urgent-”
“Sure, honey! Why don’t you come inside, the landline’s just in the kitchen.”
Clark thanked her and stepped inside, politely wiping his shoes on the mat before following her to the back of the farmhouse.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Missus Cooper started as she pointed out the wall phone to him, “What are you doing out this way? We’re a bit far from the Kent farm - are you calling for a ride home? David could always drive you back if your folks are busy.”
Clark paused in the middle of taking the receiver off the hook and glanced in Missus Cooper’s direction.
“I was walking home from a friend’s place, ma’am,” he lied sheepishly, “I’m calling the sheriff’s office cause I seen a car go off the road half-a-mile back. Looked like the Braverman’s station wagon but I-I ran here to call for help ‘stead of checking-”
“Land sakes! Ain’t Muriel, I hope,” Missus Cooper exclaimed, her anxiety over Clark being far from home immediately forgotten as she started going off about how Muriel Braverman was such a dear friend and she would be absolutely sick with worry if anything had happened to her, but Clark didn’t hear much of what the woman said after that as he was busy dialling 9-1-1, still wishing that it had been a Thursday.
V*V*V*V*V*V*V
The sheriff had come out pretty quickly and found that the boys had survived, though not without a few concussions, broken bones, and hefty fines for driving under the influence. Braverman swore up and down that Clark had been in the car and caused the crash, though no one believed him mostly because he was clearly high and Missus Cooper inadvertently provided Clark with a alibi by talking for ten minus solid about how he was the sweetest and most kind-hearted boy she had ever met and he had only been visiting a friend up the road. Pa had arrived not long after the sheriff, spoken briefly with the man about a few things including kids these days and was Marjorie getting along alright, it’d been a pretty bad flu season hadn’t it, and finally had gotten permission to take Clark home because the boy obviously hadn’t taken any part in the whole thing besides calling for help.
Clark had hidden himself in Pa’s truck the moment he showed up, hunkered down in the passenger seat with his sneakers kicked off onto the floor and his knees tucked up to his chest while the adults talked. It didn’t take long for it to be sorted out, and Pa soon returned to start the old engine up and get them on their way home, though Clark noted that his dad took the long way back to avoid going past the crash.
“What happened?” Pa asked after a while, those being the first words he said to his son after asking if he was all right when he first showed up at the Coopers’ place, and Clark shrugged in response.
“Don’t wanna talk ‘bout it. Please.”
Pa nodded, reaching over to gently pat his back. “That’s alright, though you’ll have to tell someone sometime, Clark.”
Clark nodded into his knees and leaned against the window, lulled into a false calm by the familiar rumble of the truck. He hadn’t meant to hurt them, he’d just wanted to get away, he’d just wanted to go home and he hated riding the bus home from school…
“They threatened to start shooting if I didn’t get off the bus.”
“So you got off the bus?” Pa asked gently.
“Yeah… They said they just wanted to talk, s’all. Well, not really - I think they wanted to beat me up and Whitney kept waving his gun around and I thought maybe if I… if I got the car to stop long enough I could get away and they wouldn’t hit me ‘cause of the Accident.”
Pa was quiet for a long minute, keeping his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road ahead before he finally spoke up again, “That’s what it was all about? Why didn’t you fight back or run away? Might’ve been easier that way.”
“They had a gun, Pa. I didn’t want anyone to get shot,” Clark said in a soft voice.
Pa nodded, slowly and thoughtfully, “I’ll admit, son, I’m still not sure if you did the right thing back in April. But what you did today, not fighting back and letting those boys take you away even when you were scared just so that no one else would get hurt… I think you did the right thing.”
