Posted Sept 8, 2025
THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE
by Christopher Leeson
Part Five: Saturday Preparations
As Claire and Martha drove back to Smallville with their purchases, Claire sat quietly watching the Kansas farmland roll past. Half her mind was calculating escape routes—to what place could she duck away to, a place where she could give up pretending to be a schoolgirl and live more in the way she was used to.
Her mind's other half kept circling back to one terrifying thought: what if people at the dance actually noticed her? What would they think of her? What if Pete Ross wasn't the gentleman she had always taken him to be? If the boy saw her dolled up for a school dance would he get 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, the schoolboy nobody noticed. Now here I am, buying party dresses and going to dances with boys."
Martha's smile was gentle but knowing. “Remember that you're doing these things to protect your secret identity, darling. The more people can see that you differ from Clark Kent, the safer it will be. Anyway, I wanted to ask if shopping for a pretty dress turned out to be as awful as you thought it would be?"
Claire grimaced thoughtfully. "It wasn't quite what I expected. That's the problem."
"How so?"
"Well, I thought I'd hate every minute. But when I put on that black dress..." Claire trailed off, staring out the window at a red barn sliding past. "Ma, is it normal for clothes to make a person feel different inside?"
"Different how?"
"Like you're not the same person you were before you put them on." Claire's voice dropped. "Like maybe you’re finding a side to yourself that you didn’t know was there."
Martha reached over and patted Claire's knee. "Honey, clothes have been improving people’s spirits since Eve first put on a fig leaf. I’d be more worried if you didn’t enjoy looking as pretty as you can be."
"But what if I start liking it too much?" The words came out in a rush. "What if I get used to being Claire and stop missing Clark’s life?"
“Darling, as long as you’re a girl, feel upbeat about the good things you have.” Martha presented the next advice carefully. “If… if you stay a girl longer than we expect, having a girl’s instincts to fall back on can only improve your life and make living easier.
"Your transformation might be only temporary. If you change back into Clark later, you’ll probably go through the same orientation process again, only in reverse. Just accept what happens in the short term, and try to see the upside.”
“Being this way embarrasses me.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes think thoughts a boy shouldn’t think. Whenever I'm attracted to things that I should avoid, it makes me feel like I’m not much of a man.”
"While your transformation lasts, it’s not bad if you feel a little like a girl. I know you didn't choose to be a girl, but you also didn't get any choice in what sex you were born into. I know it's hard for you to start life one way, and then suddenly have to live another way. Your boy-feelings and your girl-feelings will eventually fall into place. I've seen you dare things that would have given me a heart attack.
"You’re still Superboy on the inside, and you can deal with anything. Just remember, you're not alone. Your folks loved having a son before, and now they love having a daughter. It doesn't matter what sex you are. What's important is the person you are in your heart and mind. If you don't get bitter, if you keep trying to do what’s right, we’ll never lose confidence in you."
The radio crackled to life with the local news. Claire tensed as she heard the name of her alter-ego.
" ...still no word from Super-Sister about missing the warehouse fire on Route 54 last Tuesday. Mayor Henderson expressed disappointment that Smallville's new protector seems less responsive than her predecessor."
"Superboy never missed a crisis," came the response. "Makes you wonder if this Super-Sister is really committed to helping folks. Maybe what it comes down to is that girls aren’t suited to act heroically, a role men have traditionally accepted throughout history."
Claire's jaw tightened. Easy for them to criticize when they don’t know the fear and mortification she was dealing with. Let them handle their own problems for once—plenty of towns get along just fine without a superhero to babysit them.
Martha noticed her daughter's expression and reached to turn off the radio. "Don't let them get to you."
"I'm not," Claire lied, crossing her arms.
#
The dress shopping had only begun Claire's ordeal. On Saturday morning, the day of the dance, Martha announced to her daughter that she had arranged for her to have a major “beauty appointment” in Metropolis.
"Beauty appointment?" Claire echoed weakly from her spot at the breakfast table. “What for?”
"For your hair and makeup, dear. You’ll have to look your best for Pete tonight."
“What does Pete Ross have to do with anything?”
“Claire, I’m surprised at you. Don’t you like Pete?”
“I’m not sure how I feel. I still remember him laughing at me in front of everybody.”
“Yes, you’ve told me that before. But you also said he had a logical explanation. Don’t remember that day. Remember all the good days with Pete before that. You’ve probably misunderstood him.
"Darling, I know you’ve always shied away from close friendships. I understand it’s because you have to be secretive. Sometimes you think too much about what Superboy needs, and not enough about what Clark Kent needs.
"You need friends in your life. A person can’t grow up normally if he’s alone all the time. You need a friend like Pete Ross. Respecting him as a person is a good way to make your ties even stronger!”
“Mom!” Claire said with a sigh and a groan. “Are you suggesting that I become Pete Ross’s girlfriend?”
“For the time being, you have no choice about being a girl. And the two of you have been friends for years. It's up to you how to deal with this strange situation. In my experience, I must say, it's always best to repay kindness with kindness.”
#
By about nine o’clock the next morning, the two Kent women were getting ready for their second trip together into Metropolis. For half an hour, they had been speaking continually, almost arguing. Their chatter had made Jonathan chuckle. "Sounds like your mother’s determined to give you the full-bore salon treatment, princess."
"Don't call me that!" Claire said, but her censure was a dull knife. She had no heart to make a serious protest; inwardly, she was knotted up with fear.
Publicly shopping for a dress was one thing— and even putting it on for a few minutes in a store was bearable—but to have her hair and makeup done? And be manicured, too? She already felt herself on the brink of a shoot. If she slipped, she might never recover from it.
#
Two hours later, the Kent girls were walking into the city’s "Gilda's Beauty Salon."The powerful scent of the place was like the atmosphere of an alien planet. It was laden with hairspray, permanent wave solution, nail polish, and enough floral scents to rival a garden center. Its every surface gleamed chrome and pink, while the air hummed with hair dryers and feminine chatter.
Superboy had visited Mars, and it hadn’t felt as strange as this.
Claire stopped in the doorway and braced her hand against the jamb. "Ma, I can't do this."
"Of course you can, precious," Martha said, taking her firmly by the wrist. "Think of it as... research."
"Research into what? Medieval torture techniques?"
“Sweetie, the important thing to remember is to not let them trim your hair, not even a little. If they break their scissors cutting it, our goose is cooked. You should say that you want your hair to grow until it reaches the middle of your back.”
Claire nodded dejectedly. “I know, I know.”
A platinum blonde in her forties approached them, her hair teased so high it defied both gravity and good sense. "You must be Claire! I'm Gilda. Your mother told me you’re going to 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 sitting under a hair dryer that looked like a space helmet, another getting her nails painted shocking pink, a third emerging from behind a curtain with her hair in curlers the size of soup cans.
"Don't look so worried, honey," Gilda chirped, steering Claire toward a chair that seemed designed for either beauty treatments or electric executions. "We won’t stop until even a blind man would think you’re gorgeous!"
"I’d rather you stop as soon as I get 'presentable,'" Claire said as she gingerly fitted herself into the chair. "It’s not like I’m here for a movie screen test."
Gilda laughed—a sound like wind chimes blown by a northwester. "Oh, you're naturally funny! I can tell we're going to get along just fine."
As Gilda draped a pink cape around Claire's shoulders, the disguised heroine saw herself in the mirror. She looked like an astronaut about to be shot into space.
"So tell me about the beau you’re trying so hard to impress," Gilda said while combing through Claire's thick black hair. "Is he a great guy, tall, dark, and handsome?"
Claire blinked. "Pete? He's... nice. And he’s only a little taller than I am. His hair is blond, and he has freckles."
"Sweet! You’ve lucked out. Grab that boy-next-door type! Tie yourself to him, honey; hold him tight. A plain and good-natured man is the best sort to marry. The slick guys who come out of the gate praising you with all the right words are the bad boys who’ll break your heart down the road."
Gilda began sectioning off Claire's hair with clips. "Now, I'm thinking we should give you a French twist 'do to make you look taller. I’ll turn you into the image of a young Jackie Kennedy."
"I don't know what a French twist looks like," Claire admitted.
"It looks like a million bucks, sugar. Believe me!"
The ordeal now began in earnest. Gilda wielded brushes, combs, curlers, and sprays with the efficiency of a battlefield surgeon. She teased and smoothed, pinned and sprayed, all while keeping up a running commentary about everything from the weather to the latest Hollywood gossip.
Claire gripped the arms of the chair as Gilda attacked her hair with what looked like a miniature rake.
"Are you sure this is how it's supposed to work?” she asked. Clarie guessed the process would hurt like hell if not for her invulnerability.
"Beauty is pain, sweetie. Haven't you heard that before?"
"Mostly what I hear is that pain is pain," Claire muttered. "But don’t let me slow you down. I want to get this weird stuff over as quickly as possible."
“I’ll go as fast as I can, dearie. But I’m absolutely determined to make you as beautiful as your aunt wants you to be.”
Twenty minutes later, Gilda spun the chair around with a flourish. "Ta-da! What do you think, Claire Kent?"
The young brunette stared at her reflection in amazement. Her hair had been transformed into a soft, rounded bouffant that somehow made her face look more feminine and sophisticated. It framed her face surprisingly well.
"That’s...interesting," she said tentatively. "I look…"
"Like a movie star!" Gilda beamed. "But this is nothing. Wait until you get the makeup that your face is begging for."
That statement sent a jolt through Claire. "About the makeup—maybe we could keep it simple? I don't want to look like a... well, like I'm trying too hard."
"Honey, with your bone structure, we don't need to try hard at all. A little enhancement will bring out those gorgeous eyes and cheekbones."
The makeup chair turned out to be an even more intimidating adventure than the hair station. Claire found herself face-to-face with an arsenal of brushes, sponges, compacts, and tubes that looked like they belonged in a chemistry lab.
"Now, don't you worry," said Dolores, the makeup artist—a woman whose own face was so perfectly painted she looked like a department store mannequin. "We only have to even out your complexion, define those eyes, and add a little color to your cheeks and lips. Nothing dramatic."
"Why define my eyes?" Claire asked nervously. "From this side, they seem to be well-defined already."
"Honey, I bet you’ve never worn mascara or eyeliner. They can work miracles."
The next thirty minutes felt like the longest of Claire's lifetime. She sat rigid as Dolores dabbed foundation on her face, brushed powder across her cheeks, and approached her eyes with an eyeliner pencil that looked suspiciously like a weapon. What was all this for? She was going to a simple school dance, not a Riviera nightclub.
"Look up," Dolores instructed, wielding a mascara wand. "Don't blink."
"You want me to look up while you stick that thing next to my eyeball?" Claire's voice has slipped into a high pitch.
Claire wasn’t in danger of losing an eye. She could bounce bullets off those same orbs. The big hurt she was experiencing these days came from the mortification of enduring in an entirely new way.
"Sweetums, I've been doing this for fifteen years. Trust me."
Claire closed her eyes and forced herself to visualize calming mind pictures. Unfortunately, all her thoughts led back to the same point: Why am I letting them do this? This isn't me. This isn't who I am.
When Dolores finally spun her chair around to see herself in the mirror, Claire's protests died in her throat. The girl looking out of the glass was a whole new version of Claire Kent. Her eyes looked larger, more luminous than before, while her cheekbones seemed more defined. Her lips, touched with pink gloss, looked soft and inviting.
Should she be worried about the invitations those lips might hand out? No, she'd be all right. She still had a super punch.
"Good gracious," Martha said breathily from behind her. "Claire, you're a vision of beauty."
Claire touched her own cheek tentatively, half-expecting the makeup to smudge like war paint. "There’s one thing you can say about this face, Mom. No one is going to recognize it."
"It looks exactly like the real you," Dolores remarked while cleaning her brushes. "It’s the best possible version of yourself."
"What I see is the sort of girl who goes to dances and dates boys," Claire murmured, unable to turn away from that strange reflection.
"Aren't the girl who dance and date the ones who have the most fun in life?" Martha suggested gently.
#
Back home, Claire retreated to her room to process what had happened. She caught sight of her makeup job in her dresser mirror and stopped short. Even away from the salon lights, she still looked...pretty. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that the face was hers. The implications of that was strong enough to make her stomach flip.
The girl remained staring at herself when 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. Fortunately, she could mimic the speed of a howitzer shot.
“I’ll help you,” said Martha. “We want to get the first impression you make exactly right.”
The black dress was hanging on her closet door, like a bat issuing a challenge. Claire approached the thing slowly and ran her fingers over its smooth fabric. Such a simple prop—just cloth and thread—but she sensed something threatening about it.
It wanted to lure her in and transform her. If she put it, would she not be surrendering and accepting that transformation? If she capitulated, that would be her own fault.
She peeled off her casual clothes and slipped her bare legs into the dress. The fabric slid over her skin like water, and when she zipped it up, she sensed something. She had undergone more than a mere physical change—though admittedly the dress changed her silhouette; it made her look curvier and more grown-up. It also made her feel different emotionally. Wearing it made Claire more aware of herself. It made her more conscious of how she moved and looked.
The black pumps completed the combo. Thanks to her super-balance, she could walk in pumps, but the extra height afforded by the high heels and the French twist 'do made her feel different. Taller. More elegant. And, worse, more... female. But her look also had a formidable quality.
History's most beautiful women sometimes modeled for goddess statues. It was like the ancients realized that physical beauty held power. Women of the past had used beauty as an adjunct to intimidation and domination.
A final check in the mirror confirmed what she'd feared: she looked stunning. The dress hugged her figure without being too tight; the heels made her legs appear longer, and her professionally styled hair and makeup had changed her from a girl-next-door into a sophisticate. A girl arrayed so didn't belong in a middle-class backyard. Such a person belonged in a palace.
"Claire!" Jonathan called from downstairs. "Your young man's here!"
Her young man. The phrase made Claire's stomach flutter. She grabbed a small black purse Martha had bought to match the dress, took a deep breath, and headed for the stairs.
Pete Ross was standing in the Kent living room, looking uncomfortable in his stylish but too-large rented suit. His fair hair had been slicked back with pomade, and he was clutching a corsage box as if it were an explosive device.
The small-town boy looked up when Claire appeared at the top of the stairs. His mouth fell open. "Holy cow," he breathed.
Claire felt her cheeks warm. "Hi, Pete."
"You... You look...wow!" That sounded silly, he knew, but standing there, seeing his friend as he had never seen him—her—before, made him lose the function of his lips and jaw.
Claire descended the stairs with an effort to be graceful."Do you mean I look different?" she inquired.
"Yes...I mean, you always looked nice,” Pete corrected himself, “but tonight you’re the image of... gosh, you look like a magazine model."
Jonathan cleared his throat meaningfully, and Pete jumped to attention. "Oh! I brought you a corsage, Claire." 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."
"It's perfect," Claire said, though she knew little about fashion coordination. Fortunately, Martha stepped in, took it from her nervous hands, and deftly pinned it to the black dress.
"You two make a lovely couple," Martha said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Jonathan, get the camera!"
"Ma, no pictures!" Claire said quickly, but it was too late. Jonathan was already loading film into his Kodak Instamatic.
"Just one or two," he promised. "For posterity."
But a father as proud as he was couldn’t stop at one. The next few minutes were a blur of posed photographs—Claire and Pete standing awkwardly by the fireplace, Pete pretending to pin on the corsage, both of them smiling with forced brightness.
Finally, blessedly, it was time for the young couple to head out the door.
"Have her home by midnight," Jonathan told Pete sternly, playing his protective father role.
"Yes, sir," Pete replied, looking like he was facing a drill sergeant.
"And drive carefully. The roads can be tricky at night," Mr. Kent reminded them.
"I will, Mr. Kent."
Claire rescued her date before her father could issue any more warnings. "We should go. We don't want to be late."
Pete offered her his arm—a gesture inspired by watching old black-and-white English movies. Claire took it, trying to keep a small, pleasant smile on her pained lips to mask her inner dismay.
"You kids have fun," Martha called after them as they stepped through the door.
As they walked toward Pete's father's Buick, Claire caught sight of their reflection in the car's window—a young couple dressed for an enjoyable evening. It was just as fine an image as any of those Jonathan had taken.
"You really look incredible tonight," Pete said as he opened the passenger door for his date.
Claire slid into the seat, careful not to wrinkle her dress. “Now that they were alone, she felt embarrassment rising again. “T-Thanks. You look pretty sharp yourself.”
It was true—the suit might be a little big, but Pete had attempted to look dapper. His shoes were polished, his bow tie was straight, and he smelled faintly of Old Spice aftershave.
As Pete walked around to the driver's side, Claire collected herself. When the boy fitted himself behind the wheel, his date gave him a forced smile. She thought that in a few minutes they'd be at the school, surrounded by her classmates.
Then it would happen. Everyone would see her dressed up, made up, and on the arm of a boy. All along, she had told herself that she was preparing for a mock date, a mere gesture to enter the society of people of her own age, but a little voice in her mind had warned that she hadn't known what she was doing. By some strange alchemy, Claire really had become a girl on her first date.
Pete started the engine. "Nervous?" he asked, glancing over at her.
"A little," Claire admitted. "You?"
"Terrified," he said with a grin.
“Don’t you date much?” Claire asked with a touch of wickedness.
“Not much. How about you?” Pete already knew the answer to his question.
“Don’t ask questions like that on the first date,” she replied.
“It's impolite to ask such a question.”
“Yes, but you asked it first!”
"Yes, but I didn't force you to answer."
Claire smiled at her own quip, and it was finally a smile that wasn’t forced.
As they drove toward Smallville High, Claire watched the familiar streets roll past. How could her life have changed so much in so few days? While dealing with new things, everything around her remained the same.
She felt like an impostor. At her core, she was still Clark Kent—still the boy from Krypton with powers beyond imagining. But tonight, for better or worse, she had been hijacked into creating a social life for Claire Kent, the new girl in town, a girl going to her first dance. This idea made the girl of steel repent. She was occupying a life that should have belonged to someone. She was supposedly Claire Kent, but who and what, really, was Claire Kent?
She felt herself in an identity crisis, in which fear and confusion tussled. If this night didn’t turn out to be a total disaster, she would have to consider herself ahead in the game.
The gymnasium lights glowed ahead, and cars were already filling the parking lot. With her super vision, she could see couples behind the walls, moving to music, the girls in colorful dresses, and the boys in dark suits.
"Ready to become part of all the merriment?" Pete asked as he pulled into a parking space.
Tensely, Claire checked her reflection in the side mirror. The impeccably dressed girl she saw reflected looked poised and pretty. Claire looked like a person capable of tackling anything the evening might offer. Inwardly, she didn't feel nearly so confident.
Why should that be? There were no high stakes here. This was only a high school dance, not an invasion of giant robots! Why did this night feel so important?
Claire inhaled a gulp of air and exhaled it. "Ready!" she said, but she secretly held the fingers of her right hand crossed.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 6
