High Heels and Hot Tips: A Sheila Coffin Adventure

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 1

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Drinking as a dame requires the recalculation of everything. Two martinis used to be my warm-up, the liquid courage that got me through many a stakeout in January or depositions in August. Now two measly martinis had me quoting Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and forgetting how stairs are supposed to work. Having an alien-enhanced sex drive foisted on me was bad enough, but this body's lightweight constitution this body adds insult to injury.

Martin was grinning—not at me exactly, but at the situation. Seeing me loose and happy turned him on. Those were two attitudes that only rarely coincided these days.

But I could blame my good spirits on the events of the night. We'd just gotten back from an election night celebration. We had kept busy drinking until the main race was called. It was a moment for cheering. Against all the odds, the election cheating, and the billionaire money, the people had come out on a November night and done the right thing. It made my head swim to think that maybe the country was starting the climb up from of the seventh circle of hell. 

Though well sloshed with champagne (or the cheaper brew that Martin and I had had to settle for) the crowd had cheered victory speech given at 2:30 a.m. But by then I was pretty far gone, numb enough to almost forget that recently a catastrophic change had come over my life. Namely, I was a thirty-eight-year-old male detective whom alien invaders had trapped inside the body of my own nineteen-year-old—and very female—secretary, Sheila Coffin. Now, like it or not, Sheila's life had become mine to live. I couldn't tell anybody. I just had to buckle down and get on with life. I performed her secretarial work for a while, until Martin Dewitt had seen my brilliance of my detective work and made me his business partner.

But that's the long story that I've already told in a book. When I'm old and ready to go, maybe I'll publish it. We'll see.

Anyway, after the speech, Martin drove us home using Sheila’s car, which was my car now. Considering how much he had drunk, that drive was probably illegal. 

"Almost home, Princess," he said, as we entered the down-ramp to the basement parking area.

"Don't call me P-Princess,” I hiccuped. “I'm a hard-boiled gun-shoe. Gum-shoe, I mean."

"You're too young to be hard-boiled. But I love listening to you talk like one of those 1940s pulp-magazine hard-case heroes you're always writing about."

Yeah, I was not only a secretary and a detective, but also a writer. Selling my first novel had been great for the ego. But I still hadn't managed to sell enough books to make any real difference. But I wasn't going to give up. Absolutely not!

I was too bombed to walk, so he picked me up and carried me into the nearest elevator, my heels dangling like a pair of dead fish. When we reached our floor, the elevator doors hissed open. That's when I noticed a young, pretty woman facing us, holding a mop and wearing an urgent expression. She was wearing the apartment house’s cleaning-staff uniform, but I didn't recognize her. 

I wasn't drunk enough to fail to wonder why she'd be mopping linoleum at three-thirty in the morning. The apartment house's maintenance staff always clocked out at six PM. What I felt was a special thing that had a name: Suspicion. The wrongness of the meeting struck me like a cold, wet rain on a windy day.

The woman didn’t seem to want to use the elevator. Instead, she started to trail after us. When I looked back, I show her nervous look, as if she had something urgent to say. Dark-haired and in her mid-twenties, the badly-dressed dame had the kind of face that could make men act stupid and women flare with jealousy. Her cleaning outfit didn't fit right. It hung on her svelte frame like an Idaho potato sack.

"Are you Callahan and Dewitt?" she suddenly asked breathlessly. "The detectives?"

Martin looked back at her." That's us," he said carefully. "Having a problem, miss?"

The girl started a fast jabber. "A local cop told me about a male and female detective team that I ought to look for. “He said they were brave and honest. That’s what I need." 

"You don't really work here, do you?" Martin asked warily.

"I’m Valentina Romano. I found this uniform in a broom closet downstairs. I put it on because I didn't want to be kicked out by security before I met the detectives." She gave us a weak smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I saw a murder. The mob knows I talked. They're going to kill me, too. I need protection."

Those words blew away some of my champagne-laced euphoria. Martin's expression became grim and he fumbled his key out of his suit pocket to unlock our apartment door. "Come in quick," he muttered.

#

The General Narrative, continued

Inside was the apartment that was clearly shared by both of the detectives. One of Sheila Coffin’s dresses was hanging next to Martin's leather jacket on the coat rack—the she-detective gestured Val Romano toward the cluttered sofa. The young woman hurriedly sat down and immediately blurted out a frightening story.

She was a professional stripper doing a gig in northeastern Washington D.C. Three nights earlier, she'd just finished her shift at The Velvet Room, an upscale gentlemen's club. Going to her car at about two in two in the morning, she'd witnessed someone on his knees being executed by brutal-looking men in ill-fitting suits. The next day the news feeds would be talking about the killing of federal prosecutor Richard Hayworth.

Val had a good memory for faces and had seen it all clearly under the parking lot lights. Val had dodged away without being seen and gone to the D.C. police. They already knew about the killing and showed her books of felon photographs. She picked out Tommy "The Suit" Castellano, an enforcer for the Moretti crime family.

The cops acted pleased that they had an eyewitness. The senior man with her said that Hayworth had been building a RICO case against the Morettis. To charge a gang insider like Castellano with murder might be what they needed to light the fuse  that might blow the dirty Moretti outfit sky-high.

The D.C. police warned the stripper that her testimony could do the city a lot of good. But they warned that if the mob found out who was fingering them, her life wouldn't be worth two cents. They said she needed to go to a witness safe house, something that Val was willing to do. The precinct boys swore her to silence and promised to arrange her hiding place. But by the next evening, Val started receiving threats.

A gruff voice coming from her apartment phone warned, "Witnesses don't live long. Clam up and get out of town!" Frightened, she went to her Hyundai and found a dead rat on the driver's seat.  At the station, the blue boys told her that they didn’t have a safe house ready for her because of red tape and safe house availability. They needed at least five days, and all they could advise was for her to lie low somewhere safe She made a grocery store stop and noticed a  pug-faced man watching her. When she parked at her hotel, the same mug was standing on the corner, seemingly not caring if she saw him or not.

She had already talked to the cops and didn’t know  where else to turn. Her voice breaking, Val said,. "They're watching the hotel. How hard will it be for them to find out where I work and where my mother lives? I can't go to her—it would endanger her. They know so much and move so fast that I don’t think I can get away by running. Maybe they even hid a tracer on my car, like in the movies! If a gang of them went inside my hotel, no one there could protect me. I need bodyguards, or at least help getting away." She looked at the pair with desperate eyes.

“I only have three thousand dollars in the bank, my entire savings. I have nothing else to offer.”

Sheila flashed Martin her crisis look. That signaled him that she was about to turn softie on him again.

#

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

I'd been where the stripper was sitting now. In Afghanistan, I'd gone three days pinned down by insurgents, barely holding them off with an MRE and prayer. The injured-animal look in Val’s eyes made me cringe. It just so happens I love animals. Especially bobcats. If we did the sensible thing and tossed her out for self-preservation, she might not make it to morning.

Val reacted to our silence with a whisper. "What should I do?" 

I shook my head. "Mobsters are like a wolf pack. They'll go for blood the second they know they have you where they want you. You don’t dare turn your back and run; that would start the end game. You have to tough this out until those slow-poke cops have gotten their safe house ready for you. It's tough dealing with D.C. cops. They know that city hall is not their friend. That makes covering their asses the main goal of the blue boys. Protecting innocent lives comes secondary. What you need is a couple of bodyguards. Tough people with guns."

"Does that mean you'll take my case?" she asked.

"I’m willing, so long as you're on the level about that three grand," I said.

I knew Martin’s head was shaking even before I glanced at him. "Three K isn’t enough to bury even one of us!" he said.

That was Martin being true to form. He began every big case by objecting to the danger. I'd found him to be the mild sort of guy, deep down. Divorce cases were his favorite sort of detective work.

"Why are you saying, babe?” he asked. 

“I’m saying we have a life to save.”

His teeth were gritted. "This is a stinking mess that we don't need. There are no good angles in it. If we’re crazy enough to take it on, we have to think carefully and do it with smarts."

By then, Val looked ready to collapse to the carpet. "Ease up, babe," I told her. "You're not alone anymore. You don't have to go out into the night. You can spend the night with us." 

I motioned for Martin to helped me settle her, lengthwise, on the couch. Put the couch pillow under her head and covered her with a fuzzy blue blanket picked up at a rummage sale. She was asleep within ten minutes.

I confronted Martin's worried eyes. "If you care so much about being smart, what smart idea do you have in mind?” 

"I think we should discuss this privately." he said.

"The bedroom is my favorite private place," I replied.

Both of us were still half drunk and dead tired. Behind the closed door, I shucked off my party dress and didn’t bother to slip into my pajamas before I got under the coverlet. Within two shakes, Martin had settled in beside me wearing only his boxers. As inebriated as we were, we needed to talk.

"Where did these Italian gangsters come from suddenly?” he asked. “I thought the new ethnic gangs had bum-rushed all the I-Ties out of Washington."

"The Mafia is like a mustard stain; its hard to get rid of," I said. "They're still around, like flies in November, but they’re not what they used to be. They're outgunned now and running scared. Killing a federal prosecutor is not any move of a Lion King would make. When Dutch Schultz tried it in the 30s, the Mafia took him out instead. What the Morellis did is the desperate move of a wounded badger."

"How are we going to protect someone for five days against the Morettis?" Martin asked. "Taking this case is like leap-frogging into a bear trap. Even if the mob’s on its last legs, how do we stand up to what's left of them?"

"We just have to do it the way you said you said. We do it smart."

"It’s easy to say ‘smart,’ but hard to be smart. Do you have more to offer than just platitudes?"

I thought for a moment. "First off, we don’t dare play it the mob's way. They expect Val to either to run or to hide. They'll believe she can't run fast enough, and hide hide well enough. We have to persuade her from doing either."

"So what’s the best thing for her?"

"What if we make her look like an easy kill? If the mob doesn’t feel pressured, it make them move in on her in a slow and easy way."

“You’re saying they might go slow and easy about murder?”

That’s went I crossed my arms and braced my shoulders against the pillow. "Val's a traveling performer. She goes from one gig to another. The mob knows that, and they also know the D.C. police—for all they're worth—have their eyes on her. I think the Morellis wanted her to run, so they could ice her in another jurisdiction. It might through them off balance if we make it look like she's dumb enough to continue with her gig in Washington. They might pause a moment to wonder about what in hell she’s doing. They might start to wonder if she’s such an easy target after all. They might suspect that she’s the bait someone – maybe the cops – are using to lure them into a trap."

"Maybe, maybe, maybe. Are you going to bet that girl's life on a 'maybe'?"

"You know me better than that. I’m just putting a few trip wires in the gangs way. It might buy us some time. While they're wondering why she doesn’t make a break for it, they might move a little more slowly. What we have to do is make sure that she’s never left alone and unprotected."

“Do you really consider the two of us any real protection.”

“We’re all she’s got.”

"What’s the deal? Do you want us to stick with her around the clock?"

"Here's the deal. We move into her hotel room. I'll be acting like her roommate. You can pass yourself off as my boyfriend, a down-and-outer who’s always hanging around a babe like me. That means we’ll both be around Val to give her cover."

“Won’t they figure out that we’ve shown up to be her bodyguards?”

“Probably. But the more we can give them to think about, the better for us.”

Martin sank into the pillow, considering this. "You’re thinking is pretty good, but the clock's against us. Val's got only three days left on her Velvet Room booking. If she stays beyond that, the Morellis will know it's because she's been waiting for witness protection. Hell, some crooked cop has probably given the mob the whole spiel already. They’ll know they have to move against her before the cops effectively intervene."

"When her contract at the Velvet Room is over, we’ll hunker down at the hotel. To add a little more confusion, we can put out that she's too sick to travel."

"That'll be a hopelessly transparent ploy, I'd say."

"I know it is, but I can’t think of anything else to help us run out the clock."

"It's all a long shot, and a dangerous one. And how do you expect us to cover the girl at the club? If the Morettis decide we're bodyguarding her, won’t they put us on the hit list, too."

"Probably, but that might slow them down, too. The larger the butcher bill, the more careful the lumpy-suit boys will have to be. History slams them with a warning. When the Capone gang killed just seven unimportant thugs on St. Valentine's Day, the public relations stink that rolled up put the entire gang into a tailspin. The whole outfit finally crashed. And the Morettis are nothing compared to what the Chicago mob used to be."

"We’d need a lot of 'hope and by golly' to make this scheme work. One mob killer with an itchy trigger finger could make it all come falling down. But you still haven't told me how we can protect Val at the club without provoking the gang too much." 

"Oh, come on! You can hang around there pretended to be a customer. Don't tell me you're not up to sitting on your duff drinking beer for three days?"

"What about you? You can’t guzzle that much liquor? You didn't drink half of what I drank tonight, and I had to carry you home."

"We’ve got a few cards to play. I have a friend of a friend who knows Dominic Santelli, the big dude who runs the Velvet Room. Street talk says that he's a square-shooter. If we can get him on our side about protecting Val, all he has to do is allow you hang around for three days acting like a lush, and  give me a job on the floor so I can run interference for the girl."

"What kind of job can you do? Stripping?"

"Oh, get off it! A joint doesn’t hire strippers off the street. Those girls are trained professionals. There are schools that teach stripping and the girls use agencies to get their bookings. But I could wait tables.  I used to bus drinks and meals in a restaurant-bar. It was a better job than selling shoes."

“Selling shoes?” replied Martin. “Did you know that Callahan sold shoes, too? It was just before he put out his detective shingle.”

I’d slipped. I didn’t want Martin to find out that his current squeeze had been his former boss and best friend. “Ah, yeah!” I said. “Knowing the shoe business gave me and D.C. something major in common. We could talk about it for hours.”

“I never heard any of those conversations,” my partner replied with an odd grin. “And I’m glad of that! So, you’re up to serving food and liquor?

"The work is no big deal. All you need is two hands, two feet, and a willingness to accept tips. Floor work will let me stay close to Val when she’s on her shift, and if Dom cooperates, he can see to it that she and I have the same shifts. You run surveillance from the floor. When she heads home, we go with her. We'll be twenty-four-seven bodyguards."

Martin rolled over on his side and faced the nightstand. "This is insane. The Morettis aren't stupid. And the two of us together aren't tough to stop them when they decide to move."

"Okay, beautiful. If you don't like the idea, give us a better one."

I knew that Martin didn’t have his heels dung in. He just had a knack for anticipating danger spots. It served him well as a detective. I countered each point he raised until the clock ticked toward four in the morning. Finally, he played his trump card.

"What makes me dislike this case is that I don't want you doing anything so dangerous. I almost lost you a few months ago. I never want to be back in that spot again."

I softened. "I know. You're so sweet I could eat you. But what choice do we have but to play the cards we're dealt? We're in business to take risks, after all."

He rolled back to face me. "No we're not. We're in business to make money. And against these odds, three thousand is only enough for bait at the end of a fishhook."

"Money? I'm in this operation to make myself feel alive. I was making more money when I had that shoe store job."

We both fell silent after that. Outside, D.C. traffic hummed its endless, dreary song.

"Fine," Martin spoke up at last. "But tell me, if things go sideways, are you willing to die for a stripper you don't even know?"

"No, but I'm willing to take a few risks when an innocent person is being kicked around. But if you want to know the truth, the only person I'm willing to die for is... you."

"Damn it! You always go for my soft spot, don't you?"

"What soft spot? You're talking about that heart of yours, maybe, you big, fuzzy bear?"

That's when the smooching started. As much fun as it was, we couldn't keep it up for long, seeing as how it was after four o'clock in the morning.

#

The General Narrative, continued

The next afternoon, Sheila, Martin, and Val met with Dominic Santelli in his office above The Velvet Room.

He was sixty, silver-haired, sharp-eyed. His office was tasteful: leather furniture, framed Sinatra photos, a bookshelf with actual books—nonfiction, mostly. And there were no velvet paintings either. No neon lights and no girly sleaze. The ambiance bespoke a man who paid the capital’s exorbitant taxes and kept his nose clean. There were too few people of character in Washington, D.C.

Val explained the situation: a murder witness with the mob after her. Because she had no place to run, she'd hired protectors. Dom took a second look at her companions.

The businessman supposed that the two young people with the dancer were the bodyguards. A male-female paring was unusual, but the male half looked formidable. But Dom couldn't help but wonder what the girl with him brought to the table.

Club boss’s expression hardened. "The Morettis. I heard about the Hayworth hit. It happened just outside the club, and it hurt business." He regarded Val with something like respect. "You've got guts, kid. Stupid guts, but guts."

Val introduced Sheila and Martin. Martin slid his business card across the desk—the Callahan-Dewitt Detective Agency card. Though Callahan was known to be dead, Dewitt had maintained the use of his name.

Dom picked it up, read it, and looked at them with new interest. "Private investigators. Val hired you?"

"For five days," Sheila said. "Then she goes into witness protection." She succinctly explained the plan they'd worked out.

The older man leaned back in his chair, thinking. Finally, he said, "All right. Here's the deal. I'll hire you as a cocktail waitress, miss – minimum wage plus tips. You stay close to Val and watch for trouble. But don't make it too obvious that you're mind is not on your job. And if there's going to be shooting, you take it outside. I don't need the Morettis or the cops shutting me down. Understood?"

"Understood," Sheila said.

"Good." Dom stood. "You start tonight. See Mercedes for your uniform and training.”  He looked next at Val. “And Miss Romano, after this booking, don't come back until your trouble is behind you. Not because I don't like you. It's because I do like you. I don’t want to have to carry the memory of seeing you dead in my parking lot."

Val nodded, uncertain whether to cry or to smile. "Thank you, Mr. Santelli."

#

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan, continued

Mercedes was the club's personnel director and the unofficial manager of the dancers. Thirty-five, bottle-blonde, she was a former showgirl herself, as sharp as a razor and ready for a fight. She took one look at my mini-skirted legs when Dom filled her in on the cover story. She said, "You'll look good in the costume, Scarlett, but have you ever worked a club?"

"Not a club like this," I admitted. "But I worked at a restaurant-bar before I went into the military."

"Military experience is a plus in a tough town like this one, but you don't look military."

"Gal Gadot was military, too. A girl can't help her appearance."

"You also don't look like you're in your twenties yet. How long did you serve?"

"Not as long as I intended. I was discharged. Do I have to give you the details?"

Dom broke in. "She told me the facts, Mercedes. It's all right. She's a good kid."

The older woman accepted that at its face and circled me like a drill sergeant inspecting a recruit. She glanced at Val and asked, "Why are you in here, Val?"

"Scarlett's my friend. She's staying with me until I leave town. I'd like her to have a job before she's on her own again," Val said.

Mercedes sighed. "All right, Scarlett. You'll get a chance, but don't screw up. You smile, you hustle food and drink, you don't take shit from customers, and you tip out the bouncers. You need them on your side. They're the ones who'll save your ass when some drunk gets handsy. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Good." She led me out of the office to a large hall closet. She pulled a garment bag from inside, saying, "Our waitresses wear these. Emerald green is the club's color. Elegant but professional. There's the restroom. Try it on."

The dress was a revelation. It was male-gaze stuff with a hemline that ended at about the same place the spanky did. When I stepped out of the changing room, Mercedes nodded in approval. I was glad that I had already lost any shyness I had about showing off my legs.

"You look the part. Now for the important introductions."

She led me downstairs to the main floor, where two men were checking the bar inventory. "This is Big Leo, a former Marine." He looked like a Marine—arms like tree trunks. "The other man is Joey"—wiry, fast, with years of experience written in the scars on his knuckles.

Big Leo looked me over. "New girl?"

"Scarlett," I said, using my cover name. "Val asked the boss to give me a job."

"Dom's got an eye for the pretty ones," Joey said. "We take special care of the new girls. You see anything hinky, you signal us. Don't handle problems that are too big for you."

They showed me the exits, the panic buttons, the camera blind spots. These guys knew their job. I felt a little better about the plan we'd worked out.

Mercedes checked her watch. "Four hours until opening. Get dressed, practice walking in those heels if you're not used to stilettos, and pray you don't fall and mess up that pretty face."

I looked down at the high heels she'd given me—four-inch spikes, emerald green to match the dress.

"I'll be fine," I said. "I can even dance on  heels if I have to."

Mercedes's lips quirked. "A soldier who’s used to Playboy Bunny-style shoes? Well, you're at least interesting, kid." 

#

The General Narrative, continued

The Velvet Room opened at eight PM sharp.

Sheila stood behind the bar in her emerald dress and heels, balancing a drink tray and trying to remember everything Mercedes had told her in the last four hours. The club was classy—art deco styling, soft lighting, a stage with professional sound and lights. It wasn't the dive-look that most strip bars had.

Martin sat at the bar, making each beer last, his eyes constantly scanning the room. Dom had told the bouncers that Martin was there to watch out for his girlfriend, Scarlett, who was new on the floor. He told them not to bounce him out for loitering.

Val performed her first set of the evening, a slow, controlled routine to Nina Simone. Watching her move, Sheila saw that she was good at her job. In the cheap bars, the dancers would come out on stage nearly naked already. Val wore a proper dress and shed it in pieces very slowly, with flair. This wasn't just stripping—it was performance art, with timing, grace, and confidence. Val knew how to give men real substance for their entry fee.

After her set, Val worked the floor, offering guests private dances and chatting with regulars. Sheila closely shadowed her, carrying drinks and watching faces. Distracted, she did her duties as if they were only an afterthought. Sheila supposed that Mercedes must have been told not to lean on her. She wondered what excuse Dom had used to explain what was a poor performance.

But the work in the club was harder than it had been where Callahan had worked years before. For one thing, Sheila didn't have the arm strength of a man in his twenties. The tray grew heavy after an hour. Drunk customers gave her crude compliments. One grabbed her wrist when she delivered his whiskey; she twisted free with a steady smile, and Big Leo was there to help her in seconds. His formidable presence induced the man jabber an apology and double her tip. As long as getting badly used meant getting more money into her pocket, Sheila was game for more.

As a man, Callahan had spent as much time at strip joints as he could afford—which wasn't much. But now, male eyes were on her as well as on the dancers. Things felt different. Sheila still enjoyed watching the strippers, but with feelings different from the old days. She had to keep reminding herself to study security angles and scan for threats. Now she was watching the girls with admiration instead of longing. Their movement seemed to fascinate her differently from how they had before. There was artistry in the way they moved, the control they had, the individuality they put into their motions.

A professional dancer Dom had brought in was performing a routine to Etta James. The way she worked the pole in timing with the music, the way she teased the inevitable reveal—it was mesmerizing.

What she was seeing was reaching down inside Sheila somehow, touching her deep down. What was it? Curiosity? Fascination? Ever since she'd become a woman herself, Sheila had been looking at beautiful women differently. It was like she was seeing something new, but couldn't define what that new thing was. But tonight, watching these beauties shed their costumes, she felt like she was getting very close to understanding what was before her transfixed eyes.

Sheila occasionally had to shake herself to prevent her focus from drifting.

The night ended without incident. Back at Val's hotel room—where Sheila had earlier placed her necessary belongings—Val collapsed into bed with relief after getting home safely. She could almost hope that the danger had gone away.

Sheila shook her head. "Don't rest too easily, doll. They'll come. They're just watching, studying. When they see the opening they need for making a clean kill, they’ll move."

Martin, who'd ridden back to the hotel with them, checked the room's security. "We can't let up for a minute,” he said. “The more the bad guys learn about their target, the more dangerous they become."

After he bedded down in the second room, Sheila, in a sleeping bag, lay awake on the floor of Val’s bedroom, staring at the ceiling. Her feet ached, her back hurt, and she smelled like cigarette smoke and cologne.

But she keep thinking about the stage show. More and more she realized that it wasn't the men with money in their pockets who controlled the room, but the women on stage. The women knew how to work the room when going out among the audience to mingle. When they did that, they came across as than just untouchable, distant images of art in motion.

Callahan had been in so many clubs. Sheila could only wonder why the Velvet Room had had a more profound effect on her than those other joints had had on her male alter ego.

It was bad enough wondering who Sheila Coffin was. Now it was like she was starting to wonder who D.C. Callahan had been.

 

 TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE, Part 7

 Posted Nov. 8, 2025

 

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE, Part 7

by Christopher Leeson

THE NEW GIRL IN SMALLVILLE, Part 7

When she returned to the dance area, the atmosphere had shifted. Students huddled around radios, most of them battery-powered transistor units, watching news reports of the truck accident and the mysterious super-girl who had prevented disaster. Claire kept her expression neutral as she searched the room for Pete.

She found him near the refreshment table. His face brightened when he spotted her.

"Claire! You’ve been in the bathroom a long time. I was worried."

"Sorry," she said.

Pete teased her. "You were gone for almost twenty minutes."

Had it really been that long? Claire hadn't realized. "I, uh, also called my parents," she improvised. "To make sure they wouldn’t worry about me. There was a long line in front of the telephone."

Pete had heard many explanations like this one from Clark. "Have you heard? Super-Sister saved the day at the chemical spill."

"Really?" Claire feigned surprise. "That's... good news. I guess she’s not as useless as the radio people were saying."

"Yeah.” Pete's eyes never left her face as he spoke. "She must be pretty amazing, this Super-Sister. I wonder if she’s a really nice person like Superboy was."

Claire shifted uncomfortably. "I guess we’ll find out about that soon enough, unless she goes home soon."

"Will people take the help she gives us for granted, like they did with Superboy?” asked Pete.

“Probably. That’s what people do.”

“People can change,” Pete said.

That statement made Claire Kent wince.

The principal's voice came over the public announcement speakers again.

“I’ve got good news for everyone!"

A cheer went up from the crowd, and the school bandmaster immediately launched into an upbeat dance melody, the Hand Jive. The tension in the room dissipated as students scrambled back onto the dance floor, working out their tension with enthusiastic movement.

"Want to dance again?" Pete asked, offering his hand.

Claire hesitated only briefly before taking it. “Sure, that‘s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

They joined the crowd on the dance floor to figure out the moves of this new dance style. They just had a couple of hours to go before things wound down. With a little luck, the vague disaster that Claire had feared was looming might not materialize.

Between dances, Pete remarked, “Your cousin isn’t much of a dancer. But you have grace."

“I hardly know Clark, but most people can dance well if they’re willing to try.

Before Pete could respond, they were interrupted by Lana, who appeared beside them with a bright smile.

"What about that dance you promised?” she said to the young man.

“What dance promise?” asked Claire.

Pete broke eye-contact with his date. “When I was worried that you’d already gone home, I asked Lana for a dance. I’ve known her for years.” 

Lana pulled Pete away. Claire, left Claire standing alone on the edge of the dance floor, didn’t see that she had a right to protest. Dazed, she made her way to an area of the lower bleachers, where some girls she knew from class sat chattering.

One of them, Pamela Collins, called out, waved her over." Claire! Join us!" 

Claire hesitantly approached. 

"That dress is gorgeous!" Pamela said. "Where did you find it?"

"A boutique in Metropolis," Claire replied.

"You have a good sense of style," said another girl, Madison. "You‘re quite a dancer, too."

"Thanks," Claire said in bemusement.

The girls returned to their original conversation. It was about fashion, music, and boys. Claire mostly listened. She thought it would be a good idea to nail down the thinking processes of high school girls.

Pamela suddenly looked Claire’s way and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "What's the deal with you and Pete Ross anyway? Are you two a thing now?"

Claire felt the warmth of a blush. "No, we're just... friends. Clark always said that Pete was a great guy. He seemed to be right!" 
“I hope you two don‘t to beyond friendship,” said Madison. “Lana looks like she’s cutting in.”

“Let her. She could do worse,” said Claire.

“Aren’t you jealous at all?”

“No. If they get together, well and good.”

The music stopped again, and Clare saw Pete coming her way. "Lana really seemed to be curious about you," was the first thing he said.

"Why?" Claire asked, suddenly on guard.

"She thinks you're mysterious. Says you avoid talking about yourself."

"That’s because I’m not a very interesting sort," Claire replied cautiously.

"I told her that all I know about you is that you’re a warm and friendly person,” the boy replied.

His sincerity caught Claire off guard. She glanced at his face, but it was an inscrutable mask that she couldn’t decipher.

The two of them spent the rest of the evening chit-chatting and dancing. Pete attempted to introduce his date to everyone he could, while keeping her punch glass filled. By the time the principal took hold of the microphone to announce the last dance of the evening, Claire sighed with relief. 

Despite her initial nervousness, Claire Kent  had carried off a good impersonation of an ordinary girl. While she and Pete swayed to the rhythm of the final song, she reflected with regret on her life as Clark. She thought he should have worked harder at being sociable. Her alter ego had perhaps made Superboy too central to his life in Smallville. Claire thought she should avoid fixating too strongly on her secret life as Super-Sister. 

Finally, the band silenced. "Thanks for letting me bring you," said Pete as he led Claire off the dance floor. "You’re fun to be with,” he confided. "Can I ask you something, Claire?"

She tensed slightly. "Ask me what?"

"Can I take you out for ice cream sometime? Just as friends."

Claire paused briefly before replying, "I like ice cream,” she said finally. “Back home in Florida, I was too studious, too stay-at-home. I feel like changing that.”

Pete smiled. "You could be a great hit in Smallville,” he said. “No pressure. If you want to go out with other people, that will be perfectly fine." That suggestion was another tease, since he didn’t expect that a girl-version of Clark would collect many boyfriends. 

Their ride home was quiet but comfortable, with Claire lost in her own thoughts. When they arrived at the Kent home, Pete walked with her to the door. "I’m glad you accepted my invitation," he said.

"I was glad to," Claire responded without irony.

Had she been an ordinary girl, Pete would have liked to give such a face as hers a goodbye kiss. But as things were, he simply cleared his throat, saying, "Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight yourself,” said Claire Kent. Claire opened the unlocked door and stepped into the foyer. Turning back at the last moment, she said, “And... thanks. For making me feel welcome in a new town, I mean."

Pete's expression softened, but he seemed at a loss for a reply. He started backing toward his car.

Jonathan and Martha rose from the couch in front of the TV set when Claire walked in, eager to hear about the dance. Claire gave them a hurried version of events, including the incident of the chemical spill. She omitted mentioning some of the stranger thoughts that had been rattling around in her mind all evening.

"It sounds like Super-Sister is every bit as good as Superboy," Jonathan declared.

Claire winced. She didn’t welcome being reminded that she was trapped in the Super-Sister role.

But Martha seemed to be in full agreement with her mate. “That shows genuine character, Claire."

The girl tried not to sigh. It seemed strange that even in the privacy of her own home, the name of Clark went unmentioned.

Claire shrugged. "If I hadn’t done something, we might have had to evacuate Smallville! That would be another change we don’t need."

#

Later, behind the closed door of her room, Claire sat before the dressing table, carefully removing the corsage pinned to her shoulder. Reluctantly, she inspected herself face and clothes, unable to believe that the pretty girl in the black dress, with her cheeks flushed and eyes bright, was her. 

That begged the question: who was she? She was a girl who had just come home from a Homecoming dance, a schoolgirl who had chatted with members of the female sex as though she were one of them. 

She was also the girl most responsible for saving a town from an environmental disaster. She had done that even though she still felt full of hurt. Claire could still feel the throb of ingratitude, the character flaw that seemed to be everywhere.  

Young Miss Kent placed the corsage in the keepsake box provided by her parents. How long would this female impersonation continue? She asked herself. Claire, formerly Clark, was still hoping, praying actually, that Shar-La's spell would wear off. She avoided thinking about what kind of future she’d be living if it didn’t wear off. 

Claire peeled off her party garments, taking special care not to wrinkle her blue dress. She thought she might need it later, if she were again hijacked into some other social event. For bed, the young woman put on the pajama shirt and pants her mother had purchased for her. In their styling, Clark could have worn them himself without embarrassment. It was all for appearance. Not bothered by heat or cold, Super-Sister's alter-ego didn’t need to wear flannel. 

But even in the privacy of her home, Claire had to keep up a false front. The impersonation of girlhood had taken over her whole life. If her alien origin were discovered, it would place her parents, and perhaps other people, too, in danger.

Claire spread out atop her comforter, contemplating what Pamela Collins had said to her in the locker room. “The only thing you can really control in life is how you choose to show up for it." Claire wondered whether she had meant express than an obvious fashion statement.  

#

Even though she did not experience physical fatigue, sleep had always come easy to Clark—now Claire. As the girl's consciousness dimmed into slumber, she found herself surrounded by daylight. She suddenly found herself standing on the same hilltop in Colorado where had encountered the alien witch Shar-La. When the space-farer stepped into view, was still wearing the ring that had effectively brought about her sex-change. It balefully glowed with an unearthly light.

"Awaken, Superboy!” Shar-La stated in her loud, shrill voice.


Feeling strange, Claire looked down at herself and saw that she was missing the fullness of her young breasts! With astonishment, she realized that her form had changed—and for the better! I'm Superboy again!" she --he--exclaimed. Did you change me back?"

"No, you never were a girl, Superboy!" Shar-La advised him. "The ring merely makes its target susceptible to the wearer's telepathic influences. Over the space of only a few minutes, I was able to have you weeks of a virtual life of ghirlhood!"

Superboy blinked. "All of that...it was all in my mind?”

“Yes. And I hope it taught you something,” the space-traveler stated.

Superboy suppressed his flash of anger. It wouldn't be wise to offend a woman whose powers he did not fully understand. He remembered how some men he knew routinely mollify their angry wives. A man who wanted peace in his house always had to accept the blame for any accusation an shrewish woman would make. To mollify her, he said, “Yes! I misbehaved. I’m sorry."
 

 Superboy had barely spoken those self-effacing words before Shar-La’s image and the surrounding landscape started to darken...

Claire opened her eyes to a window as black as the night outside. She sat up and touched herself in desperate hope.

But the teen felt the curving fullness of her feminine body. With dismay, she realized she was still Claire. We was still Super-Sister.

Claire sprang to the bureau mirror, her heart pounding. Even in the dark, her super-sight could see the the slenderness of her frame, of her delicate features. Black hair still fell to her narrow shoulders.

Her moment on the hilltop had all been a hopeful dream. None about it had been real.

Claire pressed her palms against the mirror and groaned, "Just a dream."

The Girl of Steel slumped to her knees on the carpeted floor. "How long is this insanity going to last?" she wondered aloud. "Am I going to be female for the rest of my life?"

As she sank to the carpeted floor on her knees. As she  crouched there alone, the world outside took no note of her anguish. The town outside was blandly normal. Claire Kent supplied the only abnormality that Smallville contained. 

The brunette closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself with Shar-La on the Colorado hilltop. But the alien woman, with all her answers, all the powers she commanded, still lay beyond the reach of Claire Kent, despite Super-Sister’s mighty abilities.

Shar-La was surely far away in space. Perhaps she never intended to return to the scene of her evil deed.

 Claire touched her ripe young bust. Would this transformation go on for mere days, months, or years. Or would this shape be hers for as long as she lived?

All she knew for certain was that the sun would rise on a town that she inhabited as Claire Kent. And then what?

No! She refused to accept that this would be her life for as long as she lived!

Claire remained on her knees, her fists clenched, staring at her reflection through blurred eyes. Her rasping breath come in shudders. She stopped herself from contemplating her imponderable future. The possibility of living an entire lifetime was like an abyss too appalling to stare into.

This ruinous transformation had to be reversed. It had to be. That was the only thought that could keep her sane. Shar-La's transformation would wear off! Some solution would present itself! Maybe another alien would arrive with the power to undo it. Maybe her Kryptonian physiology would eventually reject the change. Maybe she'd wake up tomorrow morning and find herself restored. 
It had to happen. Because the alternative, living forever as Claire, growing into a woman, aging as a woman, dying as a woman, was simply impossible to contemplate. Her mind skittered away from that possibility like fingers jerking back from a hot stove.

She pressed her forehead against the cool mirror glass. The Girl of Steel was invulnerable to everything except this. She could face anything the universe threw at her, but not being trapped in the wrong body, not living the wrong kind of life, forever.

"Please," she whispered to her reflection, to the pitiless Shar-La, to whatever ultimate power might be listening. "Please let this end."

But the morning silence offered no answers. All she heard was the breath of a pretty teenage girl, frightened and alone, clinging to hope because hope was all she had left.

Outside, Smallville was waking up. Birds sang. Cars started. The sun was climbing higher. Life went on, indifferent to the crisis of one confused girl kneeling on a bedroom floor. 

She continued kneeling; she didn't want to stand up. She didn't want to spend another day as Claire Kent. What was her life going to be? Girl-talk with Lana Lang? Eating ice cream with Pete Ross?. Everything about her life was wrong, but fate left her no choice but to pretend to the world that everything was normal.

To keep her courage from slipping away, she fought to hold on to the desperate hope that this nightmare ordeal would have an ending. Despite her suppressed doubts, she kept telling herself that one morning she would wake up and be Superboy again.
 

Claire Kent could never give up on that wilted hope. She didn't dare to, because if she let it die, the life she had known would be left absolutely empty. 

 THE END

 

 

The New Girl in Smallville by Christopher Leeson Part 6

 Posted October 6, 2025

 

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 for the evening with crepe paper streamers, fairy lights, and cardboard stars suspended from the ceiling on fishing line. 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 pack any photos from home. I never expected to be invited to parties and dances."

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

“Not too often. My favorite hobby is reading.”

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

Pete offered his arm with exaggerated formality. "Shall we, Milady?"

Though he remained convinced that the girl beside him was Clark Kent, Pete thought it best to act as though she was a new acquaintance. Claire hesitated only briefly before accepting his arm. How ironic that her super-strong fingers felt so light against his sleeve.

As they approached the dance floor's edge, several heads turned their way. Claire felt a rush of self-consciousness, but Pete gave the surrounding onlookers a quick smile, trying not to seem triumphant about arriving with such a striking girl at his side.

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

"Punch?" Pete suggested, leading his date toward the refreshment table.

As he poured two cups of the bright red liquid, Claire surveyed the room 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 who showed the audience the moves. 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 hectic, but it doesn’t look dangerous," Claire replied with dry humor. "I haven't been to many school dances, but I see a that it's hard to make a gymnasium look like anything except a gymnasium."

 Pete smiled. "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’ll need your help to keep me from becoming a wallflower," Claire said. "I let my aunt go overboard fixing me up, so I wouldn't look like a social drab."

 "People won’t consider you a loser if they see you dancing."

 "Then we'll have to dance, I suppose." Pete extended his hand. “I accept your invitation.”

Claire hesitated. She had prepared for this by dancing with her mother and father. But now, being asked in public to dance with a boy, she felt daunted. Still, she'd come here to fit in, to appear to be a very ordinary schoolgirl. Not dancing might make her seem shy or stuck-up.

 "Sure," she said, taking his hand.

Pete led her to the dance floor. The Twist didn't require them to touch, a detail both 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 to serious," Pete whispered. "Dancing is supposed to make a person happy!"

Claire forced herself to relax, letting 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, with a move called the "Cannonball" that meant pinching your nose shut and bending your knees as if going underwater.

By watching the other dancers, both Pete and Claire picked up the moves. Gradually, moving to the music’s rhythm became almost natural.

"You're getting the hang of it," Pete said, smiling.

 "Thanks," Claire quipped. "It's at least easier than rocket science!"

 “Does Mr. Harris teach rocket science now?”

“Not now. Next semester!”

Pete smiled, this time without forcing it.

Between dances, they returned for more punch and munched on treats—mostly pastries from the local bakery. Their snatches of conversation carefully avoided sensitive topics. Claire was still amazed to be on a date with a boy, while her escort found it equally hard to wrap his mind around the fact that his date was Clark Kent.

The next dance was the Mashed Potato, with simple moves involving 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 entry 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 inside the building until further notice."

 Murmurs rippled through the crowd as students scattered across the large enclosure, seeking anyone with more information. Claire tensed, her enhanced hearing already picking up distant sirens wailing through the night.

 "Highway 7 runs right along Miller's Creek," Pete said, his voice low with concern. "If chemicals spill into the water…"

He didn't need to finish the thought. Miller's Creek fed directly into Smallville's reservoir—the town's major water supply. If toxic chemicals contaminated it, the whole town would have to use an alternate source for weeks, maybe months.

Claire felt the familiar tug of responsibility. It reminded her of the reason Superboy had fallen into his routine of endlessly helping people. It had been his way of making himself feel useful in Smallville, of protesting his fate of being overlooked as the unassuming Clark Kent. Public notice made him feel less lonely while avoiding the need to get close to anyone.

It flashed through her mind that it had been a very imperfect way to live. She remained angry and had promised not to get involved in problems that were not her own. It had taken her present disaster to realize how ungrateful the people with whom she interacted really were.

She noticed a strange look come into her date’s eyes. “You wait here and be safe,” he said. “I want to find out if anyone has heard more about the accident on the radio!” He hurried off. Pete was always rushing away in tense moments. It was a quirk of his.

But his retreat had given her room to react to the emergency, if she wanted to. She realized that toxic water would plague Smallville for months if she didn't act immediately. She didn’t care so much about the ungrateful people of the town, but contamination would make life and business hard for her parents.

 "She hurried toward the girls' bathroom, mind racing. Through its large window, she could exit unseen, just as Clark had done from the similar boys' room countless times. She had brought her Super-Sister costume compressed to the size of a handkerchief in her clutch purse.

 She had to act. Letting Smallville get poisoned was more revenge than she wanted to take.

 Claire looked at the costume in her purse, then noticed her reflection in the lavatory mirror—the elegant dress, the styled hair, the corsage on her left shoulder. She looked like an absolutely different person, even though he still felt the same on the inside.

 With a sigh of resignation, Claire changed clothes in a blur of speed. She couldn't compress the man-made fabric of her dress, so she carried it out the window with her, hiding it at super-speed inside the utility shed that stood on the lawn outside the gymnasium.

 Cloaked in 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 like a wounded beast. A viscous fluid leaked from the tank, forming an expanding pool that trickled steadily toward the nearby creek. Emergency vehicles were still creating a perimeter, their flashing lights illuminating the grim faces of firefighters in chemical suits moving in to contain the spill.

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, aren't you?"

 "Yes," Claire replied, letting her confidence show. "Let me help. That tanker’s about to rupture."

 The commander—a veteran firefighter named Reilly, whom Clark had met before—eyed her skeptically. "We've got chemical hazard protocols to handle this. Are you as experienced as Superboy? Are you sure you won't get hurt?"

Claire bit back a sharper retort and said, "I can fly through stars! Caustic chemicals can’t hurt me. "Are the chemicals explosive or combustible?"

"No, but they're highly toxic!"

"I should be able to weld the fractures with my heat vision and move the tanker away from the creek."
Reilly hesitated, weighing his options. Claire could sense his reluctance to trust an unknown quantity—especially a female one. Oddly, he sounded like a parent concerned for the safety of a child.

"Sir," one of the hazard techs called urgently. "Pressure's building in the tank. The chemicals are jetting, and any second they’re going to bust the tank open. We need to evacuate now!"

Reilly's jaw tightened. "All right," he said to Claire. "Super-Sister, do what you can. But if I tell you to stand down, you’ll do as you're told—understood?"

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

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 seal 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 its surface made it difficult to get 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 propped the tank momentarily on a stable section of ground and streaked toward the falling tech, catching him inches before he rolled across the poisoned ground.

"I've got you," she assured him, easily lifting him and setting him down safely behind the emergency line.

But in those few crucial seconds, gravity reasserted its hold on the tanker. 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 mean able to contain things now?” Super-Sister asked of the wide-eyed hazard team.

Commander Reilly approached at a fast trot, looking less skeptical than before. "Good work, young lady," he acknowledged. "You saved my technician and kept this disaster from getting out of hand."

"Just doing what needs to be done," Super-Sister replied, though she didn't particularly care for being called "young lady."

"Are you really Superboy's sister?" one of the younger firefighters asked.

Claire hesitated. "Something like that," she answered vaguely. "But I can’t stop to talk. A…woman’s work is never done. I have an emergency elsewhere that I have to tend to."

"Wait!" Reilly called as she prepared to take off. "What's your name? I need it for the report."

Claire paused. "It’s like in the newspapers. Call me Super-Sister." The name still felt repugnant to her tongue, but she had to keep things in proportion. A name was much less important than protecting her secret identity. She had to go back and make it look like she had never left the homecoming dance.

Super-Sister launched herself into the night sky, her cape snapping in the onrushing wind. As she flew back to the school, Claire felt dazed by a complicated tangle of emotions. The successful rescue might make people realize she was in the same league as Superboy—a thing which her pride demanded.

But she wondered if she should avoid competing with his memory. Maybe she shouldn’t keep rescuing every kitten from every tree. Maybe Super-Sister needed to keep a lower profile. Why not let her concentrate on major disasters, and not make a big deal out of lesser annoyances that every town has to deal with?

With no loss of time, Claire recovered her party clothes from the utility shed and slipped back indoors through the bathroom window. She changed back into her party dress in a blur, hopeful that the confusion in the gymnasium would prevent anyone from noticing her absence. Checking herself in the mirror, she noticed a smudge of soot on her cheek and winced to see the mess that the wind had made of her hair.

She used the facilities to make herself presentable. People would more easily notice a girl in dishabille than they would Clark Kent. It wasn’t fair, but it was the cards she’d been dealt.

Finally, with a deep breath, Claire pushed open the lavatory door, went down the short hall, and stepped back into the decorated gymnasium.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 7

The New Girl In Smallville by Christopher Leeson

 

 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