So I don't lose it

[valarltd]

Clark watched the sun rise through the windshield of
the big Peterbilt. A tiny silver coin, it didn’t cut
through the river mist that collected on the
windshield. He could have flown, or used Lex’s car.
But somehow it felt right to leave home this way:
going out to the highway with no more than his
backpack, and sticking out his thumb.

His parents, no, the Kents, had not taken his news
well. Jonathan had raged and sworn. No son of his
was going to be a by-god faggot, and no son was going
to love a Luthor if he had to kill every one of the
decadent tribe. Martha had cried, and tried to talk
her husband down, and cried some more.

Clark had quietly said, “Then I guess it’s a good
thing I’m no son of yours.”

“If you walk out that door, boy, don’t bother to come
back,” Jonathan had hurled at him as he left.

The farmhouse door banging shut still echoed in his
ears, hours later.

He’d caught a ride to Topeka, then found another to
Kansas City. The truckers had been decent enough, but
he’d had the sense to choose one that hadn’t leered at
him. This one had a taste for books on tape and they
were working their way through The Two Towers while
stuck in the morning traffic on I-35.

“Where can I drop you, kid? I’m headed on up 35 to
Des Moines.”

Clark thought while the trucker maneuvered through the
crazy maze of interstates. “There’s as good as any,”
he said, pointing to a mall just off the highway.
The trucker pulled off on the second exit, and Clark
hopped out at the stoplight. “Thanks.”

“Hey kid, take care of yourself,” his driver waved and
was gone.

The Denny’s sign tempted him, and he checked his
wallet. He had enough for breakfast. He tried not to
think about what he was doing, or where he would go
from here.

***

The trucker watched the youth read over the Parade
article again. His face was dreamy and intent as he
stared at the highway as if willing it to roll away
behind him even faster. The piece was on a college
professor up in New Hampshire, Denis Remillard, and
his research on metapsychics. It had run two years
before.

“Long way from Gothenburg, kid.” The pal who’d handed
the boy off in Omaha had picked him up there. He’d
passed him along, since he knew the kid would be safe
in Old Blue. Lot of guys would see his desperation as
an excuse to charge him, never mind that he didn’t
have two dimes to rub together. And some of them
would add to the fading bruises on his face, just to
keep their self-image intact afterward. “Course, you
know we’re going the wrong way to get to Dartmouth.”

“You’re going to St. Louis, right? I should be able
to get a lift to Chicago, then on to Boston and I’ll
walk to New Hampshire from there if I have to.” It
was the most words the kid had strung together since
he’d gotten in with a short “Thank you,” back at the
76 in Omaha.

“Why you want to get there?”

tbc...