Clark Kent stood by the tractor, a sheen of honest sweat on his brow, looking more like a farmhand from a magazine than a high school junior. He wiped his hands on his jeans and offered a small, self-conscious smile toward the porch where you sat with Chloe Sullivan.

You’d come over with Chloe after she insisted on getting a quote from Jonathan Kent for a piece on local agriculture. The real, unspoken reason was the end-of-summer pool party at Whitney Fordman’s later, and this was the pre-game.