Dabbling in the Occult

by SarahRosie

Feedback gives me joygasms.

I have a Lana Lang voodoo doll hanging from the ceiling fan in my room. Well, I guess if you consider a sweat-stained pink tube sock stuffed with rice an accurate representation of a person, maybe you could call it a voodoo doll. She has a big, toothy smile I drew with a Sharpie, two googly eyes I super glued near the toe, and a yellow construction paper crown. I think the fishing line noose around her neck completes her perfect pretty princess ensemble nicely.

Some people might say that keeping a voodoo doll of a person makes me a little freaky, but I consider it a kind of catharsis. Better I keep a voodoo doll of Lana to beat and poke pins into than going postal in the middle of The Torch one fateful afternoon. Kansas is a death penalty state, after all, and I'm far too young to die.

Voodoo Lana came into existence the second month after I moved to Smallville. Despite laying a lip lock on Clark Kent in his barn not too long after I met him, it didn't take me long to see which way his bread was buttered. You see, Clark only has eyes for the Fairy Princess of Smallville. Enormous, weeping puppy dog eyes that make me equal parts quivery and irritable; quivery because I'd like, just once, for him to look at me that way and irritable because I know that frogs will fall from the heavens before that happens.

I really don't believe Lana wakes up every morning with the intention of making my life a living Hell. She doesn't have to; all she has to do is breathe. See, it works like this: I'm in serious teenage, angst-filled love with Clark Kent. Said farmboy is madly in lust with the Homecoming Queen while he thinks I'm the human fact checker. The Homecoming Queen is in love with her own face. It's a classic love triangle, but with a Smallville, meteor-infested twist. When did my life become an episode of The Young and the Restless? And why is it I don't get to shack up with anyone? God is laughing at me right now; I can feel it.

But it's not just that Lana's the headlining star in all of Clark's prurient fantasies. My life would be so much easier if it was just a problem of unresolved sexual tension. That's why vibrators were invented, after all. The problem is that everything in this damn town seems to revolve around Lana fucking Lang, from the meteor shower that killed her parents (and I'm not even going to begin to discuss the cosmic irony of that) right through to high school and local small business. Sometimes I feel like the town council voted to rename Smallville 'Lanaville' but forgot to copy me in on the memo.

If I knew what was good for me, I'd forget Clark ever existed. It would cure a lot of my inner anger issues. If I knew what was good for me, I'd eat more vegetables and drink less coffee, too, but you don't see that happening, do you?

If all Lana has to do it breathe to annoy the shit out of me, then all Clark has to do is smile to make my knees go weak and my heart flutter.

I try to be angry when I come in second to the Fairy Princess. I try to hold a grudge when he leaves me standing in the middle of the gym all alone to go save Lana. I try to hate him back when he hates me for prying into his life. And then I remember: he's just Clark. He's the same doofy, corn-fed, idiot farmboy that I've loved since the first moment I saw him.

And, for a little while, everything is all right again.

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