The red pickup rumbled into the student parking lot just as the first warning bell rang.
Smallville High stood ahead in red brick and white trim, modest and clean beneath the Kansas sun. Students crossed the front lawn in clusters, laughing too loudly, half-running toward the doors with backpacks slung over shoulders. Pickup trucks lined the rows beside older sedans and the occasional rusted farm vehicle that looked like it had survived two wars.
Wyatt stepped out and paused.
High school.
Again.
Only this time he had already survived university, job interviews, corporate politics, and murder.
Weirdly, that made lockers feel less intimidating.
Whitney came around the front of the truck, spinning a football in one hand.
"You good?"
Wyatt glanced at him. "Define good."
Whitney grinned. "Still dramatic. Must run in the family."
He jerked his head toward the entrance.
"Come on. Stick with me till first bell. Otherwise some senior'll convince you freshmen clean lockers as initiation."
"You're lying."
Whitney kept walking. "You'll never know."
Students greeted Whitney constantly on the way in.
"Nice game Friday, Whit!"
"You coming to the Beanery later?"
"Lana's looking for you."
Whitney accepted attention the way some people accepted sunlight—naturally, without effort.
Wyatt watched quietly.
Status in a small town worked differently than Manhattan. Less polished. More visible.
Football captain instead of junior partner.
Same instincts. Different uniforms.
Then he saw him.
Clark Kent stood near the steps, carrying an absurd stack of books that blocked half his face.
Right on cue, one slipped.
Then another.
Then the whole tower collapsed across the sidewalk.
Wyatt laughed before he could stop himself.
Clark looked up, embarrassed.
Lana Lang knelt beside him immediately, gathering notebooks with practiced kindness.
Of course she did.
Whitney's jaw tightened almost invisibly.
Also of course.
Wyatt walked over and picked up the nearest textbook.
"Man," he said to Clark, handing it over, "you know backpacks were invented for a reason, right?"
Clark flushed. "I had room."
"You clearly did not."
Lana smiled despite herself.
Clark muttered, "Thanks."
Wyatt leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"You always fall apart around pretty girls, or is today special?"
Clark went red clear to the ears.
Worth it.
Whitney called from behind them.
"Wyatt, move!"
Wyatt straightened and gave Clark a small nod before following his brother inside.
Interesting.
Even standing still, Clark felt… dense.
Contained.
Like something enormous pretending to be harmless.
⸻
The halls smelled like floor polish, paper, and teenage chaos.
Lockers slammed. Teachers called warnings no one respected. Somewhere a radio played muffled country music from an open classroom.
Whitney stopped beside a locker bank.
"This is yours."
He spun the combination lock twice and opened it.
"Try not to forget the code. Mom taped it in your notebook because she thinks you inherited my memory."
"She might be right."
"She definitely isn't."
Whitney clapped him once on the shoulder and stepped back.
"I've got practice meetings after last period. Find your own ride home if you join a cult."
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
Wyatt stared after him.
Whitney was easy to like.
That made remembering canon uncomfortable.
He shut the locker and headed for class.
⸻
Freshman math was almost insulting.
Wyatt finished the worksheet in eight minutes, then spent the next twenty pretending to check answers while the teacher explained fractions like they were state secrets.
Across the aisle, a girl with curly hair frowned at problem six hard enough to start a war.
He leaned over.
"You flipped the denominator."
She blinked. "Oh."
Then looked again.
"Oh."
"You're welcome."
She smiled. "Emily."
"Wyatt."
By the end of class, he had unintentionally become popular with three students who hated math.
Dangerous precedent.
⸻
History was easier.
English was survivable.
Then came journalism.
He entered to find Chloe Sullivan arranging papers at the front while talking fast enough to bend time.
She noticed him instantly.
"You're Whitney's brother."
"Concerning that you know that already."
"I know everything already."
She extended a hand.
"Chloe Sullivan. Future Pulitzer winner."
Wyatt shook it. "Modest too."
"I contain multitudes."
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him.
"You're new, but not nervous."
"I'm internally panicking."
"No, you're not."
Sharp.
Interesting.
She pointed to an empty desk.
"Sit there. If you turn out boring, I reserve the right to ignore you."
"Fair."
As class began, Wyatt made a mental note.
Do not underestimate Chloe Sullivan.
⸻
Lunch was loud, crowded, and powered almost entirely by bad pizza.
Wyatt sat near the edge of the cafeteria, observing.
Jocks at one table.
Band kids near the windows.
Drama students performing emotional collapse near the vending machines.
Clark with Pete and Chloe.
Lana with friends nearby.
Whitney drifting between groups like a mayor on reelection day.
Social ecosystems were universal.
Then someone dropped onto the bench across from him.
Clark.
"You really didn't have to say that this morning."
Wyatt looked up. "Say what?"
"The pretty girl thing."
"You're right. I should've said beautiful. More accurate."
Clark nearly choked on his drink.
Wyatt grinned.
Relaxing Clark Kent might become a hobby.
⸻
After lunch came art.
That part surprised him.
The room smelled of paint and dust, sunlight spilling across easels arranged near wide windows. When given a simple still-life assignment, Wyatt's hand moved almost automatically.
Years ago, before finance and survival consumed everything, he had liked to draw.
Now the skill returned with a steadier hand and younger eyes.
When class ended, the teacher paused beside his desk.
"You've done this before."
"Not seriously."
"You should."
The compliment landed strangely hard.
In Manhattan, praise always came attached to profit.
This one asked for nothing.
⸻
Last bell.
Students poured outside in waves.
Whitney waited near the truck, spinning the football again.
"So," he said, "how many hearts did you break?"
"Just Clark Kent's."
Whitney frowned. "Who?"
Wyatt smiled and climbed into the passenger seat.
As the truck pulled away from the school, he looked back once at the building, the fields beyond it, the small town hiding impossible things beneath ordinary skin.
One day in.
He'd met the future Superman.
Been profiled by Chloe.
Accidentally embarrassed Clark.
And rediscovered something he thought ambition had killed.
For the first time since waking in this world, Wyatt felt it clearly.
This life wasn't just a second chance.
It might actually be better than the first.