The Continuing Adventures of Tornado Girl
PROM NIGHT
"Isn't that costume a little, well, tight, dear?" Windstorm pursed her lips in parental disapproval.
"Oh, mother, really," replied Tornado Girl as she turned this way and that, looking at her reflection in the mirror. "This isn't the 16th century. When Lightning Lad takes one look at me, he'll forget all about whatsername, that mutant moon-floozy from Antares."
Tornado Girl was looking forward to the Legion of Super-Heroes cotillion and had practiced batting her eyelashes just so, creating little gusts of wind to tousle her blonde flip enticingly.
Her mother was not amused. "I wish you'd pay more attention to that nice Sun Boy. He's so polite and well-mannered."
"Pish-posh." Tornado Girl stuck out her tongue. "Sun Boy's such a drip. Strictly from squaresville." She much preferred someone who could make sparks fly.
Windstorm sighed, thinking how impossible it was to control her headstrong daughter, and remembering, perhaps, her own youthful crush on the dashing Nostradamus, who owned an autoclave and drove a red buggy with yellow stripes. "Just try to be in before midnight, and don't let Plastic Man fool you with that disgusting 'pull my finger' trick." But Tornado Girl was already gone, forming herself into a cyclone and spiraling away.
Meanwhile, on the Kansas plains far below, Pecos Bill twirled his lariat and waited patiently, knowing that Tornado Girl liked to come that way, confident that he would soon have his date for the Cowpunchers' Fandango.
Ciao!
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