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Reeling in the Years	By : Flagg1991 Category: +G through L > The Loud House Views: 5080 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Loud House or its characters and I am not profiting from this story in any way.

Chapter List
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Lyrics to Little Bitty Pretty One by Thurston Harris (1957)
Time passed quickly, but it also passed slowly. It was hot, then it was cold. He wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep until he was dead, but he also wanted to take a long walk – heck, a long run. When the lunch bell rang, he dragged himself to the cafeteria, his eyes glued to his red low-tops, his body moving on instinct.
In the lunch room, he crossed to his usual table – where he sat each day, alone – and dropped onto the stool. He planted his elbows onto the table and rested his face in his upturned palms. He sighed and wished for the hundredth time that he didn't ask her out. Before he had hope, and potential – now he had only heartache.
Stupid.
He was the stupidest kid in all of Royal Woods...and maybe in all 48 states. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked up. A black boy with glasses sat across from him, his eyes guarded and wary. He was wearing a long sleeve button-down with pink and black pinstripes. Lincoln sighed. "I can leave if you want." What did it matter? Right now he could sit in a trash can or on the Queen of England's throne, and he'd be sad just the same.
The boy didn't reply for a moment, then he slowly shook his head. "I don't care."
Lincoln sighed again. Why was he so stupid? Why did he think a girl like Ronnie Anne would want a guy like him? He was a geek, a cube, a white-haired, chipped-toothed loser. Too bad Bobby didn't run him over. It would have kept him from being stupid and would have hurt less.
"Rough day?" the black boy asked.
Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. Very rough."
The black boy nodded. "I feel your pain. The janitor called me a nigger." He broke out laughing, waving his hand in front of his face as if to dispel a cloud of humor. Lincoln looked up at him and cocked his eyebrow. That wasn't exactly funny...
"You either laugh or you cry," he said when he sobered, "and I'm not in the mood to cry today."
"I am," Lincoln said.
"You look it. What, uh, what's wrong, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I'm stupid," Lincoln replied. "I thought...I thought 'Hey, Linc, why not ask Ronnie Anne Santiago to the dance? You have a shot. Go 'head.' I did, and she said no." He raked his fingers through his hair and blinked back a rush of tears.
For a moment the boy was silent. "I assume, given her last name, she's that Hispanic girl in the purple dress over there."
Lincoln nodded miserably.
"Well...I don't know much about girls, but she keeps looking over here, and that either means she likes you or she doesn't."
Lincoln's heart clutched. "Great," he moaned, "she's probably thinking about what a dud I am."
The boy shrugged. "I honestly can't help you. At least you got up the nerve to ask a girl. I'd have probably spazzed out." He opened his milk carton and stared down into it, then looked up. "How'd you do it?"
Lincoln wound the memory back through his mind, and cringed. "Stupidly. Stutteringly."
"Oh, yeah, that's rough."
Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. Not as rough as...I mean...you must have it."
The boy shrugged. "I was expecting worse. No one's roughed me up yet, and the only person to call me a nigger was that janitor." He grinned and shook his head. "Kind of strange being around so many white people, though."
Lincoln could imagine. He didn't have anything against Negros, but he imagined he'd be pretty uncomfortable being the only white face in a sea of black. "Are you scared?"
"A little," he said. He took a sip of his milk. "Guess if you're doing something that makes you afraid, you're living, at least."
Lincoln nodded. In a way, he felt even worse than he did before: It was a crying shame that someone had to be afraid going to school just because of their skin color. This guy...whatever his name was...seemed alright; Lincoln hadn't known many coloreds in his life, though there was a boy he played with when he was little who moved away. His name was...God, what was it? He couldn't remember, but he was the only friend Lincoln could remember ever having. "I'm Lincoln," he said now.
"Clyde," the boy replied, and they shook.
"You sit here a lot?" Clyde asked.
"Yeah," Lincoln nodded. "I don't really hang out with anyone else."
"How come?"
He shrugged. "I just...I guess I live in my own little world." He grinned. That was pretty accurate, actually. He read comics, listened to music, and did his own thing. He was friendly with some of the guys in class, but they weren't really friends.
"There's nothing wrong with that," Clyde said. "I kind of do too. What do you like?"
"Comic books," Lincoln said.
"Yeah?" Clyde asked, interested. "What kind?"
"Like Superman and Ace Savvy."
"Oh, I love Ace Savvy," Clyde said, "did you read the new one?"
"Where he literally knocked The Card Counter's head off?"
"That's the one! And it was falling off the side of that building and still screaming."
They both laughed. "That's one way to get ahead," they said in unison.
"You're pretty cool," Clyde said. "You like rock and roll?"
"I sure do," Lincoln said. "Little Richard's my favorite."
"Yeah, he's cool," Clyde said. "I like Elvis." He glanced away. "Some guys at my school – my old school – said it wasn't cool for a black guy to like Elvis. What's wrong with Elvis?"
Lincoln shrugged. "He's alright. It's kind of weird...you know, Jailhouse Rock."
Clyde tilted his head. "What's weird?"
"Well...he's talking about, you, like Number 40 calling Number 43 the cutest jailbird he ever saw or something, and they're all dancing..."
Clyde blinked. "I still don't catch your drift."
Lincoln faltered. "Well...they're all guys, right? Jails don't put men and women together..."
Understanding dawned in Clyde's eyes, and he snickered. "I guess when you've been in the poke for a while, you get kind of funny."
"Do you have a TV?" Lincoln asked.
"Yeah, we have a Zenith. Best on the market."
"Do you watch American Bandstand?"
Clyde shrugged. "Only every afternoon."
Yeah, Lincoln decided, this guy was cool. "What else do you watch?"
"I like Dragnet."
Lincoln tilted his head. "Which one is that?"
"It's a cop show. It's pretty boss."
Lincoln opened his mouth to ask what channel it was on, but the bell rang. Shoot. And he was kind of having fun. "Well," Clyde said, and downed his milk, "back to the ol' grind, as my dad says."
"Yeah," Lincoln said. He got up and started to turn, but stopped. "I, uh, I feel kind of better now."
Clyde nodded. "Me too."
"I'll see you around?"
"Sure!"
Lincoln grinned and nodded. "Alright. See ya."
As he walked away, Lincoln felt pretty good, actually. Oh, the pain of Ronnie Anne's rejection was still there, but making a friend was kind of like...he didn't know...aloe on a sunburn. It helped. Of course...that aloe would eventually wear off and the sunburn would sting like hell again. Sigh. Hey, sunburns heal, right? Maybe broken hearts do, too.
In the hall, he went to his locker, and paused: A folded piece of paper jutted out from one of the slats. Uh...what's this? He plucked it out and opened it. A message. Written in pencil. Meet me by the flagpole at 3pm.
Lincoln stole a glance around, but didn't see anyone acting suspicious, just kids on their way to class. He turned back to the note and read it again. The flagpole? Usually if someone wanted to meet you by the flagpole after school, they wanted to punch your lights out. No one had any reason to punch his lights out, so...maybe it was something else? Maybe it was...
His hopes soared.
Tucking the note into his hip pocket, he opened the locker, grabbed his books, and hurried to class, getting there just as the bell rang. He took his usual seat at the front of the room and resisted the urge to look behind him at Ronnie Anne, who sat behind and across. Was she the mystery note-leaver? He bet she was! Oh, this was great! Still in the game, Loud, Lynn said from the middle of his head, she wouldn't be slipping you notes if you weren't.
I know, Lynn! Cloud 9, baby, Cloud 9!
The rest of the day passed at a crawl, his excitement growing until he could barely sit still. When the final bell rang, he jumped up and went to his locker like a bullet, ripping it open and throwing his books in, not caring about the homework assignment Mrs. Johnson gave him. Outside, it had stopped snowing, and a light dusting covered the ground, a cold wind kicking swirls into the air. The flag rippled in the breeze with a crisp sound almost like a beacon. Come here, Linc, wait for your girl.
Grinning ear-to-ear, he leaned against the pole and crossed his arms. Wait, did that look cool? Maybe he should put his hands in his pockets and stand up straight, but kind of at a slouch, you know, casual like.
Kids flooded the walkway and spread out into town as a school bus pulled away from the curb. Any minute now...
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Pretty soon, he was alone with the wind, and beginning to think that someone had played a cruel, cruel joke on him. He was just getting ready to leave when a voice spoke behind him. "Hey, Loud."
He whipped around, and the blood drained from his face. Billy Mason, the school tough, stood with his hands on his hips, his buddies Scut Farkus and Harry Bowers flanking him. Billy was a year older than Lincoln but a grade behind because he was dumb as a box of rocks. Like Bobby Santiago, he wore a leather jacket and motorcycle boots, the cuffs of his jeans flipped up, only it looked cool on Bobby...on Billy it looked scummy. His greasy black hair was in a D.A. and his thin lips were pulled back from his teeth in a hateful sneer.
Lincoln gulped and started to back away. These cats meant trouble. "H-Hey, guys," he smiled nervously, "I was, uh, just leaving."
"No you weren't," Billy said. He nodded, and Scut and Harry came forward. Lincoln would have run, but his legs were frozen: Scut grabbed one arm and Harry grabbed the other. Together they shoved him back against the flagpole.
Oh, man, this is bad, this is bad, this is bad...
Billy came over, his hands still on his hips, and stood in front of Lincoln, his bowed head shaking sadly back and forth. Lincoln's heart raced. He looked around for a teacher, a cop, Superman, but the wintery afternoon was deserted.
When Billy finally looked up at Lincoln, his muddled blue eyes were pooled with evil. "I see you made a new friend," he said.
Lincoln swallowed. Huh? A friend?
"The darkie," Scut said into Lincoln's ear, his rank breath hot on Lincoln's skin. Clyde?
Billy shook his head. "You see, Loud, we don't hang with those. We're better than that – even your candy ass...as strange as it may seem." He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He flicked a button, and a thin, sharp blade shot out. Terror burst in Lincoln's chest like a bomb. A switchblade. Crazily he thought of the ads at the back of the comic books he read. Snaps open with startling speed. He was startled, alright.
Grinning like a loon, Billy pressed the tip to Lincoln's chest. Lincoln squeezed his eyes closed and started saying his prayers. "H-Hey, man," Scut said, "you're not really gonna stab him, are you?"
The point pulled away, and Lincoln let out a deep breath.
"Nah," Billy said, "I'm not gonna stab him." Lincoln opened one eye; Billy closed the blade and slipped it back into his pocket. Then, like a shot, he punched Lincoln in the stomach: The air rushed from his lungs and hot pain enveloped him. He doubled over and then fell to his knees as Harry and Scut released his arms. Billy squatted down and grabbed his cowlick, lifting his head. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood today, Loud, or you'd be pushing your guts back in with your fingers right now."
Lincoln panted for air.
"Stay with your own kind from now on, huh?" Billy said. He lightly slapped Lincoln's face and stood. "C'mon, guys."
They departed, and for a long time Lincoln remained on his knees, cold, slushy snow soaking through the fabric of his pants. Even after the pain had passed and the tears had dried, he didn't want to get up...didn't want to face life. If God was merciful, the Cold War would pick this very minute to turn hot, and a Russian bomb would drop on his head and blot out the terrible, awful, rotten –
"Hey, you okay?"
Lincoln looked up, and froze. Ronnie Anne Santiago looked down at him, her books clutched to her chest and her brow soft with concern. His jaw dropped open and his Adam's apple bobbed. Uh...
Say something, Loud.
He blurted the first thing that came to mind. "I got my ass kicked." His face turned beet red.
Smooth, Loud, real smooth.
"I kind of figured something like that happened," Ronnie Anne replied. "Not many guys kneel in the snow for fun."
"Yeah...it wasn't very fun." He sighed and got to his feet. Time to gather the shattered remains of his dignity and go home.
"Who did it?" she asked.
"Billy Mason," he said. He and Ronnie Anne were standing face-to-face. Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck.
Ronnie Anne nodded understandingly. "Yeah, that guy's a dirtbag. Stupid, too."
"Yeah," Lincoln said. "Well...I'll see you around." He turned and started leave.
"Hey, wait up!"
He stopped and Ronnie Anne came up beside him. "Since I'm the one who found you, I'm kind of responsible for you," she said. "At least until you get home."
Lincoln blinked. Get home?
She sensed his confusion. "I'm gonna walk you home," she said, "and make sure you don't pass out or anything."
Walk him home? That was great! And not so great. Great because he liked her...and not so great because he liked her and she didn't like him, and being around her was like...he didn't know...a starving guy being around a sandwich he couldn't eat.
Okay, it wasn't right to compare her to food – she wasn't, she was a person – but you get the idea.
"That sounds cool," he said, and they began to cross the athletic field. He didn't know what else to say. Talk about the weather? About getting his ass kicked? "I missed Bandstand," he blurted.
"Yeah, so did I," she said. "No one good was on today, anyway."
"Why were you so late?" he asked. "I mean...it's gotta be past 3:30."
Ronnie Anne sighed. "I had detention."
Lincoln looked at her. "Detention? What'd you do?"
"I put salt in Mr. Wycowski's coffee."
Mr. Wycowski was the gym teacher. A lot of the kids called him Mr. Square because he was a real buzz kill. Lincoln couldn't help but laugh. "Why?"
"Because he's a doofus, that's why," Ronnie Anne said and giggled. "Man, you should have seen the look on his face when he took that first gulp. His eyes were bugging out of his head."
They both laughed.
"Why were you late? Or were you there on your knees the whole time?"
"I, uh...well, someone stuck a note in my locker and said meet them by the flagpole at 3."
"Let me guess, it was Billy."
Lincoln nodded. "And his friends."
"Classic ambush," she said.
"Yeah, pretty much."
They crossed Schoolhouse Road and started down the sidewalk. "What'd you do to piss him off? Even he doesn't beat people up for no reason."
Lincoln sighed. "I was talking to that Clyde kid and Billy didn't like it, I guess."
Ronnie Anne looked at him, one eye squinted. "Who?"
"The new kid. You know...the colored."
She nodded slowly. "Ah. Okay." She was silent for a moment. "How is he?"
"He's cool," Lincoln said, "seems like a real good guy."
"That's good," she said. "I feel kinda bad for him. And that girl. I know what it's like."
For a moment Lincoln didn't understand what she meant, then it dawned on him at the same time she said, "Being Mexican and all."
"You're cool too," he blurted, and blushed furiously. Why do I keep saying stupid stuff?
She laughed. "Thanks. Not everyone thinks so. Making friends hasn't been easy."
Ronnie Anne and her family moved to Royal Woods three years ago. From where, Lincoln didn't know. He vaguely remembered there being a stir because she was Mexican, but he didn't really pay attention because he didn't care. He lived in his own little world, remember, and whether or not someone was Mexican really didn't concern him. Who? That girl over there? Sure, great. It wasn't until fifth grade that he even noticed her – how her hair shimmered in the light of the sun, how her eyes sparkled, how her smile, as rare as it was, lit up the room.
The fact that some people didn't like her because she was Mexican bothered him greatly. "I'm sorry," he said heavily.
"Eh, don't be," she said, "I'm kind of a loner."
"Me too, I guess. It's nice to have a friend, though."
She shrugged one shoulder. "You still gonna hang with him?"
"Clyde?"
"Yeah. Billy kicked your ass, after all."
Lincoln thought long and hard on that. He did not want another whomping, but he liked Clyde, and he wasn't too keen on letting some scumbag in a leather jacket tell him who he could and couldn't hang with. That's what a weak sister did, and no matter what Lynn said, he was not a weak sister. "Yeah," he finally said, "screw Billy."
Ronnie Anne snickered. "That's the spirit. You're gonna be pulling double duty, 'cuz you're a pretty cool guy and I think I wanna hang with you too."
Lincoln's heart seized mid-beat. He turned and looked at her, but she was facing forward: Maybe it was the cold wind, but her face was red. "S-Sure," he managed, "that'd be real swell."
"Cool," she said.
They were at Colman Avenue when a car pulled up beside them. Lincoln glanced over: It was black with flames up the sides. The driver window rolled down and Bobby stuck his head out, his trademark cigarette between his lips. Music drifted from inside:
Come on and talk-a to me
A-lovey dovey dovey one
Come sit down on my knee.
"Hey, where you been?" he asked, "I was lookin' for you."
"I was walking," Ronnie Anne said.
"Yeah? Well, now you're ridin'. Come on, we gotta go."
Ronnie Anne shook her head and looked at Lincoln. "I'll see you around, huh?"
Lincoln nodded dumbly. "Y-Yeah, sure."
She smiled prettily and then hurried around the front of the car, climbing in. Bobby looked him up and down. "You watchin' where you're goin' now, kid?"
"Yes, sir," Lincoln blurted.
Bobby laughed and took the cigarette out of his mouth. "Yeah, good, 'cuz you almost fucked up my grill earlier." He rolled up the window and peeled off, smoke rising from the tires.
Ronnie Anne Santiago wanted to be his friend...
Wow...
Grinning, the gut-punch totally forgotten, Lincoln walked home, a light, airy tune on his lips.
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Reeling in the Years