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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Lyrics to The Stroll by The Diamonds (1957)
Ronnie Anne woke up excited – excited to see Lincoln. It was Monday morning, and she hadn't seen him since Thursday afternoon; school was canceled on Friday because someone threatened to blow it up over the black kids being let in.
Okay, it was Bobby and his friends, but they only did it to get a free day off. She was kind of happy because school was a drag, but she was kind of sad because she wanted to hang with Lincoln.
After showering and dressing, she went into the kitchen, and was mildly disappointed to see Bobby already sitting at the table, the sleeves of his white T-shirt rolled up and a square bulge betraying his Camels. Yum. She could really go for one of those right now. When she came in, he looked up at her and grinned devilishly. "That's right, baby doll, I'm up and you don't get to jam your finger into my brain." He pouted. "Poor baby."
Ronnie Anne slapped him in the back of the head. "Hey!" he cried, "watch the hair." He stroked either side with his hands. It shone in the overhead light, not a strand out of place.
"Your hair looks gross," Ronnie Anne said as she sat before a plate. "Where's Mom?"
Bobby shrugged. "I gave her the morning off."
"You cooked?"
"Yeah. I cooked. What's the matter, don't think I can?"
Ronnie Anne looked down at her plate. The bacon was burnt to a crisp and the eggs were running...like really runny. The toast looked normal, though...but she didn't see any butter. "You did a good job," she said. It was nice that he did that for Mom, so the fact that he didn't do it well was beside the point.
"Thanks," he said, then, picking up the serious tone, "I kinda fucked it up."
"It's fine," she said, picking up a piece of bacon with her fingers and biting into it. It was hard and brittle, but she'd had worse.
Bobby cut off a piece of egg with his fork and shoveled it into his mouth. "You want a ride to school?"
The weekend had been sunny, and most of the snow on the ground had melted.
Ronnie Anne shook her head. "I'll walk. I'd really like a Camel, though."
Bobby shook his head. "Nope."
"Oh, come on."
"Sorry," he said, "I told you the other day, you're cut off."
Ronnie Anne sighed.
When she was done, she washed hers and Bobby's dishes even though it would probably make her late (he did cook breakfast, after all), then left. Outside, the sun was bright and the air was tolerably cold. She reached the end of the driveway just as Bobby backed into the street. His window was rolled down and the radio played. A cigarette hung from his mouth. "Have a good day," he said.
"Yeah," she replied curtly and started to walk away.
"Hey!"
She turned. He sighed, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and held it out. "There, take it and drop dead twice."
She smiled and took it. "Thanks! You're the best!"
"Yeah," he replied, "brother of the year."
Before she could reply, he rolled up his window and peeled off. Ronnie Anne followed, lifting the Camel to her lips and taking a drag. Nothing like that first rush of smoke!
By the time she got to school, the morning bell was ringing and she had to hurry through the door. In class, she found Lincoln, grinned at him (she felt like a doofus but she couldn't help herself), and went to her seat, where she spent the rest of the period dividing her attention between him and the teacher. Once he looked up, and she tried to whip her head away quick, but could only do it slowly. The bruise on his face was faded, but she could still make it out, and it made her heart flutter because one, he got hurt and that made her sad, but he stood up for her, and that made her happy. Lincoln wasn't a tough guy...and she dug that...but when he had to be, he could be...
What did he say? He made me mad. The way he hit you.
She smiled dreamily at that.
At lunch, she sat with him and Clyde. She spotted Billy Mason across the cafeteria, his nose pink and lumpy and his eyes ringed raccoon black. His bottom lip was also split down the middle. Damn, Lynn and Linc did a number on him. Hahahaha. He looked like he was making every effort not to look in their direction: Instead, he glowered straight ahead. Serves you right, prick.
When the final bell rang, she waited by the door until Lincoln came out, facing ahead. She reached out and lightly slapped his arm. He turned, and a smile spread across his face. "Hey," he said.
"Hey," she grinned, "you wanna walk together?"
"Do I!" He blushed. "I mean...sure."
"Cool."
They descended the stairs and started along the sidewalk, neither speaking for a minute. "The dance is this Friday, huh?" Ronnie Anne asked to break the silence.
"Yeah," Lincoln said, "hope you're ready to, uh, not dance."
She chuckled. "I'm ready." She glanced at him. An idea occurred to her over the weekend...a way to make the dance a blast without even setting foot on the floor. "I have something in mind," she said, "it's gonna be fun."
"What?"
"I can't tell you," she said, "it's a surprise."
"Oh," Lincoln said, and nodded. "I like surprises."
Ronnie Anne grinned. "You're really gonna like this one."
Lincoln laughed. "I have sisters and I know that look well. You're up to no good."
"Me?" Ronnie Anne asked innocently. "Never."
"Yeah," he said, "you."
She shook her head, her ponytail swishing. "Nope. You're mistaken."
"We'll see."
They lapsed into silence again. At Dearborn Street, Lincoln pulled his radio out of his pocket and turned it on. Ronnie Anne saw it, and her eyes widened. "Whoa, what is that?"
"Radio," he said, "wanna hear some music?"
"That's so neat," she marveled, "let me see it." Before he could give it to her, she plucked it out of his hands and turned it over like a strange and exciting artifact. "Wow, that's really cool." She spun the dial, and it landed on a station playing news: "Canadian diplomat Lester B. Pearson today was honored with..."
She changed it, and settled for a Bill Haley song. Wow, this thing was pretty nifty. She kind of knew little radios like this existed, but she had never seen one up close. You could take it anywhere instead of being tied down to the living room or the car. "That's cool," she breathed again, and went to hand it back to him, but he held his hand up.
"You can hold it."
She shrugged. "Okay. Thanks."
"Where's your house?" she asked after a minute.
"Up here," he said, nodding down a side street. A green sign read FRANKLIN AVENUE. "I was going to walk you home, though."
"Nah," she said, "it's really far out of your way." That was true, but she was also kind of embarrassed. Her house wasn't very big and it was in a sort of rundown neighborhood.
"You sure?" he asked.
In answer she started down Franklin.
When they reached his house, she looked up at it was wide eyes. "Wow, it's big."
"Yeah," Lincoln said, "but eight people live there, so there's not much open space."
He turned to her, and their eyes met. Ronnie Anne's heart started to pound. "I-I'll see you tomorrow," she stammered.
Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. I'll be there. It's school. I kinda have to be."
Ronnie Anne giggled. "That's true." For a moment they simply faced each other in sweet awkwardness. "Here," she said, holding the radio out.
He shook his head. "Keep it."
Ronnie Anne's brow furrowed. "Huh?"
"Keep it," he said, "like...I'm giving it to you."
"No, I –"
"Early Christmas present," he said.
She looked down at the radio in her hand so he wouldn't see her big, stupid smile. "Thanks," she said.
"Merry Christmas," he said, "see you around."
She smiled all the way home.
Friday, December 20, 1957. Lincoln Loud sat on the edge of his bed after dinner and worried over what he was wearing: A brown pair of slacks, a plaid long sleeve shirt (tucked in, of course), brown loafers, and a white cardigan button-up. You were supposed to get all dressed up for formal functions like this, but Ronnie Anne told him to dress "normal." He asked her at least a dozen times over the past week what she planned to wear, and the answer was always vague. "A dress," or, if he was getting on her nerves, "a bright pink ape suit." Was this some kind of girl-boy headgame where she said she wasn't going to dress up but she really was and he was supposed to read between the lines or something? He'd look like a jerk if he showed up in a cardigan and she was all dolled up. Alternately, he'd look like a dweeb if he turned up in a suit and she was wearing regular clothes.
Sigh. This was hard.
Not as hard as trying to hide the fact that he was going to the dance with Ronnie Anne from his sisters had been. He made it the whole week thinking he gave them the slip, but then it happened: They were at dinner when Mom asked, "Do you and your girlfriend need a ride to this dance?" Everyone's heads whipped in his direction except for Dad's. He was too busy eating his food.
Great. He had to ask her for permission to go, didn't he? And was he wrong in thinking she wouldn't blurt it out in front of everyone? Okay, maybe he was, but still.
"Oh, Lincoln's going out with his best girl, huh?" Luan asked, tilting her head playfully.
Lori nodded. "Nice going, Linc."
"I can, like, help you pick out the perfect outfit," Leni said, waving her hand, "it's be really cute, Lincy. With a little bowtie and everything." She fisted her hands in excitement.
Luna gagged. "A bowtie? No one wears those things anymore. He needs one of those sparkly jackets Liberace wears. I dunno why, but the chicks love that guy."
"He's cute," Lori said, and pinched Lincoln's cheek. "Just like our dear baby brother."
"Knock it off!" Lincoln cried and pulled away.
Lynn shook his head. "The runt has a girl before I do."
"Don't worry, son," Dad said without looking up, "sooner or later you'll find a girl to make you miserable for the rest of your life."
Mom shot him a dirty look, and he grinned at her. "While looking beautiful doing it." She nodded slowly to indicate he could live...for now.
For two days, his sisters pestered him with unwanted advice, suggestions, and comments, some of it really embarrassing, like Lori telling him to pack a tin of mints so his breath would be 'minty fresh' in case Ronnie Anne wanted to kiss him. Even though he insisted he was going to wear his normal clothes, Leni designed him a suit coat that actually looked pretty nice: It was light and breathable black with a pink triangle of fabric poking up from the breast pocket. He pretty much had to wear it so Leni's feelings wouldn't be hurt.
Then there was Lynn. During their daily training session in the backyard (Lincoln had discovered there was satisfaction to be found in punching things – like a jerky older brother's back, chest, and arms), Lynn asked him incessant questions. "How'd you do it?" and "You think you can train me to pick up chicks?"
No matter how many times he said 'we're just friends' they didn't listen, so he stopped and started rolling with it instead. "I dunno, Lynn," he said, "I was just myself, and I guess she liked it."
"Yeah? How...just yourself? Like...talking about comic books and other dorky stuff like that?"
Lincoln chose that moment to try out the new move Lynn had shown him: He jammed his left foot behind Lynn's left heel and shoved, sending him to the ground. "I just...I don't know...I did my normal thing."
"Hmmm," Lynn said, and mulled that over; Lincoln could see the cogs and gears turning in his mind.
Presently Lynn was lying on his bed with a copy of Sports Illustrated. The cover was red and featured a photo of boy holding a tennis racket. Russia and Physical Fitness read the white legend. He flipped a page and snickered. "I could run those commies down easy," he said. "Look at 'em, all scrawny and starving and stuff. Pfft." He glanced over. "You 'bout to leave, Linc?"
"Yeah," Lincoln sighed. He was starting to feel nervous.
"Have fun," he said and turned back to his magazine.
Lincoln got up on shaky legs. "I'll try."
He grabbed the coat Leni made him from the chair in front of his desk and slipped it on. He paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath, already knowing all of his sisters, and probably his mother too, would be waiting like vultures for a dehydrated animal to drop. Sure enough, when he got to the bottom, Lori, Leni, Luna, Luan, and Mom were all milling around. Leni saw him first, her eyes lighting up. "You're wearing my jacket!"
As one they rushed him, all smiles and pinching fingers and girlish giggles: To be honest, he'd almost rather have a group of Billy Masons rush him than this. "You are literally the most handsome guy ever," Lori squealed, "except for Frank Sinatra."
"Oh, deer," Luan said, "you look like a million bucks." She laughed. "Get it?"
Luna shot her an annoyed look. "Deer puns have no relevance right now."
Luan bowed her head. "I'm trying, okay?"
"You look very nice, honey," Mom said, holding him at arms' length, tears beginning to well in her eyes. "My little boy's growing up."
Lincoln shook his head. "I'm just going to hang out with a friend. That's all. Really. Please, don't make a big deal out of it."
They were all preening so hard over him that they almost didn't let him leave. When he was finally alone in the cold December night, he took a deep breath. They could be a pain in the neck sometimes, but he wouldn't trade them for the world.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he went down the stairs and started toward the schoolhouse. Christmas lights up and down the street reflected off a light crust of snow that had fallen on Tuesday and hardened. His breath puffed out in front of him, and he walked quickly to warm himself.
Aside from training with Lynn and preparing himself for the dance, it had been a busy week. On Wednesday, they all shoved into Dad's Packard and went into town, where they spent half the afternoon at Woolworth's, then the other half at a lot stuffed with trees, Dad going up and down the rows looking for the perfect one. He was worse than a woman in the ladies' department: They were there so long that everyone started getting restless. Lynn picked a pinecone up off the ground and threw it ahead, running to catch it, while Luan hid behind trees and jumped out at Lincoln and the others. "Nice to tree you," she'd say, then slap her knobby knee. At home, Dad and Lynn moved the TV and set up the tree up in its place, then, after Dad strung the lights through it, everyone took turns hanging ordainments. On Thursday, they went back to Woolworth's and Mom and Dad insisted Lincoln get his picture taken on Santa's lap, even though Lincoln didn't believe in Santa anymore (what am I, ten?). Of course, the line was loooong, and he got stuck behind some kid in weird goggles who screamed when one of Santa's elves sat him on the big guy's lap, and some dork in glasses who kept muttering to himself: "I want an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle, I want an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle..."
"Ho, ho, ho," Santa screamed into Lincoln's face, spraying spittle into his eyes. "What do you want for Christmas, little boy?"
"To be out of your lap," Lincoln deadpanned.
Santa's brow furrowed. "Well, up yours too, kid."
Come to think of it, there was nothing he wanted for Christmas. He had literally everything he could ask for. Except maybe a new bike, since his old one, a hand-me-down from Lynn, was on its last legs, but that was a worry for another day.
He turned onto Elm Street. Cars and big houses lined the sidewalk. A group of carolers stood on someone's doorstep, singing in perfect unison:
We wish you a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas
And a Happy New Year.…
Speaking of Christmas music, Elvis was on Bandstand the other day singing a Christmas song. Blue Christmas, Lincoln thought it was called. You know, Elvis was okay, but he wasn't that good, and Lincoln was getting sick of seeing him all the time. He kind of hoped he'd go away (little did he know, Elvis was drafted into the U.S. Army that very day...which provided a two year respite from Bandstand appearances if nothing else).
By the time he reached Schoolhouse Road, his face was numb and his teeth were chattering. The doors to the gym stood open, and the sounds of music and chatter drifted out. Lincoln leaned against a street sign and waited for Ronnie Anne, who walked up less than five minutes later: Lincoln was relieved to see that she was indeed in normal clothes – a purple dress under a wool jacket, a green and black plaid scarf around her neck.
"Hey, lame-o," she said as she walked up.
"Lame-o?"
"Yeah," she grinned playfully, "friends gotta have nicknames for each other, don't they? I'm still trying to decide between lame-o and square-for-brains. Which do you like better?"
Lincoln bobbed his head from side-to-side. "I can't say I like either."
"Alright," she said, her grin widening, "I guess I'll just use both. Come on."
They went up the walkway together, walking close but not touching, even though Lincoln kind of had the urge to take her hand. At the door, Principal Strickland stood ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back. He was tall and bald as a cueball, dressed in slacks and a brown plaid sports coat accented by a blue tie. Strickland was a hardass. End of story.
"Loud," he greeted curtly, "Santiago."
"Hi, Principal Strickland," Lincoln said.
Inside, a band stood on the stage and played, each other of its members in a white suit. The singer leaned into the microphone and began to sing:
"Come, let's stroll
Stroll across the floor
Come, let's stro-oh-oh-oll
Stroll across the floor
Now turn around, baby
Let's stroll once more..."
Red and green streamers hung from the ceiling, and other wintery decorations were plastered to the walls. A series of tables against the far wall boasted snacks, food, and a big glass punch bowl filled with red liquid. Mrs. Johnson stood behind it in a blue and white dress, talking to Ms. Avery, the kindergarten teacher.
Ronnie Anne watched them, her eyes narrowed to calculating slits. "That's our target, lame-o."
"Mrs. Johnson?" Lincoln asked, worry creeping into his voice.
"No, not Mrs. Johnson," Ronnie Anne said and playfully slapped his arm. "The snack table."
They were moving across the dancefloor now, dodging kids doing the Stroll. "Outta the way," Ronnie Anne said, shoving past a kid with a crewcut. When they reached the wall, she leaned against it and watched Mrs. Johnson and Ms. Avery laughing and moving their hands. In turn, Lincoln watched her. She was up to something devious...he just didn't know what.
She sighed and shook her head. "I might need you to make a distraction."
Huh? "What are we are even doing?"
"You'll see," she grinned.
"Ronnie –"
"Go pretend to fall down and get hurt," she said, "make it convincing."
Lincoln blinked. He did not like where this was going. He opened his mouth to protest, but she shoved him out onto the dancefloor. "Make it convincing." She pushed away from the wall and moseyed over to the end of the table, looking innocently around and shuffling her feet. Lincoln took a deep breath. Ahead of him, a line of boys faced a line of girls, a pair of each coupling and strolling down the middle hand-in-hand, moving their feet this way and that. Kind of a dumb dance. He glanced over his shoulder at Ronnie Anne. She was standing by the end of the table and looking up into the rafters as if the steamers were the most interesting thing she had ever seen. In the dim lighting, she was beautiful. Of course, she was beautiful in any light.
She looked at him, and gestured with her hands. Come on, come on, lame-for-brains or whatever it is she called you. Lincoln drew a deep breath. This was going to be so embarrassing.
Nevertheless, he tangled his feet and let himself fall, sucking in air as he went and issuing as loud a cry as he could. "MY LEG! OH, GOD, MY LEG!"
The music cut out and everybody looked at him. He was on his side, his hands clasped around his knee, facing the table. Mrs. Johnson and Ms. Avery came rushing over, worry on their faces. Ronnie Anne slipped under the table cloth and disappeared.
"IT HURTS! OH, THE PAIN IS MIND-BOGGLING! I AM SHOCKED THAT IT IS POSSIBLE TO HURT THIS BAD!"
Mrs. Johnson and Ms. Avery knelt by him, the latter putting her hand on his forehead and trying to calm him. Principal Strickland came striding over, his arms pumping. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "It sounds like someone is being butchered."
"WOE IS ME! MY STROLLING DAYS ARE OVER!"
Through one slitted eye, he saw Ronnie Anne pop up behind the punch bowl and pull a metal flask out of her jacket pocket. She glanced up, unscrewed the cap, and dumped the contents in. She used the ladle to stir it all up. Uh...what are you doing? She disappeared, then a minute later crawled out from under the table and walked casually away.
Figuring that was his cue, Lincoln got to his feet. "Just a cramp," he said and laughed nervously. "I'm okay now."
Before Strickland or any of the others could question him, he hurried off, his cheeks on fire. All of the other kids were watching him; the band was watching him; the whole world was watching him. Slowly, the music struck back up and the dance resumed as if nothing had happened.
Ronnie Anne stood against the wall with her arms crossed and a little smile on her face. "That was pretty convincing," she leered as he walked up, "I almost lost it under there."
"What did you do?" he demanded.
Her grin widened. "I spiked the punch."
Lincoln's jaw dropped. "With alcohol?"
She rolled her eyes. "No, with holy water. Of course with alcohol."
Lincoln couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Where did you get alcohol?"
She shrugged. "I swiped it from Bobby." She patted the flask in her pocket. "I don't drink it. It's gross. Everyone else is going to, though."
Shaking his head, Lincoln leaned against the wall next to her and crossed his arms. "How are we supposed to have fun with the punch being spiked?" He glanced at her and raised his brows.
"Oh, you'll see," she grinned.
And see he did. Within an hour, Principal Strickland was laughing his bald head off and attempting a sloppy two-step with Mrs. Johnson, who swayed back and forth. Mrs. Avery toppled over, taking out a slow dancing boy and girl, and then laughed like a loon from the floor. Mr. Wycowski took one sip and his eyes widened. For a moment Lincoln thought they were busted, but the gym teacher downed his glass and filled it again. "Now this is my kind of punch," he snickered as he walked away. Mr. Sandborn, the janitor who liked calling people racist names, staggered across the dance floor yelling and slurring about a 'wild party.' Lincoln and Ronnie Anne both doubled over laughing when Principal Strickland fell backwards onto the table, breaking it and sending a tidal wave of punch across the floor. "Oops!" he cried and laughed. By this point, the kids on the dancefloor were getting a little sloppier in their movements, and a few staggered outside, where they presumably puked. Mr. Wycowski tried to help Principal Strickland up, but slipped in the punch and went down with a loud, "Goddamn it!" Lincoln laughed so hard tears rolled down his eyes; he and Ronnie Anne threw their arms around each other to keep from falling, and when they realized they were embracing, both blushed...but neither let go.
"Damn," the singer said, his voice picking up on the microphone, "that's some wicked punch."
"Come on, square-for-brains," Ronnie Anne said into Lincoln's ear, "let's go. I had my fun."
"Yeah, me too."
Neither made a move to let go, and they didn't for a long, long time.
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Reeling in the Years