Adult-FanFiction.org : Cartoons

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
- 7
- 8
- 9
The next afternoon at 3:30 sharp Lincoln, Luan, and Luna gathered on the couch to watch American Bandstand: Dick Clark introduced Buddy Holly and the Crickets and teens in skirts and sweaters started dancing. "I don't like him," Luan said, "he's boring." Lincoln didn't much like him either: He was waiting impatiently for Little Richard.
"He's not bad," Luna said, then: "He's not great, either."
Lincoln was starting to think about taking a walk with his buddy Joe Camel when a knock came at the door. Though he, Luna, and Luan weren't crazy about Buddy Holly, none of them was keen on missing even a second of the show, and none of them moved to get up. The knock came again.
"I guess I'll get it," Lori said as she came down the stairs.
"Thanks, sis," Luna said over her shoulder.
Sighing, Lori opened the door and started when she saw Bobby Santiago. He was holding a bouquet of pink and blue flowers. "Hey, how's it goin'?" he asked. "I just, uh, dropped by to see how my pal Lincoln's doing. I got one of those d – comic books he likes." He was going to say dumb, but stopped himself at the last minute. "And I got these for you." He shoved the flowers at her, and she took them with a blush.
"Wow...thank you. How did you know Asters were my favorite?"
Bobby shrugged. "Lucky guess." That wasn't true. He had Ronnie Anne call Lincoln that morning and pump him for information. Pink and blue were her favorite colors, Frank Sinatra was her favorite singer (yuck), and her favorite show was The Lawrence Welk Show (double yuck). She was a square...but she was prettiest square he'd ever seen.
"They're beautiful," she said.
"They're not the only thing that's beautiful," he said.
Her blush deepened and she let out a musical giggle. He couldn't believe it, it was working! After all this time, all that effort...it was as easy and putting on a sweater and buying some flowers. "I'm going to go put these in some water," she said. When she was gone, Bobby went over to the couch. "Scoot over, ponytail," he said to Luan, and sat next to Lincoln, slipping his arm around him and drawing him close.
"Uhhh...hi, Bobby," he said.
"How you doin', little man?" Bobby asked and gave him a playful nuggie. "What're we watchin', Bandstand?"
On screen, Little Richard sat before a piano, a slight black man in a white suit and sporting a conk hairstyle. Luan, Lincoln, and Luna all sat forward as he began to play. Bobby crossed his arms and looked around. Where was she?
When he heard her coming in from the kitchen, he cleared his throat. "I'm not a big fan of this, sorry. I prefer Lawrence Welk. He's a little more mature."
Luna, Luan, and Lincoln all shushed him.
"Oh, I love that show!" Lori said.
"Yeah?" Bobby asked over his shoulder. "So do I. It's classier than this stuff here."
"Will you two go somewhere else?" Lincoln asked...one, because he wanted to hear Little Richard and two, so Bobby could be alone with Lori. That pack of Camels wouldn't last forever, and Bobby would owe him one.
"How about we go outside and talk a little?" Bobby asked.
"Sure, that sounds swell."
Bobby stood up, pulled a rolled comic book from his back pocket, and dropped it into Lincoln's lap. "Here you go, kid."
Lincoln ignored him and watched as Little Richard stood, kicked his bench aside, and pounded on the keys like a man possessed. Now this was the stuff. Keep your Buddy Holly and your Elvis, those guys were lame.
"He is dreamy," Luan said.
"He's a madman," Luna grinned. She liked guitar better, and at the beginning of the summer she set out to make her own, since it wasn't very likely her parents would buy her one: Hey, Bo Diddly did it, and so did she, reading an interview he did in Teen and following his instructions to the letter, using a cigar box for the body just like he did. It was funny looking – all square and raggy – but it played. She picked up a how-to book at the library and had been teaching herself, spending hours at a time in her room and plucking the strings. She could play a little Elvis, some Jerry Lee, and even Chuck Berry. Pretty soon, she'd be a rock singer just like them – the first woman to lay it down.
Little Richard finished, and Dick Clark came over, clapping him on the back. "That was Little Richard with Keep a Knockin'. You know, Richard, a lot of folks dig your sound. How's that make you feel?"
"Makes me feel good," he said, and laughed.
Outside, Bobby and Lori sat side-by-side on the porch swing. Bobby had slipped out of the cardigan and balled it in his lap. It was hot as hell out and he didn't want to sweat too much. Their conversation was stiff at first, but they both loosened up, and when Bobby rested his arm on the swing right behind her, she made no sign that she didn't like it. "I mean, some of it's alright," she said, "but most of it literally gives me a headache."
"Yeah, I liked it, but it's something you grow out of real quick," he replied. "Rock and roll's a fad. Give it two years, and it'll be over."
"If that."
"Six months?"
"Hopefully," she laughed.
They lapsed into silence, and Bobby figured it was time to make his move. "You know, I was wonderin'...would you like to see a movie or somethin'?"
For a moment she didn't reply, then she slowly nodded and glanced at him. "Yeah, that'd be nice," she said.
Bobby sighed contentedly and enjoyed the moment. The future lie ahead, and if he played his cards right, he'd have Lori Loud as his best gal.
All thanks to Lincoln.
I'm gonna get that kid a whole carton of Camels, Bobby thought. Hell, two cartons.
After Bandstand, Lincoln hopped on his bike and started toward Ronnie Anne's house. It was hot and the light of the sun bathed him like acid: By the time he was halfway, he was sweating and thirsty. He paused at Dove Street, and lifted his right arm: To his horror, the fabric of his shirt was soaked through, and when he sniffed, the stench of sour sweat was noticeable. Oh, no.
You don't go to see a girl you like – wait, no, we're past that stage...you don't go to see your girlfriend – smelling like a ranch hand...just like you don't fart in front of her even if, say, you reaaaally had to. The thing is: How are you supposed to get from your house to hers on a hot summer day without perspiring? On a bike, that is? That's right, you aren't. It's not possible. Well...unless you pedal real slow, but he wanted to be at her house before Christmas.
An idea occurred to him, and it seemed like a winner, so he went with it, turning up Dove and biking to Main Street, which was alive with activity: People out enjoying the day, old men sitting in front of the barber shop and reminiscing about that time they sat behind George Washington in the third grade (probably), an attendant at the Texaco on the corner filling a Packard with fuel, people parked at Flip's and eating. The sidewalk was so busy that he had to jump off his bike and walk it the rest of the way to the drugstore, where he leaned it against a streetlamp and went in. People were sitting at the counter and drinking soda while others browsed the aisles. He went straight to the body care section and looked around for some cologne. There were three different brands, and he read the labels of each to see which was stronger before picking Old Spice based mainly on the scent: It smelled better than the others.
On his way to the register, he grabbed a bottle of Coca-Cola from an ice chest. Mr. Davis, the pharmacist, nodded at him. He was a tall man with black horn rimmed glasses, curly salt-and-pepper hair, and a tiny mustache. Lincoln sat his purchases on the counter, and Mr. Davis picked up the cologne. "You got a hot date, son?"
Lincoln flushed. "Kind of."
"Hm." Mr. Davis rang the soda and the cologne up. "You want one of these?" he asked and slapped a small rectangular package onto the counter. There was a strange circular outline in the middle.
Lincoln's brow furrowed and he looked up at the druggist. "What is it?"
Mr. Davis shook his head and tried – but failed – to suppress a tiny grin. "Nothing, son, I was kidding. You're too young for that. At least I hope to God you are. They say kids are starting earlier today. 1.50."
Lincoln was confused. He paid Mr. Davis and took his things as the old pharmacist scooped the package off the counter and put it away. That guy's a weirdo, he thought. Outside, he opened the soda with a bottle opener and took a long, grateful swallow. He considered putting some of the cologne on now, but decided against it. When he was within sight of Ronnie Anne's house, he stopped and splashed his chest, neck, and underarms. The smell was overpowering, and he bowed his head. I used too much. He imagined Ronnie Anne opening the door and staggering back as a fist of smell crashed into her jaw. Damn, square-for-lame, you trying to kill me?
What could he do though, take his shirt off?
That thought made him blush.
She'd just have to deal.
He hopped off his bike and walked it to her porch, where he leaned it and went up the stairs. At the door, he paused and sniffed himself. It wasn't so bad anymore. He knocked, stepped back, and waited. Footsteps approached, the knob turned, and Ronnie Anne appeared. When she saw him, she broke out in a sunny smile. "Hey, lame-o!"
"Hey," he said. She took a step forward and threw her arms around him. He smiled and hugged her back.
"You smell good," she said as she pulled away. "What is that?"
"Old Spice," he said, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I got kind of sweaty on the way over."
She nodded. "I like it. You should wear it more often."
"Yeah?" He made a mental note to pick up some more.
"It's really nice," she said. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. "So...what brings you over?"
He shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets. "I just wanna spend time with my girlfriend."
She giggled. "Okay. What do you wanna do?"
"I don't know," he replied, "watch TV?"
Ronnie Anne's smile faltered. "Actually, uh...we don't have a TV." She looked away, embarrassed.
"Oh," Lincoln said nonchalantly, "well...I really don't care, just...as long as I'm with you."
Ronnie Anne's smile did the opposite of faltering. "Okay. Come on." She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door behind him. The living room was sparsely furnished but inviting. A standing cabinet radio faced the threadbare couch. Pictures of Bobby and Ronnie Anne hung on the walls. Lincoln noticed hairline cracks and water stains here and there.
Ronnie Anne knelt in front of the radio and turned it on. An announcer read the news. "..U.S. troops have landed in the capital city of Lebanon today after a plea from President Camille Chamoun amid rising tensions..." She turned the dial and found a station playing music. Lincoln caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, and looked up to see a woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wringing a blue dish towel in her hands. She wore a pink maid's uniform, her black hair pulled back in a loose bun. Ronnie Anne looked up. "Hey, Mom."
She looked from her daughter to Lincoln and back again. Lincoln suddenly felt very awkward. "Hi," she said, then started speaking in Spanish, which told Lincoln she was probably talking about him: "¿por qué hay un chico aquí?"
"Vino a verme. No sabía que vendría. Sólo vamos a escuchar música."
Ronnie Anne's mother looked at him, and he flashed a nervous smile.
"¿por favor, mamá?" Ronnie Anne asked. "No haremos nada malo." She pouted cutely, her kitten eyes big as saucers.
Her mother sighed. "Bien, pero Mantén tus manos en tu regazo." She looked at Lincoln. "It's nice to meet you...?"
"Lincoln," Lincoln said.
She nodded. "Lincoln. You can stay, but you two behave."
Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "We will, Mom."
"Okay." With that, Ronnie Anne's mother went back into the kitchen, and Lincoln breathed a sigh of relief. Whew. That was uncomfortable. Ronnie Anne got to her feet and crossed to the couch, dropping down with a sigh. She grinned and patted the cushion next to her.
"C'mon, lame-o."
Lincoln nervously glanced at the kitchen door, then went over and sat, Ronnie Anne turning to face him and bringing her knee up onto the couch. "I hope I didn't cause any problems between you and your mom."
"No, it's fine," she said, "she was just kind of surprised to see a boy in the living room." She blushed. "I kind of told her about you, but I didn't really get into it. Bobby knows more than she does." She laughed. "Do your sisters and brother know that we're, like, official now?"
Lincoln shook his head. "No, I haven't told them; they'd make a big deal out of it and before I knew it, Leni would be giving me a makeover, Lori would be gabbing my ear off with dating advice, and Luan would be pumping me full of jokes to tell you."
Ronnie Anne giggled. "Your family sounds like they care about you...but also like they're nuts."
"Pretty much," Lincoln said with a nod. He drummed his hands on his legs. He really wanted to hold Ronnie Anne's hand, but the thought of her mother walking in and seeing that made his blood run cold. Ronnie Anne started to reach out to touch his shoulder, but thought better of it and drew her hand back. She sighed and hung her head, her hand flopping against the cushion. Lincoln stole a glance at the kitchen, then laid his hand on top of hers, his fingertips brushing her knuckles: That one touch was enough to make Lincoln's heart start to race and his stomach feel tingly. Ronnie Anne looked up at him, and it was clear to see that she was feeling the same way. A little grin crossed her lips and she threaded her fingers through his. He squeezed, and for a long time they stared into each other's eyes, their hearts beating the same rhythm and their spirits stirring with the first, faint desire to entwine. Someday, they would, but not this day: For now, they were content to simply hold hands and gaze at one another.
Lincoln was walking his bike down Ronnie Anne's street on his way home when Ronnie Anne's mother's station wagon appeared and slowed, the sunlight catching the front bumper and shooting a death ray into Lincoln's eyes. He squinted and held a shielding hand up as Bobby pulled up next to him. "Man, you gotta help me," the older boy said, his voice beseeching.
"What's wrong?" Lincoln asked.
"I got a date with Lori tomorrow."
"That's great!"
Bobby slouched over the wheel in an expression of misery. "Yeah...but I never been on a date before, man...I don't know what to do."
"Uh...well first..."
"Hop in," Bobby said, "I'll run you home and you can tell me on the way."
After storing his bike in the back compartment, Lincoln slipped into the passenger seat and pulled the seatbelt across his lap. Bobby pulled into someone's driveway and turned around. "Alright. What do I do?"
"Flowers, chocolates, dinner, and a movie."
Bobby tossed him a nervous glance. "Yeah? You think that'll work? I mean...that's a good date?"
Lincoln shrugged. "I've never been on a date either, but it sounds good. Girls like flowers and chocolates, and what else are you supposed to do on a date besides dinner and a movie?"
Bobby nodded. "Yeah, you're right."
"A walk," Lincoln said. "That might be nice. A stroll through town. Instead of going to the drive-in go to the Palace and you can walk."
"Alright. T-That sounds good." He glanced at Lincoln. "I'm really nervous, man. I don't know if you can tell."
Lincoln grinned. "I can tell."
"Yeah? Shit. I hope I'm not nervous like this tomorrow. I do not want to mess this up." He wiped his hand across his mouth. "I really like her."
When they reached Lincoln's house, Bobby parked at the curb. "Alright, here you are."
"Thanks," Lincoln said, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door. Bobby's voice stopped him.
"Uh, Lincoln?"
Lincoln turned. "Yeah?"
Bobby nodded. "Thank you," he said seriously. "I mean it, man. You're pretty cool."
Lincoln smiled. "Hey, friends help friends, right?"
Bobby nodded. "And right now you're my best friend; Blades can go fuck himself."
- 7
- 8
- 9
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Reeling in the Years