Making an Entrance

Lou was seven minutes late to Swank the Tank’s science class on our first day of school. I could hear her asthmatic wheezing from where I sat in the back of the room, but that didn’t stop her from trying to be sneaky. She waved at me and tiptoed towards the seat I saved for her while Mr. Swank continued scribbling his name on the chalkboard like a six foot, 220-pound kindergartner. She was halfway back when his bicep tensed briefly. His hand, still clenching the chalk, hovered over the board as he boomed out Lou’s full name over his shoulder: “Louise Babcock?”

Lou stopped in her tracks, her face flushing. She hated to be called Louise, particularly by figures of authority (and even more particularly by figures of authority with mullets).

“It’s Lou.” She turned around, hands on hips, to face the front of the room.

“Do you have a note?” Mr. Swank turned as well, crossing his arms over his billboard-size chest.

Reaching down to pick up a non-existent skirt, Lou curtsied. "My apologies, I neglected to ask for one. Please forgive me."

“No need for groveling, I’ll just mark this as a demerit.”

Lou put up her hands in surrender: “Whoa, calm down, Father Brown. We started off on the wrong foot. Cut me some slack on the first day. Let’s put this behind us, shall we?”

Mr. Swank considered this for a moment before nodding. “Fair enough. But this is your only warning.”

“Roger that.” Lou saluted Mr. Swank and turned on one foot to join me in the back. “Hey Duke,” she said to me as she slid into her seat.

“Smooth entrance,” I greeted her.

“Louise? Duke?” Mr. Swank asked.

“It’s Lou,” both she and I answered.

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