Alastair Necklebort, Randolph Squattpeter and Bentley Flitnipple sulked at their open lockers.
“I do not care for my name,” Alastair muttered.
“Me neither,” the others intoned.
“I am going to change it.”
“Great idea,” Randolph offered, “I don’t care for my name either.”
“But,” said Alastair, “you just admitted that.”
“No,” Randolph replied, “I was admitting to not caring for your name.”
Bentley felt the bustling hallway closing in as tension mounted between his schoolmates.
He blurted, “Mine is the absolute worst. I shall change mine as well.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Alastair, eager to avoid a quarrel, “Now, what shall mine be? It should embody my worth, and who I am.”
“Who are you?” asked Bentley.
“Well, I am a man…”
“And what is your worth?”
“I am worth my weight in gold!”
“There you have it! Mangold!”
Randolph exploded in laughter, doubling over and shaking with delectation.
“No one will pronounce it, ‘man-gold.’ They’ll say, ‘mang-gold,’” said he with apparent pleasure after wiping away tears of merriment.
“Man-gold. Mangold. Mang-gold… my word, you are correct, Randolph!” Alastair sputtered, “How could I have hoped to weather that storm of embarrassment?”
“How about Goldman?” Bentley chirped.
“Goldman! That is perfect!” Alastair cheered, scrawling the word on the cover of his ledger.
Bentley savored his victory. He beamed, proclaiming, “I shall be Silverman, then.”
Alastair proffered his hand, Bentley beaming more as he took it in his. They shook.
Randolph watched the pair in their enviable moment of camaraderie.
“I suppose in that case I’ll be Bronzeman.”
They looked at him.
“Bronzeman Squattpeter!”