Sorrel Craven
March 26, 2008 6:54 PM
Balls to that... by Sorrel Craven
This whole thing was stupid. It was stupid, and everyone seemed to be stupid except her, because no one else had realised it, including Ash. Her weeks of remonstration, sulking, hurling general abuse in his direction and any other means she could think of for trying to convince him the whole ball was stupid had not been efficacious in snapping him to his senses. Of course, Ash wouldn’t realise it, because it was an excuse to be all mushy with Lizzie. If he hadn’t felt like he was supposed to take her, he and Sorrel could have boycotted it together. Or gone and spiked the punch and tripped people up on the dance floor. For the first time since he’d started dating Lizzie, Sorrel genuinely resented it, and felt like the girl had come between them. It had taken her a while to adjust to the idea, sure, but it had helped that she knew Lizzie was cool. And that she’d still felt like it was her and Ash, and that their twinship was still the most important relationship in his life. But now he was going to a stupid, fancy ball all dressed up, and the only reason he’d do something like that, something so un-Ash-like, was for his girlfriend.Sorrel wasn’t going. She’d never been going to go, on the principle that it was stupid. She didn’t need to worry about what would have happened if anyone had asked her, whether her principles would have held up, because no one had. It wasn’t really surprising. Of the boys in the school, Ash and Stephen were the only two who actually liked her. Obviously Ash wasn’t going to ask her – that was incest. And Stephen wouldn’t because she was ugly, and he had a whole school of pretty girls who would love to go with him. Not that she cared, because she wouldn’t have wanted to go anyway. In the absence of anything else positive to feel about herself, she stubbornly told herself that she would have still thought the ball stupid, even if someone had been stupid enough to want to take her.
Sorrel was feeling bad. Her solution to this, as with most other emotional and social problems, was to hit stuff. Hard. A basket of baseballs over one arm, her broom slung over her shoulder with the other, Sorrel made her ugly and friendless way down to the pitch. She was going to slug the balls, accio them back, then begin again until she didn’t care any more or her arms fell off. She could only hope that her harder shots made it far enough into the Labyrinth Gardens that they conked some unsuspecting, overly amorous couple on the head. If she gave someone a concussion then at least the whole night wouldn’t be a write-off.
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Sorrel Craven
Balls to that...
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Sorrel Craven
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