Arnold Carey
October 05, 2012 12:21 AM
Practicing by Arnold Carey
The grass of the Quidditch Pitch was a smooth, even green, the kind of perfect grass only achievable through magic intervention. Arnold barely even noticed it as he walked between the stands and toward the center circle, where he stood in the Coach’s place for a long moment before calling his broom up from the ground and into his hand before kicking off and moving up, up, up, and further up until the field below him looked more than anything like a green sheet. Once he was there, he turned sharply and flew for the set of goal hoops which had been on his right to give himself a starting point for a full loop around the Pitch. He started out at a steady pace, but quickly sped up, pushing himself a little for the thrill of knowing that he might, just might – wasn’t likely to, but might, if something went wrong – fall.His brother, he knew, would say that doing that when no one else was right there was stupid, but this was the only way he could really enjoy it. There was nothing in hovering ten feet off the ground, moving so casually that someone could run alongside if they wanted to. When he went fast like this, taking the turns on an incline and daring gravity to do its worst, everything got sharper, clearer somehow; when he flew, he felt like he could solve the whole universe, or at least his whole corner of it. Right now, he needed that.
Stupid, he thought, turning sharply again near the entrance to make his way back to the center of the Pitch. The wind had pushed his hair straight back; he could feel it sticking up as he came to a stop again to catch his breath. Stupid, stupid, stupid –
He broke the chain of thought off in favor of rolling on the broom in midair, a maneuver which looked funny and didn’t feel very good, either, but which could be very useful against a Bludger. He made himself fly in a straight line while still upside-down, even though he hated to do that, for seven or eight feet before he righted himself again and began blocking an imaginary opponent, keeping her from the Snitch, enjoying something he knew he was good at until he got tired and sat for a second on his broom to catch his breath and run a hand through his hair, trying to get it back into something like its normal arrangement. He never, contrary to what Arthur, at least, seemed to believe sometimes, liked looking really sloppy, at least not like that, and now….
Arnold closed his eyes. He had thought he wasn’t going to think about this out here, but there it was. Now that he was pretty sure people were judging Fae based on him. Not only did he have to worry about doing something inappropriate in front of her, but he had to worry just in general, too, so that people didn’t assume Sara Raines was better than her because Preston had stupid little glasses and a serious expression, or…whatever. It was like this was the one thing he could at least see his way clear to trying to handle, so he did, but it was by no means the biggest issue, and….
Looking around, Arnold wondered if anyone would come if he suddenly just yelled his frustrations at the stands. Probably yes. Instead, he went straight up in the air and began blocking his imaginary opponent again, trying to work it all out that way and almost envying the Beaters for once. It would be fantastic to just be able to hit something….He had been so sure he could just bully through all this, that he could act like it was nothing and things were all right until they were, but it wasn’t working. He was sure she was avoiding him, and even when she wasn’t, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do, or even what he wanted to do. Did he like her like that, or did he just want to be friends, but with…benefits? And what kind of pathetic excuse was he if that was the case?
And there was absolutely no one he could say all this to. Arthur, of course, would listen, Arthur wouldn’t tell anyone else he’d said it, but he just couldn’t imagine Arthur being really sympathetic, either. He’d tell Arnold he was being stupid – which he was – and that he should just be a man and take charge of the situation and assume that Fae, being a properly brought up young lady, would go along with it. And Arnold couldn’t do that. Whatever was going on, he wanted everyone to be okay with, but especially her. He was stuck.
Pretending the Snitch was sparkling far below him, he dove sharply, the ground rushing up to meet him; he only just pulled out of the dive in time, with a wrench which put his heart in his throat for a second before it began to pound uncomfortably hard as he gradually slowed to a stop, reaching up to rub his right shoulder, which had taken the worst of the effort it took to pull the broom back up, and contemplate how he really shouldn't have done that.
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