“Quidditch player,” Dad corrects me. “Let’s save ‘athlete’ for now, until we see just how much of this sport is imaginary. I’m still not clear on how you’re supposed to fly . . .”
7
“You’re back!” Karey waves and smiles hugely for someone I met once for half an hour at most. I guess team captains have to act like weird friendship vacuums, sucking people into actually showing up for practice.
I smile back, more excited than I expected to be. To be fair, it’s my first official post-grounding outing, and I’m excited not to be in the house.
We’re late, so the hoops are already set up and everyone’s in a circle stretching. Melissa, Chris, and I dump our stuff at the Practice Tree, join the circle, and bend to touch our toes. Ow.
Standing in the center of the circle, Karey counts the odd numbers, and we count the evens. We do arm and leg stretches, shoulder and neck rolls, some weird cross-legged push-up that’s supposed to stretch our calves but mostly kills my arms. Morning practice was supposed to beat the sun, but I’m not feeling any fresher just because it’s ninety as opposed to one hundred degrees.
“Ellen, right?” Karey approaches me after we finish stretching and take a much-appreciated water break. “I’m sorry you had to leave early last time, but I’m really glad to see you again. You were going to try beating, I think?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Sorry about leaving. My parents . . .” I grimace at the grass.
“Ah, parental disappointment. I know how that goes.” Karey’s wry grin is oddly inviting. I guess team captain friendship vacuums get their jobs because they’re good at making people like them. Or maybe I just feel cool associating with someone who ripped the sleeves off her T-shirt.
“Well, like I said, super happy to have you,” she tells me. “I’m sending you and the other new beaters—we have a few more today, which is awesome!—over to do some practice drills with John and Lindsay.” She points out two of the players who have already started ambling toward the far set of hoops, both wearing black headbands and holding PVC pipes between their legs. “They’ll give you the more complete strategy talk, but—hey, Roshni.” She gestures at a girl standing nearby. “Come listen to this, too. Basically y’all will be playing dodgeball with the opposing team. Peg any of them, and they’re temporarily out. People who are out can’t score. Any questions?”
About a million, starting with Why is it so freaking hot? What am I getting myself into? And Am I going to look that awkward mounted on a fake broomstick?
“No.”
The dark-haired girl (Roshni) and I take final swigs of water and head for the far hoops. I hear Karey giving a similar welcome-back speech to Melissa, explaining where she should stand to do chaser drills. Then she raises her voice and calls to all the dawdling players, “Okay, break’s over, people. Let’s see those smiles! We’re playing quidditch, y’all!”
I do smile, if squinting into the sun behind our trio of hoops counts. A few of the old players overtake me, sprinting to join a game of catch. When I reach the beaters, Lindsay, a redheaded girl with round freckled cheeks, starts handing out black headbands. There aren’t enough to go around, so Lindsay pulls her black-and-pink-striped bandana over her pigtails and hands it to me with an apologetic look. It’s damp and smells like mildew, but I slide it over my head anyway.
“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think ours are clean, either,” Roshni whispers as she pulls her bandana under her ponytail with a shrug. Except for her dark skin and not-invisible eyelashes, she reminds me of Melissa—athletic and tall and oozing a certain lack of social anxiety that I can’t help but envy. I grin back at her and try to think of something funny to say.
Lindsay pulls the new players aside and gives us a lecture very similar to Karey’s. (Grab ball. Throw ball at opponents. Run after ball. Repeat.) Then she calls the veteran beaters back over to join us. The other beater captain, John, starts breaking people into pairs to practice throwing balls at each other. I recognize him as the guy who found my ringing phone at the last practice. Like Karey, he’s wearing a sleeveless workout shirt, and, like Karey, he’s got arms worth showing off, even if his whole white-boy jock attractiveness is about as generic as his name.
He pairs us up by height, or maybe by perceived ability. I’m standing between two tall athletic people, but I am sized up, evaluated, and partnered with a tiny veteran beater. Her name is Elizabeth, she’s Latina with a long black braid reaching straight down her back, and even though she’s shorter than me with no visible muscles, she has a predatory look in her eyes that makes me pretty sure she could take me.
Or maybe that’s just the sports goggles.
Elizabeth grabs me a PVC pipe to hold between my legs. As soon as she does, I realize that all of Lindsay’s and Karey’s explanations failed to really address the whole riding-a-broomstick thing. I mean, I ran those laps at the last practice, which was awkward but manageable. But now I’m supposed to play catch—an already daunting task for my hand-eye coordination—while keeping track of this three-foot pole?
I try squeezing it between my thighs (a phrase rife with innuendo potential, I know), but my legs can’t stabilize the thin PVC unless I cross them. So I stand there with my left hand clutching the broom, feeling absolutely ridiculous, waiting for Elizabeth to throw her dusty red dodgeball at me so that I can try to dodge it.
We quickly learn two things: (1) I am very bad at dodging balls, and (2) my balls are very easy to dodge.
In about ten minutes I’m sweaty and grumpy, and I’ve managed to skin my knee. There’s a stinging red patch on my arm from one of Elizabeth’s harder hits, and I’m dying of dehydration and heatstroke. I also really wish I had thought to use sunscreen, because my face and neck are starting to feel a little crispy.
Eternal grounding might actually be preferable to this.
Karey calls a break, and we gather in the blessed shade of the tree. I gulp water, wiggle through a group of chatting veterans, and shove past Chris to stand next to Melissa.
“How’s it going?” I ask, scowling over my shoulder as Chris leans an elbow on my head just to prove he’s tall.
“I scored a goal!” Melissa pours water over her head and shakes her ponytail. Of course she’s loving this. She’s the one who has been so excited to come to practice, the one who enjoys physical activity. She’s the one who likes meeting new people. She’s the one who belongs here.
But I’m going to have to stick it out. “Awesome!” I offer her a high five. If this is our only chance for summer bonding, I’m going to make the best of it. Maybe Karey needs a team water boy or bench warmer or cheerleader. Maybe I can be personal assistant to Melissa, quidditch superstar.