Post by Braxton Ward on Dec 29, 2006 14:41:47 GMT -5
"Glacias. Glacias Gelat. Glacies?" The failed freezing incantations were coming from Room 360, cohabitated by Braxton Ward and Andy Parker. There was an irony in that room number, but neither boy had figured it out yet.
It was nine-thirty and it was Saturday, the internationally recognized day off for peoples under the age of twenty. The weekly holiday was typically observed by sleeping in, taking late breakfasts, by participating in the watching of Saturday morning cartoons in some demographics, and by college football in some seasons.
Braxton Ward woke up on the hardwood floor beside his bed. His Fridays were without classes and he’d spent the past Friday in an eight-hour double set of power lifting and beating practice. The day before that he had been beaten up by a bludger during an evasion drill and was bruised all over. A nylon bag was tied to his back with an elastic wrap; he’d frozen it with his wand the night before and slept on it in hopes of reducing the swelling and mitigating the pain and stiffness Saturday. The freezing charm Braxton was trying to pull off had nothing to do with locking Andy’s feet in a block of ice, or making a cache of snowballs to pelt his peers with. He was trying to refreeze the bag and without waking up his roommate.
On his seventh try Braxton froze the cold compress and fitted it to his back again. He pulled on the first shirt he put his hand to, and it was the white undershirt with the words ‘PARKER 4 PREZ’ drawn across the chest. Silently he opened the door and stepped into the hall leaving it slightly ajar. As gently as if his bones were glass he walked down to the space in the dorm where the hallways met. There was a pair of couches at a right angle, a few square tables with matching chairs that could be pushed together, and some easy chairs.
With the compress covered by the shirt he looked like a hunchback as he laid down face first on one of the couches and groaned.
It was nine-thirty and it was Saturday, the internationally recognized day off for peoples under the age of twenty. The weekly holiday was typically observed by sleeping in, taking late breakfasts, by participating in the watching of Saturday morning cartoons in some demographics, and by college football in some seasons.
Braxton Ward woke up on the hardwood floor beside his bed. His Fridays were without classes and he’d spent the past Friday in an eight-hour double set of power lifting and beating practice. The day before that he had been beaten up by a bludger during an evasion drill and was bruised all over. A nylon bag was tied to his back with an elastic wrap; he’d frozen it with his wand the night before and slept on it in hopes of reducing the swelling and mitigating the pain and stiffness Saturday. The freezing charm Braxton was trying to pull off had nothing to do with locking Andy’s feet in a block of ice, or making a cache of snowballs to pelt his peers with. He was trying to refreeze the bag and without waking up his roommate.
On his seventh try Braxton froze the cold compress and fitted it to his back again. He pulled on the first shirt he put his hand to, and it was the white undershirt with the words ‘PARKER 4 PREZ’ drawn across the chest. Silently he opened the door and stepped into the hall leaving it slightly ajar. As gently as if his bones were glass he walked down to the space in the dorm where the hallways met. There was a pair of couches at a right angle, a few square tables with matching chairs that could be pushed together, and some easy chairs.
With the compress covered by the shirt he looked like a hunchback as he laid down face first on one of the couches and groaned.