ghost_holder | Will we still remember everything we learned in school

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Will we still remember everything we learned in school

It's been a weird journey. 2013 and Agatha Prenderghast, eleven going on twelve, seem so far away. There's a frankly embarrassing array of photographs of herself on tables and place settings, some of which she doesn't even remember being taken. The little girl in some of the oldest ones is her but Aggie feels like she can only barely remember being her.

Six years is a long time to change. It's a long time to learn her powers, to stop being afraid, to get angry, to feel unbelievable joy, to find people, to lose them. She's gained several pets, a few piercings, a lot of different shapes of family, but she's here. Aggie Prenderghast is at her own graduation party, surrounded by family and friends. There's music playing on a speaker, food made at home and brought by guests, and a guestbook parked next to her open year book, surrounded by permanent markers to sign.

Underneath the shade of their trees, the hot day turns into a balmy evening and Aggie watches the fireflies start to blink in and out and feels like she's really accomplished something. She's made it.

Now onto the next milestone.

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Greta had offered to bring a little something to the party, snack-wise, and of course that had turned into a lot of somethings. It's odd, really; now that 'baking' is no longer a part of her job description, and not something she necessarily finds time for on any given day, she rather misses it. Not to the point of wanting it to be her job again, but enough that when she has an excuse to really churn something out, she takes to it with an enjoyment her Village self would have boggled at.

Maybe she should do that cookbook thing the Bake-Off reps kept wheedling about. Not that she really has the time. It's probably just all the photos of Aggie making her feel nostalgic to a degree that is frankly absurd. She stumbled on what must have been a picture from not long after she'd arrived, and she was so tiny that Greta nearly wept just on principle.

So she fusses a little with her trays of offerings to disguise the fact that she needs to compose herself, and it's only once she's gotten a grip that she goes off in search of the new graduate. Once she finds her, she gives her a hug that is, perhaps, a little longer than one might expect for such a hot day. Oh, well. She doubts Aggie will mind much. "Congratulations, sweetheart," she says after releasing her. Then, a bit more playfully, "It's official, now. They can't take it back."

From across the yard, Aggie can see Greta fussing. That in itself is not unusual but Aggie has been on the receiving end of plenty of Greta's fusses, enough to guess when she's doing it in an effort to postpone another emotion. It makes the hug not that surprising and Aggie returns it fiercely. She's gained a lot of surrogate family in Darrow and Greta is easily one of the most important.

"I have it in writing," she agrees. Her diploma is on display inside, framed on the table in place of pride. For all that she plays indifferent, Aggie can't help feeling like she's really accomplished something. It feels good.

"I'm so proud of you. Granted, I've missed so much of-- well, all of this," she adds, flapping her hand at all the photographs that line the tables, "but still."

It's still an accomplishment. Especially knowing what she does of Darrow's public school system, and how awful some of the teachers are. Sometimes she thinks it's a wonder anyone makes it all the way through without simply dropping out in disgust. Not that Darrow seems to offer many other options, of course. Apprenticeships seem to have gone more or less extinct.

"But you're here for now," Aggie says. Some of the photos on the table were dug up from boxes of stuff that others had left behind. Notes from Barbara, a photograph from Damon. There are a lot of people in the photos who aren't in Darrow anymore and they're missed. Terribly.

But she's not alone. Greta is here, her family is here. That's what matters.

"True," Greta says. If she lets herself think about who isn't here to see Aggie reach this milestone, she really will start blubbering, so she doesn't. She's here, and she's going to make sure Aggie enjoys her party.

"Well, I think there should be enough food. Unless you were planning on announcing a tart-eating contest. But I might have also made something just for you." That one is safe inside, not out with the rest of the snacks.

And if Greta starts to cry then Aggie will definitely start to cry and it'll just be a chain reaction. So instead, she hugs Greta a little more tightly, only leaning back when the prospect of a surprise is dangled in front of her. "You already made a lot of somethings," she points out. Then her eyes narrow in playful suspicion. "What did you do?"

"Something special," Greta says, pointedly vague. Since taking over the Gardens, she hasn't had much time to do anything all that intensive in the kitchen. But she learned several tricks over her Bake Off tenure. It was nice having the excuse to take a few back off the proverbial shelf. "It's been a while since I had an excuse to get fancy. But yes, it's inside, in the fridge. All for you."

Granted, 'fancy' is a relative term, and Greta isn't producing the sort of mind-bending desserts that she's seen posted on Suddengram (Saoirse has shown her some that have made her want to sit down and put her head in her hands), but it's still several steps beyond her usual fare. With some finagling, she's managed to make a chocolate pastry built to look like a graduation cap, with 'Congratulations, Aggie' carefully piped in electric yellow frosting along the square, flat top. Inside the base, she's added a filling of peanut butter and little bits of bacon.

She's not quite sure how the entire flavor profile will play together, but she hopes Aggie likes it.

For a second, Aggie can't tell that it's pastry, thinking it's some kind of bauble or statuette. Then she realizes the lettering is icing and she looks over at Greta, her mouth opening wide in surprise. "Greta, this is amazing. It's like something you'd do on the show!" She beams up at her and has to go in for a hug all over again.

"I'm so glad you're here," she says, trying to put all the weight that she can into those words. There are a lot of people who aren't, though not by choice, which makes it all the more meaningful.

"Can I try it now?"

It's sort of ridiculous how apprehensive she feels as Aggie takes in her creation, as if the lass is about to channel Paula Hollywood and unleash a blistering critique. Instead, she gets a grin and a hug, which she happily returns. "Me too, sweetheart," she says, pressing a kiss to Aggie's hair and holding on tight.

"And you certainly can." She loosens her hold and smiles down at her. "It wouldn't be like the show if I wasn't anxiously awaiting your verdict, after all."

Aggie gives Greta a gentle poke in the side. "I already know it's delicious. Who do you take me for?" She doesn't say Paula Hollywood's name, as if the words alone might summon her. Given the suspicious way Greta had spoken of her, Aggie wouldn't put it past the silver judge.

Rather than pick it up and take a bite, Aggie finds a fork, determined to preserve Greta's creation in some form rather than destroy it. Immediately, she recognizes the taste and she covers her mouth with her hand, smile going all the way up to her eyes. Peanut butter and bacon started out as an amusing novelty but now she particularly associates it with Greta and being comforted after a hard time.

"I love it."

"Someone fair enough to give me an accurate assessment," she replies with an arched eyebrow, though she's still smiling. She's reasonably confident it won't taste bad, she just isn't sure it'll be as delicious as she hopes. It's meant to be something special, after all.

But soon after Aggie takes an experimental bite, she beams as the flavors register. Greta relaxes a bit, her smile widening. "I thought I'd stick with flavors I knew you liked," she says.

"I can't eat peanut butter and bacon anymore," Aggie says, beaming back at Greta. "I can't taste what exactly is different with yours, but it's just better." She suspects that not a small part of it has to do with the fact that Greta does make these for her on special occasions, times when she's been sad or lonely or wanted for a bit of spoiling. Peanut butter and bacon, itself, is a novelty, but Greta's is a comfort.

"Thank you."

When Blue had arrived here, Aggie had been -- fourteen? Fifteen? Little, even if Blue herself hadn't graduated high school, technically, yet. Still "Spooky" and coping with that at school. They're not that far apart in age, but in a lot of ways Aggie feels like the little sister Blue never had.

And now she's graduating. It's both delightful and crazy. Blue's only just started going to college. She has no idea what she wants to do "when she grows up", despite having successfully kept Un Chat Gris afloat for nearly three years. And though she's lived on her own, become more competent with a whole number of abilities, and loved and lost a whole lot, she still feels like a teenager most of the time.

In that time Aggie's become a self-assured, lovely adult. Even if Blue still feels clueless, it reminds her that they're all very different people than she was when she got here.

"Hey, kid," she says teasingly, and comes over to give Aggie a hug, presents and food set down on the table. "How's freedom feeling?"

Self-assured, yes, but it doesn't mean Aggie isn't equally clueless. Just in different ways. She's gotten into Barton and intends to go, though she's still not sure for what. The future is a weird, amorphous and uncertain thing, but she's still here. The time she's spent in Darrow is already more than she'd ever expected and Aggie knows nothing can be promised, which makes this feel so much more important.

Warmly, Aggie returns the hug and then steps back. She and Blue have both grown a lot in Darrow. Just not in height.

"Feels like I should be making someone's life difficult around now."

It's actually nice, in some ways, that Blue had kicked her feet about going to college; now she'll only be one year off from Aggie. Depending on what she takes, they might be in some of the same classes, since a lot of the 100 and 200 level classes count as general ed reqs and electives as well as basic major requirements.

"You mean you're not already?" Blue feigns shock. "Agatha. You can't let rebellion slide just because you're not in high school anymore." She smiles. "Eh, I think what you get now is to relax, traditionally, at least for a few weeks. At least the weather's better."

She's still got a few fading bruises from the horror that was June, and occasional nightmares about being eaten, but nightmares are sort of what Darrow does. She's trying her best to enjoy the sun.

Aggie lets her eyes go wide, pressing a hand to her heart to emphasize her feigned shock and hurt. "Im always making someone's life difficult but none of my teachers are here right now, are they?" The reality is that they probably couldn't care less but Aggie likes to imagine some of them are at home, enjoying a strong cocktail at the thought of never having to put up with her and her questions in class anymore.

"At least the weather's better." Aggie looks closely up at Blue, clearly questioning if that's all she's worried about. Blue's face is a familiar one, enough so that Aggie can pick out the tiny aberrations, like the faint bruises. Saying nothing else, Aggie gives her another hug.

When Krem arrived in Darrow in 2015--a year that, at the time, meant nothing to him--Aggie had been one of the first people he'd met. She'd been young then, but remarkable even so. And in their first year, he'd come to love and care for her more than he knew how to explain to anyone else. They kept each other well.

It was four years on, now. Just over, now. And here they stood, at the end of her last year of high school, having made it through any number of ridiculous and remarkable things in this strange place they called home.

He smiled slightly, cup of beer in hand and lingering near one of the tables covered with pictures of Aggie through the past few years, and even before he'd arrived. She'd grown remarkably in the past few--well, emotionally she had. She was still a tiny little spitfire.

"Are you going to cry? You better not cry," Aggie says, plopping into a seat next to Krem. Just to be annoying, she's drinking out of a chipped novelty mug that still says 'World's Okayest Dad.' Krem will probably forgive her, if only because this is one of those types of days where he has to.

"If you cry, then I'll cry, and then someone else will probably get in on it...It'll be a mess."

"I promise I won't cry. This time." Krem smiled endearingly. He didn't feel particularly close to tears at the moment, but it was overwhelming. Watching her actual graduation had been a nightmare, but he was managing the party well enough.

He kissed her forehead, smiling about the mug. "Drinking anything good? Getting your friends drunk yet?"

"I still can't believe you cried at all," she says. Her tone is soft though, not teasing. Aggie had glanced into the audience and seen Krem and been in disbelief that she could inspire that much emotion in anyone, especially when the ceremony itself had been really boring. If he looks at her and starts crying now, she's doomed.

"I'm not getting them drunk until it's dark and we can set off illegal fireworks," she replies primly. "What kind of host do you think I am?"

"It's a big step," Krem protested, knowing she was teasing but feeling the need to defend his honor in this case. Of course the ceremony was boring. Ceremonies tended to be. But this was yet another milestone for the both of them.

They'd been through quite a few of those now. But he could hold himself together for the moment.

He kissed her hair gently. "Don't startle the sheep and goats," he protested. "Do your fireworks out in the front."

"I was going to go on top of the roof," Aggie says, giving Krem as deadpan serious a look as she can. As if she'd really do such a thing; Aggie might be invulnerable and reckless because of it but she's not stupid. And it would upset the animals.

"I'll put the dogs in their calming shirts too. Do you need one as well?"

Krem gave Aggie a returning deadpan look, but there was laughter in his eyes. He knew that Aggie wasn't going to do anything off the roof, though her and all of her friends were ridiculous and reckless and gloriously young. Krem was as well--well, not the young part, but ridiculous and reckless. But Aggie was also kind and considerate.

"I have one all the time, why do you think you get away with so much." There was no point lifting or moving his shirt to tease Aggie, her embarrassing transgender father and his brightly colored, fashionable binders.

Aggie snorts and pokes Krem in the ribs. "I kind of figured that was Gannicus' doing." It probably is, to an extent, though she makes a point of not imagining such things and an even greater point of feigning disgust at any such mention.

"People keep asking me about the 'future' and I still don't know yet."

"No one's denying that he has some kind of an affect," Krem said primly. Gannicus did much for Krem's nerves, at times, and there was a reason they'd settled so comfortably into each other, and Aggie understood that. Nobody wanted her thinking about it, but she had seen all parts of Krem's wobbling before he'd settled into Gannicus and Hild.

"Do you need to?" He shrugged. "You could always just come work at one of the shops. Or take time to just...be."

"Well, I got into Barton." She knows there's no reason she can't take classes for whatever indeterminate period she likes but the thought of going about aimlessly is unappealing. "I know I can't change my mind or something but..." Well. Krem knows her, doesn't he? She's not that sort.

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Will we still remember everything we learned in school

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