Will we still remember everything we learned in school

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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.

Comments

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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."

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"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.

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"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."