ghost_holder | 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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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."

Will we still remember everything we learned in school

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