Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

Jillian Joy Holtzmann is eight years old and she thinks her second grade teacher is the most perfect person to ever exist.

She loves Ms. Shetland. Ms. Shetland is 30, but she was 29 at the beginning of the year – 29, which seems impossibly young for a teacher – and she's smart and wonderful and lets Jillian sit on the floor when she gets bored in class. She has giant blue eyes and beautiful blonde hair that goes down to her shoulders. Jillian thinks that she wants hair like that someday because her hair is just plain brown, like the color of wood, or maybe dry dirt. It's boring. Nothing like Ms. Shetland's. Sometimes Jillian sits at her teacher's feet and watches her hair swish across her shoulders.

It's the day before winter break and they're having a Christmas party. Stefan's mom brought in gingerbread cookies for the class. Anna E.'s mom brought in cupcakes. Matt's mom brought in a pie and three cans of whipped cream. She's had a cookie, a piece of pie, and two cupcakes already. Crumbs are all over her face and in her hair. Her mouth is smeared with frosting. There's a smudge of whipped cream on her glasses.

Jillian is an enthusiastic eater.

“Oh, honey.” Ms. Shetland can't help but laugh when Jillian walks over to her desk with a cookie, carefully wrapped up in a reindeer-print napkin. She turns away from the paperwork on her desk. “Is this for me?”

Jillian holds it out to her. “Yeah. You haven't had any cookies yet.”

“Thank you, Jillian.” Ms. Shetland is the only adult – really the only person – who calls her Jillian. Everyone else calls her Jilly, which she hates. It sounds like a doll. “Maybe just put it on the side here, okay?”

“You don't want a cookie?” Jillian sets the napkin-wrapped cookie on the desk next to her, slightly disappointed.

Ms. Shetland shakes her head. “Not right now, sweetie. I'll eat it later.”

“Okay.” Jillian hangs her head a little. “I can bring you better cookies, you know,” she whispers conspiratorially. “After winter break.”

“Jillian...” Ms. Shetland hesitates, then crosses her legs. “Remember how you were sick two days ago?”

Jillian nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. I ate too many peppermint candies for breakfast and then I threw up.”

“You –” Ms. Shetland looks at her questioningly. “Well, I'm glad you're feeling better.”

“Me too.” Jillian smiles. Her left front tooth is missing. It fell out after she took her sled to the park two weeks ago and crashed into a tree, but her dad said it was okay since she has another one under it. Another tooth, that is. The sled is pretty much ruined.

“Anyway, Jillian...” Ms. Shetland's voice trails off. “You missed – I had some news for the class, and I'm afraid you didn't hear it because you were sick.”

“What news?” Jillian swallows. She doesn't like where this conversation is going. It makes her nervous, and being nervous makes her stomach feel like someone is alternately pressing it together and then letting go.

Ms. Shetland's expression is pained. “I'm not coming back after Christmas break.”

The entire world may have just fallen apart. Jillian is half-considering dropping out of fourth grade before the minute is over. School without Ms. Shetland – who will show her shortcuts in math that make everything go faster? who will recommend books that she's already read? Nothing is going to be the same and Jillian doesn't want it; she doesn't like it. And it's Ms. Shetland's fault. There's a strange, stifling feeling in Jillian's chest, like her heart is hardening.

“Oh,” she says after a few minutes. It's suddenly cold in the room, despite the Christmas sweater she has on. “Well, that's okay. Bye.” She turns to go, so Ms. Shetland won't see the tears brimming in her eyes. Crying at school is embarrassing. She's done it one too many times.

Ms. Shetland sighs. Her hand drifts over her abdomen and stays there. “Jillian, it's okay. Look, it's all going to be fine – winter break is coming up, right? Are you doing anything fun?”

Reluctantly, Jillian turns back around. “I'm going to Chicago with my parents. We're going to go to the Museum of Science and Industry. They promised.”

“The Museum of Science and Industry?” Ms. Shetland raises her eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Jillian says, and then she feels cold again. “Ever heard of it?” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm. She regrets it as soon as it comes out of her mouth.

Ms. Shetland's face pinches up, then releases. “See, this was what I was talking about,” she says, “when I talked to you about why the other kids don't want to sit with you.” She turns back to the pile of papers on her desk. Jillian's cheeks flush alternately hot and cold. She waits for a moment, thinking that she should apologize, but Ms. Shetland's not coming back and saying sorry won't fix that, so she steps back towards the other kids and their moms and grabs another cupcake. She eats until her lips are blue with frosting.

--

“Jilly, why don't you try to try some broccoli?” Mr. Holtzmann leans across the table and picks her fork up for her, hoping that that'll jump-start her movement and maybe get her actually eating something. “We've got a long drive tomorrow.”

Jillian sighs and rejects the fork. “I'm not hungry, Dad.”

Mr. Holtzmann leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, decidedly unamused. “Jillian Joy Holtzman, your mother is going to be home from parent-teacher conferences any minute and if she sees that you haven't eaten any broccoli she's going to reduce your Museum of Science and Industry gift shop budget. Eat up.”

That gets her eating. She's cleaned her entire plate in two minutes, except that all of the broccoli is now just crammed into her mouth.

“Sweetie.” Mr. Holtzmann sighs. “You have to chew.”

Reluctantly, she does. Her mother comes home five minutes later, kicking the snow off her boots as she steps through the door. “Jeez, Carol is so annoying,” she says and sits down at the table across from Jillian.“She's such a PTA mom. Wants to know why she hasn't seen me at any events before.” Mrs. Holtzmann wrinkles her nose, annoyed. “Sorry that some of us have full time jobs, lady!”

“What did the teacher say?” Mr. Holtzmann asks.

Mrs. Holtzmann makes a face, but it's gone before Jillian notices. “Oh, you know, the usual,” she says breezily, gazing at her daughter with a mixture of fondness and worry. “That she's very bright, and would do well in some more advanced programs they have at the middle school.”

Jillian chews slowly, hating the way the broccoli feels against the roof of her mouth. “Can I go watch TV?” she asks, voice muffled by the amount of food still stuffed into her cheeks.

Her mom and dad trade a look, then shrug in near-unison. “Sure,” Mr. Holtzmann says. “Since we got you packed up and ready this afternoon.”

Jillian bounds away from the table and into the living room. She pretends to sort through VHS tapes to find something to watch. When the clinking of silverware against plates has resumed and her parents are continuing their conversation in a low murmur, she creeps back towards the dining room and sits against the wall, in front of the heater, and lets warm air blast onto her back while she listens to her parents talk.

“She did say Jilly is very bright,” her mother reports in a low voice, “but she said that her sense of humor alienates the other kids. She's just too sarcastic. They don't get it. She said it's off-putting, and that that's why she has so much trouble making friends.”

Her dad clears her throat. “I mean, we knew she was bright,” he says, and his voice is sure. “We don't need a teacher to tell us that.”

“Don't you think it's worrying, though?” The chairs creak, and Jillian thinks her mother must be rocking back and forth like she always does when she's nervous. “They aren't going to get nicer in middle school.”

“We'll deal with it then,” Mr. Holtzmann says. “She's just too smart for her own good.”

“You say that like it's a solution.” Her mother's voice is almost too loud to count as speaking quietly. Jillian shivers, despite the warm air streaming onto her back. “She can't be alone forever. It's not healthy.”

Ms. Shetland said that about me, Jillian thinks and feels a little sick. She walks back to the TV room and stares at the pile of VHS tapes scattered on the carpet. Home Alone, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles – she doesn't feel like watching anything. So she sits and stares at the black television screen for a while, wishing she could take back the entire day and just start over. I would be nice this time, she thinks.

After a while, her mother comes to check on her. She kneels down and puts a hand on her daughter's shoulder. “Everything okay, Jilly? You having trouble picking what to watch?"

“No,” Jillian says. “I'm fine.”

II.

She's a freshman in high school and no one remembers her name.

She feels like a ghost. The only person who knows who she is is her Physics teacher and that's only because he has to say “we're not covering that right now; it's not part of the curriculum; please sit down and stop drawing on the blackboard” a lot. It's not her fault every single class is so stiflingly boring, until it's not and she has to memorize every country in Europe in a night in order to pass a stupid test. That's not boring because it's easy. It's boring because she doesn't care. The rest, though – Algebra and Physics and English and German – are boring because they're easy. On the first day of school, she looked through the pretest for the year in Algebra and realized that she could learn most of it with her dad in an afternoon (which she did, it just didn't get her put into a higher level, something about credits and favoritism and blah blah blah). The English teacher handed out books that she'd already read but didn't remember. And the only thing she learned in German class was that her name sounded even stupider in German than it did in English – Yillian, who the heck would name a kid that? – so she asked everyone to call her Holtzmann instead, which sounds cool in German, kind of angry. She likes it better than her first name anyway, but they don't call her that because they don't call her anything; they don't even talk to her.

So high school feels like a bit of a failed venture to her, not in the least because she's getting a C in World Geography. But English is a solid B, and her Physics and Algebra and, surprisingly, German grades are all straight A's, so that roughly averages out to a B or something. She doesn't really care.

September rolls around, October. She figures out that, if she gets to German early, she doesn't have to sit alone in the cafeteria at lunch. Instead, she can sit in the German classroom at lunch, which means there are less people and less noise. She's drawing a circuit board on a piece of notebook paper when someone approaches her desk. She doesn't look up. Probably Frau Lutz, the German teacher, finally annoyed with having someone loiter in her classroom outside of class.



“Holtzmann, right?” It's not the German teacher's voice. Her eyes flit upwards. A month into the school year and she thinks this is the first time another student's addressed her, at least the first time one of her classmates has talked to her for any reason other than to tell her to please stop talking/bouncing in your seat/clicking your pen/breaking the curve. “I'm Annabelle?” Now, Holtzmann looks up, really looks up at her, and the speaker is a friendly looking, tall, redheaded girl. Freckles. Pretty nose. She swallows and adjusts her glasses. Her mouth is dry.

She blinks and realizes that she should probably say something. “No, that's Holtzmann.” She points at a poster of Mozart across the room.



“What?” Annabelle doesn't laugh.



Holtzmann blinks again. “Sorry, gotta work on my sarcasm... I'm Holtzmann.” She tries to laugh. “What's up?”

Annabelle seems to take that as invitation to slide into the desk next to her. Normally, Frau Lutz just makes the people sit there who come in late from lunch or talk too much in class. “I need some help,” Annabelle says.

Holtzmann hesitates for a second. “What with?” She tries to make her voice deeper, to sound less like this is the only social interaction she's had in a good four months. A long while, actually. They didn't exactly catch up to her humor in middle school. There were a few incidents. She was still the weird, awkward girl from fourth grade to everyone, but they seem to (sort of) have forgotten about it by now. Drawbacks to living in a small town. She has the trees and the 10 mile speed limit around her house (two-storied, with a porch) but also the same group of 80 kids to make it or break it with her entire school career. She hasn't seen Annabelle before, though. Probably one of three new kids in the entire school.

“You know the project we have due next week?” Annabelle pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “About the, uh, the German states?”

“You mean the Bundesländer?” Holtzmann realizes she sounds arrogant after she says it, which is progress but still about five seconds too late.

Annabelle just nods and doesn't seem to mind. “Yeah. I'm just having a lot of trouble with, um, sentence construction and you seem to be really good at it, so would you mind just reading over my project? I can, like, pay you, don't worry, I just... really can't fail this class.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Holtzmann says. At least her voice sounds normal now. “Just give me a draft and I'll correct it for you.”

A grin spreads across Annabelle's face. “Thank you so much. How much do you want for it? I mean within reason, I'm not gonna, like, buy you a yacht, but..”

“You don't have to pay me,” Holtzmann says quickly. “Actually, scratch that. I want your firstborn and a paper bag with 50,000 dollars in it in quarters.”

Annabelle snorts. “Really?”

“No,” Holtzmann says, pushing her feet against the framework of her desk to tilt her chair.

“If you say so,” Annabelle says and smiles. “Thanks, Holtzmann.”

Holtzmann blushes. Or at least it feels like she does and she hates the feeling. “No problem,” she says again.

So she has a sort-of kind-of maybe friend. They don't spend all of their free time together after that but Annabelle does actually give her a draft of the project to look over. And she sits next to her in German now, and sometimes one of them will turn to the other and make a joke about Frau Lutz's hair or whatever awful vest she's wearing today. It's nice. Holtzmann looks for Annabelle at lunch sometimes but she doesn't eat in the cafeteria or the library or the Physics lab or all the other places Holtzmann tries to find her.

She gives up for a few weeks, then thinks, hey, we're friends, I should just ask. As soon as the thought crosses her mind, the words are already coming out of her mouth. “Hey, Annabelle,” she says, grateful that her voice isn't shaking, “do you mind if I sit with you at lunch sometime? Tomorrow? I mean, it's just – my usual group is, uh, on a field trip, so.” She's always been a bad liar.

“Oh,” Annabelle says. “Sure! We sit on the football field.”

Oh, so that's why I couldn't find you, Holtzmann thinks, but manages not to say it just in time. “Cool. I'll see you there.”

Annabelle nods and slings her bag over her shoulder. “See ya tomorrow, Holtz.”

Jokingly, Holtzmann salutes her with two fingers. “See you."


--



Holtzmann thinks long and hard about what she should eat for lunch the next day in order to seem as normal as possible. She settles for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because there's really no way that can go wrong, then changes her mind because what if Annabelle is deathly allergic to peanut butter? So she just goes for the plain jelly sandwich instead.

“You okay, honey?” Her mother is sitting at the table leafing through an old edition of Time Magazine. A smiling Ellen and the caption Yep, I'm gay grace the cover.

Holtzmann swallows. “Just packing lunch.”

Her mother doesn't look up. “I told you you can buy lunch in the cafeteria,” she says, turning the page. “You're just going to make yourself late.”

It's 7:34. The walk to school is twenty minutes, seventeen if she doesn't mind getting her boots muddy. “I'm not going to be late.” Holtzmann shrugs. “The cafeteria food is gross. I found a live mouse in a taco once. No, I'm kidding.” She screws the jar of jelly shut. “It was dead.”

“Jillian, that's disgusting.” Her mother grimaces. “Did you take your meds?”

“Yes, Mom.” She feels like a child.

“Good.” Her mother gets up and stands by the window, watching the rain hit the glass. “Well, have a good day at school, Jilly. And try to talk to some people, will you?”

“I will,” Holtzmann says quickly. Quickly, she stuffs her sandwich into a plastic bag and into her backpack. “See you later. Bye.” She makes it to school in a record fifteen minutes, splashing through puddles and taking a shortcut through her backyard, which is about as muddy as a mud bath.

She's jittery all day, more than usual. This leaves her tapping her pencils on the desk and chewing all of the erasers off. She really needs to calm down. It's just lunch. Lunch with Annabelle. Lunch with her friend Annabelle. Friend friend friend friend friend friend. Holtzmann repeats the word to herself until she feels comfortable thinking it, until it sounds like the truth. Her classes crawl by, so slowly, so slowly. She draws in her notebook all through English, while Mrs. Miller is discussing The Count of Monte Cristo. They're on chapter four. Holtzmann finished the book a week ago during lunch.

Twenty-three minutes until the bell rings and she can make her way down to the football field. Holtzmann thinks if I knew I were going to die in twenty-three minutes I would be freaking out but that doesn't make the clock tick faster. She looks down at her arm, at the weird freckles she has that seem to be multiplying every year. Her mother says it's because she spends a lot of time in the sun, running around and building dams in the stream that runs behind their house. Her father says it might be cancer and that he wants to take her to see a dermatologist.

Time stretches like gum until Holtzmann is literally counting seconds. Four minutes have gone by, which is almost five minutes, which would be rounded up to ten minutes, which is half of the twenty minutes she still has to suffer through in order to get to this damn lunch. She has visions of her and Annabelle exchanging home phone numbers – no, Annabelle gives her the phone number, so she has an excuse to call later that night. In her head, they talk for hours. They make plans for the weekend and Holtzmann sleeps over at Annabelle's house, which is one of those cramped-but-comfortable type houses that has none of the cream colored walls and hard stone floors that Holtzmann's house has. They watch a movie at night and Annabelle shrieks and grabs her arm at the jump scares. They –

“Jilly?” Mrs. Miller looks at her expectantly. Half the class is hiding their mouths behind sweatshirt sleeves, trying not to snicker.

“Sorry, I didn't hear the question,” Holtzmann says lamely. “Can you – can you repeat it?”

Mrs. Miller shakes her head. “Pay attention, Jilly.” Holtzmann nods, blushing, and looks down. “Anyway.” Mrs. Miller takes a step back and looks at the class. “Sarah?”

Her face must be bright red. She looks back down and keeps tracing circles in her notebook. She doesn't look at the clock. She listens to the monotonous drone of Mrs. Miller's voice, talking about symbolism and color and sentence structure. Two more minutes. She starts putting her stuff in her bag, under her desk so no one can see. Thirty seconds. The second hand of the clock seems to be slowing down every time it moves. Ten. She counts the ticks. It passes the hour mark, but nothing happens. Damn bells ringing late again, she figures, and sighs.

Brrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiing!

She's never bolted from a room so fast before. Gripped with a panic-like determination, she weaves through the crowds of kids clamoring to get to the cafeteria, stomping through the masses and ignoring the occasional shout of annoyance. It's still raining. The dried mud on her boots softens again when the rain hits it; she slugs through the football field to get to the other side where she sees vague figures gathering. The rain on her glasses makes it hard to make out shapes exactly. “Hi!” she says brightly from a few yards away. She takes her glasses off and tries to dry them on her shirt.

“Who's this?” It's a male voice. She puts her glasses back on and sees Josh Kurz. Oh, crap. She knows him from middle school. He tried to run her over with his skateboard once, but she got out of the way and he ended up crashing into a lamppost.

“Your worst nightmare,” Holtzmann says flatly. “I'm looking for Annabelle?”

Josh squints and leans in to look at her. “Shit, it's Silly Jilly.” His face is sunburned where it is not white. He turns to the group standing there, which, Holtzmann realizes with a sinking feeling, is just guys. “Matt! Silly Jilly's looking for your girlfriend.”

Matt emerges from the group, looking slightly confused but not irritated. “Silly Jilly?” he asks, then looks at Holtzmann. “Oh right! Almost didn't recognize her.”

I'm still here, Holtzmann thinks. “Yeah, it's been a long three months,” she says, glaring at him. “Annabelle said I could come sit with you guys.”

“Sorry, dude.” Matt actually looks sort of pained. “She said it was too wet to sit outside. I think she's in the art room.”

“Where's that?” Holtzmann swallows. The crushing sense of disappointment that just enveloped her lifts a little.

Matt runs a hand through his damp hair. “Uh, first floor. By the teacher's lounge?”

“I don't...” Holtzmann looks down. She's never taken an art class.

“Okay, I'll take you,” Matt says. “Josh!” he yells. Josh turns around. “I'm taking Silly Jilly to Annabelle, can you wait until I come back before you start the game?”

Josh nods and waves his hand. Matt starts walking back across the field, somehow avoiding the extremely muddy spots of the field. Holtzmann stumbles behind him, accidentally splashing through a huge puddle and soaking her jeans up to her thigh with dirty rainwater. Her glasses are opaque with water.

“I have a Silly Jilly for you,” Matt says when they reach what must be the art room. Sure enough, Annabelle's there, sitting on a table with a gaggle of girls that Holtzmann vaguely knows from middle school. They all have shoulder bags. Annabelle turns around, confused. Her face lights up when she sees them. Holtzmann smiles cautiously.

“Matt!” Annabelle turns around. “Holtzy! You found us!”

“Holtzy?” Matt wrinkles his nose. “This is Silly Jilly.” He uses his thumb to point in her direction.

“Please just call me Holtzmann,” Holtzmann says quietly. “Please.”

Matt puts his hand on the doorframe. “Well, whatever. She's, uh, here now. So I'll be on the football field if you need me.”

Annabelle waves. “Bye, Matt! See you tonight!”

He waves back and leaves. Holtzmann is left standing awkwardly in front of the girls, swaying a little and fiddling with her backpack straps. Her glasses are still dripping. She takes them off and wipes them on her shirt. “Yeah, I – I looked for you on the football field but you weren't there.”

“Well, come sit down,” Annabelle says. Holtzmann makes her way over to the table and sits down on it, backpack still on her back. “You know Megan, Kira, and Ashley, right?”

They smile grimly. “Hi Jilly,” Ashley says. Megan and Kira just nod in unison.

Holtzmann nods back. “It's, uh, Holtzmann now, actually,” she says. “Easier to pronounce. In German.”

Megan and Kira trade a look. Ashley stifles a grin. Only Annabelle looks neutrally at her, lips slightly parted. “It means, um, wood-man,” Annabelle says to break the silence. “In German.”

“It's a great language,” Holtzmann interjects. “Lot of consonants.”

“Fascinating,” Megan says flatly. “So what are you doing here, wood-man?”

Annabelle steps in before Holtzmann can get her mouth open. “Her usual group is on a field trip so I said she could sit with us today.” She blinks innocently at Megan and Kira and Ashley, who watch the two of them like a panel of judges on a reality TV.

Kira tilts her head. “What field trip?”

“They're at the art museum?” Holtzmann's never heard her voice squeak like that before. She clears her throat. “To look at art. Like one normally does at an art museum.”

Kira nods like she's buying it. “For what class?”

“Art.” Holtzmann smiles without opening her mouth. “Anyway, Annabelle, you're, uh, you're dating Matt?”

“Yeah,” Annabelle admits with a bashful smile. “Sorry, you can't have him.” She's teasing. When she runs her fingers through her hair, a lock falls across her face.

Holtzmann rubs the bridge of her nose. “Oh, I – I wasn't asking because of him,” she says. Megan and Kira trade a dubious look. Ashley coughs into the back of her hand. Annabelle just looks damn confused, but does a good job of smiling just a little.

“Did she just –” Megan whispers, but Kira whacks her on the back of her shoulder.

They're all quiet for a few more seconds. “So how do you guys get to spend lunch in here without a teacher?” Holtzmann asks, because it's too quiet and talking about teachers is still better than just sitting here, so nervous she's on the verge of hysterical laughter.

“Mrs. Harrison really likes me,” Annabelle says. Her smile falters. “Uh, Holtzmann?”

“Yes?” Holtzmann bites her lip.

“Don't you wanna eat lunch?”

“What a novel idea.” She turns around and takes her backpack off. Everything inside has dried from the morning, but her papers are warped and the ink blotched from where the water hit it. She reaches into her backpack, feeling around until she finds the plastic bag with her sandwich in it. “Got it,” she says and pulls it out. It's only slightly squished. It looks okay. She fishes it out and starts eating it; she's so hungry that she doesn't notice that the other girls haven't started talking again. Megan starts eating a carrot. Kira drinks an entire juicebox. Ashley picks at her nails and opens her lunchbox again, turning it upside down to check if there's anything in it she forgot to eat. Annabelle swings her legs back and forth and finishes drinking some soup in a thermos. Weird that they're so quiet, Holtzmann thinks and crams the rest of her sandwich into her mouth. She doesn't want to talk again before someone else does. She talks too much anyway. At least that's what her mother always says, accompanied with kicks under the table at dinner parties Holtzmann is regularly forced to attend.

After what seems like half an eternity, but really must just be the time it takes to eat a sandwich, Annabelle finally starts talking. “So, any weekend plans?”

“I'm gonna make fireworks,” Holtzmann says with her mouth full. “It'll be great.”

Annabelle bites her lip. “That sounds… dangerous.”

“Nah.” She waves her hand. “You just gotta stand, like, away from it. And away from trees or anything flammable. It's really –”

“I'm going shopping,” Ashley interrupts. She turns to the other three, pointedly ignoring Holtzmann's gaze. “Wanna come?”

“I'm grounded,” Kira complains. “I tried to watch an R-rated movie last weekend and my parents found out.”

“What movie?” Megan takes a bite of her carrot.

Kira grimaces. “Titanic? I got it at Blockbuster with my sister's ID.”

Annabelle whistles through her teeth. “Rebel. And they found out?”

“Yeah, my mom got up at like 12 in the morning to drink some tea or whatever.” Kira rolls her eyes. “She's so weird.”

“Your mom is weird,” Ashley says jokingly. Kira rolls her eyes again.

“I'll go with you, Ashley,” Megan says, swallowing. “I need boots.”

Ashley nods. “How about you, Annabelle?”

“Sure!” Annabelle smiles.

“Too bad about you, Kira,” Ashley says, “but I can only fit two other people in my car anyway.” She glances at Holtzmann, who barely notices, but it's enough to make her feel a little sick.

“I think I'm going to go to the bathroom before German,” Holtzmann blurts out, sliding off the table and landing on the ground with a thump. “I'll see you guys later.”

Annabelle looks at the clock hanging above the blackboard. “But we have twenty minutes left.”

“I – I also have to talk to Frau Lutz about some – the reading. The homework, I mean.”

“Okay,” Annabelle says, not looking too perturbed. “See you in class!”

“Bye,” Holtzmann says, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and just about restraining herself from full-on running out of the room. Once she's managed to make her exit in a kind of normal-seeming fashion, she stands outside the door, just breathing, just trying to convince herself that it wasn't too horrifically awkward in there.

“This isn't, like, a permanent arrangement, right?” Megan asks loudly a few seconds later. Her voice wafts out of the room, muffled but clear. “With Silly Jilly, I mean?”

“She just needed someone to sit with today,” Annabelle says defensively. “She'll be back with her normal group tomorrow.”

“Yeah, right,” Kira says. “Mark says she just walks around during lunch all the time, just like, pacing.”

“She's so weird,” Ashley says, and they all giggle a little. Now Holtzmann actually does feel sick. She rushes towards the bathroom and manages not to cry in there, though she feels a little shaky and has to slap herself across the face a few times to calm down.

She makes it to German class her usual ten minutes early with no Frau Lutz in sight. The door to the classroom is unlocked, though, so she just sits down and starts sorting out her stuff. Her homework in the notebook goes at the top right corner of the desk. Her pencil case goes on the top left corner. She sharpens three of her pencils and tests her pens to make sure they have enough ink. She's so engrossed in it that she doesn't even notice Frau Lutz approaching, even though her heels click on the linoleum floor.

“Alles gut, Holtzmann?” Frau Lutz asks, looking very much like she feels sorry for the poor girl who spends her lunch period sorting out all of her school supplies.

“Yeah,” Holtzmann says, sliding her pencil into place. “I'm fine.”

Frau Lutz pins her with a sharp look. “Auf Deutsch, bitte.”

“Ja,” Holtzmann says, looking up at her teacher. She tries to make the tears brimming at the corner of her eyes go away. “Es geht mir gut.”

Annabelle comes in exactly as the bell rings and sits a desk away from Holtzmann. They don't talk all class, save for an exercise, and Annabelle refuses to catch her eye when she leaves the classroom. Holtzmann goes home and tells her parents she made some friends. That weekend, she dyes her hair a platinum blonde, and no one recognizes her quickly enough to call her “Silly Jilly” anymore.

III.

She's graduating from high school in three hours and her gown is wrinkled and creased from living at the bottom of her closet from when she got it a week ago.

“Really, Jillian?” Mrs. Holtzmann stands in her daughter's bedroom with her hands on her hips, watching her daughter try to iron. “You need to learn some household skills.”

“It's fine, Mom,” Holtzmann whines. She thinks that if she were watching herself on a TV show, she would find herself annoying, but she can't bring herself to stop. “I'll just deal with it once I'm in college.”

“MIT won't teach you how to iron a shirt,” her mother points out. “Or to vacuum. Or to clean. Or all those other things you can't seem to get the hang of.”

Holtzmann, frustrated, sets the iron down and turns to her mother. “I'll deal with it later, Mom! Not on the day I'm supposed to be graduating high school!”

“Girls, can you stop yelling?” Mr. Holtzmann calls from downstairs. “It's a good day, okay? Jilly's graduating; the sun is shining; just calm down, both of you.”

“JILLIAN!” Mrs. Holtzmann shrieks, pointing at the now-smoking fabric. “PICK THAT IRON UP!”

There's a scorch mark in the form of an iron at the bottom of Holtzmann's graduation gown. At least it wasn't borrowed. “Fuck,” Holtzmann mutters under her breath, then pulls the gown off the ironing board to inspect the damage. “It's not that bad,” she says, studying it carefully. “It's way at the bottom. Calm down, Mom.”

“You're such a genius, MIT Class of 2006,” her mother spits. “Let's just hope it doesn't ruin the photos.”

“It won't,” Holtzmann snaps. “Not anymore than your face will, anyway,” she mutters.

Mrs. Holtzmann takes a step back and crosses her arms. “If you're going to have a bad attitude I won't help you anymore,” she says. “Be downstairs in twenty minutes or I'm leaving without you.”

“That would sort of defeat the purpose, Mom,” Holtzmann calls after her. She sniffs. It smells like burnt plastic in her room.


--



“Jillian Holtzmann,” the school principal Mr. Dormer says. As always, he pronounces it wrong – Hotzmann, forgetting the “l,” like he doesn't know how to read or maybe just doesn't care. “Cum laude.”

There is mild, tame applause from her classmates. She can hear her father in the audience clapping, loudly and with his hands cupped so that the noise he produces sounds like his hands are hitting his mouth instead of each other. She makes it up onstage without any problems, doesn't even trip over the heels her mother made her wear, and tries not to grip the Mr. Dormer's hand too tight. It's his fault she wasn't allowed to compete in the National Robotics Tournament in D.C., which she would have definitely won. Hands down. She just needed that little freshman who could pilot the robot half-decently and three nerdy looking kids to basically stand there and be props (five people to a team – that was the minimum), but “no, Jillian, you can't just pull people out of class for your little hobby, especially when you've refused to include them in your team all year.” Blah, blah, blah. She still got into MIT, but it was a shame her awesomely powerful grabber-robot wasn't going to kick all the other robots' asses like it deserved to.

She gets her empty diploma cover – they withhold actual diplomas until after the ceremony, so no one acts up – and saunters offstage to the raucous shouting of the next graduate's friends. Her father gives her a thumbs up from the fifth row. Her mother, slightly more relaxed than that afternoon, manages a smile. On her way back to her seat, she passes all of the teachers, some of which stare at her more friendly than others – Frau Lutz waves cheerily – and most of the students, who, as usual, avoiding looking at her.



There is a lot of squealing after the ceremony. Well, squealing and crying, but mostly just squealing. And girls tackling each other and declaring that they'll keep in touch, which, Holtzmann is pretty sure, is a lie 99% of the time.



She passes through the crowd outside the auditorium fairly unscathed. Sure, Will from AP Physics sort of slaps her on the back a little too enthusiastically, but overall, people just smile and wish her good luck. It's the sort of bland goodbye she expected. Frau Lutz shakes her hand and tells her she's “excited to see the great things [she'll] do.” It's okay. She reaches her parents, who pull her in for an uncomfortable hug. It knocks her cap off and sends it sprawling across the concrete.



“Sorry, Jilly."Her dad laughs and runs to get it for her. The cap gets picked up by the wind and tumbles another few yards away.



“You know, I'm really proud of you, Jillian,” her mother says quietly. “You did a good job.”



“Thanks, Mom,” Holtzmann says. Pathetic. She's nearly crying. She's going to be one of those girls crying at her high school graduation. “I think I'm going to be okay.”



Mrs. Holtzmann touches her daughter's shoulder. “You will,” she says, and it's a promise. “I know you will.”


--



They go out to dinner, the three of them, to her father's favorite restaurant. They would have gone to Holtzmann's favorite restaurant, but her favorite restaurant is the food court at IKEA and her mother doesn't like going to IKEA because she always ends up buying household items she doesn't need. So they end up crowded into a booth at Fred's Diner, which still isn't exactly graduation dinner material, but it's a step up from Köttbullar surrounded by pastel furniture and those giant stuffed snakes they have hanging from the ceiling.



“This is so nice,” her mother beams when they sit down. “One of our last family dinners.”



“Don't get ahead of yourself,” Holtzmann says. She stares at her parents across from her. They're like a doctoral committee. “I still have the summer. Unless you're planning on killing me. Then this is our last family dinner.”



Her mother looks annoyed, but less annoyed than usual. “I think you like to shock people, Jillian,” she says. “Don't you agree?” She turns to her husband.



“Our kid's going to MIT,” he says, leafing through the menu. “She can be as shocking as she likes.”



“Thanks, Dad.” Holtzmann grins. It's like the best days of her childhood – parents getting along, no more school to worry about. Nothing but the open summer like an empty road ahead of her, something she can speed down without having to be afraid of whatever's on the other side.



“Hi! I'll be your server tonight!”



Holtzmann looks up. The girl seems ridiculously familiar. She's never had a memory for faces, but she knows the eyes, the hair, the –



“What can I get you to drink?” she asks, smiling pleasantly.

“Holy shit,” Holtzmann says, momentarily forgetting that her mom is right next to her. “Annabelle?”



Annabelle – it is Annabelle, it must be – clicks her pen. “Yes. Gosh, Holtzmann.” She laughs nervously. “I didn't recognize you with the haircut – hi.”



“I haven't seen you in forever,” Holtzmann says, turning towards her in the booth. “Seriously. Like, sophomore year. Where'd you go?”



“I transferred to Trinity.” Annabelle smiles. Trinity. Right. The all-girl's school. “How about you? Where are you – where are you heading for college?”



MIT, BITCH! Holtzmann wants to shout, but restrains herself. “I'm going to MIT,” she says. Annabelle whistles. Holtzmann nods and does her best impression of Megan or Kira or Ashley. “How about you?”



Annabelle shrugs. “I'm going to Notre Dame,” she says. “Fightin' Irish.” Her laughter sounds fake.



“That's a good school,” Mrs. Holtzmann comments. “Congratulations.”



“Thank you.” Annabelle smiles politely. “Anyway. Can I get you anything to drink?”



Holtzmann orders Sprite. Her mother orders water and her father orders beer.

“Coming right up,” Annabelle says, scribbling on her notepad. She disappears into the kitchen.



Mrs. Holtzmann watches her go, then turns back to Holtzmann. “How do you two know each other again?” she asks, brow wrinkled in confusion.



“We had German together freshman year,” Holtzmann says with a slight pang in her chest. They never really spoke after the lunch thing. It wasn't even a complete debacle, just a little awkward. Nothing to write home about. Just a memory that crops up as an intrusive thought more often than not when Holtzmann decides to feel sorry for herself. Still, there was only more or less radio silence on Annabelle's part for the rest of the year, and Holtzmann wasn't about to ask for another invitation.



“That's sweet,” Mrs. Holtzmann says and gets up out of the booth, patting her skirt down as she stands. “I'm going to run to the ladies' room real quick before the drinks come, okay?”



“Go,” Holtzmann says, holding a hand out towards her mother and making her voice sound all choked up. “Leave me. Leave me like –”

Mrs. Holtzmann rolls her eyes. “I'll be going, then.”

Her dad snickers, watching his wife. When she's out of earshot, he leans across the table. “You know, that waitress is pretty cute,” he whispers.

Holtzmann's eyes dart around the room. “I said not to mention it with mom around,” she says. “And “that waitress” could have been right there for all you know.”



“She's not,” her dad says flatly. “I checked.”



“Well, still.” Holtzmann crosses her arms. “I told you not to say anything to Mom.”



“I won't,” her father reassures her, “but I do think you should tell her.”



“How about no,” Holtzmann mutters. “She's not exactly known for having the most consistent opinions.”



Mr. Holtzmann sighs. “I've known your mother for a little while, Jillian.”



“Yeah, obviously,” Holtzmann says, “but that doesn't mean she's going to start waving rainbow flags around the block and pat me on the back just because I was honest –”



“She won't care, Jillian,” her dad says, voice drifting off into a whisper when he sees his wife approaching. “She'll be more hurt you didn't tell her the truth earlier.”


--



She wakes up at 11:45 P.M. that night, throat bone dry. Right. She hasn't had anything to drink since dinner, and the last thing she had to drink before that was.. breakfast? Maybe? She rubs her eyes and throws the covers aside. The floor creaks when she steps on it. She thinks about just hanging her head under the sink faucet, but her pajamas always get soaked when she does that and she really just wants to go back to bed, warm and dry and safe. So she creeps downstairs, quietly so that she doesn't wake her parents.

The light in the kitchen is on, still, but it's quiet, no murmur of conversation or buzz of voices from the television. She can hear the refrigerator humming softly. It's a pleasant sound. She leans on the kitchen counter and reaches for a cup.



“I thought you said you were going to bed two hours ago,” someone says from behind her. Holtzmann starts and turns around, thankful that the cup is plastic and not too heavy or else she would've dropped it and earned another lecture. Her mother sits at the dining room table, flipping through a Reader's Digest. “Want some tea?”

Holtzmann shakes her head no. “I did go to bed,” she says. “I just woke up.” She fills her cup with tap water and watches her mom get up and walk towards the kitchen. Holtzmann steps aside so she can reach the kettle.



“Can you get me a mug?” Mrs. Holtzmann asks, filling the kettle up with water. Holtzmann nods and pulls one out of the cabinet, handing it to her mother wordlessly. “Thanks, dear. Peppermint or chamomile?”



“I don't want any,” Holtzmann says and takes a gulp of water.



“I meant for myself,” her mother says nonchalantly. “I'm having trouble deciding.”



Holtzmann shrugs. “Peppermint.”



Her mother pulls out a tea bag and drops it into the mug. “Good choice.”



“Thanks.” They stand in uncomfortable silence. Holtzmann holds her cup with both hands, staring at her reflection in the window. She thought she'd be taller by now. She thought she'd look like an adult when she graduated from high school, but she really just looks like a blonde version of her eight-year old self. Her mother shifts next to her.



She remembers what her father said – she won't care, Jillian. She'll be more hurt you didn't tell her the truth earlier. The words are in her mouth. She doesn't want to say it but she has the urge to, the same way she has the urge to step off tall buildings or press the gas pedal to the floor of the car when she's driving.



The kettle pings.

Now or never,she tells herself. Just do it, Holtzmann. Like ripping a bandaid off.

“I'm gay, Mom.”

No reaction. At least the entire house hasn't been enveloped in the flames of her mother's eternal wrath and rage.

After a minute, Mrs. Holtzmann sighs. “What I will never understand,” she says, pouring boiling water over her tea bag, “is why you are intent on making your life as hard as possible.”

Holtzmann's shaking. “What – what do you mean?”

“Do you think people will like you more if you're a – a lesbian, Jillian?” The word sounds like a disease when she says it like that. Holtzmann swallows. “Because I'm going to tell you right now that they won't.”

“Can you stop being like this?” Holtzmann grits her teeth. “For one second, can you just not act like you still have to tell me what to do every single day of my life?”

“What is wrong with that?” Her mother fires back, close to tears. Holtzmann sways, bracing herself against the kitchen counter. “What is wrong with wanting you to be happy?”

“You just...” She sighs and finishes her water. “You always try to protect me from stuff and tell me what to do and you don't need to.”

“You were such a sensitive child,” her mother says, staring at her daughter and absentmindedly lifting her tea bag in and out of the water. “You were so upset when the neighbor's boy wouldn't play with you. Timothy? Was that his name? You cried into your father's chest for hours.” She sounds almost wistful. “You get upset so easily, Jillian. Why do you want people to be able to hurt you more?”

“I don't,” Holtzmann says. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth. “You don't have to worry about me anymore, Mom. I'll be fine; I'm fine.”

No response. Her mother sips her peppermint tea.

IV.

She's not actually in MIT's class of 2006, contrary to what her mother yells at her every time she fails to sort out laundry or make french toast (“Seriously, MIT Class of 2006? You can't even fry an egg?”). At least she doesn't think she'll be, because it's September of 2004 and she has exactly two courses left to take: her thesis course and the course she's sitting in right now, a capstone seminar with four other people in it.

“Okay, so everyone say their name, three things they like, and their best friend's name,” the TA says. He seems really proud of himself. Holtzmann grimaces. She thought she'd be done with icebreakers by her last year of college, but apparently not. She glances around at the other people in her seminar. They're all sitting in a circle, trying to avoid seeming too curious or too apathetic.



The first student to the left of the TA clears his throat. “Are you going to be teaching this class?”



“No,” the TA says, annoyed. “Dr. Gorin's sick today. Are you going to do the exercise?”



The student rolls his eyes. “I'm Alex,” he says. He looks washed out in the lab's lighting, more pale yellow than white. “I like nuclear physics, which is why I'm here, intramural sports, and watching women's beach volleyball.”



“And your best friend's name...?” The TA prompts.



Alex sighs. “My best friend's name is Jeremy.”



The TA points at the next person in the circle – another young man who looks astonishingly similar to Alex, with the same brown hair and blue eyes. “Your turn,” the TA says.



With a jolt, Holtzmann realizes she's the only girl in the class.



“I'm Eli,” the guy says. “I like, uh, soccer, pancakes, and beer.”



Charming.



“My best friend's name is Jack,” he continues. “That was it, right?”



The TA nods. Holtzmann looks around, then realizes it's her turn. She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Yeah, hi, Jillian Holtzmann. People call me Holtzmann.” She bites her lip, trying to think of what to say. “I like girls, cats, and, uh, long walks on the beach.”



“And your best friend's name....?”



Shit. She almost says 'Buffy' but that might be a little too obvious. “Dana,” she says carefully and flashes them a quick smile.



“Okay, thank you, Holtzmann,” the TA says. “Next?”


--



The icebreaker obviously didn't help, because the next class rolls around and no one is talking to each other.



At least, no one is talking to Holtzmann. Dr. Gorin finally shows up, and this is shallow, but Holtzmann's just really glad there's another woman in the room. And it means that they'll have actual instructional time, which Holtzmann is good at. At least there's nothing she can mess up with nuclear physics. It just makes sense.



The boys sit in a gaggle towards the back of the room, taking diligent notes but occasionally breaking out in giggles. Holtzmann's pretty sure they'd describe it as manly laughter. She doesn't dwell on that too long, though: Dr. Gorin talks fast, and she writes even faster. The back of Holtzmann's hand is covered in ink at the end of the hour and a half lecture. She has over four notebook pages of densely written notes, handwriting progressively worsening over the pages. It's her favorite feeling – wrist aching, ears aching because of her glasses, buzzing with new knowledge and understanding of something that actually makes sense, of something that, if she accounts for all the variables and does the calculations right, will work out for her regardless of what she says or how she acts.

She sits in silent awe for a few seconds after Dr. Gorin is done. This woman really, really knows what she's talking about, and she really doesn't believe in simplifying terms or speaking slowly.



It's overwhelming, but Holtzmann loves it. She's about to go up to her and introduce herself and awkwardly beg for a research position when someone raps their knuckles on her lab table. She starts, then looks up. It's Alex.



“Hiya, Holtzmann,” Alex says.



“Hi,” Holtzmann replies uneasily. Dr. Gorin is still at her desk, looking through some papers. She's going to be gone in a few minutes if Holtzmann doesn't make her move. They won't see each other again until next Tuesday, which seems like an age. Too long to wait.



“You wanna go to a party with me sometime?” Alex smiles like he's cute.

Holtzmann looks at him for a second, dubious, then decides he's not actually joking. “What part of “I like girls” was lost on you?” she asks.



Alex looks offended. “I just –”



“Jillian,” Dr. Gorin calls, not looking up from whatever she's doing at her desk. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”



Holtzmann glares at Alex and picks up her bag, walking over to Dr. Gorin's desk as quickly as possible without tripping.



“Yes, Dr. Gorin.” Holtzmann pushes her glasses up.



Dr. Gorin shuffles her papers. “Is he bothering you?” she asks, voice low. Holtzmann glances at Alex, who's still loitering by the door in the hopes of catching Holtzmann when she leaves.



Holtzmann sighs. “It's okay.”



Dr. Gorin raises an eyebrow. “Could you give us a moment?” She raises her voice and looks pointedly at Alex, who takes the hint and leaves the room.

Now Dr. Gorin looks at her, really looks at her. Holtzmann tries to return the severity of her gaze, but falters slightly and looks off to the side. She wonders what she did.



“You have...” Dr. Gorin starts, then pauses.



“Potential?” Holtzmann's heard it a million times. She has potential and she's throwing it away, blah, blah, if only she would work on networking, blah.



“No, Jillian,” Dr. Gorin says firmly. “You don't have potential, you're one of the most talented students I've ever seen.”



Okay, now she's a little bit confused. “I just started your class –”



“I read your paper,” Dr. Gorin interrupts. “The paper you wrote for Dr. Brown.”



Holtzmann's stomach drops. “Oh, that.” She chuckles weakly. “It was just –”



“It was fascinating,” Dr. Gorin says. “Absolutely fascinating. Work I would expect from an advanced graduate student, if I'm honest.”



“Really?” Holtzmann tries not to smart smiling too big or too toothily. “I – thank you.”



“I checked multiple publications to see if you'd plagiarized,” Dr. Gorin says. “Nothing.”



Holtzmann's smile drips from her face. “What?”



Dr. Gorin cracks a smile. “Don't worry, I didn't think you did. I just had to make sure.”



“Oh.” Holtzmann blinks.



“Do you have an advisor for your senior thesis?” Dr. Gorin asks, standing up and stowing her papers away in her bag. “I'm right in assuming you plan to graduate this year, correct?”



“Yes,” Holtzmann says, suddenly vibrating with energy. “And Dr. Mitchell was –”



“Oh, Dr. Mitchell.” Dr. Gorin grimaces. “He's... traditional. Old school.”



Holtzmann waits. Normally, talking in these sorts of situations gets her in trouble, so she's learned to keep her mouth shut when people offer to help her.



“I run the Experimental Nuclear lab,” Dr. Gorin says. “I'd be willing to contact Dr. Mitchell and see if he'll let you go. If you're interested in switching advisors, of course.”



“Absolutely,” Holtzmann says. “I would – thank you, Dr. Gorin. I can't –”



Dr. Gorin looks at her, amused. “I'll swing by his office later today. Check your email.”



Holtzmann nods. “Yes. Yes. Always,” she says.



“And I'll walk you out.” Dr. Gorin picks up her bag and starts walking toward the door. “In case that boy decided to linger.”

--



It's easy for Holtzmann to lose herself in her work.



It's the only thing she's good at. It's the only thing she likes. She spends every free minute at the lab with Dr. Gorin, keeping meticulous records of everything they do. She's going to write the best damn undergraduate thesis the Massachusetts Institute of Technology has ever seen, because if she's not the best at this, what is she going to be the best at?



Alex doesn't bother her anymore. Holtzmann commutes between the lab, Dr. Gorin's class, and her apartment (dorm life – not for her). She works and she works and she works, fingers permanently stained with ink, eyesight getting worse by the month.

And then she's almost done. And she's gripped with a panic she's never known before, a panic that says she messed up fundamentally at some point earlier, or that Dr. Gorin was kidding all along and has just been fucking with her to get a free research assistant out of it.



March. It's 3 in the morning. Holtzmann has been working for 8 hours straight. She just wants to graduate and move on to the next place where she can have no friends and no life, and she really needs to re-dye her hair.



“Are you sure you don't want to get some sleep?” Dr. Gorin asks, looking up from the microscope.

She will finish her thesis in the month and graduate in the spring with a Bachelor's degree in Physics and an acceptance letter to Oxford's Master of Science in Engineering program.

“Don't worry, Dr. Gorin,” Holtzmann says. She is tired and anxious and nervous and she thinks that if she has to squint into a microscope one more time she might lose consciousness. “I'm fine.”


V.

Holtzmann hates drinking too much because it always leads to stupid shit.

For example, today she has had a lot to drink with her coworkers/friends/partners in the prevention of the apocalypse, in celebration of the six-month anniversary of the founding of the Ghostbusters. And that's great. It's wonderful that they all still like each other enough to party. But it also doesn't change the fact that Erin is totally really close to her face, like crazy close, like this is kinda gay and I don't want it to stop close.

You know. Stupid shit.



She thinks that if she didn't like Erin as much as she did it would be a lot easier to laugh at her. Or to kiss her. Or to lean away and tell her lil' much there, kid. Go sober up in a corner. But Erin is drunk and laughing and telling Holtzmann to lighten up and drink some tequila, and then Holtzmann is drunk – well, maybe not drunk, but tipsy – and laughing and holding onto Erin's hand that's still resting on her ribcage.



“You really cannot hold your liquor,” Patty says flatly after Erin tells the same lame science joke for the fourth time. “I've heard about the protons, Erin! I heard the first three times!”



“I guess she's just...” Holtzmann pauses. The other three wait expectantly.



“Please let this one be good,” Abby mutters.



“Nah, sorry.” Holtzmann throws her hands up. “I got nothing.”



Patty rolls her eyes. Abby shakes her head. Erin giggles and finishes her drink. “I thought it was funny,” she says.



“Erin thinks I'm funny, guys,” Holtzmann says smugly.



“I'm pretty sure Erin would think an apocalypse is funny right now,” Abby says. “Erin, sweetie, don't you think you've had enough to drink?”



Erin shakes her head no. “Trust me,” she says. “I can hold my liquor.”



“She's going to be useless tomorrow,” Patty says, exasperated. “Kevin will probably mistake her for a ghost and shoot her with the dang proton blaster.”



Erin shakes her head. “I don't get hangovers,” she explains proudly and leans her head on Holtzmann's shoulder. “I drink a lot of water and then it's okay.”



“Hidden depths,” Holtzmann remarks. “Wanna prove it?”



“Yeah, I'm having a little trouble believing that too, actually,” Patty says.



“Stop encouraging her,” Abby complains. “Trust me. She doesn't need it.”



“Hey Abs," Holtzmann says, "we're scientists. We like this kinda stuff. Which reminds me.” She leans back, draping her arm across the back of Erin's chair. “I had an idea for the ghost at the theme park. It involves a proton blaster, a roller coaster, and a couple of brave volunteers who are good at balancing. I'm thinking of a team that starts with “G” and ends with “Hostbusters."”



“How have you not killed us all?” Patty asks pointedly. Holtzmann shrugs.



Abby wrinkles her nose. “I vote no, too,” she says. “Erin?”



No response. Erin's balanced precariously on Holtzmann's shoulder, eyes closed and drooling a little. “Oh, come on,” Abby says. “Is she asleep?”



“Little Miss 'I Can Hold My Liquor,'” Patty scoffs. “Passed out by nine o'clock. We're lucky she's not under the table.”



Holtzmann shakes her shoulder a little. “Erin, honey, I love my new job as a pillow, but we're gonna have to get you home.”



“Nooooo,” Erin whines, burying her face into Holtzmann's shoulder. She snakes her arm around Holtzmann's waist.



“She's like a little boa,” Abby comments. “And not the feathery kind.”



“Alright, Erin.” Holtzmann uses one hand to push herself up against the table and the other to take Erin with her. “Let's get you home.”



“You need some help, Holtzy?” Patty asks.



Holtzmann sighs. “Where's her purse?” 



“Got it,” Patty announces and hands it to Holtzman.



“Erin, I love you, but ya gotta walk on your own a little bit.” Holtzmann jabs an elbow into Erin's side, which makes her squeak. “Help me out, okay? That's a good girl.” She wraps an arm across Erin's waist and leads her out of the bar.



“Good night,” Abby calls after them. “Be safe.” Patty just shakes her head.


--



Erin really, really doesn't want to let go. “Is she getting out?” the cabbie asks once they've been outside Erin's building for a good three minutes, Holtzmann trying to get Erin to loosen the vice grip she has around her waist. She's not sure if Erin is actually asleep or just pretending to be asleep. Finally, she sighs.



“Okay, looks like we're having a sleepover,” she says. “Keep driving, bud. I'm sorry.”



“Yeah, whatever,” the cabbie says. “Long as you're payin' me.”



They pull up in front of Holtz's apartment building after a few minutes. “But you are getting out here, right?” the cabbie asks. Holtzmann slides him a fifty.



“Keep the change.” She winks. “Mayor Bradley's treat.”



“You tipped me twenty cents,” the cabbie says.



“Sorry, bro. Give us a call if you gotta ghost, though. I'll give you a discount.” Holtzmann turns to Erin. “Erin, darling, we gotta go up to my apartment now, okay?”



“No,” Erin murmurs. “Don't wanna be alone.”



“Gonna do this the hard way,” Holtzmann mutters and opens the door. She loops Erin's purse around her arm and drags Erin out of the cab, careful not to let her hit the curb. “Okay, Erin. Here we go.” She slams the door shut. The cabbie speeds off. “Wake up, okay?”



“Yeah,” Erin says, surprisingly coherent. She straightens up. “Sorry. Something about taxis...”



Holtzmann raises an eyebrow. “You seemed pretty knocked out,” she comments. “Didn't even want to go to your apartment.”



“I have nightmares,” Erin says, “after drinking.” They stand, illuminated by the light flooding out of Holtzmann's apartment building. “Sorry. I'll go home if you want me to, I just...”



“You could've asked.” Holtzmann digs her hands into her coat pocket. “But it's okay.”



Erin winces. “Are you sure?”



“Yeah.” Holtzmann nods. She walks towards the building before she notices Erin isn't following. “Hey,” she says, turning around. “You coming?”



Erin hesitates. “I –”



“It's okay,” Holtzmann says. She unlocks the door and holds it open. “Dorks first.”



“You handpainted us ghost targets,” Erin says, stepping into the building.



“Yeah,” Holtzmann says, following her in, “but I looked damn cool doing it.”



Erin rolls her eyes. They step into the elevator. Holtzmann presses the button for the fourth floor. The elevator lurches.



“I feel like I'm going to die,” Erin says. “Is this legal?”



Holtzmann points at the permit on the wall. “City of New York says so.”



The elevator rattles a little bit, then stops. “Oh my god.” Erin grips Holtzmann's arm. “Are we stuck?”



“Um, no,” Holtzmann says and presses the 'open door' button. “The door's just slow.”



Erin lets go. “Oh,” she says, embarrassed. They step out of the elevator and into the hall. It smells like cigarette smoke and cat pee.



“Anyway,” Holtzmann says, unlocking the door to her apartment, “here's my house. That is an apartment.”



“It's... nice.” Erin blinks. It's not as messy as she would have expected, but there's stuff everywhere. There are more bras strewn on the floor than Erin thinks she even owns. And books – opened, opened and turned upside down, sideways and backwards and stacked. She's pretty sure that's an empty fish tank in the corner. It's pretty clean, though. And it smells nice. Like Holtzmann. She blushes at the thought.



“Make yourself comfortable,” Holtzmann said. “Just, uh, don't eat anything in the fridge.”



Erin gives her a look and puts her purse down.



“It won't kill you if you don't ingest it,” Holtzmann says. “Promise.” She takes her coat off and hangs it by the door, then bends down to pull off her boots. She's wearing one pink sock and one green sock. “You want anything to drink?” Erin opens her mouth. “Not alcohol,” Holtzmann adds quickly. “Sorry. Won't pick you up off the floor.”



“I'm not that drunk,” Erin mutters. She looks down.



Holtzmann raises an eyebrow. “You told the same chemistry joke four times.”



“You couldn't think of a pun,” Erin replies.



They lapse into an awkward silence. “Sit down,” Holtzmann says, pointing at the couch. Erin does. Holtzmann hovers for a little bit, hesitating, then sits next to her, awkwardly perched on the edge of the cushion. “I don't spend a lot of time here,” she says, studying her fingernails, “but even if I did it wouldn't be neater.” She laughs, then looks up. “It'd probably be worse, actually.”



“It's not bad,” Erin says politely.



“You haven't seen my bedroom yet,” Holtzmann says.



Erin snorts.



“I'm going to change into something that doesn't make me feel like I'm wearing pants,” Holtzmann announces. “You want something to wear or do you sleep in skinny jeans?”



“I don't sleep in skinny jeans,” Erin says. “Well, it happened a few times. In college.”



“Were skinny jeans even in when you were in college?” Holtzmann asks, getting up. She braces herself against the back of the couch. “I thought that was, like, the bell bottom jeans era.”



“Ha, ha,” Erin says dryly. “I did not go to college in the seventies. That was slightly before my time, thank you very much.”



“Could've fooled me,” Holtzmann says. Erin looks up, offended. Holtzmann winks.



“Okay, regular jeans,” Erin corrects herself, shaking her head a little too enthusiastically. “They weren't more comfortable.”



“I believe you,” Holtzmann says and disappears into her bedroom. She throws a t-shirt at Erin through the doorframe. It hits the back of the couch and falls onto the floor. “Do you think that'll fit?”



Erin gets up to retrieve the shirt. “Still working on it, Holtz.”



“I have different colors, too.” Holtzmann emerges from her room, in a t-shirt and a pair of loosely fitting boxers. Erin gapes at her, squatting on the floor, t-shirt in hand. “What?” Holtzmann asks.



“Your – your hair,” Erin says intelligently, pointing at it.



“Yes,” Holtzmann says and runs a hand through it. “I have hair.”



“Not that.” Erin shakes her head. “I've never seen it down before.”



Holtzmann shrugs. “Happens. Does the shirt fit?”



“Oh,” Erin says, still distracted. She looks down. “I think so.” She gets up, wobbling a little. Holtzmann takes a step forward, ready to catch her if she needs to. Erin does a good job of pretending she's sober, but there's a telltale lurch when she tries to stand upright. “Okay, there we go. I'm up.”



“You okay, Gilbert?” Holtzmann doesn't want to be amused, but it's funny. Erin is normally so put-together, and she's not exactly falling apart now, but it's entertaining to see her relax, to abandon her perfect posture in favor of sprawling back across Holtzmann's couch.



Erin gives her a thumbs-up. “Super great,” she says.



“I'm going to get you some water,” Holtzmann says. “You can change while I'm, um, while I'm out of the room.”



It takes Erin a moment, but then she realizes. “Oh no, I don't care,” she says. “Really, I don't.” As if to prove it, she pulls off her shirt. “See, totally normal.”



“I see,” Holtzmann says, looking down. She swallows. She's used to not-looking at girls from years of roommates and locker rooms, but it doesn't stop the color from rising to her cheeks. “I'm gonna get you that glass of water.”



When she comes back, Erin is clothed, or as clothed as she can be in a shirt that only goes down to her mid-thigh. She accepts the glass of water wordlessly and drinks it in a single gulp.



“I'm going to read something before bed,” Holtzmann says. She picks a book up from the floor. “Do you.. do you want something to read?”



“It's fine,” Erin says. “I think I just... need to sit a little, you know?”



“I got you,” Holtzmann says. She sits down next to Erin, close enough that their shoulders are barely touching.


--



After a few minutes, Holtzmann puts the book down. “Are you sure you don't want something to read? I have a few trashy romance novels somewhere. They're all gay, but...”



Erin shakes her head. “I like watching you read,” she says.



“That's boring,” Holtzmann says flatly. “You can turn on the TV if you want.”



Erin shakes her head again. “I'm just... I'm just really glad I'm not alone.” There are tears in her eyes. Holtzmann's heart squeezes into itself, then releases.



“Yeah,” Holtzmann whispers, wishing she could think of something better to say. Erin is actually sort of crying now, not really, just a few tears dripping down her cheek. “Hey, it's okay, Erin. It's okay.” She reaches for her. Erin's arms wrap around her waist. Her head fits perfectly into the crook of Holtzmann's neck, like they've done this a million times.



The world used to speed up when she saw Erin. It seemed like there was never enough time. A minute ahead, the minute gone. Now it feels like time stops. The moment suspends itself indefinitely. Holtzmann thinks she prefers this infinitely, time that stretches like an accordion being pulled apart. Erin is warm and soft, and she thinks they are breathing in unison.



“I'm really glad I know you,” Erin murmurs into her shoulder.



Holtzmann laughs, grips her tighter. “I'm glad I know you, too.”



Erin gives her a watery smile. “You can go back to reading now, if you want.”



“Okay.” They move apart. Holtzmann swings her legs up and sits pretzel-style on the couch, facing Erin. She can't really read the words, they blur and slide together like watercolors. She shakes her head a little, tries to get her concentration back. She fiddles with the edge of the page she's on.



Then Erin kisses her on the cheek.



Holtzmann's heart goes into overdrive. Slowly, trying not to panic or bolt, she puts the book down on her lap and turns to face Erin, barely managing to breathe. “Erin?” she asks. Her voice is deeper than usual, like gravel.



“Hi,” Erin whispers. She reaches up to touch Holtzmann's face. Holtzmann swallows. She wants to close her eyes, but she thinks that if she opens them Erin will be gone and she will be alone. So she keeps her eyes trained open, trembling, not daring to move as Erin leans in.



It's like her first kiss all over again. She thinks I thought this would feel different and then her thoughts drift into incoherence. Erin kisses her softly, with an open mouth. Holtzmann reaches for the back of Erin's head, pulls her closer, lets the book fall on the floor when Erin nearly collapses on top of her. Erin reaches towards Holtzmann's stomach where her shirt rides up, fingers flitting up Holtzmann's ribs. “You're drunk,” Holtzmann says when they break apart to breathe, “we should –”



“You're drunk, too,” Erin points out. She sits up.



“You're way more drunk than I am,” Holtzmann replies. Erin kisses her again, yanking Holtzmann upright so they're both sitting. Erin's leg presses against her hip. “Wait,” Holtzmann says between kisses, “Erin –”



“I think it's drunker,” Erin says, pulling away. “Do you – do you want to stop?”



“No.” Holtzmann swallows. “I just don't want you to regret –”



“Holtzmann.” Erin looks at her sternly.



“Gilbert,” Holtzmann echoes, in the same tone.



“I know what I want,” Erin says after a moment.



Holtzmann hesitates, then nods. “Okay.” She kisses the tip of Erin's nose, the corner of her mouth. “Okay.”



They fold into each other, only stopping to laugh or speak or breathe.


--



“We should go to bed,” Holtzmann says. Her head is propped up on the armrest of the couch. Erin's mouth moves against her jaw, then stops. “And you need to drink more water.”



“It's not that late,” Erin protests. “I'm not tired.”



“You fell asleep in the taxi,” Holtzmann says. Her thumb absentmindedly rubs the small of Erin's back. “And at the bar.”



Erin opens her mouth to argue, but yawns instead.



Holtzmann looks at her. “You were saying?”



“Fine.” Erin doesn't move.



“You can have the bed,” Holtzmann says. “The couch is a little short for you, I'm afraid. We'd have to perform some impromptu amputation.”



Erin looks up at her. “Holtzmann, I hate to say it like this, but we just spent about forty-five minutes making out. I think we can share a bed.”



“Alriiiiiiiiight,” Holtzmann says, the “i” sound so nasal it sounds like she's holding her nose closed. “I hope you won't steal my blanket.”



“No promises,” Erin replies.



Wordlessly, they move apart. Holtzmann finds Erin a toothbrush. They brush their teeth together, Holtzmann leaning against the bathroom windowsill, Erin staring at her own face in the mirror. Holtzmann doesn't believe it. She watches Erin scrunch her face up and release it, then scrunch it up again, and, inadvertently, she laughs.



They settle into bed together like they've practiced, like this is a carefully choreographed routine and they are ballet dancers. Holtzmann on the left, by the window, Erin on the right. She nestles herself into Holtzmann's side so that her nose rubs against Holtzmann's shoulder. “Your nose is cold,” Holtzmann complains, but doesn't move away. “If you were a dog it would mean you're healthy.”



“I can't believe you're here,” Erin says.



Holtzmann laughs. “This is my apartment.”



“Still,” Erin says. “I feel like you're going to disappear –”



“I won't,” Holtzmann whispers into Erin's hair. “It's okay, Erin. Sleep.” She kisses the side of her head. “We have time.”


--



Holtzmann wakes up because of the rain. It's 3 A.M. Erin is sleeping soundly next to her, curled up in fetal position, hand reaching towards Holtzmann's side of the bed. Holtzmann turns to her side and watches her, not daring to touch her, to cross the line between wanting and having.



She must fall back asleep eventually, because sometime later her hands reach towards Erin and only feel the mattress. Her eyes snap open. The first thought she has is that Erin must have somehow fallen out of bed; she throws the blanket off of her body, clambers over to other side of the bed, looks down, and sees nothing but carpet.



Rubbing her eyes, Holtzmann gets up and stumbles out of her bedroom. The clock on the bedside table says she's overslept.



“Erin? You accidentally eat the nutella in my pantry? I'm pretty sure that's been expired since Christmas.”



But the kitchen light is off. She hates going in there so she doesn't. She always feels guilty looking at the pots and pans and plates she should be using but doesn't have the time for. “Erin,” Holtzmann calls again for good measure, but there's no response.



She swings the bathroom door open. “Erin?” Nothing. Robotically, she walks back towards her bedroom through the living room. Erin's purse is gone. She picks the book up from where she dropped it yesterday. She tries to throw it on the beside table but only succeeds in knocking her alarm clock off onto the carpet. She sinks onto the bed.



Her stomach is hollow. She knows she will get over it because she has Patty and Abby, and Kevin to laugh at, and she's always been okay with girls leaving and girls making excuses and girls disappearing on her, but she just thought Erin would leave a note, or maybe even stay. She thinks the pain is temporary and maybe you'll laugh about it in six months, or at least it'll be a memory but that doesn't make it better in the moment. It doesn't make her feel less like she'll cry, like this fever dream of the past few months where she has friends – a family – and a job that makes her want to get up in the morning will be over because Erin is gone and she doesn't know what that means.



She assesses. Hypothesis one: if Erin left because she regrets it and never wants to see Holtzmann again, then the Ghostbusters will never be the same. Hypothesis two: if Erin left because she thought it was a one-time thing, or because she thinks of Holtzmann as nothing more than a slightly attractive very good friend that she can experiment with, then they will never talk about it again, Holtzmann is back at square one, and she will never, ever mention it to anyone.

She prefers hypothesis two. Hypothesis two cannot lead to her losing Patty and Abby, and Kevin to laugh at. Hypothesis two cannot lead to a theoretical outcome in which there's a stern lecture from Abby about misleading poor Erin and freaking the straight girl out while Patty shakes her head and says I thought you were more responsible, Holtzmann.



Losing Erin as a love interest is better than losing all of them as friends.



She still feels like shit. There's a deep well of guilt in the pit of her stomach.



“I'm fine,” she says, glaring at the pillow like Erin's head is still there. “I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.”



She's not sure she believes it.

I.

She sits on the edge of her bed for a few minutes, wondering if she should call in sick (not that that sort of official protocol even exists for them, mind you). But she's already two hours late. And not seeing Erin for as long as humanely possible isn't going to change the past or ease the sting that only comes from reaching out to an empty space on the mattress. So she puts her hair up and takes her time with her eyeliner. It's pouring. She dashes into the building from the taxi at exactly ten past ten, shielding her face from the rain.

“Holtzy!” Patty smiles when Holtzmann reaches her desk. “Gotta get you a new alarm clock, girl.” She pauses. “You look tired.”

“I was a little busy,” Holtzmann mutters. Patty cackles and starts typing, fingers clacking on keys like she's trying to win a touch-typing competition. “Where are Abby and Erin?”

“They're busting,” Patty replies, sliding her reading glasses down her nose. “Said they didn't need us. A Class II has been lifting books off the library's bookshelves.” She winces. “It puts them back in the wrong order.”

Holtzmann nods, glancing around the firehouse. Downstairs, Kevin is yelling enthusiastically to someone on the phone. Hopefully not a customer. “You need me for anything, Patty?”

“I'm good,” Patty says. “Just gonna finish typing up this report. You doing anything fun?”



Despite everything, her work still makes Holtzmann crack a smile. “I'm gonna work on my proton shotgun,” she announces. “And then I'm gonna try to fix the proton packs.”



“Why exactly?” Patty asks. “They work fine.”



“They've got some, uh, tiny radiation problems,” Holtzmann says casually. “I'm thinking, like, cancer and suffering and death. Maybe not in that order.” She winks.



Patty stops typing. “Please get on that,” she says. “Seriously.”



“Hey, I do my best.” Holtzmann grins. “Give me a shout if you need me.”



Patty shakes her head, then laughs. “You got it, girl.”

--



She's sort of giving up on her proton shotgun. Whacking her PVC pipe around makes her feel better, anyway. She hits the floor for a little bit, then she uses it as a pole to propel her rolling chair around the room. She's almost figured out how to go in circles when there's a knock on the lab's door.



“It's open,” Holtzmann calls, trying to use the pipe to turn around. “Just –” She stops. “Oh. Hi, Erin.”



Erin steps into the lab, holding a Dunkin' Donuts bag by her side. “Hi,” she says and holds it out to Holtzmann. “I brought you food.”



“Ah, an offering,” Holtzmann says. She considers sliding over in her rolling chair, but she really doesn't want to crash into Erin and accidentally send her flying down the stairs. She walks over. Erin takes a few steps forward. They meet in the middle of the room. Holtzmann takes the bag and opens it. “Doughnut holes. Thanks.”



“You're welcome,” Erin says. “I just –”

“Erin,” Holtzmann says, chewing on a doughnut hole, “I appreciate the snacky snack, but it's really fine. I mean look, I'm a big kid, okay? You don't have to –”



“What?” Erin looks confused.



“I know I'm a little absentminded sometimes, but I did notice you were gone,” Holtzmann says, swallowing. “This morning. Out of my bed.”



Erin bites her lip. “I didn't –”



“You don't have to lie to me, Erin.” Holtzmann swallows. “Because that would be stupid.”



“I'm not lying,” Erin says. “Abby called me at 6. She needed help with the bust. Patty had to finish up the report for the mayor's office.”



“Oh.” Holtzmann looks down. “You could've woken me up.”



“I left a note on your refrigerator.” Erin wrinkles her nose. “You didn't see it?”



Holtzmann tilts her head. “You think I willingly go into my kitchen?”



Erin sucks in a breath. “Okay, fair enough,” she says. They laugh a little bit. Erin looks down, then directly at Holtzmann, who is struck by the intensity of her gaze. “I never said thank you,” Erin says.



“For what?” Holtzmann tries to stay focused, to ignore her heart.



“You know.” Erin motions awkwardly. “For taking me home.”



Holtzmann scoffs softly. “Yeah. To my apartment.”



Erin looks at her. “Still.”



Holtzmann blushes, looks down. “Yeah, no problem.”



“I'm glad we didn't..” Erin swallows. “You know.”



Holtzmann raises an eyebrow. She's nervous again, the morning's hypotheses gnawing at the lining of her stomach. “Because you don't want to?”



“No,” Erin says quickly, “I just... not like that, you know? I'd... I'd like to see you again.”



“We work together,” Holtzmann points out.



“You know what I mean.” Erin bites her lip. Holtzmann thinks this must be a joke, but Erin seems serious, and there's no reason why it would be a joke, not when she could've just pretended like it never happened. It would have been easier. But here they are, doing things the hard way, because Erin, at some point down the line, decided it would be worth it.



“I guess I might be able to work it in,” Holtzmann says, trying to smirk a little now that her nerves have dissipated. “Gotta consult the gay agenda.”



Erin coughs. “The gay agenda?”



“My calendar,” Holtzmann says. “Maybe I'll have a slot open for next November.” She winks.



Erin crosses her arms loosely. “Ha, ha,” she says. “Very funny. What if there's a ghost in my apartment?”



“How about that Thai place downtown?” Holtzmann adjusts her goggles. “Tomorrow?”



Erin snorts lightly. “That... sounds great, actually.”



Holtzmann nods. “Okay, cool. I'll arrange a haunting. Class IV vapor okay?”



Erin's jaw drops. “Are you – Holtzmann, no!”



“Relax.” Holtzmann waves her hand. “I don't even know where I would get a ghost from – except for the four I have in the containment unit.. anyway,” she says when she sees the look on Erin's face, “seven alright? I'll pick you up.”



Someone bangs on the door. “Guys!” It's Kevin. “I don't know what went wrong but I think the computer's about to explode? It's sort of making a noise..”



“I should probably go check that out,” Holtzmann mutters and walks towards the door. “Wear your overalls!” she calls over her shoulder.




“Forget it!” Erin yells back. “Holtzmann, if there's even the slightest hint of ectoplasmic goo –”



Holtzmann grins. “Kidding!”

--



She's lying sprawled across the floor, working on blueprints for a proton pack that maybe won't cause them all to get radiation poisoning by the time they're 62. The firehouse is quiet at this time of day – around 3 P.M., when ghosts tend to stay quiet and Kevin is having his afternoon nap. They're all on the main floor, in the space they've renovated to be a kind of living room. Patty's leafing through a new book about the Salem witch trials. Erin reads over her shoulder every now and then, absentmindedly knitting a scarf (“It's calming,” she explained when she picked up the hobby, but that didn't stop the others from laughing. In return, they've each gotten a personalized scarf, a “screw you” from Erin in the only way she knows how). Every now and then, she looks up at Holtz, catches her eye, and winks. Badly. With both eyes.

“Holtzy?” Abby squats down next to her, forehead wrinkled, glasses on the end of her nose. “You alright?”



She's 32. The rain has slowed to a drizzle. Her hair is blonde with roots coming in.

“Yeah.” Holtzmann smiles. “I'm fine.”