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Her father always expected her to be something special. If she were being honest, she'd have to say that she expected the same: the daughter of a highly respected politician was required to follow his footsteps, complete the picture-perfect family. She had no choice but to be exceptional, and she tried. She tried painting, singing, writing. Everything she tried she did well in, but that was it. Good. Decent. Okay.
“I’m sure you’ll find something,” Zoë Hange, her biology teacher and unofficial best friend, assured her. “Even if you don’t, how bad will it be? I mean, my only special talent is being able to guess a person’s entire genome based on their appearance, and that didn’t do much for me in life.”
And Historia knew this. Most people aren’t special, and there was no reason for her to feel pressured into being so herself. No reason except her father.
When she was seven years old, she found a photo album. There were pictures of her dad when he was born, graduating school, all up to his late thirties: when she was born.
The second to last picture was of a ballerina. She looked graceful and beautiful, caught in a pirouette, the split-second frame freezing her mid-twirl. In the last picture, Historia's father’s arm was around her.
She slipped the pictures out of the album. Her father never mentioned them.
“Can I take dance classes?” she asked one day.
“No,” he said, and that was that.
--
In her second to last year of high school, Historia fell in love.
Her name was Mina Carolina, and she wore her hair in pigtails every day. She was sweet and she was pretty and she held Historia’s hand gently under the table when they sat together at lunch. Sometimes, she would run her thumb across Historia’s palm, and Historia would wonder how it was possible that her hands were so, so soft.
“I think I like girls,” she told Hange once.
“Join the club,” Hange said, and raised her hand for a high-five.
“My father will never accept it,” Historia said, refusing the hand.
“Don’t tell him until you feel safe to,” Hange said, reasonable for once, and Historia took her advice.
In her last year of high school, Mina Carolina got caught in a hit and run. The funeral was closed casket. Historia went, her father tagged along for appearance alone, and she told him. She didn’t want to think about the body in the coffin and how cold it must’ve been now. There was a picture in the paper: the body sprawled on the pavement, covered in blood and gravel, eyes and mouth wide open. The arms were splayed to the sides and the hands were curled slightly, looking torn and damaged and no longer soft.
“I love her,” she said in the car ride home.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” her father said.
“You don’t understand, I love her,” she said again, her voice sounding desperate.
Her father narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know what love is.”
Historia didn’t bother to acknowledge his words. “She loved me, too.”
He pulled over to the side of the road. It was still light out and there were cars driving past, everyone needing to be somewhere.
“You’re confused,” he said, not making eye contact. “You two were close and now that she’s gone you’re mistaking your friendship for something it’s not.”
“I’ve known that I loved her since last year,” Historia argued.
Her father slammed his hand against the car horn and it rang out like a bomb warning. After that, they sat there in silence, and Historia swore she could hear their heartbeats.
“You turn eighteen next month,” he said. His voice was monotone and he still wouldn’t look at her. “I’ll put some money in your bank account. I want you gone until you get over this.”
She stared at him, but he was done talking. He put his blinkers on and the car was moving again, further and further away from the brushed off confession, and Historia feared she left herself behind with the buried casket.
--
The first thing she did after her birthday was buy an apartment, and she moved in the next day. It was small, but it was close to school, and she didn’t bring much with her. Her only contact with her father was when he switched her college funds from his account to hers. She had no family to invite over, no friends to show her new home to, no passion to busy herself with.
There was an empty frame on the bedside table. She blinked at it. Then, she remembered. She got up and she unpacked her bags, and in the back of the Bible she kept since childhood, she found the pictures.
Her father wasn’t there to tell her what she could or couldn’t do. She opened her laptop and searched for ballet schools in her area. Several came up, but one of them caught her attention.
“Dancing Titan,” she read aloud, scrolling through the website.
It seemed like a very prestigious school, even though it was one for beginners, and it had been established within the past year. It was only for ages sixteen and up, there was one instructor, and it had a very high price, but there were only good reviews. Historia checked the class times. Three to six p.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays, new classes starting the second of January to bring in the new year.
“Shoot,” she said to herself. Her birthday was the fifteenth, and today was a Thursday. She checked the clock on her laptop: 2:30 p.m.
She scribbled the address down on a post-it note, locked the door of her new home, and ran.
It was almost three when she got there, trying to catch her breath. Her apartment had no garage, and she never liked driving much to begin with, so she didn’t bother bringing a car. Now, she regretted that decision.
When she walked in, the building was silent. There was a group of people, presumably students, stretching and getting themselves ready. She walked up to a desk. There was a woman sitting down, playing Angry Birds on her phone.
“Um,” she said, trying to get the woman’s attention. “Is it too late to join the ballet classes?”
The woman looked up at her. Seemingly unimpressed, she went back to her game. “Do you have the right outfit?”
Historia blinked once, twice. “No?”
The woman, whose nametag said Ymir, sighed and put her phone aside. “How do you expect to take ballet classes without ballet slippers?”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking much ahead,” Historia admitted.
“Clearly not,” Ymir snarked. She reached under her desk and pulled out a key. “You can borrow a pair for the day. It’s only the fifth class, it’s not like these losers have learned much so far. The shoes are in the closet right there.”
Historia held back a gasp at her rudeness, and muttered a “thank you” under her breath as she scampered off with the key. One of the students, a short boy with an eighties-style bowl cut, shot a glare over his shoulder.
When she was just about to enter the closet, a voice called after her. “Yo, I forgot to ask. What’s your name?”
She freezed in her spot and took a deep breath. “Krista. Krista Lenz.”
After a moment, there was the sound of fingers clacking against a keyboard. “Okay, Krista Lenz, you’re all signed up. Just give me the cash and we’re done.”
Historia Reiss nodded and stepped inside.
--
The class was nothing like she had expected. Ymir was nothing like she would have expected three hours ago, but after their conversation in the entrance room, she had been broken from her disillusionment.
“Before you can do anything else, you have to be able to do the turnout,” Ymir said, catching her up to where the rest of the class was. One of the older students, a girl named Petra, was helping the others in the meantime. “But that's hard as fuck to learn.”
“What exactly is it?” Historia asked, frowning at the profanity.
“Technically what you’re doing is turning your thigh bones sideways. Because that’s a creepy way of thinking about it, basically what you need to do is form a 180 degree angle with your feet and hope your knees turn with them.” She demonstrated in a swift motion.
Historia attempted it. She succeeded the stance almost a whole twenty seconds, before losing her balance and grabbing onto the barre behind her.
“Harder than it looks,” she said, blushing.
“Yeah, well.” Ymir started walking away to the front of the room. “Practice makes perfect.”
Petra, who had been helping another one of the students kick her leg all the way up, went back to her spot. She made eye contact with Historia, just for a moment. Her eyes narrowed. Historia self-consciously looked away.
Ymir was as informal teaching a class as she was one-on-one. She picked on people, made bad jokes, and swore without remorse. Historia almost regretted choosing her classes, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Despite everything, Ymir could dance, and she was good at it. Historia could barely make a perfect turnout.
She was the last one to leave, waiting behind for the key to return the shoes she borrowed. When Ymir leaned in to give them, their hands touched, Ymir’s palm rough and calloused against Historia’s.
“By the way,” Ymir started, leaning against the wall outside the closet. She was staring at her phone screen, and Historia assumed she was back to her game. “I know your secret.”
Historia felt her heart stop. “What do you mean?” she asked as she left the room.
Ymir showed her the phone’s screen: a google image search of Historia Reiss. Historia wished she had a paper bag to hide her face in. “I had my suspicions that Krista Lenz wasn’t your real name, considering you said it in a very James Bond way. That, and your credit card said Historia Reiss on it, and you don’t exactly look hardcore enough to be a thief.”
Historia squeezed her eyes shut. She should’ve realized that, probably. If anything, her father should have, since he was the one who told her to adopt a false name. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” Ymir demanded. She shut her phone off and slid it into her pocket. “How old are you, anyway?”
“I turned eighteen yesterday,” Historia admitted.
“And today you decided you suddenly wanted to break away from your uptight father and become a ballerina?” Ymir asked mockingly.
Historia tensed up, her hands forming tight balls. “You don’t know anything about me.”
The only response was a flippant shrug. “I don’t, but Google might.”
“I don’t know why you’re taking such an interest in this.”
Another shrug. “Not every day does a politician’s daughter join my class under a fake name. Or, you know, at all.”
It was almost six thirty. Historia had to make up the schoolwork that she missed today, she told herself. “I have to go.” Not waiting for a response, she ran out of the building.
By the time she was halfway back to her apartment, Historia leaned over herself, gasping for air. It was cold out, and she could see her breath in front of her. She should’ve brought a jacket. She started walking, her body shivering despite itself. A woman walked by, heels clacking against the cement sidewalk, and Historia made a mental note to buy a pair of ballet slippers. After all, she already paid for the classes. She couldn’t quit now.
When she got home, the first thing she did was go to the bathroom. She blasted hot water and scrubbed at her hands with a bar of soap. She scrubbed harder and harder, shedding skin like a snake, rubbing until her hands felt raw and new. She ran them across her arms. They felt soft. She breathed.
--
The next day, Historia ate her lunch in Hange’s room, like she had been doing for the past month.
“So,” Hange said, “a little birdie told me that you’re taking ballet classes under the name ‘Krista Lenz.’”
Historia choked on her sandwich, startled. “How did you know that?” she asked.
“My girlfriend is in your class,” Hange said, turning around a picture on her desk. It was her and Petra, the girl who had been teaching while Ymir helped Historia get caught up, embracing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Historia thought it was horribly cheesy and horribly adorable. “She probably recognized you from the time we Facebook stalked my students.”
That, at least, explained the look she had given Historia.
“Care to explain?” Hange asked, leaning back in her chair.
Historia fidgeted in her own, suddenly out of air. “Not particularly.” She stared at her half-eaten sandwich.
Hange’s gaze was on her. She could feel it. After a minute of silence, she sighed. “Fine, but when you’re ready, you know I’m here.”
Her sandwich tasted dry in her mouth, but Historia nodded anyway.
When school ended, she practiced. She read how-to articles, bought a copy of Ballet for Dummies, and, in what she’d swear was an accident, stumbled across a certain clip from Black Swan. After that experience, she took a cold shower until the water ran warm.
The apartment was cold and lonely. She sat down on her bed, next to her laptop with twenty tabs of ballet tips still open, and she shivered. The picture frame was still empty, the pictures of the ballerina thrown haphazardly on the table. Historia leaned over to pick them up. She opened the back of the frame and slid in the photograph of the ballerina alone. The other picture, she slid into her bedside drawer.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard. Finally, she opened up Google. Halfway through typing “Ymir,” she realized she had no idea what her instructor’s last name was, and paused. Hesitantly, she typed the final two letters and clicked enter.
Some links were about an old Norse god, some were about a character in Marvel Comics. To her surprise, however, the overwhelming majority were about a world-renowned ballerina, who apparently dropped off the face of the Earth a year or so ago.
The cursor hovered over the link to Ymir’s Wikipedia page. Historia sat there silently for a few moments, debating.
Ultimately, she slammed the computer shut. It was midnight and she breathed quickly, as though she had run a marathon, so she put her laptop aside and turned all the lights off. It was another hour until she fell asleep.
--
The weekend passed. Historia thought about her father, and whether he would pick up if she called him. She didn’t bother to try.
--
When she arrived next class, Petra was there already. “Hey, Krista,” she said, the name sounding fake on her tongue.
“Hi,” Historia said, forcing a smile that she knew looked equally fake.
Petra glanced at her watch. There were five minutes left until class started, and most of the students were still filing in. “I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.” Now she glanced around the room. “Outside.”
Cautiously, Historia nodded. She followed silently as Petra opened the door and stepped out.
“Now, I know we don’t exactly know each other, but Hange seems worried. To be honest, so am I,” Petra said, walking away from the building.
“It’s not something I can talk about,” Historia told her. It was cold out, and she folded into herself, wishing she hadn’t left her jacket inside.
Petra turned around. Her eyes were painfully earnest, and Historia could tell what Hange saw in her. “They tried calling your dad, but he screened their call.”
Historia raised her eyebrows. “They?”
“Hange,” Petra elaborated. Still confused, Historia nodded in fake understanding. It was quiet and Petra sighed.
“How did your parents react?” Historia asked, finally.
“To what?”
“To Hange.”
Her voice sounded strangled, but if Petra noticed, she pretended not to. “Most people’s reactions to Hange are shock and begrudging amusement.”
Historia shuffled in spot. Her breath circulated in front of her. “Not Hange in particular. Hange as a concept.”
She could see the pieces fit together in Petra’s head. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, but before she could say anything, the bowl cut boy (whose name was Levi, she knew now) stuck his head out the door. “Are you two planning on joining us?”
Embarrassed, Historia nodded and rushed inside. She refused to make eye contact with Petra, who called after her hesitantly, as though unsure what she would say if Historia actually turned around.
After her Friday night studying session, which continued through the rest of the weekend, Historia was almost fully caught up to the class. Her turnout still needed some work, but so did that of most students. She almost fully mastered the first position, where the feet are aligned heel-to-heel in a straight line; Ymir walked behind her and whispered “boo,” throwing her off and causing her to stumble.
“I had it!” She pouted, but there was an excitement in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“Let’s see if you can get it again, princess,” Ymir taunted, grinning mischievously.
Historia blushed, but she took the challenge. She maintained eye-contact, positioned herself, and kept her balance for a good minute until Ymir clasped her hand on her shoulder.
“Now let’s see if you can get the second position,” she said. “You cross one ankle over the other—”
A little haughtily, Historia straightened her back almost imperceptibly. “I already taught myself that.”
Ymir raised her eyebrows. She seemed almost impressed: if not by Historia’s words, then by her attitude. “Oh, yeah?”
A voice cleared from the other side of the room. “Uh, a little help?” said a short girl named Hitch, if Historia remembered correctly.
The instructor rolled her eyes, finally taking her hand off Historia’s shoulder, fingers lightly brushing against her neck. Strangely enough, Historia felt heavier after the extra weight was removed. Ymir walked away.
Out of the corner of her eye, Historia could see Ymir helping Hitch in what she recognized as a grand battement. She was gradually inching Hitch’s leg straight up, pausing whenever her student flinched. Historia’s body tingled as she watched, and she wondered how far up she was able to lift her leg; she used to be able to do a split, but it had been years since she last tried, and Ymir’s hand was gentle enough that she was sure she wouldn’t mind being in Hitch’s place.
Realizing her train of thought, she whipped her head away. Her heart was pounding, rushing blood up to her cheeks, and she forced herself to stop resenting Hitch for the position of Ymir’s hand on her thigh.
--
She hovered after class. Petra seemed unsure whether to talk to her, but she refused eye contact, and after a short while Petra tentatively walked away. Class had been over and Historia had been waiting for eight minutes when Ymir finally left the building, stumbling a little upon seeing Historia standing outside the doorway.
“What, did you forget a pair of Gucci sunglasses inside?” she mocked.
Historia forced a neutral expression, but she could feel a frown trying to seep through. “I wanted to ask you something.”
Ymir raised her eyebrows. “Something you couldn’t ask earlier?”
“Well, I didn’t want to disrupt the class,” Historied mumbled. She couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact.
After a moment, Ymir sighed. Historia heard the clinks of keys smashing together and looked up to see Ymir locking the door. “Where are you staying?”
It was getting chilly out. Historia’s brows furrowed and she pulled her jacket tighter around herself. “What do you mean?”
“I know your dad kicked you out and all, but you have to be staying somewhere. Not even a politician with more money than brain cells would let his daughter live on the streets, I mean, imagine how he’d look when someone recognized the tiny white girl curled up in a cardboard box,” Ymir explained, starting to walk to the parking lot. Historia nodded to herself, until she realized something.
“What makes you think my dad kicked me out?” she asked, and somehow she found herself following her instructor.
Seeming unsurprised by her sudden companion, Ymir kept walking. “It was either that or you ran away, but you don’t seem like the type.”
She stopped in front of a small, unimpressive car. Historia, too busy wrapping her head around Ymir’s words, almost walked into it.
“I don’t see why those are the only options,” she said, catching herself with a few centimeters to spare. “Either way, my current housing arrangements have no relevance to you.”
“They do if I’m driving you home,” Ymir shot back.
Historia’s brain short circuited. “I’m sorry?”
Nonchalantly whistling under her breath, Ymir unlocked her car. “It’s cold out, and if the otherwise empty parking lot is any indication, you don’t have a car.”
“I don’t feel safe getting in the car with a stranger,” Historia claimed, her voice wavering.
Ymir snorted. “Come on, I teach ballet. l’m not going to kill you or anything. Besides, you wanted to ask me a question, right?” She swung open the car door and gestured inside. “Well, it’s now or Thursday.”
It made sense, Historia had to admit, and it really was getting cold out. She ducked into the car, jumping when Ymir ungracefully slammed the door behind her. It smelled vaguely of Chinese take-out and she focused on that while Ymir walked around to the driver’s seat.
“So,” Ymir said when she got inside, “where are you staying?”
Historia recited the address of her apartment. “It isn’t very far,” she assured Ymir, who was shoving over a pile of old napkins to make room for her bag.
“Clearly not, if you’ve been walking here without a car,” Ymir commented.
Instead of responding, Historia stared at her hands. The car vibrated as Ymir turned the ignition. Her right hand went to turn on the radio while the left rested on the steering wheel, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm. To Historia’s surprise, it was classical music that came from the speakers, not at all the pop punk she would have expected from someone who acted the way Ymir did.
As though reading Historia’s thoughts, Ymir groaned and flipped the channel. A man’s voice was screaming and Historia cringed. “I have to listen to that shit to get in the ballet mood. This is more my thing.”
“Can I ask you that question now?” Historia asked, hoping Ymir will lower the volume to hear her voice. Thankfully, her prediction proved correct once again, as the screams became more subdued.
“Go for it,” Ymir said, only half paying attention as she backed out of her parking spot.
Now was her chance, Historia knew, and she gathered all the strength in her body. “Um, over the weekend I kind of, well, I looked you up—”
“Whoa there, princess, weren’t you the one who got all snippy when I threatened to check out your Wikipedia page?” Ymir cut in, sounding vaguely amused.
“Well, I didn’t actually click on anything,” Historia defended herself. “I just googled your first name, because I don’t exactly know your surname, and then I felt bad and shut my computer down.”
The car swerved slightly and Ymir let out a peal of laughter, stopping Historia’s heart momentarily. She wasn’t sure which of the two factors caused it. “You felt bad for googling me? What, did you want to ask for my forgiveness?”
The words were ridiculing but her voice was so sincere and Historia didn’t know how she was supposed to respond to anything in this situation at all. “No, it’s just that I was surprised! Because even though all I typed in was your first name, almost every article was about you, and some of the titles were saying that you disappeared, apparently, and I was wondering why that is?” she finished lamely.
Another song, one less violent than what had been playing earlier, was the only sound in the car for a few seconds. Then, Ymir spoke. “I got into ballet when I was fourteen,” she started, then laughed to herself. “Okay, so the reason why I even started ballet was that this friend I had was into it, and she told me in this kind of disgusted voice about how, like, half of her class was lesbians? So, being the clueless little gay girl I was, I jumped at the opportunity, and I ended up joining her class.”
All the blood in Historia’s body rushed to her feet. She lost the ability to speak. Thankfully, Ymir didn’t need her to, and continued on without prompting. “I didn’t end up actually scoring any, which was unfortunate, but my teacher thought that I was destined for great things or whatever and urged me to keep it. For some reason, I did. She was right, though, because I’m pretty fucking great at it, and I ended up winning a bunch of competitions. Including this huge national one, which is why the media was making a big deal out of me, for the most part. But I just turned nineteen years old at this point, and what nineteen year old wants to be a big deal?” She shrugged and turned her head from the road to wink at Historia. “So I stopped being famous and decided to teach instead. I’m legally an adult, so why not?”
“How old are you?” Historia asked, mouth on autopilot.
They came to a stop, and Historia realized they were parked outside her apartment. “Nineteen,” Ymir smirked. “Twenty on the seventeenth. Of February, that is.”
Historia nodded blankly and moved to unbuckle her seatbelt.
“By the way, my friend was right,” Ymir added casually. “Most ballerinas are gay as fuck.”
There was an implication in her words. Historia’s hands froze. She didn’t say anything, somehow knowing that Ymir would continue her diatribe anyway. She was right again.
“I mean, it was pretty obvious, because why else would a white upper-class conservative give his kid the boot? Sure, there’s the pregnancy option, but again, you don’t seem like the type. So the ballet thing seals the deal, along with the fact that I saw you talking to Petra and we all know about Petra’s galpal.” Ymir looked pensive. “Personpal. Occasional galpal.”
“I don’t understand,” Historia managed to say.
Ymir waved her hand flippantly. “It’s a trans thing. I think they’re a demigirl or something like that? I just know they’re a lady sometimes, and other times not.”
What Petra had said earlier was starting to make more sense, though Historia still didn’t completely understand. There were more pressing issues at the moment. “You can’t tell anyone,” Historia insisted.
“Well, duh,” Ymir scoffed. “That’s your job. Coming out to my family was hard enough, and I don’t have a crazy politician dad. I didn’t even really tell mine, anyway, they just connected the dots when they caught me making out with some backup dancer after a recital.”
As much as Historia really, really didn’t want to share, she could tell that Ymir was waiting for it. “There was this girl. A month before my birthday, she was—” her mouth dried up, and she tried to suck in saliva from her throat. “A car hit her. After the funeral, I told my dad that I loved her, and that was it.” She let out a strangled chuckle. “It was almost refreshing when he made me leave once I turned eighteen. Better than the month of silent treatment.”
“Do you still love her?” Ymir’s voice was more serious than Historia had heard it before, and she forced herself to make eye contact.
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I know I loved her the day of the accident and every day before, counting a year back, but I know it’s unsafe to keep on loving something that’s no longer there to love.” Ymir’s eyes were still boring into her own, but she could see Ymir’s fingers tightening around the wheel in her periphery. A watery grin came to her face. “I know I loved her hands.”
It was dark out and they’d been talking for too long. Historia was itching to get away, while feeling glued to her spot all the same. “What made you decide to take up ballet, anyway?” Ymir asked, and that was the catalyst.
“Thank you for the ride.” Historia said, finally unbuckling herself. She swung the car door open and got out as quickly as she could, ignoring Ymir’s calls from behind her.
--
Finally, Historia decided she could tell Hange about what was going on.
“You know how I told you that I like girls?” she said during their lunch session the next day.
Hange made an approving noise around her—their?—sandwich.
“Well, I told my dad, and he kicked me out,” Historia said, deciding to say it bluntly. Her conversation with Ymir had been cathartic, in the way that she no longer felt herself caging up at the thought of what had happened. Maybe it was worth the crippling embarrassment after all.
Clearly, her teacher wasn’t as comfortable with the subject as she was, as they proceeded to choke on a piece of ham and lettuce. Historia shot up from her seat to pat Hange on the back, backing away when they waved their hand. “No, I’m fine, don’t worry about it, but are you? Holy shit,” they gagged, their attempts at speaking and gulping down water at the same time proving rather fruitless. After a moment, they could breathe again without coughing, but their face looked no less red. “Is that even legal?” they demanded.
“He waited until I was eighteen, so yes,” Historia told them.
They groaned. “I’m sorry, kid. I mean, I’d say you can stay at my place, but there’s the whole legal thing to take care of…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Historia said reassuringly. “I have an apartment, and I’ll be hearing about colleges any day now. He’s still giving me financial aid, anyway, which is all that I need if I’ll be out of here by summer.”
Despite their student’s words, Hange was still frowning. “I don’t like this.”
Historia allowed a sad smile. “Neither do I.”
The two of them ate in silence.
--
Surprising herself, Historia realized that she wasn’t dreading going back to class, after all. If anything, she was a little excited: Ymir was the only one who she’d told the whole story to, and she felt a sort of solidarity with her for that.
“Hey, Krista,” Ymir said when she walked in. There was a secret in her words. Historia smiled, and found herself blushing when Ymir winked in response.
It got to be worrying. They weren’t friends, not really; Hange was a friend, someone Historia could talk to without feeling the need to explain herself. Ymir was different. Ymir frustrated her, intimidated her, and ultimately flustered her. Ymir stayed in her thoughts from the minute she woke up to the second she fell asleep.
Two weeks into February, she put a name to it.
The revelation started the week before, when Ymir friended her on Facebook. Her last name wasn’t listed there, either, and Historia wondered if there was a story behind that. While she never really used her account, it was clear that Ymir did. Her wall was a collection of status updates and liked articles about the likelihood of some woman returning for the second season of some show which Historia had never heard of.
A few minutes after accepting the friend request, Historia got a notification that Ymir liked her profile picture, which was just her school picture. A second after that, there was a comment: “hawtttt. the cheesy floral background brings out ur eyes”
Unsure of how she could possibly respond, all she did was like the comment. And then proceed to go through Ymir’s pictures in a sense of retaliation.
There weren’t many pictures of Ymir herself. Some joking selfies aside, most of the pictures were of ballet recitals, or normal band concerts. Her profile picture was a drawing, which Historia realized after a moment was the figure Ymir from Norse Mythology.
Tentatively, though unsure why, she clicked the “About” section on Ymir’s profile. She didn’t know what she was looking for until she saw it.
Relationship Status: Single.
It felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and she didn’t know why; she didn’t want to admit to herself why.
Until a week later. It was Thursday the thirteenth, and she was at class like usual. She’d almost lost track of how many classes there had been—two classes in a week, four weeks in a month, one month since she joined. Surprising herself, she was good at ballet in the way she was never good enough at anything else, and she knew she finally found that thing which she could be extraordinary at.
Petra brought cupcakes to class, which was mostly weird but also understandable considering her tendency to act like the overbearing mother who sews nametags on her children’s underwear. Historia didn’t acknowledge anything particularly different from normal until Petra took out a package of candles from her pocket and stuck a candle in each cupcake. Levi pulled out a lighter, seemingly from nowhere, and suddenly there was a batch of birthday cupcakes.
“Shit, guys,” Ymir called out, sounding almost emotional as she walked around her desk to grab one of the cupcakes. “You really didn’t have to.”
“It was Petra’s idea,” Levi said.
Ymir rolled her eyes. “Well, duh, I could’ve figured that out on my own.” She pressed a long, over-exaggerated kiss on Petra’s temple, and pulled away cackling only after Petra squealed at her to keep the flaming cupcake away from her.
“Twenty on the seventeenth,” echoed in Historia’s head, and suddenly everything made sense.
The class sang, off-key and somewhat painful to listen to. When they finished, Ymir made a wish, and blew out the candles. There were enough cupcakes for everyone, and an extra for the birthday girl; typical of Petra. Historia turned hers down with a quiet “no, thank you,” and Ymir took it for herself.
“As much as I love being celebrated for existing and all, we kind of need to start class at some point,” Ymir rationalized, her mouth half full of a third cupcake, when it was quarter past 3.
Historia did the math in her head. Ymir’s birthday was in four days, which meant it fell on the next Monday. For some reason, she felt the need to get something for her teacher. She just didn’t know what.
“So,” Ymir said casually as she came around to help Historia with her arabesque. “You have something to say to the birthday girl?”
“I sang with the others,” Historia argued, fighting back a smile.
The birthday girl in question rolled her eyes and rested her hands on Historia’s thigh. She tugged it backwards, and the student let her leg follow, blushing just slightly.
She had a death grip on the barre, something which Ymir took notice of. “Calm down. If your muscles are too tense, you can’t do anything.” Ymir hummed, gradually inching the leg further and further up. “Imagine that, like, the hottest girl possible has her hands up your shirt.”
“How is that supposed to relax me at all?” Historia whispered, voice sounding almost shrill. Her leg was almost at a 180 degree angle with her hips. Ymir’s hand was too warm, and her own cheeks burned enough that she was sure they were fire engine red.
“I mean, things that feel good are relaxing, right? That’s why they feel good in the first place,” Ymir explained. “The hot girl part is just an added plus.”
Now Historia was sure that her leg was as high as it could go. “Let go,” she commanded, ignoring Ymir’s “yes, your highness.” She looked in the mirror and, sure enough, she did it. Her raised leg was a little over 90 degrees from the supporting leg. An adrenaline ran through her body, and she smiled at Ymir’s reflection.
“All that’s left is learning how to do that on your tippy-toes,” Ymir added, tapping Historia’s shoulder and moving on to the next student in need. Historia slumped over at the reminder.
There was something about being around Ymir that felt freeing. Historia didn’t have to worry about putting on a face: not the politician’s daughter, not average civilian Krista Lenz. But it wasn’t friendship. She didn’t want to admit to herself what it was, but when class was over she still felt the imprint of Ymir’s hand on her, and she knew there was no way to avoid it.
After class, Historia approached Petra for the first time in a month. “I know that Hange told you that I’m—interested in girls.” When Petra started to open her mouth, probably to defend her partner, Historia forced a smile. “I’m not angry. Actually, I need advice.”
Advice, Petra could do. It was clear in how her posture moved from defensive to something subtly welcoming, fingers threading together and back slouching just enough to have the illusion of relaxation. “Is it about how to tell your father?”
Historia felt taken aback. It took her a moment to remember how, during their last conversation, she had asked Petra how her parents reacted to Hange, which could have been interpreted to mean that she hadn’t actually told her father yet. “No, I did that already,” she clarified. Her voice sounded dry even to her own ears. “It’s just that. Well, he didn’t react in the way I’d’ve hoped, but that’s not the point at the moment.” One more deep breath. “Actually, it’s about Ymir.”
Now it was Petra’s turn to look taken aback. “About Ymir, as in…?”
“Yeah.”
Petra was quiet for a moment, formulating her thoughts. “May I tell you something?” she asked slowly.
Feeling almost wary, Historia nodded.
“Hange is an asshole,” Petra said, startling Historia completely. “They’re obnoxious, messy, rude, and somewhat arrogant. Every night I debate kicking them out of the house until they learn table manners, or at least how to do their own laundry. It’s infuriating having to live with them. But really, despite everything, I don’t think I would give it up for anything. For some reason I’m in love with them, and they feel the same about me. So I guess I have to keep them around.”
“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” Historia admitted.
Petra had a gleam in her eyes. “Well, Ymir is kind of the same, isn’t she?”
When Historia thought about it, Petra was right. Ymir was definitely obnoxious, rude, somewhat arrogant, and if her car was any indication, messy. “Oh,” was her only response.
“Do whatever you feel like you should do. If she’s worth it, you’ll figure it out,” Petra added sagely, then walked to her car.
The sun was already set, and she was sure that the month was somehow only getting progressively colder. Thankfully, some deity was looking over her that night, because Ymir was still around.
“I noticed Petra’s car still in the parking lot, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t influencing her with your criminal ways,” Ymir yelled from the window of her own car.
“What?” is all Historia said.
Ymir leaned across the console to throw open the passenger seat’s door. “Get in!”
It was stupid, that Ymir bothered to wait on what was technically her birthday celebration just so Historia could have a ride. It was stupid and Historia wanted to deny her request just on the basis of its sheer stupidity. “I’m coming,” she murmured, and rushed to the car.
This time, Ymir didn’t bother putting on the radio. “So, do I get a birthday present from you?” she asked facetiously.
“It’s still four more days until your birthday,” Historia reminded her.
The driver whistled. “Huh, you remembered.”
“I seem to remember everything when it comes to you,” Historia said, her mouth moving involuntarily.
Her declaration clearly surprised Ymir, who stopped rather sharply at a stop sign. Gradually, she started moving again. “Oh, yeah?” she said with clearly faked nonchalance.
“Yeah,” Historia confirmed quietly. She thought of Petra’s advice, and cleared her throat. “Actually, I, uh, wanted to talk about it.”
“‘It’ being?” Ymir’s voice was tense.
“Well. You, I guess. And my seemingly enhanced memory of everything involving you.” So was Historia’s.
Clearly, Ymir did not share the want of hers, stalling a total of eight seconds (one-alligator, two-alligator, three-alligator...) before responding. “If you want to talk about it, then do it.”
Historia had a good two minutes until they arrived at her place. She decided that she only needed one. “I’ve accepted that I, for some reason, have feelings for you. Of the romantic variety.”
The car swerved dangerously. “Holy shit, I changed my mind, do not talk about this at all right now because I will drive off the side of the road, and I’m pretty sure neither of us want that to happen.”
“Ymir—” Historia started.
“No, don’t ‘Ymir’ me now. You can ‘Ymir’ me when I’m parked outside your apartment, or when we’re inside your room and I’m going to town on you because, holy shit,” Ymir slammed the heel of her hand on the horn, causing the driver in front of them to flip them off. “Yeah, fuck you too!” she yelled back.
“Calm down, please,” Historia begged, worried for her life.
Ymir looked as though she was asked to create a time machine with butter and lime juice. “Did you even hear what you said to me? You’re asking me to calm down after dropping that bomb in the middle of the road, when I can’t even, like, lean over and make out with you?”
At least her response to the confession was obviously a positive one. Historia’s cheeks felt warm enough to fry eggs. “That wouldn’t be very safe,” she cautioned.
“Yeah, no shit it wouldn’t.”
“We’re a minute away from my apartment building,” she added.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You can come see my room,” she offered, a newfound boldness in her words.
No verbal response. The car accelerated.
As soon as they were parked, Ymir unbuckled herself and hauled the door open with all her might. “Come on,” she insisted with an urgency in her voice that Historia only ever heard in cop movies.
When Historia stepped out of the car, her hand was immediately grabbed by Ymir and she was being tugged inside her own apartment. “You never responded to me, you know.”
They were at the elevator before Historia knew it. “Huh?” Ymir said. “Also, what’s your floor?”
“Seven. And when I said that I kind of, you know…”
“Like-like me?” Ymir finished, a teasing note to her otherwise impatient voice.
Historia, once again, found herself blushing. “You never said the same.”
The elevator beeped and the doors opened. Ymir dragged her in, mumbling an insincere apology to the man getting off as she bumped into him. “Well, I thought it was implied. I mean, I’m pretty sure the entire class knows that I’m into you, and you’re part of the class, so by the transitive law of geometry, that means you know I’m into you, right?”
“That’s not how it works,” Historia argued, but she was smiling.
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I failed geometry anyway.”
They arrived at her floor and suddenly, Ymir was shy. “Where’s your room?” she asked, shuffling her feet.
“Down the right,” Historia said, guiding the way. She dug her key out of her pocket, but when she moved to unlock the door, another hand found its way over hers.
“Just to get this straight, we’re not actually going to, like, have sex or anything, right?” Ymir asked, her voice sounding shy.
Suddenly, Historia remembered that Ymir was only nineteen—twenty in a few days. “Um, you don’t want to, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Ymir admitted. “I’d like to take it slow and all, but I’ve also wanted to go down on you since I first helped you with your turnout.”
Back to normal. “I haven’t been with anyone before. I mean, Mina and I held hands, and we kissed a few times, but never anything. Um. More.”
Ymir avoided her eyes. “We’ll be each other’s firsts, then.”
Historia was surprised at the confession, but she tried not to let it show. “Not tonight, though?” she asked, turning the key. Ymir’s hand moved with hers.
“Not tonight,” Ymir confirmed.
--
She spent the night, anyway. Ymir was a snorer, Historia learned; not an obnoxious snore that can wake the dead, but a more subdued, rhythmical snore. It was kind of cute. She was also a huge blanket hog, but that was fine because she was warm and she was a cuddler.
“You smell like elderberries,” Historia mumbled into Ymir’s chest when her partner (girlfriend, maybe?) woke up.
“I mean, I do like IKEA,” Ymir rationalized through a yawn.
The smaller girl hummed. “Do you?”
“It’s a Swedish thing,” Ymir insisted. Historia giggled, the laugh reverberating through both of their bodies.
She rolled over to look at the clock. It was eight in the morning—she has forgotten to put on the alarm the previous night. “Oh, shoot,” she said, disentangling herself and shooting up from Ymir’s arms.
Her (potential) girlfriend groaned. “What did you do that for?”
“School,” Historia reminded her. She rushed to her dresser and grabbed any combination of clothes, then ran to the bathroom.
“Oh yeah, that thing,” Ymir said, her voice raised so Historia could hear her through the wall. “What are you planning on doing for the whole college thing? Yay or nay?”
“I haven’t heard back from anyone yet, but all the colleges I’ve applied to are near,” Historia assured her, halfway into the pair of jeans she grabbed.
Ymir kept babbling, about college and jobs and how corrupt the education system was. Historia half-listened to her as she brushed her teeth. It was a nice feeling, somehow, besides the rush of it. Maybe having Ymir around was something she could enjoy. Even though she never seemed to stop talking, though that may have been part of her alleged charm in the first place. To be honest, Historia still didn’t understand what it was about Ymir that she found so appealing, and she found herself thinking of Petra’s speech once again.
As she was spitting, something that Ymir said caught her attention. “Why do you have a picture of Ilse Lagner on your night table? Should I feel threatened?”
Historia poked her head through the door. “Is that who she is?” she asked, walking to meet Ymir, who was holding the picture of a ballerina in her hands. She opened the drawer and took out the picture with the ballerina in the arms of her father. “Apparently, I have history with her.”
“Wait a second,” Ymir said slowly, “you’re eighteen, right?”
“Right,” Historia confirmed.
“So you were born in early ‘96?”
“Yeah, on January fifteenth.”
If Historia hadn’t known any better, she would’ve thought Ymir had discovered that Schrödinger’s cat was alive all along. “Oh my God, your mom is Ilse Lagner,” she gushed.
“That’s an awfully huge assumption to make based on two pictures,” Historia said.
Ymir waved her off. “No, listen. Ilse Lagner is, like, this mega huge ballerina, she’s amazing and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen every YouTube video of her ever? But in late 1995 she kind of just disappeared for a year, and then she was back and everything was normal. When she was gone, she didn’t do any interviews or anything, and afterwards she just acted like it never happened.”
The wheels in Historia’s mind were turning, but she pointedly ignored them. “Look, I really have to go to school,” she said.
“Fuck school,” Ymir said, but she started to put on her shoes anyway. “Wait a second,” she said, pausing in her actions and limping across to Historia’s desk. She uncapped a pen, then called Historia over with a curl of her finger.
“What are you doing?” Historia asked, moving despite her better judgement.
Instead of answering, Ymir wrote something on Historia’s arm. Her hair obscured Historia’s vision, and when she was done, Historia could make out numbers and a few words. “My number, and my address,” Ymir explained. She capped the pen and winked. “I expect a birthday present on Monday.”
Historia smiled so hard she feared her cheeks would break.
--
At lunch, Hange broke the ice. “So, anything of interest happen recently?” they asked, their voice too casual.
“Actually, I had a talk with Petra yesterday,” Historia said, pretending as though Hange wouldn’t have known already.
They put on a nice act of surprise, at least. “Oh, did you really?”
“I sure did,” Historia said as she stirred her yogurt to busy herself.
“And how did that go?” Hange asked. They leaned over their desk, an excitement shining in their eyes.
Not able to even act aloof, Historia clasped a hand over her mouth to hide her grin. She almost knocked over her yogurt, but somehow, it didn’t even make her flinch. “It went amazingly.”