Holly Kadijević

Hranimirka was born with an odd, lonely hunger that gnawed at her from the inside out. A charismatic child and a naturally gifted ballerina, it wasn't hard to make bland, ordinary friends that only sharpened the ache for something more. But she'd be a fool to choose starvation over hardtack.

At age ten, her father's work called for the family to be moved from Croatia to the United States, where Hranimirka felt external loneliness for the first time in her life. Social cliques and friendships at her school were rigidly set. There was no room for a transfer student with a strange accent. Aching for something, anything, Hranimirka was dead set on carving out a space for herself.

(The honeyguide, like other brood parasites, is known to hide its eggs in the nests of its fellow bee-eating birds.)

She adopted a name that her classmates wouldn't balk at, spent hours whittling her accent down to nothing in front of the bathroom mirror. The easiest way to graduate from the bottom rung of the social ladder is to have someone else take your place.

It wasn't hard, at least not with Holly's level of single-minded dedication. She learned the ins and outs. Nobody likes an outright bully these days; it's all about the air you carry yourself with. The clothes you wear. The things you leave behind.

And nobody likes an outright bully, but that only means you have to learn to be subtle about it. Make people laugh.

(Once hatched, the honeyguide chicks possess needle-sharp hooks on their beaks that they will use to dispose of the original nestlings.)

Holly wasn't lonely anymore, but still, she ached. And the following year, another transfer student arrived. From England this time, but the beats of this story were the same. Strong accent. Mousy brown hair. They began to laugh the moment she introduced herself, and snickered all through second and third period, until Holly took the girl's hand and pulled her over to the center lunch table.

The ambiance of the cafeteria was a dull roar, so Holly put her mouth to her ear, saying, "I'll teach you how to do your hair and makeup after school. And doesn't Jennifer sound kind of old fashioned? I'll call you Jenny."

...

...

...

Holly is twenty-four now. She danced her first Nutcracker years ago. Ballet doesn't come naturally to her like when she was a child, but who would she be if she stopped? Pointe shoes hide bruises and broken toes.

But she has Jenny.

So do millions of other people, now.

Holly was never able to rid her stomach of that strange ache.