There were three things in life that Mabel Pines hated.
The first was sadness. She refused to let anyone stay sad if it was within her considerable power to make them happy.
Or at least annoyed. Which was still better than sad, in her opinion.
The second was being wrong. Not that she was ever wrong, of course, but when people thought she was wrong, for that brief moment before she explained things to them and they realized that it was all backwards and actually they were wrong… Yeah. She hated that.
But the last thing that Mabel Pines hated was pure and simple boredom. It didn't strike her very often – there were far too many craft projects in the world for that – but when it did…
"Gaaaaaaaaah," she moaned, hanging over the edge of her bed and staring at the ceiling. "Dipper, I'm sooo bored."
Outside, sheets of rain came down in a summer thunderstorm, rattling on the roof and creating dimly reflecting puddles under the evergreen trees. Thunder rumbled low in the distance, and the sky was that sort of dark grey that only a storm that plans to stick around all day can create: surly and thick like the pelt of a fat, unhappy cat.
In the middle of their attic room, Dipper was curled up in a nest of blankets and discarded sweaters, nose buried in that weird journal he had found in the woods. He peered up at her over the top of the book.
"Why don't you… go knit a sweater or something?" he asked.
Mabel slid further down the side of the bed, her head nearly touching the floor. "I'm out of yarn and Grunkle Stan won't drive me into town to buy more."
Dipper sighed. "So…read a book or draw a picture or – I dunno, Mabel. You'll figure something out."
He returned to his reading, turning a page with a sort of finality. She wasn't going to get any more help out of him.
With a humph, she let herself fall the rest of the way off the bed, turned the tumble into a somersault, and stood up. If she had to stay in this attic one second longer with her weird nerd brother and nothing to do she was going to pop.
But downstairs proved non-entertaining as well. There was nothing on TV but a 24-hour weather update ("Rain," the weatherman said flatly. "It's raining. And it will rain more.") and an infomercial show for old ladies' shoes. There wasn't enough of anything in the kitchen to cook with – and besides, Grunkle Stan had threatened to lock her in her room if there was a repeat of the "Burning Socks Incident."
In her defense, it was hard to judge correct cooking times on Stan's antique stove.
She finally wandered into the gift shop of the Mystery Shack.
It was empty. Well, empty of tourists. The day was far too rainy for anyone to want to get off a bus, and the day-trippers were scarce enough as it was. The only person in the shop was Stanford Pines, the Man of Mystery himself, phony eye patch and all.
"Grunkle Stan," Mabel said, hopping up onto the cash-register counter and peering over his shoulder. "I'm bored and Dipper's not helping. What are you up to?"
Stan looked up. "Huh – what?" he slapped the yellow pad of paper he'd been scribbling on. "I'm trying to make money, what's it look like."
"It looks like…" Mabel tilted her head. "Math. Ick."
Stan sighed and pushed the pad away. "You have no idea. This stuff is like a foreign language. Spanish or something. Which I don't speak."
"Yes you do," she corrected him. "I heard you when you stubbed your toe yesterday."
"Cursing doesn't count, kid. Anyone can do that." He narrowed his eyes at her. "You say you're bored? 'Cause I've got displays that need dusting and signs that need hanging and that Were-badger display is starting to smell a bit—"
"Just kidding!" Mabel slid off the counter and darted toward the door that led into the museum proper. "Totally not bored just thought of something to do don't need a job see you later!"
She skidded to a halt inside the dim museum area and heaved a sigh of relief. "That was a close one," she muttered.
In the few weeks she'd been in Gravity Falls, Mabel hadn't really explored the Mystery Shack – the museum part, anyway. Oh, sure, Stan had given them the penny tour when they first got there (and charged them each a penny for it) but other than that, she had kept mostly to the house part of the building, and the gift shop.
She eyed a taxidermy squirrel doubtfully. The house and shop were much less… stiff.
Oh well – it was better than counting the knots in the attic's wooden beams (twenty eight) or organizing her socks alphabetically. Again.
She wandered through the haphazardly-placed exhibits, examining the hoop earring in the giant's ear display and trying to figure out if the Sascrotch was a gorilla in a pair of underwear, or an actual bigfoot caught midway through his morning routine.
Finally, she came to a collection of stones in a glass case.
The rocks caught her eye – back home, Mabel had a large and growing collection of pet rocks. Her favorite was one she'd found in a neighbor's garden that had a silly face painted on it, but she wasn't picky. Anything with an interesting shape or a sparkle was fair game, and this collection was right up her alley.
She tugged on the glass front of the display case, and it popped open with the snick of a releasing latch.
"I'm just looking," she promised herself, glancing up guiltily at the pterodac-gull that glared down at her from its taxidermy perch. "If Grunkle Stan minded people looking, he would have put a real lock on this. I mean, am I right or am I right?" She nodded, and pulled the door all the way open. "I'm always right."
Reaching inside, she wrapped her fingers around a large, roundish, blue-green stone on the end.
"Mabel!"
She jumped, snatching her hand back and slamming the case shut.
"Ididn'tdoit!" she yelped.
Grunkle Stan poked his head through the gift shop door. "Mabel, I need you to come man the postcard stand – we got a bus."
Heart racing, Mabel hurried back into the gift shop, forcing a smile for the carsick tourists that started trickling through. She laughed and joked and convinced people that postcards were the perfect souvenir.
But the whole time, her attention was on the pocket of her skirt, which bounced heavily against her leg. Every once in a while, when no one was looking, her hand stole into the pocket, and her fingers brushed against a large, roundish, blue-green lump.