On Track

(September 9, 2016)

From the Journals of Dipper Pines: Friday, Sept 9—We're back from the Sports Banquet. Well, really we got back 45 minutes ago, but I had to call Wendy, and she insisted that when we got off face-time that I had to call Grunkle Stan, so, let's see, it's a few minutes before eleven p.m. now, and here I am in my room writing in my Journal and I have a few things to record.

Just stopped and read that over. It reads like I'm excited. Well, I am! Lots of great news tonight.

I got my letter and a jacket to go with it, which is hanging on the doorknob so I can look over and see it. Not bad, kind of lit, as Mabel says, in the school colors of purple, gold, and white.

I think at Christmas I'll give it to Wendy! If she doesn't think it's too dorky for a college girl to wear a high-school senior's jacket. I'll ask her, anyhow. It's got my name and the big gold P for Piedmont on the front. Oh, and I also got a trophy for my first-place win in the meet last spring. It's sort of ugly, but Mom and Dad were happy about it, and Mabel's already claimed it for her room, so I don't have to look at it.

Oh, yeah, Mom and Dad were there, and Mabel, who kept cheering every time they mentioned my name. It's wonderful to have family support, I guess.

Where was I? Oh, the good news: Coach Dinson has moved up and is coaching Varsity this year! We lost our old coach, who was kind of grumpy and strict, when he took a higher-paying job at a Palo Alto school. I'm glad, because Coach Dinson's firm, but real friendly and helpful and encouraging. We also lost Grant Benford, last year's Varsity team captain, because he transferred to another school when his family moved to L.A.

OK, Coach Dinson announced he's named me Varsity captain! I'll have to do a super-good job. This is my last chance to do it. Wow. Beginnings and endings, man. Just starting and already thinking about last chances.

Anyway, I have to meet with Coach one day next week to go over the responsibilities and come up with a tentative list for tryouts and learn about this year's schedule and develop a training program. Mabel told him, "That's great! Dipper's all about the charts and the planning and all!"

Coach asked me had I kept up my personal training, and I told him that I'd been running for an hour to an hour and a quarter, at least four miles a day, five days a week. And Mabel blurted out, "And he got engaged to his summer coach!"

Dinson laughed, but then he saw how embarrassed I was and asked, "For real? Uh, that tall, pretty red-headed girl?"

I nodded. "I met her years back. See, Mabel and I spend each summer up in Oregon with relatives, and, uh—well, I met her up there, and we've been going out and all . . . ." I trailed off and then mumbled, "It's personal."

"I won't spread it around," he said reassuringly. "When's the big day?"

"Not before he goes off to college!" Mabel said. "Hey, Coach, you're invited to the wedding! It's in September of next year. Probably. I'm doing all the arrangements. And I'm Maid of Honor! We'll expect you and Mrs. Dinson there and at the reception. Wedding registry to be announced—"

"Mabel, please!" I said.

She laughed. "He wants to keep it a secret," she confided.

"Congratulations, Dipper," Dinson said. "And I'll keep it to myself. Maybe Mabel should, too."

He said it gently, but then Mabel clapped her hand over her mouth. She walked off to a corner, and I made my way over to her, but I kept having to stop for the guys and girls on the track team who congratulated me. I came up to Mabel, who was leaning against a wall. "I'm sorry, Dipper," she said in a small voice.

"It's OK," I said. "Hey, I know you're all excited, but just remember, we don't want to spread it around yet."

"I know, I know," she said. "It's like my mouth takes over from my brain sometimes. I'll be more careful, I promise."

"That's all I'm asking," I told her.

The banquet went on until nearly ten-fifteen. It really wasn't all that much of a banquet, because they held it in the school dining room and the food was just OK, but they had at least decorated the stage with banners and those crepe-paper ribbons and balloons and things. And everybody seemed very upbeat about it. As usual, the football players were the center of attention, but like that donkey in Winnie-the-Pooh says, it was nice that a few people noticed me.

News, news . . . Wendy is now taking four college classes in the evenings: Technical Writing, Ecology 1, Geographic Systems, and Public Speaking. All of those are required at Western Alliance for a Forestry degree, so she's planning ahead the way I would do.

I asked about the courses, and she said she thinks the only one that's going to be hard is Public Speaking. "I don't know why," she said. "I mean, you know me—when I had my old posse, I was the one who always spoke up and talked the others into crazy things. Never shy, was I? But it's kind of different to have to stand up in front of an audience and make a speech and remember posture and vocal quality and gestures and visual aids and all that. But I'll do OK. Still hangin' onto an A average."

At this rate, she'll start real college (not that her community college isn't real, but I mean college together with me, I guess) as a first-semester sophomore, while I'll be a lowly freshman, but I don't mind at all. I'm so proud of her. Oh, hey, she says she's been quiet about our engagement, like we agreed, but—her dad's been bragging about it all over town! "Everywhere I go, Dip," she said. "Everybody congratulates me and asks to see my ring, and man, are they impressed! You did good, man. I love it and I love you and I already miss you so much I could scream."

I told her about Mabel's joining the Drama Club. "The fall production's going to be My Fair Lady," I told Wendy. "Mabel's determined to try out for the Eliza Doolittle part. If she gets it, you have to come down and see her."

"If I can," she said. "Gonna be pretty busy with my college classes and working in the Shack up through December, anyhow. Being the manager until Soos closes up in November, of course, and then just general helping out with keeping the place up and maintenance and all. Soos and Melody are going back to Mexico this year for their vacation. I'll be the caretaker and armed guard again in December. I can't come there for Christmas, so you'd better come up here."

"We're already planning it," I told her. "The fall senior play's supposed to be before Thanksgiving, and it'll run for two weekends, Thursday through Saturday both times. I can pay for your airline ticket—hey, the TV deal is going through, and I got a huge chunk of money from Dittney TV to deposit in my college account."

"How's your next book coming?" she asked.

"I've got it plotted out, about to start on the draft. It's got the haunted convenience store in it, so . . . you know, expect a lot of a young boy crushing on a mid-teen!"

"Keep it funny," she warned. "Remember, the kids reading it won't like the mushy stuff."

"I'll remember that," I promised. Then I almost told her that I thought Billy Sheaffer has a crush on Mabel, but, no, why let my worrying spoil her mood? Instead, I said, "Easy on the mushy stuff. Got it."

"But me, now, I could use some mushy stuff right about now."

Then we kidded and talked and flirted for a while.

Then afterward, when I called Grunkle Stan and told him about the letter jacket and the trophy and being made team captain, he said, "Great goin', kid! How much dough is in it?"

I explained there wasn't any, but he cheered up when I told him how much the Dittney Studio had paid as the first installment on the TV rights. "Hey," he said, "congrats, Dipper, but what's that do to taxes?"

"There'll be a big bite," I told him. "Dad's CPA will do the best he can, though."

"No, no, no. I got a friend whose a tax expert. He could show you all sorts of shelters and dodges," Grunkle Stan said. "And I think he might be out on parole now. I'll check and let you know."

When I told him about Mabel and her drama club, he immediately said, "She'd be a natural! She can dance, and what with all that karaoke stuff, she can sing, sort of, and as for actin', man, can she ever talk! Sheila and I will come and see her. And, hey, we'll bring Wendy! How's that?"

"That would be great," I told him.

And now it's nearly eleven-thirty, and I don't know if I'll get to sleep at all tonight. Tomorrow I'll have to call Grunkle Ford. I would have done that tonight, but Stan talked about him starting his new graduate school, at the former high school a few miles out of the Valley, and said, "Let the poor old guy rest tonight. Sixer's pooped! He's worked hard to get that place started, and it's off and runnin' now. He's been a rolling stone for so long, it's gonna be hard for him to settle into an eight-to-six job as a college president. But I'm helpin'. Oh, by the way, tell Mabel thanks for the prototype and the design."

"For what?" I asked.

Stan chuckled. "She'll know. And tell her to do another prototype in Ford's size. He wants one, and hers are top-notch, but the mass-produced ones are kinda shoddy."

OK, now there's a little bit of mystery.

But at the moment this Mystery Twin just wants to get used to the feeling of being the Varsity Track Team Captain, and being a letterman, and having a sister that may be singing on stage and changing from a Cockney flower girl to a beautiful lady.

Senior year, here we come.

The End