Thank you all for reading, I really like this community a bit over the other ones since people are more likely to review, and I'm glad you like the... liberties I took with the series! I mean, I plan to have a little more relevance to their summer in Gravity Falls but I want to focus in life after summer.

Also, Dipper found the secret spot through the crawl space in their room, which he later covered with Mabel's spectacular giraffe painting.

Finally, I'd like to mention that this chapter might be a little boring but it's truly necessary for the rest of the later chapters. And if the return of a certain character seems ridiculous, I'm trying to have their reasons as realistic as possible especially pertaining to the style of Gravity Falls itself.

-(-)-

After crawling out of the crawl space door, Dipper and I packed our school supplies into our backpacks. While his looked a lot like a hunting bag, mine was pink, and already had a multitude of bezazzles animals. That's a lie, of course it was just cats!

We did this without speaking. I don't think he was mad at me, it just seemed awkward after our little tiff in the hide-out.

Even eating dinner, there wasn't much talk, but that was common. Mom wasn't coming back from Tahiti until later in September since she was dealing with work, so Dad, Dipper, and I ate mashed potatoes and brocolli with only "Could you pass the salt?" spoken.

Sleeping, however, I dreamt of high school and boys on top of my white and blue heart-speckle sheets. While personally, I think my fortune of good dreams came from my "Meow-Wow" Limited Edition uni-kitty Pillow, I usually couldn't remember what I had slip through my mindscape.

The next morning, all I could think of for my dreams overnight were of me opening my locker and a unicorn springs out. Which I heavily anticipated to happen later that day.

-(-)-

Jackson didn't sit next to me on the bus, even after my several calls to him.

However, Myra did, which wasn't a first but it hardly happened.

The sunshine burned my eyes and didn't compliment my pale skin, but Myra always looked pretty. Sunshine would kiss her dark skin and her gaze didn't falter despite the wrath of Ra above pouring into us from the side of the bus.

"What's with Jackson?" she sighed, "Did you steal his issue of Various Person Magazine again?"

"I- I don't think it's my business to say."

She frowned, being unsatisfied with the lack of gossip. "Well, I like your sweater," she smiled, pointing to my hand-knitted sweater that I wore every school year (the adjustments were noticable as I grew but the stiched "School Rules" never faded).

"You know, I wear this like every year!" I chuckled.

With a flick of the wrist, Myra said, "And that's a problem? You are like... the second most creative person on earth. Next to Jan Jyllenski!"

"You can't compare me to the last god on Earth!" I laughed out as the bus made a sharp turn onto the freeway.

Jan Jyllenski was our favorite playwright, having three plays on Broadway. The two of us had the pleasure of meeting him when he was on tour with his fourth play, "Lovers Loving in Love City," during the summer.

Myra, whose hair was is a tight braid in the back with a dyed-red streak in front of her eyes, looked down for a second as if mulling over something. She pulled out her Cyborg phone, turned it on Vibrate, turned back and smiled.

"So," said Myra, as if she were dishing on something important, "How do you plan on ruling Freshman year Mabes?"

"Parties, boys, knitting, repeat! My favorite cycle, along with the water cycle. NO! Wait, I love the rinse cycle more!"

"Parties," my friend teased, putting air quotes up with her fingers, "Come on Mabel, you got to live a little."

"The last party I threw had zombies attack Dipper and I, and both of us nearly died."

Myra held up her hand in a fist, bumped it with mine and said, "You know it." She thought I was kidding, so I just let it go.

-(-)-

Dipper, whom apparently was talking to Jackson on the bus, rushed to my side as I popped off the bus. Our school, Piedmont High School, was colored a variety of browns, accented with grey, and with a deep blue roof. And, that's how I'd describe Dipper, bland everywhere else except he's got a beautiful brain.

"Jackson said he'd prefer not to talk about the situation."

I nodded, "Well, I did accidentally out him."

"Did you tell Myra?" Dipper sighed, adjusting his hat, "I saw you sitting with her."

"No. It wasn't my place."

My brother stopped for a second and grabbed the bridge of his nose. He caught up to me and exclaimed, "Wow, how mature of you!"

"Thanks," I giggled, "Probably the last you'll get out of me for weeks."

"That's no surprise," a third voice chortled.

A voice that cold was known to kill puppies with a single shriek, a voice so vile the earth quakes at it's shouts.

Pacifica Northwest.

Her jersey poof, hoop earrings, and smug look were indicators as well.

"What are you doing here Northwest? Did Gravity Falls finally kick out cold, heartless, jerks."

Pacifica was my archrival. Despite actually saving her life, neither of us were on good terms. She wasn't the kindest person, well... hardly kind at all. But seeing her was blood-boiling, skin-curdling, and spine-tingling all at once.

She put her hand out, as if to stop me. "Listen Mabel, and her somewhat attractive brother, that's my last dig for a bit. While I'm every amount as surprised to see you here as you are to me, I'd rather make ammends. I already had to leave the town since Daddy wanted to persue 'curling' in Sherman."

"Maybe he can curl you up into a carpet and push you off a boat!"

Dipper only said, "Wait, somewhat attractive?"

"I'm not your friend," the girl scoffed, "But let's just say, I'm going to start trying to be ni-niiiii..."

"Nicer?" Dipper suggested.

"Don't help Pacifica!" I argued.

Pacifica turned her head and looked at her nails, "Fine Mabel, hate me. I honestly don't care anymore. I'm just going to start my life over, right here in Sherman."

"Actually, your middle school funnels here in Piedmont," was my response, which I said a little too smugly for what it was worth. Her only response was an eye roll, and the two of us left the scene.

However, leaving the scene took us indoors and the main hallway was quite large. The cafeteria was right in front of us with the school office to our left. Taking a right led us to the separate halls, but I had forgotten where the other areas were.

People were sitting down at the cafeteria seats, and so Dipper and I awkwardly followed. Peering around, I spotted Myra waving her hands about next to a blank looking Jackson. I sat in front of Jackson after scooting over to the tables. Which left Dipper sitting in front of Myra. There were two extra seats, which left for two "guests" since our friend circle wasn't expanding anytime soon.

"Stupid suit-tie," choked a man at the mike ahead of us, he blushed as we all turned to him, realizing his complaint was said aloud.

"Ah," he cleared his throat several times then continued, "Welcome, new students and old alike to your first day of the school year. I am the vice principal at this school, Mr. Walsh, and you might wondering why an old fart like me is up here instead of Ms. Callegri, but I had to sub for her since she's out partying again."

A couple upperclassman laughed at that, which I assumed was a joke I wouldn't get for a while.

"And with that, however, I don't have much to do. I basically am just, like, greeting you all and saying that if you don't have your schedule," both of us did, "then go to the several volunteers in the gym, which the entrances are behind me."

I realized that it seemed gross to have the gym be right near the the cafeteria but I was a freshman, so I had little room to talk.

"So... ahem, I guess you can go to your classes, just don't break anything."

The squirelly blonde vice principal walked away, and after a moment of awkwardness, everyone ran out. Myra and Jackson left without a word, and Dipper only said, "Alright Mabel, we should hurry!"

So I did hurry.

To uneventful classes. Uneventful teachers. And no classes with any of my close circle of friends.

But guess who was in my Creative Writing class.

Ms. Northwest herself, Pacifica.

"Oh, hello Mabel," she sang sickly as she slid into a pale, cold desk.

I turned my head, "Normally Pacifica, I'd talk about your mismatched clothes and stereotype nature, but today I'll humor you. You've changed, I've changed,"

"That sweater sure hasn't."

"The point IS, is that, we aren't friends," I countered, "because we just aren't. We have less a chance of being friends than a lion and a peacock, which I bet you can find on MeTube."

A kid from the back said, "There is, it's adorable."

"No one asked you Cameron Wasee!" Pacifica shouted angrily, before doing a gesture to contain her rage.

"So there."

Pacifica nodded her head, flipped her hair, and then said, "I understand. Shall we just ignore each other."

"Shall... er, I mean, I thought you were gonna say 'let's' so I..."

"I got it," she scoffed.

At least, with her in the room, I could get a lot more creative on my writing, I could say that. However, as our teacher bussled in, I noticed he was extremely attractive. He seemed to be of hispanic heritage, and was maybe just under 6 feet. He had blue eyes, a slight fuzz of a beard, wide shoulders, and adorable short hair.

"Gah!" he exclaimed as his papers fell, "Gosh, I can't lose more of these free coupons to the Jones in Stones concert."

He likes concerts, my inner mind noted.

The teacher picked up the papers and cleared his throat haphasardly, "Ah, erm, well, I'm your Writing teacher, no- uh, Mr. Harrison."

"Is that your last name or first?" someone else asked.

He blinked, then smiled nervously, "It's my first, since Mr. Grenwich is my father and he..."

"Daddy issues," Pacifica snorted, "I wish I had 'em."

"I got Mommy issues," the kid called Cameron Wasee suggested.

I flicked my pencil against the desk, saying, "Grunkle issues."

He pulled up his tie, which had a bunch of tiny words on it that I couldn't read. Mr. Harrison then said, "Ha, yeah. We don't really, well, talk. Probably the source for all my writing."

"Well," I smiled, learning the fact from my own brother, "Anger is the source of the best comedy."

"This isn't stand-up," Pacifica hissed, "sorry, Chuckles." Then my mind spat, I guess she isn't done altogether.

Mr. Harrison then flashed a full smile and said, "Very good, she's r-right. Anger is a very useful tool, but, uh, not just in comedy. Writers often use their rage to fan the flames of a, well, like a good piece."

Fun, I thought, I hope he doesn't get all my thinly veiled pieces on Pacifica.

And summer.