Pan walked from her kitchen with a bag of pop corn in tow. She plopped down onto their old leather couch. It was plush and soft from years of use.
"Thanks," Marron said as she carefully poured popcorn into an empty bowl on the coffee table.
Pan shoved popcorn in her mouth straight from the bag. Oily, yellow butter stained her hand. Most of their days were quieter with fewer words said between them. Their daily walks from home disappeared as Krillin insisted on picking Marron up from school now.
"So, what did you guys do today?," Pan beamed.
Marron happily obliged her, telling her about class. She even divulged the nitty gritty details of high school shenanigans. Pan soaked up the stories, seeing her classmates in her head.
"Then," Marron chattered, "He threw up in Tony's tuba!"
Pan laughed from her belly. Videl and Gohan pulled her from class from the rest of the semester. Pan vividly remembered the endless conversations turned argument with her father,
"It's just not safe. They could come back," Gohan said, "This is only temporary until we find Bulla," Pan remembered.
A few weeks turned to a month. Then months turned to half a year. Originally, the idea of going to class in her pajamas thrilled Pan, but the disconnect became too real and too deep. Her teacher became her laptop and her doting father morphed into something she didn't recognize- someone cautious and fearful. Visits to Chi-chi and Goku's home were escorted. Mr. Piccolo came to their home in the city rather than flying out to visit him on Saturday mornings.
Pan knew that Marron was no band kid and could care less about who won the soccer tournaments. She only cared because Pan cared. A soft, pleasant smile curled Pan's lips. A sense of comfort eased into her heart. Their late-night movie trips, sleep overs, and unsupervised romps stopped, but their friendship didn't.
"Girls," Gohan called, "Time to go, Bulma will be expecting us soon."
Pan jumped up from the sofa proclaiming, "Hold up, I've gotta wash my hands."
Pan rushed to the sink, rinsing her hands with icy water. Marron and Gohan waited at the front door. Pan straightened her black dress and cardigan as she walked to the door. She clumsily shoved her feet into her ballet flats.
"Oh wait, the letters," Pan said, "Daddy, can you jeep them in your jacket? I don't have any pockets."
"Sure thing Pan-Chan," he said.
"Dad, did anyone tell grandpa?"
"Stop worrying, you know Bulma wouldn't forget him," he said ushering them out the door. Cold rain drops pelted them as they climbed inside of Videl's red hover car.
"Seat belts," Gohan reminded them as the car ascended from the ground.
Only the wind shield wipers dared to speak during the short bumpy drive. The small cruiser shambled over lumpy pockets of hot air. The turbulence sent streaking rain drops down the windows. The grey city passed with the monotony of a snowy screen on a television set. Marron sat with her hand on her lap, eyes straight forward. She tucked the end of her grey dress over her huddled kneecaps. Pan propped her chin on the fist, keeping her attention on the outside world.
Gohan touched down the car in Capsule Corp's south lawn just behind the gravity chamber. The trio made quick work of the seatbelts and hurried inside the compound. Bulma's mother answered the door. Pan and Marron exchanged polite hellos within the small gathering. All of the faces were familiar to Pan's surprise.
A party at Capsule Corp is always something to look forward to, she thought, except this one I guess.
Pan looked forward to the brief's cook out and holiday parties every year. She knew it meant creative themes and a smorgasbord of food and entertainment. Heaven forbid if it was someone's birthday' she knew to cancel her plans the day after to deal with her own concocted walk of shame being bloated and exhausted. This was the same yet different, a gathering like no other. She struggled to define this out of place feeling as sadness weighed her weary spirit.
"Everyone come to the table, please," Trunks called out, cupping his hands around his mouth.
Pan gingerly stood in front of her father. Marron joined them, taking her place next to Pan. Their eyes settled on the center piece of the table. An imposing three-tiered cake faced them. A bamboo tray sat next to it. A large 8''x10'' photo frame drew their eyes. Inside the sleek black frame was Bula clad in her long, straightened hair and a tight-lipped smile. She had her hand awkwardly thrown up at the camera in a half-hearted wave. Sunburn kissed her cheeks and her school tie hung across her shoulders.
Pan felt like she had went back in time. She could see Bulla walking down the sidewalk from their school, itching to exchange her uniform for some sweatpants and a t-shirt. She smelled the earthy floral scent always lingering on Bulla's hands. She yearned to hear her collected voice. Pan remembered that she was modest but had a razor blade for a tongue at the most inappropriate times. She was quiet yet fierce and Pan missed this.
Marron struggled to hold back her sniffling. She wiped the water from her eyes with her thumb, careful to avoid smearing her make-up. Pan squeezed Marron's hand tight, reminding her that she was not alone.
"Thank you all for being here," Bulma started, "I know that Bulla would have invited you all to her birthday party today," she paused, trying to regain her composure, "She's 16 today and no birthday is complete without cake. I've asked all of you to write her a letter, too. So, let's form a line to blow out a candle, then you can put your letter in the tray. We're going to put them in her room for safe keeping until she comes home."
Marron and Pan fell into line. The solemn quiet bodies moved forward faster than Pan expected. She rung her hands and stared down the butter cream frosted cake. Yellow roses decorated the tier tops in quaint little clusters. Her heart emptied itself onto her face. Heavy teardrops streaked from her black eyes. The uncomfortable realization jolted her. Notes of anger were scribbled across her face.
She wasn't a huge fan of roses. This isn't for her birthday. A funeral isn't designed for the deceased, Pan thought, It's just a wake under another name.
"Pan," Marron tried to get ger attention, "Pan!"
Pan snapped from her trance, turning her attention to her friend. Trunks offered Pan a single white candle. She reluctantly took it and poked it into the cake. Trunks handed Pan the flashy zippo lightered. In an instant it was over; she puffed out the candle leaving it there in the cake. Ribbons of black smoke slinked into the air form the half-melted wax.
Pan couldn't bring herself to make eye contact with Trunks. With her head down she skidded past Bulma and the long winding line. She made a beeline to her father who was neatly tucked in line behind Piccolo.
"Daddy, give me my letter," she pleaded with her scrunched lips.
Gohan slowly complied. He removed it from his jacket pocket. His body language matched the steep confused frown on his face. Pan snatched the envelope, crumping the middle in her red knuckled fist.
"Thank you," she said before trudging off.
Gohan watched Pan press through the crown and step out onto the Brief's patio. She tugged the heavy door closed, careful to try not to disturb the other guests.
"I'll catch up with you later," Gohan told Piccolo.
Piccolo's heavy hand fell on Gohan's shoulder. Gohan stopped in the limbo of being in the line or out of it.
"Tell your father to take my spot, Gohan. He'll be here soon enough."
"Thanks but-"
"She won't leave my sight, I promise," Piccolo interrupted his old pupil and left the line with haste.
"Thank you, Piccolo Sensei," Gohan said with a bow. A grateful smile washed over his tired features.
Pan sat in the dark under a big sun umbrella. She drummed her fingers on the glass table. Drizzling rain chilled the air, but she was content to just cross her arms to stave off the cold. Sheets of mist fell onto the Earth. Pan watched wave after wave of white haze sprinkle under the flood lights. She stared into the black void of night wondering if anyone or anything was waiting for her out there. The sound of the creaking door drew here eyes. Piccolo's feet were as quiet as the soft rain. She immediately recognized his shape moving across the patio. The white flood lights glowed through the tips of his pointed ears. Pan thought his shoulder pads were like two spades shifting beneath his cloak. He squatted down at the table, tucking his elbows in to fit. His bent knees were higher than the edges of the round table.
A grim smile snuck onto Pan's face as she thought about him sticking out like a sore thumb at her mother's dinning room table on Sunday evenings. He was just as much a staple of the backdrop of her home as Gohan's cozy maroon office or her daybed.
"Hey," she blurted, "Do you remembered that time when I was a little kid and I asked you if Namekians were like grasshoppers?"
"You're still just a kid," he half chuckled, "Need some air huh?"
"Well, you could say that."
Piccolo sighed and pulled his water bottle from his cloak. Pan had saw the little hollowed gourd more times than she could count. It was just as comforting as his deep voice- always patiently waiting, always there.
"What's wrong, Pan?," he said cutting to the chase.
"I'm mad, I guess."
"And…," Piccolo probed.
"Bulla didn't like roses. They could have went to her room and picked something- anything would have been better. Calla lilies, eucalyptus- anything," she vomited up.
"Yellow roses represent hope, Pan."
"Hope? They're treating her like she's already gone. This is a memorial and not a birthday. I don't give a crap what they try to pass it off as."
"Do you really think that? You know good and well that her parents are not two people that like to waste their time. The search is ongoing. Your father would scour every nook and cranny of this universe to find you. They're no different."
"They're looking for a body," Pan started to cry.
"Pan, the real question is this: have you lost hope?"
His words cut her. Her sniffling turned into sobbing. She mopped her eyes with her fingers.
"No… I just feel twisted up inside."
"Pan, I'll tell you what I told your father before he fought cell. Anger is a catalyst; own it and make it work in your favor. Anger is the part of you that either loves yourself or someone else and yearns for justice. Now, ask yourself who you're truly angry at?"
"The last day I saw her, I got her in trouble. I was so embarrassed. I never got to tell her good bye or-or how much I miss her. It I had stayed the night as intended, maybe I could have helped her," Pan said between gulps of air.
"Pan," Piccolo hummed, "You didn't know."
"She might still be here!," she almost cut him off.
"Or," Piccolo reasoned, "They would have just took you both, making a bad situation worse. Guilt is for the guilty Pan."
Pan looked down at the white envelope on the table. She smoothed it out carefully. The rehydrated ink bled though, marring the envelope with blue fingerprints.
"I cannot change your personal convictions about Bulla's fate Pan, but I'll advise you to consider alternatives for yourself. Don't over burden yourself, carrying around something that doesn't belong to you. Stop snuggling the coddling the remorse like it's a pet- let it burn out and die," He insisted.
Pan sat quietly, mulling over his words with the letter in her hand. The tears stopped flowing. She nervously picked at her flaky chapped lips before wadding the letter into a crumpled ball.
"I'm gonna hold on loosely," she said, "Bulla-Chan, I don't think you'll ever get the change to read this, but if I ever see you again, I will get to tell you everything to your face. That is what I'll hope for, but just in case…"
The letter in Pan's hand glowed like charcoal plucked from the hearth. It disintegrated, slipping from her fingers never to be held again. The cloud of ash and dust drifted into the night's void until it was no more. Pan finally coughed it up after a strange medley of emptiness and relief hit her like a punch in the gut.
"I'm sorry," she said.
