Heartbreaker


(Winter-Spring 2009)

7. Leads to Nowhere

Around and around she went. For weeks Mabel talked, investigated, asked deceptively revelatory questions (always, to her disgust, answered satisfactorily), until finally, deep into March, she had to throw up the towel, as she said, and admit defeat. It was a gusty, showery Saturday in Piedmont, which along with the rest of the Northern Hemisphere, stood on the edge of a new spring.

Though winter was on the way out, the day was cool. The rain wasn't a torrent, but a drizzle, sometimes just gray, sometimes waved into curtains by a fitful breeze. Good day to stay inside, not that Dipper usually spent much time outside, anyway.

"I'm sorry, Brobro," Mabel said that morning as the two sat playing another video game, a treasure hunt that involved colorful penguins as the characters. "I guess we'll never know who was mean enough to steal your cards last month."

"That's OK," Dipper said quietly.

"It is not OK one thousand percent!" Mabel said. "I can tell that it still bothers you, and that bothers me, Mabel!"

Dipper couldn't contradict her, but he said, "It's over. I know, it's rotten to think that someone hates me so much—"

"They don't hate you," Mabel said. "It was just somebody who did something jerky 'cause they were in a jerky mood. You know, on the spur of the moment or whatever. Nobody hates you."

They sure don't love me, Dipper thought, but instead of saying anything he just made his blue penguin hide from a Polar bear—why were two creatures from opposite poles even in the desert somewhere?—by scampering atop a large orange boulder.

"He'll see you," warned Mabel.

"Nope. The bears in this game can't bend their heads back to look up. As long as I keep my guy still and quiet, he's safe."

"No looking up animation, huh? Good to know," Mabel said. "And . . . the bear wanders off! Time for Pink Petunia to sneak in and grab the gold!"

"Hey!" Dipper said as the pink penguin ice-skated (in a desert? With cacti?) in from screen left and began to dig where the green X marked a spot.

He made the blue penguin hop down, too late. "A treasure chest!" Mabel said as the piratey-looking trunk popped into view with a ka-ching! sound effect. Then the chest popped open to reveal . . . a Jack-in-the-Box with a label under his chin: FOOL'S GOLD! The game soundtrack made a mocking wah-wah noise. "Aw," Mabel said. "I hate this game!"

"Gold is rare," Dipper said. "The manual says that out of every ten digs, you can expect only one gold chest or two silver ones. Then there may be copper, a power-up, or fish. Or nothing. Nothing's more likely."

"But I'm Greedy Mabel," his sister complained, making her pink penguin continue across the screen. "Look for those X's that markses the spotses!"

"We'd find more treasure if we worked together," Dipper suggested, making his blue penguin tag along behind hers.

His tone was so odd that Mabel gave him a sideways glance. The stress lines beneath his eyes looked deeper. "Yeah," she said softly. "We should always do stuff together."

Dipper mumbled something that she couldn't quite catch. He turned pink.

"Come again?" Mabel urged.

Dipper cleared his throat. "I said 'you're my best friend.'"

Mabel knew he wasn't being entirely truthful. She had heard enough the first time to understand that he hadn't originally said 'best,' but 'only.' Still, she gave him a broad grin and a thumbs up. "Right you are! Let's go dig up some real pretend gold!"


Spring came. Dipper and Mabel knew that Dad and Mom were having Talks about every night. "I wonder what I did?" Mabel asked.

"It's not you," Dipper said. "They're worrying about me. Dad thinks they should take me to the doctor. Mom thinks I might need a therapist. They're waiting for me to cheer up."

"Dipper!" Mabel said. "This is a golden opportunity! Think of something that will cheer you up and tell them you want it!"

"Like what?" Dipper asked.

"I don't know! Like a complete videotape collection of the Ghost Hairdressers show!"

"Ghost Harassers," Dipper corrected. "And I'd get DVDs, not tapes. Tapes are old technology."

Mabel looked a little huffy. She had a collection of videotapes she treasured, including all three Dream Boy High movies. "Well, tell them that, then!"

"They're expensive," Dipper said. "There are three two-season sets so far, and each set is like seventy-five dollars." He was silent for a moment. "Anyhow, I'm not sure that would help. Mom keeps telling Dad that the trouble is I don't have friends."

"You do! You told me that time! You've got me!"

With a small smile, Dipper said, "Yeah, but that's mandatory."

"Don't use words that I don't know!"

"Gee," Dipper said. "That's hard to do."

She hit him with a pillow.


April passed, and May, and they came to the last day of school. On the playground that afternoon—after recess they'd go inside, Mrs. Wright would hand out report cards, and then it would be home for the summer. For Mabel months of playing with her friends, riding her bike around the cul-de-sac, going to sleepovers, all that stretched ahead. For Dipper, a summer of reading, daydreaming, trips to the zoo or to parks with their parents, and, mostly, loneliness beckoned.

On that day, Mabel came so close to solving the mystery. So very, very close.

As the class came in from recess, Susan Tyler gave Mabel a square white envelope, nothing written on it. "I want to still be friends next year," she said a little shyly. "So, anyway, this has a card with my address and our phone number, and if you and I and Dipper can sometimes get together over the summer, you know, that'd be great!"

Mabel hugged her and said, "I think it's great, too!"

"Settle down, class," Mrs. Wright said. "In your seats, please."

Mabel tucked the envelope in the outside pocket of her backpack and got into her desk.

Mrs. Wright was saying, "I know you're excited. The good news is everyone passed. Now as I call your name, come up for your report card. When those are handed out, it will be time to go out to the pick-up line. I just want to tell you that I'm proud of all of your and that I enjoyed being your teacher. Don't forget your summer reading list, and be prepared to zoom into fourth grade next fall."

"Three cheers for Mrs. Wright!" Mabel yelled. "Hip, hip—uh, you all say 'Hooray!'"

They did, more or less in unison, but refused to cheer for the next two times. Mabel grumped, "Nobody ever does that right." Then they got their report cards, they formed up the line, and—

As they neared the door to the school parking lot, Mr. Peavy called, "Hey, whose is this?"

He held up a pink-and-used-to-be-white backpack that was more sticker than pack. "Mine!" Mabel yelled. "Doy! I forgot it!"

He gave it to her, she thanked him, and in the car they excitedly told Mom all about the grades they had made and how much they would miss Mrs. Wright.

Funny.

June had started by the time Mabel remembered Susan's cards. She rummaged through her backpack and found some wrapped taffy that was dry and hard to chew, but—no envelope. She couldn't remember if she'd put it in the backpack or not. However, she had friends who knew Susan's number and she called Susan and they had a quiet little conversation about maybe getting together over the summer.

They didn't get together, but they talked about it.

Before hanging up, Susan asked, "Did Dipper, uh—how is he?"

"Oh, he's fine," she said. "He's going to the mall with Mom to buy himself some dumb DVD he really wants.

In July, Susan's dad announced that they were moving to Santa Barbara. He was in IT, and IT folks were nomadic.

They never heard from Susan again.

However, Dipper did go to the video store with his dad one Saturday in June. And he came back with a DVD, which he gave—to Mabel.

"The Ghost Harassers sets were too expensive," he said with a shrug. "But I thought we could both enjoy this."

Mabel's face lit up as she looked at the cover, which prominently featured a smiling teenage witch and her black cat. Kiki and Jiji. "Oh, Brobro!" she said. "I didn't think you could get these any longer!"

"They happened to have one left," Dipper said. "And this one's dubbed." When she made a little "huh?" noise, he said, "I mean the characters talk in English."

"Dipper!" Mabel said, hugging him. "You're my best friend!"


In a much later time, Blendin Blandin shook his head as he read the brief note in childish handwriting:


Dear Mabel, before school ends I have to tell you I did something mean. I saw that Dipper had a great big card from somebody and I felt so bad because I just had a tiny little dopey outer space one. I got back early from lunch and was going to take my card out but people were coming in so I just dumped his bag. I saw him with the big card later and it was yours and I feel so bad. I'm really sorry cause I like Dipper. Please forgive me and tell him I am so so sorry.

I drew him the other card in this envelope. Please give it to him and tell him if he will forgive me I won't ever hurt him again and I want to be his friend.

I am your friend, too.

Susan


The second card was done in colored pencil, and for a nine-year-old's work it was good art. It showed a girl with dark blonde hair holding up one side of a heart. On the other side a boy wearing a brown cap with a star on it held up the other. The message said, "I didn't mean to hurt you. Can we still be friends?"


Blendin sighed.

Harsh, he thought to himself. This is so harsh. I hate myself a little right now.

But as a TPAES member, he could look up and down the time lines. In one, Dipper thanked all nine people who had given him cards. And Susan, as surprised as Dipper himself, had smooched his cheek.

Dipper felt pretty darned good about himself. But that one small incident, like a stepped-on butterfly, threw things off the track. He and Susan were a bit of an item, more like a brief paragraph, from February to July, when she moved away. They remained pen-pals for another three years.

In fifth grade, Dipper grew more confident. He drew more friends, and most of them were girls. In sixth grade he got his first real kiss on the lips. And he was happy—neurotic, but reasonably happy—and no longer lonely.

But with the change, and without the Valentine, a lonely Dipper would fall hard for a certain older redheaded teen. With the Valentine, a more confident one, with a more-or-less steady girlfriend (as twelve-year-olds' relationships go) would be vaguely friendly with Wendy but nothing more.

And . . . Robbie would hurt Wendy deeply. And . . . a deeply depressed Wendy would not go into the Bunker with Dipper and Mabel and Soos.

Because of that, well—

Bill Cipher would eventually win. And Time Baby would die for real.

"Po-poor kids," Blendin murmured. Getting into the school, stopping time for just long enough, subjectively, for him to grab the envelope, then leaving the backpack where Mabel wouldn't see it but the janitor would—

That called for finesse.

But he'd pulled it off. Susan wouldn't suffer, not in the long term, because she thought she had apologized to Dipper.

Dipper would continue to be Dipper.

So why did Blendin feel so disgusted with himself?

Maybe because I was so unhappy myself as a kid.

Blendin filed the little note. Ahnhold Mondane, the junior Agent who was shadowing him to learn the ropes, said, "Sir, was that bad news? You don't look happy."

"It's good nuh-news," Blendin said. "Good jo-job retrieving the envelope. Go-good news, Agent. But it came at just the wrong time."

"Can we fix it?" Mondane asked.

Blendin took off his thick glasses and polished them. In a gruff voice, he said, "Do-don't worry about it. You'll get to un-understand the job. It's not always easy, and people get-get hurt sometimes. In this ca-case, things will tu-turn out for the buh-best. People do get hurt, but they heal. Sometimes you may get hurt, too. The only thing is . . . it will ta-take time. Just . . . time." He replaced his glasses and cleared his throat to make his voice more businesslike. "Now, noobie, time fuh-flies. On today's agenda is a little ja-jaunt back to 1902. We have to ta-talk to two-two brothers in a bi-bicycle shop in, um, Day-Dayton Ohio."


The End