Trans Pacifica

Chapter 3

Mabel had confided in Wellington: "I make these mistakes with forks and things, and Father always is unhappy with me."

"That is not a problem, Miss Pacifica," the butler said. "Just watch me closely as I serve."

And sure enough, when Wellington set the salad course before her, he silently pointed at a fork. When the soup came, he indicated the right spoon. And he had also given her a piece of advice: "Watch Mrs. Northwest, and do as she does. Mr. Northwest had her schooled in elegant manners before he married her."

So she got through the evening meal without a slip—though she did make one mistake when she said, "Father, about your business—"

Preston said coldly, "Pacifica, we do not discuss such things over dinner! And children should never initiate a conversation. While we're at the table, you will speak when you are spoken to. Do you understand?"

(Mabel) whispered "Yes, Father." For the rest of the meal she didn't speak a word.

But when Wellington had taken away the dessert dishes and Preston had stood up and Priscilla did the same, (Mabel) asked, "Father, now that dinner is over, may I speak to you?"

"Do you want to begin by apologizing for your waste of your tutors' time and my money?" Preston returned sharply.

(Mabel) looked at the floor. "Yes, Father. I'm sorry I was thoughtless."

"Then come into the living room and tell me what you have to say."

"Just a minute!" The Northwests stared as (Mabel) hopped off her chair and dashed into the hall and up the stairs. She heard Preston saying resentfully, "She must get this from your side of the family!"

When she brought all the stuff she had prepared to the living room, she found Preston and Priscilla Northwest sitting side by side on the sofa. He was still looking fiercely unhappy—and Pacifica's mom was looking a little frightened. Her smile flickered like an unspoken apology of her own dying on her lips.

"Okay," (Mabel) said, setting up an easel and putting a stack of papers on it, "Father, I've been thinking about what you said. Sales of mud flaps are flat, right? Like this graph." She took off the top sheet of sketch paper, revealing a straight red horizontal line drawn across the next. "Well, what would you say if I told you that next year sales could look like this?" She dramatically snatched away the straight-line graph. Behind it a green line curved up from the left to the top right corner, like a lopsided grassy smile. "Up, up, up!"

Preston sighed. "Pacifica, please."

"Tut-tut-tut-tut!" (Mabel) said. "Of course you want to ask how are we going to inspire a wild burst of mud flap buying. I'm going to tell you the three secrets that will spell your success. It's actually spelled with three W's—"

"Success has no W in it! Priscilla, first thing tomorrow call that private school and withdraw Pacifica! We're going to get tutors—"

"Dad—I mean Father," (Mabel) pleaded, "I'm not being literal. It's a mnemonic!"

"A what?" Preston asked suspiciously. "You just made up that word."

"I did not! It's a word that my br—uh, my buddy Dipper Pines uses. It means 'something that helps you remember.' Like the rainbow colors in order from outside to in are Roy G. Biv—red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo, and violet!"

Preston muttered the name and then his eyebrows went up. "Has anybody copyrighted or trademarked that idea?" he asked eagerly.

"It's public domain, Father," (Mabel) said, drooping a little. This was proving harder than she thought it would be. "Anywho, just remember the three W's as we go through this presentation: Welcoming, Warm, and Wired!"

"I don't understand."

Impatiently, (Mabel) hopped onto the sofa beside him and reached out to pooch his cheeks. "Welcoming. Warm. Wired!"

As she hopped down, Preston turned to his wife and said in a shocked voice, "She touched me! Aren't you going to do anything?"

"Shh," Priscilla said. "I think you should listen to your daughter."

"But she actually touched me! And she's the one who held hands with the hillbilly!"

(Mabel) said, "Dad! You can sterilize your cheeks later! Right now, pay attention. I'm trying to help you grow your business!"

"And increase your profits," Priscilla's mom added.

Preston took a deep breath. "All right. Go on with your nonsense. And it isn't Dad, it's Fa—"

(Mabel) said pleadingly, "I've always had a father. But I've always wanted a dad."

While Preston's face screwed up in an effort to understand the difference, (Mabel) tore off the sheet to reveal the next sketch. It was a series of cartoons of mud flaps, each one with a picture on it. At the top of the sheet was the all-caps word WECLOMING. It had been scratched through and below it was WELCOMING.

"Now," (Mabel) said, "to date, all your mud flaps have been the same—black polyurethane with the green NW logo on them. Does that welcome you? Huh? Does it spread out its big old arms and say, 'Come to me, little trucker?' I think not! But look at these!" She produced a pointer.

"Number one: with easy computer technology, we can make inserts. They'll quickly and permanently attach to pre-cast round holes in the center of the flaps. And they can be individualized! A trucker can have a picture of a girlfriend or boyfriend! A father trucker can have a photo of his kids! A mother trucker—"

"Pacifica!" roared Mr. Northwest. "Watch your language!"

"ANYWAY," (Mabel) went on, "you get the idea! Who could resist the welcoming look of a loved one on a set of mud flaps? Sure, it'll add a little bit to the cost, but we can boost the price to cover that—we'll call these 'Northwest's Welcomes' and it'll be a premium line!"

"I think she has something," Priscilla murmured.

Preston's eyes narrowed. "Yes. Yes. Long-haul truckers are notoriously sentimental. It has merit. Have you done a cost-benefit analysis?"

(Mabel) spread her arms. "What am I, an economist? Dad, you have people who can do that for you! Let me go on to WARM."

"Very well. Proceed."

She tore off the sheet. The WARM page had sketches of the mud flap factory and of very strange-looking animals. "Now, currently, your factory is discharging toxic chemicals into the water daily, causing extreme mutations in animals. There are cows with eight legs, bears that are mostly made up of bear heads—"

"Stop right there! The Environmental Protection Agency representatives that I bribed found no link—"

"Father."

"Oh, very well. What's your idea?"

"We project an image of Northwest Mud Flaps as a warm and caring organization that protects the environment!"

"But we can't do that because money!"

"Sh-sh-sh! I estimate that a water treatment facility added to our factory will diminish profits by only five per cent—and the boost we get from the Welcome Line and the positive publicity from being the Warm Mud Flap Facility will cause a fifty per cent rise in profits! Net effect: MORE money!"

"You're finally talking sense," Preston said. "Good money. I mean good girl."

"Now are you ready for the crown jewel? Here we go. This will blow your socks off!"

The last sketch was headed WIRED.

"All right," (Mabel) said, holding up both hands. "Close your eyes—close 'em!—and picture the Welcome line of mud flaps, made in a Warm, eco-friendly factory. Now, instead of putting pictures in the circular openings of the flaps, think of putting a wi-fi hotspot in!"

"That," said Preston Northwest, "is insane."

"Is it? Is it? IS IT?" (Mabel) asked. "Every truck on the road can make wi-fi available all over the country if it sports a pair of Northwest Wired mud flaps! I know an inventor who can design them! They'll keep a constant signal level for anyone within range. And, Dad, here's the beauty part: We can create the Northwest Wired Web! And we can charge users for it!"

"Say that beautiful word again," Preston said.

"Charge 'em!"

Preston wiped a tear from his eye. "My little girl!"

"Look," (Mabel) said, "everybody wants to have Internet access at all times, even on the road. We charge a subscription fee, and maybe even a connection fee—not high, maybe a quarter for half an hour or something. But it will mount up. Now, we take the initial subscription fee as ours. We give each trucker ten cents of all the connection charges. We keep fifteen cents. And here's my estimate of how much we'll make in just one year!"

She tore off the last sheet but one, and the very last one read

$$$ ZILLIONS OF DOLLARS! $$$

"Oh," Preston murmured. "Pacifica, from now on, you may call me 'dad.' After dinner. In private only. No more than once a day."

"Thank you, Father," (Mabel) said. She grinned as she thought, Wait'll Pacifica gets a load of how her dad has changed!


And meanwhile, back in the Mystery Shack . . . .

It was soooo tempting.

The thought had come to Pacifica in the night, as she struggled toward sleep in Mabel's bed, in Mabel's strange nightshirt, in the creaking, crackling, popping old Mystery Shack.

What if Wendy Corduroy TOLD Dipper she'd never love him?

What if Wendy changed from being so easy-going and laid-back to being, well, sarcastic and sort of cruel and belittling? Hah. "Belittling." THAT would break up Dipper's hope for a romance REAL fast!

I'll get back at Mabel for telling me to be sure to call him "little" brother! I don't know how, but I'll get back at her—

Aggh! Wait a second. That's how I used to think, back before the ghost and the never-mind-about-all-that stuff and before seeing Dipper again this summer and feeling my heart beat faster and realizing o.m.g., I'm like totally smitten. He doesn't think I'm that kind of a person.

But—if Wendy were that kind of a person . . . .

It's so totally tempting!

The next morning Melody woke her up way too early—"Seven o'clock, Mabel!"

"Aggh!" (Pacifica) sat up in bed, wondering what the strange smell was. "Nobody gets up at—there's a pig in the room!"

"It's only Waddles," Melody said. "You know how unhappy he is when you don't play with him first thing!"

Waddles looked as if he could feel about as unhappy as a slab of potted ham could. He grunted and nosed around the floor.

"Uh—thanks, Melody," (Pacifica) said. "What's for breakfast?"

"Soos's Abuelita has made chilaquiles. Hurry! Dipper's already eating."

Dipper! (Pacifica) got out of bed, reluctantly scratched Waddles's ears, and then took a very hot shower. She couldn't understand how Mabel ever did anything with that thick brown hair of hers—she finally tied it back into a kind of ponytail—and then she pulled on skirt, sweater, and shoes (the girl really needed some education, because an arcade game was definitely no guide to fashion where shoes were concerned).

She followed her nose to the dining room, where a smiling Abuelita sing-songed "Good morning!" and set down a hot plate of what looked like tortilla triangles, strips of chorizo sausage, a red sauce, and, crowning it all, a poached egg.

Dipper sat at the table, nose in a book, shoveling food into his mouth with absent-minded nom-nom-nom sounds.

"Good morning, Dipper," (Pacifica) said.

"And here is some juice," Abuelita murmured, setting down a glass of orange juice.

Mabel would thank her! "Thank you very much," (Pacifica) said.

"De nada, chica!" The old woman bustled back to the kitchen.

"Dipper! I said good morning."

"Oh, hi, Mabel. Hm. I think today I'll try the eastern bank of the river. There are a lot of big trees there, good monkey country. You want to come?"

"No, I don't think so." (Pacifica) closed her eyes and took a bite of the foreign breakfast. "Hey, this is pretty good!"

"Hah. You told me grape-scented stickers were good!"

"Uh, look, Dipper, I'm sorry I made fun of you. I shouldn't have called you 'Little.'"

"Oh, it's okay," Dipper said, pushing his empty plate back. "I mean, I've grown like half a foot since last year. I shouldn't complain. Of course you are still taller than me, but only by a millimeter."

"Yeah."

He tilted his head. "Are you okay?"

"Just a little down, I guess."

Waddles came wandering in and looked up hopefully.

Dipper asked, "Aren't you going to give him a tortilla chip?"

"Huh? Oh, sure." With finger and thumb, she gingerly picked one up. "Here you are, Waddles." She dropped it, and he fielded it before it had a chance to hit the floor. "Have fun looking for your monkey spiders."

"Oregon spider monkeys!" he said. "I'm not going out right away. I think I'll wait until Wendy comes in. I always like to say hi to her. I'll be in my room."

He left the table and she heard him climbing the steps up to the attic room. Moodily, (Pacifica) ate a little of the breakfast, feeding about half of it to Waddles. When he munched a piece of chorizo, she muttered, "Cannibal!" in an accusing voice.

She leaned her elbow on the table and her cheek on her hand as she watched the pig nose around for any overlooked fragments of food. And, darkly, she thought, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy!