Trans Pacifica
Chapter 9
That afternoon . . . .
The electron carpet gave one final blue-white lightning-bolt spark and crackle, and Dipper and Pacifica stood staring at each other.
"There!" Dipper said, patting himself with satisfaction. "Okay, we're all changed back. You good, Pacifica?"
"Uh—I guess so. I feel a little queasy, but, yeah, I'm me again."
"So everybody's back to normal? Good," Wendy said, coming out of the bathroom swathed in an oversized, thick white terrycloth robe and with an Aztec-patterned beach towel wrapped around her red hair. "At least I got my skin pretty clean."
Dipper grinned at her. "That's good, Wendy. How're you doing otherwise?"
"Feel fine," Wendy said, pulling the towel a little tighter. "'Course I'll be a lot better when I can get all this gunk out of my hair. It's horrible stuff, man. It sticks like bubble gum."
Melody told her, "Come into the parlor and let me look at it, dear." They all went in. Wendy sat in the armchair and unwrapped her hair—which was very damp and still looked like a clumpy, lumpy disaster area. Hovering over her, dabbing at her matted hair with a washcloth, Melody muttered, "All right, I think I know what will get it out. While you were showering, I was in the kitchen trying different things to loosen the spider threads on your poor shirt, and I think I've found a combination that will work. First, we'll have to brush lots and lots of creamy peanut butter through your hair-"
Wendy made a face. "Peanut butter? In my hair? Ugh!"
"No, no, Melody's right," Dipper said eagerly. "Like when Mabel gets bubble gum in her hair. Peanut butter has oils that will stiffen the adhesive and make it less clingy, and the tiny fragments of peanuts are just abrasive enough to pull the residue off without damaging your hair!"
"And then after we comb the worst of it out," Melody said, "to get out the last of the peanut butter-clogged gunk, we'll need to brush lots cooking oil through your hair. That'll pick up both the loosened web and the remaining peanut butter."
"Are you gonna clean me or cook me?" Wendy asked, a little sarcastically. She sighed. "Okay, sorry for being snippy. Bring on the peanut butter and cooking oil. And then more showerin' with lots and lots of shampoo and hot water, right?"
"Right!" Soos said. "Hey, Wendy, I'm off to the store for a giant economy tub of peanut butter and a gallon of oil. What kind of shampoo do you prefer?"
Wendy mumbled something and looked embarrassed.
Soos leaned closer. "Dude, I didn't catch that."
"Crowning Miracle!" Wendy said, turning pink. "It's a girly kind of product, but it's the only thing that tames down this mane of mine. The cream rinse, too, please, same brand. The kind without perfume, OK?"
"Peanut butter, cooking oil, perfume-free Crowning Miracle shampoo and rinse, chocolate-covered raisins. Got it." When they stared at him, he shrugged. "I love chocolate-covered raisins, dudes. Deal with it, OK?"
"Soos," Dipper said, "when you get back, think of a safe place to hide the electron carpet. I don't think it should be destroyed, but keep it out of our hands, OK?"
Soos nodded, a thoughtful expression on his broad face. "You got it, dawg. I'll think of a real good place to stash it while I'm drivin' to the store. Oh! I know! The secret compartment I found under the office floor! That'll do it! Be right back, dawgs."
Dipper sighed and shook his head.
Pacifica stood off to the side, in the corner and sort of huddled. She looked miserable, unkempt, and disheveled. She said quietly, "Wendy, I'll pay for your clothes and all this stuff to get your hair clean. By the way, I use Crowning Miracle, too. It's really good about leaving your hair soft and manageable. Of course, I get the kind that smells like money. Father likes that."
Wendy gave a short laugh. "Figures. But don't worry about repaying me, Pacifica. My clothes all come from the Sprawl Mart, anyhow. Dad says I'm too rough on 'em to buy the expensive stuff."
Mabel said, "Hey, if there's any of that shampoo left over, I'll try some! Though my hair is sort of naturally beautiful, anyway."
"Yeah," Dipper told her. "It's you that's unmanageable."
"That's me! Boop!" But then Mabel grew a little more serious: "We have some unfinished business, though. Pacifica, you know you have to be punished in some way. Give me time and I'll think of something suitable." She immediately brightened up again. "Meanwhile, you're officially invited to our weekly sleepover this Friday night. Yay!"
"What?" Pacifica asked, blinking rapidly. "You—you want me? After I—?"
"Well, sure!" Mabel said. "Look, you made a mistake, but everybody makes 'em, and it helps that you're sorry for it. And, hey, I gotta keep track of how your dad is developing my ideas, and you may need some new ones to keep him sunny side up. What's wrong, why are you twitching so much?"
Pacifica looked acutely uncomfortable. "I don't know! I feel really strange. It's just that my clothes are making me feel awkward and sweaty for some reason."
"Ah—yeah, there's a reason for that. Dipper was in 'em." Mabel winked at Dipper. "We can handle this. Come with me," Mabel said, taking Pacifica by the hand. "I have loads of stuff that will fit you to a T." She led Pacifica off toward her room.
Melody left Wendy and Dipper at the dining table. Wendy was all muffled up in Melody's thick terrycloth robe and also wore her very own disgusted expression. Dipper said, "Hey, cheer up. For what it's worth—you look good even with your hair all gummed up."
Despite herself, Wendy laughed. "Thanks, man. You always know how to make a girl feel awkward."
With a chuckle, Dipper said modestly, "Well, that's me, you know."
"Sorry about your hands, dude. Rope burn."
Dipper looked down at his palms, angry red welts streaking them, white blisters dotting them. "Hurts a little, but not bad. It's OK, really. I'm just glad you were able to rescue Pacifica, even using my puny body."
Wendy gave him a playful punch on the shoulder that ordinarily wouldn't have hurt, but after the exertions of the day and the resulting aches, it made Dipper hide a wince. "Hey, dude, don't sell yourself short. You totally could've done everything I did. You just need a little muscle building and tonin' up and trainin', that's all. We'll work on it, all right?"
"Well, I'll give it a try," Dipper promised. His phone chirped, and he answered it. "Hello? Great-uncle Ford! You are? Hey, man, when you get back to Gravity Falls, call me right away! Remember those mysterious Oregon spider monkeys you made a note about? I've got a ton of new information! Yeah, even better, come over for dinner. Melody and Soos won't mind, and Abuelita loves to see you guys, so drive over, OK? Yes, I have pictures! Cool! I'll tell them to set a couple of extra plates! See you then! 'Bye!" He broke the connection. "Stan and Ford just got back from New Jersey and they've landed in Portland. They'll be coming over for dinner. Want to stay?"
"Aw, thanks, but no. My dad'll have a purple fit if I do," Wendy said. "But I appreciate the offer. As soon as I get peanut buttered and oiled and boiled in the shower, I gotta take off for home. So—movie night at my place or here on Friday?"
"Whichever, they're both good." Dipper grinned. "As long as we're together and in our own skins."
Wendy burst out laughing. "Dude!"
Dipper gave her an apologetic grin. "Sorry. I'm still trying to learn how to express these feelings, you know?"
She touched his nose fondly. "You're comin' along, Dip. You're comin' along."
That evening after dinner . . . .
"Remarkable images!" Stanford exclaimed, studying the photos that Dipper had run off on the printer—not the old one that made things come to life, fortunately, but a smaller one that Soos had installed in the office.
Dipper, sitting beside him, nearly glowed. "So can you reach any conclusions, or do we need a type specimen?"
"Oh, a type specimen would definitely clear up a lot of issues. For instance, as near as I can figure, these creatures must have a strange way of taking nourishment that doesn't mean drinking their prey's blood directly through their mouths." He leaned over the closest photo, one showing the creature that had fallen to the ground, and studied it with a magnifying glass. "I think you're right about the minimal venom, too. These mouth parts are far too small for the bulk of those bodies! They must have some kind of internal brain, not located in the usual part. Maybe a swelling of the ganglia just inside the thorax. But how they feed—that's a mystery."
Dipper said, "I've been pondering that. I think there's a special retractable feeding organ. Wendy knocked that specimen down, and when it was on its back and kicking, something black and shiny jetted out about two inches from right beneath where its neck, if it has a neck, joins the body. It's not in the photo, 'cause it flicked out and then right back in again. I just saw a flash of it, but it looked like a sharp black suction tube, stiff, probably made of chitin, and it reminded me of a big medical syringe."
Ford sounded intrigued and excited: "That's the likely solution, then. Once small animals or birds are trapped, and probably after they weaken and their struggles cease, the spider monkeys may use those to thrust through the cocoon, through the flesh of the victims, and feed on blood. Or perhaps they let their cocooned prey starve to death or suffocate, and then as the body decays, they drink the rotting fluids."
"Hey," Stan said from the sofa, "For Pete's sake, I'm eatin' ice cream with strawberry sauce here!"
With great dignity, Stanford said, "Stanley, to a scientist, nothing is disgusting."
Stan barked a short sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, remember when we were eight, the banana split I made for you with a Modeling-Dough banana an' you thought it was real?"
Ford grimaced and shuddered. "Exception noted. That was foul."
"I don't think these things are really monkeys, though," Dipper said. "Not even mammals. Their arms and legs are weirdly jointed and they look chitinous, except for those very monkey-like paws. I think they're probably somehow related to arachnids, but with only half the appendages."
"Maybe a different evolutionary line," Ford mused. "Or convergent evolution, since these things fill a niche that in South America monkeys occupy. So perhaps they should be called Oregon monkey spiders!"
"Oy!" grunted Stan. "Nerds! Nerds of a feather!"
But a happy Ford and Dipper ignored him as they sat late into the night and discussed the fascinating details of these newly-discovered denizens of Gravity Falls.
Wednesday morning . . . .
Pacifica called Mabel at about ten, interrupting her mostly futile attempts to teach Waddles how to play Dipper's tuba. "Am I calling at a bad time?"
"Nope, it's all right. Waddles can't seem to grasp the principle of embouchure. Plus, he just swallowed Dipper's last mouthpiece. Have to wait until he passes 'em to carry on the lessons."
"Oh, that's too—something, I guess. Uh—did Wendy finally get all the goop out of her hair?"
"Finally! Yeah, it took another day of oiling and shampooing. Her hair looks really fabulous now, though. Hey, by the way, I love that shampoo that you and she both use. It's replacing my old favorite."
"What was that?"
"Disharino! It's also good for greasy pots and pans and garage floors. But Crowning Miracle is much better for hair."
"Oh. Um. Good." Pacifica was silent for a couple of seconds but then added, "Hey, uh, Mabel, this sounds kind of strange, I know, but—instead of me coming over to the Mystery Shack, how would you and Grenda and Candy like to come to my house for the sleepover on Friday?"
"Huh?" Mabel asked in surprise. "You mean your folks will let you have us over?"
"Well—yeah. My father—my dad, I mean—he's really, really happy. Mr. McGucket already gave him a prototype of whatever your idea was, and it works great. They're going into production, like, next month, and he says projections are that sales will go through the roof, and so will profits. You'll have to tell me again what all that's about. I still don't understand it, but we can talk about it while we have our pajama party. If you guys can come over, I mean."
"Well, we usually chase Dipper out of the attic . . . . "
"Please," Pacifica asked in a small voice. "Let me be the hostess. I—I've never been allowed to have a sleepover before. My dad and mom will be away—they're going to Chicago for the weekend to meet some investors who want in on the new product line, but they already said it would be OK for me to have friends over. And we've got loads of room and we can do anything you guys want here. You can ride Desperado, and—and we—I don't know what you do at a sleepover, but whatever it is, we can do it!"
Mabel put on her thoughtful voice. "Let me consider this: Have our sleepover in my brobro's smelly old room, or come to your great house where there's like a ninety-six-inch TV to watch rom-com movies, and a top-of-the-line sound system for playing dance tunes on, and a croquet court, and a sauna, and a special room full of makeup and tons of clothes to try on . . . hmm. I will reluctantly say we'll come to your place! Will you send Welly to pick us up at the Shack on Friday afternoon, say around two?"
"Uh—who's 'Welly?'"
Mabel laughed. "Your butler, silly! Wellington!"
Pacifica sounded stumped: "What? It's legal to call a butler by a nickname?"
"'Course it is! And if you call him 'Welly,' he'll like you and do all sorts of favors for you. Oh, be sure to send him in the limo! Grenda's kinda ho-hum about them because she rides in a stretched one every time she sees Marius, but it'll be a big thrill for Candy!"
With a happy laugh, Pacifica said, "Oh, sure, that's no problem. I'll have him there at two sharp. I'm so excited about this! Be ready on time, OK?"
"Oh, we will," Mabel said. "By the way, the next day after that, Saturday afternoon, can you come over to the Shack? I have a little project in mind. And remember, you do owe me."
"Uh, I'm sure I can come over. So I'll see you Friday afternoon—oh, by the way, am I right? You never did get to ride Desperado?"
"No," Mabel said regretfully. "I kind of got busy. I saw him, though. He's real handsome!"
"Then first thing when you guys come over Friday afternoon, I'll give you a riding lesson."
"Sounds like fun!"
"Well, like you say—I owe you."
When they hung up, Mabel gave an evil little chuckle. Rubbing her hands, she murmured, "You do owe me. And you have no idea how I'm gonna make you repay me, Pacifica. You have no idea!"
