Beware the Banshee
Chapter 3
From the Journals of Dipper Pines: Sunday night, June 8, 2014: Here I am again, sitting up in bed in my attic bedroom at the Shack, with the lantern on and Journal 2 open on my lap desk, scribbling away.
It feels incredibly good to be back in Gravity Falls! Everything between me and Wendy is going smoothly, Soos is as kind and goofy as ever, Abuelita's meals are great, Melody's sweet, and the baby is cheerful and funny. If only Mabel would settle down.
I mean, sure, guys going through adolescence have mood swings. I know that real well. But girls must do it too. One minute Mabel's singing and dancing around, the next she's all drooped over in a corner obsessing about boys in her life. Or the lack of them. I don't know, maybe this guy she met might be OK. I'll have to meet him, I guess.
Russ, so I guess his name is Russel? I don't think Mabel even knows. From my short glimpse of him, he sure looks like somebody from Gravity Falls! A skinny, coppery-haired kid, not tall at all but looking tall because he's so kind of thin and stretched. Mabel wouldn't talk much about him except to say his folks sounded like survivalists or "hippies" or something. Grunkle Stan once told me that the woods are full of hippies who came here, like, fifty years ago and dropped out and found places to stay and started hippie families.
I don't really think that's true, because I would have seen some of them when exploring the woods. But, whatever. I need to find some way to be nice to Mabel. I thought I was really having a rough time all spring, but it's been hard for her, too. Losing her favorite teacher and all. And she hasn't said a word of complaint about this, but when Dad clipped the sports-page stories (well, really three or four short paragraphs from the papers that happened to list my wins) about the track meets and put them up on the fridge, it must've made her feel like she was being overlooked. Dad's always put her art up there, but never once anything about me before.
Before this year, I never thought much about it, but Mom's always been partial to me, for some reason. And Mabel's been Dad's girl. Huh. Weird.
So anyhow, here I am, and already I'm starting to worry. I tried to call Ford twice this afternoon and got his voice mail. I'd text him, but I'm not sure he even understands what texting is. Grunkle Stan says when Ford went through the portal, phones had to be connected to the wall by a cord and you couldn't write messages on them like some fershlugginer pocket-sized Western Union office.
Something tells me Stan's not exactly up to date, either. But anyway, Stan tried to reassure me, telling me that Ford only turns his cell phone on when he wants to make a call. He thinks the batteries will die in an hour or so if it's constantly on. Maybe when he gets back from San Jose I can offer him a tutorial on how cell phones work and bring him up to speed on modern battery technology.
OK, so Stan says he called the motel where Ford's staying down there in San Jose, and the people at the desk said Ford's in and out and keeps late hours and leaves early. They'd seen him this morning, so he was OK then. Stan left a message with the hotel operator for him, so maybe he'll call tomorrow.
If he doesn't, I'm going to ask Grunkle Stan to go down there with me and check up on Ford. That house is dangerous, I feel that in my bones. Ford may need more help than he thinks he does.
Practiced the guitar for about an hour. I was so pumped in the spring, but now don't know if I can go through with this. When I think of playing for Wendy, I get all clenched up inside and I can't even play chords in the right order. Having a little trouble getting used to using my pinky, too. I'm gonna try, though. Practice, practice, practice.
Getting late. Going to turn in. Note to self for tomorrow: Find some way to be nice to Mabel. She needs it.
Dipper slept sound that night, without any dreams that he could remember, but he woke with a start from someone shaking him. "Dipper! Get up, dude!"
"Huh?" He jerked awake and gasped. "Wendy!"
"Dude, it's time for our run. Didja forget?" In the pale light of early morning, she was grinning down at him.
Dipper swung out of bed, then remembered he was wearing only his shirt and a pair of tighty-whitey undershorts. He hastily tugged the sheet over him. "Dang, I forgot to set the alarm last night. Uh, you could've knocked, Wendy. I might not have been decent."
"Well," she said with a big smile and a waggle of her eyebrows, "a girl can always hope! Give you two minutes, Dip. Meet me in the side yard!" She left him, and he made a hasty bathroom visit, then changed into his running shorts, shirt, and trainers. He hadn't yet unpacked and couldn't find a sweatband, so he tugged on the pine-tree hat.
They did their exercise routine, then set off on one of their favorite running routes, the one that led down the sight-seeing track, then on a footpath leading over rolling hills, in and out of woodland, alongside a creek, and around the perfectly circular Moontrap Pond.
They didn't talk very much. Natural sounds filled the world around them: woodpeckers deep in the forest already at work drumming up business, crows in creekside treetops complaining as the two ran along the springy marsh-side track that they were disturbing the peats, the zizz of dragonflies hawking for mosquitoes flitting home drunk on blood. The teens startled a fox drinking on the far edge of the pond, and Dipper saw its head snap up, ears pointed heavenward for an instant before it ducked down and vanished into tall grass, like a magician's trick.
An untidy skein of geese flew high overhead, their light-gray breasts shining in the morning sun as one of them kept up a constant whonk-whonk-whonk! Wendy yelled upward: "That's it, dude, whip 'em into formation!"
All through this the teens didn't slow, though, and they made their turn at the Lonesome Man, a slender six-foot tall stone that stood in the middle of a flat grassy space.
Wendy had told Dipper that, according to her dad, a thousand years ago a Paiute chieftain married a woman from a Chinook tribe. She left him on their wedding night, and he pursued her under a full moon. As he ran, he asked the moon to give her back to him. Ahead of him and losing ground, she asked it to stop him. The moon heard her and changed the running man into a stone, upright but leaning forward because it caught him in mid-stride as he ran. And there he stands for all eternity, yearning toward the place where he had last seen his lost bride.
It was a nice story, but Dipper felt sure that the Native Americans had actually raised the stone for some ceremonial purpose of their own. One day he thought he'd come out and examine it.
For the time being, though, it was just a convenient spot to turn and backtrack along the path, making their total run back to the bonfire clearing exactly four miles, counting by Wendy's pedometer. As usual, when they passed the bonfire log, they slowed to a cool-off walk and held hands the rest of the way. Dipper told Wendy that he wanted to cheer Mabel up, and why, and Wendy said, "That's a good idea, dude. Let's hope she didn't get up super-early and take off already."
She hadn't, because they heard her voice when they walked back into the Shack. To save time, Wendy took the downstairs shower next to the guest room, and Dipper showered and dressed upstairs in the attic bathroom. He opened the bedroom closet to toss his sweaty running togs into the hamper—"How's it hangin', Invisible Wizard?" he asked, a ritual whenever he opened the closet door. He didn't know what he'd do if he ever actually got an answer.
He picked up his laptop and a cable and hurried downstairs. Mabel, carrying a couple of plates to the breakfast table, said, "Scrambled eggs and waffles today, brobro!"
"Great," Dipper said. He went to the kitchen and got himself and Wendy plates, loaded them with waffles and a couple of scoops of egg, and put them on the table. Melody and Little Soos had just settled in, and Abuelita followed Dipper with two cups of coffee.
"One with milk for you," she said. "The good one for Wendy."
"Thanks," Dipper said, setting the black coffee next to the plate he'd brought for Wendy. "Where's Soos?"
"Oh, he's already eaten," Melody said. "But he'll be down in just a minute."
Wendy came in, fresh from her shower, in her usual flannel shirt, jeans, and trapper's hat. But on her chest a gold badge gleamed. "Check it out!" she said, pointing with both hands. "Assistant Manager!"
"Cool!" Wendy said through a mouthful of waffles, syrup, and egg. Soos came downstairs a second later—they heard him: "Walkin' down the stairs, do-ta-do-ta-do"—and then came in, kissed his wife on the cheek and his son on the top of his head, and said, "Mornin', dawgs!"
"OK," Dipper said, having shoveled his food down nearly as fast as Mabel could have done. "Now that everybody's here, I have something to show you. Uh—just a second."
He had to patch his laptop into the flat-screen TV that Soos had bought to replace Stan's antique set, the one with the deluxe coat-hanger antenna. He swiveled the set. "Can everybody see? OK? Watch now!" He punched a command into the laptop keyboard, and the TV came to life.
Mabel gasped. "What are you doing, Dipper?"
On screen a still picture of a humorous-looking, attractive gray-haired lady had appeared. She beamed from the screen.
"Everybody, this is Mrs. Elizabeth Pepper," Dipper said. "Last year she was Mabel's art teacher and her favorite teacher of all time."
"Dipper, I was so happy, and now—" Mabel said, shrinking back into her seat.
"But Mrs. Pepper passed away suddenly in the spring," Dipper went on. "This would have been her last yearbook photo. Turned out that everyone who had taken Mrs. Pepper's classes loved her a lot. So Mabel decided she needed a memorial. Watch this."
It was the video that the school had shot of Mabel's presentation. As the principal and Mabel spoke warmly of Mrs. Pepper, Melody sniffled a little. The video ended as it froze on the portrait of her teacher that Mabel had created, now hanging on the wall of the school's entrance hall.
"OK, so look at this," Dipper said. He changed to a high-res image of the portrait.
The picture zoomed in, and the lifelike picture began to break up into what first looked like dots, but then became tiny photos of thousands of people. "All these are hundreds and hundreds of former and current students who'd had Mrs. Pepper in school. This is her eye," Dipper said. "And right here—wearing the white sweater—this is Mabel, see? In the portrait, she's the twinkle in Mrs. Pepper's eye." He zoomed back out to the realistic portrayal of Mrs. Pepper. "And my sister Mabel did this wonderful thing," he said proudly.
"Oh, Mabel! That's so beautiful!" Wendy said, reaching across the table to grasp Mabel's hand.
Mabel blinked. "Really? You really think so?"
"Dawg, that is like a legendary work of art!" Soos proclaimed, standing up and clapping. "Good for you, Mabel!"
Abuelita blew her nose. "Oh! Ella es tan hermosa!" she said, and she moved from her chair to hug Mabel. "You will have wings in heaven!" she said.
"Dude, she says that your picture is like rad beautiful," Soos said helpfully.
Mabel smiled, shyly at first, and then with genuine pleasure. "She made such a difference in so many people's lives. I just wanted everyone to remember Mrs. Pepper always," she said in a rusty kind of whisper.
"You did it, Sis," Dipper told her quietly. "And I wanted everyone to know how proud I am of you and show them why."
"Dawg!" Soos said, jumping up from his seat again. "I, like, totally get it now! A teacher is part of all her students' lives, right? Anyway, that's what I get out of it. Good goin', Hambone. It's a beautiful picture and it makes people, like, think, even! You did good."
After breakfast, Dipper and Mabel volunteered to wash up. Abuelita had to prepare the supplies for the little fast-food snack bar, Melody tidied the Museum, Soos and Wendy got the gift shop ready for business, Little Soos sat in his playpen gurgling and burping, and the Mystery Twins stood at the sink, Dipper washing, Mabel drying.
"Dipper," Mabel said, "that was incredibly nice of you."
"Not nearly as nice as what you did for Mrs. Pepper," Dipper said. "And people ought to know how talented you really are." He finished the last of the silverware, rinsed it, and drained the sink. "So what are your plans for today?"
"Oh, I'm gonna get together with Grenda and Candy and sort of decide on the can't-miss-'em events for the summer."
"You're actually making a plan?" Dipper asked with a laugh as he dried his hands. "Who are you, and what have you done with Mabel?"
"Not a listy plan, silly!" she said. "We're gonna look at the calendar of concerts and dances an' stuff, that's all. Oh, and we may call on Pacifica just to see how things are going with her. You know. Girly stuff. How about you?"
"Oh, you know, hang around the Shack, help out at the gift shop if it gets busy."
"Talk to Wendy," Mabel said with a grin.
"Why not?"
"Why not indeed, Mr. Dip-your-toe-into-romance?" she frowned. "That one didn't really sing, did it?"
"They can't all be gems. Have a good day, Sis."
"Yeah, um, you, um, too. Um. Grateful sibling hug?"
"Sure," he said. "I'm grateful for you."
"Same here, bro," she said. "Same here."
And things went well until after the morning rush. To begin with, Dipper met the new employee, a teen working as a short-order cook. His name was T. K., he said, and he had just turned fifteen. He stood a little taller than Dipper, not as tall as Wendy, and he had big round glasses (Harry Potter geek, Dipper thought) and a thin, pimply face. The glasses made his eyes look huge, an owl's wondering eyes, and his shock of sandy-brown hair flattened strangely when he covered it with a translucent plastic cap—food-service regulations—and all in all, he gave the impression of a shy and awkward stork that had wandered in.
As he put a tray of hamburger patties into the snack-bar fridge, he said with diffidence, "Uh, 'scuse me, Dipper? Is it? Dipper, um, I wondered, is your sister Mabel the girl that did the big puppet show a couple years back?"
"Yeah," Dipper said. "That didn't work out too well." Speaking as a temporary puppet, he thought.
T.K. blinked. "Huh. It didn't? I thought it was awesome! It was funny and I liked the songs and all. But my mom dragged me out just when the fireworks started, and that was the best part. Tell her I liked it, OK?"
"Yeah, sure," Dipper said. Well, there was no accounting for tastes.
The Shack got very busy—its popularity had spread by word of mouth, and now tour buses pulled through on a regular schedule, and cars full of people sometimes crammed the parking lot and spilled over along the sides of the driveway—and Dipper manned the register while Wendy walked the shop and kept some kind of order among the thundering herds. In the adjoining snack bar, Abuelita took care of the cash register while T.K. made burgers, hot dogs, and fries and kept the coffee urn perking.
Things didn't begin to simmer down until after one-thirty, and then in a lull after 2:00, Wendy and Dipper took a break. "Burgers are on the house, Dip," Wendy said.
T.K. made them a couple of tasty ones and then untied his apron. "Busy today," he said. "I actually got about fifty dollars in tips."
"Good for you, man!" Wendy said. "That's more'n I useta get in a week!"
"Thank you, Miss Corduroy. Um is it OK if I, you know, go after I clean up?"
"Sure, dude. Your shift's over. Soon's everything's washed and stored, take off."
Dipper pitched in, and T.K. awkwardly thanked him, punched his glasses back into place on his nose, and hung up his cap and his apron and left. "'Miss Corduroy?' Dipper asked Wendy.
"A good manager deserves respect, dork," she said with a genial smile.
Dipper looked out the window and saw T.K. pedaling a bike down the drive, wobbling as though he lacked either coordination or a sense of balance. "Odd guy," he said.
"Eh, kinda," Wendy agreed. "He got bullied a lot when he was littler. Real shy. Math nerd. His family's kinda poor, but Tick's a good kid. Cooks good, anyway."
"Tick?" Dipper asked.
"Ticknor," Wendy said. "Ticknor Keevan O'Grady. Heck of a name, huh?"
"Yeah," Dipper said. "I can see why that would be awkward for him." He shrugged. "Like 'Mason.' Guess all of guys us with weird names go by nicknames."
"Dude!" Wendy said, giving his shoulder an affectionate shove. "I told you before, you got a perfectly good name. 'Course to me you're Big Dipper." She yawned and took a sip from her rare second cup of coffee.
"Didn't you sleep last night?" Dipper asked.
She yawned again. "Yeah, but woke up so dang early. Coyote or somethin' wailin' off in the woods about two o'clock. You?"
"Like a log," Dipper said. "No bad dreams, even. Only thing is, when I'm not busy, I'm worrying about Grunkle Ford." He took out his phone and touched the speed dial. After a few seconds, he thumbed the phone off. "He's still not answering."
They heard the crunch of gravel from outside, and Dipper leaned back and looked out the window. "The Oregon Trail tourist bus," he said. "Right on time. Looks full, too."
Wendy stood up and went around the counter to put her cup in the sink. "Well-p, break time's over. Wash up for me, Dip?"
"Done," Dipper said, because the cup was the only thing left to wash. It took him fifteen seconds. Then he hung the CLOSED sign on the snack bar door—HOURS 11 AM – 2 PM, DOGS—and as Mr. Mystery Soos went out to greet the bus, Dipper and Assistant Manager Corduroy got ready for another onslaught of tourists.