2: A Girl and Her Pigs

Mabel came running into the house at four p.m. on January 17. Throwing her backpack onto the sofa, she yelled, "Where is he? Is he here yet? Where is he?"

Her mother came from the kitchen, shaking her head. "Your father's driven to the airport to bring your great-uncle Stanford home," she said. "They'll be back around four, and then we're having an early dinner right away, because your plane leaves for Portland at 8:50 tonight, and it's a drive to the airport."

Mabel threw herself onto the sofa beside her backpack, heels on the back, back on the cushion, head and hair dangling to the floor. "Oh, man! Nearly five more hours? This is agony!"

A car stopped outside the house, and a moment later, Dipper walked in. "Hi, Mom," he said. "What's wrong with Mabel? She's upside down."

"You ask her," his mom said, going back into the kitchen.

"Smells good," Dipper called to her, moving Mabel's backpack to the floor and dropping his own beside it.

"Didn't you have practice?" Mabel asked, worming off the sofa and then getting up to sit on it right way around.

"Short one. Coach said since it's a holiday weekend, he'd be light on us. Seriously, Sis, are you OK?"

She clenched her hands into fists. "I just want to be in Gravity Falls sooooo bad!"

He patted her shoulder. "We'll be there by midnight. I looked up the flight schedules and all."

"Widdles doesn't even know me! What if she thinks I'm ugly?"

"Mabel, she's a pig," Dipper said. "She'll think you're gorgeous. If she doesn't, try eating a meal with her. She'll think you're one of her own kind and take to you right away."

Pfbbbt! Mabel stuck out her tongue at him in a juicy raspberry that made him wipe his cheek. Then she said, "No, wait. This calls for a more drastic punishment. Tickle attack!"

"No tickle attack!" Dipper yelled, jumping up, but he was too late. She was on him, threw him to the floor, and tickled him in circles and into shrieking fits until their mother came and stood in the doorway frowning down at them.

"I could change my mind, you know," she said.

"OK, OK," Mabel muttered. "I'll just sit here and enjoy my mad." She jumped back on the sofa, pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them. If she'd been wearing a sweater, Dipper thought, she would have taken a trip to Sweater Town.

"Whoosh," he said, standing up and trying to catch his breath. "I'm gonna take my junk up to my room. Want me to haul yours up for you?"

"Please."

Dipper lugged the backpacks upstairs, dropped his backpack in the corner of his room, checked his already-packed suitcase, which was on the bed, put Wendy's fur trapper's hat on top of it (as if he would forget) and then dropped Mabel's backpack in her room.

When he came down again, their mom popped out of the kitchen again. "Remember to take your homework with you," she warned.

"Don't have any," Mabel said. "Already turned in the project that was due in history and worked a chapter ahead in algebra. I've written my essay on the novel for English. Done all my art work. I'm completely caught up."

"Same here," Dipper said. "We told our teachers we were going to be away, and they let us finish up our work in study hall all this week."

"Dipper, you did tell Mr. and Mrs. Morgensen—"

"That I won't take a music lesson this afternoon or Monday," Dipper finished for her. "Yes, taken care of."

Mrs. Pines put her hands on her hips. "Dipper, you have to stop cutting people off when they're speaking. It's very rude!"

"Sorry," he said, trying to look contrite and succeeding only in looking sullen.

Mabel jumped up. "I hear Dad's car!" She blurred to the front door and threw it open.

"She has hearing like a guard dog," Dipper said.

"That's no way to talk about your sister!"

"Sorry," Dipper said again. This was something new to him—Mabel had always come in for the greater share of parental reprimands. He had been the obedient kid, the smart one, the organized one. Now, though—some days he lacked patience, and other days he just felt plain ornery. Sometimes he wondered what was wrong with him and was tempted to blame Bill Cipher.

But not now. He heard Mabel's excited chatter from outside, and instead of coming in from the garage into the kitchen, he saw not two, but four people—Mabel, his dad, and—both Grunkles! He cheered up immediately and exclaimed, "Whoa!"

They spilled in, Mabel still chattering a mile a minute. "Mom! Mom! Look who it is! Grunkle Stanford—and Grunkle Stanley!"

"Hi, sweetie," Stanley said, stepping forward to hug their mom. "I hope these two haven't been giving you a lot of grief!"

"Stan—Stanley?" Mom said as Dad came through the door behind them. "But you're Stanford! I—we heard—we thought—" She swallowed. "I mean, Mabel wrote that she and Dipper had two Grunkles, but we just imagined that—that you, I mean Stanford—I mean, you just told them you had a twin brother and didn't mention that he'd passed—I'm so confused!"

Stanford stepped up and took both her hands in his. "We have some serious explaining to do," he said quietly. "Maybe we'd better all sit down."

They talked around the table—the brisket Mrs. Pines had prepared easily stretched to accommodate another plate—and Mr. and Mrs. Pines sat wide-eyed and occasionally even open-mouthed as the Stans told their tale.

"So," Stanford said after he had made some preparatory remarks, "I'm actually Stanford. My brother here is the one you thought was me. Now, forgive us for this, but I can't tell you a lot about the deception. It was necessary. Without giving you information that I'm forbidden to reveal, I'll say this: Just imagine that for the past thirty years I have been deeply involved with—well, let's call it the intelligence community and leave it at that."

"Like spies?" Dad asked, looking excited.

Stanley said gently, "Hey, the man said leave it at that."

"Sorry," Dad said, sounding like Dipper.

"For various reasons, mostly having to do with the safety of the family, Stanley faked his death years ago and took my place in Gravity Falls—it was my base, and I had a cover story in place already as a reclusive researcher. Few people in town knew me well, and Stanley easily passed for me. You see, the—well, the opposite side, let's call the bad guys, would think that I had settled down there and was no longer pursuing investigations as long as Stanley impersonated me convincingly."

"And by the way turned his house into a money-making proposition," Stanley said, grinning.

Stanford gave him a long look. "Yes. And, to make a long story short—and you understand I cannot give you any more details—I have been busy bringing international criminals to justice. Last summer, Dipper and Mabel helped me with my last case when we tracked down a valuable stolen artifact—"

"The reward the twins got!" their mother exclaimed. "We didn't know what to make of it, but the lawyer for that British company insisted it was all legitimate!"

"We had to meet with him three times before she'd believe it," Dad said. "But it checked out as on the level."

"Oh, it was," Stanford said. "And well-deserved. In fact, Dipper and Mabel brilliantly allowed us to find the final clue to the artifact's whereabouts."

"Did you—were they in danger?" Mom asked.

Mabel laughed out loud. "Us? C'mon, Mom! It's not like we were dangling from a rope being hauled by a giant eagle twenty feet off the ground or anything! It was mostly book work—right, Dip?"

"Yeah. Uh, I mean, yes. Yes, it was." Dipper quickly took a bite of beef to hide his expression.

Stan nodded. "Yeah, see, and as a government-style man, Ford couldn't legally accept a reward, so he passed it along to the kids. It ought to allow them to go to whatever college or university they want."

"Uh—yes, exactly," Dad said. "Wow. We've put it all in a college fund for them—well, almost all of it—wow. I mean—wow! Uncle Stanford, did you have a spy car? Sorry, I'm not supposed to ask things like that. You know, I sort of remember you. I think once when I was little you both visited us at our place, didn't you?"

"Yeah, that was a rare joint appearance," Stanley said. You couldn't have been more than three or four, though. I rode you around on my shoulders, remember?"

"And I repaired your toy walkie-talky," Ford said. "Oh, by the way, I was so sorry to learn from Stanley of our brother's passing. I was, ah, very, very far out of the country for that whole time and completely incommunicado."

"Shermy was a good man," Stan said quietly. "I still think of him a lot."

"So are you still intelligent?" Mom asked, still looking flustered. "Um—I mean in intelligence?"

"No, no," Ford said, smiling easily. "I've taken retirement. The pension is generous, my time's my own, and I can go back to tinkering and inventing. I can truthfully say this last year has been one of the best of my life—not least because I met our great-niece and nephew here."

Stan lifted a glass of red wine. "To Dipper and Mabel!"

The adults clinked glasses. Dipper said, "To you, goofball," and raised his glass of grape juice.

"And to you, dork face," she said politely, and they clinked.

The drive to San Francisco wasn't all that long in distance—not much more than twenty miles—but it took time, and Mabel fretted all the way. "We're gonna miss the plane, we're gonna miss the plane!"

They didn't, though—they caught it in plenty of time. Mabel took the window seat and their Grunkles sat in the two seats right beside them, across the aisle. Stan, who had the outside seat, turned to look at them. Dipper noticed that he looked pale and sweaty. In a strained voice, he asked, "You two munchkins doin' OK?"

"Doin' great!" Mabel said. "First class is the only way to fly!"

"Stan, man, this must cost you a lot," Dipper said. "I feel guilty."

Stanley laughed. "Hey, I got investments, ya know? Plus regular trips to Nevada when I can talk Poindexter into comin' along. Together we can always beat the house odds! Right now, even payin' income tax, I'm rakin' in more dough in one year than I useta make at the Shack in five!"

"And I have my patents," Ford said. "I'm not quite in Fiddleford McGucket's league, but I'm probably pretty close to Mr. Northwest! And I also invest my money and save a reasonable portion of it as well—and I'm talking to you, Stanley."

Stan gave a grin, though he looked a little sickly as the airplane tilted back for its climb to cruising altitude. "Yaketty, yaketty, yaketty. The important thing is to use the moolah to do things that make you happy. Although I gotta say ridin' around in this aluminum tube at, what, thirty thousand feet, ain't cuttin' it for me."

"Huh," Mabel said. "Funny, I get antsy looking over a cliff or going up in a tall building, but I can look out the window here and it doesn't bother me at all. Mmmppghh!"

"The airsick bag's in the pocket there," Dipper said.

"Blarrggghh! Wanna—wanna trade seats, Dipper?"

"Well—not now!"

They got in late Friday night and turned in immediately—that night, Ford and Stan put them up in a couple of rooms of Fiddleford's mansion, which had plenty to spare. The older twins now were more or less permanent house guests of the McGuckets and had one floor of one wing as their own.

Mabel was up early, pestering Stan to take them to the Shack. Dipper felt his heart beating faster. He wanted to get there, too—for reasons of his own. The elder twins drove them first to Yumberjack's for breakfast—which Mabel wolfed down in record time—and then out to the Shack. They arrived at 7:30.

A light crust of old snow lingered in the shade of the house and the trees, but the weather was clear, the temperature right at 34 degrees. The younger twins raced to the front door, opened it, and Mabel immediately yelled, "Where's my piiiiigs?"

Melody looked out from the kitchen, smiling sweetly. "Hi, you two! Mabel, they're out in their little house in the backyard—"

"Later!"

Dipper tagged along. Waddles and Widdles lay in clean, thick hay, curled up together, but as soon as he heard them, Waddles came bounding out to greet Mabel. If he'd had enough of a tail, he might have wagged it. Mabel gave him a big hug—though she could no longer even reach all the way around his fat neck—and then squeed as she picked up the baby. "Oooh, look at you! So pretty! Hi, Widdles! I'm Mabel!"

Dipper had his phone out. "OK, this deserves a family photo. All three of you smile!"

The picture he lined up had Mabel standing, hugging the piglet, cheek to cheek. Beside her, and looking up adoringly, was Waddles, about two-thirds as tall as she was when he was sitting on his haunches. She rested her left hand on his head.

"Everybody say 'Oink!'" Only Mabel obliged, but Dipper took the photo.

"Send it to me, send it to me!" Mabel said.

"OK," Dipper said, laughing. "It looks pretty good. Annnd send."

"It's gonna go right in my scrapbook!"

All that morning Mabel played with Widdles. Dipper roamed the Shack restlessly, looking at the work Soos was putting in. Adjacent to the gift shop he had added a long, narrow room with a counter and stools—a fast-food restaurant to be, he explained. "That way we can hold onto the lunch crowd, dawg," he said.

"Looks great," Dipper said. "Uh, Soos—where's Wendy?"

Soos looked uncomfortable. "Oh, well, about that, you know, and junk, dude. She's not workin' here every day durin' the off season, you know. Just a couple afternoons a week to help clean an' help with the baby an' stuff, and then sometimes Saturdays. But she'll be in touch, dude, I'm sure."

And Soos was right. At nine o'clock on the dot, his phone went off, and there on the screen was Wendy, bundled up in a coat and looking apologetic. She seemed to be in the woods somewhere. "Hey, Dipper," she said in a mournful voice. "I'm so sorry I can't be there, dude."

"What—where are you?"

She sighed. "Camping." She made it sound like a dirty word, and not one of the interesting ones, either. "My dad, like, insisted. I got to skip the apocalypse camping at Christmas, but he and my brothers, like, nearly starved to death. None of them can boil water without burinin' it. So he made me come along this time. When are you guys goin' back to Piedmont?"

"Monday. Our flight leaves Portland about eleven in the morning," Dipper said, feeling his heart down around the level of his knees.'

She made a face. "That totally sucks. We won't be back in town until dark. I'm so sorry, Dipper."

"Well," he said, forcing a smile. "I don't guess it can be helped."

"Not when my dad gets all bull-headed an' stubborn," she said, looking grumpy. "I miss you like crazy, man."

"I miss you too, Lumberjack Girl."

They couldn't even talk for very long—Dipper heard Manly Dan yell, "Wendy! Need you here right now!" and with a grimace, Wendy said a hasty goodbye.

Dipper didn't want any lunch. In the early afternoon, Mabel came up to the attic—without Widdles or Waddles, probably for the first time since she'd arrived—and said quietly, "What's wrong, Dipper?"

"Wendy's not going to be here," he said flatly.

"Uh—you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Still Mabel didn't leave. "Dipper? You sound mad. You guys—you didn't have a fight?"

"No."

"C'mon, brobro. This is Mabel. You can tell me anything."

Dipper sat up on the bed, his eyes feeling hot. "I would've done anything to get here just to see her," he said. "If Mom and Dad had said no, I—I would've run away from home to get to her. But her dad tells her to go on a stupid camping trip, which she doesn't even want to go on anyway, and she goes. I—I thought she—cared for me more than that."

Mabel sat beside him and put an arm around him. "Dipper, c'mon. Wendy likes you a lot—"

"She likes me," Dipper said sarcastically. "Tough luck that I love her, huh?"

Mabel took his hand. "You know better," she said. "If you were in trouble, she'd be here. Nothing could keep her away. But she's not on her own, Dipper. She's sixteen, but she's the woman of that household, and the guys depend on her. Take her for granted, even. You know what Manly Dan is like. Really, would you want her to disobey him an' get, like, weeks of grief just 'cause you wanted to see her for a couple days?"

Dipper stared angrily at the floor, feeling his cheeks getting hot. "You don't understand."

"I think I do," Mabel said. "I'm sorry, Broseph. C'mon, let's do something fun. Our golf clubs are in the closet. Set up an attic mini-golf championship course?"

"Not in the mood."

"You just want to be left alone?"

"If you don't mind."

"OK. But I'm here for you."

She started out the door, but Dipper called to her: "Mabel?"

"Yeah?"

He swallowed. "Am I turning into some kind of jerk? 'Cause I feel like it sometimes."

She shrugged. "Nah, not really. You're a teenager, Dip. So'm I. I know it's hard. Your body's changing in ways you don't understand—hey, Grunkle Stan had a book in his office that might help! I'll see if I can dig it out. Anyways, brobro, you're gonna have these weird moods 'cause of the pituitary gland. C'mon, you're better than that. You jumped off a freakin' cliff to save me from Gideon! You tried to punch out an interdimensional demon! You're not gonna let a little bitty gland push you around, are you? Don't' brood about it, Dip, please. Think about all the good times you've had with Wendy."

"There are a lot," Dipper admitted.

"And there'll be more. So call her when you can. Don't blame her for not being able to see you this one time. If you have bad thoughts, don't let 'em fly out of your mouth, OK? It'll be all right. You'll see."

"You're always an optimist," Dipper said with a sour little smile.

"Well—I got two pigs!"

Despite himself, Dipper had to laugh a little.

But—he hardly came out of the attic for the rest of the weekend, and when they flew back to California the next Monday, he sat at the window seat staring silently down at the passing clouds and earth and feeling very, very sorry for himself.