Shot to the Heart

(August 1-3, 2014)

Chapter 3: "I Do It for You"

Who knows, Dipper might have finally pulled off that v-neck . . . but Mabel pulled it off first.

Literally.

"Nuh-uh!" she barked, invading Dipper's room yet again. "No, no, no! Bad Brobro! Come here!" And she dragged the shirt up and off his back and tossed it into the corner.

"Mabel!" Dipper groaned. "I don't tell you how to dress!"

"Because nobody needs to tell me that!" she snapped. "I'm like a fashionista gangsta! Seriously, give it another two years, Dipper! OK, we want a black round-necked tee for you. And not those stupid cargo shorts, either! And lose the white socks and trainers, for crying out loud! Did you follow my suggestions and get some stuff for yourself while you were shopping for Sev'ral Timez?"

"Yes," Dipper said with resignation.

"Great! Let's get started on project Sis Eye for the Bro Guy!" She unbuckled his belt, over his protests.

Fifteen minutes later, having started from scratch—actually, having changed from his usual tighty-whitie briefs into his first-ever pair of boxer briefs (the only part of dressing that Mabel allowed him to do in private)—Dipper felt like a department-store mannequin.

"OK," Mabel said. "You're rockin' those black boxer briefs, Bro!"

"This is embarrassing!"

Mabel wiggled her fingers. "Let me work my magic and deck you out! The new black tee first, then—"

And, like Doctor Frankenstein in his lonely laboratory, she began, piece by piece, to construct her creature. It took just that one-quarter of an hour before Dipper stood before her. "He's alive!" Mabel shouted. "Mwah-hah-hah!"

"I still feel like a store dummy," Dipper mumbled.

"What do you mean—store?" Mabel asked. "Look at you!"

Reading top to bottom:

He wore a pair of light amber-tinted aviator shades. Well, "wore" as in "had hooked over his ears and tilted up on his forehead." No pine-tree cap. "Not today, Buster," Mabel had chided, tossing his beloved headgear onto the bed.

And then: the black, round-necked tee, not tight, not loose. Over it a red-black-and-white checked flannel shirt, very, very soft. "Wendy will think I'm copying her!" Dipper protested.

"No, she won't! Roll those cuffs up to your elbows! All the way! Roll 'em!"

"OK, OK."

Next came soft, prewashed khaki jeans, not quite loose enough to be called baggy. Again, Mabel insisted, "Roll the cuffs! No, no, too much—an inch and a half! There you go!"

She had him tuck the tee, but not the flannel, into the waistband of the jeans. "OK, turn around. Mm-hmm. Good!"

"The jeans are a little loose in the waist," Dipper complained.

No belt. Nope. Instead, Mabel dug into the office closet downstairs and came up with an ancient tie of Stan's that they never remembered him wearing at all. "What is that?" Dipper asked, staring at the pattern. "It looks like gold parameciums!"

"Paisley!" Mabel said firmly. "All the rage, like, in 1970!"

"I can't wear a tie with a tee!"

"Dummy! String it through the belt loops!"

Dipper got the idea and threaded the tie—silk, black, with the Paisley design in gold—around his waist. "Bow?" he asked.

"Wha-a-t? Let me!" Mabel tied a firm but casual knot. About four inches of the wide part of the tie dangled down.

"That's kind of . . . uh," Dipper said, looking down.

"You're advertising, Dipper! Don't blush! It clashes with the shirt!"

Then . . . Dipper sighed. "These tiny socks?" he asked.

"The whole point of wearing no-show socks is to make it look like you're not wearing socks!" Mabel insisted. "OK, now—the white Vans!" She held up the crisp white loafer-style canvas shoes.

Dipper sat on the edge of his bed to pull them on. "I'm copying Wendy, I'm copying Sev'ral Timez . . .."

"Trust me, Dipper! There! Now come down to the guest bathroom and check yourself out in the mirror!"

Because her bathroom had a full-length mirror on the back of the door, of course. Dipper went with her and stood looking at himself. "Huh," he said. "Still just me."

"Strike a sexy pose!" Mabel ordered. "No, not like that! You look like you got a backache! Here, one foot forward. Forward! OK, other foot behind you—not like you're walking, dummy! Turn your toes—other way, other way—there. Now bend that knee. No, the other one! Left hand with the thumb hooked in your belt loop. Aim your right forefinger like a pistol. No, bend your elbow! You're not really shooting her! Tilt your head. Chin up! Now—what do you look like?"

"An idiot."

"Yeah, but a sexy idiot! Squat down. I'm gonna tousle that hair!"

"Come on, Mabel, I don't want my birthmark to show—"

"Pfft! Wendy's seen it, Broseph, and who else matters?"

"Nobody," he muttered.

"Anyhow, I'll tousle with care so it's still hidden—not quite a bedhead, but sort of windblown and casual. There! Now hold still!" She grabbed a spray bottle and spritzed his hair.

"Come on! Hair spray? Guys don't use hair spray!"

"Yeah, yeah, shut up. Stand up straight. Now get this: When it gets hot, don't stand there and sweat! What do you do with the flannel shirt? Think!"

"Um . . . put it in Wendy's car?"

"No! What you do is take it off, tie the sleeves around your waist, and let the shirt hang behind you!"

"Like . . . a backwards apron."

"Makes girls wonder about those buns beneath it, get it?"

"Don't want it."

"Work with me, Dipper! Come on—the jeans are just tight enough to show off your butt, and girls will be staring and wondering, believe me."

"What is it with girls and butts?" Dipper wailed.

"Same as with guys and boobs. You know, you want something soft and pliant you can sink your teeth into."

"Mabel!"

"Well, stop asking dumb questions, then!"

"OK, OK."

They stepped out of the bathroom, down the hall, and into the dining room, and Mabel asked, "Now—if Wendy starts to groove to the music—"

Dipper spluttered out a laugh. "Groove? GROOVE?"

Mabel punched his shoulder. "Come on! If she starts to bop and act like she's enjoying the beat, what do you do?"

Dipper rubbed the back of his neck. "Um. I say, 'Hey, babe, I'm hep to the jive. Let's you and me cut a rug, doll-face!'"

This time the punch to the shoulder was harder. "Dip-PER!"

"Ouch! OK, seriously, I don't say anything, Sis," Dipper said. He reached out and took her hand. "I take her hand like this, and—we start to dance."

They did a couple of mock steps, and Mabel kissed him on the cheek. "That's my smooth brother!" She put a hand on his cheek. Softly, she said, "Honestly, Dipper, just trust your feelings and go with what seems right. But, yeah, like the song says, when you can sit it out or dance, always go with dance!" She patted his cheek. "You'll be great. Make me proud of you."

"You'd better get ready, too," Dipper said. "Wendy'll be back in a few minutes, and I guess we'll either drive over or else let Soos shuttle us, depending on how bad parking is."

"See you in a few!" And she dashed back to her room. Dipper, of course, was not allowed to help her don her outfit. He went into the empty gift shop and stood at the window looking out at the parking lot, already crowded with cars whose occupants had been shuttled over to the concert site.

He was looking for a certain forest-green Dodge Dart containing a certain redhead.

And feeling nervous about what she might say when she saw him in his new get-up.

What he said was, "Wow!"

It wasn't much of a comment, but it was all Dipper could come up with when Wendy walked into the Shack. She wore a crown of flowers. And her top—her top—wow. She had a tie-died scarf in red, yellow, blue, and purple tied around her bosom. And that was it! Bare midriff, cut-off, fringed jeans with strategic rips—though the cut-off legs were really short, and there wasn't all that much room for rips—and she had shed her boots for black gladiator sandals that came up above her ankles. She showed a lot of leg. A lot of shapely leg. Dipper had a hard time looking up from those legs.

"You're lookin' pretty fly yourself, dude," Wendy said with a wide grin. "OK, here's the deal: We're hangin' with my friends, right? If we know where Dad is and that he's not looking our way, you and I can get cozy. But if he's close by, or if we can't see him and don't know where he is, you keep Tambry or Robbie or somebody in between you and me. And it's cool to chat up Pacifica or whoever in that situation."

Dipper sighed. "I thought Manly Dan had kind of forgotten about you and me getting, you know, too close."

"Yeah, but he's like a small-town railroad—just one track to his mind, dude! So, all right, if I joke around and put my arm over Nate's or Lee's shoulders, you're cool with that, right? 'Cause it'll be for Dad's benefit."

"Yeah, I guess," Dipper said. "Wendy, you look totally gorgeous! Uh—I didn't go with the v-neck."

"I see you didn't, but that outfit is seriously hot, dude. I swear, you look at least sixteen!"

"Mabel kind of dressed me."

"Mabel did a good job." They kissed, and then broke apart with a sigh. Wendy asked, "Where's she?"

"Still getting dressed. She sent the guys over to the site already. Abuelita's baby-sitting Little Soos, and Melody's supposed to keep Sev'ral Timez out of trouble until Mabel gets there to take over."

"Speak of the devil," Wendy said, grinning. "'Sup, Mabes! You look sexy!"

"You, too!" Mabel said, sweeping into the gift shop. She was wearing a white, and—in Dipper's opinion—too-short floral-print dress with spaghetti straps, ballet flats, and—a white fedora, like the one Deep Chris wore, but with a rainbow ribbon band and a pink rosebud tucked in it. "What do you think of Dip?"

"Lookin' sharp," Wendy said.

Mabel took a couple of steps back. "Let me see you as a couple."

Wendy linked her arm through Dipper's. Side by side, they looked—well, not that shabby. True, Dipper was still a few inches shorter than Wendy, but she tilted her head and then pulled her arm free and draped it over his shoulder. "Mm, I'm totally stealing that flannel shirt from you," she said. "It's so soft!"

"You can have it when this thing's over," Dipper told her.

"I like the way you made your top, Wendy. You have a bra on under that?" Mabel asked.

"Mabel!" Dipper yipped.

Wendy laughed. "Girl, that's for me to know—and him to find out!"

"WENDY!"

Soos drove the empty tram in and reported that parking near Woodstick was nonexistent. "It's like wall-to-wall cars, dawgs!" he said. "I think this year's even bigger than last time by maybe double! Or twice as many, even!" But he let them ride first in the tram, and they crowded onto the seat right behind him.

By then the Shack parking lot was, literally, full—Wendy had parked in the Employees Only zone, otherwise known as the back yard—and a throng of chattering, variously-dressed concert-goers filled up the rest of the tram, thrilled to find the ride was free. "Compliments of the Mystery Shack, dawgs!" Soos announced. "Only do me a solid and check out the rolling Mystery Shack, under the management of the original Mr. Mystery himself, Doctor of Mysteriousness, Stan Pines!"

Then Soos got behind the wheel and floored the accelerator. Even so, the tram was overloaded, and it groaned along at maybe fifteen miles an hour. The concert site was an empty, fenced-in field a little closer to town than the previous Woodstick had been, but it still took them half an hour to get there.

Fortunately, Deputy Durland was elsewhere, and a woman traffic cop had things moving with fair efficiency. Soos stopped the tram near the entrance gate, and everyone piled out. "There's the Mystery Bus!" Wendy told Dipper. "Check it out!"

Dipper and Mabel had already seen it—a stretched RV, painted yellow, with MYSTERY SHACK MOBILE painted on the side in black. A sign taped up next to the front door said, "ADMISSION $5.00," and a line of people stood waiting to get in. At the rear door, more tourists were coming out, most of them gripping bags of merch.

"We can come here later if we want to put in a shift," Dipper said. "I'm sure Grunkle Stan will put us to work!"

"No way, dude! Today we party!"

The three of them joined the crowd heading for the gate, and halfway there, Dipper heard "Wen-dy! Wen-dy Wen-dy!"

"You guys!" Wendy said as she, Mabel, and Dipper peeled off from the mass of shuffling attendees and made their way over to the boys. Nate, Lee, and Thompson stood over near a tall chain-link fence, not dressed especially differently for the occasion—Thompson didn't seem to have smuggled in any contraband food, even. "Did you guys score tickets already?" Wendy asked.

Nate and Lee shook their heads. "I got one from a scalper," Thompson said. He looked dumpier than ever, and his newly-grown mustache didn't help matters much. "Three hundred dollars, but it was totally worth it!"

"Me and Nate are outa luck," Lee said. "They're sold out and we can't afford scalpers' prices. So, we're gonna sneak in the usual way."

"You look great, Wendy!" Nate added.

"Here you go, boys!" Mabel said, handing over the comp tickets. "On the house. That's the Mabel difference!"

"Whoa!" Nate yelled. "Thanks, girl!"

"Aw," Thompson said.

"Come on!" Mabel told him. "Look back there—scalpers are still workin' the crowd. Take a comp and sell your ticket at a profit!"

"You," Dipper told her, "are getting Grunklier every day."

"Doctor Funtimes!" Lee said. "Great to see you, man!"

They high-fived. "Good to see you too," he said.

"Dude, you're growin' up on us," Lee told him. "Looking good, Dipper."

"Thanks, man." Dipper felt a little odd, as he had every time he'd met Lee since Wendy had told him about how Lee's mom had lost an unborn baby—Lee's little brother—back when Lee had been just a little kid. Now he realized that when they'd hung out back in the early days in Gravity Falls, Lee had latched onto him as the brother he'd wanted but had never known.

"Where's your girls?" Wendy asked them.

Thompson said, "Aww. . ."

"Don't be discouraged!" Mabel chirped. "There are plenty of romantic opportunities at Woodstick! Music is the language of love! Thompson, I'll keep my eye out and send some lucky girl your way. Meanwhile, go sell that ticket! Go, go, go! And make a profit!"

"Yes, ma'am," Thompson said, hurrying away.

"Cindy's coming later," Nate said, going back to Wendy's question. "We kinda thought we'd hook up and hang out."

"Yeah," Lee added. "And I'm sort of gonna meet up with Pamela Puckett this afternoon."

"Wham-Bam Pam!" Nate crowed. "You the man for a one-night stand!"

"Shut up!" Lee said, shoving him.

"That's what your mom told me!" Nate pushed him back.

"Look, guys," Wendy said, "Me and Dipper are gonna hang out on the hillside, over there near the trees. Meet us there later, OK?"

"You got it!" Lee said.

"That's what your mom said!"

"Shut up, man!"

Wendy, Dipper, and Mabel left them scuffling in their best-buddy and absolutely in no way homoerotic fashion and got through the gate on their comps. They were awarded green bracelets—"These'll get you back in all weekend don't cut them off before then have a good time kids next"—and then Mabel left to go back to the dressing-tents area behind the stage to find Sev'ral Times and free Melody up to run the Mystery Bus.

Wendy and Dipper skirted the crowd, angling around toward stage right. Stan had chosen well—the field was nearly a natural amphitheater, with the stage centered on a level place and facing a rising ground that wound up in a half-circle of low, tree-studded hills. A high chain-link fence ringed the whole area.

"I remember this place," Wendy said. "When I was a little kid, this was gonna be like some kind of factory site, concrete and paving, I think. Only the company went bust, I guess, so the factory never got built, just the fence. It's about, what, ten acres? Stan must've had it mowed and cleaned up."

"Dipper!"

Pacifica Northwest, looking cool in a loose white top and white jeans, came running over and hugged him. "I haven't seen you in the longest time! Hi, Wendy."

"Hiya, Paz."

"Well," Dipper said, "you and your family were off in France—how was Paris?"

"Tres jolie!" Pacifica said, giggling. "You're looking—good. I mean, seriously, you cleaned up nice!"

"Thanks," Dipper said, squirming a little. "You, uh, too. Where's, uh, where's Adam?"

"Oh, he's around somewhere," Pacifica said with a shrug. "He's just turned sixteen! He's getting a fabulous car soon!"

"That's great," Dipper said. "It's, yeah . . . great. I guess it'll be another two years for me. Before I can, you know, get a car. And all."

"We're heading over there," Wendy said, pointing. "Want to come with us?"

"Oh, no, no, my dad got us one of the pavilion tables down near the stage. Adam's getting us some snacks now. Well . . . have a good time, you two!" She kissed Dipper on the cheek, waved goodbye, and melted into the crowd.

"That was uncomfortable," Dipper said.

"Come on, Dip," Wendy said, laughing and pulling him along by the arm. "She's got a boyfriend now! Soon to have a car!"

"Yeah, I'm outclassed," Dipper said. He took her hand. "I'm glad you're not jealous!"

"Hey, I'm a modern, mature woman," Wendy told him. "And I didn't even bring my axe, 'cause I couldn't figure a way to strap on the scabbard with this top. But, you know—I could still have pulled out her hair."

"That's my Lumberjack Girl!"

"Come on, man. Let's find a good place to sit on the grass!"

So far, Dipper thought, it was looking like a fun day.

So far . . ..