3: It's My Party
(May 21, 2009)
"We wound up at the Shack again," Mabel said as soon as the time-travel clickers worked their scientific magic. "Looks like it's springtime, or maybe the first of summer." That was right—birds were chirping, a morning sun was shining overhead in a clear sky, and in the distance woodpeckers were hammering—it reminded Dipper of the day they first stepped off the bus in Gravity Falls. "Think it's May or June?" Mabel asked.
"Yeah, May 21, and it must be 2009," Dipper said. "That's when she would have turned twelve."
"If you decoded the message right, you mean." Then, with a bit of anxiety, Mabel asked, "Dip, you're not gonna go all creepy stalker if you see Wendy when she was twelve, are you? 'Cause that could totally wreck your chances with her in the present. Or the future. Or this present's future. Man, time travel really screws with my head!"
"I hope she won't even recognize me," Dipper said. Then he glanced at Mabel and did a double-take. "Hey, our clothes have changed!"
Mabel said, "Huh. I'm usually the first to notice fashion trends—yeah, I see." She was wearing a short-sleeved two-tone pink sweater (shoulders shocking, torso hot) and red slacks. Dipper wore a long-sleeved pullover shirt (sleeves dark blue, torso sky) and tan cargo shorts, with pristine white sneakers, no socks.
"She's gonna remember you when she's fifteen and you show up at age twelve," Mabel warned. "Hey, wait a minute—let me try this." She tapped the controls on the time-travel device and . . . changed. Her hair suddenly became blond, her cheekbones more prominent, her rosy complexion paler, her brown eyes blue. Then the glasses she wore became fashionable shades, a light amber. "I just fooled around with the button and found an auto-disguise feature! How cool is that?"
"What did you do?" Dipper asked.
"Told you, I found the 'disguise' option. Here, I'll do you."
She took his controller thumbed it, and Dipper saw various options flashing by on the inner screen of his spectacles, going too fast to register with him. Mabel wouldn't be able to see them, but she arbitrarily stopped the display with a flick of her thumb. "Perfecto!" Mabel exclaimed, beaming at him. He felt an electric tingle in the air around himself.
"Did I change?" he asked.
"Brobro, look at your arms!"
The long sleeves had vanished, and at first Dipper thought he was instead wearing some kind of very thin paisley material, a tee shirt under the dark blue vest. But then he saw the intricate patterns, geometric shapes, hearts, stars, snakes, skulls—"I'm tattooed!" he squawked.
"Are you ever! And your face is real different, too. Hey, let's go into the Shack! I wanna look in a mirror and really check these disguises out!"
They found the Shack open for business, with a few tourists poking around in the gift shop and a bored-looking skinny guy they didn't know at the register. But there was Soos, younger—a late teen, from the looks of him—humming as he tidied up with a dustpan and broom. They made their way to him. "Sir," Dipper said.
Soos looked startled. "Huh? Sir? Me, you mean?" He chuckled. "Sir is Mr. Pines. I'm just Soos."
"Um, could we possibly use your restroom, Soos?" Dipper asked quietly. "It's been a long trip."
Soos stroked his chin—no bristles of whiskers visible yet—and said, "I dunno, dawgs, Mr. Pines is pretty strict. If you don't buy something, he might, like, seriously object. But he's out on the Mystery Trail right now, so I suppose if you're quick you can do it. Closest one is around the corner. It's, like, unisex, so you guys will have to, like, take turns or some deal."
"Thanks!" The twins hurried around the corner and, defying standard practice and custom, instead of going into the public restroom, they went up the steps to the attic. Dozens of cardboard boxes cluttered the floor space.
"Man," Dipper said. "It's just a storage area!"
"'Cause Grunkle Stan didn't need an extra bedroom yet," Mabel said. "We were just nine and hadn't even heard of Gravity Falls."
"I hope the bathroom's still here."
"You mean already still here!"
"Whatever." Dipper opened a door.
It was the same bathroom they knew, though from the looks of things, it was rarely used. The mirror behind the sink was in place, though, and Dipper switched on the light and stared at himself, not recognizing the reflection. Now his hair was jet-black and fairly close-cropped, combed straight back. His forehead was unmarked by the Big Dipper birthmark—but his neck bore green and pink tattoos of Cthulhu or some such creature, along with a diving eagle. His nose was larger, and he sported a jet-black soul patch. His eyeglasses had, like Mabel's, become light amber-tinted shades. His complexion had darkened, though his eyes were a striking green. He looked sort of like the offspring of a beautiful Irish colleen and a sharp-featured Cheyenne warrior.
"Ooh," Mabel said, turning this way and that and admiring her reflection. "I am so pretty as a blonde! And look at you, Dip. You look like such a bad boy! Still about sixteen, I think, but a sixteen with experience!"
"I'll scare her looking like this," Dipper said. "Let's change it."
Mabel grabbed his wrist, preventing him from going back into disguise mode. "Brobro, trust me, Wendy won't be scared. Even if she's twelve. She'll be intrigued!"
Well—it wasn't like she'd recognize him, anyway. "OK, I guess."
They made their way downstairs and let themselves out the back way. As they walked around the Shack, they heard Grunkle Stan giving his spiel: "And there's lots more unimaginable and bizarre stuff inside the Museum! Just fifteen dollars, and you'll be shocked! You'll be astounded! You may even be horrified! But think of the tales you'll have for the family back home! Worth every dime and more! Right this way!"
They glimpsed him ushering a crowd of tourists in through the Museum entrance. He didn't look very different from their first glimpse of him—now three years in the future—same suit and ribbon tie, same fez, same somewhat deranged but cheerful grin, same eight-ball-headed cane in his grip. He noticed them, too, and grumped at them: "Hey, kids! No loitering! Buy somethin' or skedaddle!"
"Go suck a lemon, old man!" Mabel yelled, and then she laughed like a loon.
Stan, ever the one to surprise them, cackled. "Suck a lemon! That's a good one! I'll have to remember that! But seriously, kids—scram!"
"Come on," Dipper said, and he and Mabel scrammed.
It was a mile-long walk to town, and then another couple of miles to the Mall, but the day was cool and pleasant, clear sky, bright sun, and Mabel didn't complain—much. "I wonder if we've got money," Dipper said, reaching into his pocket.
Yep, two twenties and a five—and, he saw, from the correct era: Series 2006, signed by Secretary of the Treasury Henry M. Paulson, Jr. "I wonder if this always works," he said. "What if I needed, uh, a 1792 half disme?" He searched his pocket and found a coin that hadn't been there before. "Wow," he said. "Mabel, we're rich!"
Mabel examined the silver coin—not too impressive, smaller than a quarter, with a woman whose hair looked as if it were tangling in a breeze. The words LIB. PAR. OF SCIENCE & INDUSTRY surrounded her head, and below her neck was the date 1792. The opposite side of the coin read, "UNIT. STATES OF AMERICA. A scrawny-looking eagle was flying in the center, and below it were the words HALF DISME. "Dismey?" she asked. "What's a dismey?"
"No, it's pronounced 'dime.' The s is silent."
"Oh, like in 'hithouse,'" Mabel said knowingly.
"Right—wait, what? Anyway, this is maybe the oldest minted coin in America. It's worth millions in an auction!"
The coin vanished with a poof of pinkish vapor.
"Uh-oh," Mabel teased. "Looks like you can't use your hammerspace pocket for nefarious purposes."
"Guess not," Dipper said. "Come on. At least the mall's in better shape than it will be during Weirdmageddon!"
"Let's get to the food court."
They went in at the entrance near Hoo-Ha Owl's Pizzamatronic Jamboree. As they passed, a skeeball broke the glass in the front door and bounced on the tiles in front of them. "She'll be in there," Mabel said knowingly.
"How can you tell?"
"That ball has the earmarks of one tossed by Manly Dan," she said.
Dipper nodded. "You've got a point there."
They went inside, where game bells were ringing, game buzzers were buzzing, and the animatronic figures were plunking out background music poorly synchronized to their jerky movements with their instruments. Manly Dan was arguing with a manager: "I always throw that hard!"
"But you broke my door!"
"It's not a wood door! It don't count!"
"I spy with my little eye a party!" Mabel said. "Come on!" She led the way past the squabbling men. Two girls sat at a table, eating pizza. Dipper recognized Tambry, already Gothed out in black tee shirt and black jeans.
And then he glimpsed Wendy. Already much taller than Dipper had been at twelve, she was talking to Wendy, showing off her braces. She had a half-eaten slice of pizza on the table in front of her.
"Hi! Is this a pizza party?" Mabel asked.
Wendy lost her smile. Tambry shrugged. "Not really a party. But it should be. It's my friend's birthday, but her family . . . doesn't do parties."
"How old are you?" Mabel asked.
"Twelve." Wendy smiled, but kept her lips closed. "Hi."
"Hi," Dipper said.
Wendy's green eyes sized him up. "I don't know you. Are you new in town?"
Dipper shrugged. "sort of. Just passing through with my sister here."
"Hi, I'm Ma . . .ry. Mary Clemclocker! And this is my brother Chris Clemclocker! He's adopted."
"He's cute," Tambry pronounced.
"Tambry! Shh. Hey, do you guys want some pizza? There's, like, plenty of it!"
"Sure," Mabel said, dragging Dipper into a chair. "So let me ask, what's your name?"
"I'm Wendy Corduroy," she said. "And I'm twelve today."
"Congratulations!" Mabel said. "That's a great age. I'm sixteen, but I'd give anything to be twelve again. Enjoy it!" She engulfed about half a slice of pepperoni pizza. With her mouth full of crust and mozzarella, she added, "Wish we had a birthday present for you. Hey, Clark, see what you got in your pocket."
"I thought I was Chris," he whispered.
"That's what I said—his name's Christopher Clark Clemclocker. Chris for short and Clark for long."
He glared at her. "That doesn't make any—"
"See what you have," Mabel said, grimacing.
Dipper felt something plush and pulled out a small stuffed toy—head of a penguin, body of a purple hippo, and with the tail of a mouse. "Uh—this carnival prize," he said. "A creature of indeterminate species. If you want it—happy birthday, Wendy Corduroy."
"A present?" Wendy took the little toy—hardly bigger than Dipper's fist—from him and hugged it. "Thank you, Chris!"
"You're welcome," Dipper said.
Tambry looked at it. "Uh, what kind of animal is it supposed to be?"
"It's a work of imagination," Mabel said firmly.
"It's nice to get a present on my birthday," Wendy said.
"Remember, you also got that thing," Tambry reminded Wendy. "The thing you found."
"Yeah, but I don't even know what it is," Wendy said. "It was just something weird. And it was in the woods not far from my house, just laying there in a hole under this gnarly exposed tree root."
Dipper felt the time device silently vibrating. "Oh, we, uh, we kind of lost something," he said. For a moment he couldn't see Wendy because an image had formed in his spectacle lenses. "It's about the size of, uh, a playing card, but thicker. It's aluminum and there's kind of a square screen on one side of it. No controls or anything. And it's not thick enough to hold a regular battery."
"Hey, yeah," Wendy said. "Did you lose it? I just found it yesterday. I've got it if you want it back."
"Well," Dipper began.
"That would be so cool!" Mabel said. "Chet, you told me you'd offer a reward for it. Twenty dollars, right?"
"Uh, yeah, right," Dipper said. "Wendy, do you happen to have it with you?"
"No, it's at my house," she said. "Hey, I'll write the address down for you and you can stop by and claim it." Dipper handed her his pen and notebook, and she half-printed, half-wrote in cursive her address. "Want me to tell you how to find it?"
"No, we can get there," Dipper said. Heck, he could walk there while blindfolded after all the times he'd visited her. Or would visit her. Mabel was right, time travel messed with your mind. "What time?"
Wendy glanced at the manager and her dad. "I think Dad's gonna get banned from this place in a few minutes. How about this afternoon around four?"
"That's good for us!" Mabel said, finishing the last of her slice. "We'll drop by then. Come on, Chuck!"
As she hustled him toward the mall entrance, Dipper heard Tambry say, "I like his tattoos."
"Me, too," Wendy said. "He's hella hot."
"I think somebody's got her eye on you, Chad," Mabel crooned.
"Shut your yap," Dipper grumbled.
However—truth to tell—his heart was beating a little faster. They had three hours until four o'clock. And—man, it embarrassed him to think about it—he, the sixteen-year-old Christopher Clark Chet Chuck Clemclocker Dipper Pines—couldn't wait to see the cute twelve-year-old Wendy Corduroy again.
"This is so wrong," he moaned. "I feel so weird about this!"
"Now," Mabel said, "you really know how she used to feel!"