it tired me all the same
Pacifica surveys the lunchroom. She knows exactly what she's looking at: the animal kingdom. An ecosystem of Ziploc bags and Formica tables; a hierarchy laid out in lunchboxes, plastic trays and crinkled brown paper. This is where the structure is bared, no longer disguised by assigned seats and group projects. As it does on the bus, the natural pattern asserts itself in the absence of any higher power imposed. Groups gravitate. Cliques congeal. Every layer calls to its own, and if you forget in which spectrum you are painted, you will be reminded. If you're lucky, it won't be public.
Pacifica Northwest is the cream: She rises to the top, as is her nature. But lately that nature has been slowly revealed to be more nurture than she had ever before considered. Now she knows how fragile her life really is and just how much insecurity was stocked beneath every condescending smile, cutting remark, and victory sash. The knowledge comes painfully in sharp, sudden bursts and long, agonizing reflections, each of which have rent her further apart.
It's the unexpected bounty she's found in the ruins that makes it all seem bittersweet; and growing sweeter.
She has a decision to make as she stands there with her lunch tray. She spies a gaggle of finely dressed girls, at least a few of which have eyed Pacifica's designer wear with appreciation or envy, both of which are useful. There's also Mabel, openly waving to Pacifica without a care as to how she appears, surrounded by girls who mostly seem to fall into the crafting crowd; art-types with handmade bracelets and earrings and Trapper Keepers with personal illustrations; the extracurriculars, a multi-club gathering.
And then there's Dipper, sitting not too far from his sister with an open book by his sandwich as he looks furtively at Pacifica and tries not to look like he's looking.
The only surprising thing, really, is how easy a decision it is to make. Before the first bell rang, her flag was already planted right where she wants it.
Head held high, she casually navigates the tables and seats herself next to Dipper.
His eyes go wide. Sitting up straighter, he tries to play it cool. "Hey," he says, whatever nonchalance he is aiming for going down in flames when his voice squeaks like a rusty gate.
Some of the girls near Mabel stifle giggles. Dipper's face turns red and he pretends to concentrate on his sandwich, as if eating it presents a challenge.
Pacifica would have rolled her eyes on any other occasion, but right now she's too busy making a point to make fun of him. Time to refashion some of that old Northwest confidence, except this time for what she wants and not what the name demands. Cool and composed, she takes Dipper's hand off his book and wraps it around her own.
The message is clear to everyone who is watching—which, given her status as a total unknown and Dipper's lack of status in general, isn't very many people. What's more important is that the message is understood by its most direct recipient.
Slowly, Dipper's fingers close around hers. His brown eyes are full of questions. They still need to talk. They've taken every step but that.
Which is intimidating. She doesn't know how to talk about things. It's not like they ever did that in her family. In the Northwest house the less said about anything inappropriate (meaning anything that didn't gel with their projected self-image of the perfect family), the better. Talking about feelings is lame. Why can't she just hold his hand and let that be enough?
Because, she internally counters with a sinking feeling of realization, that isn't just not enough for Dipper—it's not enough for her, either. If they are going to be something, she needs to hear him say that. She needs it. Otherwise, she's not sure she can ever truly believe it.
The moment is dispelled when Mabel, brimming with glee, says, "So this is our awesome friend Pacifica. She's from Malibu!"
This garners the expected level of interest. Pacifica is grateful that Mabel didn't default to the point of origin being Gravity Falls, which would have been followed by a lot of 'where?'s. She makes her introductions and answers the usual inane questions about Malibu (the truth is that Gravity Falls is much more interesting, albeit in a way that can't be discussed). She relinquishes Dipper's hand so they can both eat, aware their meal has a deadline.
She should be in her element. She's with a group of girls and she's the wealthy, exotic outsider. In no time at all she'll know who to flatter and who to subtly put down in order to end the meal with a new gaggle of would-be friends. But she's off balance. Mabel's friends aren't all cut from the same cloth as the type of people Pacifica is accustomed to dealing with. Her usual methods might work in some cases and backfire in others; the formula is delicately different. Besides, it is Dipper who is her point of focus. His shoulder is next to hers and the near whole of her attention resides within that gap.
Plus, there's Mabel to consider. Pacifica doesn't care all that much about the opinions and feelings of these strangers around her. But she does care what Mabel thinks, even if there's a part of her that doesn't want to, and she's looking to her exuberant friend for cues. Pacifica knows exactly how to wound another girl's fragile ego with just the right combination of friendly observation and hidden poison, a vital lesson she'd learned well in her old circles (in Gravity Falls, she hadn't bothered to cloak her venom: There had been no rungs left to climb). She's afraid she might involuntarily slip into old tactics, so she follows Mabel's lead. She's a good friend now, right? Whatever that means. At the moment it means she lets Mabel choose the topics and keeps things noncommittal.
After lunch, her next class is with Dipper. They walk the halls together, threading through the press. They aren't holding hands, but she walks so close to him that their arms brush.
"So what do you think of public middle school?" Dipper asks, gesturing at the throng around them.
Pacifica looks up at some water-stained acoustic tiles, several of which sport pieces of hurled gum. She grimaces. "It's kind of gross."
"Yeah, that sounds about right," Dipper says with a quick grin. "Can't wait for high school. Who knows what new and interesting gross things we'll encounter."
Pacifica suddenly hopes with all her heart that she'll be going to high school with him. The thought of starting over yet again with a freshly divorced parent is hanging over her like a guillotine. She wants more time. Like, forever would be good.
Don't think about it. Push it down; it'll save.
In class they divide into pairs to create a paragraph describing their assigned nation's economy. She pairs with Dipper and doesn't miss the slightly apologetic nod he gives to a boy who must be his usual partner. As they work, Pacifica amuses herself by 'accidentally' brushing against Dipper every time she moves. He's flustered and distracted and still does about seventy-five percent of the work. If she manages to stay and go to high school with him then she needs to make sure they have the same classes. She's no slouch when it comes to schoolwork (her parents would not have stood for average grades), but if she can work with Dipper then making honor roll will only be half as difficult.
After class finishes, they are standing in the hall once again. The next period they will be separated. Pacifica knows she needs to get going, but for some reason she feels like she can't leave without saying something. It's getting ridiculous, all the things they need to talk about. And the day isn't over yet.
"Well, see you," he says awkwardly. Maybe she imagines it, but she thinks he looks at her lips.
Dipper has been the bold one before, in the sense of what they are to each other. He has already saved her in so many different ways. If this part of things is up to her, that's fine. She's better at it anyway.
She tugs him forward by a strap of his backpack and when he steps towards her, eyes widening, she presses her lips to his again.
She supposes every thrill gets old, but this one sure hasn't started to.
When she moves back, he's looking stunned. "Okay, so, we meet at the bus? Which is it again, seventeen?" she asks.
"Uh, yeah, seven, uh, seventeen," he stammers, clearing his throat.
"You'd better be there," she says with a bit of bite. She's not serious and he knows it, but just the playful edge to her command seems to put him back in balance.
"Bet I get there before you," he says through a smile, then trots away.
The rest of the day is a blur of new faces and new assignments and lots of questions after class. She's playing catch up, but her transferred grades are good enough that she's going to finish just fine whether her teachers know who she is or not. Her pedigree demands a level of academic excellence that had sometimes been difficult to maintain, though it had usually just been an annoyance. She's smart and she knows it. Dipper is also intelligent, and he may actually be a budding genius in the mold of his mad scientist great-uncle—not that she'll ever admit it. But there's a difference between getting straight As and being a big nerd, a divide mostly measured in social status and preoccupations with certain forms of fiction.
When she steps back out into the hall after her last class the press of students eager to go home is momentarily overwhelming. She's never attended a school with this many kids before; it strikes her as overcrowded. She supposes that's just how public school is. Well, not everywhere. She really doubts Gravity Falls has too many students (though, now that she thinks about it, she's pretty sure the schools in town are attended by all the kids from the county).
Dipper was right, of course. As the buses are being boarded, she just barely makes it out in time, having been forced to discuss assignments with a teacher. She sees Dipper out in front of the bus, scanning for her. When she hurries towards him Mabel suddenly appears from behind.
"There you are!" Mabel says.
It's nice to know they were looking for her.
The bus is still cramped and smelly. The other kids are much louder and more active than they had been on the morning ride, boisterous and ready to be home. Pacifica feels exhausted. She sits on the tacky rubber seat as her nose is assaulted by diesel fumes and too many bodies with too little airflow and tries not to get motion sick or think much about anything at all. It's been a day of too many firsts.
Not, she thinks as Dipper's hand brushes hers, that she regrets any of them.