jónsi & alex — happiness
everynight fire works
(happiness)
Pacifica blinks slowly against the brightness streaming in from the window above the couch, its strange pattern of stained-glass bubbles tinting the light and casting patches of pink and orange against the wall and the sheets of her bed. She's overslept. Her floor fan buzzes lazily back and forth, sending cool air rippling over her shrouded body as it turns from side to side.
She's comfortable and still drowsy enough that she can probably go back to sleep, provided she puts on her sleep mask to block the morning sun. But her mask is in one of her suitcases and she'd have to get up to retrieve it, thus disturbing her luxury. She knows that she should get up anyway. She just doesn't want to face the waking world yet.
It's the Fourth of July, and she's just turned fourteen.
Her feelings on the matter are… complicated. She's said nothing at all about her birthday to anyone, mostly because she isn't sure what to think about it. And she's not testing Dipper to see if he remembers. Really, she isn't. She can't decide if she actually wants him to or not.
The memory of her birthday last summer looms large in her mind. It had been quite the event, eclipsed only by the annual party. She'd had a lavish dinner and a mountain of presents, including a front row seat and backstage pass to the Sev'ral Timez show. As it turned out, shaking hands and posing for selfies with the group had been a pretty meagre backstage experience compared to the story Mabel's told (or briefly inhabiting the Shack with the boyband during Weirdmageddon, for that matter), but it had been pretty great at the time. She hadn't known the occasion marked one of the last times she would feel right with her old life. That her first step into her teenage years would bring utter dissolution.
If the Pines had ever crossed her mind, it was only with passing contempt. How blind she'd been. How petty.
A walking one-dimensional bleached-blonde valley girl stereotype.
That hadn't actually hurt at the time, it just made her mad—mostly because someone was standing up to her, and that someone was Mabel. But it hurts now because Mabel said it, and because Pacifica knows it was true.
It's not anymore (she hopes). She doesn't expect thousands of dollars' worth of presents, or a banquet. But her birthday is a reminder that she once had, and it also serves to highlight every uncertainty which surrounds her. She doesn't even know what to ask for. What's appropriate? It's not like Dipper and Mabel have any money. What does she really want, anyway?
Besides for this summer to never, ever end.
There is a substantial part of her that wants all the usual things. A cake and presents; the total attention afforded by her special day. She wants to be the birthday girl and be at the center of things, to have her whims catered to. She deserves it! That's how this is supposed to work. But every time she thinks she's settled the question, the doubt comes back. The memories put a damper on her enthusiasm, recalling all the versions of herself she's tried to leave behind.
So, she said nothing about her birthday, because she didn't have anything to say. And maybe it's better this way.
But darn it… despite everything, despite herself, she's still disappointed that no one remembered.
She sluggishly rises, brushes her teeth and her hair, applies some light makeup for the day. She no longer has the money for a smorgasbord of beauty products, but she makes do. She's begun wearing far less makeup than she used to, a side effect of her new budget and her new lifestyle. Heavy makeup, she's found, is a liability while engaging with Weirdness, especially in the summer heat.
Finished with her morning routine, she steps out into the hall. The Shack is quiet and cool; Ford's new air conditioner works wonders, producing cold air at such a rate that he had to turn it down after everyone spent a freezing night beneath whatever blankets they could find. Between that and the generator built around the Quantum Destabilizer's core, Pacifica is now living in what is probably the most cutting-edge domicile in existence. The irony of the building's overall appearance is not lost on her.
Unlike the twins, Pacifica isn't usually hungry right after she wakes up. She makes her way to the attic room, but there's no one there. For all Pacifica knows, Mabel and Dipper are miles away, traipsing through the woods in search of who knows what. Sighing, she turns and stumps back downstairs, wondering if she should just go back to bed. What's even going on today? Probably nothing until it gets dark enough for fireworks. Unless she wants to make a fuss about her birthday.
No. …Maybe. No! That's what the old Pacifica would do. …But it's not like she's asking for special treatment just because. It really is her birthday. Shouldn't that count for something?
God. She is so over this. Tomorrow can't come soon enough.
She's wandering in the direction of the living room, hoping to come across a distraction, when she hears voices in the kitchen. The smell of baking wafts down the hallway and her stomach finally wakes up enough to twinge.
When she approaches the doorway, she's confused by the lack of light coming from the kitchen. She looks inside and isn't sure what she's seeing at first; there's a blanket draped over the window and the room is plunged in shadow. The table has been moved to the center of the room and Dipper, Mabel, and Soos are clustered around it.
Pacifica blinks, waiting for her eyes to adjust. "What's going on?" she asks.
There's the sudden strike of a match. They all step aside, revealing a cake on the table with two lit candles in the shape of a one and a four. The glow of the candlelight reveals their smiling faces.
Pacifica is stunned, mouth hanging open uselessly.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAAAAAAAAY!" Mabel gleefully shouts, spinning in place and then doing jazz hands over the cake. "I made you a cake!"
Dipper, still grinning, steps forward to take Pacifica's hand, tugging her gently forward. "Happy birthday, Pacifica," he says.
"This cake's got the works, dude," Soos says, giving her a thumbs up. "Chocolate insides, chocolate frosting, chocolate sprinkles… Pretty much all the chocolate."
Pacifica is shocked to see even Stan and Ford are here. Stan notices her surprise and shrugs. "I'm just here for the cake," he says.
"The birthday party last summer was the first I'd attended in quite some time," Ford muses. "There was one on Kartonne IV, although on that particular occasion I wasn't so much a guest as I was the intended meal. Anyway, I believe this is when we sing the birthday song, yes? Is that still customary?"
Mabel immediately launches into a very enthusiastic rendition of the traditional tune, and everyone joins her. Pacifica stands with her hands clasped in front of her; happy, overwhelmed, grateful. In the dim light from the table, her whole world has shrunk to this small pool of illumination and those within it; her newfound family, close and welcoming. She fights back the first hint of tears, smiles, and accepts their offkey serenade.
When she leans forward and blows out the candles, the afterimage of their flame lingers behind her eyelids like a promise.
"Did you wish for more wishes?" Mabel asks.
"Obviously. That's always the best wish," she says, and she's lying because she didn't wish for anything. She doesn't need to.
She gets two new sweaters from Mabel, a framed picture of herself and Dipper from Soos, a very cute blue hiking canteen from Dipper, an LED flashlight from Ford, and twenty dollars from Stan (and she can't decide if she's more astonished that he gave her a present at all, or that he gave her money. It's not a lot of money, but even fifteen minutes ago she would have bet pretty much anything that Stan wouldn't give her a quarter if he had a gun to his head). The cake is delicious, and she eats way more of it than she should.
She's crowded at the small table, her shoulders pressing into Mabel and Dipper, the conversation punctuated by swells of rising laughter. It should be, logically, that this dingy kitchen and these few gifts are lesser than what she had last year. But they aren't; they are so much more because she is, and they all are, and they are all together.
"You beat us to fourteen! Totes unfair," Mabel says through a mouthful of cake. "Good thing Dipper is into older girls."
"She's two months older than us, that doesn't even count," Dipper argues.
"When you're this hot, you can get a younger man," Pacifica drawls.
"It doesn't count!" Dipper insists.
When they finish with the cake, Pacifica gathers up her presents with the intention of putting them in her room—most of it can go in one suitcase or the other for now, but the picture she wants to put on her bedside table. Mabel is wrapping up what's left of the cake but stops long enough to intercept Pacifica before she leaves.
"Having your birthday on the Fourth must be the best. You get all the cake and all the fireworks!" Mabel says.
This used to be literally true, as the Northwests had put on their own fireworks show in addition to the smaller one from the town. Their show had more to do with Pacifica than patriotism, not that this was ever openly stated. But Pacifica won't be watching from the deck of her parents' boat this year.
"Are we watching from the roof?" Pacifica asks.
"That's what we did last year," Mabel says. "But Wendy says she has an awesome spot where we can see everything over the lake. All the cool kids will be there!"
"Then why'd she tell you about it?"
"Oh-ohhhhhh, birthday girl burn!" Mabel laughs. "Save some of those sparks for tonight, geez!"
On the way to her room, Pacifica holds up the frame and looks more closely at the picture. She's not sure when it was taken, but it looks like one of the many photographs Mabel's been taking for the scrapbook. In it, Pacifica is seated on the porch couch with Dipper at her side. They're laughing about something (she wishes she could remember what); Pacifica is leaning in closer while Dipper gestures out towards the lawn with one hand. It's a good picture of the two of them, and she won't be surprised if a duplicate of it turns up in the scrapbook.
She deposits her new belongings on her bed and positions the frame a few different ways on the bedside table until it looks just right. While admiring it, she hears footsteps behind her and turns to see Dipper standing in the doorway in an awkward posture, his hands behind his back.
"So, uh…" he starts, shifting his weight from side to side, "Mabel told you about the fireworks show, right?"
"Yeah, Wendy has a spot picked out," she says.
"Cool, cool…" He trails off, his awkwardness only intensifying.
Pacifica looks at him suspiciously. "Okay, did you do something that's going to make me mad, or are you just being weird even for you?"
"Okay, yeah, I am being weird," he says, laughing a little at himself. He relaxes slightly. "I just… I have something else for you, and I kind of made it, and it's not… I mean, it's not like what you're used to. Obviously. But I—"
"Another present? What is it?" she says, approaching him eagerly.
"Don't get too excited," he cautions. "It's not a limousine, or a boat, or a blimp or whatever."
Her mouth purses dubiously. "What would I even do with a blimp?"
"Throw a fancy airborne party, travel the world, rain terror from the skies. You know, blimp stuff."
"I don't know why you thought this through, but I know you're not hiding a blimp behind your back."
Dipper brings his arms around and holds out his right hand. "Mabel helped, so it's kind of from her, too."
It's a necklace. The loop is made of pink and blue string twisted together to form a thicker cord, and Pacifica assumes this was Mabel's contribution. Dangling from it is a piece of polished metal. It's a little uneven around the edges and obviously homemade, but its shape is clear and recognizable: it's a llama. There are even some finer marks to indicate its shaggy coat.
"It's not much," Dipper babbles while she examines it. "I made it with some of Great-Uncle Ford's tools, and I've never done anything like that before so he kind of had to help me out, but I thought it turned out okay—"
"I love it," she says. She puts it around her neck and snaps together the simple magnetic clasp.
"Cool," Dipper says with relief. "Well… happy birthday."
She steps closer, putting her hands on his shoulders and raising up to kiss him—with a sudden thought that at this rate it won't be long before she'll have to stand on her toes to reach his mouth. She pours all her gratitude and affection into the kiss and even though it wasn't her intention, within seconds it all turns so heated. She sinks one hand into his hair—their bodies pressed together with an edge, with something close to desperation—as his fingers at her waist burn against her skin where the hem of her shirt slips up. The meeting of their closed lips can't content; they press harder, searching, unpracticed and graceless, all teeth and a little bit of tongue and suddenly, all at once, it's too much, too soon; she's drowning. This aching need scares her—she doesn't know how to satisfy it.
She lowers herself and presses her face to his chest, breathing hard in time with him.
"Um… I guess you liked it," Dipper pants.
She giggles in out-of-breath amusement against his thudding heart. "You're such a dork."
They silently stand there together for a time, coming back to themselves, the air heavy with the unspoken weight of what's happening between them. Pacifica can't help but wonder, with an internal little thrill, what would happen if they didn't stop themselves.
Because someday, she suspects, she won't want to.
Late that evening, the cars get parked not far from where they had when pursuing the Windigo. Wendy leads them towards the cliff; this time they bypass the stairs cut into the rock and keep following the stretch of forest that steadily thins until they reach the point where the water of the lake laps against the rock face. They climb an uneven pile of rocks and walk along a narrow ledge about twenty feet above the water. Ahead, the waterfall roars, plunging down into the turbulent waters at its base, the setting sun tinting the mists. They pass behind it and keep going, tracing the curve of the cliffs and the lake basin.
Eventually, their path dips back down and they stand on the lakeshore opposite the town, with the rearing cliffs at their back and the glittering water stretched out before them. This side of the shore is comprised more of rocks than sand; great round boulders dot the surf and countless smooth stones clack beneath their feet, every shade of grey and brown. The town itself is mostly shrouded behind the pines, an occasional light winking between branches.
"Best spot in the valley," Wendy proclaims, the grand sweep of her arm encompassing the cliffs, the forest, and the small waves curling onto the rocky strand.
Everyone's here: Wendy and her friends; Mabel with Candy and Grenda; Stan, Ford, and Soos. Lawn chairs are set out, blankets are spread over the grassy patches farther back from the shore. Pacifica settles down on a thick blanket draped over a boulder that's just right for sitting. Dipper is at her side and she leans into him, watching the water lap against the rocks. A small cluster of boats in the center of the lake will be the source of the fireworks.
Most of the townsfolk are on the opposite shore. Pacifica can see a couple distant bonfires and tiny figures walking back and forth. The occasional loud pop echoes through the valley, fireworks set off in backyards or somewhere in the woods.
The sun sinks lower behind the cliffs. The sky darkens until there is only the hint of light, dark blue scattered with black clouds. Pacifica feels the anticipation race through her, waiting for the first loud shock of the show.
"Man, Wendy is right. This is a great spot," Dipper marvels.
Anywhere would be great, Pacifica thinks, as long as he was there with her.
The first sharp clap comes roaring across the water. Everyone holds their breath as the glowing trails arc upward, the whole town suspended in the loaded quiet between launch and detonation. The mortars crackle and boom, glowing against the sky in burning blooms of red, white, and blue. Pacifica cheers with the rest, clapping and hollering, hearing the answering jubilation from the other shore.
The cannonade continues. Fireworks shoot upwards to blast and sizzle against the dark painting of the sky, stars being born and dying in the same bursting instant, sending their crackling contrails to all sides and leaving behind the ghostly imprint of their smoke. It's a war on eardrums and retinas, achingly loud and searing bright. Every glorious flash of color shines back from the water, mirrored in beautiful symmetry.
Pacifica wraps herself around Dipper's arm. She turns and watches the lights play against his face, the shifting sparkles in his eyes. Another mortar goes off and the sound breaks across her, the night fragrant with the smell of powder. Her heart swells with it; this summer, this celebration, this boy and everything he has become to her.
She wants to hold his hand forever. She wants to catch the embers in his eyes. She wants to go forward with him, to the future; to wherever. To rise and burst against that glittering canvas, burning brighter, every spark a possibility, a road writ in a sky as vast and endless as everything they can be. There is promise in all that they share. She can feel it. She knows it like she knows the rhythm of his heart and the heat of his mouth against hers.
This is theirs, this moment. And there will never be another exactly like it.
Over the lake, a whole cluster goes off at once, dyeing the valley in purple and orange, the roar of it all sweeping along the cliffs. The sound and the light wash over all the gathered friends and family, bringing some gasps of appreciation and a 'Nice!' from Dipper. Pacifica puts her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes for a second, just listening.
And it amazes her how many ways there are to be happy that she never knew before.
Everynight Fire Works by Hey Mercedes (Vagrant, 2001)