Archive of Our Own

“How was church?”
A simple question, yet one that felt foreign coming out of my mouth. Church? What even happened in those places? Whenever Christian songs came over the radio or church-going friends would say they’d “pray for me” I didn’t feel anything other than confusion.
But Pacifica Northwest leaned on the sink of the Shack bathroom, having called me earlier that morning, only to say she was anxious and needed somewhere to go after her Easter service. I’m sure talk of nailing people through their wrists or whatever probably does that to you.
“Oh, I don’t know, Dipper. Church was churchy, I guess. Boring.”
“Churchy’ is pretty unspecific.” I said, sitting on the floor, opposite her.
“What kind of master wordsmith do you expect me to be? It’s a church, you know what churches are.” She shifted her weight. The sink was already leaving little water spots on her sides.
“Sorry, Pacifica, I understand the Protestant need to center yourself in every conversation, but thankfully, I don’t know anything about churches. I’ve never even been in one.”
“Okay, fine, I forgot. And-” her voice caught on itself. “And maybe I didn’t want to go in the first place! ”
“Then why even did you?”
She tugged at the form-fitting waist of her dress “I- I don’t know. ‘Cause my parents did. And maybe I thought I should stay just for Easter.”
I was always so accustomed to Pacifica dressed in her usual soft pinks and purples. Her sense of fashion, so elegant at times, always contrasted her abrasive personality so well. And I wouldn’t have admitted it out loud those days, but she always beautiful when she chose what she wore. But her “Sunday best” was a gaudy, A-line dress covered in red and blue pansy-looking flowers.
“Now, I’m obviously not a fashionista. But that dress is hideous, and I’m surprised you’d sacrifice your fashion.” I said. “Especially since you’re such a God-fearing, Christian young woman so pure of heart.” I added sarcastically.
“Oh, shut up. My parents made me wear this.”
“I knew it! You seemed uncomfortable.”
“I did?”
“You always exude this sense of confidence, but you’re all shifty-looking now, and you’re talking quietly for once in your life. Do you know how uncharacteristic that is for you? You never shut up,” I said playfully.
She turned around, looked at herself in the mirror.She lifted a finger, and put it to her face, tracing it over the fair skin of her jawline- as white as the sand of an artificial beach.
“Whatcha doing? Checking if you’re real?” I laughed a little, the severity of her discomfort not quite setting in to me.
“I guess.” She rubbed at her eyeliner, light and airy and brown, nothing like the sharp wings and violet smudges she tended to prefer these days. “It kinda sucks that I wipe off the makeup every night knowing there’s another basic white girl underneath. There’s already a million of them. It’s so easy to pull off a mask when there’s a clean difference between it and what’s under it. Sometimes I don’t even think there’s even anything at all.”
“I think you're being surprisingly insightful and reflective.” I said.
“Well, I’m not trying to be.”
“I’m sorry, then. But I really do think you have a lot more substance than you give yourself credit for. You've matured a lot, and you’re funny when you’re not being mean to me. And you’re smart. But don’t get used to me saying that or anything.”
“It’s not like you said anything so nice when we were dating,” Pacifica said plainly.
“I did! I complimented you all the time. Maybe they just weren’t the compliments you were looking for. Or I guess I tried too hard to be subtle." “Thanks, I guess. I’m not the ‘hinting’ type. Anyway, do you have any makeup remover?”
“I dunno. Mabel probably has some under the sink.”
“Alright.” She opened the drawer, with a harsh movement.
“Well, don’t break the cabinets! Soos fixed them again just last week!”
She rummaged through each wooden drawer, raking her hands through toothbrushes and pill bottles.
“Oh, fun, you have the kid’s toothpaste.”
“That’s not mine, it’s Mabel’s- hey, would you stop snooping around and find the makeup remover already?”
“Afraid not- wait, Dipper? You take Prozac? That’s hilarious.”
“Yeah, cause you give me so much anxiety.”
She finally found a pack of face wipes, and tore open the top of the packet.
With smooth strokes, she wiped off the cakey (and incredibly unflattering) foundation coating her face.
She had to scrub a little at the eyeliner, but after a few minutes and a rinse it was gone. Her bright blue eyes, with their greenish flecks, seemed so much gentler without it.
“I wish I had something else to wear,” she complained. “This dress is so fugly and stupid.”
“Well, I’m sure Mabel has something in your size. Maybe.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m not making any judgements, just pointing out the possibility that her clothes may not fit her, as she is a smaller person than you.”
“Well, fine. You know how I feel about her fashion choices, anyway.”
I crossed my arms. “Well, would you rather wear something from her closet, or that God-awful dress?”
“Fine. Will you at least help me with the zipper?” She gestured at her back.
“What?”
“The zipper of my dress. I can’t reach it because it’s over the middle of my back, dumbass.”
“Oh- uh- yeah.”
She still faced the mirror, hands braced on the ceramic of the sink.
It’s not like you haven’t done this before. No need to feel awkward I told myself. Well- it was a different point in time.
“And don’t go all the way down,” she said. “Just enough for me to get the rest.”
Man, where even was that zipper? Girl’s clothes are too complicated.
Near the small of her back was a thin flap of fabric in the center of her dress. I hesitantly pushed it to the side to find a gold zipper pull, small and delicate. I started to pull it, but paused.
The intimacy of fixing another’s clothing reminded me of an incident from years before, and the memory, in its bitter sweetness, seemed to blend with the present day.
***
How old was I? Thirteen? Just about.
Pacifica had ordered me to tag along to the funeral of a distant cousin she never cared for, and for some reason, I acquiesced.
“I’ll be bored out of my mind if you don’t come. And don’t look like a slob. Wear that suit,” she’d said. Knowing her, it was a demand, not a suggestion. And so I came in the suit, as much as I hated its thick, constricting, fabric.
“Wow- you look really beautiful. In like, a funeral-ly way? Or something? Is that what I should say in this situation?” I said this with the grace and finesse of a Kraft Single.
“You too. By the way, your collar is flipped up. It looks ridiculous.” She said, stepping closer to me, finger over my collar to adjust it over my tie.
But as she did so, her nose brushed against mine, and on impulse, I put my hands on her shoulders.
The idea in movies is that a first kiss is something that is magical and stunning and perfectly orchestrated, happening with no communication or forethought. Sure, it was warm and loving and a little surprising to me in all the best ways possible but ultimately it was just a kiss, nothing more. Okay, well, my real first kiss was a certain merman, but that didn’t count.
This first kiss with her wasn’t really much to write home about, but our second? That was the one that stuck with me. The first kiss of that moment startled me, and to be honest, I still don’t know which one of us initiated it. We pulled away quickly, without really thinking it through. But I remembered asking through awkward sweating and heavy breathing, “Pacifica?”
“Yes, Dipper?”
“Can we try again?”
And that time around, it was softer, and gentler, and longer, and our eyes stayed closed. It made me feel just that little bit more alive, and this time around, I forgot about everything.
I forgot about Bill and everything he’d done to me, I forgot about Pacifica’s parents, I forgot about how much Mabel hurt when I was away. I let my guard down, I let it all down and let the moment last longer than it should have.
And my guard stayed down until she pulled away.
“You feel like you’ve done this before.” I muttered, once her face was far enough from me.
“Yeah, I have. And I can tell this is your first time.”
“Jeez, you're fourteen!" I said. "Who have you been kissing?”
“Just to keep people happy and stuff. Kind of like party favors- everybody’s gotta get something out of it if I’m around, I guess. But it’s alright. ”
“Um, Pacifica?”
“Yeah?”
“You may not know it, but that’s kind of… really messed up.”
We were standing in a hallway behind the service, her parents already in the room. “Oh, I never liked all those kisses.” Pacifica said. “Just gave them to ugly guys at parties so they'd stop looking at me.”
“Why didn’t you just… run away?” My big mouth opened before I realized how insanely rude that sounded.
“I don’t know. I never was as confident as you thought.”
“Maybe it isn’t confidence, then. Maybe you just felt forced.”
“Most of my life I didn’t feel forced to do anything, I was forced.”
Those warm sparks between us started to leave. The pleasantly soft butterflies in my stomach turned and became an ache. Did I do something wrong to her? I wondered.
But I didn’t really have anything to say other than “I’m sorry for that.”
But Pacifica just took my hand, nodded, said “I know you are. But you hate admitting it.”
***
I was brought back to the present once Pacifica, in her eighteen-year-old voice, said “Hurry up!”
“Sorry. Got a little lost in thought.”
“‘Cause you’re just that smart?”
“Yeah, I like to think so.” I continued sliding the zipper down, but it was quite sensitive, and I felt I unzipped it too far. I carefully tried to zip it back up, just to accidentally take it all the way back.
Ah, Jeez, my hands are shaking. I thought.
I pulled it down again, until a slip of the hand brought it down more than necessary. I began pulling it up again, when Pacifica said, “It’s fine! Just leave it there, I can get it myself at this point.”
“Oh, alright.” I pat her shoulder awkwardly. “Well, I’ll find something not too horrible for you to wear.”
“It better not be.”
“I’m sure Mabel has a chicken suit lying around.”
“Ew, No!”
I chuckled, shutting the door behind me as I left the bathroom. “I’m joking. But you wouldn’t look horrible in a chicken suit.”
“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
I made gentle steps down the Shack hall, towards the attic, where I assumed my sister would be. But I saw her in the kitchen, humming and mixing together a bowl of who-knows-what.
“Mabel?”
“Oh, hey, dork!” She took off her headphones and set them on the counter. “What were you and Pacifica doing in the bathroom?”
“Talking.” I said.
“Talking?”
She giggled.
“Not that kind of talking, Mabel.”
“Oh, alright. I don’t believe you.” She set down the bowl, her almost perpetual excited smile across her face. “Well, she should really come down and be a taste-tester. I'm baking up a pretty crazy pie." “Okay. Pacifica needs something to wear.”
“I have something that would fit her! Watch the pie filling, lest it get eaten by the pie ghosts.” She waggled her fingers. I was fairly sure she was joking, but who knows.
Mabel rushed upstairs, leaving me with a bowl of purple, Grimace-colored sludge. She came back with a light pink empire-waist dress, made of glossy fabric.
“It was a little too big, but I’m sure Pacifica would think it’s so pretty!”
“I’ll bring it to her. Thanks.”
I made cautious steps back towards the bathroom, where I caught only a glimpse of her through the crack in the door.
“Um, are you decent?”
“No! I mean- whatever you have, hand it to me through the door.”
“Alright.”
A delicate hand (fitted with shimmering mauve acrylics) slid through the doorway, catching the pink dress, seashell-colored and satiny.
“It’s- it’s not all that bad.” She said.
“We thought you’d think so.”
The sound of shimmying, the rubbing of fabric preceded her confident steps out of the bathroom. “Alright, I know I look great. You don’t even have to tell me.” She said, a smile already on her face.
“Oh, Mabel is gonna scream.”
“In a-”
“In a good way.” I assured her.
And I was not wrong- Mabel was pushing a pie tin into the oven, when she turned around and gasped.
“Pacifica! You look so gorgeous! Keep the dress. It fits you so perfectly!”
“Um- thanks. Thanks a lot. I will”
I wanted to see a friend in Pacifica, not something to gawk at. I didn’t want to ruin her like I sometimes thought I would by finding her so entrancing. But she was- her dusty brown hair was always dyed in a strawberry-blonde balayage, her fair and pinkish skin was graced with a slight tan once she was freed from the prison of her family’s manor. I could never stop looking over at her, but my pull and attraction to her shifted gears at one point in time. She was always gorgeous. That was a universal constant that I knew would never change. But she wasn't intimidating and frustrating in that innocent little way she used to be. What we had was so quaint and so sweet, too sweet. I knew for a while it would die like all sweet and ripe things must in their life-cycle, all sweet and ripe things either rot or drop seeds to sow that create sweeter and riper things later down the line. This had happened before with my feelings for Wendy, so it was bound to happen again.
But seeing her like this, as enchanting as she always was, I wondered if maybe whatever I saw in her transcended the concept of "teen romance" I once had. She smoothed out her dress with her hands, carefully picking little pieces of lint.
“Do you want to hang out in the attic? I have my PS3, if you want to play, like, Metal Gear Solid or something.”
“Yeah, I guess that sounds fun.” But as we made our way to the attic together, I should have anticipated the sick feeling that filled me and grew with each step the two of us took up the Shack stairs.
The familiar setting dug a memory up from the past, one I didn’t want to engage with. Yet it presented itself to me forcefully, as if to say “Don’t forget, how else will you learn?”
***
That night we broke up was a a seemingly innocuous one, early last January. Pacifica had shown up at the front door of the Shack with a pallor and fatigue fitting for the season. And the night had started out innocent.
I pulled open the door to hear sniffles, and see watery eyes. “You look sick, are you aright?”
“You do too,” she muttered nasally, a smile pushing at her cheeks nonetheless. “But you always do. It’s either allergies, or the cold, or that time of the-”
“Alright, don’t mind me, then.” I said, punctuated with a chuckle. “You obviously feel worse.”
In a gesture still appropriate at that time, I wrapped her in the tightest hug I could manage. Which wasn’t very tight at all, but she was always satisfied anyway. I took her hand and led her up these very same stairs that I walked up today, tanned and scarred fingers intertwining with hers. They bumped on her polished nails and the smooth black ring she always wore on her middle finger. “Tell me if you need to, uh, go home or something.” I said. "Or to the doctor. You're sniffling like it's a competition."
Her gaze never quite met mine, pink flush shone through her fair cheeks from both the weather and her ailment. “I think I’m fine.”
“Alright.” She walked by my side to my room, not anticipating this would be the last time my hands would feel the warmth of hers. I usually hated to walk holding her hand as an avid hater of PDA, but this was different. I felt she needed my hand. But maybe I was wrong, as I often am about her.
And when we slid into the attic, she laid herself back on my bed, fingers massaging her temples as if it would rub the ache from her head. As they flowed under her fingertips, the mousy brown roots of her undone hair were starting to fight against her blonde highlights.
I layed next to her, hand around her shoulder. “I’m assuming you don’t feel good enough to go out?”
“Definitely not. I just wanted to be here with you, and it’s a really shitty day.”
She was right- It wasn’t a “going out” night. Despite the picturesque Kinkadian scene of a snow-covered shack, it was far too cold to spend any time outside and any leftover snowflakes had melted into sludge. But sparkling light shone through the triangular window, casting that same shape over Pacifica and I.
Oh, triangles, my least favorite shape.
I hated to be reminded of them on what could have been a wonderful night.
Do something kind for her. I said to myself. She looks so cold and desolate, all she needs is something warm.
Something warm…
“Wait right here,” I said to her.
I'd dashed down the stairs, to the kitchen where I knew something warm would be.
“Watcha doing, Dipper?”
“Oh. Hi, Mabel. Pacifica doesn’t feel great today, so I thought I’d get her something from the kitchen.”
“You know what you can do right now?”
“What?”
“Make her hot chocolate!”
It turned out to be good advice from my sister, surprisingly enough. When Pacifica received her mug, she laughed at the graphic on it.
“‘I flirted with the Jersey Devil in Leeds Point, NJ?’”
“Don’t mind that.”
She reached out and planted a light kiss on my forehead, over my birthmark. “If the Jersey Devil is prettier than me-”
“Just a souvenir! Besides, you’ve got something the Jersey Devil doesn’t.”
“And what’s that?”
“You’ve got more personality than a lot of people. You’re funny, and a great writer, and sarcastic sometimes. And, well- you-”
This was one of those moments were I was at my happiest and wanted life to move as fast as it could and empty itself like a wheelbarrow rolling down a hill, letting its contents out in a passionate but ephemeral spill.
But I knew I needed to make myself savor it, not let it out so quickly.
She directed her gaze to me, brows raised with eyes so reflective and expectant.
“What were you saying?”
“And I guess you know how to stop and think and just let little moments be enjoyable,” I said.
She sucked a sigh in through her nose, a long one that ‘bated my breath. “I wish you were vulnerable with me more often, Dipper.”
“Am I not?”
“Sometimes. It really depends on the subject, I guess. Are you scared?”
“Of what?”
“I dunno.” Leaning back against my pillow, she closed her eyes. “Me lashing out at you when you’re honest. Like I’ve made a habit of. Because blunt guys aren’t good with defensive girls, I guess.”
“‘Lashing out’ is an aggressive term.”
“Yeah, and it fits. It’s something I do. Being a bitch about everything is… kind of my default? I don’t blame myself, it’s how I was raised.”
“Hey. Don’t talk shit about yourself, Pacifica. What do I tell you?”
“I don’t really know. That I’m the worst?”
“Yeah, well, that was a joke.” I said, tousling her hair. “You’re not the worst. You’re whatever, um, the opposite of the worst is.” I kissed her forehead, repaying her for kissing mine. “What I was trying to say is that I was wrong when I said you’re a link in the world’s worst chain. You’re your own person, like it or not.” The conversation was getting too pep-talkish for my liking. “Anyway, wanna laugh at some hokey public access television?”
“No, I really am the worst, despite your desperate attempts to change the subject.” Pacifica said through her stuffy nose. She kept sipping slowly at her mug of hot chocolate, but halfway through set it down on the table next to my bed and shifted her position to lay curled on her side. “I’m always… thinking stuff that makes me the worst. You just don’t know. Because you’re not in my head.”
“Hey, what kind of Orwellian hellworld do you live in? No such thing as a thought-crime,” I had said, lying next to her and wrapping her in my arms. I took a length of her hair between my fingers. It used to feel so harsh and brittle, but these days the gentle and very intermittent bleaching as opposed to the constant stripping of pigment had let it become healthy and shiny.
But today, she swatted my hand away, and I let go of the blonde-brown strands.
“Okay, maybe the hellworld of my childhood wasn’t Orwellian, but a hellworld nonetheless.” She said. “I’m not worried about thoughtcrimes. Well- maybe I am a little. I’m just worried that, like, he’s gonna see all the gross stuff that happens in my brain. And what if he sees me wearing loungewear! I’d never let anyone see me in loungewear. Well, other than you and maybe Mabel.”
“Who’s this mysterious he?” I asked.
“You know. God. I don’t really even believe in him anymore but I guess I can’t get the worry to go away.”
“Well, if there’s one singular guy in the sky that sees everyone’s problems at once, I doubt he finds yours the most important.”
“I know. Basic white girl stuff.” She said.
“No, that’s not what I mean. I just mean I don’t think he has the time to judge you, and I doubt he exists. There’s no way to know, so why bother worrying?”
“You were never raised that way. You wouldn’t know how much it sucks. I don’t really know how to even explain this to you.”
“How to explain what?”
She seemed to shake in my arms, turning to face me and bury her head in my chest.
“My family’s believed in this for generations and generations back. It’s on me to try and break that,” she said.
“I understand family issues. You know, my parents had me when they were sixteen. And so did my grandparents when they had my parents. I’m seventeen, and thankfully I’m not pregnant.”
“You don’t understand!” Pacifica said, crossing her arms. “You’re trying so damn hard to empathize that you’re fundamentally missing the point! I’m just not like you. I grew up in an awful situation that your mildly irresponsible parents couldn’t even dream of putting you in-”
“Woah, hey- you’re getting anxious, do you need-”
She shook her head, nervously squeezing the sides of her arms.
“I- this was what I was talking about when I said I was a bitch! I yell at you, and make a scene-”
“Don’t worry about making a scene, we’re alone,” I tried to assure her, my hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t interrupt me!”
“I shouldn’t interrupt your spiral of-”
“Yes!”
“You’re yelling at me.” I pointed out.
She covered her face, sitting up and scampering like an animal to the edge of the bed to hide her face between her knees. “And that’s what I’m afraid of! Hurting you!”
“I was just pointing it out. In case you didn’t notice.”
A tear ran down her leg. “I did notice, and I still keep doing it. And I keep being so awful and bitchy and hurting people- and- and-”
“Hey, I get anxious too, please just listen-”
Trying to relate was my fatal mistake.
“I’m not anxious, I’m scared! I’m terrified, and admitting it is scary too!” She was speaking through desperate gasps, hands gripping my wrists as we sat on opposite sides of my bed. “You don’t even understand! Sometimes- sometimes it’s times like these that we argue and yell at each other and this awful image of- of- hurting you for real pops in to my head and I’m so scared I’ll do it!”
Our breathing was shaky and shallow, not in the way any sane person would find romantic.
“What- what kind of hurting me?”
She tightened her clutch on my hands, her ring biting into my finger.
“Like- God, I’m so stupid for this- Like- like all the things my mom and dad used to do-”
There were so many things I could have said.
There were so many things I should have said.
I should have assured her that I knew she’d never hurt me like that. I should have found some way to comfort her, tell her she’s worth more than her intrusive thoughts.
But I was completely frozen.
I remembered all those nights I took her to Arby’s when she wanted curly fries, nights we’d blow up marshmallows in the microwave, nights we’d write each other’s school projects just for shits and giggles- they each felt like they’d fade away with no proof of their existence.
I thought of the nights I spent hugging her through her nightmares and wiping away her tears. And that beautiful relief I felt in my stomach when the tears stopped falling. I thought of those nights she assured me I could be loved for the insufferable dork I was. I thought of how much I loved seeing her change from frankly, a haughty bitch, to a kind and genuine young woman. And suddenly I knew I should have treasured it all more.
The rest of the night, I was too tired to remember too much of anything, only her violent sobs and incoherent apologies.
I tried to reassure her, putting on the calmest voice I could and telling her she hadn’t even laid a hand on me.
But it didn’t seem to take. “If you want it to be over so bad, than let it be!” She’d said.
“Fine!”
Maybe I should have contested our impromptu breakup, but I was just too tired.
***
So that interaction only a few months ago made being alone in this room all the more awkward.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.” She muttered.
“Took you a hot minute.” I said. “Or a hot couple months.”
Turns out Pacifica isn’t a Metal Gear Solid girl, so she decided on Bejeweled 2, lamenting that my gaming hardware was no more advanced than the PlayStation 3. Why did I even own Bejeweled 2? Either Mabel got it, or I found it in some bargain bin and needed something to do. I guess the little gems were appealing to her, match-3 mechanisms aside.
Each candy-like jewel made plasticky clinks as her fingers pressed the controller.
Eventually, she lost a round, and those colorful shapes shook off the screen.
“Damn it.”
“You get another try.”
“I don’t really want another try with you.”
“I was talking about the video game.”
“Oh.”
The level restarted, the gems all in the same place they were before.
“Well, maybe I want another try at being your friend.”
“Me too.” I muttered.
She set the controller down.
“Did you miss me in Piedmont?”
“Hell yeah. I missed everything about Gravity Falls. I’m sure Mabel would love to be drinking Tequila in Cancun right now, but I don’t think she’s ready for that. It’s safe to say we’re both rather spend our break up here where it’s so…”
“Cozy?”
“Yeah. Probably not many places I’d rather be.”
“Nowhere?”
“Well- I think so.”
Was there somewhere else she wanted to be? If so, I couldn’t think of an example. I just loved seeing her here with me.
I loved seeing her natural brown hair get longer and longer, winning over that awful platinum-gold.
I loved seeing that little bit of weight she’d gained in the past few years from her love of junk food.
I loved seeing her sitting with her legs crossed, frame slightly hunched.
I loved seeing her without her concealer or foundation, just a smudge of glittery pink over her eyes.
She was growing into herself, leaving that old façade behind. And I loved her more and more each passing minute for it. I couldn’t help myself- I held out my arms for a hug. “Is- is it okay?”
“Of course.”
She obliged, crashing into me with all the passion of that first hug we’d ever had.
But now, she didn’t make a sarcastic comment, or bribe me to pretend it didn’t happen.
There was simply no need.
We stayed that way for a minute or so, until words left her lips that I didn’t think I’d ever hear again.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
And this time, there were no expectations of what we had to be. “I’m so sorry.” She said, with that trademark nasally tone. And I still loved her for it. “I’m sorry I can never shake being a snob, I’m sorry I ruined this, I’m sorry I can’t bring myself to be anything more than your friend.”
“No, Pacifica, you’re my best friend. And that means the most to me out of anything. You know what? I don’t give a shit about even having a girlfriend. You’re worth more than just being my girlfriend. You don’t even have to be. And it's okay for things to be complicated.”
“I hope that’s alright.”
“It’s always alright. Look Pacifica- this is really hard for me to say-”
I felt her become tense. “Did- did I fuck up this time?”
“No. God, no, not today. What I’m trying to say is that- I- I just love spending time with you. Not whatever Pacifica came before you. The real you. I don’t really understand you. And maybe you’ve made mistakes. But you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I looked outside to see it was already nighttime, funny enough.
“Do you want to sleep here? Mabel's sleeping on the couch anyway. Have her bed."
We slept that night indeed, not in the euphemistic sense. And it was enough for me. This warm and comforting lucid moment transitioned to a surreal dream. I didn’t mind it though, not remembering anything from it other than that it was sweet and soft.
But when morning came I woke to a cold absence, Pacifica already downstairs in the kitchen.
Mabel was already awake, surprisingly enough, dressed in neon green pajama pants and an oversized AmperSandra shirt. Isn’t she so classy?
“Ugh, I’m tired.” She yawned. “Too tired for Mabel Omelettes.”
“Whenever you make a new recipe, do you name it after yourself?”
She rolled her eyes. “What, do you have a problem with it?”
“No, just making the observation that it’s kind of self-centered.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Pacifica asked teasingly, albeit tired.
“Nothing, I guess.” I said. “But I’m hungry.”
“How about I make Mabel Pop-Tarts?” Said my sister, her sweet, caramel-brown eyes meeting mine. The same brown eyes as my own, they were so kind I couldn’t even resent her for her goofiness.
“Alright. I can’t say no breakfast.”
“Man. Junk food,” Pacifica shook her head. “And sharing, too. I really missed out on the best things in life, huh?”
“Well, you have them now!” Mabel said, already putting shiny Pop-Tart foil in her pockets, presumably for crafts. “So there’s no need to get all hung up on the past.”
“I’m just scared I’m, like, all used up at this point,” Pacifica said, long acrylic nails scraping against a mug of coffee.
“Used up?” I said. “That’s more of that bullshit you learned at church. There’s too much good in you to ever use up. And too much annoying, for that matter. You’re a human being, not a statue or a toy. So live a little.”
“Yeah, don’t be afraid to take chances, make mistakes, and get messy!” Mabel said.
“You stole that from Ms. Frizzle!” I said.
Pacifica raised a drawn-on eyebrow. “Who the hell is Ms. Frizzle?”
“We’ll introduce you to the Magic School Bus on a later date.” Mabel said.
“Is this one of those things I missed out on in school?” Pacifica asked us.
“Yeah, but that’s alright. We’ll get you caught up and we have all the time in the world.”
“Thank you,” she said, setting down her mug and hugging us with not an ounce of shame.
Spring was fresh and beautiful, but Summer was just around the corner. Those popsicles and barbeques, mysteries and freedom wafting through humid air. And it would be so, so, achingly short like it always was. But I didn’t mind.
It paved the way for a better summer to come.
And who knows, maybe it’d all be over some day, no more summers to even dream of. And as my sister and I lead Pacifica to our living room to show her all the little pieces of our childhood that we loved, she was the clearest and most certain thing to me. And when someone such as her cares for you the way that she does, I just couldn't feel any fear.