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“Stanford, get off me.”
“No,” Ford grumbled, stretching his seatbelt to lean closer to his twin. “I’m cold.”
A scoff. “You’re always cold.”
It was true. Ford never went outside with less than two layers, even during the summer months when a sweaty Stan was rolling up his t-shirt sleeves just to get another inch of fabric off his skin, Ford was happily shrugging on his favored bomber jacket. Their different temperature preferences were usually easy teasing material—discounting the near fist fight they’d had over uninstalling the air conditioner—but Stan had to admit his brother had a good reason to complain this time.
The heat in their aunt’s El Diablo was out. Stanley was pretty sure Mabel had owned the car since the ‘70s, and she remained stubbornly attached no matter how many times it broke down.
“You kids just don’t appreciate the vintage craftsmanship,” she’d argued the last time Ford had not so subtly slid her a flyer for Gleeful’s Auto Sales. Stanley grumbled that the car wasn’t the only thing that was vintage, and had been sent to clean Waddles Jr.’s outdoor enclosure. He’d stayed quiet on the subject since.
The only reason they weren’t returning home on the bus was because the driver had refused to traverse the long, ice-slick road to the Mystery Shack the moment the year’s first snow had fallen, so for the next few months the brothers had to rely on their Grauntie Mabel’s unique driving skills to get them to and from school. Grunkle Mason had offered, but the kind of driving he’d done while in the multiverse—the “if-I-don’t-gun-this-I-will-be-shot-with-death-lasers” kind—had somehow made riding with him even more vomit-inducing than his sister.
Just then, the car skidded, Stan’s stomach swooping low as he crashed into the side door before the vehicle abruptly righted itself.
“Whoops!” Mabel chirped.
Stan winced and glanced at his twin. Ford looked pathetic, scrunching his neck down so the turtleneck of his red sweater was almost up to his nose. His hands were stuffed in the armpits of his puffer jacket. It was a habit he’d picked up young due to his hatred of mittens (“I can’t even hold a pen in these, Stanley!”) and his lack of six-fingered gloves—Aunt Mabel’s knitting skills have since remedied the latter problem— but old habits die hard.
Stanley groaned, far longer and far louder than necessary so his brother would understand the magnitude of his sacrifice. “Fine. Come here.”
Ford perked up and hastily unbuckled his seatbelt to slide to the middle seat. Once he was satisfied with the waist strap, he collapsed against Stan’s side with a contented huff.
Turning his attention back to the window, Stanley propped his chin up with his unoccupied arm and tried to ignore the space heater now latched to his right side. Gravity Falls had been covered in near-constant snowfall since the beginning of December, but Stan still found himself surprised at how, well, white everything was. Sometimes he’d sit at the window bench in the attic, and doodle pictures in the frosted glass just so he could look at the plains of white sent shimmering by the soft cast of the Shack’s porch light. The snow in New Jersey had fallen sporadically, turning into gray slush the moment it touched the ground. It was nothing like this.
“When are you going to tell her?”
Stan cringed at the rush of hot air that hit his ear. He shoved his brother’s face away. “Jeez, Sixer, quit breathing on me!”
Their aunt’s attention was still split between the road, and singing along to some generic synth-pop screeching out of the radio, but Stanley lowered his voice anyway. “Later.”
Last week, Mabel had spent every night quizzing him in preparation for his upcoming math test—something their great uncle had been surprised about until Mabel had reminded him, in a sweet tone that didn’t quite match the look on her face, that if she could teach herself interdimensional physics to reopen the portal, then she could handle middle school math. Sufficiently chastised, he’d left the room to the sound of the twins’ laughter.
Stan hadn’t known that they were getting the results back today until his teacher had slid the test paper onto his desk face down. Face down! The universal sign of failure. Stanley could feel his brother’s sympathetic gaze oozing across his skin as he bit his lip and tried to swallow past his tightening throat. The paper was flipped over with the same swiftness as ripping off a bandaid. Then, he almost did cry.
At the top of the page, in bold red ink, was a B accompanied by a little smiley face. Stanley had never gotten a B in his life (not including art class, which he knew didn’t count despite his family’s protests). He floated through the rest of the day. Yet, for some reason, as soon as he’d sat in the El Diablo the excitement had transformed into a brooding anxiety.
“I should probably wait until I have something, like, cool to thank her with right?” Stan whispered to his twin, rubbing his gloved hand along his thigh.
Ford sighed. “Lee, she’s already going to be impressed. Why do something extra?”
Of course, he doesn’t understand. He’s used to people being impressed with him. The thought came unbidden and Stanley immediately felt guilty for it, remembering the bullies that had terrorized his twin back in New Jersey. None of their classmates in Gravity Falls seemed to care that Ford had six fingers, but Stan supposed that when you lived in a town overrun with things like gnomes, manotaurs, and hawktopuses (hawktopi?) that extra fingers didn’t merit a second glance. Things in Gravity Falls were just better, in general. Still…
“It’s different for me,” he settled on.
“What are you two whispering about back there?”
Ford’s face instantly crumbled in panic and Stanley rolled his eyes. His brother was such a bad liar it was a wonder they managed to get away with anything. “Sixer’s cold.”
Mabel shot a concerned look through the rearview mirror. “Ah, I’m sorry, kiddo. I should have put some blankets in the back,” she said, sounding so genuinely apologetic that Stan almost wished he hadn’t spoken. “When we get home I’ll make us some hot chocolate. How’s that sound?”
“With the candy canes?” Stan asked. His twin nudged him pointedly. “And extra sprinkles?”
Their great aunt’s voice dropped into a lower register, switching to the persona she sometimes whipped out during Ducktective. “I don’t know boys, you’re asking for a lot. I might have to run it by HQ first.”
“But it’s for the good of the city,” said Ford.
“And our cold, weary bones!” Stanley added, slumping bonelessly further into his seat and sending Ford tumbling down with him.
A laugh. “What ruthless negotiators. You know I can’t argue against the fate of the city, or bone health. Hot chocolate with all the fixings, it is.”
***
One of the first things that needs to be addressed when going from a house with only one permanent resident to four is the lack of available seating. The dinosaur skull and Mabel’s recliner had been shoved to the side to make room for a large purple couch that their great aunt had “liberated” from the woman who owns the largest ball of yarn (this side of the Rocky’s!)
Apparently, she’s a “stain on the fiber arts community” and “deserves everything that’s coming to her,” which all sounded very exciting to Stan when he was helping Mabel drag the couch into the back of a U-Haul at 2 a.m.
The brothers were melting into the overstuffed cushions when Grunkle Mason appeared to collect his own mug of hot chocolate (extra whipped cream, no sprinkles). Despite cohabitating with the man for almost four months, Ford still hadn’t completely lost his hero worship for the Author of the Journals, and he fumbled over himself asking questions before their uncle inevitably disappeared to continue whatever nerd project he was working on. Stan had tuned out when they started comparing theories about “fourth-dimensional stabilization.”
Stanley took a swig of his coco, sharing a commiserating look with his aunt. “If they weren’t family, I’d steal their lunch money.”
Mabel shook her head sadly. “And they wouldn't even be able to defend themselves.”
He snorted, slapping a hand over his mouth. His aunt had no such reservations, tilting her head back and letting out a bark of laughter that caused giggles to leak between Stan’s fingers.
This finally drew the attention of their counterparts. “What’s funny?” his uncle asked.
“Nothing to worry about, bro-bro. Now go finish your thing because after dinner you’re staying up here for family bonding, got it?” Mabel shooed him away with a wave of her hand. Ford made to follow but was pinned with a point of her acrylic fingernail. “Ah, not so fast, Mr. Pines. You can be a basement dweller this weekend.”
Ford opened his mouth to argue but their aunt continued, “You’d barely get started before you’d have to come up again. Isn’t that more disappointing than not going down at all?”
“…I suppose you're right.”
“I’m always right!” Mabel smiled, downing the last of her hot chocolate before heading toward the kitchen. “I’m thinking burritos with extra cheesy cheese-fries tonight, and, before you ask, I promise not to add any cilantro this time. I personally find the soap taste pretty refresh–”
Their aunt paused. Ford’s homework was still strewn across the living room’s dining table because he was the type of dork to start his assignments as soon as he got home. Mabel was considering them now, and a small smile formed as she lifted a paper from Ford’s splayed open folder. “Is this what I think it is?”
Ford picked at his nail bed, and shrugged, eyes carefully avoiding Stanley’s.
“Well, I’m seeing a math test that deserves to go on the fridge,” Mabel flapped the paper in the air. The A+ on its top right flicking into view. “You even got the bonus question right!”
Stan’s stomach twisted. He’d known his brother had done better than him. He’d seen it in the brief moment between the paper touching the desk and Ford shoving it into his homework folder. But he’d somehow lost sight of the reality of the situation until he was faced with their aunt’s smiling face. In their old living room in New Jersey, there were two cabinets: one empty save for a boxing medal, and the other half-filled with honor roll certificates, math team medals, and science fair trophies. Now that Mabel had seen how much better Ford was, why would she care about his stupid B?
Something must have shown on his face for the energy in the room deflated. Mabel sat back down on the couch and pulled Stan against her side, rubbing his shoulder. “Oh, sweetie, it’s okay. We’ll study even harder next time.”
And now she thinks I bombed it. Stanley tilted his face up to the ceiling. Maybe if he focused on counting splinters his eyes would stop burning?
“He got a B!”
Stan’s head whipped down to glare at his twin. At some point, he’d slipped from his spot on the couch to stand anxiously in front of the pair, hands worrying at the edge of his sweater.
A beat. “What?” Mabel asked, looking to Stan for confirmation. He nodded timidly. “You did! Oh my gosh, let me see!”
Stan yelped as he was half-carried to his backpack. His aunt was practically vibrating as he pulled out his Thunder McKing folder (much cooler than the triangle diagrams on his brother’s) and handed Mabel his test with a slight tremble in his hand.
She gasped. “These are both going on the fridge!”
She disappeared around the corner to the kitchen, and Stan scrambled after her with Ford following closely behind. He snagged a fistful of his aunt’s sweater and pulled until he could feel the fibers loosening in his hold. He instantly let go, a wave of guilt washing over him. And now I’ve ruined her sweater.
“Lee, what’s wrong?” Grauntie Mabel was looking at him questioningly, test papers still grasped in her left hand and a sparkly unicorn magnet in her right.
“It’s not–I mean, Ford did better than me so you don’t gotta put mine up there too…” Stan hated how small he sounded. Pa used to tell him he needed to learn to speak up or shut up, and Stanley was beginning to wish he’d done the latter.
The magnet clicked back into place, and then his aunt was kneeling in front of him. “You’re not Ford, sweetie, and that’s not something to be ashamed about. Would it be fair for me to think less of him because he has a harder time doing the same things as you?”
“No…” Stan mumbled. “But it's not like I can do anything special.”
“Hmm, I don’t know about that, kiddo. I seem to recall someone being a big help in the Shack this summer. You basically overhauled my whole taxidermy collection. You came up with more than one new attraction. You even ran tours all by yourself. Take it from someone who's been in the business for thirty years, you’re a natural, Mr. Mystery.”
“Yeah,” Ford jumped in. “You never freeze up when talking to the customers like I do, even when they’re rude you always know what to say!”
Stan felt his face heat up. “That’s just talking to people.”
“Trust me, kiddo, the ability to hold a conversation is a skill some people never learn,” Mabel's voice lowered conspiratorially. “Just look at Dipper.”
The twins laughed. According to their aunt, Grunkle Mason’s social skills had been lacking back when they were kids, and the past three decades hadn’t done him any favors. Stan had watched him stare down a Home Depot employee for an uncomfortably long time before remembering he had to use his mouth to ask where they kept their 6mm eye bolts. Apparently, he’d spent extended time in a dimension where all requests were telepathically communicated. Stan had commandeered the shopping trip after that.
Mabel smiled, giving Stan’s shoulder one last pat before standing. “I’m proud of you the same way I’m proud of your brother. There’s enough to go around.”
He nodded, feeling something light swell in his chest. “Ok.”
“Good, and now that that’s all settled.” Mabel put her hands on her hips and regarded the twins. “Do you boys want to pick out what magnets shall have the honor of holding your crowning achievements?”
“I call the ugly bear one!”
Mabel gasped. “Bear-o is not ugly. He’s charming.”
Meanwhile, Ford was considering their aunt’s extensive magnet collection with a thoughtful expression, plucking the mummy-themed one they had grabbed on their road-trip to Mystery Mountain. “No, Stanley is right, the bear is very ugly.”
Their aunt gasped again, louder and more dramatically. “Traitors, both of you. The only way I will emotionally recover from this is if you help me make dinner.”
“Awww,” the twins whined, but it was half-hearted. Cooking with their aunt was usually fun, and sometimes hazardous, which was just fun in a different way.
And as Mabel opened the fridge to start pulling out ingredients, Stan couldn’t help the silly grin on his face as his paper fluttered gently next to Ford’s.