Who We Were (Who We Have Become)

Left For Dead

Mabel didn't notice her brother had left until she felt Pacifica place a comfortable distance between the two, at which point she realized the man was also gone. She let out an exasperated sigh, pulling from her ears a pink set of headphones, placing her screen face-down. 

Dipper would forgive her for leaving them to their dry discussion while she- invested in her own little world- tuned out every word between them. Quite frankly, this hadn't been the first offence of adults coming forth to strike up conversation; distant relatives, student faculty and the like. And, perhaps as a preteen, she'd put herself front-and-center for said interactions. Though over time became burnt out when prompted the same question:

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Not that she handled it quite like her brother, who'd always- oddly enough- managed adult company like a duck to water. As they aged, she left him to his own in these situations. She often slipped away once made apparent these adults ("adults" by virtue of filing taxes and... Well, she wasn't sure what else there was to it) found her brother charming in the ways he responded, and could smile and nod like he understood them, while- amazingly so- actually doing just that. 

He was a bit of a sponge, as their mother once put it; recalling the story of when she'd sat Dipper on her lap- no more than two or three- and he, despite his limited vocabulary, recited all the nasty things Mrs. McKinnie from her women's group had spoken of on the phone, while she'd been hired to babysit him and his sister. "A sponge," she called him, with a very, very particular sense about himself. There wasn't quite a word for it.

"Thank God that guy's outta here." Pacifica groaned, pushing her plate away. "I've like, lost my appetite. Can you believe it? What a creep." She huffed, mindlessly scrolling through the dash on her phone with one hand, twirling the tips of her hair with the other.

"Aw, come on; he wasn't that creepy."

"He was looking at you and me at the same time; Yes, it was creepy." Pacifica scoffed, rolling her eyes; Mabel wasn't nearly the type to admit when someone made her skin crawl, whether it be appearance or impression. There was little in a dictionary you could pointedly tell her, " XYZ is a nasty insult," and she'd already known the phrase. 

Truth be told, she relied more on Dipper (he thrived on the opportunity to show off his big fat brain, stock-piled with a consignment of terms) if anything had to be said on a person, beyond "pee-brains" and "lazy-butt-waffles." Regardless, Mabel couldn't rightfully disagree with Pacifica's assessment.

"Where'd he go anyways?" She lifted her head an inch above the booths, hoping 8-Ball (Not that she knew he went by 8-Ball) wasn't within eavesdropping distance. Relieved, she slid her way back down, checking the time; 9:47. Betty, their waitress, began turning off several of the lights behind the counter; she busted out a broom, humming quietly to herself as each square tile brushed away dust.

"Who cares? Let's just gun it before he gets back." Pacifica stooped in her seat where she'd placed her purse between her legs under the table. Progress; she hardly made a fuss about coupling her Jacquemus Le Chiquito bag with cheap vinyl. Mabel nodded simply, once again sticking her head above the booths.

"Sounds like a plan. I'll grab Dipper." She turned, scanning the room for his presence. He was probably in the bathroom; she'd slip him a text.

"You do that." Pacifica replied simply, having not once looked up from her screen. She began scooting out of her seat, making leg room for Mabel to shoot past her, when all her motions halted. She let out a gasp, placing a hand up to stall her friend.