"And I can honestly say that I'll always be me; I'll always be freeeeeeeee—" the note soured in Pacifica's mouth, too high for her to maintain. She held the microphone away from her as she sucked in shallow breath after shallow breath.

Pacifica tried and failed to locate her diaphragm (whatever that was) as the orchestra played on.

And that was the impossible part, the orchestra played on. Without her.

She twisted the microphone in her gloved hands. They were purple (plum), the gloves. Her mother loved plum.

Pacifica wobbled on her ten-point-two centimeter heels, staring in between the wire mesh of the microphone and looking for a chance to reenter the song. The verse sped along, all sharp violin stabs and speeding piano. Her heart sped up as she realized that she couldn't hear the flute from where she was. Without her one landmark she was lost. The same notes repeating and repeating and her with nothing but the spotlight's heat beating down on her.

Something settled in her stomach, writhing and pressing its way up her chest. She tightened her hands around the microphone and held still, imagining she was one of those statue ladies her mother always pointed out to her at art museums.

When she tore her gaze from the microphone mesh to look up at the audience, she spotted her mother's signature dress making its way through the auditorium.

"Don't go! Please!" The microphone was too close and her voice popped loudly as the conductor gestured violently for the orchestra to stop.

Mrs. Northwest glanced over her shoulder and pushed open the auditorium door. Pacifica could almost hear her disapproving sniff from on stage.

Pacifica's head swung back and forth, trying to find someone in the audience that she recognized. Her mother had told her that she wasn't allowed to invite anyone from town. A tear made its way down one cheek as she caught sight of her father standing outside the orchestra pit, his face red.

"Start it again!" Pacifica's voice cracked. She swiped a gloved arm across her face and stamped her foot against the lacquered wood. Her father froze then straightened his back, looking directly at (or through) her.

"You messed me up! Don't you know how to do your own job!" Pacifica jabbed a finger at the conductor, angry-sad tears still streaming down her face.

"But I believe in second chances," she said softly, watching as the conductor's mouth opened and closed like the fish she had seen in a cartoon she wasn't allowed to watch, "So we're gonna do it again. All of it."

"Yes, Miss Northwest."

"A Northwest never regrets. Which is to say, she never does anything regrettable in the first place," her mother explained, not entirely looking at her. She brushed a thin layer of blush over Pacifica's cheeks. "There. Lovely. Absolutely perfect on the first try."

"Mom… I don't think I like makeup," Pacifica started hesitantly, tugging on her pointer finger. "Other girls aren't–"

"Well, then they're not living up to their full potential," she huffed, pinching Pacifica's chin. She tipped the girl's face this way and that to get a good look at her from different angles. "Mmmm, guess it's not perfect after all… it needs a little more."

Pacifica twisted the silver band around her pinkie. She wished she had a mood ring like that older girl, Wendy, the one with fifteen brothers (probably? She couldn't remember). Wendy had just started working at the Save-More-Store and all the poor girls in Pacifica's grade were always trying to dress like her. Her fingers tangled together on her lap and she frowned as her mother swiveled around to pick the makeup kit. A glass bell painted with delicate (though somewhat generic) periwinkle flowers sat innocently on the vanity table alongside the rainbow rows of lipstick and nail polish.

"Well, you know what the poor people say- less is more," Pacifica joked, spreading her hands apart and bouncing her shoulders a little.

"Don't you want to be everything you can be?" Her mother swirled the brush around in the block of chalky pink.

"Yes, mom."

"Then listen to me. Got it?"

"Yes, mom."

"No, father! You're wrong," Pacifica yelled, gloved hands curled into fists, "I did the right thing!"

"You are not going to argue, Pacifica." Preston crossed his arms and fixed her with a fierce glare. He relaxed his posture a moment later, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I just don't know where this is coming from. You've never had behavior problems before."

"I'm sure it's those Pines children. You know they live in a shack," Priscilla called from one of the dining tables. She turned to her husband, a wine glass balanced delicately in one hand.

"You might be onto something, darling," Preston nodded, a hand reaching up to rub his chin. "It's no surprise that our daughter has been influenced by those wild hooligans."

"Wild?" Pacifica practically spat, hands flying through the air. "You weren't saying that when you needed Dipper to get rid of that ghost!"

"I never said he couldn't do a job. That's what lower class people do– Jobs," Preston rounded on her. "You shouldn't be galavanting around with them like some kind of- some kind of common folk."

"Ugh," Pacifica grunted, wrapping her arms around her chest. One of her heels tap-tap-tapped against the floor. She refused to listen to the large part of her screaming to run upstairs and go throw up in her private bath. The small, angry pit in her stomach demanded she yell at someone. "This is why that ghost guy wanted to kill us!"

"I don't understand what you're talking about. So, ahem, anyway," Preston boomed, narrowing his eyes. "No more wasting time on those Pines kids. You haven't been applying yourself much this summer, Pacifica dear. I'm thinking we should add some college prep to your schedule. And it's been so long since you've done your vocal training and violin and–"

"I wanna be a normal kid, dad," Pacifica said, her voice surprisingly even. The illusion of calm broke the moment her father reached into his breast pocket. Her hands knotted together and the roiling in her stomach grew harder to ignore.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," Priscilla began, standing up from her seat, "St Dana's would do wonders for her."

"Hmmm, you may be right. I had my reservations before, but in light of recent events, it may be the best course of action," Preston hastily agreed, turning on his heel to meet his wife's eyes.

Pacifica stared at his back, her protest dying on her tongue. Her eyes darted to the oak front doors. She imagined a braver Pacifica running from the house, her hair fanning out behind her and her laughter ringing through the ballroom.

Her gaze trailed down to her shoes as her parents discussed St Dana's in hushed tones. She wasn't sure if the mud had dried yet or not because she'd never had mud on her shoes before.

Dipper would do it. He would waltz right out, shouting about how disgusting the Northwest family was, his shoulders square and his chin held high.

Pacifica was certain that Mabel wouldn't be far behind him.

In her imaginings, she ran. In actuality, Pacifica took a slow shaky side step toward the door. When no one acknowledged this movement, she took another.

She closed her eyes as the night air brushed against her face. Her heart was performing a drum solo, pounding and pounding without any sense of rhythm (like the music that punk Valentino kid played, which she did not hate as much as she should).

Sounds filtered through the heavy beat as she drifted gracefully (speed-walked) down the gravel driveway. The rocks crunched, crickets chirped. Some weirdo animal screamed somewhere behind her. She tugged on the hem of her bolero nervously but kept walking.

Pain shot through her feet with each step. She had known that this particular pair of shoes was too small for her (they were the only ones that matched with her outfit). Pacifica squated (which was an ugly, ugly word that she sort of liked) in the dirt on the side of the roadway and ripped off her heels. They swayed in her hand as she walked, lightly tapping together.

A light flashed in her eyes. Her heart skipped as the car passed her. It was a dingy car, that much was obvious, even in the dark. A trash bag taped over one of the windows whipped in the wind.

A feeling settled over her slowly as rocks tore her panty hose and the night air ruffled her sheer dress. The dirt felt cool against her almost-bare feet. She tipped her head to look at the sky as she drifted along. The stars winked down at her like the dollar store glitter embedded in Mabel's sweaters. Something crept through her arms and legs and settled in her chest. Was it a good feeling? All she knew was she felt awake and real after a day that contained too much to feel like one day anymore.

She knew they weren't coming for her.

They were not the stock of people who answered the door after the first knock. There was no one poised and ready to attend to her. She leaned her ear into the unfinished wood of the door and smiled as she heard three voices arguing.

"I can't get it; my poor old bones and whatnot."

"Yeah right! More like your poor lazy butt!"

"Ooooh, Dipper's getting fresh!"

"Mabel, sweetie. Never stop encouraging bad behavior- I love it!"

"Aw, thanks, Grunkle Stan."

"Dipper's still getting the door though."

"Aw, man, seriously?"

"Seriously, you little gremlin."

There was a loud sigh and a series of pronounced stomps as Dipper (presumably) approached the door.

Pacifica drew back from the door and crossed her arms, trying to assume a haughty air. However, this was difficult with her shoes. It just looked like she was hugging them tightly to her chest.

"Pacifica? What are you–"

"PACIFICA?!" Mabel shouted from somewhere Pacifica couldn't see. She thundered across the Shack, bumped Dipper out of the way with her hip (and a cry of "Hip check get wrecked!"), and pulled Pacifica into a big hug, crossed arms, shoes, and all.

Stan had fled the room before Pacifica's feet had touched the shaggy, crumb-covered carpet with a mumble of "All these kids… tripling my age by the second…"

Mabel nodded and waved as he lumbered out of the living room and turned to Pacifica without missing a beat, grin spread across her face.

"Bonjo! And welcome to Chez Pines!" Mabel said grandly, flailing her arms about.

"I've been taking French for four years and that is… the worst… accent I…" she trailed off, laughing. "It's great."

"Is it really?" Dipper asked, one eyebrow raised. He chuckled as he walked through one of the many doorways in the room. "I'm getting soda, you want anything?"

"Two of your finest Pitt Refreshment Beverages and four sugar packets!"

Mabel's shrill voice pounded against her ears but she didn't feel so mad about it.

"Are you sure you can handle that much sugar, Pacifica?" Dipper turned to her, eyes narrowed. "And… can I ask you something? In- In the kitchen."

"Uh… okay?" Pacifica twisted her shoe straps in her hands and rocked on her bare feet.

"Oh! I can take those!" Mabel interjected, ripping the shoes from her hands.

Pacifica took a few nervous steps toward the kitchen, pressing each foot deep into the carpet.

"They're so cute!" Mabel cooed as she dropped them by the door.

"So, uh… now that we're here… In the kitchen… where I was supposed to ask…."

"Okay, what's up, Pines- uh, Dipper. What's up, Dipper?"

"That's what I wanted to ask you!" he fumed, then calmed down quickly, something Pacifica recognized as pity painting his face. "Did something go wrong with your parents?"

"Well, they didn't want me seeing you guys anymore and obviously I didn't want to do that."

"Oh, man." He was biting his lip as he bustled around the kitchen. "That's serious. I-I'm sorry."

"Yeah…" Pacifica sighed, wringing her hands together while his back was turned to her. "Why don't we… Let's just all try to have fun tonight and not talk about my parents. Okay?"

"It's a deal," Dipper smiled as he turned to her, arms burdened with soda cans.

"Yeah, it is."

Sugar crystals stuck around the punched-out hole in the can. Pacifica was sitting on the floor with her soda between her knees as a tv announcer screamed about a monster movie marathon continuing.

"Hey, Pacifica! Come up here and sit with us!" Mabel poked Pacifica's shoulders until she turned around to face her.

Pacifica placed her soda carefully on the coffee table and let Mabel pull her up on the chair. She sat between Mabel and the arm of the couch.

"No fair, Mabel! I want to sit next to Pacifica!" Dipper whined.

"No way, Josie! She's sitting with me!"

"Ugh, you always get like this!"

"I can… sit in the middle?" Pacifica said quietly. The two whipped their heads around to face her.

"Oh yeah…" they said in unison, then burst out laughing.

"Pines sandwich! Pines sandwich!" Mabel started chanting and Dipper soon joined in, "Pines sandwich!"

Mabel wiggled out of the way so she could sit between them.

"So, what now?" Pacifica asked, head turning to look at one and then the other.

"Watch tv, silly!" Mabel laughed.

"We just… sit around and watch tv?" she asked, reaching for her soda.

"We sit around and watch tv together, Pacifica."

"Oh, okay."

"I want short hair," Pacifica insisted, eyes glued to the television set. "Like really short."

"Aw yeeaah! Do it, Pacifica!" Mabel thrust her fist in the air. "Girl Power!"

"Won't your parents be mad at you?" Dipper leaned forward, trying to catch her eye.

"Good. I want them to be," Pacifica replied bluntly, eyes following the short-haired girl on screen. She spun in her seat to face Mabel and grabbed her hands. "Cut my hair! Right now!"

"Oh my gosh! You want me to be your stylist?!"

Pacifica nodded eagerly, then quickly composed herself. She pulled her hands away and stared at her nails. "I mean, you're only the best."

"Pacifica! Oh. My. Gosh! OHMYGOSSHH! I'm going to get some magazines and we can look them over and-"

"No. I want weird… I want cool hair, Mabel."

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" Mabel's voice rose sharply in pitch as she squished her cheeks.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?!" Mabel shouted, jumping off the couch. She threw her hands in the air and waved them around. "Crazy Sleepover–"

Mabel stood still, then took an exaggerated look over each shoulder. "Oh, uh, no one's gonna chant with me?"

Pacifica rubbed her hands together, biting her lip. "Oh. I'm sorry–"

"Crazy Sleepover Hair Design Paaarty!" Dipper chimed in from behind her, waving his hands. Pacifica and Mabel chimed in on "party."

"It's happening!" Mabel rushed from the room. "You guys stay there; I'm getting the Stuff."

As soon as Mabel could be heard galloping up the stairs, Pacifica turned to Dipper.

"Hey, thanks," she said with a weak smile.

"For what, man?" Dipper rubbed circles into his arms, "Oh. Hey, don't worry about it. Mabel thinks the entire universe is one with her. It's no big deal that you didn't get it."

"I-I wish I could get it," Pacifica replied, running a finger over her nails.

"You'll get there." Dipper patted her on the shoulder, heaving out a (fake) world-weary sigh. "They always do."

Mabel hovered over her, scissors snipping just above her hair. They were surrounded by magazine cutouts and crayon drawings.

"Soooo… are we doing this?" The chair underneath her was hard. She ran her hands along the sides of the seat, feeling the wood bristling with potential splinters.

"Obfv-course-a-ly- that's obviously and of course smashed together," Mabel explained through a mouthful of her own hair.

Dipper sat across the table from them, shaking his head and sighing loudly at all the right places even with his head stuffed in that weird magic book of his. "Just do it already, Mabel. Before the regret comes."

"I'm so not going to regret this." Pacifica crossed her arms and glared across the table.

"Of course, I wouldn't be worried about this at all."

"Yeah, the only thing she's going to have to worry about is being even more popular than ever because she's gonna have the best hair in all the world!"

"Just… be careful, okay? She's the one who has to live with it and you can get a little… over-enthusiastic," he replied, snatching a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table without looking up from his reading.

"That's the Mabel-Mode, Dips!" Mabel retorted, but she laid her scissors down anyway. "I'll only start when you're ready. Okay, Pac?"

Pacifica settled her hands in her lap and stood up straighter.

"I'm ready."

"Are you ready to see the new you?!" Mabel chirped, removing the towel laid across Pacifica's shoulders. "Hey, Dipper, can you vacuum this up?"

"Sure, why not?" Dipper shrugged, laying his book down with a good-natured smile. He nodded toward Pacifica and gave her a thumbs up.

Pacifica stretched out in her chair, threading her fingers through her hair.

"It looks so great, Pacifica!" Mabel cooed, gently nudging Pacifica's face this way and that. "You're so cute!"

"Th-thanks," Pacifica stammered, edging away from Mabel's hair-covered hands and covering her mouth with one hand to hide the stupid grin spreading its way across her face.

Mabel frowned and stepped back a little, placing her hands on her hips. "Do you like it?"

"I… haven't exactly seen it yet."

"Oh… yeah." Pacifica could see Mabel's face going red before the girl dashed off to grab a mirror.

She sat, rubbing her hair and smiling. She had caught sight of herself in one of the darkened windows, though she was still planning on pretending she hadn't seen it yet when Mabel got back. Mabel had done such a good job…

Mabel had clearly pulled herself together while out of the room and came back radiating confidence. "You better prepare yourself, Pac, you're about to see the cutest girl in Gravity Falls."

"…Yeah. The cutest… girl…" she mumbled, hands reaching out to grab the pink plastic rimmed mirror being handed to her. "Mabel, do you… always feel like a girl?"

"I mean mostly but I think I might be demigirl!"

"…Demigirl?"

"Oh! You should look it up! But I can give you the short version! It's… like a gender thingie where you mostly feel like you're a girl but, like, not one-hundred percent."

"There are other genders?" Pacifica asked, tugging a lock of her short hair.

"Oh yeah there are! There's, like, fourteen billion genders out there," Mabel grinned and reached out to ruffle Pacifica's hair. "Does this hair work for you?"

"I really like it. Thank you," Pacifica smiled back at her. "For the haircut and other… stuff."

"No problem! You can talk to me any time; I'm a gender expert. I'm also an expert in arts and crafts, romance, cartoons and much more!"

"I feel like I just saw a commercial in real life," Pacifica joked.

"So, are you buying?" Mabel giggled, trying to raise one eyebrow but raising both at once.

"Oh my gosh," Pacifica snorted.

"Mabel, do you know how to work this thing?" Dipper finally reentered the room, an ancient vacuum cleaner in tow.

Mabel made a noncommittal noise and shrugged. She perked up a moment later, cupping one hand around her ear. "I think the tv announcer guy just said Nessie Goes to Mars is starting now…"

"Soos can do it tomorrow," Dipper decided, dropping the vacuum and turning to the living room. "You guys coming?"

Pacifica stared out the window, seeing both the darkness outside and the bright kitchen at once. She knew her parents would be mad about her leaving, about her hair. Cool air crept from the drafty window and she realized that she didn't care at that moment. She closed her eyes and put Mabel's mirror down on the table.

"Of course," Pacifica answered.