Sweater Girl

By William Easley

(June 2015)

In the big farmhouse beyond the town limits of Gravity Falls, Pacifica Northwest impatiently moved hangers around on the racks of her walk-in closet. It took some time—the closet was the size of the average teen's bedroom. At last, though, she found what she was looking for in a plastic garment bag, the same one in which it had come from the cleaner's oh, many months back. Maybe a year or more.

She removed the plastic bag and held the pullover. She had almost forgotten how soft it was.

Huh. Why in the world did I even save this?

She took the sweater off the hanger and held it against her. Probably too small now. It fit her when she was twelve, but now she was taller and had a figure. If she could get into it at all, it would be tight. But then it had been baggy when she was a pre-teen.

Stepping over to the full-length mirror, Pacifica watched herself posing. Her reflection was making an ironic face. Not really my color. And it's too odd to be really pretty.

But—just to be sure—she tugged the garment on over her head and smoothed it down over her white blouse, then checked the mirror again.

She turned for a side view, then faced herself full-on, smiling and arching her back a little. What do you know? It fits. Sort of. Little snug, but it shows off the girls nicely. Mm, so soft and warm and furry, too. I should have worn this last winter when it was cold.

Except—the llama. The golden-brown appliqué on the front. Really, who would walk around at school with that on display? And anyhow, the sweater wasn't even made from llama wool, but from shaggy yarn spun from alpaca fleece. Well—she did have to admit that the material was soft, much softer than normal wool, and silky. In fact, it felt so good on her arms that she was tempted to remove the white blouse and wear the sweater over her bare skin.

Pacifica also would concede that she loved the tactile sensation. She turned to see her other profile, smiling. The way the sweater hugged her curves—revealing, and yet since it poofed almost like fur, teasingly concealing her figure—made her think of wearing it where boys congregated, to intrigue them and fascinate them. Hunky boys who liked girls in soft things . . ..

Snap out of it, girl! This is silly. It's way too hot for a sweater. I don't know why Mabel always wears one!

Despite herself, Pacifica smiled wistfully. It had felt good, she remembered, that breezy night when it looked as if the next morning might be the last one she'd live through. When Bill had petrified her parents—literally—she had barely escaped, and one of his henchmaniacs had come that close to nabbing her, getting its claws into her tunic. She'd dived through a broken fence, the creature had ripped the garment right off her, and Pacifica had been forced to hide in the grocery store.

Where, half-naked, she'd found something to wear.

A potato sack.

She'd never in her life made clothes, but she found a box cutter and made a neck and arm openings. Then in the household goods aisle, she located a sewing kit, one of those miniature ones in a plastic box. She cut up another potato sack and inexpertly sewed sleeves for herself, then attached them to her improvised garment.

And for two days she'd worn that as she dodged flying eyeballs and scavenged for food. She remembered the morning she'd heard a harsh old-man's voice: "Come this way if you wanna live!"

She'd been hiding under some bushes. She crept out and saw a man she recognized as Stanford Pines (only later did she learn that he was really Stanley), the guy who owned the Mystery Hovel, leading the strangest bunch of—creatures—she'd ever seen, little ones and shambling big ones, and a few people—and she'd yelled, "Mr. Pines!"

He'd come back for her. For a second, he stood frowning down, and then, surprisingly gently, he'd asked, "Ya had a hard time, sweetie?"

It all hit her then, and she couldn't speak, but she nodded, tears dripping down her cheeks. "Come on. You'll be safe in the Mystery Shack," he'd said, and he'd taken her hand in his great big one.

And then Dipper and Mabel and Wendy and the big DJ guy, Jorgé—no, his real name, she'd learned, was Soos, short for Jesús—had shown up, and on that cold evening at the end of the world, Mabel had given her the llama sweater.

And that's why she'd never discarded it. Not because it made her look surprisingly hot.

Admiring her reflection, Pacifica felt two things: sad that her life was about to change again and wistfully grateful for the gift she'd received. And hopeful that the coming summer would at least bring her some good memories. For a change.

Because they were back.

The Pines twins had returned to Gravity Falls for the summer. Pacifica had seen Mabel and her boyfriend, the geeky O'Grady boy, downtown the day before and had stopped and chatted with them. "Isn't Dipper with you? Uh, is he staying in the Shack?" Pacifica asked casually.

"We both are!" Mabel said. "Not in the same room anymore, though—but you know that. Hey, I'm planning the summer's first epic sleepover! Are you up for it?"

"Sure!" Pacifica said, smiling despite her attempt to look cool. "Want to come to my house for it?"

Mabel shook her head, but she was grinning in anticipation. "Maybe the next one! First sleepover of the summer must be in the attic of the Mystery Shack! It's a tradition! We girls will chase Dipper out and take over and party down upstairs!"

"That . . . doesn't even make sense," her boyfriend, who was looking a lot better now that his acne had cleared up and he was wearing contacts instead of the dopey round black-rimmed spectacles, put his arm around Mabel's waist. "Party down up. It's an oxymoron."

"Even better!" Mabel had pronounced. "Hey, Paz, me and Teek are planning on going to the movies tomorrow to see Jurassic Planet. You and Adam want to double-date? It's got dinosaurs! Di-no-saurs!"

"Uh, no, thanks. We're not a couple any longer," Pacifica said.

"Oh." Mabel looked regretful. "I'm sorry, Paz!"

"It's no big deal," Pacifica assured her, though she was struggling to repress the pangs she felt inside. "It was a mutual breakup. Not a big fight or anything. Adam and I didn't have all that much in common, anyway." After a moment, she grudgingly added, "Right now, I'm between boyfriends," but she tried to keep her tone light and airy.

"Well, there's plenty of fish in the sea!" Mabel chirped. "I know that from recent experience! I'll tell all about that when we get together, though. So—you good for next week, Friday night?"

"Oh, I suppose," Pacifica said. "I actually enjoy sleepovers. Who else will be there? Grenda and Candy?"

"Yeah!" Mabel replied, with a laugh. "Can't leave my people hanging!"

Reluctantly, Pacifica added, "Wendy?"

"Um, no, probably not," Mabel told her. "Unless she can join us late. She and Dip always watch movies on Friday nights till about one in the morning. They'll be downstairs, laughing at some dumb horror movie, we'll be upstairs, doing fun girly things! With glitter!"

"So . . . your brother and Wendy . . . they're doing OK, are they?" Pacifica asked.

Mabel took her hand. Softly, she asked, "Aw, Pacifica! You're not still burning the candle at both ends for Dipper, are you?"

"Um," Teek said, "I don't think that—"

"I know what she meant," Pacifica said, but not in a harsh way. "No, I'm really not, Mabel." She sighed. "At one time, though . . .. I think that first year you guys were in town, right after all that ghost business at our house . . . yeah, I started to like him, but that was my chance, and I blew it." She smiled, but her eyes gleamed with tears. "Back then, Dipper thought I was the worst. He even told me so."

"He changed his mind, though," Mabel assured her. "Paz? I'm sorry about Adam."

Pacifica hadn't told anyone about the break-up because, really, she didn't have that many close friends to tell. "You want the whole sordid story?"

"Sure! I have no idea what that means."

Teek said, "It means that—"

Mabel kissed his cheek. "Teek, you go and spend about an hour in the Arcade, OK? Me and Paz want to have a girl talk."

"OK," Teek said. He had learned that, when Mabel was concerned, the path of least resistance was the least painful one. He kissed her, just a quick peck, and said, "Later, then."

He sauntered off, and the girls went into the corner coffee shop, which smelled like coffee and pastry. "Teek's looking better to me these days," Pacifica said. She hastily added, "Not that I want to take him away from you! Isn't that hoodie he's wearing the one that that guy, you know, the son of the undertakers, used to wear?"

"Robbie Valentino, yeah," Mabel said. "I'll tell you about that, too. Hey, Robbie and Tambry got married! But I'll save those stories for the sleepover. Look, there's a table for two in the corner! Come on." They sat down and ordered—a caramel cappuccino for Pacifica, a chocolate-hazelnut affogato for Mabel, really more of a dessert than a coffee. "So," Mabel said after savoring a spoonful of espresso and chocolate ice cream, "what happened?"

Pacifica looked miserable, staring down into the heart shape that the barista had made with the foamed milk in her cup. "What started it is that I have to change schools again," she said. "Since Dad's business has picked up and he's made some of his money back, he's insisting that I attend a private school for junior and senior years."

"But that's great!" Mabel said, smiling under her chocolate mustache. "All upscale and stylish!"

"That's what Dad tells me," Pacifica said bitterly. "I'll associate with a better class of people again, I'll be right in line to go onto a prestigious college, and so on and so forth." She bit her lip. "But—but I'd just started to make friends in the public high school! And Adam's not a private-school kind of guy. I guess his folks have money—his dad's a partner in some banks—but he's happier in public school, and he just wants to be, you know, normal. He didn't want me to leave."

"Aw," Mabel said, using her napkin. "That's so sweet and sad!"

Fighting a tightness in her throat, Pacifica said, "I tried to tell him it wouldn't make that much difference. I'll be boarding, but I can come back home every weekend, or he could drive over to see me, but he wanted me just to stand up to my parents and refuse to change schools. But Dad and Mom want me to go, and—and I guess I kinda miss those days, too, so—well. Adam and I argued about that and—decided to go our separate ways, that's all. But if it were just up to me, I wouldn't change schools. Adam just, just made me mad, so I was arguing the other side."

"Wait, wait, you mean you don't really want to go to a private school?"

Pacifica shook her head. "It means starting over again, and I always have a hard time making friends, and there was Adam, and—no, I really, deep down, don't want to. But when I tried to explain it all to Adam, he got huffy and acted like it was all my idea. He made me mad, and I guess I got defensive, and all at once, I heard all of Dad's arguments coming out of my mouth, and then—pfft!"

"There'll be boys at the private school," Mabel pointed out.

"Oh, sure. Boys from the kinds of families we used to socialize with way back. And most of them will remember how we practically went bankrupt! And two girls who used to be my friends are in that school, but they haven't even spoken to me in about three years. I mean, they dropped me like a rock when Dad lost his money."

"Maybe you don't have to change schools, though. I think you can talk Mr. Northwest around."

"Right now, I'm not sure I even want to. I don't know what I want. I just wish I—was more like you, Mabel. You make friends so easily. I wish I had that gift."

"Hey, hey," Mabel said. "I'm your friend, and so is Dipper. And Grenda and Candy have come to like you a lot. C'mon. We've got the whole summer to put our heads together and find some way to make you happy."

"That would be a nice trick," Pacifica said. Her cappuccino was getting cold, but she didn't want it any longer. She pushed the untasted cup away and mustered a smile. "Anyhow, thanks for listening. I don't know, maybe there is some way out of all this mess. I've stopped wanting to be happy. I just don't want to be miserable any longer."

"We will make you happy!" Mabel pronounced. "By the end of August! That is a Mabel guarantee!"

At the coffee shop, Pacifica didn't mention it to Mabel, because she didn't think it was important, but she had reached out for friendship in one way: She'd joined an online teen chat room, Fif'Teen 'N Up.

It wasn't high-tech—no Yiping, no video chats, just log on and join one of the rooms and maybe find someone to set up a private chat with. Which is what she'd done.

Lot of creeps out there. Lot of guys who'd seem friendly, and then once in the private chat would begin asking her what she was wearing and inviting her to take it off. She cut those short.

And some more kindly guys, but they generally turned out to be boring, asking her what hockey teams she liked, or if she was into bowhunting, or whether she'd ever been to a stock-car race. Nothing that interested her.

But then there she met Geordie. He said he was sixteen, a few months older than Pacifica, and he lived not all that far away from Oregon, and he had his own car. He liked for her to chat about herself.

So far it had been just what do you like in school, what are your hobbies, that kind of thing. She'd enthusiastically told him about Diablo and Molly, her two ponies, and how she loved riding. Pacifica had even hinted at some of the wilder things she'd experienced.

Not romantic-wild. Gravity Falls wild. She hadn't told Geordie the full story, of course—nobody outside the valley would believe it anyway—but she'd casually mentioned that unlike most people, she sort of believed in the supernatural. Geordie had confided that he hoped Bigfoot was real.

Oh, she could have told him stories about demons and Oregon monkey spiders, about finding yourself in another person's body, lots of things. Lots of things.

But she had just teased him with hints of all that. They had described themselves—"Well, I'm naturally blonde, pretty good looking, actually, from what people tell me. I like pretty clothes, my favorite color is hot pink, I love dancing. I'm a good singer, I think. I once won a prize for being the best partier at, I guess, a kind of rave. I'm not into cooking or sewing or very many girly things. I don't have a boyfriend. I guess I'm a little lonely, to tell the truth."

"I'm five-eleven and kind of skinny, but I work out, so my arms and chest are fairly strong. I wouldn't say anybody's called me handsome, but nobody's run away shrieking, either. I've got really dark brown hair, and I look sort of like a movie Indian in those old Western movies. My dad's grandmother was a Cherokee from Oklahoma. Let's see. I'll be a junior in high school next year. I want to go into some science field, but I haven't decided yet. I'm shy, tell you that up front. I've dated but never had a steady girlfriend."

It had progressed to the point where they'd agreed to exchange selfies. That was on the agenda for that evening's chat.

Geordie had warned, "OK, I'm not going to try to make myself look like a movie star. Just me in a polo shirt, all right?"

"That's fine."

"Could I ask you something and not sound weird?"

"Go ahead. I can deal with a little weirdness," she had typed.

"I love girls in sweaters. Do you have any fun sweaters you could pose in?"

"I'll look through my closet and see. I'm not much of a sweater girl, though. But I could be, I suppose."

And for some reason, when she went to the closet, the memory of the llama sweater had just popped into her mind.

I'll give him a little show.

Pacifica took off the sweater and removed her blouse. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she smiled wickedly and took off the bra. She put the sweater back on—mm, it really did feel nice, so soft against her bare skin!

"OK," she told herself. "Now the selfie."

Back in her room, she switched on her webcam. She turned the laptop until she could stand framed against the hot-pink drapes. She carefully adjusted the light, turning off the overhead, arranging a floor lamp and two smaller lamps to give her a little backlighting and a soft overall glow.

She went to the bathroom and freshened her makeup. Little more lip gloss. Little more blusher. Some eyeliner, not too much.

"There you go," she told her reflection in the mirror.

Back to the bedroom, and she posed, looking at herself on the screen. No, standing with her head lowered made her look too provocative. Too slutty. Tossing her head back, tilting her chin—better. Big smile, lots of teeth.

Good grief, I look like Mom in the photos of her winning the Miss Mudflap title!

OK, three-quarter profile, elbow bent, hand on hip, show off the figure a little. Huh, makes the llama look like a locomotive or something. Other profile, but a little more toward the camera. Good, now you could tell what the appliqué was.

She used the remote to snap a dozen shots, then went through them, looking for the best one.

It showed her with an almost shy smile, a little bit self-conscious. Some of the others made her look arrogant or smug. This one was better. The llama showed, and her figure looked good.

Just in case, though, Pacifica put a little bit of blur in as a filter. Like a girl glimpsed by candlelight. Always a bit more romantic. She saved the photo as Pacifica_ .

She and Geordie had agreed to chat that evening at eight. Pacifica hung the sweater up in her room and changed into her riding clothes.

She spent hours that afternoon in the saddle. Then a long, warm bubble bath. Then her dad came home from the office and they had dinner—Preston Northwest had rehired some of his servants, including the cook and the chauffeur, so Wellington the butler didn't have quite so much work to do.

And the cook was an excellent one, and dinner was very good. "What did you do today, Pacifica?" Preston asked mid-way through.

She knew very well that he was trying to be more dad-like, in his own cold way. She said, "Oh, I read some, rode my ponies, groomed them, you know."

"That's very good," Preston said, almost absently. Then he asked Priscilla, Pacifica's mom, the exact same question.

Pacifica, eating the small serving of chocolate mousse she was allowed, thought, I could have told him I was smoking weed and drinking tequila, or plotting the overthrow of the Free World, or looking up furry porn on the Internet, and he would have murmured, "That's very good."

Her dad was trying—but he wasn't really listening.

If he had been, he would have realized that for months his only daughter had been desperately lonely.

At eight, Geordie was already online when Pacifica logged on.

She typed, Hi!

He came back with Pacifica, hi! I guess I'm eager. Time for the big reveal?

I guess so. Don't expect too much, Geordie. I posed in sort of a dorky sweater, but it's one of my favorites.

I'm sure I'll love it. Well, show me yours and I'll show you mine!

Here it comes.

Pacifica transmitted the photo. It popped up on the chat screen.

Immediately, Geordie typed: Pacifica, is that a llama on your sweater?

Yes. The sweater's hand-made. It was a gift from a friend.

Computer silence.

Geordie?

Nothing.

What's wrong? Do you hate it?

Geordie?

Are you there?

Geordie?

After five minutes and no response, Pacifica switched off the computer, lay on her bed, and wept.

The End