Dipper Steps Up: Chapter 11

Wendy tiptoed downstairs early the next morning and woke Dipper. "Hey, dude," she said, sitting on the sofa next to where he lay huddled in a blanket. "Wanna go for a walk and show me your nabe?"

"Uh—what?" Dipper asked, holding onto the blanket a little more tightly.

"Your neighborhood, man!" Wendy said, grinning. "See, I've only ever been to California like three times before this, and we never got anywhere near as far south as the Bay area. I wanna see where you live."

"S-sure," Dipper said. "Where are my, uh, jeans?"

"Here ya go."

He took them. "Th-thanks. If, uh, you know, you might want to step into the hall—"

"C'mon, man! I got three brothers! I gotta take you campin' so you can get over some of these hang-ups! Or—hey, don't tell me you sleep raw?" She playfully grabbed the blanket, and he held on to make sure she couldn't yank it down.

She flipped it up instead. "Yup," she said. "I kinda figured you for a tighty-whitey guy. Get your jeans and shoes on. We don't have a whole lot of time."

She had changed to her normal outfit of green plaid flannel shirt over a white undershirt, jeans, her logging boots—and Dipper's pine-tree hat. He donned her trapper hat, and she chuckled. "Remember, dude, we have a date in June to meet in the Shack and exchange headgear again!"

They sauntered along the rows of houses, Dipper stammering out an excuse that it was only suburbia, after all. "Yeah," she said, "but it's interesting to me! I mean, my whole life we've lived away out in the woods, like five miles from our closest neighbor. This looks friendlier."

He had the inspiration to take her to Piedmont Park, which meandered for a good many acres and featured hills, a small stream (complete with waterfall), a fountain—normal park stuff, as Soos might say. And on the trail, she—she reached out and took his hand. "You were real brave," Wendy said. "Mabel told me all about it."

Dipper shrugged. "Chuck's a good friend. Couldn't let a ghost get him."

"Yeah, but Ford says old Nathaniel always held a grudge in life. You watch your butt from now on, hear? And if you see any sign of him, you get on the horn to me right away. Don't wait until he shows up dragging a chain through your bedroom or some junk."

A couple of fit-looking women in headbands and leotards, out jogging on this early Sunday morning, ran toward them, chatting. They waved and smiled.

When they had pounded past, Dipper said miserably. "Now they'll talk about how I'm way too short for you. And too young. They'll make fun of us."

She squeezed his hand. "So what? Let 'em giggle. And you know, you've grown like four inches since last summer. I think I finally leveled off, so you're catchin' up a little." They stopped in the middle of a wooden bridge, and Wendy added, "Mm, we could almost be out in the woods here. This is nice, man. Hey, let me see if you're really too short for me."

Dipper wasn't prepared. She leaned—just a little—and kissed him quickly on the lips. Then, ruffling his hair and smiling, she whispered, "Mm, dude, not too short at all."

For the rest of the way, he walked on air.

Ford insisted that Mabel and Dipper accompany him and Wendy to the hospital. They arrived a little ahead of time. Though Chuck was sleeping, Mrs. Taylor was already awake, and they found an empty waiting room for a quick conversation. "I keep hearing what a wonderful doctor you are," she said.

Ford shrugged. "Mostly based on a few papers I did for medical journals. I'm not in practice. However, this is—a special case, as you know. Tell me: How much does Chuck remember?"

She shook her head. "Not very much at all. From the time he blacked out, he says he just has flashes, like pieces of a dream that he's almost forgotten. He sort of remembers jumping out the window, but then nothing until Dipper and Mabel pushed him down in the labyrinth."

"That's when the spirit of Nathaniel Northwest was forced out of him," Ford said.

"He—he says he felt—not angry at them, but—but sad, because it was like he'd lost something."

"His own spirit was dormant within him," Ford said. "Believe me, if the kids had been just a minute late, Chuck would have been thrust completely out of his body, fully aware—but invisible. He would have become the ghost, and Nathaniel would have taken over his body completely."

"And that's a terrible feeling," Dipper said. When Mrs. Taylor stared at him, he added, "I know. Don't ask me how, but I do."

A few minutes later, Chuck woke up still feeling a little groggy, and his left arm obviously hurt him. He acted embarrassed when Mabel kissed his cheek. "I, uh—was I talking crazy yesterday, Mabel?"

"Meh," she said, shrugging. "Nothing so cray-cray that I hated it!" She glanced around and lowered her voice. "So—you still want to hang out with me?"

"Yeah!" he said, and immediately blushed.

"You got it," Mabel said happily.

Ford, Dipper, and his mom explained to him exactly what had happened, and he grew pale. But then Ford handed Mabel a thin chain with a tiny gem. "Give it to him," he said. When Chuck took it from her, Ford said seriously, "Chuck, this will protect you. We can't destroy a ghost, but we've dealt him a blow that he'll have to recover from before he can be a threat. As long as you wear this, you're safe. Now, when you're twenty-one, the threat is over. You can take it off the day after your twenty-first birthday—but hang on to it. When you marry, and if you have children, pass it along to your first son."

Now Chuck blushed again. He looked sideways at Mabel. "Uh—what if it's twins?"

Dipper had to turn away to keep from laughing where Chuck could see him. But Ford very seriously said, "One will still be the first-born son, and he's the one you have to protect. Remember that."

Dipper recovered his poise and said, "Until then, tell the guys on the team that a girl—"

"Your girl," Wendy corrected. Mabel giggled.

"Your girl," Dipper continued, "gave it to you and it's your lucky charm."

Chuck sighed. "I—won't be on the team," he said. "Broken arm will put me out for the rest of the season."

"Next year, then!" Mabel said. "'Cause you're no quitter!"

Chuck reached for her hand. "Next year," he said, making it sound like a promise.

All too soon, Ford and Wendy had to leave for the Oakland airport—"Second time I've been in a plane, guys!" Wendy said. "Stanley told me it would be awful, but I like it!"

Practice started again Monday afternoon. The team heard the news and practice went—well, terrible, to be honest. As Coach Waylund patiently pointed out the many errors and problems, Dipper said, "Uh, Coach? Chuck will come back to school on Wednesday or Thursday. Is it OK if he comes to practice? To, you know, watch and advise us?"

"I'll be disappointed if he doesn't," Waylund said. "Tell him that. By the way, Pines, where's your cap?"

"Uh, it, uh, blew off," Dipper said. "I couldn't find it."

"Well, pick up a replacement before Saturday's game," Waylund said. "That fur thing is an interesting fashion statement, but it won't do for playing baseball. Did you go back and look for the cap?"

"I couldn't find it," Dipper said. That was a white lie. A team of horses chained to him couldn't drag him back to that labyrinth.

Chuck made it to Thursday practice, not dressed out, but wearing his own cap. He watched the guys practice fielding, and during a break he called Dipper over. "Take off your trapper hat," he said. Then he clapped his own baseball cap onto Dipper's head. "Here, use mine. I won't need it for the rest of the season."

Dipper touched the brim. "Aw—thanks, man. Up high!"

Mabel had started coming to every single practice—in fact now she sat in the dugout—and she said, "Don't worry, Chuck, I'll buy you a new one myself! And Brobro, don't you ever get rid of that one! That's your lucky charm!"

The Saturday game was against the Palo Alto Pirates—not a game that the team would dread, ordinarily, since the Panthers and Pirates were on a roughly equal footing and had very similar win-loss records.

However, without Chuck . . ..

In the locker room, guys got dressed out and sat in gloom on the benches, muttering to each other and pounding their fists in their gloves. Dipper felt edgy and couldn't stop pacing, his cleats clicking on the tile floor. He had a sinking feeling that everything was about to go wrong—and it would be mostly his fault. He'd been lousy in the last three practices.

He kept adjusting Chuck's cap on his head and telling himself, "Calm down, calm down, calm down!" That only made him more nervous.

Then he heard a couple of guys yell, and he turned to see Chuck grinning, wearing his jersey—except only one button was buttoned, so it could hang over his cast like a cloak. He was high-fiving everyone, Barb, Bobby, Petey, Kenk. "So, who died?" he yelled. "C'mon, you guys, show a little life! The Pirates are pushovers!"

He scooped up Dipper's batting helmet and smooshed it into Hi-Ho's face. "Smells like victory!" Chuck yelled.

"Foo! Victory stinks, man!" Hi-Ho shot back, shoving the smelly helmet away. He hugged Chuck, carefully, avoiding the cast, which now sported dozens of autographs, including the whole team, plus a great big red heart with MABEL in squooshy-looking balloon letters. "Seriously, dude, good to have you here. You gonna sit in the dugout?"

"Duh!" Chuck said. "I'm gonna keep notes, too, so you guys play good, or you'll have to answer to me."

Well, that was a positive send-off. Too bad it didn't last.

The game didn't begin badly. The Pirates won the toss and chose to bat first—always their preference, because their coach believed getting on the board early was a key to shaking up an opposing team. They did score one run, but in the bottom of the second Piedmont not only tied, but got one up when Mike crossed the plate. Unfortunately, the next batter popped out and the Panthers took the field again.

Dipper couldn't shake his attack of nerves. He kept pounding his glove and scraping his cleats as he played second, but he had the panicky feeling that if he went for a line drive he'd miss it. Or fumble the ball when trying to tag out a runner. Do something stupid.

Mabel, who had become a crowd favorite, was working extra hard, boogying, turning cartwheels, leaping, leading enthusiastic cheers. That day, she seemed more a distraction than a morale booster to Dipper. He felt bad that Chuck was watching his lackluster performance and kept thinking how much better it would be if Chuck could stand on the mound.

By the time the fifth inning ended, each team had upped its score, and the teams were locked in a 3-3 tie. And as the sixth started, everything just fell apart.

The first Pirate up to bat hit a clean single, and he led off first base so far that Dipper kept trying to send telepathic messages to Jon-J on the mound: Throw to first!

It didn't work. The next man up smacked a long fly past Petey, the right fielder, who finally backpedaled and misjudged it, catching it on the bounce. He threw to Dipper, but wide, and though Dipper managed—barely—to get to the throw and catch it, the runner was already standing on second base. Dipper threw the ball to the pitcher and watched Jon-J shaking his head and smacking the ball hard into his glove. Bobby, catching, sent him two signals that he shook off.

Jon-J had a good fastball, and he tried it. The batter swung, missing by a mile. That seemed to give Jon-J heart, and he threw a deliberate ball, then sizzled another fastball past the batter for a called strike. He risked one more fastball—and the batter fanned it. The next man up, though, the biggest player for the Pirates, hit another single, sending a man home and putting the Pirates up by one run. And the next Pirate virtually copied the previous one, batting in another runner.

Maybe Jon-J had strained his arm. He walked the next man, loading the bases. And the next batter smacked a weak flyball that Dipper backed up and easily caught, firing it to Bobby for a double play.

The Panthers went in to bat with the score five to three, Pirates leading. Kenk got a single—barely running out the throw to first—but then Mike, who seemed as worried as Dipper felt, misjudged every pitch and went down swinging. Petey popped out. JD and Barb both got singles, loading the bases—and then Jon-J, who looked exhausted, struck out on four pitches, just managing a weak foul tip on one.

At the top of the seventh, Jon-J put his heart into pitching, but he was obviously tired and shaken up. The first Pirate up hit a fly straight into the center fielder's glove. The next one got a single on Jon-J's first pitch. The next hit to right field, where Petey DeFoy, maybe trying to compensate for his weak performance earlier in the game, bobbled the catch, temporarily lost the ball, and then hesitated before deciding where to throw it. The error stretched a single into a double and brought in another Pirate run. Even worse, Jon-J, now badly shaken, walked the next batter, again loading the bases.

To Dipper's surprise, the coach called a time out and motioned him to come in as he walked to the mound. He got there in time to hear Waylund say, "Your call, son."

Miserably, Jon-J said, "I can't concentrate, Coach. And my arm's gone. Pull me out."

"You got it. Good try, though. Pines—take the mound."

"Wh-what?" Dipper stammered. "Coach, no, I can't—"

"Taylor says you can."

Dipper looked over at the dugout. Chuck stood waving at him, and he gave Dipper a thumbs-up.

"Take the mound, son," Waylund said kindly. "Keep your mind in the game and do your best. That's all we're asking."

Dipper warmed up, but he wasn't used to pitching. Bobby helpfully offered suggestions by means of signals from behind home plate. Dipper took them all.

Oddly, his inexperience seemed an advantage at first. He could hit the strike zone, but his pitches were erratic enough to baffle the first man up, who popped a little looper right to first base, where it was caught and fired home before the Pirates could try for another run. The next batter swung at two of Dipper's pitches—not fastballs, exactly, and not curves, but, well, dippers—but then connected for a single. And another run crossed the plate, putting the Pirates up 7-3, with the bases still loaded.

As if from a great distance, he heard Mabel off in front of the grandstand: "Dipper! Dipper! Put him out! That's what pitching's all about!"

Do it for sis.

He took a deep breath and pitched. Swung on for strike one. He considered the second and went for the outside corner, just missing it. Ball one. Strike zone again, but a little high—and the batter got a piece of it, sending a skipping grounder off to Dipper's left. Dipper lunged for it, fielded it, and whipped it to Bobby, who got the runner out as he started a desperate slide.

Then as they came to bat, it was do-or-die time for the Panthers. X-man, who looked exhausted, struck out and plodded back to the dugout. Hi-Ho got a respectable double—though he barely beat the throw to second. Bobby, who acted a little fresher than the rest of the team, hit what first looked like a home run, but it lost altitude going into the slot between left and center field, and the center fielder was just a little too slow and the hit ran out of steam and bounced off the chain-link fence. Still, Bobby, too, made it to second, and Hi-Ho scored.

And there the rally ended. Dub popped out. Dipper stepped to the plate tense and shaking, his hands soaked with sweat inside the batting gloves. He couldn't control his breathing or his pounding heart.

He was just as bad at bat as he had been back in the fall at the first practice. With the sweat of anxiety stinging his eyes, he couldn't judge the pitches and struck out one, two, three, even going after an impossible outside ball.

The Panthers lost seven to four.

And Dipper dragged into the dugout thinking It's all my fault.

He had no option. For the good of the team—

He'd have to quit.


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Note from the Authors: This was just an idea I had but the one who really worked his magic and wrote almost all of this is none other than BillEase. He's an amazing author who usually hangs out at fanfiction.net. Don't pass up on a chance to check out his stuff. This guy is AMAZING. He wrote the story, I just gave the plot.

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