[She stares at Dipper for a moment, eyes wide and indescribably hurt. She makes no effort to follow him; and as much as the rational part of Pacifica's mind can understand Dipper's hostility and reservations, that doesn't put her at ease. Not at all.

She flinches a bit at Dipper's words; they're accusatory and angry and only half-correct. And it confirms the worst: she doesn't have a single friend left the world. The girls from home aren't friends; they're allies, there to support her only far enough to leech off of her fame and prosperity.

She had considered Dipper a friend after the party. She had been desperate to call him one, after he'd spoken to her so kindly and told her everything she'd needed to hear.

Is she the one with the faulty memory?

No. No, she can't accept that. She balls her hands into fists, yelling right back at him.]

I don't hate you! And I told you--since last night, which you apparently don't remember. Since before that. I, like, did hate you at one point. I totally did. But I don't, anymore, okay?!

I get why you wouldn't believe me, okay. I'm not some dumb blonde. I've been totally awful to you and your Mabel and your gross weird uncle. Do you think I would just, like, up and admit that if I had some freaky ulterior motive?

I'm not my parents. I'm not.