I'm Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl

by Gretchen McNeil

  Jesse had a hint of a smile on his face when he opened the door, as if he’d just woken up from a delicious dream. “Oh, hey, Bea.”

  “Hi!” I slipped my arms around his waist and hugged him, resting my head momentarily against his chest. “Can we talk?”

  I felt him shrug. “Sure.” He stepped aside and let me into the family room separated from the kitchen by an enormous island. As usual, the house was immaculately clean, all gleaming tile and shiny chrome. I waited as Jesse closed and locked the door, then followed him through the kitchen and up the back stairs.

  Just inside his bedroom door, I froze. Strung diagonally between two corners was a large canvas hammock.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a hammock.”

  “Well, yeah,” I said lamely. “But what is it doing in your room?”

  “I sleep in it.”

  I snorted. “Since when?”

  Jesse strode defiantly over to the hammock and swung his body onto it. The hammock swayed to and fro, creaking at the fulcrum of each arc, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before the studs ripped out of the wall. “It’s relaxing,” he said. “Calms me down so I can think. Dream.”

  Jesse wasn’t exactly a ball of tension. “Dream?”

  He pulled a curled-up paperback from the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and flipped it open to a random page. I recognized the volume immediately: it was Tennyson’s Idylls of the King. “Sometimes I just need to let the rhythm of the poetry fill my being and allow my mind to drift far away.”

  I stiffened. He sounded like Toile. “So you’re a hammock guy now, is that it?”

  Jesse spun around and planted his feet on the carpet, stopping his momentum. “Is that a thing? Can that be my thing? Can I be the hammock guy?”

  Jesse’s obsession with having a “thing” was starting to grate on me. “Jesse, what the hell is going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since when do you read Tennyson?”

  “Toile gave it to me.”

  Of course she did. “You don’t even like poetry.”

  “Yes, I do.” He sounded unsure.

  “Since when?”

  “Since . . .” He dropped the book onto the canvas. “Whatever. I do now. I read poetry and I sleep in a hammock.”

  This was my worst nightmare. “Jesse, look, this isn’t you talking. This is Toile. She’s planting all these crazy ideas in your mind.”

  “Toile?”

  “Yeah.” He needed to hear the truth. “She’s trying to steal you.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “Really?”

  He was so cute when he was naïve. “She wants you to be her boyfriend.”

  Jesse rocketed to his feet, pushing the hammock away with a violence that made me jump. “She does? Do you think? I mean, did she say that to you?” He pulled off his beanie and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair.

  Now, if I’d been reading his words via text message, I could have interpreted them spoken with horrified shock tinged with pity that his innocent actions had unwittingly caused such a reaction in Toile. But because I was standing three feet away, I could see that Jesse was neither concerned that he’d led Toile on nor worried that he’d offended me in the process. Instead, as he paced the room, hands grasping his hair, he looked ignited, like a switch had been thrown inside of him.

  I squared my shoulders and jutted out my chin as a knot formed in my stomach. I was having difficulty suppressing my anger. “I don’t think you should hang out with Toile anymore.”

  Jesse paused. “What?”

  “I mean it. I can’t be your girlfriend if she’s going to be around.” He stared at me blankly, clearly not grasping the meaning of my words, and for the first time in our short relationship, his slowness got on my last nerve. “You need to choose. Toile or me.”

  He didn’t even hesitate. “Sorry, Bea. I choose Toile.”

  THIRTEEN

  THE ONLY REASON I knew it was morning was because one sliver of light managed to penetrate the darkened confines of my bedroom. It was a tenacious little bastard, finding the minuscule gap where my thick, double-lined curtains came together without overlapping, and invading my place of mourning with its cheerful yellow beam.

  Normally on a Saturday morning, I’d have slid out of bed and thrown the curtains wide, inviting the sunlight to wash over me as I faced the day with unwavering confidence. But not today. I rolled over, turning my back to the repellent sunlight, and hitched my comforter over my head.

  I was never getting out of bed again. Ever.

  It had been roughly sixteen hours since Jesse had dumped me, most of which I’d spent in bed. My mom had been surprised to see me, since I was supposed to be at my dad’s until Sunday morning, but I just couldn’t take Sheri’s good-intentioned questions or my dad’s endless descriptions of his workday. So after I’d left Jesse’s, I texted Sheri to say I wasn’t feeling well, and headed back to the town house.

  Friday night meant my mom probably had a date, and when I showed up unannounced, the bright red lipstick, dusting of glitter, and lined cat eyes proved that I was right. Mom had freaked out a little, but I had assured her that I didn’t want dinner (my stomach felt like the inside of a tumble dryer) and she should go on her date. Her reaction had been less relieved than I’d expected, and as I’d climbed the double flight of stairs to my room, I realized that she’d been hoping to bring her date home.

  Which meant my mom was getting more action than I was.

  Which was officially the most depressing thought I’d ever had.

  I’d gone to bed fully clothed and hadn’t even bothered to text Gabe or Spencer to tell them what had happened. I just couldn’t. They’d either try to cheer me up (which I didn’t want) or try to convince me that I was better off without Jesse (which I didn’t believe).

  I didn’t even cry, which was disturbing in and of itself. Getting dumped by your first boyfriend had an almost 100 percent probability of making you cry, and yet there I lay, unable to muster even a single tear.

  In my defense, tears never improved your situation or helped you figure out a problem. So in that way, my response or lack thereof made perfect sense. Tears hadn’t helped Sheri get pregnant or found my mom a second husband. And they sure the hell hadn’t helped my parents get along better while they were married, and in that particular case, the tears had come from all three of us.

  So I’d taken my lack of mourning as a sign that there was a solution to my problem, and I’d spent the night trying to puzzle it out. But so far, a solution hadn’t presented itself. Which was disturbing on a variety of levels. I could always find a solution. Hell, I’d designed a mathematical formula to protect my friends from school bullies—shouldn’t I have been able to fix anything?

  “Anak!” My mom’s singsong voice drifted up the stairs and beneath my door. “Are you awake?”

  No.

  I braced myself for the inevitable onslaught. My mom wasn’t the type of parent who took her teenage daughter’s silence as a signal that she wanted to be left alone.

  My door flew open. “Beatrice, you’re still in bed?” She floated across the room and whisked aside my purple damask curtains, flooding the room with light. “It’s almost eight thirty.”

  “I’m not feeling well,” I said without turning over. “Remember?”

  “You’ll feel better after some breakfast.”

  Doubtful.

  “Come downstairs,” she continued. “You can tell me all about what’s bothering you, and I can tell you all about my second date with Benjamin Feldberger.”

  Don’t ask. She wants you to ask.

  She took a deep breath, then exhaled a particularly dramatic, melodic sigh that seemed to go on for a full minute. “He’s like no one I’ve ever met.”

  Be strong.

  “So kind. So smart.”

  Just play dead.

  She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “So tender.”


  Gross. I sat up and faced her. “Stop! For the love of all that’s holy, stop talking.”

  She smirked. “At least I got you to sit up.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I hate it when you do that.”

  “I know.” She stood up, and I noticed that she was smiling.

  “You really like this new guy?”

  “Mmhm.”

  She seemed so happy. She always did at this point in the game. I tried not to think about the almost inevitable post-breakup meltdown that lingered three to six months down the road, complete with weeklong crying jags, an elaborate I’m never leaving the house again routine, and my personal favorite, the I’m going to die alone monologue.

  “Then I’m happy for you, Mom.” For now. I truly wanted her to be happy, and since I knew that her happiness, however pathetic that might sound to me, was tied up in finding Husband Number Two, I was all for it.

  I just didn’t want to hear the blow-by-blow of their date.

  “Thank you.” She cupped my cheek in her hand. “Now come downstairs and I’ll tell you all about the thirty minutes we spent kissing in his car.”

  “Mom!”

  “What? It’s normal, Beatrice. And if Benjamin and I get married, you’ll have to get used to—”

  I was saved from more details by the doorbell.

  “I’ll be right back,” my mom said, patting my leg, then she sailed through the door and down the stairs, humming softly to herself.

  I flopped back against my pillow. So that was love, huh? These were romantic relationships? Jesse, who got distracted the second someone new waltzed into his life. My mom, who was so laser focused on finding a second husband, she was already talking about marriage after two dates. My dad, whose feelings of love and commitment were short-term and relegated to the women who sat at a desk outside his office.

  Maybe I was better off without a boyfriend. Maybe Jesse had been holding me back, distracting me. I needed to focus on the Formula, and organizing my research to submit for the scholarship. That had to be the most important thing in my life right now, not . . .

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs, definitely not my mom’s light tread. Jesse? He’d realized he’d made a stupid, thoughtless mistake and he’d come to beg my forgiveness, to proclaim his undying love and devotion, to plead with me to take him back. I had a vision of tears and embraces and passionate make-up kisses . . .

  And then Gabe walked in. Followed by Spencer.

  I was instantly on alert. “What are you guys doing here?”

  Gabe plopped down on the edge of my bed. “Oh, you know. We were in the neighborhood.”

  I wasn’t that stupid. “I’m supposed to be at my dad’s house.”

  “We were in that neighborhood too,” Spencer said.

  Gabe nodded. “Sheri redirected us.”

  I glanced pointedly at the clock. “It’s eight thirty. The only time either of you is voluntarily awake this early on a weekend is if you’ve stayed up all night.”

  Spencer dragged my desk chair over to the bed, spun it around, and straddled it. “Jesse changed his relationship status on Facebook this morning. Everyone knows.”

  I pushed the comforter down to my waist. “He did what?”

  “Good Lord,” Gabe said, eyeing my jeans and rumpled gingham blouse. “Did you sleep in that?”

  I turned to Spencer. “What does Jesse’s Facebook say?”

  He took a deep breath. “‘In a Relationship with Toile Jeffries.’”

  “When?” I asked, my voice steadier than I thought it would be.

  “Kurt saw it this morning,” Gabe said. “But apparently Jesse posted it last night.”

  If ever I was going to break my ban on crying, this should have been it. Choosing Toile over me was one thing. Hooking up with her mere hours after breaking up with me was rubbing salt in my wound. But tagging her in a relationship post on Facebook? That was the ultimate blow. He’d never tagged me in a relationship post, but apparently, he’d had no trouble telling the world about Toile. Had he been embarrassed by me? Had he not wanted people to know?

  This news should have left me huddled in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, muttering Jesse’s name, but instead of hot tears and a hysterical episode, I just wanted to throat-punch someone.

  I leaped out of bed, fists clenched at my sides, and marched to the corkboard where I kept a little collection of mementos. I searched the contents of my shrine, past ticket stubs from concerts Spencer and I had gone to last year, a picture of Gabe from his last Warhammer tournament, a photobooth triptych of the three of us from the homecoming dance sophomore year, a Paris postcard from Spencer, a fan of museum tickets from our many visits to the Getty, LACMA, and the Norton Simon. Finally, my eyes rested on a cluster of keepsakes from my short relationship with Jesse: a doodle he’d made on one of my notebook pages and a napkin he’d twisted into a rose for me at the coffeehouse on our first date. I ripped the offending pieces of tainted memorabilia from the corkboard, crumpled them into a tiny, mashed-up ball of woman scorned, and launched it across the room.

  “What the actual fuck?” I said to nobody in particular. “What the hell does Toile have over me? And what kind of name is ‘Toile’ anyway? Who names their kid after fabric?”

  “Celebrities,” Gabe said.

  “Musicians,” Spencer added.

  I ignored them as my brain chewed on this problem. What did Toile have that I didn’t? “I mean, I know she’s prettier than I am.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gabe spun me around to face the mirror. “Look at you. You’re gorgeous.”

  I patted him on his cheek. “You’re sweet, but I wasn’t fishing for compliments. Just stating the facts. Toile is pretty in the traditional sense.” I pictured her fair skin and large violet eyes, her tiny waist and her elegant, long arms. “Like maybe even gorgeous. Which I can admit, despite the fact that I hate her guts.” I examined myself in the mirror. Short, curvy in a weird way, and lacking either of my parents’ best attributes, namely my mom’s petiteness and my dad’s sharp Romanesque features. I was more mutt than purebred, the cute puppy at the shelter with an indefinable lineage and intelligent eyes.

  “I don’t think Toile’s that pretty,” Spencer said.

  Gabe laughed. “Yeah, that’s because she’s not Cassilyn Cairns.”

  “Who’s also gorgeous. I’m cute at best.” I sighed, turning away from the mirror. “But I thought cute was good enough for Jesse. I guess I was wrong.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” Spencer grabbed me by the shoulders. “You are way too good for Jesse, okay? Completely out of his league.”

  I hated it when he was illogical. “Then why did he dump me?”

  “Toile’s type is heroin for a guy like Jesse.”

  “And what type is that?” I asked.

  Spencer laughed. “Duh. She’s a manic pixie dream girl.”

  FOURTEEN

  “MANIC PIXIE DREAM girl!” Gabe practically shouted. “Of course.”

  It was like they were speaking a language I didn’t understand. “A manic pixie what what?”

  “Have you ever read Paper Towns?” Gabe asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Do you know who Audrey Hepburn is?” Spencer asked.

  “Or Zooey Deschanel?” Gabe suggested. “She’s an actress on a sitcom. Do you know what that is?”

  Spencer laughed. “You know she hasn’t watched a scripted TV show in ten years.”

  “I just prefer nonfiction television, thank you very much,” I said with pursed lips. “Besides, you watch too much TV.”

  He lowered himself to the edge of my bed and leaned back on his elbows. “Don’t get bent out of shape, Spock. A manic pixie dream girl is a character trope: a quirky, effervescent female who walks to the beat of her own drum and makes the male lead feel like she’s changed his world.”

  Quirky and effervescent. Those adjectives definitely applied to Toile. “What else does she do?”

  “Not much,�
�� Gabe said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Spencer shrugged. “That’s just it. Her entire existence in the framework of a fictional plot is to improve the male character. She makes him better so he can make the world better.”

  I sat down next to Spencer. “Let me get this straight: She exists solely for the guy in her life?”

  “Yep,” Spencer said.

  “That sounds horrible.”

  Gabe shrugged. “But it works. Toile’s clearly charmed Jesse, and pretty much everyone else at school too.”

  He was right. I remembered how Cassilyn and her friends had fawned over Toile in the cafeteria from day one, and how Jesse knew more about her after an hour of English class than he knew about me in two months of dating. She might have been a flighty space cadet, but there was something about Toile that made people like her.

  “Guys dig it when a girl thinks they’re interesting.” Gabe jabbed his thumb at Spencer. “Just look at Picasso here. Cassilyn bats her eyelashes and asks about his painting and suddenly they’re inseparable.”

  I turned to Spencer. “Inseparable?”

  He cleared his throat. “Gabe’s being dramatic.”

  “That’s not what I heard.” He pursed his lips and made a kissing sound as he pulled his phone out of his bag. “Check this out. A few days ago Thad was trying to kick my ass in the cafeteria, and yesterday I got this.”

  He turned the phone so Spencer and I could see it, and I read a text from Thad to Gabe out loud. “‘Dude. Can I call u dude? K. Dude. Has Cass said anything about going to the dance with me? Do me a solid and bring it up.’” I glanced up at Gabe. “Thad is asking for your help?”

  “Yes! Isn’t that amazing? And then . . .” Gabe scrolled through his text conversations and I saw that he had them from Cassilyn, Esmeralda, and a group text from Noel and Dakota. “Apparently, one of the benefits of being the newest girlfriend in the A-list is that they tell me all their secrets.” Gabe pumped his eyebrows. “Seriously, Bea, this formula of yours is brilliant. I’m putting a whole subsection in the article about how quickly they’ve taken me into their confidences, as if the gay guy can be trusted with secrets they wouldn’t share with the other girls, and the jocks forget they hate me because they’re so desperate to get in some girl’s pants. It’s totally fascinating.”