Armand nodded and reclaimed his eyebrows from the stratosphere of his skull, then ran his fingers through my hair. “Strong. Thick. And I can do something with the wave.” He turned to my mom. “What did you have in mind?”
Before she could answer, I handed Armand my iPad, cued up to a photo montage of Ramona Flowers from Scott Pilgrim vs. the World and all her multicolored hair goodness. “I want something like this.”
The eyebrows shot even higher, wrinkling Armand’s head into an elephant’s hide. He studied the photos, zooming in and out. “Interesting. Edgy, but I could give it a retro softness. I am not dyeing your whole head that shade of pink, but maybe some pops of color . . .”
“See?” my mom said. “I told you he was good.”
It took almost three hours, a painfully boring process of cutting, coloring, highlighting, and blow-drying, most of which I spent facing away from the mirror. So when Armand finally spun my chair around, I gasped out loud at my reflection.
“Holy shit!” I said.
Armand nodded, flashing an enormous set of veneers. “Holy shit, indeed.”
In an act of hair-styling prowess heretofore unseen in the greater Fullerton area, Armand’s appraising eyes and competent hands had transformed my long, little-girl locks into something at once sassy and sophisticated. My subtle waves were almost curly now, freed from the weight of their length. Soft and supple, the curls hit halfway between my chin and my collarbone, giving me the illusion of a longer, more regal neck, then angled upward toward the back of my head, where they just covered the nape. Choppy bangs grazed my eyebrows, framing my face and accentuating its heart shape. As if the amazing haircut wasn’t enough, Armand had artfully placed several magenta highlights—just a stray curl here and there, poking through the brown.
I never in a million years would have chosen a haircut like this unless forced into it by my own Machiavellian designs, yet somehow it suited me. And when I slid from the chair and walked to a full-length mirror, there was a hop in my step that hadn’t been there a few hours before.
I looked like I was more fun—it was as simple as that. Lighter, freer, a girl with a spontaneous streak who wasn’t afraid to do something crazy. It was absolutely perfect.
The straight-cut jeans and button-down blouse I was wearing? Not so much. I pulled my notebook from my purse and consulted the extensive formula I’d created the night before, then I grabbed my phone and texted Gabe.
Meet me at the mall in 30?
The Formula 2.0™:
If F is a continuous real-valued function defined on a closed interval [f, s] between freshman and senior years of high school, R is the social role previously decided upon, and v is the void created by R, then the radical of R to v degree is equal to the empty set, i.e., “eternal happiness.”
Or:
(1) Pick the role you want to play.
(2) Create the void by convincing your environment that it needs you.
(3) Be the niche they didn’t know they wanted in the first place.*
*Subheading: “Manic Pixie Dream Girl”
- childlike playfulness
- outlandish clothes, preferably matched with wild hair dye
- exhibits noticeable “wacky” quirks and antics of which she seems wholly unself-aware
- thinks about the world in a new and unique way
- overly friendly, bordering on flirtatious
- spontaneous, especially with displays of affection
- never embarrassed or shy, laughs off faux pas
- single-minded goal: male wish fulfillment
SEVENTEEN
“YOU WANT TO dress like Toile?” Gabe asked. We were in line at the Coffee Hut at the food court, along with Kurt Heinzmueller, who either happened to run into Gabe at the mall or had come with him, I wasn’t entirely sure.
“Triple-shot latte,” I ordered. I needed to be sufficiently caffeinated for what was about to happen. “Think of it as a makeover,” I said, looking Gabe up and down. “Just like yours.”
“I hope not,” Kurt muttered.
“This makeover,” Gabe said, eyeing Kurt, “is going to score me that internship at the Register when I finish my article.”
“At the cost of playing into every gay stereotype of the last two centuries,” Kurt countered. “Is that worth it?”
“Yes.”
“If you say so.”
Gabe narrowed his eyes. “You could try being a teensy bit more supportive.”
Kurt shrugged, then took a sip from his enormous soda.
Gabe took a deep breath and immediately got back into character, which made sense since the odds of us running into classmates at the mall over the weekend were relatively high. But despite his confrontation with Kurt, there was an ease with which he wore his new role today that I hadn’t noticed before. He’d also added some new wardrobe components. Cropped linen pants, boat shoes, and a jaunty, short-brimmed fedora completed today’s look.
“We’re going to make you look fabulous,” he said, taking my hand.
“So by changing your hair and how you dress,” Kurt said, pausing midsip, “you’re going to get Jesse back.”
“Yep.” Why was he here again? “I’ve tweaked the Formula. Instead of identifying the need and filling it, I’m going to show Jesse something he didn’t know he needed: Manic Pixie Bea.”
“Has Spencer seen your hair yet?” Gabe asked as I added fake sugar to my latte.
“No.” I hadn’t asked him to join us. I told myself that was because he wouldn’t be much help on a shopping spree, but part of me had been apprehensive about texting him. What if he was too busy? What if he was with Cassilyn? I kind of didn’t want to know.
“I’m sure he’ll love it,” Kurt said.
Gabe jabbed him in the ribs without comment. “What’s the game plan?”
I laid out an overview of my new style: it needed to be a blend of vintage and modern, mixed together with the kind of reckless abandon that makes you think the wearer is either the edgiest person on the planet or got dressed while blindfolded. Bright colors were a must, as were outlandish patterns. Preferably together. We needed to be on the lookout for items with glitter or sequins, and anything that looked as if your grandmother might have bought it before the war was absolutely golden.
I was nervous about this phase of the Formula 2.0, even more so than I was when Armand chopped off my hair. Clothes shopping highlighted my body insecurity, and my fear that people would stare and point and laugh at me if I wore anything that made me stand out. Which, unfortunately, was the point of manic pixie fashion.
I chalked my clothing self-doubt up to nine years at Catholic school, where everyone wore a uniform and standing out in any way was a punishable offense. I’d been yanked from that extreme and thrown into public school at my most awkward phase, and for the first time in my life I’d had to put together outfits every day. Which was when I’d sort of adapted my own version of a uniform—tailored jeans, a sensible but feminine blouse, and a blazer—which had served me well for three years. My clothes weren’t memorable, but being memorable at Fullerton Hills wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Besides, I freaking hated the mall. Hated. I didn’t feel like I fit in with all the confident, fashionably styled mannequins, to say nothing of the customers. Instead, I shopped almost exclusively online using the credit card my dad had given me. I rarely charged very much—my wardrobe staples weren’t exactly designer—and he paid the small balance every month without question.
But today, I didn’t have time to wait for two-day priority shipping. I needed brand-new outfits immediately.
Store after store, dressing room after dressing room, I tried on clothes until my fingers ached from rebuttoning my blouse time and time again. Gabe was a trouper. He’d scurry around the racks holding up possible options while I gave my thumbs-up or thumbs-down like Diocletian at the Colosseum. Even Kurt pitched in, though he tended to pick out anything with sparkles, and I wasn’t sure if he was being se
rious or thought this was all one elaborate joke.
Gabe turned out to have a keen eye for my new look. He found some gems: the fifties flare swing dress in a petunia print, the teal cardigan with a ruffled collar, the curry-yellow corduroy shorts, and the flowy polka-dot jumpsuit. Some dusty corner of Gabe’s brain had come to life, ignited by the Formula, and I could tell he was really enjoying himself.
And so was I, oddly. I’d been looking forward to this phase of the Formula 2.0 with as much enthusiasm as the average student approaches a surprise math test (not me, of course—I love pop quizzes) but after a half dozen stores and almost twice as many shopping bags, I was beginning to understand the high school ritual of shopping at the mall with your friends. I was actually having fun.
Until we exited the last stop of the afternoon and ran smack into Esmeralda, Dakota, and Noel.
The panic hit me like a bucket of ice water in the face. I wasn’t ready to unleash the new me on the general population of Fullerton Hills. I had the haircut, and bags full of new clothes, but I hadn’t been able to rehearse how I would act or what I would say, and I hadn’t yet compiled a cheat sheet for daily manic pixie life. Beneath the bouncy curls and streaks of brightly colored hair dye, I was still just Beatrice. And to these girls, not even that. I watched Esmeralda’s left eyebrow rise a quarter of an inch and I was reminded that to them, I was only Math Girl, unworthy of a proper name, and suddenly I wished I’d never thought of the Formula, or learned about manic pixie dream girls, or taken any sort of steps to win back my ex-boyfriend. I just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide, and I wondered, with a sense of dismay, whether this was how Gabe and Spencer had felt at school last week when they’d arrived in new wardrobes with new personalities and new roles to play at school.
But if Gabe had experienced fear or panic in the face of Fullerton Hills’ elite, he certainly didn’t show it now.
“Dahlings!” Gabe said, immediately in character. He swooped over to Esmeralda, kissing her quickly on each cheek before repeating the process with the stepsisters. “You look zoopa fabulous.”
“Thank you . . . ,” Dakota and Noel said, their voices trailing off in perfect unison.
Gabe grabbed my hand. “You guys know Beatrice, right?”
“Really?” Kurt said. “You don’t want to introduce me to your fancy friends?”
I saw Gabe’s armor of flamboyant nonchalance falter. “Kurt, no, it’s just—”
“I know when I’m not wanted.” He stormed off as fast as his shuffling feet could take him. “Put that in your article.”
“Who was that?” Esmeralda said.
But Gabe didn’t answer, his eyes still fixed on the exit door Kurt had disappeared through. So I piped up, seizing the opportunity to reestablish myself.
“He’s no one,” I said, noting that Gabe flinched at my words. “Just ran into him. Hanging out at the mall. Because that’s what we do a lot.” I held up my bags. “Shopping and hanging out and . . . you know.”
Esmeralda turned her cold eyes to me. She had an amazing talent for putting your insecurities on display. “No, I don’t know. What else do you do?”
I read treatises on linear systems in algebra, calculate percentages for fun, and create mathematical formulas to apply to everyday life. Yeah, no. Even I realized I couldn’t say that out loud.
“I shop,” I began.
Esmeralda never even blinked. “You said that.”
“And hang out.”
“Said that as well.”
Dammit. What else did popular teens do at the mall? “Food court?”
She was having none of me. “You’re that Math Girl, aren’t you?”
“N-no,” I stuttered. But it was too late. She’d dismissed me and my new look. To her, I was the same old loser.
“See you at lunch tomorrow,” Esmeralda said to Gabe as she began to leave. “And I think you should seriously reconsider who you hang out with.”
EIGHTEEN
AN UNMITIGATED DISASTER. That was the best way to describe my first attempt at rebranding. Not only had I not been prepared for actual conversation with the most popular girls in school, but I had no answer for the inevitable Aren’t you that Math Girl? question.
“This is a good thing,” Gabe said as we took the bus across town.
I felt utterly despondent. “How?”
“Because we still have time to fix you.”
“It’s hopeless,” I said, staring out the window as an endless row of minimalls flew by in a blur. “I don’t know how you and Spencer did this. I’m sorry I ever invented the Formula.”
Gabe rolled his eyes. “Stop it. You just weren’t ready.”
“Tomorrow’s going to be a disaster,” I said. “I should return all these clothes.”
“So dramatic,” Gabe said. “You’re starting to sound like your mom.”
My head whipped around, eyes narrow. “You take that back.”
But Gabe just smiled. “That’s the fighting spirit I want to see.”
The bus eased to a stop a few blocks from Spencer’s house. “Now, don’t stress,” Gabe said as he gathered up some of my shopping bags. “The Formula works, and think how awesome your submission for that scholarship is going to be if you pull this off.”
“I guess.”
“You just need a little practice.”
“Practice?” I asked.
“The day you came up with the Formula, I spent most of the night practicing my new role in front of the mirror before unleashing it at school.”
“You did?” Gabe had seemed so natural in his new role. I hadn’t thought for a moment that it was because he’d practiced it at home. Maybe there was hope for me yet?
He nodded. “And look how well it worked. Those snobs talked to me at the mall just now like we were old friends, even though I was hanging out with two people who they don’t consider to be worthy of their time.”
He had a point.
“It’s fascinating, really,” he mused, gazing out the window, “how quickly they’ve accepted me. It’s sort of changed the focus of the article from working to infiltrate their ranks to the disturbing speed at which they’ve just looped Gabriel into their daily lives.”
“You mean it’s disturbingly shallow,” I said, clarifying.
“Yeah, and now I’m one of them.”
“Gabe, you’ll never be one of them.”
He paused for a moment, shook his head, then turned back to me. “You’re right. They’re just subjects for my article.” He laughed. “I’m undercover, like you said.”
“Exactly.” But I couldn’t shake the feeling that not only did Gabe feel like a bona fide member of Cassilyn’s clique, but that he enjoyed it.
“Anyway,” he said, smiling. “Esmeralda caught you off guard. So we just have to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
Half an hour later, I sat curled up on the sofa in Spencer’s studio compiling a cheat sheet of the various manic pixie dream girl components I’d need to start incorporating into my new role, as well as examples from the various movies I’d familiarized myself with, translating common manic pixie characteristics into modern high school action points.
“Ready?” Gabe said, peering over my shoulder, impatient as ever.
I took a deep breath. “I think so. I’ve narrowed it down to five key components.”
“Only five?” Spencer asked. He sat beside me on the sofa, one foot resting on his knee as he balanced a sketch pad on his lap. His eyes never left the page.
He’d meant the question sarcastically, but I answered with all seriousness. “Yes, five.” I set my notebook down on the table so Gabe could take a closer look. “Some of these we’ve already got covered; some I’m going to need help with.”
“Category one,” Gabe read out loud. “Fashion.”
“It has to be a mix of cute vintage and eye-catching statement pieces,” I said. “Like that French chick in Amélie.”
Gabe laughed. “We certainly took care of that t
oday.”
“No joke,” Spencer said. “How many credit cards did you max out?”
I ignored him. “Toile’s cornered the market on hats, but I’ll still need a signature look. Something outlandish.”
“Face tattoo?” Spencer suggested.
Now it was my turn for sarcasm. “Yes, a face tattoo. What a fabulous idea. Thank you for your help.”
“Stop being a dick,” Gabe said, kicking his leg.
“I’m thinking about mismatched shoes,” I said. “They’d show childlike whimsy and prove that I’m not bound by societal restrictions on wardrobe.”
“That would certainly make a statement,” Gabe said. “But won’t they hurt?”
I shook my head. “As long as I make sure the shoes are the same height—or the same style in different colors—I should be okay.” I hoped. I certainly didn’t want to injure myself in the name of manic pixieness. “I mean, I’m only going to have to do this for a week or two, right? I should be okay.”
“A week or two,” Gabe said with a nervous glance at Spencer. “Sure.”
“You think less than that?” I’d calculated 8.75 school days as the optimal time for my plan to work, but if I could ditch the mismatched shoes before then, even better.
“Category two,” Gabe read, instead of answering. “Social interactions.” He took a deep breath. “This is where you’re going to need some work.”
From day one, Toile had seemed ignorant of the societal norms of the American high school. She spoke to anyone, regardless of social rank. She made direct eye contact in the hallways. She spoke loudly, conspicuously so, in order to draw attention to herself, and utilized a head-turning mix of lighthearted laughter, spontaneous compliments, and a total lack of embarrassment to ingratiate herself with the student body.
“I have to outdo Toile on every point. Act more naïve and childlike, let more non sequitur comments come flying out of my mouth. I need to channel that Annie Hall ‘lah-di-dah.’”
“Lah-di-dah?” Gabe asked.
I flipped to the next page in my notebook, where I’d transcribed a scene from the movie. “Yeah, she has this scattered, stream-of-consciousness style of talking, like she’s just saying every single syllable that pops into her head. ‘Um, yeah, er, I don’t know . . . ,’” I said, trying to mimic the style. “Like that.”
I'm Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl Page 9
