“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Spencer chimed in.
“I realize you’re attempting to make a joke,” I said snidely, “but you’re actually right. I do have all those thoughts in my head, I just keep them inside when I’m at school. But no more!”
He cringed. “I’m not sure I can be seen with you at school.”
“Ignore him,” Gabe said, as if I needed to be told. “Try it out. Like, we’re just hanging out in the cafeteria over lunch. What would you say?”
“I haven’t really planned anything out yet,” I said, suddenly nervous.
“Just say whatever pops into your head. It’ll sound more authentic that way.” Gabe morphed into character. “Bea, darling. I just love what you’ve done with your hair.”
Right. Whatever pops into my head. “Really? Thanks! I mean, I wasn’t really sure . . . The pink and all. It kinda looks like candy. Oh, have you ever thought about what’s in a Skittle? Think about it! Tasting the rainbow could mean a whole lot of different . . . Oh. My. GOD!” I turned to the window, pointing outside. “Check out those clouds! Doesn’t it look like a princess riding a pony jumping over the TARDIS?” I dropped the act. “What do you think?”
“Wow.” Gabe’s eyes were round and unblinking, like he’d just had them dilated at the optometrist’s office. “That was insane.”
“If those words came out of my mouth, I’d want to cut out my own tongue so I’d be physically unable to articulate them again,” Spencer said. “But other than that . . .” He gave me two thumbs-up.
“You’re doing great,” Gabe said, shaking off his stupor. “Category four: wacky quirks and crazy antics.” He glanced up at me. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“You know,” I explained. “Like Charlize Theron frolicking with dogs on the beach in Sweet November. Or in (500) Days of Summer when that Zooey person made her cute boyfriend scream ‘penis’ at the top of his lungs in the park. Or when the chick from Friends stabbed Ben Stiller’s pillows.”
Gabe pointed at Spencer. “You’ve created a pop culture monster.”
“Short of staging a bank robbery or streaking naked through a school dance,” Spencer said, “I’m not sure how you’re going to escalate from Toile’s cafeteria choreography display on the first day of school.”
“I don’t know either,” I admitted. “But I’ve come up with an initial list of acceptably wacky antics.” I picked up my notebook and flipped to another page. “What do you guys think: (a) organizing a flash mob, (b) singing at the top of my lungs as I skip to and from class, (c) throwing confetti in front of me so I’m always walking on sparkles.”
“Excuse me,” Spencer said, pushing himself to his feet. “I need to throw up.”
“(D),” I continued, “greeting perfect strangers with a Euro-style kiss on both cheeks, or (e) handing out paper flowers to everyone at school. My stepmom’s got a stash of paper daisies on wire stems from her short-lived scrapbooking phase. I doubt she’d miss them.”
“Those are, um . . .” Gabe grasped for words. “Interesting options.”
I slouched back into the sofa. “I know. I’m not in love with any of them.”
“Let’s just revisit that one,” he said, turning back to my categories. “Next up, your name.”
“What’s wrong with Beatrice?” Spencer asked.
I shook my head, curls whipping past my eyes. “While sufficiently old-fashioned in a hipster baby kind of way, Beatrice isn’t quirky enough. I mean, these manic pixies all have hopelessly adorable names: Clementine, Polly, Claire, Sabrina. For God’s sake, Toile’s named after fabric. How can I outdo that?”
“Silk?” Gabe suggested.
“Sounds like a pimp,” Spencer said. “And besides, do you really want to run the risk of direct fabric comparison?”
“Exactly,” I said. “But I need something playful, effervescent. The kind of name that you can’t help but voice with perky exuberance.”
“Why don’t you go right at it and call yourself Beapix?” he said.
Gabe laughed. “More like Beatrix.”
I caught my breath. That was it. “Gabe, you’re brilliant.”
“Beatrix?”
“No.” A huge smile spread across my face. “Trix. Trixie. It’s a diminutive of the Spanish ‘Beatrix.’ I can tell everyone it’s a family nickname or something.”
“I am not calling you Trixie,” Spencer said. “Period.”
I waved him off. It didn’t matter if he did. Just everyone else. It wasn’t as if people at school knew my name anyway. Trixie was as good as Beatrice when everyone knew you as Math Girl.
I grabbed my notebook, suddenly energized. “Last section. Male wish fulfillment.”
Spencer groaned. “I’m afraid to ask.”
And all of my positive energy drained away. “This is where I crash and burn.”
“Why?” Gabe asked.
“I just . . . I don’t know how to make a guy think he’s the only person on the entire planet.” This was my biggest manic pixie stumbling block. The idea that I was supposed to exist solely to make Jesse feel good about himself? It made my stomach turn. Of course I wanted him to feel good about himself. I wanted everyone I cared about to feel that way. But that was a by-product of a good friendship, not the reason for it. And I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to put my own wants and needs aside in order to focus exclusively on Jesse’s.
“WWMPD?” Spencer mused. “What would manic pixie do?”
“Well,” I said, scanning through my examples, “Kirsten Dunst listened to Legolas complain about his life for hours and hours in Elizabethtown. Though I’m not sure Jesse’s capable of talking for that long.”
“He doesn’t know enough words,” Spencer quipped. I stuck my tongue out at him.
Gabe pointed at Spencer. “Come here, smart-ass. Time to be helpful.” Then he grabbed my hand and dragged me to my feet. “You just have to make him feel like you’re paying attention. Like you’re hanging on every word that comes out of his mouth.” He placed me in front of Spencer. “Pretend Spencer is Jesse.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Spencer said.
Gabe held his forefinger in front of Spencer’s lips. “Shush, you.” Then he turned back to me. “This is Jesse. He’s your boyfriend. You’re Jesse’s girl.”
Spencer groaned. “I’m going to kill—”
Without looking at him, Gabe slapped his hand over Spencer’s mouth, silencing him. “You’re just hanging out in the halls after school. What do you do?” He took several steps away, then slashed his arm down between Spencer and me like a greaser opening a drag race. “Go!”
I shifted my weight back and forth between my feet. I could do this. I was a girl, after all. Weren’t we all born with intrinsic flirting skills? I’d just misplaced mine along the way.
Spencer stood awkwardly before me, one hand shoved deep in his pocket while the other was pressed against his leg. His body was stiff, his pose practically combative, as if I might punch him in the gut at any moment. I’d seen similar body language from him last week in the cafeteria when Cassilyn asked to have her portrait painted. He’d gone rigid, set his jaw, closed up. But then, within minutes, he’d relaxed. She’d laughed, touched his arm, and his whole body had melted.
Could it work for me?
I looked up and smiled. “So I heard you were in Europe this summer,” I said, opening with a topic that interested him. It seemed the thing to do. “I’ve always wanted to go. Was it as amazing as I’ve dreamed it would be?” Good start, and it wasn’t even a lie.
Spencer’s brows drew together, wrinkling above his nose, and his eyes darted away from my face. “Um, yeah. It was cool.”
“The art galleries must have been breathtaking. And the architecture.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, you know.”
I fought my natural urge to say, No, I don’t know—that’s why I’m asking you, smart-ass and instead took a step closer to him. “What was your favorite thing?”
“I
don’t—”
“A painting? A sculpture?” My mind raced, trying to recall what pieces he’d been excited to see. “That one by Klimt with all the gold?”
Spencer swallowed. “‘The Kiss.’”
I sucked in breath. “Yes! Was it as magnificent as you thought it would be?” He had a print of the painting on the wall of his bedroom. I closed my eyes and tried to picture it in my mind. “I can only imagine. Those colors and patterns.” I leaned forward, my head tilted upward, and my fingers found his. “The way he’s holding her head to the side as he kisses her. And the way her hand is draped around his neck . . .”
I was surprised how many details I remembered. Art had never interested me in the same way math and numbers had, though I’d always been supportive because it was something that Spencer loved. But when I closed my eyes and pictured that print, it was as if I was discovering it for the first time. The girl’s face cupped in the man’s hands—there was something sexy and wonderful about it, and I could feel my lips curving into a smile.
I felt breath on my face and my eyes flew open. Spencer’s lips were inches from mine, his head bent toward me, his eyes closed. He was about to kiss me.
Yes.
I started, surprised by my own subconscious. “No!” I blurted out.
Spencer’s face blanched as if all the blood had been drained from his body.
“I . . . I mean,” I said, feeling as if I’d made a horrific blunder but not exactly knowing why, “I think we’re done. I’ve got it.”
“Oh yeah,” Gabe said, the air whooshing from his mouth like he’d been holding his breath. “You’ve got it, all right.”
I couldn’t look at Spencer. What was that all about? We were just playacting, and yet the look on his face, the voice in my head, the feeling deep in my stomach as if I’d experimented with the dreaded Pop Rocks–and-soda combination. The same way I’d felt yesterday when we were wrestling in my room . . .
No, Spencer and I were friends. Good friends, but just friends. I’d been pretending that he was Jesse, that’s why I’d wanted him to kiss me. The only reason.
“I should go.” I grabbed my bag and hurried to the door, just daring to cast a look back at Spencer as I yanked it open. He stood at the sink with his back to me, totally unreadable.
NINETEEN
IT TOOK LONGER than expected to get into costume the next morning due to an unforeseen glitter eyeliner mishap.
Note to self: glitter eyeliner burns.
I’d managed to do my hair (bouncy short curls) and makeup (highlights included said glitter eyeliner, in blue, and bright pink lipstick in a hue so ridiculously over-the-top I looked like a five-year-old who’d gotten into Mom’s vanity) to manic pixie perfection, and as I stood before the mirror in my carefully constructed outfit, I had to smile. I’d paired the curry-yellow corduroy shorts with teal tights, a striped boatneck shirt, and a fuzzy pink sweater with bejeweled buttons. True to category one, I wore a pink skimmer flat on my left foot and a floral one on my right.
Basically, I looked as if I’d gotten dressed in the dark while raiding my grandma’s closet.
I was horrifyingly perfect.
But perfectly manic pixie or not, I was nervous. I had my cheat sheet in my pocket (written in pink glitter ink, just for added authenticity) and a kind of manic pixie peace offering for Jesse to force him to sit up and take notice; I was as prepared for this day as I was for any school exam (which is to say, 110 percent) but unlike exams, which I approached with a mix of excitement and cockiness, I couldn’t shake the sinking sense of dread in my stomach. Why? I was going to have to talk to people—people I didn’t know—and be nice to them.
God, I sounded like such a bitch for even thinking it, but it was true and I needed to acknowledge it. I didn’t really like most of the people at Fullerton Hills, and they didn’t like me. But now, I was going to have to go out of my way to be nice to them. All of them. Any of them. And it was freaking me out.
They don’t like Math Girl, but they’ll like Trixie.
What if they didn’t? What if people treated her the same way they treated me, with a mix of negligence and irritation? I’d lose Jesse forever.
But as much as that worried me, the flip side was terrifying. What if people did like Trixie? What exactly would that mean? I would still be me, sort of. How could people like and dislike me at the same time?
You’re confusing yourself.
My hand drifted to my pocket, where my fingers grazed against the folded piece of paper within. I had a plan, I had a goal. If my calculations were correct, in less than two weeks, I’d have Jesse back and the most kick-ass scholarship submission MIT had ever seen.
I just had to stick to the Formula.
As I stood on the front steps staring up at the chrome facade of Fullerton Hills High School, I fought the urge to chase my mom’s car down the hill, run home to change, and forget this entire plan.
I felt utterly naked. I’d traded in my wheelie bag for a patchwork patterned tote I’d found in storage, and somehow I felt less confident without my trusty luggage sidekick. Less me.
But that was the point.
I took a breath, steadying myself. Is this what it had been like for Gabe that first day after we came up with the Formula? Had he been as terrified as I was as he stood in this exact same spot, wearing a bow tie and suspenders, with those heart-shaped sunglasses perched on his head? Had he been having second thoughts about the idea of pretending to be someone else? Someone not quite himself?
But it had worked out for Gabe. Look at him now! He could unleash his snarky wit at will without risk of getting his ass kicked. He was accepted by the popular girls, tolerated by the jocktocracy despite his role in getting their beloved coach fired, and some of them were even soliciting him for relationship help. How much more of a win could that be? If he could trust in my formula, then dammit, I could too.
“Nice shoes,” someone said. I looked up and recognized Milo and Thad, staring as they passed with matching looks of derision.
Ugh. What kind of benevolent God would allow Milo Morris and Thad Everett to be the first two people I encountered today? They hated me. And there was no way they were going to buy into Trixie.
It was too late now. If I hung my head and scurried away, my entire manic pixie plan would be over before it began. All I could do was snap into character and play it to the best of my ability.
So instead of slinking into the shadows, I skitted forward, falling into step beside them. “I know, right?” I said, my voice as bubbly as I could make it without throwing up in my mouth. “My left and right feet just could not agree this morning. Leftie wanted the pink sparkly ballet flat, while Ms. Right insisted on the floral Toms.”
Thad looked at me sidelong, eyebrow arched. “Your feet talk to each other?”
An inauspicious start. “Of course.” Then I batted my eyelashes as flirtatiously as possible and laughed, loud and carefree.
“Do I know you?” Milo asked.
Well, at least they didn’t recognize Math Girl. “You can call me Trixie,” I said, without really answering his question.
“Okay,” Milo said without question. “Later.” Then he and Thad bounded through the front door into the foyer.
I paused by the entrance, my heart fluttering. They hadn’t called me out, hadn’t threatened me or laughed at me. Milo and Thad had just accepted Trixie.
Had it really been that easy?
Spencer was already in AP English when I arrived, scribbling in his sketchbook.
“Hey!” I said, dropping into my desk. “You’ll never guess what happened.”
He didn’t look up. “You ran into Jesse and after one look at you he expressed his undying love?”
Ugh. “No. But I did run into Milo and Thad and they totally didn’t recognize me. They even talked to me like I was a real person.”
“You are a real person.”
“You know what I mean.”
He glanced up at me then.
I’d been halfheartedly hoping that yesterday’s weirdness would have evaporated overnight, to be forgotten or ignored but certainly not acknowledged. There was a tightness around Spencer’s mouth, pulling the corners down into an unfamiliar frown, and his face sagged with fatigue.
I forced my smile to deepen, as if I was willing my good mood on him. Please, I practically begged. Let’s go back to normal.
For a split second, I thought he was going to bring it up, or tell me to go to hell, or that our friendship was over. He looked pained, maybe even a little bit angry.
Please.
“Your eyeliner looks like you head-butted a fairy,” he said.
I smiled. My old Spencer was back.
The bell rang, followed by the familiar crackle of the overhead speakers. Principal Ramos’s voice filled the room.
“A few announcements,” she said after we’d retaken our seats. “We have two new clubs holding their first meetings at lunch today. In the library, the Cosplay Chess Club.” Her voice slipped off the mic as if she’d turned her head to speak to someone in the room. “Cosplay chess? Is that a thing?” She cleared her throat. “Right, and in the Activities Center, we have the Free Candy Club. Seriously?” she asked her invisible partner.
“I guess,” came the muffled reply.
“Whatever.” She cleared her throat. “The back-to-school dance will be next Friday,” Principal Ramos continued, stifling a yawn. “No tickets required, just your student ID. And no outside guests.”
A groan went up from our class, though I didn’t quite understand why. Who were these people who wanted to go to other high schools’ dances? I barely wanted to go to mine, but I seemed to be in the minority.
“No guests?” I said out loud, trying to make it sound like I couldn’t control the words flying out of my mouth. “That totally blows.”
Around me, students laughed. Not at me, with me.
That was new.
I'm Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl Page 10
