The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project

by Lenore Appelhans

  Last night I pored over Zelda’s character trait sheet and learned she’s into sci-fi movies, collecting rare comic books, and cosplay. And at the pool hall she wields her cue like a professional hustler, leaving broken egos in her wake.

  I enter the café. Zelda lounges on a blue velvet loveseat in the corner under a canopy of tiny lights strewn over the ceiling like stars. She sits with her chin tilted up and one eyebrow quirked. There’s a hint of a smile on her lips, like she’s having all these fascinating, hilarious thoughts, but she’d never deign to share them with the likes of you. Nevertheless, I approach her after procuring my latte.

  “Hey, Z. Which tea’s a-brewing today?”

  Zelda snickers and stretches her long legs out under the round marble table in front of her. “Double O Cinnamon. Shaken, not stirred.”

  “Sounds like you have a license to chill.”

  “Tragic, Riley.” Zelda peers up at me. She wears her chunky brown glasses and bulky sweater like armor. And the silver Ti-22 pin at her collar completes this impenetrable impression, as it seems she chose titanium for a reason. Her judgment stings like a rampaging prickle of porcupines, deflating me more than the prospect of going to therapy.

  “You wound me, fair maiden.”

  “Oh, don’t pout.” She scoots over to let me sit next to her, close enough that even in the hazy light I can see the flecks of green in her brown eyes. Score!

  “How’s work?” I start off with an easy question while I raid the condiment chalice at the center of the table and stir a packet of sugar into my coffee.

  She shrugs. “Oh, you know, the usual Early Days stuff. Showing up at three a.m. and knocking on his bedroom window. Making snow angels in the park under the moonlight. Destroying a unicorn topiary to show how rebellious I am.”

  God, how I wish she were doing all that stuff with me.

  Does Zelda lie awake at night like I do, wishing she could go Off-Page and have adventures she dreams up herself instead of following the scripts she is handed every day?

  “How about you?” she asks.

  “My next project has been delayed. The Author suffers from writer’s block.”

  “Do you actually believe in writer’s block?” The way her question drips with disdain hints at her position on the issue, and my instinct is to agree with her, even though I don’t have an informed opinion. It’s risky to insult Authors, though, especially in a public place where anyone or any hidden device could be eavesdropping. I don’t need any more black marks on my record.

  “This Author must believe in it.”

  Zelda smirks. “That’s exactly what Finn would have said.”

  “Yeah. He taught me well.”

  I’m not surprised to learn she knew Finn. He got around. As the original Manic Pixie Dream Boy, Finn trained me when I first arrived in TropeTown. We became poker buddies and best friends who told each other everything—or so I thought. But some fatal flaw forced him to board the Termination Train without saying goodbye to me, and I never even knew he was having problems. Why couldn’t he confide in me? I beat myself up about that a lot.

  “May he never go out of print.” Zelda offers up the traditional TropeTown blessing for the terminated.

  We sip our respective caffeinated beverages in respectful silence. Soft piano music plays over the café’s speakers, and Zelda taps her foot on the swirl-patterned rug beneath our table in perfect rhythm. I take a deep, satisfying breath of air freshened with baking baguettes.

  As I’m working up the courage to ask Zelda what she’s doing later and if she wants to do it with me, a troop of Plucky Street Urchins enters the café and starts a song and dance number. Lead Urchin, a soulful little boy with tousled hair and grubby cheeks, presents me with a long-stemmed rose.

  “Buy a flower for your lady, mister!” he implores.

  Would Zelda find such a gesture romantic or not? She might consider it ironically charming and blush, or she might judge it sociologically abhorrent and lecture me.

  Before I can decide, the Trendy Barista chases Lead Urchin out with a broom. With her attention focused on him, she doesn’t notice when the Supporting Urchins stuff their pockets with almond croissants and mini-quiches from the display counter.

  Once she’s swept them all outside, she slams the glass door behind them and turns to us, her only paying customers, with an apologetic expression.

  “Can’t they stay on their own side of the tracks?” she grumbles. She trades her broom for a mop and a bucket and begins attacking the muddy footprints the Plucky Street Urchins left as souvenirs.

  Zelda sighs. “I’d better go.”

  “But . . .” I blurt but stop myself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from working on romantic comedies, it’s that timing is everything.

  “What is it?” she asks, but she’s not present in the moment anymore. She’s already far away, probably thinking about whatever’s next on her agenda.

  I make up a quick cover. “You haven’t savored your Double O Cinnamon to the last drop.”

  She slides her mug over until its rim touches the rim of my mug. Hers features the pink, glossy imprint of her lips. “Would you like a taste? It’s all yours,” she says in a flirty voice, and I nearly fall over.

  “Uh, thank you,” I say. “I would like that very much.”

  She gets up, does a little sexy spin so that her skirt swirls around her legs, and saunters out of the café without a backward glance. It takes me about five minutes before I can stand up without making a scene, if you know what I mean. By the time I remember to taste her tea, it’s cold.

  Chapter 4

  I unfold the copy of Zelda’s character trait sheet I’ve been carrying around in my pocket, hoping for additional insight into her psyche.

  Name: Zelda

  Trope: Manic Pixie Dream Girl (Sub-type: Geek Chic)

  Age: 18

  Birthday: December 6, Sagittarius

  General physical description: Trim hourglass figure. High cheekbones. Hazel eyes. Dark hair. Basically, hot—but in a non-threatening way.

  Clothing style: Chunky glasses, T-shirts with science- and comics-related graphics, cardigans, skirts, tights, clunky boots. Loves hair accessories and the color yellow.

  Hobbies: Playing pool, badminton, and croquet. Reading graphic novels and classic literature. Birdwatching.

  Talents: Rollerblading backwards. Sarcasm. Tying a cherry stem with tongue.

  Strongest positive personality traits: Generous, honest, and adventurous.

  Strongest negative personality traits: Can be harsh and careless. Inconsistent.

  Ambitions: Live authentically.

  Life philosophy: Make the most of every minute.

  Favorite foods: Tea, egg salad and watercress sandwiches. Scones. Tropical fruit. Pizza.

  Phobias: Globophobia (fear of balloons popping).

  Chapter 5

  My steps feel more solid once I leave the cobblestone of the Culinary District for the smooth black asphalt of the Administration District. The border is demarcated with a painted red-dotted line, like on a map, and fanatically maintained by Macho Construction Workers, who seal today’s coat as I pass.

  This part of town always smells sterile to me, as if it just recently emerged from factory-sealed packaging. Everything polished. Nothing out of place. Only the people give it any sort of personality.

  Case in point: a group of Crotchety Old Men presently slows my progress toward the Healing Center. They weave and bob in front of me. If this were a Novel, I could be fashionably late, enter with a perfectly crafted one-liner, and everyone would laugh and forgive my tardiness as part of my charm. But here in TropeTown, I’d get a black mark in my permanent file, so I skirt the edge of the group and dash past, mumbling an apology.

  “What’s that, boy?” one of them yells, cupping a hand around one ear. “Where ya off to in such a rush? Gotta learn to respect your elders.”

  “Healing Center.” I turn my head and project my voice. “Coun
cil-ordered group therapy.”

  The men gasp in horror and scramble away as fast as their walkers and canes will allow. One raises a gnarled fist. “Get off my lawn!”

  My next obstacle is a posse of Cloyingly Cute Children who have chalked up the middle of the street with a giant hopscotch maze. The No-Nonsense Street Cleaners are no doubt on their way to hose it down, but until then, I have to play to pass. A girl in pigtails hands me a bottle cap, and I use my best wind-up pitch to get it to land on the penultimate square. The children cheer me on as I skip and hop my way through their course.

  After passing Town Hall, I finally make it to the Healing Center. It’s the tallest building in West TropeTown, aka the Right Side of the Tracks, and its cream-colored outside walls gleam with the intention of making visitors feel safe and welcome.

  I take a spin through the front revolving door three times just for the fun of it, emerging dizzy enough that the white and gray arrow pattern on the lobby floor seems to beckon me back to the bank of chrome elevators.

  Behavioral Therapy is on the ninth floor, so I push the call button. The doors open, revealing a trifecta of animals engaged in a heated discussion. I wince, because I don’t want to get my black jeans all fuzzed up and make a bad first impression, but I don’t have time to wait for another elevator or I’ll be tardy.

  I know: #fictionalworldproblems.

  I step in and position myself in the corner farthest from the Talking Beast brawl. My floor button is already lit.

  “And to make it worse, they called me up and told me my picture will be on the cover,” a brown and white collie in a blue windbreaker and sunglasses says.

  A dashing red squirrel wearing a plaid bowtie chirps at him. “There you go again with the humblebrag. When has a Stock Squirrel ever made the cover? I wish I had your problems.”

  The collie sighs and cocks his head like he wants his chin scratched. “You know that means I die at the end. Again.”

  “Yeah,” a raccoon in a trench coat pipes up. “But you’ll get a noble death, and all the Developeds will cry over you and give you a funeral. My parts all end with me in a trash can facing down the barrel of a shotgun.”

  “In mine, I’m skinned and eaten for cheap protein.” The squirrel jumps on the raccoon’s shoulder, as if to show solidarity for the plight of non-domesticated animals in fiction. “Or I end up as roadkill.”

  I wait for the tiniest pause in their conversation to offer up some pseudo-philosophy unsolicited. “No matter how small they are in the grand scheme of things, everyone’s own issues seem big to them.”

  “You don’t look wise or old enough to be a Wise Old Mentor.” The raccoon wriggles his whiskers in what seems like contempt. I could be reading into things, though. I tend to do that.

  “Are you our replacement New Age Therapist?” The collie wags his tail, and tiny dog hairs are whisked in my direction.

  “No.” I shuffle my feet in an attempt to dodge his fur bullets. “I’m in therapy, like you. First meeting.”

  The squirrel blinks at me. “Sucks to be us. Well, at least the pie is good.”

  “The pie?” I ask. I freaking love pie.

  “Pie is mandatory at every session,” the squirrel explains. “The union made sure of that.”

  “Back on topic! You have the attention span of a squirrel!” the collie barks. “The human does have a point about comparative suffering. You shouldn’t make me feel like my problems are unworthy of being addressed just because there are those who are worse off than I am.”

  “I can do whatever I want! It’s called having agency. Look into it.” The squirrel jumps down from the raccoon’s back and makes a break for the doors as soon as the elevator dings.

  The collie growls and chases after him. The raccoon shakes his head. “Eight weeks of group therapy with those two. I’d rather be trapped in an endless loop of trash dump loitering.”

  “At least there’s pie,” I tell him.

  He waves his paw and saunters off. I brush my hand over my pants, but the fabric and fur have a fatal attraction.

  When I step out of the elevator and into the wide hallway, a speck of silver catches my attention. I bend down to pluck it out from the thick pile of the taupe carpet. It’s a round pin about a quarter of the size of my palm, and it has an “O” and an “8” printed on it—the periodic symbol for oxygen—so obviously my first thought is Zelda must have dropped it. But why would she be up on this floor?

  I tuck the oxygen pin in my pants pocket and continue on.

  Chapter 6

  I arrive at Room 9393 at eight a.m. on the dot and mentally give myself a series of increasingly difficult high-five moves for my punctuality. When I open the door and saunter in, the smell of cinnamon and cherries hits hard, and my stomach rumbles. The room screams coziness, with walls painted the color of spring leaves and dotted with motivational posters featuring self-satisfied Tropes: ALL THAT GLITTERS . . . IS A SUCCESSFUL GOLD DIGGER. THE GAMBLER . . . KNOWS WHEN TO HOLD ’EM.

  The group’s New Age Therapist greets me with her roadside-billboard smile. Per her type, she wears a loose tank top, yoga pants, and a flowery scarf tied around her dreadlocks. A bracelet of wooden prayer beads hugs her right wrist. “Hey, everyone. Jazz hands for our latest addition to the group—Riley.”

  I glance around the room. The pie summons me from a side table. Two girls sit on folding chairs. I don’t know them, but I’ve seen them around. It’s a small world after all.

  “You’re a boy!” This obvious statement comes from a girl in a white dress and funky-patterned fuchsia tights. Her face registers surprise in the perfect imitation of a kewpie doll. Based on her reaction and her messy blond hair and shockingly red lips, I figure she must be the Naïve sub-type of the MPDG Trope.

  “Yeah, didn’t you hear, Mandy?” a girl coming in behind me says. Her tone has an edge to it, like lemonade spiked with vodka. My whole body freezes with the certainty that this voice belongs to Zelda.

  She swishes by me with her trademark smirk. Zelda is in therapy too. Zelda is in therapy with me.

  It’s both awesome and alarming. Because now she knows I’m messed up, and maybe she won’t want to date me. But then, if she’s here, she must also be kind of messed up, right? So who is she to judge?

  Zelda continues. “They officially expanded the parameters of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl Trope a few seasons ago to include the incredibly groundbreaking concept of a boy in a story who exists solely to contribute to the emotional epiphany of a Developed.”

  “Oooh, that’s so progressive and daring of some Authors.” Mandy giggles. “To put a boy through all this Manic Pixie nonsense? No offense, Riley.”

  “None taken.” I find a seat. Zelda sits opposite to me in the circle. When she catches my eye, she acknowledges me with a saucy wink. Ooooh. Maybe she’s into screw-ups? Maybe I do have a chance!

  “So, thanks for that illuminating definition, Zelda,” the New Age Therapist says. When I squint, I can make out Angela on her nametag. I would have expected something less mundane, like Moonbeam.

  “Happy to help,” Zelda says.

  Angela places a folder in my lap. “We’re still waiting on Nebraska, but that might take a while, so let’s go ahead and get started. For the benefit of our newcomer, I am going to go over our goals for therapy.”

  I open the folder to the first page and follow along as Angela reads word for word from it.

  Embrace your Trope and accept that deviations from expected behavior cannot be tolerated

  Acknowledge that the Author is always right in matters including but not limited to plot, dialogue, and character motivations.

  Gain an understanding of your personal shortcomings that have led to your infractions and develop strategies for dealing with them before they destroy you.

  “As for the rules, Riley, you can go over them yourself and speak to me privately later if you have any concerns, okay?”

  I nod as I flip through the folder. There are so man
y pages. I am pretty sure I will never actually read them.

  Angela turns her attention back to the girls. “Chloe, you’re up today. Tell us why you’re here.”

  “Hey everybody. I’m Chloe.” She brushes her chunky bangs back from her big blue eyes.

  Clearly the Freaky Chic sub-type of the MPDG Trope, Chloe’s gorgeous, with porcelain skin and dark hair. But because she’s supposed to be approachable, she probably always makes faces or tells dirty jokes or trips over her own feet.

  “I’m here because my last Author said I was too unreliable. Like, come on, she ordered a Manic Pixie. What did she expect? What a newbie.”

  Zelda stiffens. “Are you sure you should be saying that? Authors may be listening in on us.”

  “We inhabit a safe space here,” Angela insists. “It’s perfectly fine to voice any and all feelings. Let’s work on bringing ourselves down a path to healing and whole-heartedness.”

  “That Author is a total newbie,” I blurt out. Something about Chloe makes me want to throw coats over puddles of root beer in the cantina for her so she never has to get her feet sticky. I’m sure she’s quite used to that.

  Everyone, minus Angela, chimes in until it becomes a mantra. “Newbie Author! Newbie Author!”

  Chloe gets up and moves her arms and legs around like she’s a robot learning how to dance. It’s almost painful to see her lithe body contorting in such inelegant fits.

  “Go Chloe, go Chloe, go, go, go Chloe!” The rest of us get up and imitate her movements as best we can while we laugh at full throttle. It’s surprisingly difficult to dance so badly. I’ve never been so immediately comfortable in a group setting before. These girls are clearly my kindred spirits.

  Chloe catches her foot on the tassels of the rug and falls backward into her chair with a dull bang. We immediately sober and sit again.

  “That’s my signature move,” Chloe explains. “You know how in a lot of teen movies there’s a dance scene at some point?”