The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project

by Lenore Appelhans

  “I bought comics to have more in common with you.” I speak to Sprite as if she were Zelda, though I’d probably never be this honest with the actual Zelda. I set my bucket of glass on the top shelf so Sprite can’t get into it and cut herself.

  My sleeve catches on the dartboard next to the bookshelf. It reminds me of my marathon games with Finn. He used to come over all the time, and the place seems empty without his constant stream of puns. He claimed to have a disease called Witzelsucht, which is German for “addiction to wisecracking.” The Germans truly do have a word for everything.

  Sprite flicks her tail and meanders around the rest of the room, inspecting the two gray fabric wingback chairs and the matching sofa before jumping on the glass top of the coffee table where she leaves a little trail of kitty prints. Good thing housekeeping comes tomorrow. I don’t mind a little disorder, as long as I can find everything, but dirt and grime make me twitchy.

  She touches her pink nose against the globe standing on the table, right at the equator in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. “What are those black dots, you ask? Those are all the places I’ve worked.” There are not many dots, as of yet, and I haven’t actually been to those cities and towns, only the facsimiles Authors describe. Most of them fall in the United States, though one dot covers Amsterdam and one covers Cape Town, South Africa.

  My guitar leans against the wall, and Sprite rubs up against the strings, producing a hollow sound. For the real Zelda, I might pick up the guitar and play the three chords every dabbler learns to woo women: G, C, and D. I’d make up a sweet yet witty song and Zelda would melt into my waiting arms. Sprite, however, hisses at the guitar, so no song for her!

  Next Sprite visits my kitchen, which I splashed with blue paint one day when I felt restless. Finn used to say it looked like mermaids had swum across my granite countertops. Sprite meows in front of my fridge and licks her chops.

  “What a neglectful host I am! I forgot to offer you a drink. I’m afraid I’m out of the Double O Cinnamon you hold in such high esteem.” My standing grocery order will come tomorrow, too, though tea is never on my list, because tea is, well, not my cup of tea. I pour her a tiny saucer of almond milk, which she laps up daintily.

  After she has her fill, we continue the tour. She scratches the rug in my bathroom and slides around in the tub. I have a vision of Zelda in her place, soaking in a frothy bubble bath, and if I stay any longer in this fantasy, I’m going to need a cold shower. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

  Of course, the next place Sprite wants to visit is my bedroom, and when I open the door, she heads straight for my perfectly made bed (pristine, in fact, because I always sleep on the sofa). She stretches out her body and rolls over to expose her tummy. “Whoa! I don’t usually move this fast. Maybe we can chat first? What’s your sun sign?”

  I pretend she answers as Zelda, whose sun sign I already know due to her character trait sheet. “Sagittarius? According to the astrology experts, we are highly compatible then.”

  I swear to God Sprite winks at me. With the left eye, like Zelda does. Not gonna lie: it kinda freaks me out. I remove the oxygen pin from Sprite’s collar and hide it in my dresser.

  “Okay, Sprite. It’s time for you to go.” I pick her up and carry her over to Cathy’s. She climbs the hedge and the window scrapes open to allow her entry before slamming down to keep all the illegal felines from making a great escape.

  I must be severely lonely if I’ve resorted to pretending a cat is my crush. I wish I could talk to Finn. Even though I’ve clicked with Mandy and had fun with her today, that friendship is too new to be as deep as what I had with Finn.

  And of course, whenever I find myself missing Finn, I end up wondering how he ended up on the Termination Train without a word of warning. It simply does not make sense to me, and I don’t think it ever will.

  Chapter 13

  Even though it’s purged from the system, I still have an old, worn copy of Finn’s character trait sheet. I pull it out when I miss him too much, like I clearly do today.

  Name: Finn

  Trope: Manic Pixie Dream Boy (sub-type of Manic Pixie Dream Girl)

  Age: 18

  Birthday: October 10, Libra

  General physical description: Of average build but appears to take up more space because of never staying still, enviably wavy hair in a natural shade of russet, rare heterochromial combination of one dark brown eye and one light blue eye. Basically, hot—but in a non-threatening way.

  Clothing style: Follows fads, but will always be partial to pinstripes.

  Hobbies: Model trains, breakdancing while pontificating on the benefits of keeping your scalp a shampoo-free zone, photography.

  Talents: Puns, poker face, five-time TropeTown air hockey champion.

  Strongest positive personality traits: Solution oriented, persuasive, clever.

  Strongest negative personality traits: Impulsive, unreliable, self-indulgent.

  Ambitions: Truth in all things.

  Life philosophy: If you can dream it, you can do it

  Favorite foods: Finger foods such as mini-corn dogs or crab puffs or bacon-wrapped dates.

  Phobias: FOMO (Fear of Missing Out).

  Chapter 14

  I thank my lucky constellations, Orion and Cassiopeia, when I bump into Zelda the next morning outside the Healing Center. She’s wearing her yellow shirt with the periodic square, like the day we met, and I wish I still had the oxygen pin in my pocket. Because then I could present it to her like a geek merit badge and tell her that oxygen is her element because I need her to breathe. On second thought, perhaps it’s a blessing I don’t have it.

  “What’s up?” she asks as we get into the empty elevator together. She beats me to hitting our floor button, but our hands brush against each other, and so much electricity sparks between us that she must feel it, too.

  Somehow I manage to speak. “My new job started yesterday.”

  “Ah! I hoped I might see you at the pool hall.”

  I swoon. She missed me? She sure didn’t act like it yesterday. “Did you?”

  “Yeah, I’d enjoy running the table on you.” She smirks and I don’t even mind.

  “Next time,” I say, but the words kind of get stuck in my throat, and this weird look passes over her face. I can’t tell what it’s supposed to mean, but it makes me insecure, and I’m not someone who gets insecure about girls.

  “Sure,” she says, and it’s almost as if we’re making a date.

  “How many more days do you have to attend therapy?” I hope she doesn’t notice that I stand unnaturally still.

  “Hmmm . . .” She rubs the tendrils on the nape of her neck. “I’ve lost count. Maybe ten days?”

  Ten days. I can wait ten days.

  “But therapy is kind of fun, don’t you think?” She takes a step closer to me. “Especially with you there.”

  The elevator doors pick the worst moment ever to open, and Zelda steps away from me. I follow her into the hallway, wishing I were brave enough to take her hand.

  “The pie is good, too,” I say stupidly, further ruining the moment. “Usually.”

  She laughs. “Maybe I’ll pull a Nebraska and keep coming forever.”

  “The pie is not that good.”

  “Shh! The Council could be listening. You don’t want them to hear you insulting the refreshments.”

  I can’t actually tell if she’s joking. She seems to think the Council is constantly eavesdropping on our conversations and divining our innermost thoughts. She might be considered paranoid, but she might also be right.

  “C’mon!” She grabs my hand and we skip the rest of the way down the hallway, giggling and out of breath by the time we get there. It’s a perfect Manic Pixie Dream sequence. And it’s totally real.

  Chapter 15

  Zelda and I enter a full room. In lieu of chairs, Angela has placed pillows on the floor, creating a more intimate atmosphere.

  We take the two remaining pillows while Ang
ela passes around a handout, and I set the sheet of paper on my lap. I skim it until I see the rule about not dating anyone in-group while in the group. I wish I could cross it out with a big black marker. They say patience is a virtue, but it sure is a bummer, too.

  “As I mentioned yesterday, some of you”—Angela pointedly looks at Nebraska before continuing—“need a refresher concerning the rules of group therapy. I realize your short attention spans might have prevented you from reading the giant binder I issued each of you on your first day, so I printed out an executive summary in easy-to-scan bullet points!” Angela pauses, as if she expects our eternal gratitude for doing us such a grand favor. “Okay, so most of you are here because the Council mandated it.”

  Nebraska coughs, and Angela briefly closes her eyes for a meditative moment. The rest of the girls trade knowing glances. Nebraska and Angela are clearly at odds, but why?

  Angela continues. “The Council wants you to be able to perform your duties as a Trope to the best of your abilities, and each of you, for some reason, has been unable to do that.”

  Sky raises one hand and adjusts her giant headphones with the other.

  “Thank you, Sky.” Angela reaches into a wicker tote bag behind her and pulls out a pink plastic microphone. She passes it to Sky. “From now on, only the person who holds the microphone may speak.”

  I want to point out that Angela spoke while Sky was holding the microphone, but she probably feels above her own mandates, so I don’t.

  Sky brings the toy close to her lips and speaks into it as if it’s real. “This totally harshes my vibe. It contradicts us as people. Like, Manic Pixies don’t conform to society’s rules. So instead of putting us in therapy for not conforming, the Council should be awarding us plaques for a job well done. Why threaten us with termination?”

  “Stop right there,” Angela commands, snatching the microphone from Sky’s grasp.

  With her perfect posture and giant hair, Angela is an imposing figure. She’d make a great Benevolent Dictator if her counseling gig goes south. “No one on the Council is threatening you. I am here to help you, and we always want to be as kind and as constructive as possible when dealing with each other.”

  Since Angela gets her work assignments from the Council, like all of us do, it doesn’t surprise me she’s acting as their mouthpiece. I can’t help feeling uneasy about it, though. She wants us to believe she’s on our side, but I’m not so sure.

  She gives us a moment to read the rules, but other than the no-dating clause, nothing jumps out at me. Be polite. Be honest. Be on time. Don’t spend group time having private conversations. Nebraska has probably broken all of these, which might account for Angela’s antagonism. But why is Nebraska still around? Does her status as Legacy give her more latitude?

  “Great!” Angela over-enunciates. “Riley, why don’t you go ahead and give us a little bit of your background before we give the floor over to Zelda.”

  When the pink microphone reaches my hands, I have a ‘boy-in-headlights’ moment and overcompensate by waving it around. “Hi. Uh . . . So, I started in bit parts, mostly fan fiction. Then I worked on an obscure project that ended up in the Author’s drawer.”

  Sympathetic groans from the girls. They know the grind.

  “So, I luck out and get cast in this great part from a major Author and the book becomes a runaway bestseller. Living the dream and all that. Well, except my character dies from cancer . . .”

  Zelda leans over and taps the microphone, and Angela narrows her eyes but doesn’t stop her. “Wait—you’re Romantic Cancer Boy?” Zelda asks incredulously. “With all your cheesy dialogue printed in bright colors on coffee mugs and pillowcases in Reader World?”

  “See, that’s the thing. The Author put those words in my mouth. Some of the things I say sound profound and sweet at first glance, but when I unpack those statements, I find them rather problematic.”

  Zelda bounces a little in her chair. “Exactly!”

  I smile at having scored a point with Zelda. “In my subsequent novel, I wanted to speak my own dialogue. The Author wrote me up twice for being too strong-willed.”

  Angela shakes her head sadly. “What did you learn from this, Riley?”

  “The Author is always right.”

  Angela prods further. “Even concerning dialogue?”

  “Including but not limited to dialogue,” I quote the handout directly, and cause Zelda to snicker.

  “Are you taking this seriously, Riley?” Angela asks. “I hope so. You have a chance for a breakthrough on your emotional journey. Don’t fall back on being superficial and snarky when you can be deep and sincere.”

  Angela has a gift for making me sound like a shallow douche, and I don’t appreciate it. “But what if the dialogue is boring or preachy or stilted? Am I just supposed to spout out whatever inane thing the Author comes up with?”

  “It’s not up to us to make value judgments or question the Author’s judgment. Part of embracing your Trope is knowing your place in the story hierarchy. We are creations, not creators, and therefore, when it comes to our work as Tropes, we have no voice of our own. The sooner you can accept that, the better. Can you accept that?”

  My impulse is to say ‘no’ and drop the mic, but Angela’s question held a definite note of warning. I nod agreeably. “I will do my best.”

  “Excellent. I’m proud of you, Riley.” Angela takes the microphone back and passes it to Zelda. “Okay. Zelda, you’re up. Tell us why you’re here.”

  I sit up straighter on my pillow. I’m eager to learn everything I can about Zelda.

  But Zelda bows her head and mumbles. “I asked my Love Interest to meet me Off-Page.”

  The girls erupt in horrified titters. Meeting Off-Page with Developeds is totally against TropeTown’s policies.

  And my heart. It shatters. I might as well hang it next to the heart mosaic on my wall at home.

  “Because you’re really in love with him?” Chloe asks, plucking the question right out of my brain. She doesn’t bother with Angela’s unwieldy microphone logistics.

  Zelda winces and opens her mouth to say something, but Mandy jumps in.

  “It’s only natural to feel that way!” Mandy exclaims. “That’s how you make the Readers believe you’re in love, by believing in it yourself.”

  “I’m not in love with him.” Zelda stares at the floor. “That’s not the reason I asked.”

  My sigh of relief releases all the trapped air in my body. I still have a chance with this beautiful, complicated girl.

  “But when he refused, he made me feel so insecure. I mean, he’s a Developed and I’m just a Trope. He’s poetry, and I’m shorthand.”

  Angela suddenly looks like she just ate something rotten. “That’s a tough situation, but he was probably looking out for your best interest by not meeting you Off-Page and then turning you in.”

  “No, Chet would never turn me in,” Zelda insists, cleaning off her glasses with the edge of her T-shirt. “It must have been someone else.”

  Chet? I get irrationally angry hearing Zelda’s Love Interest has such a stupid name. I know I’m not supposed to be making value judgments, but can you blame me?

  Nebraska fiddles with all the necklaces she’s wearing, and the charms clink together. She couldn’t look any more bored if she were dead. Again, why does she keep coming to these sessions when she doesn’t have to?

  Angela recovers from her unprofessional display of disgust and puts on her most soothing tone. “I don’t know why you’d risk meeting anyone Off-Page. But be happy it isn’t because you’re actually in love with him. Trust me, if you fall for a person”—her voice hardens at the word ‘person’ and the atmosphere in the room buzzes—“who can’t or won’t love you back, it can only end in heartbreak.”

  Zelda juts out her chin. “I want to feel worthy. I want to be taken seriously.”

  “Rule Number One is . . . ,” Angela prompts.

  “Embrace your Trope,” Zelda
intones, clearly not happy about it.

  “That’s right!” Angela is too cheerful. “Which means accepting your Trope’s limitations and understanding some things are simply not possible for you. Now let’s meditate on that idea for a few minutes before we end the session, shall we?”

  As the girls bow their head in contemplation, these are my thoughts:

  I need to convince Zelda she’s worth everything.

  I want to kick Chet’s backside. How dare he make her feel less than?

  Pie. Where’s the freaking pie?

  Chapter 16

  When the session ends, all I want to do is wrap Zelda in a soothing hug, but she is summoned away by her Author before I have a chance. My thoughts jumble into a mess of insecurities and doubts about what I can possibly offer to someone as self-sufficient as Zelda.

  You know how when someone has a crisis of confidence in an animated film, a gray cloud follows them, hovering over their head while everyone else goes about their sunny ways? Even though that isn’t literally happening to me, that’s exactly how I feel as I walk home. I know I’m being melodramatic, but that’s what a powerful semi-unrequited crush can do to you.

  When I reach my apartment, a huge lug of a stranger occupies my front step. He looks like he could kick my butt seven times in a minute and a half, and he has a classic cleft in his chin to boot.

  When he sees me, his lip curls in a snarl. “Are you Riley?”

  I rock backward on my heels. This crappy day is going from Category 1 Pity-Party to Category 5 Existential-Calamity. Did my latest Author make a complaint? Did the Council send this guy to haul me off to the Termination Train?

  My immediate instinct is to deny my identity. But before I can turn and run, his expression wilts and his shoulders droop. “I miss Mandy so damn much.”

  “Clark?” I try to cover the nervous crack in my voice with a cough. I remind myself I have nothing to fear. After all, Clark can’t be an Abusive Jerk. If he were, he’d be confined to the Villain Zone on the Wrong Side of the Tracks. Sensitive Nice Guys have their issues, but they don’t beat up the quirky friends of their exes.