He nods miserably. “I need your help, man. To win her back.”
Clark has picked the wrong day for a pep talk from this Manic Pixie, but they do say misery loves commiseration. Maybe the universe sent him as support for my serious case of romantic blues, or maybe I’m merely addicted to putting a positive spin on all my predicaments. “Come on in, I guess. Hot chocolate?”
“Yes, please.” He perks up slightly and lumbers in after me.
While I head to the kitchen to make our drinks, Clark cannonballs onto my sofa, squeaking it across the wood floor. From my cabinet, I pull down two oversized, white mugs splotched with blue paint like abstract art. While I heat up the milk, I wonder how much I should tell him about my interaction with Mandy. Would she be upset if I betrayed her confidence? Does my loyalty lie with the Manic Pixie Trope, or does the Bro Code trump all? I haven’t had a “bro” in my life since Finn, and he’s certainly not here to ask.
By the time I return with two mugs full of hot chocolate, Clark is rocking slowly back and forth with his arms hugged tight around himself. “What did I do wrong?” he wails.
I nudge a mug into his hand, and he relaxes. He takes a gulp before I can warn him of the hotness level, but he doesn’t even flinch as he swallows.
“I mean . . . you might have gifted her a few too many breakable baubles,” I suggest carefully. I stir my drink with the cinnamon stick and breathe in the swirls of rich-smelling steam.
“I thought, because of who she is, Mandy would dig all the whimsical glass stuff.” He stumbles over the word “whimsical,” like it’s something he’s trying on to impress, and not a normal part of his vocabulary. “That’s why I got a job at the glass factory.”
To get a service job, Clark must have petitioned for a hiatus from Trope duties. He scores points for dedication at least.
Clark downs the rest of his hot chocolate and presses his empty mug into my side. “More, please.”
“Here.” I didn’t make enough for seconds, so I give him my portion. I instantly regret being such a generous person. “Maybe it’s time to move on,” I suggest.
“But I love glass. And I love Mandy.”
“Dude, learn moderation,” I say. “Two grasshoppers are cute, one hundred grasshoppers constitute a plague.”
He scrunches his forehead. “What do grasshoppers have to do with anything?”
I sigh. “Nothing. Just lay off the glass. That’s my advice.”
“If I do, will she take me back?”
I hesitate. Mandy seemed adamant about being done with Clark. But if his figurine fixation is the only major deal breaker, perhaps if he could get over that she might reconsider. Despite the infusion of cocoa goodness, Clark looks as lost as a lovesick puppy, so my sympathetic nature leads me to root for him.
While I’m trying to decide how to respond, Clark seems to notice his surroundings for the first time. “Wait a minute.” He gets up and approaches my heart mosaic. “Where’d you get this broken glass?”
“Uh . . .” There are people who say honesty is the best policy, but those people have probably never had to face down a 250-pound glass aficionado on a formidable sugar high. “Found it?”
Clark scrutinizes it further. “This looks like . . . part of a claw. And this looks like part of a tail fin. My lobsters! My precious lobsters!”
He stands there, six plus feet of bewildered betrayal, a victim of our free-spirited vandalism. I don’t regret having smashed the lobsters, but I regret getting caught with the evidence.
“I’m sorry,” I venture, trying to make it at least sound semi-sincere. I mean, he can always make new lobsters. Dude obviously loves blowing the glass.
He wipes at one of his eyes, like he might cry. “Brutal, man. How could you do it?”
“It wasn’t exactly my idea,” I blurt.
Clark reacts like I’ve punched him in face. “Mandy?” he asks in a small voice. I feel like the slimiest worm on the sidewalk after a flash flood. And I just got stepped on.
I avoid his gaze. Darn it. I don’t want to rat Mandy out more than I have already. She’s my friend, and as much as I might sympathize with Clark, I’m still going to side with her. If she doesn’t want to be with him, then she shouldn’t be with him.
He sits down on my sofa and buries his head in his hands. “I just want to make her happy.”
“Uh, have you ever considered the best way to make her happy right now is to leave her alone and move on with your life?”
His reply consists of muffled sniffles and gasps. I’m not sure what to do. Should I comfort him? It’s always awkward to watch someone you barely know cry. Especially when you’re partially responsible for it.
I retrieve a box of tissues. I perch next to him and pat him on his heaving back. “Thought you might want these.”
He glances up with red, puffy eyes, recognizes the tissues, and snatches a handful to wipe at his cheeks. Finally he says, “What if someone gave you that advice about the girl you loved? Could you do it? Move on without giving it your all? Could you live with yourself, wondering if there were something more you could have done, and you just gave up?”
I don’t think my situation with Zelda warrants such desperate musings just yet. “Dude, this has nothing to do with me. Go talk to Mandy.”
“So you do think it might make her happy to talk to me?” His face shines with both tears and hope.
If I tell him what I really think, he’s never, ever going to leave my sofa.
“How will you know,” I say, resigned, “if you don’t give it your all?”
Chapter 17
After Clark leaves, my Author summons me.
I land disoriented per usual and stumble over to the craft services table. After imbibing four bottles of water, I take a moment to note the paltry nature of today’s spread. There’s only a half-eaten bowl of meatballs and a tiny bowl of multi-colored mints. What the hell?
“Hello Marsden.” Ava comes up behind me. “There used to be more food, but the Author wrote a crowd scene earlier and the Extras descended upon our feast like wild ferrets.”
I can tell by her more playful word choice I’m already rubbing off on her. It’s often like this with burgeoning characters. They start with such basic personalities that they take on other voices before they finally grow secure in their own. Sometimes that doesn’t happen until the later revision stages. I don’t mind, though. It’s flattering to have an influence, even it if it’s ephemeral.
“Oh, you’ve been doing scenes without me?”
There’s a twinkle in Ava’s eye that wasn’t there before. Also, her hair is down, and it doesn’t look like she combed it. “Yes. In fact, I found out my inciting incident. My boyfriend broke up with me because I’m only going to be a senior in high school and he’s off to college and doesn’t want to be tied down.”
So I was right on that count. “That’s rough.”
“But when he sees me with you, he decides he wants me back.”
I groan. “Not another love triangle!”
She laughs and licks her lower lip. “It’s not the worst thing in the world. Especially because the Author is skipping ahead to writing the kissing scenes, and I decided I really like kissing.”
She’s peering up at me between thick lashes in a way that makes me simultaneously blush and squirm.
“That’s cool.” It’s not cool though, because I don’t want to kiss Ava. I get a pang in my chest. Zelda is probably kissing Chet right now, and maybe even enjoying it.
“Rafferty—that’s my ex-boyfriend—has been helping me practice Off-Page too.”
“Ahhh.” I’m intrigued by this, though not for the reason Ava might think. I’ve never really considered how and where Developeds live while their Author writes their book. But obviously they have to live somewhere Off-Page until the world of the Novel is fully built, and I guess it makes sense they would all hang out, like we do. Though their community is much smaller. And what if a book only has one Developed? Does th
at lonely soul live like a hermit?
Before I can ask Ava about her life Off-Page, the green light goes on over the stage door, and Ava grabs my hand and tugs me along with her.
The Author types out our scene like a screenplay, a writing tactic useful for first drafting.
MARSDEN: I looked for you at the game last night.
AVA (averts her eyes): I . . . I didn’t feel like going.
MARSDEN: Not enough pep in your step for the epic preseason battle between our hometown heroes and their most vilified opponents?
AVA: When you put it that way—I really didn’t feel like going.
MARSDEN: Not a football fan, eh? Can’t say I blame you.
AVA: I went to all the games last year. When Rafferty was starting quarterback.
MARSDEN: Oh. (Awkward pause) Well, our hometown heroes lost. Whoever is playing quarterback now took a beating.
AVA: I heard. Maybe he’ll get better by the time school starts and the games actually count.
MARSDEN: Maybe. But I don’t actually want to talk about football.
AVA: You don’t?
MARSDEN: You want to go for a walk?
Oh real smooth, Marsden. Everyone knows “You want to go for walk?” is code for “You want to go somewhere and make out?” It’s painful to not protest this dialogue. Would Angela give me a rainbow star if she could see how well I am deferring to the wishes of the Author, however inane they are? (Sorry, value judgment. Couldn’t help it.)
AVA (shrugs): Okay.
MARSDEN: Did you feel that?
AVA: Raindrops.
MARSDEN: An unexpected pleasure.
AVA: What? You like getting rained on?
MARSDEN (brushes Ava’s hair behind her shoulder): I like kissing in the rain.
AVA (shivers): You do?
MARSDEN: I do.
So at this point, I’m supposed to go in for the kiss. Ava closes her eyes, waiting, and my body screams at me to abort, but my head tells me I’d better follow the script.
Ava’s soft lips make the kiss pleasant, but I’m thinking too much. Where should I put my hands? Is this too much tongue? Should I turn my head to the right? Would that eliminate the crick in my neck? Is she enjoying this?
By setting this scene in the rain, the Author is clearly going for passionate abandon, but I don’t feel it, and I doubt my actions are going to translate well to the page. I pull away.
The green light goes out, indicating the Author has finished with us for now.
“What’s wrong?” Ava asks once we’re off-stage.
I spear one of the meatballs with a toothpick. “Nothing.”
“Are you jealous I was with Rafferty?”
“You mean, instead of at the game last night?”
She smiles. “You picked up on that subtext, did you?”
“This isn’t my first novel, darling.”
“He’s a better kisser than you are.”
I know I shouldn’t care, because I don’t want Ava anyway and thus I have zero investment in her opinion, but it still rankles. Manic Pixies may seem chill, but we actually have a pretty strong competitive streak when challenged.
“We’re just getting started,” I say with a wink. “Seems premature of you to make a decision already.”
“We’ll see.” She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and smoothes it out with her fingers. “The Author says you can go.”
I shouldn’t read into the Author sending me home in the middle of a scene—Authors do it all the time for a variety of reasons—but it leaves me with an uneasy feeling. I vow to be more engaged next time.
I need this Author to like me. At least enough not to officially complain about me.
Chapter 18
When I land back on my sofa, it takes me a few moments to discern that the scratching sound I hear is not part of the low-grade headache I always get after jumping back to TropeTown, but is actually coming from the front door. I peer out my peephole to investigate, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.
The scratching grows more urgent, so I open the door. Sprite sits there looking like the cat that ate Big Bird.
“What is it, Sprite?”
She turns and flounces away.
I shake my head, and I am about to shut the door when I notice a sparkle of silver on the white concrete that Sprite vacated. A pin. With Ag-47, the symbol for silver, printed on it. Attached to a folded note card. I open it.
Meet me at our bridge. —Z
Not knowing how long ago Zelda left this for me, I spring into action. I don’t want to miss her, but I don’t want to show up looking like a slob either. So I run back to my closet, which is full of the clothes that came with my character. I have them organized by color, and my hand reaches for a pale yellow polo shirt I’ve never worn before. I know Zelda likes yellow. I also pull on a pair of gray skinny jeans, a gray scarf, and a gray hoodie. And yellow baseball cleats, just because.
It’s not until I’m at the edge of Seasons Park that I let myself do a full-on internal happy dance—my heart and my lungs spinning in anticipation. Zelda asked to meet me!
When I get to “our” bridge, she is sitting with her legs dangling in the water, her heeled boots and socks in a pile behind her. Clips that look like wings adorn her hair, giving the impression she’s about to take flight. She has a book open on her lap, and the ducks float in a semi-circle around her as if listening attentively.
She greets me without even glancing back.
“Hey, Riley. Hope you brought your crackers. Our illustrious audience demands snacks!”
Strike one.
“Sorry, ducks,” I call out. “Better luck next time!”
They quack their disappointment and swim away.
“How did you get all your ducks lined up in a row?” I ask Zelda.
She rolls her eyes at my poor pun attempt. “They aren’t my ducks. If they were my ducks, I’d dress them up in tiny duck tuxedo jackets and take them to the opera.”
“You should be empress of the entire Anatidae family.” I tap her on the head with my imaginary scepter.
She bows her head as if to accept her coronation. “It’s generous of you to include the geese and swans in my empire.”
“I would gladly give you so much more.”
Zelda raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. She closes the book on her lap and holds out her hand.
I help her up, and she slides her wet feet into her boots and tucks her socks into the breast pocket of her blazer. It looks stylish and intentional, which shouldn’t surprise me, but it does—a good indicator I’m feeling off-balance.
“I want to go ice skating,” she declares.
“Then ice skating you shall go.”
“You can’t ice skate in baseball cleats,” she points out.
“Maybe we should play baseball instead,” I tease as we start walking in the direction of Winter Lake.
“Never. It’s way too boring.”
“Well, baseball is far less boring than, say, waiting for pasta to boil.”
“That’s a false equivalency.”
“That reminds me of something Finn once said to me,” I say. “Shortly before he boarded the Termination Train.”
She stops so suddenly that my peripheral vision suffers whiplash. And when I turn around to look at her, she has this split-second terrified expression before she covers it with a nervous smile. “We shouldn’t talk about that,” she says, almost inaudibly, through clenched teeth.
Strike two?
Zelda is staring at me hard, like she’s trying to telepathically tell me something of extreme importance but I’m too dense to get it.
Nevertheless, I decide to finish my original thought. “All Finn said was, ‘Remember, Riley, you always have a choice.’ So I am choosing to equate baseball with pasta.”
She heaves a mock sigh but seems to appreciate that I’ve steered the conversation away from termination. “So, if I give you that, I can still say I think pasta is less borin
g.”
“You can.” I also mock sigh, while grinning with relief that I haven’t chased her away. “But then you have to defend your position.”
“While waiting for pasta to boil . . .” she makes a gesture like she’s dipping her fork into the pot on the stove, “. . . you can extract noodles and throw them at the wall until they stick.”
“Am I to assume from your defense that you have a collage of dried spaghetti over your stove?”
She twirls and begins to run through a field of sunflowers. “Maybe you’ll find out one of these days.”
Chapter 19
By the time we reach Winter Lake, it’s twilight. Deep shades of purple and blue pour out of the sky and onto the frozen surface beneath our feet. Icicles dangle from the branches of the tall pine trees that surround the perfect oval of the lake. We don’t have skates, but Zelda holds onto me as she slides around in her boots. My cleats sink down and keep us grounded. I won’t let us fall.
Eventually she tires of swirling and spinning around me, and she stands motionless, still clutching my collar. It’s not as cold as real winter, but a crisp wind chills the air, and our breath comes out in wisps. I unwind my scarf from around my neck and wrap it around hers.
“Thank you,” she says. She pulls her socks from her blazer pocket and puts them on like mittens. “Snow angels?
We lie down on the ice close enough to huddle for warmth, which is too close, we both realize at once, to be separate angels. Her face rests inches from mine, her hair dusted with snowflakes and already curling at the ends.
“We’ll just have to be one giant angel,” I say. “I’ll follow your lead.”
I extend my left arm and she extends her right and I mimic her swishing motion exactly. After a minute, she props herself up on one elbow to survey our progress. “There’s not enough snow to really leave our mark.”
The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project Page 6
