The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project

by Lenore Appelhans

  I turn over and lift myself into a kneeling position and pull off one of my cleats. I use the most forward spike as a writing implement, and I scrawl out a message: WE WERE HERE.

  Zelda kneels beside me and takes the cleat when I’m finished. “We have to sign our names, too.” She writes her name in a flowery cursive and adds the plus sign underneath it. “Now you.”

  Her sock mittens brush against my palm as she returns my cleat. I shiver and my signature comes out looking somewhat shaky.

  But it’s there. We are both linked to this moment in time. To this place. To each other. No one can take this from us. Not the TropeTown Council. Not our Authors. Not our Readers.

  Zelda nods her approval and tackles me, reaching up under my shirt to tickle the bare skin of my sides. I freeze up because it feels amazing, but I don’t know what it means. Normally if a girl touches me like this, it’s because she has a crush on me, but Zelda froze me out just this morning, so I can’t be sure.

  I’m used to being unflappable, to reading signals and responding the right way every time. It’s in my DNA, you might say. But Zelda is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a Manic Pixie Dream Girl exterior.

  Her fingers stop twitching and her socked hands press against me, one on my chest and the other on the small of my back. She cuddles closer but her eyes gaze upwards. We lie here, still. As the companionable silence stretches out, I smile at the thought of our quirky chemistry.

  “Do you ever look at this sky,” Zelda asks, “and wonder if it’s the same sky Readers see?”

  “You mean . . . are we all connected somehow?”

  “Yeah.” She shifts her weight and has maybe turned her head to look at me, but I’m so paralyzed by never wanting her to move her body away that I keep staring straight up. On this clear night, the lights of the city seem far away, and the stars dot the darkness like a colony of albino ants.

  “I have to believe we are. I have to believe we matter.” The cold from the ice seeps into the parts of me that Zelda doesn’t warm.

  She sighs. “The Developeds are the ones who get to touch people’s lives. They have the important storylines and the resonant scenes.”

  “Yeah, but you know we play an integral part, too, otherwise we wouldn’t even exist.”

  Even as I say it, an uncomfortable thought strikes me. I’ve been basking in the classic Manic Pixie dreaminess of my interactions with Zelda, but maybe it only feels special because everything our Trope does is supposed to seem special. How much of how we act is pre-programmed for maximum Manic Pixie normativity? And how much free will do we really have?

  “I want to exist for more than just convenience.” Zelda’s voice trembles. “I’m tired of playing the part expected of me just to keep everyone else happy. What about my happiness? Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “It does to me,” I whisper.

  She doesn’t respond. I’m pretty sure she didn’t hear me. Her teeth are chattering. She’ll get sick if we stay out here any longer.

  “It’s cold, and we aren’t dressed properly.” I reluctantly extricate myself from her embrace, but before I can get up, she grips me by the shoulders and looks me straight in the eye.

  “I have such a good time with you, Riley.”

  She kisses me.

  On the forehead.

  It may not be what I hoped for, but it’s a start. So maybe I won’t strike out after all.

  Chapter 20

  Zelda isn’t at therapy the next morning. I miss her and her smirks and even her mixed signals.

  Sky takes her turn at the mic today, and though I can hardly be blamed for not paying rapt attention due to Zelda never leaving my thoughts, I catch the salient points of her story. She rallied the supporting characters in her last novel to create their own subplot where Sky’s character puts on an epic battle of the bands. Unfortunately, it was a Very Serious Book about a Very Serious Issue, and the Author complained that Sky’s fun and frivolous meanderings clashed tonally with the rest.

  “And I think instead of excising the good parts, the Author should have aspired to amp up his boring stuff,” Sky grumbles, squeezing her fist around the base of Angela’s pink microphone so tightly, it looks like she might warp the plastic. “I hope he ends up remaindered. Or pulped.”

  Everyone gasps. Even me.

  Angela recovers quickly from her shock. “I would like you to try to rephrase your statements to be more positive, please.”

  “Why?” Sky asks. “It’s not like the Author listens in, right? That’s what you always claim, anyway.”

  “Our goal here is to remember our place,” Angela says patiently, though I notice an eyelid twitch. “We are subject to the Author’s vision. And the Author is always right.”

  “The Author is always right,” we all drone, expect for Sky. She and Angela stare each other down until Sky finally relents.

  “Fine,” Sky says, slumping in her chair and letting the mic drop into her lap. “The Author is always right.”

  Angela beams. “Very good, Sky!”

  “Still.” Sky closes her hand loosely around the mic. “It’s a shame that subplot had to go. It was so cool.”

  “You remember it,” I blurt. “Tell us about it, and we’ll remember it with you.”

  Fortunately, Angela doesn’t chastise me for speaking out of turn. In fact, she supports me. “What an excellent idea, Riley. Let’s serve the pie and have a story hour!”

  No complaints from me on that count. I cut the pie, a lemon meringue, and everyone takes a piece except for Nebraska, who waves me away waggling her fingers. Mandy grabs a plate from me a little too roughly and mutters a ‘thank you’ without meeting my eyes. Her lips are set in such a thin line, I can barely make out her trademark red lipstick.

  But I quickly forget about her brusqueness as I get lost in Sky’s story and the spellbinding cadence of her words. I admire the way she threw herself into her character, the way she left an echo of her true self in the story.

  But is that the best we can hope for? To give pieces of ourselves to the characters we play until we become empty caricatures of ourselves? Maybe that explains why Nebraska is so sharp-edged and bitter. Would her personality have developed differently if she had the chance to control her own story?

  When the session ends and we all go our separate ways, Mandy confronts me in the elevator. “I’m mad at you.”

  One guess to why she might be upset. “Did Clark visit you?”

  “Yes. And he gifted me two glass grasshoppers.” Mandy pulls a pink paper box out of her bag, and she opens it to show me two perfectly formed green grasshoppers. “He said you told him to!”

  I whistle in appreciation for his glassblowing, skills far superior to his intellectual capability. “Clark is quite the talent, though.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” A proud smile breaks through her frustration for a moment. “But that does not get you off the hook.”

  “I’m sorry. Clark completely misunderstood my advice on the grasshopper front, but I did tell him he should work out his problems directly with you instead of trying to use me as a middleman.”

  “He sat on my sofa and stared at my mosaic for, like, ten minutes.” Mandy huffs. “And then burst into sobs.”

  I can imagine this scene perfectly. Clark breaking down and Mandy comforting him, making him false promises of eternal glass adoration she cannot possibly keep. “So you got back together?”

  She throws up her arms in a gesture of defeat. “How could we not? I’m not a heartless beast.”

  Would the sobbing tactic work on Zelda? I doubt it. For starters, we don’t have the history Mandy and Clark share—we can’t get back together when we’ve never been a couple. Plus, I’m not prone to sobbing. Minor welling and tearing up, here and there, but no major waterworks.

  “Do you love him, though?”

  “I want to,” she answers. “And some days I think I could. Isn’t that enough? For now?”

  Judging from Mandy�
�s pained expression, I would say ‘no,’ but haven’t I already meddled enough? Relationships sure are tough to navigate when there is no Author controlling the outcome.

  “Look, I’m the wrong person to ask for relationship advice.” And when I say it, my voice wobbles.

  “Riley has a crush on someone.” Mandy sing-songs this statement, as if I’m a kindergartener about to develop a terminal case of cooties. “And I know who it is.”

  To my relief, the elevator door opens, offering me an escape route. “No, you don’t.”

  “Please.” Her tone becomes serious as she trails me out of the elevator. “I’ve noticed the way you look at Zelda.”

  The blush rampaging across my face confirms Mandy’s suspicions. Betrayed by my own body! “I don’t think she looks at me the same way,” I confess.

  Mandy gives me a long, consoling hug. She must agree with my assessment, which makes me even more insecure than I already am.

  “Zelda has a lot going on. Maybe romance is not a priority for her at the moment.”

  Ouch. Is Mandy implying that my priorities are screwed up? “Well, maybe it would be her priority if there weren’t the whole therapy non-fraternization rule to consider,” I point out.

  “But see, here’s the thing. Even if it weren’t against the therapy rules—when have you ever heard of two Manic Pixies in love? I mean, wouldn’t the universe explode from an overload of quirky cuteness? It’s probably better for our continued existence that you leave her to all her admirers at the pool hall.”

  “You play pool with her?” I must sound accusatory, because she gets defensive.

  “Yeah, and you could, too, if you ever went out with us.”

  “You’ve never invited me out.”

  She scrunches up her features in confusion, as if including me in all the Manic Pixie group activities had never occurred to her before. “You’re welcome to come whenever. I won’t be there tonight because I have a date with Clark, but I know Zelda and some others are going. The pool hall has been a popular Manic Pixie meet-up spot for eons.”

  My mind immediately jumps ahead to what I’ll say to Zelda at the pool hall. Will I feign disinterest, or will her charm disarm me?

  “Can you not tell anyone about my feelings for Zelda?”

  Mandy laughs. “Sure, as long as you refrain from encouraging Clark to give me more grasshoppers.”

  “If only he’d listen,” I sigh. But we shake on it.

  Chapter 21

  I barely make it inside my apartment before my Author summons button glows. I groan, even though working might help distract me from obsessing over Zelda.

  When I land, Ava stands waiting for me with a tall glass of tomato juice. Thanks to my excessive thirst, I don’t even care that tomato juice makes me want to vomit.

  “An Inspiring Teacher Trope did a scene with me earlier,” Ava says as I gratefully chug the brackish beverage, trying not to engage my taste buds. “She explained that tomato juice provides the most effective electrolyte replacement after a jump so you can perform at your highest level.”

  “I appreciate your concern.” She can’t know a Developed has never served me anything before, and I don’t want to unsettle her with an over-the-top reaction to her kindness.

  “Well, maybe I could’ve been nicer to you these past couple of days, Riley.”

  Both her sincerity and her use of my actual name floor me. She takes the empty glass from my hand and returns it to the craft services table, which is lucky because otherwise I might have dropped the glass in shock. I follow her over to the table and dig into a bowl of jelly beans to cleanse my palate.

  “I want our scenes to keep Readers up at night,” she continues. “I want them to engage in passionate discussions about whether Ava should be with Marsden or with Rafferty. And for that to happen, I need to be invested. And so do you.”

  This sounds to me like the Author talking, but I don’t want to offend her by suggesting as much. “Whose team are you on? Team Marsden or Team Rafferty?”

  Ava ponders this. “The Author hasn’t figured that out yet.”

  “Your choice in a love triangle depends on who you want to be,” I say, like I’m imparting some sacred literary wisdom, instead of something Finn once told me while roasting marshmallows. “If you choose Rafferty, you’re saying you can’t stop clinging to the past, while choosing Marsden means you’re embracing your future.”

  “That sounds incredibly biased,” Ava says, but there’s a teasing note in her voice so I know she’s not upset. “Maybe it’ll all come down to who kisses the best. So prepare to pucker up!”

  I blow her a kiss.

  “Oh, you want to practice a bit before we go on set?” She shuffles her feet and won’t look at me. Out of shyness? Reluctance? How do I keep landing in mixed-signal city? Not that it matters in this case.

  “It feels more genuine if it arises in the moment,” I say, diplomatically. And to lessen the tension, I throw a pair of green jelly beans at her.

  “Hey!” she protests, and loads up on her own candy ammunition, which obviously leads us down the slippery slope of food fighting. It may start with innocent intentions, but it always ends with a face full of frosting, doesn’t it?

  I do a mental comparison of the Ava I first met and the Ava who stands before me now. She still defaults to prim, but I can’t imagine the Ava of a few days ago happily licking cake off the sides of her mouth. It’s endearing.

  A Burly Stagehand enters with a broom. He shakes his head at us while he sweeps.

  “I’m surprised the Author hasn’t called us in yet,” Ava says as we dust the crumbs off our clothes and apply towels to the gunk on our skin.

  “You have a chocolate sprinkle on your earlobe.” I lean in with my mouth open as if I’m going to bite the sprinkle away, but as she turns her head her nose bangs into my chin. We both startle and back off to give each other space. Awkward.

  She drifts over to her chair, and I watch the Burly Stagehand wipe down the craft services table. All traces of our fun disappear as if they never existed.

  Finally, we get the green light for the day’s work. Our wardrobe appears on the rack. I have to wear a pair of camo-printed galoshes and Ava gets a red jacket with a hood.

  The Author begins to revise the scene we did yesterday. She starts by adding setting details, so that instead of occupying a blank space, Ava and I are now crouched below the bleachers as fat raindrops splatter and plunk on the metal above our heads.

  The Author describes the freshly mown grass of the football field, the darkening sky of dusk, and the faraway drone of the cars on the highway beyond the school until it all comes to life around us. I put everything else out of my head and allow myself to be present in the moment. No analyzing the Author’s choices, just feeling the words she types flow through me.

  Ava zips up her jacket and pulls on the hood so it casts shadows on her face. “Rain, rain, go away.”

  “Don’t you mean: rain, rain, please stay?” I say.

  “Why? You like getting rained on?”

  Her hood is wide and loose, and I tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “I like kissing in the rain.”

  She shivers and her voice goes all husky and low. “You do?”

  “I do.”

  Lightning strikes somewhere close, illuminating her parted lips and curious eyes. Thunder shakes the concrete beneath us. We kiss, and we’re so caught up in it we barely notice it has started to pour.

  When we finally break apart, my feet are the only dry part on my body.

  Ava makes fun of my drowned-fox appearance, and I grab her hand, and we run all the way to her house, only stopping once we get to her porch.

  “Thanks for getting me home safely, Marsden.” She grins. “And thanks for introducing me to the positive side of rain. I’m sold.”

  “Keep checking the weather forecast,” I joke, “and we’ll meet up for the next storm.”

  The television blares from the living room, and
pots and pans clang together in the kitchen. “I have to go inside now,” she says, though she seems reluctant to do so. “But don’t catch a cold. I want to see you tomorrow.”

  “Even if the sun shines?”

  “Even then.” She slips through her door and shuts it behind her.

  And . . . end of scene.

  The setting disappears, and Ava and I once again occupy a bare stage.

  I’ve journeyed so deeply inside of Marsden’s skin, I have to close my eyes for a few seconds and take a deep breath to reset.

  “Wow.” Ava puts her hand over her heart. “Go Team Marsden!”

  We walk backstage together.

  “So are you going to petition the Author for more kissing scenes, then?” I tease.

  She hangs up her drenched jacket. “Even if the sun shines.”

  Chapter 22

  I make my way to the pool hall, riding the particular high produced by a successful creative session. Appropriate, since the Recreational District hollers with fun. I bounce down the rubberized road, and along the way, Carnival Workers try to lure me to test my strength or ride a zip-line or swim in a giant vat of plastic balls.

  But I won’t be swayed from my mission to see Zelda tonight, even if I won’t exactly advertise that I kissed another girl. Granted, I only did it because it’s my job, but the twinge of guilt stems from the fact that I enjoyed it—though that’s my job, too.

  The pool hall occupies the basement of the Wild West Saloon, so I have to squeeze my way through a crowd of leather-vested revelers cheering on those brave enough to mount the mechanical bull. Peanut shells crackle under my feet and yee-haws bounce off the walls. I thud down the stairs into the dim light of the pool hall, happy to escape the full-on assault on my senses.

  I scan the tables, my heart beating in pace with the frenetic line dancing upstairs. Zelda isn’t here, but I spy Nebraska, holding court at a corner table. She sits regally on a red barstool that matches her hair dye, and when she looks over and recognizes me, she beckons me to come over.

  “You may go,” she says to the two guys playing in front of her. Without a word, they abandon their game. They rack up their cues, but leave their balls behind.