There’s nowhere else to sit, and Nebraska doesn’t seem in any hurry to abdicate her throne, so I stand awkwardly beside her, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Come here often?” I say, my tongue firmly in my cheek. This line couldn’t be any cheesier unless you fried it in cheddar.
“I do not frequent this establishment, no.”
I raise my eyebrow. I almost ask her where the rest of the Manic Pixie club is, but it doesn’t seem like the best tactical move, so I wait for her to speak again.
“You know, Finn used to come over to my place to play pool,” she says finally. “Quite often actually.”
I try to hide my shock, but she’s too savvy.
“Oh my, he never told you, did he?” She bares her teeth in a facsimile of a smile and pats my shoulder. “And you were his best friend and everything.”
“He never talked about you at all.” I mean it as a slam, to insinuate that she wasn’t important enough to be a topic of conversation, but if it bothers her, you’d never know it by looking at her. How did a Manic Pixie become such an Ice Queen Diva? I’m surprised the Council hasn’t transferred her Trope allegiance.
She points at the formation of balls on the felt. “You’re behind the eight ball like he was.”
I start to get a very bad feeling. “What do you mean?”
“Finn also fell in love with a fellow Manic Pixie.”
I want to protest, but no words come out. What can I say, anyway? Apparently I’m so obvious about my crush on Zelda that even Nebraska has cared to notice. So instead I ask the obvious question. “Who was Finn in love with?”
As far as I know, Finn spent most of his time either working or hanging out with me, and we rarely talked about girls, except in relation to our current projects.
Nebraska fans herself with the feathers of her peacock shawl. “With me, dummy,” she says.
“No way.” If that’s true, I really didn’t know Finn at all.
“He wrote me enough love letters to fill a slew of hatboxes. He asked me to shred and scatter them after I read them, and I honored his wishes.”
I feel woozy. I sit down on the floor, and some gelatinous substance sticks to my jeans. From this angle, I can see up Nebraska’s appealingly upturned nose.
“But that’s not the point,” she continues. “The point is you’re playing a dangerous game, and as a friend, I’m advising you to be careful. You know very well what happened to dear Finn.”
Except I don’t. At least, I have no idea why he was terminated. Is Nebraska implying Finn’s alleged crush on her led to his untimely demise?
Before I can ask her to clarify, Nebraska hops off her stool and saunters away.
I stay seated on the floor, my mind racing. Manic Pixies aren’t explicitly forbidden to date unless they are in therapy together, are they? Though I suppose if Finn hid a relationship with Nebraska from me, he could have also hidden a stint in group therapy . . .
But there’s a more chilling implication: maybe it will never be safe for me to date Zelda. Like Mandy said earlier, maybe Manic Pixies simply aren’t made for one another, and the TropeTown authorities will intervene at some point.
I’m no longer up for playing pool. I don’t even want to wait for the others to arrive or to see Zelda. I get up and walk out without a backward glance.
Chapter 23
Naturally my encounter with Nebraska made me curious enough to look up her character trait sheet.
Name: Nebraska
Trope: Manic Pixie Dream Girl
Age: 19
Birthday: October 29, Scorpio
General physical description: Willowy. Blue eyes. Choppy blond hair, dipped in red. The perfect nose (a 106-degree angle upward rotation measured from the lip). Basically, hot—but in a non-threatening way.
Clothing style: Tends towards the bombastic and eccentric. Mixes high-end designer pieces with thrift-store finds. Would never be caught dead in sweatpants.
Hobbies: Trapeze, drag racing, cross-pollenating tomatoes.
Talents: Inappropriately morbid jokes, speed reading, a photographic memory, can juggle and hula hoop at the same time.
Strongest positive personality traits: Determined, ambitious, and passionate.
Strongest negative personality traits: Manipulative, easily bored, and resentful. Also drinks too much, often by herself.
Ambitions: Be the best at being bubbly.
Life philosophy: You can never truly know anyone, not even yourself.
Favorite foods: Potato chips dipped in caviar.
Phobias: Irrelevance.
Chapter 24
“Guess who got a job?” Chloe squeals the next day in therapy. While I privately lament Zelda’s absence, Chloe does her signature freaky dance. We are all moved to join her, even Nebraska. In fact, Nebraska imitates Chloe so well, she could be Chloe.
Angela indulges us for a minute before making us sit down. “Why don’t you tell us about it, Chloe?”
“Uh . . . I’d rather not go into details . . .”
“OMG! It’s dinosaur erotica, isn’t it?” George says.
“No!”
“A musical opus conceived as a fifth-grade class project?” Sky guesses.
“No.”
“A post-apocalyptic vision commissioned and computer-generated by our new Robot Overlords?” I joke.
Chloe crosses her eyes and sticks out her lower lip. “Stop. It,” she says in a zany robot voice. “I’ll. Never. Tell.”
“Well, congratulations,” Nebraska purrs. “I’m sure whatever you’ve been hired to do befits your talent.” It’s amazing how sincere Nebraska sounds, even though I’m sure she means this as an insult.
Chloe goes completely still, so I can tell she feels the devastating impact of Nebraska’s velvet sledgehammer. She can’t call Nebraska on it, though, because Nebraska has plausible deniability on her side. She could argue Chloe is paranoid or doesn’t know how to accept a compliment.
I loosen my collar. The air barely circulates due to the tightly latched window. I detect notes of vanilla and brown sugar wafting from the pie table.
Angela swiftly changes the subject. “So, today we’re giving the microphone to Georgina.” At the use of George’s real name, Nebraska snickers.
“George,” George corrects.
“Go ahead, George,” Angela says, and George’s face lights up with appreciation.
George clasps the pink microphone between her thighs, because she’s using her hands to knot friendship bracelets. She already has a half dozen on her left wrist, in various rainbow shades. Her hair poufs out today, but she has the sides pulled back and twisted into a messy bun. I’ve never seen uglier jeans than the ripped-up acid wash pair she wears, but I doubt she’d care if I shared my opinion.
“So, I’m here because all my jobs started to run together in my head. I kept using the wrong names and mixing up plotlines, and I guess the Author who complained about me thought I needed a mental health check.”
“And do you agree?” Angela prods.
“No. All the characters I play are essentially the same character. Pretty, quirky, profound, but with some fatal flaw keeping me from being too unrelatable to audiences. And the plots are the same too. I shake up some poor sod’s life, and he goes on to grander things without me. It’s depressing.”
“So would you say you’re depressed?” Angela seems concerned.
George stops knotting to consider this question. “Maybe? But maybe I’m just bored. What do I have to look forward to? An endless parade of derivative tripe. I pray for something original to come my way, but it never does. So I keep on keeping on, but the joy in my work is gone.”
“Let’s go to the group for suggestions,” Angela suggests. “What are some ways the rest of you cope when you struggle to get through your days? Do you take a warm, relaxing soak in the tub? Do you seek solace in the beauty of nature? Or do you visit a trusted friend for a chat? All of these simple activities are ways we might engage in self-care.”<
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“First of all,” Nebraska offers sweetly, “it helps to not think of it in terms of struggle. Every day and every project gives us an opportunity to shine our brightest. Does life hand us lemons sometimes? Sure. No one understands that better than I do. But I plant that lemon and it grows into a beautiful tree.”
“Of more lemons,” George says dryly.
“You can think of it that way if you want to,” Nebraska counters, “but I choose to see the whole tree.”
“Well, I think you’ve muddled your metaphor.”
“Ladies,” Angela interjects. “Enough. What we’re touching on here is the question of attitude. You can’t control the actions of others, Authors in particular, but you can control your reactions. In that vein, I have an assignment for you—something to think about between sessions.”
We all protest. Hatred of homework universally connects the human race.
Angela continues, undeterred. “I want each of you to be vigilant in tracking your emotional reactions to the actions of others. Recognize your reaction in the moment, and if it is negative, ask yourself how you can change your attitude towards a more positive one.”
Thinking positively generally comes easily to Manic Pixies. Despite feeling nervous about the potential risk involved in pursuing Zelda, I’m not worried about Angela’s assignment. George and Nebraska, however, may encounter some difficulty considering the way they are exchanging death glares.
“Thanks, Angela,” George says with false cheer. “You’ve really put things in perspective for me, and I’m so blessed to be among friends. So much so I made you all a little something.”
She begins to distribute her friendship bracelets. Red for Mandy, orange for Chloe, green for me, and blue for Sky. She gives a purple one to Angela, pausing to help Angela tie it on her wrist. “The yellow one is for Zelda and this black one is for me. Oops, I guess I didn’t make enough, Nebraska. Sorry!”
“Uh . . . that’s wonderful, George. Now who wants some pecan pie?” Angela asks, her cheeks flushed. “Doesn’t it smell delicious?”
George and Nebraska are still staring each other down, but the rest of us jostle one another to be first in line. Chloe wins the honor of slicing the pie. Meanwhile, Angela leaves, seemingly extremely eager to flee the scene.
“I hope you realize,” Nebraska says, glowering at George but addressing the group at large, “that instead of trying to sugarcoat everything in positivity, all of you need to be taking a harder look at yourselves.”
“What do you mean?” George demands.
“As a Legacy, I have access to privileged information. And I happen to know you all are in therapy because you are hot messes and the Council is losing its patience with you.”
“And you’re just so perfect,” George scoffs.
“I’m not here because I have to be.” Nebraska flips the longer sections of her hair over her shoulder. “I’m here out of the goodness of my heart. To help you realize your potential.”
“You’re here to troll us,” counters Sky, stepping over to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with George. “You’ve never been interested in befriending the rest of us. You just enjoy putting us down so you can feel better about yourself.”
The tension is too much for my Manic Pixie programming to take. I hold up the pie. “C’mon, a pie this good deserves to be shared. We can feed the nuts to the Stock Squirrels in Seasons Park.”
Mandy and Chloe exchange glances. “Field trip!”
“I’m not getting my hands all filthy for the benefit of Stock Squirrels,” Nebraska says dismissively.
“Good,” George retorts as the rest of us head for the door. “Because no one invited you.”
Chapter 25
Needless to say, we make some Stock Squirrels in Seasons Park manically happy during our pecan distribution session. I’m more grateful than ever that we’ve so easily bonded as a group, Nebraska notwithstanding.
As soon as I arrive home, my Author summons button lights up. Instead of being bummed, I’m energized by the prospect of hanging out with Ava again. I’m sure it would please the TropeTown Council to know that. Maybe therapy can reform me after all.
Backstage, I guzzle down a half-gallon of tomato juice at the craft services table before I notice this pretentious prat smirking at me.
“Ah, Marsden! We finally meet!” He extends his hand, and my automatic reflex is to shake it—something I regret as soon as his iron grip squeezes the life out of my fingers.
“Sorry, you are?”
“Rafferty. Your rival for the affections of our dear Ava.” He wrinkles his snooty nose. “And a far superior one.”
I can’t imagine what anyone, let alone Ava, sees in this guy. It can’t be his fake British accent, or his tasseled penny loafers and plaid bow tie, or the contract he has clearly signed with OPEC for the barrels of oil he needs to slick back his hair and shellac his beard.
“Where’s Ava?”
“I imagine she’s recuperating from our last scene, considering how . . . vigorous it became.” He actually winks at me. Disgusting. “But the Author tells me this next chapter is just you and me, mate.”
Since he’s the spitting image of a Hipster Douche, imagine my shock to learn this tool is a Developed. As far as getting a Happily Ever After with Ava goes, this puts me at a distinct disadvantage, and this smarmy jerk knows it. What he doesn’t know is I’m not putting my eggs in Ava’s basket, so it’s not like I care. But my point is, I don’t have to let this dude’s attitude ruin my mood. Again, I have therapy to thank for this insight.
“Sounds like a rollicking good time,” I say blandly. I maintain an intense focus on the cheese spread and cracker display and ignore his repeated attempts to piss me off.
Finally, the Author calls us to do the scene.
The set-up goes like this: Rafferty has come to my house to pick up a sweater Ava left behind after our study session. A storm lurks on the horizon, both literally and metaphorically. This is called an objective correlative, in literary terms.
Rafferty knocks, seven times in rapid succession, something he copied from Ava once upon a time.
Expecting Ava, due to her signature knock, I bound to the door and fling it open. And stop dead in my tracks.
“Uh, who are you?”
“Ava’s boyfriend.” Rafferty flexes his puny biceps. “And you’re the chap who will keep his distance from Ava from now on.”
The Author types that I look hurt and betrayed, but instead of following directions, I bust up laughing at Rafferty’s poor attempt to act tough. How am I supposed to take him seriously?
“Sorry!” I aim my apology upward toward the rafters—at the Author, not at Rafferty.
The Author strikes my reaction, her furious pounding of the delete key echoing through the soundstage.
We try again.
This time, I look hurt and betrayed. “Why are you here?”
“Just be a good lad and hand over Ava’s sweater,” Rafferty says. “Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Ava left it here on purpose. So I’ll keep it unless she tells me otherwise.”
We continue to exchange barbs for several pages, and I struggle to make sense of the narrative relevance of this encounter. In my opinion, it’s longwinded and lacks any nuance. Not that it’s my place to question the Author, as Angela would certainly remind me.
The more we argue, the less I can stand to be in the same room with this guy.
Unfortunately, the Author keeps at the scene for hours, cutting a word or two here, adding a phrase there, putting us through the paces over and over.
Rafferty remains unruffled.
Finally, we hear ripping followed by a whoosh, the telltale sounds of a scene being trashed.
“Bloody hell!” Rafferty exclaims, narrowing his eyes in my direction. “That was some of my best work.”
I wish the Author would trash Rafferty.
Chapter 26
Yellow and black crime scene tape crisscrosses the doorframe
of our group therapy room when I arrive in the morning. Gray smoke billows, and the stench of burnt plastic assaults my nose. All the other girls, with the exception of Nebraska, mill about farther down the hallway. Zelda waves, which lifts my spirits despite the wreckage. I peek into the room. Angela stands coughing amidst warped furniture and bubbled wallpaper. When she sees me, she extricates herself with a contorted shimmy between the tape and slams the door behind her.
“What happened?” I ask.
“The inspector suspects arson, but according to protocol, I can’t elaborate on the details.”
“Arson?” TropeTown doesn’t experience much crime, at least not on the Right Side of the Tracks. A giant electric fence ensures the Tropes in the Villain Zone don’t mingle or practice their devilish deeds on the rest of us.
“Most curious, isn’t it?” Angela muses. “Someone from the Council will be here shortly to speak with us. She may tell us more.”
I think back to Angela claiming our therapy room was a safe space. If the Council didn’t see who set the fire, then they must not have video cameras in the therapy rooms.
I follow Angela down the hallway to where the others now sit in a semicircle on the floor. Mandy pulls some pink bottles full of bubbles out of her giant handbag. Angela watches morosely as we commence a bubble war. We aim for one another’s heads, dissolving into laughter whenever a bubble pops directly between someone’s eyes.
Our revelry is cut short by the Council member’s arrival. This angular woman wears a powder-puff blue power suit, the kind with the boxy cut and huge shoulder pads. She clacks her heels across the floor until she towers over us. “No need to get up,” she declares. But her tone is so icy that all of us immediately scramble into a standing position and hide the plastic wands behind our backs. Should I salute her or something?
“Hi Bridget,” Angela says warmly. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to come by. Do we have a new room assignment yet?”
The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project Page 8
