Angela’s greeting does nothing to thaw Bridget’s demeanor. “No need to worry about that.”
Angela blinks in confusion. “Why not?”
“We in the Council appreciate your exemplary service with these . . . Manic Pixies,” Bridget says, her words dripping with scorn. “I’m sure this particular Trope gave you quite the challenge.”
Immediately catching on to Bridget’s use of the past tense, Angela draws a sharp breath. “Are you firing me?”
Bridget laughs. “Why, no my dear. We are canceling this therapy group, effective immediately, but that’s not a reflection on you. Please stop by the employment office at your earliest convenience for reassignment.”
“What?” Chloe bursts out. “Why is therapy canceled?”
Bridget gives her a cold look. “It’s become clear your type is . . . problematic. This latest incident has confirmed that our support resources will be put to better use elsewhere.”
Problematic? What does that even mean? It seems strange that the Council would go to all the effort of sending us threatening letters about termination and setting us up in group therapy just to cancel it because our meeting place is a burnt-out husk.
“So what now?” Mandy asks. “We’re just free to go on with our lives? What about all our problems that brought us here?”
“Yes, well, there are those famous words to live by: Eat, drink, and be merry.” Bridget smiles indulgently and pats Mandy on the head. The fact that these words are usually followed by For tomorrow we must die is ominous enough to give me pause.
Bridget swivels on her heel and marches toward the elevators. The doors open for her immediately and swallow her up.
For once, we are rendered speechless. I’m not sure how to sort through the implications of this. At the forefront of my brain, though, is the delightful notion that dating Zelda is no longer forbidden.
I turn my head to catch Zelda’s eye, hoping she might give me one of her signature saucy winks, but I only catch sight of her fading out in the glow of an Author summons. She sure has been working a ton lately.
“I don’t have a great feeling about this,” Sky says. “I mean, not that I dig therapy or anything, but Bridget was just so . . . dismissive of us. She scares me.”
I remember what Nebraska told us about the Council losing patience with us. At the time, it seemed like merely another trademark Nebraska insult, but what if there was more to it? It’s not like me to be paranoid, but this whole scene has an unsettling undercurrent, and I have trouble wrapping my brain around it.
“I . . . I don’t know what to tell you,” Angela stammers. “But I’ll . . . see what I can find out. Maybe once the Council gets to the bottom of who set this fire, they’ll be willing to reinstate our therapy session . . .”
She trails off. Whereas my fellow Manic Pixies are simply confused, Angela seems as gutted as our former room. Clearly she’s not used to having her sessions canceled so abruptly and with so little explanation. Her expression sends shockwaves of existential dread through my body.
“I think we should stick together no matter what,” I say.
“Yes,” Chloe says. “Maybe our official therapy is canceled, but that doesn’t mean we can’t meet up on our own somewhere.”
Angela shakes herself out of her stupor and says with false cheer, “That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more.” She goes down the line of us—Mandy, Sky, Chloe, George, and me—giving us hugs like we’re her baby chicks. She dabs at her cheeks with the hem of the long trumpet sleeves of her shirt. As she makes her way over to the elevator, swaying as she walks, the rest of us huddle up in solidarity.
“This isn’t goodbye,” Mandy says firmly. Trust Mandy to not know how to end something. To lighten the mood, she does a spontaneous handstand, almost hitting me in the face with one of her gladiator sandals.
A curious euphoric lightness takes over my body, and I burst out laughing. My hysteria soon infects the others.
Of course, it doesn’t last. Whoever said laughter is the best medicine not only didn’t fully appreciate the miracle of cough drops, but also didn’t consider laughter doesn’t cure you—it merely transfers the pain to your abs temporarily.
Chapter 27
I end up moping around most of the rest of the morning, too restless to nap but too depressed to play music or take a walk. I find that as much as I hated the idea of going to therapy, I already miss it. Sure, I have my work, but since I lost Finn, my time hanging around in TropeTown has lacked pizzazz. In just a few short sessions, therapy gave me a sense of belonging and a whole group of friends. But did we make a true, lasting connection? Or will we drift apart without this common obligation? We all have our separate projects, and none of us are programmed to be especially sentimental.
My mind naturally drifts to Zelda. Even though therapy meant I couldn’t ask her out, at least I could look forward seeing her almost every day. Will I even have the chance to tell her how I feel about her now?
And I keep going back to the way Bridget acted. Her attitude was so full of contempt, not just for our group, but for the whole Manic Pixie Trope.
A pounding at the door saves me from my spiraling thoughts. I jump up eagerly, crossing my fingers it’s Zelda. But when I answer, I uncross them. It’s Angela.
“Good afternoon, Riley. Are you ready to go?”
For a second, I’m paralyzed with an irrational fear she’s here to escort me to the Termination Train. But I force myself to smile and hope positivity will follow. “Uh, sure. Where are we going?”
“Nebraska’s. She offered to host us from now on. Informally, of course. Everyone else is already there.”
Despite the weight of all that’s happened today, I can’t suppress a glimmer of glee. One does not simply walk into TropeTown Heights. Your name has to appear on the guest list at the golden gates. I have to admit, Nebraska’s impromptu invitation makes me feel like a celebrity, even though I’m only going as part of an entourage.
“I’m ready.”
There are so many things I want to ask Angela, but she has already turned away from me to flag down a bicycle taxi. When the driver stops for us, Angela runs her red admin card through his payment machine as we get in. We fit snugly due to her massive thigh muscles, which rival those of our driver. “TropeTown Heights,” she says.
Our driver tips his denim cap at us and starts to pedal.
The world feels different from the back seat of a bicycle taxi. This guy pumps his legs like a professional racer, so scenery passes by us in a blur. Buildings run together. Pedestrians fade into the background. Even the birds in the sky can’t keep up with our pace. Cool gusts of air whip at our hair, blowing it backward off our faces. And this same wind whistles through the spokes of the wheels, an insistent sound warning people to get out of our way.
Once I’m breathing normally again, I sneak a peek at Angela to gauge whether she’s getting as much of a rush from this ride as I am, but it’s hard to tell. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is slightly open. As always, her posture is inhumanly perfect, and her hands rest lightly on her knees. The prayer beads on her right wrist nestle against the purple friendship bracelet from George.
She seems much less upset than she was this morning, but of course, she’s a professional therapist, so she’s trained to set aside her own feelings and focus on her charges.
Though technically, we’re not her responsibility any longer. The fact that she’s here at all indicates that she’s genuinely on our side.
I clear my throat. “Do you ride in these often?”
“Usually only for official TropeTown business,” she states with a note of finality, indicating that this is all I can expect to weasel out of her.
But I’m curious about Angela now, and I want to know something real about her, something that can’t be found on her character trait sheet. If you want to unlock someone’s personal secrets, sometimes it helps to offer to share your own.
“This is m
y first time,” I admit. “I’ve never ridden any form of transportation before.”
“Not surprising.” She’s right, of course. Regular Tropes, especially new ones like me, don’t usually get the chance to experience such luxury. But she doesn’t need to sound so dismissive.
She seems to take note of my hurt expression because she softens her tone and says almost tenderly, “Work hard and someday you can be Legacy, too. And you can ride in these all the time. Like Nebraska.” Her nose wrinkles when she says Nebraska’s name.
“Oh, I am working hard,” I assure her, changing tactics to give her a heaping helping of praise. “I’ve been following your advice from our sessions, and everyone at my current job seems to be happy with me. So thank you.”
She smiles, and her shoulders relax a smidge. “That’s wonderful to hear. And you’re welcome.” Even though I can tell she’s trying to sound cheerful, I detect an undertone of sadness. Does she somehow think it’s her fault the Council cancelled our therapy? Does she feel like she failed us? It seems too personal of a question to ask, so I ask something else.
“You must have a ton of experience. Did you start out doing Trope work in novels?”
“I did. I found being a part of stories incredibly fulfilling, but my Trope rarely gets to have much of a . . . social life. And the locations don’t vary much. Office. Therapy room. Maybe an occasional house call.”
Angela always insists on embracing our Tropes, so it’s disconcerting to hear her disparage hers as so limiting. “So you switched over to being a Service Trope for more variety?”
“I fell in love with someone. And she encouraged me to take this position.” She sighs. “I haven’t regretted my career change, even if I sometimes rue the day I met that girl.”
So even therapists have romantic troubles. Though I can technically date Zelda now, I don’t really feel like confiding in Angela about my crush. Even so, it seems like she’s capable of understanding the particular pain of uncertain romance. I wonder who broke her heart.
“Did she give you that?” I point at her ring.
Angela twists the ring on her thumb, as if just realizing that she’s wearing it. “Yes. How’d you figure?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a ring that’s too big for your ring finger is a metaphor for a love that’s too big to hold on to. Or something.”
She snorts. “Or something. That’s for sure. I got these prayer beads because of her.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Every relationship teaches us something important about ourselves. Especially the tough ones.”
“I prefer the easy ones.” I laugh.
I expect her to laugh, too, but she doesn’t. “You’re an insightful young man, Riley. I believe you have the potential to go so far. But real personal growth is never easy. Trust your instincts and ignore the distractions.”
I’m confused. This conversation seems to have gotten away from me. But our driver pulls up to TropeTown Heights’ gates, and Angela hops out before I can ask for clarification.
She gives our names at the guard station. The golden gates open, and the splendor that greets me makes me forget all my questions.
Chapter 28
A bedazzled sign beyond the gates of TropeTown Heights promises us awe-inspiring opulence, and I can’t disagree. As we strut along the yellow bricks of the main road, a light breeze caresses us with the intoxicating scent of rose petals. Each mansion exudes charm and beauty, with lavish details ranging from intricate latticework to imposing turrets.
One of the estates we pass features a hedge maze and a giant bay window through which I can see a movie-screen-sized portrait of a collie wearing a blue windbreaker and sunglasses, meaning the collie I met in the elevator my first day of therapy must be Legacy.
Angela encourages me to keep moving. “You can gape all you want on your way out.”
She turns down a picturesque lane bordered by a low stone wall stained by verdigris. It must be an intentional flaw, because everything else in this part of town sparkles with perfection. Weeping willows bend their leaves toward us on the path down the lane, blocking our view of Nebraska’s residence until we arrive at her wraparound porch.
Other than the lavender exterior, the house could pass for a southern plantation home with its stately columns and row of upstairs galleries over the porch. White wooden shutters frame the open French windows, and piano music drifts lazily from somewhere inside.
Angela presses the doorbell, Nebraska’s one acquiescence to modernity. Chimes go off and seconds later, the door sweeps open to reveal the mistress of the house.
“Welcome!” Nebraska ushers us into her foyer, but all my attention goes to the winding staircase behind her and the dome above her. She leads us back through her giant ballroom—a space featuring cherry hardwood and the blue crystal chandelier that Mandy mentioned that day in the cafeteria—and onto her veranda where all the girls sit at a rectangular dining table. I’m ecstatic to be in their company again. Alas, Zelda sits hunched over a notebook, writing, and doesn’t look up.
The table is set with delicate, painted teacups on saucers over lace, and a three-tiered pumpkin pie forms the centerpiece.
“I’ll be right back.” Nebraska picks up a pitcher and a coffee carafe. “With fresh beverages.”
Mandy pats the empty seat next to her. “Riley, this place setting has your name all over it.”
And it does. On ivory cardstock. Written in calligraphy.
Nebraska has put herself at the head of the table, next to me. Angela is at the opposite end.
While Zelda continues to scrawl and ignore me, and the other girls chat amongst themselves, Mandy leans in toward me.
“You missed all the drama,” she says in a low, breathy voice. But even when she’s clearly ready to gossip, she still comes off as innocuous as a fawn. It’s gotta be those eyes and those red, red lips.
“That’s okay, I’m sure there’s more to come.” I’m actually kind of amazed that the girls look so relaxed after this morning’s upheaval. It’s natural for Manic Pixies to recover their equilibrium quickly, but I’m still shaken from the arson and the encounter with Bridget. It seems that I’m straying from my programming. Am I developing complexity, or do I simply have a glitch?
“So, Nebraska threw this all together by herself,” Mandy says.
I’m impressed. Nebraska has some serious hasty hostess skills.
“But she complained about how the Council outlawed live-in staff because they now consider those Tropes degrading. Apparently she prefers the good ole days.”
Nebraska glides in with her refreshed beverages. She places the pitcher in front of Angela. She takes her place and sets the carafe in front of me. She pushes creamer my way. “Soy milk.”
Again, I’m impressed.
Angela clears her throat, loudly, and the conversation dies down. “We’ve all had quite a shock today. I’m sorry to report that I don’t have any additional information regarding the abrupt cancellation of your official therapy yet, but I’m committed to seeing you survive and thrive. While I’m no longer your therapist, I am happy to serve in a mentor capacity at your gatherings, if you’ll have me?”
None of us hesitates to affirm this. I’m touched that she cares enough about us to continue to work with us. And I regret ever thinking anything unkind about her.
“Also,” Angela continues, “I’d like to thank Nebraska for inviting us to meet here.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Nebraska gushes. “I do so enjoy entertaining my dear friends.”
George rolls her eyes at this. “Speaking of friends, my friendship bracelet has gone missing.”
I glance around the circle and notice everyone wears the bracelets George gave us. Does Nebraska have something to do with the mysterious disappearance of George’s bracelet? Judging from the expressions on everyone else’s faces, I am not alone in this line of thinking. No one accuses her of anything, though, not even George.
“Oh Geor
gina! You’re so delightfully scatterbrained!” Nebraska giggles. She stirs creamer into her coffee with a fork.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” If faces were flamethrowers, George’s would be shooting fire right now.
Angela puts up her hand. “Girls! Let’s show one another respect. Okay? In my capacity as your mentor, I will still rely on my therapy background and methods, but I also want you to feel comfortable with me. If George wants us to call her George, then let’s call her George. Can you manage that, Nebraska?”
Nebraska’s eyes flash, but she nods curtly.
“Excellent. Now, I think it would be good for us all to continue in the same vein as before—sharing what led us to be in this group in the first place. And based on our schedule, Mandy is up today.”
Mandy folds her hands into the lap of her incredibly puffy white skirt. “But what’s the point of talking through our issues if the Council thinks we’re too much hassle?”
“Yeah,” I chime in, because this strikes the worried chord inside me. “What’s going to happen to us now that we seem to be on the Council’s bad side?”
“The Council’s primary concern is investigating the fire,” Angela says carefully. “Your primary concern is to figure out what has been holding you back from being your best selves. So let’s focus on you.”
I can hardly believe that a few days ago, I thought Angela was merely a tool of the Council. Whatever else is going on here, it seems clear now she’s committed to our improvement project.
She gestures at Mandy, who takes a sip of her water, dabs her lips, and says, “I’m here because I got too distracted by the drama in my personal life. You all know about this thing I have with Clark.” Mandy stares at her knees while she talks. “It’s like a bumper car ride I can’t seem to drive away from.”
“How many times have you broken up with him now?” Zelda asks. It’s so considerate of her to finally put away her notebook and acknowledge that the rest of us exist.
I sound bitter, don’t I? I am not used to unrequited crushes and the particular anguish that accompanies them. In my Novels, even when I have romantic rivals, I’ve always been cast as the heartbreaker, not the heartbroken.
The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project Page 9
