Mandy bites her red lip. “Ummm . . . this is going to sound awful, but I’ve lost count. Maybe twenty-two times?”
“Dang, girl!” I pat her arm protectively. I knew Mandy and Clark have differing opinions on the usefulness of blown glass, but I had no idea their relationship has been this fraught.
“Why do you think you have trouble letting go of him?” Angela asks.
Meanwhile, Nebraska kicks up her legs over the side of the armrest and lies back in a swoon. Angela ignores her, so we do, too.
Mandy picks at her teal polish, chipping it off her pinkie nail in tiny chunks. “He’s so enthusiastic about me. I guess he makes me feel worth being enthusiastic about.”
“Your value is never in question,” Angela says with surprising force, like she takes it personally. “It doesn’t change based on whether other people appreciate you.”
Mandy shrinks into herself. “I wish I could believe that,” she whispers, so quietly I’m probably the only one who can hear her. She continues more audibly, “It always goes in a pattern. First, he smothers me. I feel like I can’t breathe, and I break up with him. For a few days, I’m full of resolve that I’m better off without him. And then, I get restless and lonely and unsure. He comes around and reminds me how awesome I am, and I take him back.”
“You are awesome!” Chloe high-fives her from her other side.
Zelda jumps out of her chair. “Yeah you are!” She rounds the table and pulls Mandy up for a hug.
“Group hug!” Sky squeals, and we all pile on until we spin like a carousel of celebration. George’s arm flails out and knocks over a teacup, which shatters on the marble floor. Angela regards us from her chair with a raised eyebrow.
Nebraska falls to pieces over her broken teacup. “It’s vintage!” she fumes. She turns on George with a clenched fist. “You did that on purpose.”
George backs away. “I didn’t!”
I tense as they face off. They’ve been revving for a full-on fight, and Nebraska looks ready to rumble.
“Everyone sit down,” Angela barks, and we scramble to obey like chastised puppies.
Nebraska unclenches her fist and snaps her fingers. Her purple tones of rage disappear, and she smiles sunny yellow. “It’s okay. People are always more important than things.”
Because her delivery comes out a tad too flat, I’m not convinced she actually means it.
“Well stated,” Angela says. “As a person, you have intrinsic significance. And while I like that you all are so supportive of each other, Mandy needs to stop relying on external validation—even that given by friends—and start practicing internal validation. Mandy—you said Clark reminds you how awesome you are, but why can’t you remind yourself?”
“I guess I can try.” Mandy’s pained expression reveals that she has her doubts.
“Why don’t we all try?” Angela pounds her palm on the table and the china clatters. “Repeat after me: I am awesome.”
As usual in forced public mantra repetitions, most of us mumble. It’s not that I don’t think I’m awesome, but isn’t it a mite vain to scream it at the top of my lungs? Nebraska has no such qualms. Her clear voice soars with confidence.
Angela shakes her head. “Is that the best you can do?”
“I am awesome,” we say. Louder now, but still reluctant.
“No pie until I’m satisfied with your awesomeness,” Angela threatens, hitting me right where it does the most damage.
“I am awesome!” And this time the blue chandelier in the ballroom quivers before the boom in my voice.
Chapter 29
Immediately after our session, while I’m preoccupied with pie, Zelda scrams. Which puts a damper on my plans to walk around admiring TropeTown Heights with her, so I gawk at all the ostentation by myself until I get hungry enough to go home for lunch.
I’ve just settled into my sofa when there’s a scraping at my door again. I expect to see Sprite, but Zelda stands there instead.
“Sprite told me scratching gets your attention.” Zelda imitates a paw with her hand.
I survey the area around my stoop, but no Sprite. I raise an eyebrow. “She talks, does she?”
“To kindred spirits she does!”
Honestly, I am prone to believe anything Zelda tells me, plausible or not. “So you’re the cat whisperer now. Sure, okay.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in? I brought you a gift.”
“Gift first,” I joke. “And if I approve, I will consider your request for admittance.”
She holds out a silver button, this one with Au-79, the symbol for gold. “I left in such a rush because I wanted to make you something. It’s to help you remind yourself how awesome you are. But since there’s no AW . . .”
“I’m glad you went with that rather than As-33.”
She laughs approvingly. “Yes. Arsenic would send a very different kind of message, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s why I never eat powered doughnuts.”
“Same here!”
It may be a small similarity, but I latch onto it as proof of our compatibility.
“In that case, you may pin me and then enter.” I bow formally.
She steps close in order to affix the pin to my collar. Kissing distance. I hold my breath until she finishes with a graze of her knuckles against my chin. Accidental? On purpose? My racing heartbeat would like to believe the latter.
But as soon as she sets foot on the rug in my living room, she quirks an eyebrow. It makes me super nervous that my apartment doesn’t live up to her standards and she’ll never want to return.
“May I offer you a spot of tea?” I attempt to mask the shakes in my voice with a phony British accent that would make Rafferty proud. “I have Double O Cinnamon.” Which I bought in case you ever visited.
“I’d love some, thank you.”
When I return with two steaming mugs of tea, she’s flipping through the comic book I was in the middle of when she showed up.
“I love Maya’s art. She has such a bold vision for the reboot of these characters.”
Does Zelda need to know I wasn’t aware that an earlier version exists? Nope. “Totally.”
“Aha! Gotcha!” She points her trigger finger at me. “You don’t know a thing about comics, do you?”
Oh no. “How could you tell?”
“While checking out your bookshelf, I discovered a curious anomaly. You have a bunch of random issues of different books.”
She stands and pulls out a couple of examples. “Look here. You have Razzle-Dazzle Spider-Mouse 89 and Jazz-Hands Spider-Mouse 90. Did these even make sense when you read them? They’re two different universes with two different continuities! And another thing: you don’t protect your books—you stuff them in between atlases and dictionaries all willy-nilly.”
Undone by a rookie mistake. Ah, geekdom—you are a cruel mistress.
“Riley, comics demand zealous engagement. A sincere fan stocks up on boards and bags and boxes, and debates endlessly about the obvious superiority of his or her preferred universe. Tell me, are you willing to make such a serious commitment?”
Her impassioned speech transforms my shame into conviction. “I am.”
“Then we gladly welcome you to the fold.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I’ll take you by the comic store in the mall sometime if you want.”
I’d go to a clown convention if it meant getting to hang out with Zelda. “Sign me up.”
She blows on her tea and takes an exploratory sip. “Ahhh. Perfect drinking temperature.”
I clink my mug against hers and drink too. The tea tastes spicy and silky on my tongue. “Good stuff.”
“Looks like we both have a license to chill,” she says with a wink.
I’m flattered she repeats my joke despite disparaging it last time. It feels like progress.
We sip the tea and keep catching each other’s eye. I work up the courage to bring up what’s really on my mind. “So, we’
re not officially in therapy together anymore . . .” I trail off hoping she catches my drift.
“It’s so great of Angela not to give up on us,” Zelda says, possibly ignoring my drift. “I was suspicious of her at first, but now I really do feel like she’s on our side. Don’t you?”
I am so not thinking about Angela right now. But I do notice Zelda is clutching her tea mug like it might run off to the Villain Zone, and I remember what Mandy said about Zelda having different priorities. Maybe I’ll chase her away if I’m too direct. Maybe it would be a big mistake to try to define what we are to each other. Maybe I should just go with the flow and see what happens. “We’re lucky to have her.”
Zelda beams at me like I gave the correct answer and finishes off her tea. She sets her mug down and gets up to poke around my stuff again.
“Ooh, you play the guitar?” She picks it up and hands it to me.
I strum my go-to chords and improvise some silly lyrics. “I know a girl named Zelda. She wants to be a welder . . .”
“I do not!” she exclaims, laughing. “And that doesn’t even rhyme.”
I keep singing, undeterred by her near-valid criticism. “Transition metals won’t sting her with nettles. And behold! The fates have foretold! You’ll never grow mold when you join silver and gold.”
She claps. She joins in with her own verse, singing adorably off-key. “I know a boy named Riley. He plays guitar so spryly. He’s kind of a dork, should be stabbed with a spork . . .”
“Hey!” I protest, laughing.
She grins. “Genius inspires genius.”
The more time I spend with her, the more she makes me fall for her. And now she’s adding flattery into the mix. Be still my Pixie heart.
Pretty much every romantic comedy worth its blubbery feels features a montage sequence where the happy couple frolics and cavorts backed by an up-tempo pop song.
So I turn the radio way up to set the montage mood.
Zelda and I play darts, all the while laughing and touching and generally being cute. As I am sure you’d expect by now, she beats me.
We spin the globe and point out all the places we’d go if we lived in Reader World. Paris. Paramaribo. Pittsburgh.
We bounce around the kitchen chopping up pineapple, pitting cherries, and peeling bananas. We throw them all in a blender to make smoothies and race to see who can finish first. As I am sure you’d expect by now, I beat her.
I walk her halfway home (her idea, not mine), and she gives me one of those glorious full body hugs that’s so cozy and perfect you could fall asleep standing up if you weren’t mega turned on and concentrating on being thankful for the restrictive denim of your jeans.
Of course, I haven’t forgotten we aren’t actually a couple. But after today, I can feel the pulse of possibility. It’s intoxicating.
And . . . fade out . . .
Chapter 30
The next day at Nebraska’s mansion, Angela charges us with silent meditation and reflection about our awesomeness. So I meditate on Zelda’s radiance and reflect on our afternoon spent being awesome together.
Zelda and Chloe both get Author summons near the end of our hour, and Angela leaves promptly when Nebraska’s antique wood grandfather clock chimes ten. The others trickle out after her, but I stay and offer to help Nebraska clean up the mess.
“Have another piece of pie,” she says by way of dastardly distraction. And of course it works. I do love my pie.
I’m cramming a third piece into my piehole when I get the urge to pee. Bad. I mentally revisit the four cups of coffee I drank—curse that sweet soy milk temptress!
“Uh . . . do you mind pointing the way to your bathroom?”
Nebraska opens the smaller door to the kitchen and gestures for me to pass. “Down the hall on your right.”
I thank her and start my trek. The kitchen is gorgeous, full of chrome, teak, and rose marble. But my full bladder and I don’t linger to admire the view.
The hallway goes on forever. When I open the doors I find:
A small room with wall-to-wall mirrors and four blue yoga mats on the floor
A room with wrapping paper and ribbons
A room full of plush velvet hatboxes in assorted colors with what look like handwritten letters spilling from them
A room that is completely empty except for a giant stuffed hippo wearing a diamond tiara
THE BATHROOM!
After I take care of my pressing need to recycle my coffee, I head back toward the veranda, but a nagging memory encourages me to make an unscheduled stop in the hatbox room. Didn’t Nebraska say Finn wrote her letters? I mean, she also said she destroyed them, but my gut tells me to not trust her on this. If I find a letter from Finn, maybe it will shed some light on the secrets he took with him to the Termination Train.
The first few hatboxes contain fan mail, some of it dated decades ago with faded ink. Envy and self-doubt make me think I’m actually not that awesome, because I’ve only gotten a tiny fraction of Nebraska’s audience adoration. I remind myself she’s been at this way longer than I have. And also, I don’t need external validation to be awesome.
“I am awesome!” I whisper-scream to myself. I can’t be more vocally expressive because I don’t want Nebraska to discover me rooting through her prized possessions. Which means I should also leave before she gets suspicious that I’m taking too long.
I open a hatbox decorated with hearts, hoping to see Finn’s name, but instead I see Angela’s name signed in bold cursive. What the heck? The box teems with letters from Angela. One envelope contains a photo of them with huge smiles and cheeks touching. All of the clues click into place. Oh. My. God. Why didn’t I see it before? Angela and Nebraska used to be a couple.
Their animosity makes so much more sense now. Is Nebraska only attending therapy to piss off Angela? That would be vindictive of her, but it fits her modus operandi.
I quickly scan the rest of the open hatboxes. Nebraska calls my name in the same second that I finally spy Finn’s handwriting on an envelope on a high shelf. But I don’t have time to do anything but dash out of the room and hope she doesn’t catch me snooping.
“Coming!” I shout down toward the kitchen.
She emerges into the hallway, her face creepy in the shadows thanks to the backlighting. “Hey,” she says, her tone neutral. “I thought you might have gone for a swim in the sewer. Down with the crocs.”
Does she suspect something? Maybe she’s plotting to offer me up as a tasty overly caffeinated treat to her roving pack of sewer reptiles.
“Maybe next time.” I laugh to cover up my paranoia. “I didn’t bring my swim trunks.” Next time I’ll definitely find an excuse to return to the hatbox room and swipe that letter from Finn. If she lied about destroying it, it must contain something important.
As soon as I’m close enough, she hooks her arm through mine and leads me back to the veranda.
“I packed the leftover pie for you.” She loads me up with a red felt pie box embossed with the name of a fancy TropeTown Heights bakery. “Can’t have it lying around here trying to seduce me.”
“Riley saves the day!”
She pats the top of the box. “If you say so.”
Chapter 31
Ava greets me with a kiss when I arrive backstage at work, which takes me by surprise. “I’ve decided I like kissing you better than Rafferty.”
I can’t deny her announcement massages my ego most ergonomically, and in my head I shout, “I am awesome!” and “Suck it, Rafferty!” But now that Zelda and I are maybe fast-tracking it to coupledom, I probably shouldn’t be letting Ava give me sugar behind the scenes.
The Extras grazing at the craft services table seem supportive, though, judging by their clapping and cheering.
“Nice to see you, too.” I squeeze her hand, but also step back. “So what’s on the docket for today?”
“We’re waiting for TropeTown to send over a dog to play Bruiser, and then we’ll take a walk with him in
the park.”
Considering our wardrobe—T-shirts and sweatpants—I predict running and possible canine shenanigans.
“So this will be your first encounter with Bruiser?”
“First time meeting a dog ever!” She bounces up and down on the balls of her feet.
“Really?” It strikes me how limited Ava’s experience will always be. While as a Developed she has the privilege of touching Readers’ lives, she’ll be eternally stuck in a world only as large as what the Author gives her. As a Trope, I may not stick in Readers’ minds for long, but I’ve been given the potential for a much wider range of adventures. Of course, I’m greedy and I want more. Isn’t there a way to have it all?
“Oh, look! There he is!”
I glance over at the landing area and recognize a familiar blue windbreaker and sunglasses.
After the brown and white collie laps up an entire bowl of water, he trots over to us. “Hey—you’re the kid we mistook for a New Age Therapist. How’s therapy been treating you?”
Ava’s eyes widen in horror. Leave to a dog to let the cat out of the bag.
“Just fine, Bruiser,” I say through clenched teeth. I guess he hasn’t heard about our therapy being canceled, and I don’t exactly want to discuss that right now. “How’s yours?”
“Call me Sal.”
I cross my arms. “I wouldn’t expect a Legacy like yourself would go for such a minor role.”
“It’s essentially a cameo. A couple of days’ work at most. Good visibility in a projected blockbuster. Plus, I’m tired of doing death scenes.”
Ava kneels in front of him. “Is it okay if I scratch behind your ears? Dogs like that, right?”
“Starting out on the right paw,” Sal says.
While Ava acquaints herself with Sal, I change into my wardrobe. The pants the Author chose fit me in terms of size, but not personality, unless she means for me to wear the repetitive print of the high school’s snarling wolf mascot ironically. The plain but tight sweatshirt accentuates my chest, so I can hardly complain about that.
The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project Page 10
