“I’m sure you all have some semi-decent ideas, too,” Nebraska says, almost sincerely. “Let’s hear them.”
Manic Pixies always err on the side of positivity, and we cling to it even in our darkest hour. You can’t keep a good Manic Pixie down. Now that we’ve had a moment to recover from Bridget’s latest news, we’re abuzz with suggestions on how we can win over the Council.
“We could build a hot air balloon and sprinkle glitter confetti all over Town Hall!” Mandy throws her hands up in a pantomime of said activity.
“We could teach the Stock Squirrels to tap dance and lead them in a Pixie parade!” Chloe breaks into a hyper version of her signature moves.
“Or we could decorate cymbals with murals depicting classic scenes from books that Manic Pixies have worked on!” Sky belts out in her best soprano.
Nebraska whistles to get our attention. “I admire everyone’s enthusiasm. It reminds me how privileged we are to be part of the best Trope ever. And it gives me the most brilliant idea!” I certainly did not underestimate Nebraska’s capacity to believe she has the best solution for everything.
Zelda fans the flames of Nebraska’s vanity. “Do tell!”
“I propose a Manic Pixie Pixie-Off.” With the level of mania shining in her baby blues, Nebraska is clearly the one to beat. “Our defense to the Council will be to go on a major charm offensive—to stage a friendly competition to showcase the utter originality of our creative talents. We will convince the Council that without us, the world of fiction would be a dull, dreary place, and they will rue the day they ever considered retiring us.”
“Let’s hear it for the Pixie-Off!” George cheers and follows up with a back handspring. If Nebraska can fire up George, then I have hope we can do the same for the Council.
“Hear, hear!” I chime in, and the others follow suit.
Angela promises to assist in any way she can. “I can start by doing some research into retirement trials—find out if any Trope has ever actually successfully changed the Council’s mind and what strategies they used.”
Angela truly is turning into our most enthusiastic ally. I’m not sure if New Age Therapists are programmed to be this supportive, but I appreciate it.
“Well, off you all go to brainstorm,” Nebraska says, effectively kicking us out of her house. She blows us air kisses. “See you tomorrow.”
Angela heads off to Shakespeare Marlowe Memorial Library, and the rest of us convene at Ooh La Latte Café for an emergency meeting. I order an entire pecan pie from the harried barista. Zelda orders the tea of the day, Positivi-tea. We could probably all use a dose of it.
At our table, George stabs her gooey slice like she wants to murder it. “Look, I’m thrilled we convinced Nebraska to include us, but I have to say, I think there’s a high chance she’ll end up screwing us over.”
It’s true that Nebraska’s ego doesn’t make her the ideal team player. But given George’s shaky history with our Legacy Pixie, it’s possible she’s overly suspicious.“She’d have nothing to gain from undermining us,” I point out. “We’re just trying to help save the Trope.”
“That’s what I mean, though,” says George. “Nebraska doesn’t care about saving the Trope. She only cares about herself. And as Legacy, she’ll probably angle for special treatment, so she doesn’t end up like the rest of us.”
“Then we need to perform well in front of the Council,” I insist. “We need to show them that we’re all just as special as Nebraska. We can’t let her show us up.”
Mandy gasps. “Or we could sabotage her.”
George’s eyes light up. “Oooh! How?”
The suggestions come fast and furious, which goes to show how much Nebraska has pissed these girls off:
“Shoot her with a super-soaker full of green food coloring!”
“Put ladybugs in all her pockets!”
“Set loose a carton of albino mice!”
Unfortunately, all of these ideas are far too whimsical to actually be effective, and I say so.
“Riley is right.” George slumps into her seat. “We need to think outside the MPDG box. We need to make Nebraska look boring. Compared to the rest of us, at least.”
It seems like an impossible feat. I’ve got nothing.
“None of us are experts in boring.” Sky taps her ever-present headphones. “Can we find a consultant somewhere?”
“How about Clark?” Chloe jokes.
Mandy sticks her tongue out at Chloe. “You’re hilarious.”
I can’t help but snicker. “They do say every joke begins with a kernel of truth. Maybe Clark could help us.”
“You guys! Clark is not that bad.”
Chloe groans. “Don’t tell me you’re back together again.”
Mandy’s sheepish expression gives her away.
“Oh, Mandy,” goes the collective sigh.
Mandy serves herself the last slice of pie and takes a huge bite. She doesn’t speak until she swallows. “Fine. I’ll ask him for advice. But you all know that means I can’t break up with him while he’s helping us.”
“Are you going to break up with him as part of our victory celebration?” Chloe asks.
Mandy sets down her plate and goes still. As much as she’s been trying to be a good sport about our ribbing of Clark, it appears to have finally gotten to her. My protective instincts kick in.
“How about we concentrate on the Pixie-Off,” I suggest. “We only have five days to prepare after all.”
“Here’s to saving our Trope!” Sky raises her forkful of pie.
“And to sticking it to Nebraska!” George squeals with such manic enthusiasm that even Mandy has to join in our laughter.
And the countdown begins.
Chapter 35
Zelda and I linger after the others skip out of the café. She’s on her third Postivi-tea, but based on her gloomy expression, it doesn’t seem to be helping. “I don’t think we’re taking this seriously enough,” she complains to me. “These may be our last five days in TropeTown.”
Her words put a serious dent in my manic energy. If we can’t convince the Council we’re worth keeping around, these may be the last five days I have with Zelda. I reject this possibility with all my being. “The Pixie-Off will work. It has to.”
“But what if it doesn’t? I would love to believe there is a future for us . . .” And the way she says “us” makes me think she means her and me “us,” and my heart soars despite all the heaviness holding it down. “But realistically, planting may be our only option.”
“It’s not so dire yet that we have to do something that drastic,” I insist. If she plants, there will definitely be no us.
She stirs her tea, clanking the spoon against the sides of the mug. “My current novel is not the worst novel in the world. I like Chet . . .”
“But you wouldn’t be happy.”
“Maybe I could learn to be? He’s a good guy—he’s complex, you know? An athlete and a scholar. He has all these big ideas for his life.”
Maybe I could have big ideas for my life, too, if I thought I had any sort of control over it. TropeTown decides what work I do, whom I’m not allowed to date, and now whether I get to continue existing in the present tense.
She sighs. “Speaking of Chet—”
Suddenly my Author summons lights up. “Sorry—hold that thought, okay?” I can’t help being a little relieved I don’t have to hear anything else about Chet.
“See you later,” she says as I fade out.
Once I recover from my jump and look up from my pitcher of water, I notice Ava’s red-rimmed and puffy eyes. She’s either been crying or she has serious seasonal allergies.
“What’s wrong?” I pull her into a hug. She snuggles into my chest, and I’m surprised by how right it feels to hold her like this and comfort her. Even after Zelda basically hinted my hopes may not be in vain. What is wrong with me? My brain knows that love triangles are the worst, but try telling my body that.
“
Rafferty and I had a fight.”
“In the novel?” I rub circles on her lower back.
“There, too, but that’s just manufactured drama. Off-Page.”
How they live after the book is finished probably has a lot to do with how detailed the Author was with the setting. Marsden’s house is so far no more than the barest outline of a sketch. Would I even have a roof over my head if I had to plant here?
“You two hang out a lot?” My voice sounds shrill, a clear indication I must like Ava more than I’ve admitted to myself.
Still in my arms, she leans back and peers up at me, her eyebrow arching at the exact angle Zelda’s does. “We don’t have a whole town, like you do. Just a bunkhouse during the work-in-progress phase. But Rafferty actually doesn’t socialize much. He mostly plays video games. Blasting away at imaginary enemies all night long.”
“That’s annoying.”
“Which is why I asked him to keep it down, and he blew up at me.” She sighs. “Most days he’s fine, really, but he can be so volatile if he doesn’t get his way.”
“That sounds manipulative and abusive.”
Ava shakes her head. “Oh no, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. He doesn’t hit me or anything like that. And sometimes he can be really sweet.”
I don’t like this situation one bit, but I feel powerless to do anything about it. It’s not like I can pull her out of her own novel and take her back to TropeTown. If I planted here to escape the threat of retirement, I could take care of her—but would she even want that?
“Well, you deserve better,” I say, finally. Because she does. “You deserve someone who respects you at all times, not just when it’s convenient.”
“Someone like you?” she asks so softly, I get a lump in my throat.
I pull her closer to my chest and kiss the top of her head. “I’m not really known for being the kind of guy who sticks around. There are better guys out there, I assure you.”
“I don’t know any of them.” She sniffles, and I’m afraid I made her cry again. I’m supposed to be cheering her up. But I can’t tell her she’ll meet other guys, because it’s up to her Author to create or hire them. There are other guy characters in her novel, but I’m not sure how much personality they have. Rafferty has a few buddies with names and lines, but I don’t know anything about them and couldn’t recommend them based on the company they keep.
As I contemplate what I can possibly say to her, the green light blinks on. We’re suddenly joined by Rafferty and a crowd of extras and swept onto the soundstage. It’s a complicated and chaotic scene involving Marsden organizing the school’s marching band to play a current popular upbeat love song to Ava while she’s running around the track with her gym class.
I start off by running down the bleachers while simultaneously singing into a microphone. Rafferty, who is sitting in the front row, trips me as I come past, but I do a flip in the air and land triumphantly on my feet. Everyone cheers, except for Rafferty, obviously.
Ava runs up to me, and I spin her around to the music while the rest of her gym class acts as back-up dancers. It’s exhilarating to have this victory. Ava’s eyes never leave mine, and her entire face is lit up in incandescent joy. I’m suddenly struck by the thought that if I planted here, I could relive this moment over and over. Could such happiness ever get old?
The entire production is cut short by the Errant Gym Teacher finally returning to class and blowing his whistle. In the aftermath, the teacher condemns both Ava and Rafferty to detention, which ruins Ava’s plans to hang out with Marsden. While Ava is disappointed, Rafferty rubs his hands together in eager anticipation of getting Ava alone.
“Tough luck, chap.” Rafferty bumps my shoulder as he leads Ava to the sidelines. The soundstage is reset for their detention scene, and Ava blows me a kiss behind Rafferty’s back.
As she’s pulled away from me, the achy spot in my heart grows a little bigger.
Lingering at the craft services table, I allow myself to imagine what it might be like to live full-time in Ava’s novel. The way things are going between us, it seems like Ava would choose me Off-Page even if her Author is #TeamRafferty. But no matter how deeply Ava and I might end up loving each other, Rafferty will always lurk in the background. Every time a Reader follows Ava’s story, I would have to see Ava kissing Rafferty On-Page. I’m not even the jealous kind, but I defy anyone to say that doesn’t suck.
Not to mention I’d be cut off from Zelda and all my Manic Pixie friends. They might plant in equally sub-par scenarios—or else they’d be retired.
There has to be another way.
Chapter 36
The next morning, we attend un-therapy at Nebraska’s, and we spend so much time working on our plans for the Pixie-Off, I never get a chance to look for Finn’s letter. And yet it doesn’t feel like we’re making much progress. Nebraska keeps telling us whatever we do has to be spontaneous or it will seem too stiff. Which seems to add credibility to our fears that she’s actually coming up with her own plan to save only herself—leaving us to flounder and fall prey to the Council’s wrath.
Angela does have one helpful suggestion: that we rally the rest of TropeTown’s Manic Pixies to attend the hearing, even though they can’t all be part of the Pixie-Off. Having them there for moral support and to demonstrate the diversity of our Trope might win us some points with the Council.
It’s going to take the better part of the four days we have left to track down all 150 of our fellow Pixies, and the prospect doesn’t raise our spirits—especially since, at the moment, it seems like we might be inviting them to their own funeral. As we morosely shuffle out of TropeTown Heights, Mandy claps her hands together to get our attention. “So Clark said he’s willing to help us find a way to make Nebraska seem boring . . .”
We cheer.
“. . . provided we allow him to give us all a tour of the glass factory.”
We jeer.
“Boring!” Chloe whines.
“Yes!” George shimmies in her hot pants. “Which makes him the perfect man for the job!”
“So when are we going?” Sky asks.
Mandy throws up her hands in the air, as if we’ve won a grand prize. “Right now!”
On the way to the glass factory, Zelda and I trail the other girls by a decent enough distance for the illusion of privacy. She bumps up against my shoulder and casually touches my arm to point out signs along the road that she finds funny. We wrap ourselves in a cocoon of conspiratorial coziness, and I can’t get enough of it.
While the other girls spread their zany cheer among random pedestrians, Zelda sticks close to me. “Riley,” she whispers, “I was wondering . . . will you come to work with me later? I need your help.”
“You mean, jump into your Novel with you? Is that even possible?”
She nods solemnly. I don’t shake her down for logistical details. There’s no rule against this as far as I know, but then again, I’ve never heard of anyone trying it, either.
Still, if Zelda needs my help, I’m going to be there for her. “Of course.”
She lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m lucky to have someone like you.” Her words are so reminiscent of Ava’s that I do a double take. I close my eyes for split second and I see Ava, and the lump in my throat returns as well. My chest swirls with guilt and confusion and nervousness. I don’t want to feel these negative emotions. I want them to go away. I push them down and pull on a smile. I grab Zelda’s hand and rush up with her to the rest of group, letting their stream of mindless chatter and laughter cure me.
When we enter the Industrial District, our convivial rowdiness garners disapproving stares from workers in orange hard hats. Mandy and Sky try to look dignified for about five seconds before they throw up their hands and start skipping.
From the outside, the factory looks more like a gothic cathedral than an industrial building. The massive structure features three semicircular arches in the front and is topped by two towers with s
lit windows.
Clark greets us at the wrought-iron door and ushers us inside to a vestibule area lined by wooden benches. He puts his arm around Mandy. “Welcome to the tour, ladies. And Riley.”
“Not so fast,” George says. “Before we begin, we want to hear your strategy for solving our problem.”
Mandy shrugs out of his embrace. “Yes, Clark. What have you prepared for us on the topic of being boring?”
“Other than taking us on this pathetic tour,” Chloe chimes in under her breath.
Clark tugs at the sleeve of his thick, plaid work shirt. “Well, I know how you all appreciate whimsy, so I will reveal my plan at the end of the tour, kind of like how a leprechaun gives you a pot of treasure when you follow his rainbow.”
Clark has more insight into the Manic Pixie psyche than I would have given him credit for. I slow clap my appreciation, and the girls join me in my applause, even Chloe (grudgingly).
“Thank you,” Clark says. “Now let’s begin.”
Past the vestibule, the space opens up into high vaulted ceilings crisscrossed by exposed beams and pipes. Clark tells us that the pane work is done in an adjacent building in the back, which is off limits. No complaints from us.
We gather around an active glassblowing session. A man in coveralls stands on a two-foot-high platform with a long tube, while another man sits below him tending a furnace that’s enclosed in a thin, black cylinder about the thickness of one of Clark’s legs. Coveralls rotates the tube and pulls molten glass out with it, which he carries over to a steel table to shape.
Clark describes the process in all its minutiae, throwing around terms like marver and jacks and punty. And by the end, Coveralls has created an elegant clear vase.
“Any questions?” Clark asks us.
“Where’s our treasure?” Chloe asks. If her eyes were any more glazed over, they could be served at a doughnut shop.
“Tour isn’t over!” He grins, and I wonder if all we’re getting at the end of this rainbow is a pot full of fool’s gold.
The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project Page 12
