The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project

by Lenore Appelhans

  “No idea.” She lifts her palm for a high five. “Two days, no contact.”

  I up the ante and offer a double high five, and she goes all in for the ten. As we take our seats, I fill her in on George’s safe return and Nebraska’s treachery. She tells me that no one has seen Angela, but that Sky has met with Nebraska and planted the seeds of sabotage. I’m not a vindictive person by nature, but at this point, I’d relish seeing Nebraska get her comeuppance.

  Nebraska struts onto the stage and stands before a clear, glass podium in a regal sleeveless jumpsuit color-blocked in jewel tones. She’s honestly the only person I’ve ever known to pull off this style. The Council, comprised of Bridget, two other women, and one man, sits off to one side.

  As Nebraska scans the crowd, her gaze falls on me. She flinches slightly in surprise, but recovers quickly with a smile that betrays begrudging admiration. She taps her chin, and I know she’s plotting something, her quicksilver mind working overtime to twist my escape to her advantage.

  When Bridget climbs on stage, silence fills the auditorium. She spends a moment staring down at us with her superior expression, attempting to intimidate us. Which, to be honest, works rather well, seeing as I’m trembling in my chair.

  “Because she serves as a cipher whose sole purpose is to enrich and enliven the lives of depressed dudes, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl Trope may be considered an outdated, sexist offense against humanity,” Bridget says. She turns to face Nebraska. “How do you plead?”

  “Thank you for your charming introduction, Bridget. It is my pleasure this evening, as the only Legacy of my illustrious Trope, to defend myself against these baseless charges.”

  Bridget makes her way back to the rest of the Council, who seems impressed with Nebraska’s imposing stage presence. Nebraska is convincing at what she does, but her word choice, which puts the focus of her defense on herself, does not go unnoticed by the crowd. A low rumble of discontent begins to vibrate behind me.

  Nebraska continues, undeterred. “Cipher characters are not inherently sexist, but rather, it is the way they are used that can become problematic. As you and the rest of the Council know, Bridget, Tropes aren’t meant to serve the same purpose as Developeds. They don’t need to be as nuanced or complex. This is, in fact, the whole guiding principle and raison d’etre of TropeTown. Furthermore, Manic Pixies enrich the lives of everyone they come across, not only dudes. I have a room full of letters as proof of how my dazzling personality has helped those of all gender identities in Reader World find their way through a multitude of difficult situations.”

  She pulls a handful of letters out of the pockets of her jumpsuit as a prop and flings them into the air. They flutter down and land squarely at my feet, a reminder of her conviction that I’m responsible for her dwindling popularity. “Just as Readers love us, so do the Developeds who headline the stories we support so selflessly. One such Developed is so enamored of our work, she broke out of her own novel to defend us here tonight.”

  Everyone in the room, including the awestruck Council, erupts with gasps—Developeds leaving their novels is unheard of. I get a sinking feeling at her use of feminine pronouns. Especially when Nebraska looks straight at me with a wicked grin. Has Nebraska used her Legacy status to somehow trick Ava into doing this?

  Sure enough, Ava enters through a side door and climbs onstage. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail and her soft pink cardigan compliments the glow in her cheeks. She looks elegant and gorgeous and determined.

  I am seriously fighting tears.

  Nebraska steps slightly to the side, leaving barely enough room for Ava to squeeze behind the podium. Without missing a beat, Ava hip-checks Nebraska, nudging her farther out of the spotlight. For a delightful split-second, Nebraska is thrown off-balance.

  Ava sees me, and a radiant smile spreads across her face. It’s so surreal to have her here in TropeTown that I grab onto the armrests of my chair for fear of floating away.

  “My name is Ava Wells,” she begins. “When Riley told me about the possibility of his Trope being retired, I was shocked. Riley’s work as a Manic Pixie Dream Boy has depth and heart, and his positive attitude and generous spirit inspired all of us, including the Author, to see the best in ourselves. Losing Riley and those of his Trope would be a crushing blow to literature.”

  She pauses, fiddling with the top button of her cardigan. “And losing Riley would be a crushing blow to me.”

  Somebody in the audience starts clapping, and suddenly the whole room erupts in cheers.

  Nebraska motions for me to join them, and Mandy pushes me up. I find my feet walking of their own accord, because I’m certainly not controlling them. I end up squeezing myself awkwardly between Ava and Nebraska.

  The view from the stage overwhelms me. Over 150 sets of eyes bore into me, judging me and my rumpled appearance. I have to gulp numerous times to keep this afternoon’s meager jail rations in my stomach.

  “Yes, indeed.” Nebraska rests a hypocritical hand on my shoulder, and it takes everything I have not to slap it away. “Riley is a noble experiment of our Trope, as was our dearly departed friend, Finn, before him. Part of what makes our Trope so great is our willingness to try out diverse sub-types, some of which are ultimately more successful than others.”

  I can intuit where Nebraska is going with this argument, and I need to shut her down before she lays me at the sacrificial altar to save herself.

  “If it’s sexism you want to combat,” I interrupt, my voice shaky at first but growing steadier, “the solution is not to obliterate the Manic Pixie Dream Girl, but to level the playing field and add more Manic Pixie Dream Boys to the mix.”

  Nebraska’s claws dig into my shoulder. She is obviously not amused, but she knows she can’t risk arguing with me now.

  “Riley is 100 percent correct,” George calls from the audience. She leaps up from her seat at the back and runs to the stage, hopping on it and taking the mike. “Not only are we diversifying in terms of gender, but we’ve also become more inclusive by providing Manic Pixies of various ethnic backgrounds and sexual orientations.”

  George waves out into the audience. “There’s Lulu, Brienne, Fatima, Aysha, Mishiko, Palak, and me—and dozens more who carry love and light into our literature. Reader World would be a less magical place without us. Without all of us. We don’t simply enrich the lives of depressed dudes, we enrich each life we come across.”

  “To demonstrate this,” I jump in, fired up, “several of us have collaborated with Nebraska to put together a Pixie-Off—”

  Bridget pounds a wooden hammer on the table in front of her to silence us. This is the moment of truth.

  “A rousing set of speeches, to be sure,” Bridget says. “I’m afraid that, due to time constraints, we will have to adjourn now. However, we will reconvene tomorrow for your Pixie-Off. You are dismissed.”

  Chapter 56

  A stay of execution brings collective celebratory relief, followed approximately 4.2 seconds later by individual panicky anxiety. This manifests in 150 Manic Pixies hopping, skipping, and gamboling for the exit. The remaining seven of us, stalwarts from group therapy, gather in front of the stage, joined by Ava.

  No one says a thing as Bridget makes her way over to us with a quizzical expression.

  Zelda gives my hand a quick squeeze, and I appreciate it. I notice she’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and gold snowsuit pants with suspenders. A flashy understatement pepped up with exactly the right flair—a gold Au-79 button. The button makes me feel unreasonably hopeful about our plight.

  “You certainly had some surprises up your sleeves, Nebraska,” Bridget says. “Am I to understand you arranged for both Ava and Georgina to be present here today?”

  “Ava and Georgina came of their own free will,” Nebraska states. She’s not going to confirm she’s complicit in anything that could bring censure from the Council.

  Bridget addresses George: “I should have my guards return you to the VZ, but
frankly, I admire your spunk. You may stay on the Right Side of the Tracks at least until our final verdict tomorrow.”

  George and Sky exchange fist bumps, and I flash George a covert thumbs-up.

  Bridget scrutinizes Ava next. “And you. You realize you cannot return to your novel, and you essentially destroyed it by leaving.” The way she puts it sounds so harsh, I expect Ava to recoil.

  Instead, Ava stands taller. “I had a heart-to-heart with my Author. She came to understand I had developed past the confines of the story she was writing, and she released me so I can reach my full potential. She assured me that she would continue to create, and she sends her gratitude to Riley for inspiring her to be better. She said she is proud of us, and she wishes us the best.”

  Bridget is rendered speechless, and I detect tears welling up in the eyes of my fellow Manic Pixies.

  “That is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard,” Mandy says. “You must really love Riley.”

  My gaze shifts from Ava to the bemused Zelda and back again. Being at the crux of a love triangle has never felt more uncomfortable.

  Ava giggles. “Um, sure. I mean, I do love Riley. But I didn’t come here for him.”

  I gulp, simultaneously relieved and puzzled. “You didn’t?”

  “I did this for me,” she asserts. “Your belief in me made me believe in myself. I want more out of my life than cycling through the same plot over and over. I want to have adventures of my own making.”

  Ava partly credits her new outlook to my contribution. The sense of pride I felt the day Ava summoned me returns, and it makes me want to sweep her up into my arms.

  Bridget clears her throat. “Yes, well. You will have to come with me to be processed. We can’t have undocumented characters wandering around TropeTown.”

  “Wait . . .” I have so much I want to say to Ava. Bridget can’t just drag her away.

  “You should have adequate time for a reunion later,” Bridget declares brusquely. But she gives Nebraska a little nod. “I must admit, your defense dazzled us today.”

  We’re still processing this unexpected praise as she continues. “We are curious to see if you can continue to impress us with your teamwork. Come back tomorrow night at six and show us what you’ve got.” She escorts a dazed Ava out of the room, adding over her shoulder, “But bear in mind, regardless of your individual merits or limitations, our decision will apply to the Trope as a whole.”

  I exchange glances with the others. It’s clear we’re all thinking the same thing.

  To impress Bridget, we have to put our hate for Nebraska on hold.

  Because if we sabotage Nebraska, we sabotage ourselves. But if we don’t, we let her get away with everything.

  We have a weighty decision to make.

  What would Finn have us do?

  Or you?

  Chapter 57

  After Bridget’s pronouncement, Zelda tells me we need to talk. When did the use of that phrase ever turn out well?

  Maybe she’s worried that Ava’s unexpected arrival in TropeTown complicates our relationship. My own feelings are so knotted, I’m not sure how reassuring I can be. But I try to push Ava out of my mind for now to concentrate on Zelda.

  “I want to take you to my tree house,” she says. “It’s where I was going with all those books when I dropped them at your feet.”

  It’s a reassuring offer, because it shows that she trusts me. And isn’t it about time?

  On our way, we stop for a moment of reflection on our bridge.

  “That day we met doesn’t seem so long ago, does it?” The ducks quack at her for crackers, but she makes a show of her empty palms.

  “It wasn’t that long ago.” I scrounge for a stale cracker in the pocket of my sport coat and give it to her to appease the ducks. “But I still feel like I’ve known you forever.”

  “I’m so happy I’ve gotten the chance to know you.” She retrieves a pocket knife from one of her ankle boots and carves Z + R into the wood. It’s a surprising and flattering gesture. Even though I know it’s shown up in hundreds of Novels, in this moment it feels unique.

  She takes my hand, and we walk on with our fingers entwined. Maybe this talk will turn out well, after all.

  Her tree house hides itself well in plain sight. She has to point it out to me before I can find it in the canopy of leaves above us. She sheds her gold snowsuit bottoms to reveal a simple pair of black leggings underneath.

  “Watch your head,” she warns as we climb the wooden slats nailed to the trunk. “The ceiling hangs low.”

  Once inside, I whistle. “Wow. You have a lot of treasures, don’t you?”

  The floor of the tree house sags with clutter. In one corner lies a croquet mallet next to a yellow blow-up chair that, thanks to algae stains, looks like it was rescued from the neglected life of a pool floatie. A makeshift bookcase supports a vintage set of encyclopedias, a pair of binoculars, and a dog-eared guide to the birds of North America. And a tray table holds a microscope with an assortment of marked slides and glass beakers and other science-y stuff.

  “Thank you for not calling it junk.” She clears a space for me on a braided rag rug and I sit across from her.

  “Anything for you, Empress of the Anatidae.”

  “Riley.” Her eyes are wet and sad. She gives me this uncomfortable sort of smile that tells me she’s about to say something she knows I won’t want to hear.

  So I cover my ears. “Don’t.”

  She reaches up and removes my hands and puts them back in my lap. “I’ve been thinking it over, and this whole Pixie-Off plan is simply too risky for me. I’ve decided my best option is to plant.”

  I’m stunned. “But we dazzled Bridget. We can do this, I know we can.” I have to believe that, because I don’t have the option of planting.

  “Riley.” She sniffles. This is as difficult for her as it is for me, which is some consolation. “If only you could plant with me.”

  When I don’t answer, she babbles on. “Though I guess that would be awkward because Chet and my character in the book have a happy ending. But that’s a moot point since you can’t plant in a book you never worked on.”

  Hearing Chet’s name is like a thousand porcupine quills straight in the heart. “You get a happy ending?”

  She smiles sadly. “Isn’t a happy ending what we always say we want?”

  “But that’s not your happy ending. That’s a character called Priscilla’s happy ending. Will you be content with playing out a character all your life?”

  “It’s better than being retired.”

  “The Council may still decide to keep us on.” Depending on whether we go through with the plan to sabotage Nebraska . . .

  “For now, maybe. But do you really want that axe hanging over your head?”

  “Well . . .” I take a deep breath. “If the Council’s decision doesn’t go the way we hope, there’s still another option. What if Finn was right? What if the Termination Train isn’t an ending, but a new beginning?”

  “It’s a fantasy,” she says firmly. “Born out of desperation and deception. That’s all it is.”

  “Let’s work this out logically,” I propose, realizing as the words come out of my mouth that logic is not something Manic Pixies are especially known for. “What we do know is outdated Tropes are retired to the Trope Museum, right?”

  “We saw that with our own eyes.” Zelda shudders.

  “But why would the Council bother with all that if they had a much easier and faster method like the train?”

  Zelda shrugs. “Okay, let’s say your hunch is right, and we do make it to Reader World. What then? What if our Trope brains are too limited to handle all the infinite possibilities of a self-controlled life?”

  “I believe we’re capable of growing—capable of dealing with a more complex universe,” I say. “You yearn for freedom the same as I do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have risked going Off-Page for that rumor.”

  “I do,” she says carefu
lly. She scrunches up her mouth, as if possibly reconsidering. It gives me hope.

  “I know it’s a risk, but it’s a chance to live life according to our own rules.” I smack my palms so hard on the floor that the glass slides rattle. “It’s the only opportunity we’ll ever have to write our own stories.”

  She shakes her head. “I wish I were as brave as you are.”

  “You are braver by far,” I insist. “Please stay with me. We can face whatever comes together.”

  “I love that you’re idealistic and romantic, but we need to be pragmatic. We are talking life and death stakes here. If our roles were reversed, I would be begging you to plant.” The urgency in her voice reveals her fear, but also how much she truly cares about me.

  Am I being selfish to ask her to throw away her one sure avenue for continued existence? Maybe I am. If she plants, at least one of us will be guaranteed to survive.

  “You’re right,” I say, even though a part of me dies when I say it.

  She touches a finger to my lips. “I’ve already decided. I’ll plant tomorrow afternoon during my final work session. My Novel is nearly done.”

  “But that means . . .”

  “I won’t be there for the Pixie-Off.”

  After all we’ve been through in the name of seeking justice for our Trope, she’s not even going to stay to see our defense through. A direct punch to my kidney would hurt less.

  “I know it sucks,” she says in the understatement of the year, “but it’s my last window to plant. And you don’t need me.”

  If she only knew how much I needed her. But telling her that won’t change anything. Even if there’s no happy end in the cards for me, I can be happy for hers. “I’ll miss you.”

  “Hey! This isn’t goodbye!”

  “It isn’t?” Hope swells up my chest.

  “Come over to my apartment tomorrow morning. I want to give you something before I go.”

  And hope leaves again in my next heavy exhale.

  I have the urge to scream in frustration at the universe introducing us, showing me how amazing life can be, and then taking her away. I know it’s the typical character arc of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl, but this time is more agonizing because it’s happening to me. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”