I'm Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl

by Gretchen McNeil

  Gabe attempted to diffuse the mounting tension. “Such a sexy mouth too.” He reached over and smooshed Spencer’s cheeks. “I just want to kiss it.”

  Cassilyn laughed, appearing behind Gabe. “You’re so cute.” I wasn’t sure if she meant Spencer or Gabe.

  Thad wasn’t taking any chances. “I have a sexy mouth too.” He turned to Gabe. “Don’t you want to kiss it?”

  For an instant, I saw Gabe’s character drop. “Um . . .”

  “Yeah.” Kurt laughed. “Do you?”

  “No one asked you, idiot,” Milo barked.

  I saw the dilemma on Gabe’s face: defend Kurt and ruin this new persona he’d so carefully curated, or let his friend get insulted. He’d never failed to come to my or Spencer’s defense, and as I saw his eyes narrow on Milo, I realized that he wasn’t about to start now.

  What would a manic pixie do?

  My brain spun, like the reels on a slot machine, and each settled on a different manic pixie: Kate Hudson’s groupie from Almost Famous, Sabrina Fairchild, and Ruby Sparks.

  What did all of those characters have in common? They all spoke French. Captivating, romantic French. Just like Toile on the first day of school.

  “Idiot!” I sprang to my feet. “From the French idiot,” I said, affecting a French accent. It was utterly charming, and hopefully, disarming.

  “What?” Milo asked, his anger already ebbing.

  I grabbed his hand. “Oui, oui, monsieur! Idiot! Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I covered my mouth with my hand and giggled as if I’d made the most hilarious joke in the world.

  “You speak French?” Cassilyn said.

  I curtsied. “Oui!”

  “That’s so coo . . . ,” the stepsisters whined.

  “So cool,” Jesse echoed.

  Cassilyn turned to Spencer. “Do you speak French too?”

  “No,” he said. Then he grinned at me. “Just Trixie here. Go on. Say some more.”

  Spencer knew damn well I didn’t speak a word of French and was just parroting phrases I’d picked up over time, but in that moment, with half the cafeteria staring at me, I slipped into some kind of fugue state, channeling every French phrase I’d ever heard in my life, from Sheri’s short-lived foray into Cuisine Bourgeoisie to when my mom dated Hubert from Montreal to my dad’s love of old Hercule Poirot movies. “Crème brûlée à la mode,” I continued. I tapped Milo on the arm, as if he were in on the joke. “Laissez-faire nom de plume. N’est-ce pas, soup du jour, mon ami? Tout de suite!”

  “Fibonacci’s balls,” Spencer said under his breath. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw he was smiling.

  And while Milo and Thad might not have been, they’d also completely forgotten (a) that they’d been angry, and (b) if they’d been angry, what they’d been angry about. Manic pixie distraction technique for the win!

  While all eyes were still on us, I grabbed Kurt’s hand and hauled him to his feet. “Tour de force haute couture film noir, garçon.”

  “But I’m not done with my lunch yet,” he complained.

  “Take it with you,” I whispered. And as he gathered up his tray, I winked at Gabe. He looked so grateful I thought he was going to throw his arms around my neck and squeeze until my head popped off. “Mais oui? Mais non.”

  Then I looped my arm through Kurt’s and escorted him across the cafeteria and out of harm’s way, crying back over my shoulder, “Ciao, ta-ta, and adieu!”

  TWENTY-TWO

  AFTER SCHOOL, SPENCER was waiting for me at my locker, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans, his hair hanging shaggy in front of his eyes. “You made quite a splash at lunch.”

  “WWMPD?” I said. “Just like you told me.”

  He smiled. “You made the manic pixies proud.”

  A dark figure hurried toward us, hood pulled up over his head. As he passed, he looked up and I saw the suspicious features of Michael Torres glaring at me. Watching you, he mouthed, then disappeared down the hall.

  “What was that all about?” Spencer asked.

  “Oh, you know. Just my number one stalker who isn’t exactly sure why he’s stalking me.”

  “Great.”

  “Hey, Trix!” someone yelled from down the hall.

  I turned and saw a girl from my AP Physics class. I waved. “Hey, Giselle!” As soon as she was out of earshot, I dropped my voice. “She knows my name. Isn’t that awesome?” Before today I could have counted on one hand the number of students at Fullerton Hills who knew my name.

  “Actually, I’m more surprised that you knew hers.”

  I laughed, a real laugh this time, not the forced display I’d been using all day. “Right? It’s amazing what happens when you start talking to people.” I hurriedly pulled textbooks from my locker, piling them into my tote bag. “They talk back, in case you were wondering. Like, in a nice way instead of a douchey way. I didn’t realize there were so many non-asshats at this school.”

  Spencer’s eyes drifted over my head. “There are plenty of real asshats too.”

  “Hey, Bea.”

  My heart stopped at the sound of Jesse’s voice on the other side of my locker door. My face was hidden from his view, so I took a deep breath, then plastered a smile on my face before I swung the door closed.

  “Jesse!” I squealed, a little too loudly. “How was your day? Full of beauty and wonder, I hope.”

  Beside me, Spencer started to cough. “Sorry,” he sputtered. “Allergies.”

  “I really liked that thing you gave me this morning,” Jesse said, leaning in.

  “Thing?” I asked.

  “The flower with those numbers. You said it was a formula just for me, right?”

  Holy crap, in the lunchtime craziness, I’d completely forgotten about that silly flower. “Yeah. You know how I am with numbers. I was just thinking of you and doodling on the page, and out it came.”

  Spencer’s coughing erupted again, more violently this time. “Sorry.” He covered his mouth and looked away, which barely disguised his laughter.

  “And in the cafeteria today you were totally . . . I don’t know. Everyone was watching you.” Just like everyone was watching Toile last week. “The French and everything. It was really cool.”

  “Mais oui?” Spencer mocked. “Mais non.”

  But Jesse’s attention was locked on me. “Hey, do you need a ride home? Your dad’s, right?”

  I gritted my teeth through my smile. My mom’s. Despite Jesse’s inability to remember where the hell I lived on any given day, I really wanted to say yes.

  “WWMPD?” Spencer prompted in a singsong voice.

  He was right. The manic pixie move would be to keep Jesse off balance and leave him wanting more.

  “Sorry!” I stood on my tippy toes and pecked Jesse on the cheek. “Gotta run. See you tomorrow on another wonderful school day!”

  Spencer draped his arm over my shoulders as we left the building. “Just making him jealous,” he whispered. Then he slid his hand down my back and pulled my body close.

  “Good idea.” If jealousy had made me totally reinvent myself, maybe it would jump-start Jesse’s brain and remind him who he really wanted to be with.

  When we reached Spencer’s car, I glanced back to see if Jesse was following us down the stairs, but he was nowhere in sight. I raised my right hand for a high five. “That. Was. So. Awesome!”

  Spencer smacked my hand halfheartedly. “Looks like you’re getting exactly what you want.”

  “Yeah.” That’s what I said, but that’s not what I felt. I mean, yes, I wanted to get Jesse back. But as quickly as he’d dropped me for Toile, he’d seemingly dropped her for me. What kind of a guy did that?

  We drove in silence, lost in thought. New hair, new clothes, new attention from the popular kids. That’s all it had taken for Jesse to sit up and take notice of me again. But it was still me, wasn’t it? Trixie wasn’t a completely different person.

  Or was she? I thought about Giselle from AP Physics. I’d been in scienc
e classes with her for two years and yet I’d never actually spoken to her until today. She’d always seemed aloof in class, surrounded by her friends at lunch, and I’d categorized her as one of the bitchy girls who looked down on me. On Beatrice. But when Trixie piped up before class, Giselle was friendly and talkative and not at all the kind of person I’d expected her to be. Had I misjudged her all these years? Or was she different with Trixie from how she’d been with Beatrice?

  I winced, realizing I’d made a serious miscalculation with the Formula. I’d only taken into account the outside factors, but hadn’t really considered how the Formula would affect the user.

  “Cassilyn’s coming over tonight,” Spencer said from out of the blue.

  “Oh yeah?” I glanced at him sidelong. He kept his eyes straight ahead, hands at two and ten on the steering wheel, and his face was absolutely placid.

  “Doing the last set of sketches.”

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time with her.” It was a statement, not a question, and I realized as the words came out of my mouth that I’d voiced them more for me than for Spencer, as if I was having a tough time grappling with the idea that my best friend might have a crush on the most popular girl in school. And that the feeling might be mutual.

  “I guess so,” Spencer said. “She’s nice. Not nearly as vapid as the stepsisters, or as bitchy as Esmeralda. I was . . . surprised.”

  I turned in my seat to face him. “Good surprised?”

  He shrugged, but his eyes never left the road. “Yeah, I mean, I assumed she was kind of an idiot, but she’s really not.”

  “Oh.”

  He was interested in her. That was pretty clear. How did I feel about that?

  “I was thinking maybe I’d ask her to the back-to-school dance.”

  “What?” I blurted out. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  Well, for starters, he and Gabe and I had gone to every single school dance together since freshman year, and I had a panicked reaction at the thought of him breaking up our ritual. But that sounded selfish.

  “I think Thad already asked her,” I said instead.

  Spencer was quiet for a moment. “She told me she didn’t have a date.”

  I wondered if Thad knew that. “I guess you could, then. If you wanted to.” I paused. “Do you want to?” Why did I want to know so badly?

  “We don’t have a lot in common,” Spencer said by way of an answer, “but she’s interested in learning more about art.”

  Unlike me.

  “I’m taking her to LACMA Saturday,” he said. “For the Fauvism exhibit. I’ve been dying to see the Van Dongens . . .”

  I didn’t hear much after that. So he’d already asked Cassilyn on a date? When was he going to tell me that? And to the Fauvism exhibit. Spencer had asked me last week if I wanted to go with him, but I’d gotten sidetracked by Jesse at lunch. Now he was taking Cassilyn? I was his go-to museum buddy. We’d seen every major exhibit to come through Southern California since we’d gotten permission to ride the train unaccompanied, and now he was taking her?

  Isn’t this what you wanted?

  Oh, shut up, Brain. Sure, when I’d come up with the Formula for Spencer’s social situation, I’d envisioned his eventual acceptance by the A-listers at Fullerton Hills, but somehow that had meant painting Milo and Thad in football poses, not dating Cassilyn Cairns.

  You’re doing the same thing with Jesse.

  Okay, yes. If Jesse and I got back together, he’d be the person I’d want to do things with: movies, concerts, museums. Although I wasn’t exactly sure what kind of movies Jesse liked. Or music. And I wasn’t sure he’d ever been to a museum. Still, we’d work those things out. This was what it meant when you and your friends started dating. Things changed.

  “We’re here,” Spencer said. I noticed with a jolt that we’d stopped in front of my mom’s town house.

  I climbed out of the car stiffly and closed the door, but stood with my hand on the open window. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t quite figure out the words. Was I happy Spencer was dating Cassilyn? No, not really. And the old Beatrice would have said that. Blurted it right out. You and Cassilyn only have a 13 percent chance of a lasting relationship, based on factors including, but not limited to, interests, relative intelligence, and social standing.

  But that was the old Beatrice. Trixie saw the world in a positive light—this was the ultimate test.

  “I’m glad Cassilyn’s not as dumb and bitchy as I thought,” I said, realizing as I said it that though my tone was upbeat, my word choice was still caustic.

  The corners of his mouth drooped. “I wish I could say the same for Jesse.”

  Then he peeled away from the curb.

  TWENTY-THREE

  MY SENSE OF victory over Toile lasted exactly sixteen hours, and died the instant I walked into school the next morning. Draped across the entrance hallway, rippling gently in the breeze, was an enormous banner, hand-painted in garish green and gold—Fullerton Hills’ school colors—advertising “Jesse Sullivan for ASB President.”

  I froze dead in my mismatched Mary Janes. Toile’s fingerprints were all over the banner, literally and figuratively. First off, there was no way Jesse’s handwriting could have been that neat and legible. The letters were bubbly, evenly spaced, and outlined in gold glitter. Plus, the banner was decorated with shamrocks and daisies—also with glitter centers—which reeked of Toile.

  She’d upped me on “Category five—male wish fulfillment” by giving Jesse his much-coveted “thing.” Instead of Hammock Guy or Poetry Guy, he was going to be School President Guy. My sad little paper flower with the imaginary unit couldn’t compete. Once again, Toile was in the lead.

  “I didn’t see that one coming,” Gabe said, materializing at my elbow, his flamboyant act at full throttle.

  “I can’t believe she got him to run for office,” I said. “I’ll never beat her now.”

  Gabe snorted. “You mean you’ll never get Jesse back now. That’s the goal, right?”

  “Right. Yes. Getting Jesse back is my goal.” Why did I repeat it? As if I needed to remind myself. Maybe I was angry with him, my ego wounded in a way that would take a while to heal. Not that I wouldn’t—I was relatively sure the moment Jesse looked at me with those deep brown eyes and said, I love you, Bea, and I want you back, I’d melt into his arms and forget all the crap he’d put me through. Like 73 percent sure.

  Okay, maybe 63.

  “Hey, Trixie!” Annabelle, a bespectacled redhead from AP English, waved as she and her friends passed us in the entrance hall. I waved back, smiling big, and noticed that she was wearing two different Doc Martens boots: a white one on the left and a black one on the right.

  “Do you think she borrowed that from you?” Gabe asked.

  I glanced down at my own feet, where I sported a blue Mary Jane on one foot and a silver one on the other. “Maybe.” It had taken Toile’s hat fetish five full days to start popping up around school. If Annabelle’s shoe expression was truly Trixie-inspired, as opposed to just an early morning, pre-coffee wardrobe malfunction, then I’d upped the manic pixie–fication by at least ninety-six hours.

  Gabe rested his chin on my shoulder. “Maybe you should run for president? Take this Trixie thing to the next level.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not popular enough. We’d need someone in with A-list support in order to inspire complete strangers to—”

  “Hi, Gabriel!” someone called from above.

  He blew a kiss to the upper balcony. “Hello, dahling!” The girl giggled and waved, then disappeared over the railing. “That blowing-kisses thing works every time,” Gabe said under his breath. “Who knew girls were so susceptible? I swear, I’ve learned so much about your gender using the Formula.”

  My eyes were still fixed on the balcony. “Who was that?”

  “No idea.”

  A gaggle of sophomore girls waved at him in unison as they passed us. “Gabriel
!”

  “Kisses!” he said, wiggling his fingers at them. Then he whispered to me. “See? Every time!”

  Complete strangers. I turned to Gabe. “You.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You should run for ASB president.”

  “Me?”

  I nodded, curls flying around my face. “You’re friends with all the popular girls now, and in less than a week even students you’ve never met before know your name. You’re a rising star, which makes you the perfect candidate.”

  Gabe just stared at me, dumbstruck.

  “Think about it,” I continued, talking quickly. I was getting excited by the idea. “If you got elected, you could do a lot of good around here. Not to mention what it would mean for your article.”

  “I have been struggling with a conclusion,” he admitted, patting the notebook in his breast pocket. “But ASB president is a lot of responsibility.”

  “I can’t think of anyone else at this school who I’d rather see in charge of things.”

  Gabe shook his head. “I don’t know . . .”

  Just then, Cassilyn, Esmeralda, and the stepsisters strode across the foyer toward us. No better time to test the waters.

  “Mention it to the girls,” I told Gabe under my breath.

  “Now?”

  I nodded.

  Gabe heaved a sigh. “Fine.” The moment the girls approached he was back in character.

  “Dahlings, I was just telling Trixie here,” he said, linking his arm through mine, “that I think I’d make a fabulous ASB president. Don’t you think?”

  “Oh my God!” Cassilyn cried, not waiting for her friends to answer. “I think that would be my favorite thing ever.”

  “Zoopa idea,” Esmeralda said, mimicking Gabe’s German accent perfectly.

  “Zoop . . . ,” Dakota and Noel echoed, the final vowel dissipating into matching vocal fry.

  “Right?” I said, playing off their enthusiasm. “He’d be so much fun.”

  Cassilyn grabbed his hands. “Oh, you have to run. We’ll totally vote for you.”

  Esmeralda eyed her closely, ready to one-up her. “Campaign for you.”