“Oh yeah,” Zelda says. “And if your character is lucky enough to live until the end, it’s usually the big climatic set piece.”
“Right.” Chloe clears her throat. “At the big dance-off, my Authors always make me do that dance. And the Developeds come away feeling less insecure about themselves because I made a fool of myself.”
“And you don’t like that?” Angela asks.
Chloe shimmies. “Actually, that dance is really fun. I love it. But what I object to is being forced to do it in a setting where the Author is trying to impart a life lesson about self-esteem.”
“We don’t ever get to do anything purely for our own satisfaction,” I say. “Or to further our own goals. Everything we do is in service of a plot that centers on someone else. And . . . that sucks.” It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged this out loud, so I’m a bit nervous about the group’s reaction.
Zelda claps, slowly. “Hear, hear.” Her validation is both calming and thrilling.
Angela pushes her hands forward as if to hold back our objections. “But isn’t that our purpose? As Tropes, we are made to serve the stories we are written into. We must learn to accept the things we cannot change. Because if we don’t do our jobs, then we’re at risk for termination.”
Mandy visibly blanches. “So you’re saying if we can’t accept the role someone else puts us in, we’re basically asking to be terminated?”
Angela raises her eyebrows, and an uncomfortable silence descends. Of course, I think of Finn, since he’s the only person close to me who has ever been terminated. Did burnout have something do with his fate? Did he get so tired of his Manic Pixie role that he simply gave up and let himself be led away to the Termination Train? I have trouble imagining it.
“Maybe this isn’t all there is,” Zelda says. She rubs a ring on her left pinkie. “Maybe there’s more out there, and the Council just . . .”
Angela sharply cuts her off. “Let’s get back on track, shall we?” she says. Despite her earlier claim that therapy is a safe space, she seems alarmed that the conversation has taken this turn. Maybe the Council really is surveilling us. “Chloe was telling us why she’s here.”
Zelda removes her pinkie ring and slips it into a pocket in her jacket.
Chloe purses her lips and brushes at her bangs, which are back in her eyes. “Yeah, so anyway, in my last part, the Author was staging this dance scene, and I knew she was going to force me to do my signature Awkward Robot. But, like, I wasn’t feeling it. The Central Developed was this super-hot football player, and all the clues up until then pointed at him secretly being in love with the Shy Girl Next Door.”
Zelda smirks. “Shy Girls Next Door can’t dance their way out of an environmentally friendly paper bag.”
“Exactly,” Chloe continues. “So here was my chance to impress the Central Developed and blow away my competition. I took it, and that pissed off my Author. She ordered a Revision.”
“What is so unusual about that?” Angela asks. She readjusts her headscarf, as if she’s afraid it might run off if she doesn’t tie it down properly. “Revisions are industry standard after all.”
“Well, I refused to show up. The Author lodged a complaint and killed me off in summary narration.”
“That’s the worst!” Mandy says sympathetically.
“Now I’ve been branded as unreliable and no one wants to work with me.” Chloe pulls a thin gold chain from under her geometric-print peasant blouse and rubs a finger along her collarbone. “Therapy is supposed to help me refocus. I need to accept my place in the narrative hierarchy and do as I’m told.”
Angela struts over to a particularly garish motivational poster and presents it like it belongs in the Sistine Chapel or something. “Embrace your Trope,” she reads. “It’s who you are!”
While it’s true each of us in this room was created with the express purpose of fulfilling the guidelines of our Trope, obviously there is something faulty in our profiles or we wouldn’t be here, in therapy, facing termination.
“Remember,” Angela says. “The Author is always right.”
We’re all quiet enough that Angela must think she’s browbeaten us into total submission. She returns to her seat, satisfied. “Very good, Chloe. So what are you going to work on going forward?”
“The Author is always right,” Chloe says in a grudging tone.
“Do you agree with that, Riley?” Angela asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, but when she turns her head, I wink at Zelda. She winks back and just like that, we’re engaged in a veritable wink-fest. It’s revoltingly adorable, and I’m seized by a powerful urge to catch her after the meeting and ask her out.
“Excellent!” Angela claps her hands together. “Since it’s your first day, why don’t you do us the honor of partitioning the pie?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” I practically teleport to the pie table and cut a serving for each of us, artfully arranging each piece on purple paper plates. But when I turn to hand Zelda the first portion, my eager smile droops.
Zelda has already left.
Chapter 7
After wolfing down our pie, Mandy and Chloe invite me to hang out with them at the cantina. I agree, and soon I’m drowning my disappointment over Zelda’s disappearing act in a delicious root beer float. Mandy and Chloe act like we’re lifelong pals, and it surprises me how effortless it feels to hang out with them. I’m not at all worried about impressing them, like I am with Zelda. I can be myself. I haven’t had this sort of companionship since Finn disappeared. I’ve missed it.
The Administration District’s sole cheap eating establishment, the cantina fills a large and drafty space reminiscent of an aircraft hangar. Maybe it used to be one, though we don’t need airplanes in TropeTown. Food stations line all four walls and white, round Formica tables dot the rest of the room.
The drinks station queue moves quickly. I grab a tray, fill up three chilled mugs with root beer, add in a scoop of ice cream to each, and pay for it all by selecting my items on the screen and inserting my chip card into the reader. Neither Mandy nor Chloe objects to my grand act of chivalry. Chloe even thanks me.
The cantina echoes with conversation and clinking cutlery. At this time of day, free seats are scarce. Mandy tap dances in front of a Mysterious Loner Dude who takes up a whole table. He’s been writing brooding poems in a leather-bound journal with a fountain pen, but her manic energy drives him to pick up his inkpot and slink away, leaving the table to us.
Once we spread out, I distribute our floats. Mandy digs in her purse and pulls out some pink bendy straws in the shape of hearts. “Do everything you do with passion!” she exclaims.
I impale the ice cream foam with the straw. “Did you learn that in therapy?”
“Hmmm . . .” She squeezes her earlobe. “No. I think I came preprogrammed with positive, life-affirming aphorisms. Didn’t you?”
“I did.” Chloe burps out a full sentence: “Don’t just do it, do it better!” She giggles. Obviously she’s so cute, she has internalized that she can get away with such questionable manners.
“I never really thought about it,” I admit. But now that I do think about it, I realize I couldn’t tell you how or when I learned certain facts—I just seem to know them. In fact, I make obscure references to philosophy or geography as a party trick. “What’s the capital of Mali?”
Chloe raises her hand, as if to answer a question in class. “Um, Riley. Non sequitur.”
I pretend that’s really her answer. “Nope.”
“Fine.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Timbuktu.”
“Actually, it’s Bamako.”
“Timbuktu is the ancient scholarly capital of the trans-Saharan route, though,” Chloe says. “And a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Doesn’t that count for something?”
I laugh. “You’re such a nerd. I love it.” Again, I’m gobsmacked by how well we all click. Maybe it’s by design? Are Manic Pixies just meant to get along with one anoth
er because we’re so fun loving and chill at heart? But then, why do I feel mere camaraderie with Mandy and Chloe, whereas I’m crushing on Zelda?
Chloe sticks her tongue out at me. “Well, I’ve always wanted to go. The photos I’ve seen are gorgeous.”
We nurse our root beer floats in silence for a moment. No need to ask why she hasn’t gone. We all know there’s not much call for the Manic Pixie Trope in books set in that region of the world.
“Nebraska never showed up today,” Mandy says.
“Shocking,” Chloe says dryly.
Mandy finishes off her float, leaving red lipstick stains all over her pink bendy straw. “Do you think we should check up on her?”
“Looking for Nebraska is a waste of time,” Chloe declares. “You won’t find her until she wants to be found.”
“Do you know Nebraska?” Mandy asks me.
“I don’t think so.” Perhaps one of the biggest misconceptions about Manic Pixies is that we are these super social creatures with giant extrovert personalities. We’re actually introverts at heart, and we tend to latch on to one or two people. I spent most of my free time hanging out one-on-one with Finn, up until he boarded the Termination Train.
“Don’t feel bad,” Chloe says. “Nebraska overbooks herself so that she never has time for anything but work and sleep and the occasional therapy session. And that’s the way she likes it. She’s been in TropeTown for decades, longer than any other Manic Pixie. She’s Legacy.”
“Whoa!” I say. “That’s swanky.” Legacy Tropes live in TropeTown Heights, a gated community with mansions and limos and a yellow-brick road. They get all sorts of other perks, too—for instance, unlike the rest of us, Legacies get to pick and choose which projects they take on. Why is she in therapy when she has it so good?
“It is,” Mandy confirms. “Nebraska invited me over once. She has the most amazing blue diamond chandelier.”
Chloe sighs. “My blue ceramic lamp can’t compete with that. And if an Author doesn’t hire me soon, I’ll be evicted and end up on the Wrong Side of the Tracks. Then I’ll be smashing cockroaches with a blue plastic flashlight.”
Mandy pats Chloe on the head. “I know what will cheer you up! Fortune cookie roulette!” She pulls out a few handfuls of wrapped fortune cookies from her bag and arranges them in a peace sign in front of Chloe.
Chloe grabs one from the center and cracks it open. “Prepare yourself for a new adventure,” she reads aloud.
“See?” Mandy claps her hands together in delight. “A new job is definitely on its way.”
“Moving to a hovel could also count as a new adventure,” Chloe points out, her shoulders slumping.
“But you’d train those pesky cockroaches and sell them to a circus in no time,” I joke.
Chloe smiles. “Thanks, Riley. You’re a good guy.” She pushes one of the cookies in my direction. “Your turn.”
I open it and read: “Love is close, but only claimed through courage.” Even my fortune thinks I should ask Zelda out. Maybe Crazy Cat Lady Cathy has a side job writing fortunes.
“Ooooh. Who’s the lucky girl, Riley?” Mandy extracts a tiny ukulele from her bag and starts strumming the traditional wedding song. “Maybe someone in our therapy circle?”
“Stop that,” Chloe chastises. “Manic Pixies are not meant to fall for each other.”
“I just think star-crossed lovers are so romantic!”
My heart struggles to beat, sensing a crushing blow. “Why star-crossed?”
Chloe taps the therapy rules folder in my lap. “Gotta read the rules, Riley. It’s a termination-worthy transgression to date anyone while you’re both active in the group.”
Chapter 8
Before I can wallow in self-pity, the glow of an Author summoning lights me up. This is it.
Showtime.
I excuse myself from the table and let my finger hover over the ‘go’ button on my official TropeTown employee band. Starting a new job is a little like jumping off a cliff with a blindfold on, but this is my purpose—my reason for being—and I don’t have a choice anyway. When I press the button, I’m swept into the backstage area of a Work-In-Progress.
My body spends the requisite 33.3 seconds adjusting to its new plane of existence. This stage of the travel process dulls all the senses. When you snap out of it, the most noticeable side effect is extreme thirst.
I make a beeline for the craft services table. I snag a green smoothie from a tray and gulp it down greedily.
You can always tell the production budget from the quality of the food, and judging by the delectable spread, I’d say this novel sold in a major deal. Which would be pretty risky on the publisher’s part, considering the project is obviously not finished. Must be high concept and on trend.
Other than the food, though, the backstage area is unremarkable and indistinguishable from any of the other projects I’ve worked on. Green paint is chipping off the walls, sawdust drifts on the floor, and cobwebs creep in the corners. A couple of empty clothes racks for wardrobe changes stand idle. Next to the stage door is a line of green chairs, each supporting stacks of paper of varying heights. Before I can investigate further, a girl approaches me.
She checks me out thoroughly, like five whole seconds from head to toe, and I return the favor because it’s only fair. She’s pretty, but from her sleek ponytail and practical shoes, I can tell she’s no-frills. Probably an uptight, studious sort that needs to learn how to let loose. Which is likely why the Author ordered my Trope.
“I’m Ava,” she says finally. “The Central Developed.”
Being welcomed by the Central Developed is a good indicator that I play a crucial role in her story. But odds are she won’t play a crucial role in my story. When I’m done, I’ll leave an Understudy copy of myself to perform my duties. While Ava toils here reliving this novel ad infinitum for her Readers, I’ll be off to other parts. Unless I plant.
You plant when you decide to stay inside the novel you’ve been working on, instead of letting a copy take over. Planting is like marriage without the possibility of divorce, because once you plant, that’s it—no other stories or characters to explore.
Ever.
Traditionally far too flighty to settle down, Manic Pixies rarely plant. But Finn always said if a Manic Pixie ever hit the jackpot of a genuinely happy ending, such a permanent move might be tempting.
I can’t imagine ever choosing to put down roots with Ava though, at least not based on my first impression.
After a pause long enough to piss her off, I introduce myself. “Hi Ava. I’m Riley.”
“I don’t need your TropeTown name.” She looks at her fingernails instead of at me. “Around here you’re called Marsden.”
Marsden? Is this Author smoking cloves? I console myself by glancing back at the craft table and counting three pies.
“So what’s the synopsis?”
Ava huffs. “Who knows? The Author hasn’t even provided an outline, which is incredibly frustrating to a type-A control freak like me.”
“Well, I’d think we’d be past the inciting incident already, right?” The inciting incident is the departure from the Central Developed’s regular routine that starts the action. In Ava’s case, I’d guess her perfect Student Council President Boyfriend broke up with her. Or maybe she got a B on her report card, putting the Ivy League out of her reach.
(Oh, and if you’re wracking your brain trying to figure out the inciting incident in my story, it was the letter from the TropeTown Council, which is the reason I’m now in therapy. And being in therapy is the reason I can’t date Zelda, at least not while we’re both in the group. And not being able to date Zelda is the reason I’m sad, but I can’t think about that now, because I have a job to do.)
“You’d think that, but you’d be wrong.” Ava throws up her hands and stalks over to the green chair with her name on it. She shows me all her blank pages. “She’s writing scenes out of order.”
It’s always something
with these Authors. Why can’t they just sit their butts down, do the nine-to-five grind like everyone else, and write in a linear fashion? Is that so freaking hard?
“Have you seen her yet?” I ask. Central Developeds actually score face time with the Author Off-Page, so the Author can figure out how they tick. Authors never meet with Tropes because they figure they already know us inside out.
“Yes. We did Pilates together, and she cranked up her book playlist. She said she spent weeks coming up with songs that exude the atmosphere of the piece.” Ava snorts. “It felt kind of like a waste of time, honestly.”
“Hmmm.” I try to sound agreeable even though I don’t agree. I would love the chance to hang out with someone from Reader World, and she’s taking it for granted. “What kind of music was it?”
“Loud and weird.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You ask a lot of questions for a Trope.”
It takes all of my willpower to bite down a retort. I’ve dealt with Developed privilege like this before. Central Developeds can be pretty ignorant when it comes to Tropes—regarding us as lesser, equating us with robots. I’d love to set her straight, but I can’t risk alienating myself on the first day and getting another complaint letter on my record. So I take a deep breath and force a smile. “Just want this project to go as smoothly as possible. I’m sure I’ll enjoy working with you.”
My genial attitude seems to mollify her. The green light blinks on over the stage door, signaling the Author’s readiness.
I follow Ava onto the bare set, which resembles a giant soundstage with a green screen for special effects. The setting manifests as the Author writes it. Even though I’ll never see her, I experience the full force of her clacking laptop keys. As she types, asphalt with evenly spaced yellow lines appears under our feet. The light changes to simulate a cloudy, overcast day. In the background, a nondescript building takes shape, and a sign declares its function as the DMV.
Many of the details of this parking lot setting remain vague, not only because this is a first draft, but also because most Readers can visualize this place without the Author having to provide excessive description that will slow down the story. To us, the characters, it can be a bit unnerving, because often we only physically see a few important scene markers, and the rest is kind of a messy blur we have to fill in with our own imaginations.
The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project Page 3