The green light beckons everyone to the stage, including the Extras. On the way, Bruiser shrugs out of his windbreaker and sunglasses, so he can act like a Reader World dog. Ava puts a collar on him and attaches a retracting leash.
The Author sketches the barest outline of a park. Trees, grass, running paths, and benches. The Extras mill around aimlessly while Ava and I stay on a dirt running path with Bruiser.
We run, Bruiser barking along beside us.
Nothing else happens for a while. The three of us wait for the Author to give us more to do. I imagine her staring at her screen, pondering what obstacles to throw in our way next to create tension and force us to overcome our challenges. Perhaps she sits at a desk, rereading coffee-stained notes to herself and toggling between her word processing tab and her social media accounts.
Ava doesn’t seem to be bothered by this state of perpetual delay. She sports the blissful smile and heavy eyelids of someone with a runner’s high.
I, however, develop a leg cramp.
The stage door opens and a new player, and another familiar face, joins our scene: the Stock Squirrel, in the process of removing his plaid bowtie.
I raise my hand to wave at the same time that the Author’s fingers begin to fly across her keys. This results in Bruiser gunning for the Stock Squirrel and yanking his leash right out of Ava’s grasp.
“Bruiser!” Ava shouts. “Bad dog!”
Ava and I finally catch up to him, but he wriggles away and puts us through a series of antics to rival the labors of Hercules, including:
Mucking about in the mud and then shaking it off on us
Chewing on the wheel of a stroller for which we receive a stern reprimand from a disgruntled mother
Ingesting a bar of chocolate someone dropped under a bench
Up until this last stunt, Ava and I laugh and forge a bond as a result of our trials. Bruiser finally allows Ava to catch him. She buries her face in his furry neck despite all the grime he acquired during his escapades.
“Dogs can’t eat chocolate, or they’ll die,” she chokes out. “I have to get him to the vet.”
I bend down and put my arm around her to comfort her. “I’ll take you. He’ll be fine.”
Ava shakes out of my embrace. Vehemently. “No. I’ll take him myself. This is all your fault, Marsden. If you weren’t so distracting, he never could have gotten away from me.”
“How was I distracting you?” I sputter.
“Don’t try to charm your way out of this.” She tugs on Bruiser’s leash. “You know what you did.”
“I really don’t,” I protest, but to no avail. Ava leaves the park without me, and as I watch her go, the clouds move to block out the sun.
Silence fills the soundstage and the green light blinks out.
Chapter 32
Ava and I head to Wardrobe to change out of our filthy costumes. She turns her back to me as she wrestles to lift her shirt over her head, so I turn around too, giving us both some privacy. The Burly Stagehand who ventures over to remove our cast-offs, on the other hand, cares not for our states of undress and taps his foot while waiting for us to finish.
When we’re both dressed in our street clothes, Ava hugs me. “Hard day, right?”
“I have to wonder . . . why the unreasonable behavior toward Marsden?”
“I think I have some insight.”
“Care to share?”
“Well, Rafferty works at the vet’s office.”
“So, you don’t want him to see you and Marsden together.” It comes out more accusatory than I intended.
Ava juts out her chin. “Hey, I’m not the writer. Don’t blame me.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t mean to interrupt,” Sal says. He needs a bath, but that hasn’t stopped him from donning his blue windbreaker and sunglasses again. “Great working with you, kid. Hope to see you in the vet scene, though by the sounds of it, I probably won’t. Hehe.”
“Yeah, see you when I see you.” He’s irritated me enough that I don’t mind his swift departure.
After Sal is gone, Ava leads me over to the row of chairs and sits me down. She looks so serious it’s starting to freak me out. But she kneads my back with her knuckles, and I relax.
It feels so nice I close my eyes.
“Hey, Riley?” she says, her voice low and throaty and near.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Why are you in therapy?”
My eyes fly open. I didn’t expect that question right now, though I guess I should have. Darn that dog. “Ummm . . .”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
I turn to face her and take her hands in mine. A few days ago, I wouldn’t have cared about Ava’s opinion of me being in therapy, but there is this slowly growing achy spot in the middle of my heart that wants her to recognize and accept the real me. “You know novels don’t always go as smoothly as Authors want them to. And sometimes the blame gets shifted to us Tropes. The TropeTown Council welcomes feedback from Authors about us, and sometimes that feedback criticizes our level of cooperation or adherence to the accepted qualities of our Trope.”
She squeezes my fingers in solidarity. “That doesn’t sound fair.”
“When the Council received a second letter of complaint from an Author, I was assigned to group therapy, with a bunch of Manic Pixie Dream Girls.”
“Girls?” She says it all high and squeaky and pulls away.
“Well, yeah. There aren’t many boys in my Trope. In fact, I’m currently the only one.”
“Are they pretty?” She looks at her fingernails, and I know I’m supposed to say no, but I’m sort of surprised she’s jealous all of a sudden after teasing me so much with Rafferty.
“Of course.” I keep my tone matter-of-fact. “By design. I mean, they are called ‘dream girls,’ which implies a certain level of attractiveness. You do know how Tropes work, don’t you?”
“Yeah. They show us a video at orientation.” She does this big dramatic sigh. “Do you find one of them particularly pretty?”
“Myself,” I joke immediately, attempting to distract her from further inquiry.
She slaps my leg. “Ha ha. But seriously, like, is there someone you want to date in TropeTown?”
I squirm in the plastic chair, and the rivets on my back pockets scratch up against it unpleasantly. I debate whether I should tell her about Zelda.
The argument against telling her:
If Ava thinks she’s the only girl in my life, our scenes will probably go more smoothly
It sucks to hear from someone you’re into that they are into someone else
My relationship status with Zelda is murky and possibly forbidden, so the fewer people who know, the better
The argument for telling her:
It’s unfair to Ava if I allow her to develop unrealistic expectations for our relationship—because this is just a job for me and it’s not like I’ll be around forever even if the Author does go for #teammarsden
I respect Ava and I respect Zelda and I want to be honorable in my dealings with both of them
Can I just skip to the eating pie part of this scene now?
Coming up with my pros and cons takes such an unreasonably long time that Ava finally stands up with a fake, shiny happy expression. “You know what? Forget I asked. It doesn’t matter.”
She tromps off to the private entrance for Developeds. I should say something to make her feel better—or at least make an attempt to explain myself.
But I don’t.
Chapter 33
After a restless night, I arrive at the TropeTown Heights guard station early. With the swagger of someone important, I give the Surly Security Guard my name.
“Sorry, fellow. Not on the list.”
My swagger starts to sway. “Can you please check again? Nebraska expects me!”
“Oh, you’re here for Nebraska. You’re one of those Manic Pixies.” He says this like we’re all a bunch of rancid meat sti
cks. “Go on, then.”
Relieved he’s letting me though, I rush by him in case he changes his mind. Once out of his sight, though, I take time to smell the daffodils growing wild along the side of the golden brick road. What do daffodils smell like, you ask? Sort of sweet, but not cloying. And they symbolize new beginnings. I pick a bunch to put in a bouquet for Nebraska.
When I arrive, I skip the doorbell and walk around the side of the house to the veranda. Everyone occupies their same assigned seats, and Zelda scribbles in her notebook again, but at least she looks up this time and gives me a wink and a wave.
“Why how thoughtful, Riley!” Nebraska takes my daffodil offering and scuttles into the kitchen to find a vase.
George has a new craft today. She painstakingly sews buttons of all different shapes, sizes, and colors onto a cross-body sash. She wears one of her finished examples, and that together with her pigtail hairstyle makes her look super young, even though she’s probably nearly as old as Nebraska.
Once Nebraska returns and sets the flower arrangement in the middle of the table next to today’s delectable pie, Angela suggests we do trust exercises. I notice she has a wicked spark in her eye when she assigns George and Nebraska as partners.
George slams down her sash-in-progress, and buttons scatter.
“Oh, Georgina.” Nebraska sounds like buttercream frosting on a day-old cupcake. “You don’t have to worry I’ll drop you. I’m the most trustworthy girl in our Trope.”
“Don’t call her that,” Angela interjects, saving George from having to say what, by now, should be her trademarked catchphrase.
“Of course you are the most trustworthy.” George glares. “You have to proclaim you’re the best at everything.”
Nebraska giggles sharply. “Why, my dear, that’s because I am.”
“Less talk and more action,” Angela admonishes. “Let’s go out to the lawn for this.”
We all venture out onto Nebraska’s bright green lawn, which is so lush I want to lie down and feel the fat blades of grass against my skin. We form a loose circle around Nebraska and George, who eye each other as if prepping for a cage fight instead of a trust exercise.
“Okay,” Angela says. “So, Nebraska, you stand behind George, and you catch her.”
“I understand what you mean for us to do . . .” Nebraska fastens the hooks and eyes on her corset top over her tank. “But what I don’t understand is why you think thin little ole me could handle someone with such generous . . . curves.”
The jab is classic Nebraska—complimentary if taken at face value, but clearly meant to wound.
George just laughs. She’s proud of her hourglass figure, and she should be. “You wish you had my cup size.”
“Please,” Angela scoffs at Nebraska. “Like you don’t spend hours sculpting your arms. You got this.”
“Fine,” Nebraska says. “But don’t blame me if things go awry.”
George gets into position and tips herself backwards. Nebraska catches her, but when she does, George cries out. “For fox sake!”
Angela hurries over to George’s side. “What happened?”
“Nebraska pinched me!”
Nebraska puts on her best innocent expression. “I would never!”
That earns her an arched eyebrow from Zelda and eye-rolls from the rest of us.
George rubs the back of her neck, presumably the scene of the crime, and Angela inspects it. She runs her hands over George’s skin.
“It is a bit red,” Angela says. “But nothing conclusive.”
George turns on Nebraska. “You’ve been out to get me since I started therapy.”
“I’d be careful about making accusations about a Legacy,” Nebraska says, keeping her tone friendly, despite the implied threat. “The Council wouldn’t like it if they found out.”
“Hrummph,” George snorts, but she shuts up. She dutifully catches Nebraska without drama, and the big showdown fizzles out.
Chloe and Mandy go next, and Chloe ends up ripping the strap of Mandy’s peach camisole while breaking her fall. George repairs the tear, patching it up with a constellation of purple buttons.
And now Angela assigns Zelda and me together, which makes me break into a mental happy dance.
Zelda stands a couple of feet in front of me and turns. She blows me a kiss over her shoulder, flustering me and making the other girls giggle. She’s wearing a racer-back crushed velvet vest that exposes her sexy shoulder blades, and thanks to Angela, I have an excuse to touch them when she lands in my waiting arms.
“Thank you for being so trustworthy,” she says when I help her back to her feet. “Your turn.”
Maybe it’s everyone staring at me with knowing smirks, but performance anxiety creeps up my spine, and I have to take several deep breaths to rein it in. What’s the worst that can happen?
I spin around with my arms out like an airplane and hum to loosen up the atmosphere. Before my nerve flees for the hills, I flop backwards.
My upper back hits something soft and Zelda makes an oomph sound. We both lie on the springy, plush grass, with my head in Zelda’s lap. It’s both delightful and downright embarrassing, for a variety of reasons.
“Sorry!” I jump to my feet and swoop her up like I’m some kind of superhero. I settle her into her chair. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But I failed to catch you.” She massages her hip. “So don’t apologize.”
Our audience gives us some space. We all watch Angela and Sky run through the task effortlessly.
“Guess we’re the biggest screw-ups out of all the screw-ups,” Zelda remarks to me.
“Yes! We’re the best at being the worst!” I give her a high five.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Bravo!” Bridget approaches, struggling a bit in her heels on Nebraska’s lawn while doing this super fake, sarcastic clapping motion. Angela stands stock still, like someone who has been caught committing a crime.
“Did I not disband your therapy with these Manic Pixies, Angela?” Bridget sneers. “No matter. I came to talk to Nebraska, but this pertains to all of you I suppose.”
“May I offer you something to drink, Bridget?” Nebraska immediately jumps to perfect smarmy hostess mode. The rest of us are too scared of Bridget to say anything. We could be lawn statues—that’s how silent and immobile we are.
“No thank you. I won’t be here long.” Bridget puts her hands on her hips. “Periodically the Council considers certain troublesome Tropes for retirement. You may not be familiar with the process, as it occurs relatively rarely. It is similar to termination, except instead of being levied on an individual basis, it applies to all members of a Trope. I regret to inform you that the Manic Pixie Trope is currently on our agenda.”
The Manic Pixie contingent of lawn statues gasps.
“But why would you do that?” Sky demands. “It’s not fair to punish our whole Trope because of one arson!”
I totally agree. Threatening us with full-scale extinction is an extreme reaction to a relatively small and contained fire. There has to be something more to this.
Bridget narrows her eyes at us, as if we’re being overdramatic. “There are larger factors in play, I assure you. And I would encourage you not to think of it as a punishment. Should you be confirmed for retirement, each of you will have your consciousness preserved in the TropeTown archives, and you will be memorialized in the Trope Museum. These are privileges not awarded to characters who are terminated individually.”
Knowing we’ll be reduced to slides in a semi-forgotten archive in the Villain Zone is far from comforting. What did we ever do to deserve such a fate? Bridget is trying to spin it as some sort of honor, but being distilled down to my defining characteristics doesn’t sound much better than being outright terminated.
“Since it would appear Angela has decided to voluntarily associate with you, perhaps she can help you come to terms with your . . . situation.”
“Wait!” Nebraska fin
ds her most indignant voice. “The Council cannot make a retirement determination until after holding a public meeting led by the Legacy members of the Trope.”
Our heads all swivel toward Nebraska—our Trope’s only Legacy. Our destiny is going to be in her hands?
Bridget nods briskly. “Indeed. It’s our duty to give our Legacy members five days’ notice before our final deliberations. These will take place at Town Hall at six p.m. this Wednesday. I look forward to hearing you plead your case then, Nebraska.”
Bridget strides off, leaving a massive existential crisis in her wake.
Chapter 34
Memento mori is the Latin for “remember you must die.” Mortality is not something a Manic Pixie spends eons contemplating, but I have faced up to its inevitability on occasion. For example, when I worked on the novel as the Manic Pixie Cancer Boy, I had scenes focused on living out your remaining time to the fullest. The inspiring underlying message is that every moment is a gift rather than a guarantee, so seize the day. I’ll be the first to admit such axioms can seem overly trite. But when you are the one facing down the barrel of the gun, they become your lifelines.
If we only have five days to avert our Trope’s full-scale demise, we’re going to have to seize each of those days pretty intensely.
Our first order of business has to be gaining a voice at this Council meeting. No way can we leave our Trope’s defense solely to Nebraska.
“You shouldn’t have to be the only voice representing the whole Trope,” I say to her in my best buttery baritone. “It’s not fair to put such a huge burden on you.”
“Yeah, even the best among us can use backup.” Zelda catches my drift this time and layers on the kind of flattery Nebraska can’t resist. “What if we all make a presentation to the Council together? There’s strength in numbers.”
Nebraska looks at us thoughtfully. “So what are you suggesting?”
For this to work, Nebraska has to think our plan is her idea. “I don’t know,” I say. “You’re the one with the most experience. We’re all just offering to help out.”
The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project Page 11