The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project

by Lenore Appelhans

  “Well, there’s nothing more we can do about our real problems right now either. So what’s wrong with giving ourselves a breather?”

  “Ugh! Men! You can only handle so much emotional strain before you run for cover.” Her eyes flash with righteous fury. “And here I deluded myself into thinking you were special.”

  Hold up. She thinks I’m special? Holy freaking hallelujah! But did I just blow it?

  “Soooo you’d go on a date with me?” I blurt, because I’m an idiot and don’t know when to keep my mouth shut. And also, I really want to know.

  She glances at me shyly and her cheeks erupt pink. She opens and closes her mouth. She’s flustered, and Zelda has never once been rendered speechless in my presence. It’s not who she is. She crosses and uncrosses her arms over her chest and looks down. “We can’t.”

  Which isn’t the same as an “I don’t want to,” so I forge ahead. “Why not?”

  “Riley,” she says, her voice hitching, “why are you asking me out?” Her gaze rises tentatively to meet mine.

  I wait a minute to answer, because I’m terrified to tell her the truth. But if I never risk anything, I can never reap the rewards either. “Because I think I may be in love with you.”

  She smiles wistfully and shakes her head. “You’re not in love with me.”

  I’m about to insist that I am, but something stops me. I have to admit I don’t really know what love is. I’ve been programmed to pursue the romantic trappings of it, but I suppose I haven’t spent much time considering what I would want or need from an actual relationship.

  “If anything,” Zelda goes on, “you’re in love with the concept of me. You don’t even know me. Because the real me—heck, even I don’t know who that is.”

  I suddenly notice she’s not wearing one of her pins today—almost like she’s given up on her search for identity. “But does anyone really have all that figured out? I bet not even Developeds do. Or even Readers.”

  She takes off her glasses and slips them in her pocket. Without them, she looks younger and more delicate. “I don’t actually need these. I have perfect vision. I wear them because they make me feel fierce.”

  “You are fierce,” I confirm.

  “I am. But I’m also a coward. I’m generous, but I’m also selfish. I’m smart, but I can’t tell the difference between left and right.”

  I lift my left hand. “Quick, which hand am I holding up?”

  She grabs it. “This one.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “Cheater,” I whisper.

  “See?” She takes a step closer. “I have lots of undesirable qualities. Do you still want to ask me out?”

  “I do.”

  We stare at each other, and it’s so intense I think I might faint.

  She crosses her eyes. “Even now?”

  “Now, especially.”

  Her eyes crinkle at the edges, and she looks like she’s trying very hard to suppress a grin. “I’m thinking I could kiss you right now . . .”

  Oh my god. It’s happening.

  I lean in eagerly, but she coughs, and I freeze mid-swoop.

  “. . . but I also think now would be the wrong time. I mean, 95 percent of my brain is occupied by the thought that we might not exist as of next week . . . and honestly, Riley, you deserve more than 5 percent of my attention.”

  I step back to give her space. I want to kiss her, but I also want her to be more than 5 percent into it.

  “I’m confident we are going to rock the Council with our Pixie-Off,” I say, exaggerating slightly. “So I can wait.”

  She hugs me and giggles into my shoulder. “I admire your restraint.”

  “Why thank you.” I curtsey with her still clinging to me, so it’s somewhat awkward. “I’ve won several awards for it. Did you notice them gleaming on my shelf?”

  “I think I was too busy sneaking glances at you,” she says, and my heart shoots off fireworks.

  I can be patient. I can be patient. I can be patient.

  But I have to untangle myself from her to do it. So I do. And I think of the least sexy thing I can say right now.

  “Look, I’m going to make it my mission to free George, okay?”

  “No,” she says and puts her glasses back on.

  “No?”

  She reinitiates contact by lacing her fingers through mine. “Let’s make it our mission to free George.”

  Chapter 42

  Before Zelda and I can plot a course that will take us to the VZ to save George, I get an Author summons.

  I point at my band apologetically, and Zelda leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek, so obviously I am never washing my cheek again. “See you later,” she says. “I’ll be at the pool hall if you want to meet up.”

  I hate leaving her, but I have to. I take a deep breath and press my summons button.

  Backstage is dark when I land, and I can barely find my way around. All there is to drink is a pitcher of metallic-tasting water, but I guzzle it down anyway.

  What the heck is going on? Why did I get a summons if the Author isn’t writing today?

  Finally, the door marked “Private” squeaks open, and Ava comes in holding a flashlight and a pie. She bounds over to me and sits down, handing me the pie with a flourish.

  “I baked this just for you,” she declares, smiling like a goof. “Rhubarb.”

  “What’s the occasion?” I wipe a bit of flour from her nose.

  “I missed you,” she explains, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. “And I know you love pie.”

  I take a bite. It’s perfect and I tell her so.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I burned the first couple I attempted, but if at first you don’t succeed . . .”

  “Never give up.”

  “We need to tell that to the Author.” Ava clicks the flashlight on and off, pointing it at the closed soundstage. “She hasn’t written a word since you were last here. She thinks the novel is a mess and that she’s a huge failure.”

  “So the Author didn’t call me to work today?”

  “No, I called you. And not only because I missed you. Because I think you can help.”

  “Help? How?” I’m honestly at a loss.

  “You’re a Manic Pixie.” Ava shines the flashlight at my face but is careful to avoid blinding my eyes. “It’s your job to light up people’s lives, right? Maybe you can convince the Author she’s on the right track. Give her faith in herself again.”

  I can’t suppress an ironic laugh. Me? The boy on probation for not trusting my Authors is supposed to help an Author regain her inner trust?

  “What’s wrong?” Ava asks.

  “I wish the TropeTown council believed in Manic Pixies as much as you do.” I place the pie under my chair. I take the flashlight from her and point it at the ground. “Our Trope is currently in danger of being retired.”

  “But why?” She clutches my arm like I might immediately disappear. “Don’t they get how much the world needs you?”

  “We have one last chance to try to make them understand.” I tell her about the fire and George being hauled away as well as about the Council meeting and our plans for the Pixie-Off. While I talk, she rubs circles into my wrist.

  “I’d stand up in front of the council and defend you if I could,” Ava declares. We both know she can’t actually do this. If she ventured into TropeTown even for a quick visit, her novel would collapse without her.

  “Thanks. That means a lot.”

  “Have you thought about planting here?” she asks tentatively. Her fingers tense as she waits for my answer.

  “It’s an option.” I’m careful to keep my tone neutral. The truth is it might turn out to be the lesser evil, but that still doesn’t make it a great choice for me personally. “I really like spending time with you.”

  “And isn’t the Author doing a fantastic job of world-building and crafting scenes?” she prompts me with a wink.

  “If she could create someone as wonde
rful as you, Ava,” I say truthfully, “she has to have massive talent.”

  The lights blaze back on just in time for me to catch Ava blushing. She immediately looks away from me, up at the bright fluorescents. “You did it!” she squeals. “You’re awesome, Riley! And you should never, ever be retired.” She jumps onto my lap and kisses me all over my face in gratitude. I feel an unfamiliar pride in making a real impact and being appreciated for it.

  With our Author back in business, we get called in to work on a scene where Ava presses Marsden to define their relationship. It’s after midnight, and Marsden has climbed the trellis and wriggled himself through Ava’s bedroom window. They both wear pajamas, and Marsden has a serious case of bedhead. They sit on top of her frilly pink bedspread, an oddly sentimental decorating choice for the usually no-nonsense Ava.

  MARSDEN: Hey, I thought maybe we could ride our bikes to the grocery store and buy some cinnamon Pop-Tarts.

  AVA: In our pajamas?

  MARSDEN: Obvs. It’s more fun that way.

  AVA: Can’t. When they induced vomiting at the vet, Bruiser totally ruined my sneakers.

  MARSDEN: You must have more shoes!

  AVA: Well, yeah, but not any others with sufficient grip to safely scale the trellis.

  MARSDEN: Barefoot?

  AVA: It’s too early in our relationship to show you my feet.

  MARSDEN: Oh? When does the big foot reveal usually come, in your experience?

  AVA: After you actually define the relationship.

  MARSDEN: So you mean, if I say ‘Hey, Ava—is it cool if I call you my girlfriend?’ you respond by flashing me your pedicure?

  AVA: Something like that, yeah.

  MARSDEN: Hmmm . . . good to know.

  AVA: So do you want to see my feet?

  MARSDEN: I didn’t have that particular interest until recently.

  AVA (giggles): I’m pulling down a sock . . .

  MARSDEN: Oh my! Exposed ankle!

  AVA: Seriously though . . .

  MARSDEN (gets down on his knees in front of Ava’s bed): Ava, I wish for you to accompany me on a barefoot quest in search of sugary sustenance. Will you accept my proposal and make me the giddiest man in all the land?

  AVA: I accept.

  The scene continues with Ava and Marsden carrying out their plan and having sweet moments together, both literally and figuratively. The drama comes when the store manager won’t let them shop without shoes, but then Marsden comes up with the great plan of buying flip-flops from the front seasonal display. Crisis averted!

  After the scene finishes, Ava and I return to our seats to gorge ourselves on her rhubarb pie.

  “I had so much fun with you today,” Ava says.

  “Actually, you had so much fun with Marsden.”

  “You could be Marsden, you know,” she says, pointedly alluding to our earlier conversation about planting.

  “It’s just . . . I don’t want to be Marsden.” I put down my fork. “I want to be Riley.”

  “What’s the big difference?” she asks, and not all snarky, but like she really doesn’t get it. She’s never had to pretend to be someone else, so I guess I can’t expect her to understand how easily the lines between reality and fiction can blur if you stop paying attention. How easily you can lose yourself.

  I don’t know how to answer her question, so I deflect with a question of my own. “Are you happy?”

  She takes another bite of pie, but I can’t. My stomach gurgles at the thought of it.

  “Remember that Inspiring Teacher Trope who has done a few scenes with me? She told me happiness is knowing your purpose. And I do. My Author created me for the express purpose of living in this story. I wouldn’t exist otherwise.”

  “And my purpose is to fulfil my Trope duties to the best of my ability,” I sigh. “But that doesn’t feel like enough.”

  “I’m no expert on Tropes, but maybe the whole idea is that you try on all these different roles until you find one that fits you best.”

  “But what if the role that fits me best is Riley?” I muse aloud.

  I don’t expect her to answer, but she does. “Then find a way to be Riley. No matter what it takes.”

  Chapter 43

  Lying on my sofa, I ponder Ava’s parting words. Find a way to be Riley. It seems impossible. I get up and sharpen a jumbo box of pencils, which I send soaring one by one to puncture the ceiling with their pointy ends until an entire forest of cedar and graphite claims the space above me.

  Even though it’s late, I head outside because I need to burn off my nervous energy. My feet take me to the Entertainment District, and I revel in the thought of Zelda suckering some poor saps into games of pool they have no chance of winning. But when I get to the Wild West Saloon, the Muscle-Bound Bouncer blocks me from entering.

  “We’re closed. Scram.” His bulging biceps cross his pecs like mating whales. I step back, intimidated. In comparison, my biceps resemble much less majestic creatures, like puffins.

  Laughter from inside pours out into the alley, so not all the clientele has been kicked out yet.

  “Is Zelda still here?”

  He rubs his chin. “Should I tell you? You can’t be a Creepy Stalker Dude, because you’d be locked down in the Villain Zone.”

  The doors swing open and Zelda emerges, kicking up a dust cloud of peanut shells. “Don’t give him a hard time, Vic. He’s with me.”

  And as if to really drive home her point, she slips her arm around my waist and leans into me.

  My outsides play it cool, but my insides are shooting off wild sparks. Zelda claims me. Her hand on my hip feels like a promise of delicious days and nights to come.

  Vic reacts with a skeptical sneer. “This guy? Really? I bet he can’t even hold a cue properly.”

  Zelda ruffles her other hand through my hair. “Eh, but he sure is hot!”

  “If you say so.” Vic gives me the tiniest of nods, but I don’t need his approval—especially not when Zelda writes me poster-sized checks of validation.

  She salutes him, and we walk.

  “Did you mean that?” I ask. “You think I’m hot?”

  “Duh. All Manic Pixies are hot,” she says, and I’m reminded of saying something similar to Ava not that long ago. Right now, Ava seems impossibly distant, like a faded photograph tucked away in an attic. Ava is destined to be a memory, while Zelda is someone I have the chance to make memories with.

  “Oh, clever way to fish for a compliment!” I tease.

  She laughs and strikes a model pose. “You caught me.”

  “You’re so hot, Zelda.”

  “Duh,” she says, but I can tell that she’s pleased I said so.

  Since it’s so late, most of the carnival workers that lurk around these parts have packed up and gone home already. But the basketball hoop challenge is still open, promising to reward winners with useless, oversized monstrosities.

  Who could resist?

  I swipe my card to buy ten throws from the young man running the booth. He passes me the first ball with flinty precision.

  Zelda hoots in support, slapping my back like a good teammate. “You got this, Riley.”

  I square my feet and concentrate on my follow-through. Scoring is all about honing the fine motor skills of your fingertips, and my fingertips are more than ready to prove themselves.

  “All net!” I pump my fist in victory.

  I sink the next eight as well. Which if I’m true to my average, means I’ll probably miss the last one.

  The carnival guy’s tosses to me have become increasingly erratic, as if he has been slowly acclimatizing to the notion of parting ways with a big prize. And the last ball misses me entirely and hits Zelda in the thigh.

  “Why don’t you give your girl a chance,” he proposes slyly.

  Zelda’s not one to pass up a challenge, and she boxes me out when I go for the wayward ball. “I got this,” she says.

  “I trust you.” The words rush out of my mouth, but once
they escape, I realize they’re true.

  “Maybe it’s a mistake to put too much faith in me.” She dribbles the ball once, like a pro.

  When the whole game’s at stake, you can’t second-guess yourself or you lose your nerve. “I made my choice, and I’m sticking it with it.”

  She gives me an appraising look with narrowed eyes and holds it a moment too long.

  The carnival guy sees his opportunity and begins to heckle her. “You’re going to screw this up for him. Mark my words.”

  Zelda palms the ball. “If I wanted bogus prophecy, I’d have gone to the Fortune Teller.”

  I assume a superhero stance to form a protective screen for her. She loosens up by performing a plié followed by a pirouette. “Okay,” she says. “Here goes nothing.”

  She puts the ball up with both hands, not the best tactic. It hits the inside of the rim and rolls in a spin.

  I hold my breath. Will it go in?

  Finally it slows and drops, right through the net, and I exhale in a congratulatory puff. “You did it!”

  “Close call, though.” Her cheeks pink up in bright dots.

  The carnival guy groans and reluctantly retrieves a giant hippo, a smaller cousin, perhaps, to the one at Nebraska’s place. “Here. Take it.”

  Zelda and I hug the hippo between us. We both know we’re not going to carry it all the way home, but we savor our success for a satisfying sixty seconds.

  She lets go first, and I transfer ownership back to the bewildered carnival guy. “No thank you. We don’t need trophies to know we’re awesome.”

  “And anyway,” Zelda says, “we prefer to collect experiences.”

  As we leave, I feel more like myself than I have in long time. I may only be a Trope, but at least I can make my own choices and memories while I’m free to roam TropeTown.

  I can’t plant. I need to stay and defend my Trope. I need to fight for my right to be me—even if I’m still figuring out who that really is.

  Chapter 44

  We’ve barely made it ten steps when my summons band lights up again.

  “Your Author must be experiencing an unexpected bout of productivity,” Zelda remarks. She seems disappointed that I have to go, which I chalk up as my second major win of the evening.