The Manic Pixie Dream Boy Improvement Project

Chapter 1

I crumple the notice in my fist and hurl it into the recycling chute. I guess I suspected this might happen. I tried my best on my last project, but my Author gave me so much hassle.

There’d be days on end where I wouldn’t be called into work at all, and then—boom—like, three furious all-nighters in a row. I could have put in a complaint about poor working conditions, but being agreeable is characteristic of my Trope, so I didn’t. And now I’m in danger of termination.

Termination. That’s a scary word. No one really knows what happens to you when you’re terminated. You board a train on the outskirts of town. The train always comes back empty. There are rumors that termination means getting thrown into a shredder and having your traits sorted through to recycle into new stock characters. Even though I’m fictional, I’d prefer to stay whole.

Anyway, as much as I’d love to indignantly ignore the Council’s mandate, I can’t. First of all, there’s that whole agreeable characteristic I mentioned. And second, I get the feeling the Council keeps close tabs on me—on all of us. I don’t know exactly how, or to what extent, but I’ve run into several Wild Conspiracy Theorists who are convinced the whole town is crawling with hidden cameras and bugs. I need to err on the side of being a model TropeTown citizen to get back in the Council’s good graces.

I walk outside and shield my eyes from the bright sun until they adjust. It’s always sunny in TropeTown. Oversaturated blue sky and green grass make it seem like we’re living in a cartoon. Perfect, puffy white clouds float above me. Fresh and calibrated air ensures we neither shiver nor sweat while in the city environs. At this time of morning, the Service Industry Tropes hustle to their employment stations, and Leisure Tropes clog the wide, tree-lined avenue running east-west in front of the residential complex where I live.

All around me, birds chirp and children laugh, and I envy their carefree happiness. Clearly they did not receive a morale-leeching summons to therapy.

I glance down at my TropeTown employee band. It’s not likely to light up today with an Author summons, as I recently finished work on my last novel and haven’t started a new project yet.

That’s just as well—I’d like to be alone while I contemplate this setback. I tap the pocket of my jacket to confirm I have a full packet of crackers, and I head to my favorite place in TropeTown, the wooden bridge that crosses Summer River in Seasons Park.

I hate that I don’t feel up to greeting people with my usual pep, so I keep my head down and walk as quickly as I can, blocking out my surroundings and repeating positivity mantras to myself—something my best friend and mentor, Finn, taught me to do. Everything will be okay. Everything will be better than okay. Everything will work out for the best, even if I can’t see how right now.

By the time I reach the bridge, I’m already more hopeful. I take out a handful of crackers and crush them. The ducks respond to my crackling and crunching, swimming my way with eager beaks. I toss the crumbs into the air, and they hit the water like confetti. Frenzied quacking ensues. Other than that, peace reigns.

So I’m slightly annoyed when a clomping sound alerts me to the presence of another human. When I turn, my annoyance fades into concern as a teetering tower of books with legs walks toward me. Sexy legs clad in daisy-printed leggings. I have a vision of pages sinking down, down, down into an aquatic grave, bloating and warping all those beautiful words. I rush over to offer my help.

Hey, I say.

She yelps and stumbles, and the books fall in a pile at her feet. We both bend down and reach for the same book at the same time. Our fingers brush, and I’m so startled by the electric reaction it creates that I look up.

I’m staring at her, and she’s staring back at me through eyeglasses with heavy brown frames. Neither of us moves, except to grip the book even tighter.

The girl’s wild, dark hair frames high cheekbones and red lips that seem set in a permanent smirk. She’s a stranger, and yet familiar. I’ve never felt this kind of instant attraction to anyone before, and it literally takes my breath away. The moment stretches out between us, intense and full of meaning.

I exhale. She exhales.

I notice the title of the book we’re both still clutching. Pinocchio. It must be a sign.

This is my favorite novel, I say, giddy at the coincidence.

She quirks an eyebrow. Mine too.

I nod like I knew this already, because on some level, I did. I’m Riley. Manic Pixie Dream Boy, at your service. I finally let go of the book.

Zelda. Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Figures she’d be just my Trope. And by the looks of her, she’s the Geek Chick sub-type, the most cynical and most prone to actually getting her Trope inverted. I haven’t spent much time around other Manic Pixies—except for Finn—but I know a lot about them thanks to the TropeTown Guide to Character Types every Trope comes with, standard issue.

She hugs Pinocchio to her chest. She wears a yellow T-shirt with a black outline of a square on it.

Does the empty square mean something? I ask.

In the dozens of times I’ve worn this, no one has ever asked me that. She sounds pleased yet still guarded. It’s a periodic table square, and it’s empty because I haven’t found my element yet.

May I suggest copper and tellurium? I say before I can stop myself. Because you’re Cu-Te.

O-MG. She laughs and her whole face lights up, her delight overpowering her jaded cool for a glorious moment.

We gather up the other titles and put them in two stacks, because of course I’ll carry half of them to wherever she wants to take them. Based on her selections, I can tell she has eclectic taste—everything from superhero graphic novels to classics to guides about fixing up old toasters.

When we finish, I throw my remaining crackers to our large audience of waterfowl and pick up one of the piles. Where to?

Zelda winks. Wandering about until we end up where we end up, of course.

Makes perfect sense. Or it might if we weren’t lugging pounds of books around, but I’m not really programmed to voice anything so practical aloud.

As we walk across a vast field of emerald grass, I sneak glances at Zelda, who sneaks glances at me.

Even though I’ll have access to her character trait sheet in the TropeTown Guide when I get home, there are a zillion little things I want to ask her. I can’t settle on a single question, because as soon as it forms on my tongue, it suddenly seems too banal. I usually have no problem with amiable chatter, but I don’t want to mess up with this girl. She throws me off-kilter in the most dizzying way.

Zelda breaks our silence with an exuberant shriek. It’s our lucky day! We’ve wandered into a clover patch. She sits carefully, steadying the books and letting them rest in her lap, and she motions for me to do the same, so of course I do.

She plucks a pair of four-leaf clovers and presses the long stems between her fingers. She leans toward me, biting her lower lip while she arranges one of the clovers behind my ear. She puts the other in my open palm and twists her neck so I have better access to her ear. I let the leaves graze her cheek before I set the clover in place, and she closes her eyes and sighs.

Normally, I might ask if this is an invitation to kiss her, but the books form an awkward barrier between us, and also we’ve just met, and I fritter away so much time flip-flopping between my need to be a gentleman and my desire to be as close as possible to Zelda that her eyes pop open. She stands up with a frown. Am I a massive disappointment?

She leads me to the edge of the tree line of the Autumn Woods, a part of the park continually aglow with burnished reds, oranges, and golds. Dried leaves crunch and twigs crack under our feet. The humming of cicadas harmonizes with the chattering of birds and makes me ache with nostalgia for a childhood I never had.

We stop where the sunlight dapples her exposed collarbones. A breeze picks up, bringing a chill with it that sets goose bumps galloping across my skin.

Please put them there, she instructs, indicating the flat top of a tree stump. Its surface reveals many rings, all fat with prosperity. Even though it never actually rains in TropeTown, all the flora and fauna thrive. It’s one of the great mysteries of this place that sets it apart from Reader World. My destination is close by, so . . . She drags a toe of her shiny, yellow ankle boot in the dirt and doesn’t look at me. Everything seemed to be going so well. What happened?

Are you sure you don’t still need help carrying them to wherever you were headed before you met me? I ask, hoping to spend more time with her. "We could read aloud to each other from Pinocchio."

That does sound fun. She looks around cautiously, as if to ascertain whether we’re being watched, before whispering, Can I trust you?

I would have to say yes. But should you really trust a guy who insists you can trust him? I joke. She rewards me with her joyous laugh again. I could get addicted to her laugh.

She punches me softly on the shoulder. You have a point there, bucko. But how about this? I’ll be at the Ooh La Latte Café at seven tomorrow morning. I make it a priority to try a different flavor of tea each time I go.

Do I hear a choir singing? She wants to see me again. And I’ll have just enough time to stop by the café before I have to be at therapy.

I grin and return her punch, trying to act super casual. Maybe I’ll see you there, then.

I have to force myself to turn and walk away. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it’s also the happiest I’ve been since Finn disappeared a few months ago. Suddenly the Council’s letter doesn’t bother me as much.

Chapter 2

Now, I bet you have a lot of questions. About where I come from and what my purpose is and who I really am inside. I have those same questions.

You want an origin story. Fine. Our Council founded TropeTown to be a repository for commonly recurring literary devices, situations, and characters in creative works. So I appeared here one day a few years ago, fully formed. Was I created, or did I spring spontaneously into existence because of Reader World’s need for my type? The fact I came with a character trait sheet seems to point to intelligent design, but I don’t actually know.

And now that I’ve mentioned it, you want to see my trait sheet, don’t you? So curious! I like that about you.

Name: Riley

Trope: Manic Pixie Dream Boy (sub-type of Manic Pixie Dream Girl)

Age: 17

Birthday: June 6, Gemini

General physical description: Tall enough, but not lanky. Toned enough, but not a gym rat. Green eyes. Dark hair. Thick eyebrows that look brooding, but a killer smile to balance out that impression. Basically, hot—but in a non-threatening way.

Clothing style: Mix of trendy and vintage. Cool with girls choosing his clothes. I’ll even let them put eyeliner on me, though only for special occasions.

Hobbies: Writing silly love songs and picking out chords on the guitar. Memorizing French poetry. Darts.

Talents: Dance moves to pull out in montages to show how quirky and fun I am, the right witty banter for every occasion, the ability to spout off platitudes and sound achingly sincere, ninety percent free-throw average (but not aggressive enough to actually play full court basketball). I could go on, but I’m starting to sound like I’m bragging, so I won’t.

Strongest positive personality traits: Flexible, kind, excellent listener.

Strongest negative personality traits: Can be flighty, indecisive, superficial.

Ambitions: Am I allowed to have these?

Life philosophy: I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

Favorite foods: Pie. Chicken wings but only if they are from free-range chickens, though I’m good at pretending. If I ask you if the chicken was free-range, I hope you say yes even if you don’t actually know, so I can eat my chicken with a clear conscience. Coffee latte with soy or almond milk unless it costs extra in which case I will begrudgingly have regular milk or creamer.

Phobias: Clowns.

Do you feel like you know me better now? Does this make me more sympathetic? It’s important to me that you like me. Because the more you like me, the more you’ll care about what happens to me, and the more likely it is you’ll continue to read my story. And I want you to continue because I don’t exist otherwise.

Chapter 3

I wake up in the morning with a mix of excitement and dread. I get to meet Zelda, but then I’ll have to excuse myself and go to therapy. And I can’t tell her about therapy, because I don’t want her to think I’m a huge screwup.

When I step outside, I take a deep breath.

Oh, Riley! Cathy, my Crazy Cat Lady neighbor, trills. Can you help me? Sprite got herself stuck in the tree again.

Sure thing. I wave to assure Cathy that I’ve got her cat emergency covered, and I climb the blossoming cherry tree that Sprite loves so much. If there were Manic Pixie cats, Sprite would be one. She’s not the talking sort, but she’s a quirky quicksilver, with extreme white fluff and a pink heart-shaped nose. I click my tongue to get her attention, but she refuses to directly acknowledge me, instead opting for a prance on a slim, wobbly branch. She loses her balance and falls, but luckily I catch her and bring her down to the relative safety of Cathy’s arms.

Cathy pinches my cheek to show her gratitude. A nice boy like you—when are you going to get yourself a girlfriend?

One of these days, I assure her, and Zelda pops up in my mind.

Sprite curls herself around Cathy’s neck like a scarf and purrs. Cathy ties her ratty bathrobe tighter. Don’t wait too long. Unless you want to end up like me.

I shudder. I like Sprite, but Cathy has at least another basketful of felines lurking in her apartment that she hides to avoid extra pet rent. I can sometimes hear their plaintive chorus of mews late at night through the walls. Is it possible for a Manic Pixie to turn into a Crazy Cat Person Type? Are existential ennui and extreme loneliness the triggers? I hope I never find out.

I’ve been to the Ooh La Latte Café before. In fact, it’s one my favorite places. Favorite because the baristas don’t charge extra to substitute almond milk in my latte. Favorite because they dim the overhead lights to simulate twilight, and the décor is faux old-world French. And now a favorite because Zelda enjoys their teas.

Last night I pored over Zelda’s character trait sheet and learned she’s into sci-fi movies, collecting rare comic books, and cosplay. And at the pool hall she wields her cue like a professional hustler, leaving broken egos in her wake.

I enter the café. Zelda lounges on a blue velvet loveseat in the corner under a canopy of tiny lights strewn over the ceiling like stars. She sits with her chin tilted up and one eyebrow quirked. There’s a hint of a smile on her lips, like she’s having all these fascinating, hilarious thoughts, but she’d never deign to share them with the likes of you. Nevertheless, I approach her after procuring my latte.

Hey, Z. Which tea’s a-brewing today?

Zelda snickers and stretches her long legs out under the round marble table in front of her. Double O Cinnamon. Shaken, not stirred.

Sounds like you have a license to chill.

Tragic, Riley. Zelda peers up at me. She wears her chunky brown glasses and bulky sweater like armor. And the silver Ti-22 pin at her collar completes this impenetrable impression, as it seems she chose titanium for a reason. Her judgment stings like a rampaging prickle of porcupines, deflating me more than the prospect of going to therapy.

You wound me, fair maiden.

Oh, don’t pout. She scoots over to let me sit next to her, close enough that even in the hazy light I can see the flecks of green in her brown eyes. Score!

How’s work? I start off with an easy question while I raid the condiment chalice at the center of the table and stir a packet of sugar into my coffee.

She shrugs. Oh, you know, the usual Early Days stuff. Showing up at three a.m. and knocking on his bedroom window. Making snow angels in the park under the moonlight. Destroying a unicorn topiary to show how rebellious I am.

God, how I wish she were doing all that stuff with me.

Does Zelda lie awake at night like I do, wishing she could go Off-Page and have adventures she dreams up herself instead of following the scripts she is handed every day?

How about you? she asks.

My next project has been delayed. The Author suffers from writer’s block.

Do you actually believe in writer’s block? The way her question drips with disdain hints at her position on the issue, and my instinct is to agree with her, even though I don’t have an informed opinion. It’s risky to insult Authors, though, especially in a public place where anyone or any hidden device could be eavesdropping. I don’t need any more black marks on my record.

This Author must believe in it.

Zelda