Chapter 11

“Can anyone help me move a giant pane of glass out of my apartment?” Mandy asks us after dumping the disappointing apple pie in the trash.

The remaining girls all come up with excuses. Chloe needs to go to the employment office. Sky is off to knit fingerless gloves for her favorite Washed-Up Rock Stars. George mumbles something about a stripper pole and a sloth, and no one really wants to ask more questions about that.

I agree, because I’ve got nothing better to do, and because with those doe eyes, Mandy could get a guy to do just about anything for her, even a guy who is gaga for another girl.

As we walk to Mandy’s place, she chatters on and on about Chloe’s joblessness, Sky’s obsession with music, and George’s quirky array of hobbies. She makes sure not to step on any cracks in the pavement. Nothing out of the ordinary for a Manic Pixie profile.

Mandy’s apartment is located in the same sprawling complex as mine and features the same floor plan and standard-issue furniture. But that’s where the similarities end, because glass takes up every free inch of space. Glass chickens. Glass cucumbers. Glass cupcakes, for fox sake.

Obviously I have to ask. “What’s up with the massive quantities of glass?”

“That’s all Clark. My ex, as of last night. He’s a Sensitive Nice Guy who spends too much time at the glass factory.”

“So what sins did he commit to become your ex?”

Mandy rolls her eyes. “OMG . . . maybe shower me with useless glass knick-knacks?”

I pick up a flat, brown, smooth piece of glass resembling an ear.

“I’m pretty sure that’s meant to be a spleen,” she says.

“Well, Mandy, spleens are actually quite useful organs. They help us fight off infections.”

She mimics my know-it-all tone exactly. “Well, Riley, glass spleens are actually quite useless. Especially when given as a part of an ill-advised Grand Romantic Gesture after a big fight.”

“Good point.”

Mandy extracts two pairs of work gloves from a drawer and throws a pair at me. “Catch.”

She has excellent aim. And she may look fragile, but when we heft the pane of glass between us, she carries her share of the weight.

“Where are we going with this?” I ask as we maneuver the cumbersome pane through her door.

“See, this pane of glass represents my relationship with Clark,” Mandy explains. “If we can carry it all the way to the factory without it breaking, then I’ll give Clark another chance.”

“Carrying a large pane of glass through town is tempting fate in a big way.”

She grins and smacks an imprint of her red lips on the glass. “Exactly.”

Well, you can guess what happens next, I’m sure, because this situation has played out so many times, it’s become a Trope. Someone’s riding a bicycle or driving a car and the inevitable crash goes down. You expect it. And when that glass does break into a trillion tiny shards, you’re proud of yourself because you saw it coming.

In this case, it’s a clown car that does the deed. And it’s my clown phobia that forces me to flee the scene. Mandy skips after me, giggling.

“That was fun.” She spins and screams out, “Hey Clark! I’m done with you. And with your glass chicken, too!”

When we get back to Mandy’s, she makes space on her linoleum entry floor and rolls out a plastic tarp. She arms me with a hammer and tells me to let loose.

“Are you sure?” I heft the heavy tool and take a tentative swing.

“Smash first, ask later.” She sets the chicken sculpture on the tarp and pounds away until a mound of yellow shards feathers the tarp. She carefully picks up the broken pieces and glues them to her wall in a circular pattern with outward spokes, like a child’s version of the sun.

I reach for the spleen, but she places a gloved-hand on my arm to stop me. “This must stay whole. It symbolizes my need to concentrate on healing right now rather than be pulled into more foolish escapades by my errant heart.”

We spend the afternoon gleefully shattering glass and affixing it around the spleen, the centerpiece of her mosaic masterpiece.

Her art inspires me to ask if I can take some of the red glass home. I want to paste a heart on my wall as a reminder to take more chances.

She fills up a plastic bucket with the remains of a pair of giant lobster figurines for me and collapses on her couch. “See you tomorrow in therapy.”

I blow her two friendly kisses in farewell. She catches them and pats them onto her cheeks.

Mandy’s front door faces the complex’s inner courtyard, a wide space that features tennis courts, a swimming pool, a playground with a jungle gym, and even a netted baseball diamond. When I walk out with my bucket, I’m distracted for a moment by a lively Little League game. Harried Helicopter Parents shout insults at the Stoic Umpire while an Unconventional Coach gives a Defining Moment Pep Talk to the Spunky Underdogs in the dugout. I don’t need to stay to know how this one will turn out. Same story, different day.