Chapter 22

I make my way to the pool hall, riding the particular high produced by a successful creative session. Appropriate, since the Recreational District hollers with fun. I bounce down the rubberized road, and along the way, Carnival Workers try to lure me to test my strength or ride a zip-line or swim in a giant vat of plastic balls.

But I won’t be swayed from my mission to see Zelda tonight, even if I won’t exactly advertise that I kissed another girl. Granted, I only did it because it’s my job, but the twinge of guilt stems from the fact that I enjoyed it—though that’s my job, too.

The pool hall occupies the basement of the Wild West Saloon, so I have to squeeze my way through a crowd of leather-vested revelers cheering on those brave enough to mount the mechanical bull. Peanut shells crackle under my feet and yee-haws bounce off the walls. I thud down the stairs into the dim light of the pool hall, happy to escape the full-on assault on my senses.

I scan the tables, my heart beating in pace with the frenetic line dancing upstairs. Zelda isn’t here, but I spy Nebraska, holding court at a corner table. She sits regally on a red barstool that matches her hair dye, and when she looks over and recognizes me, she beckons me to come over.

“You may go,” she says to the two guys playing in front of her. Without a word, they abandon their game. They rack up their cues, but leave their balls behind.

There’s nowhere else to sit, and Nebraska doesn’t seem in any hurry to abdicate her throne, so I stand awkwardly beside her, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Come here often?” I say, my tongue firmly in my cheek. This line couldn’t be any cheesier unless you fried it in cheddar.

“I do not frequent this establishment, no.”

I raise my eyebrow. I almost ask her where the rest of the Manic Pixie club is, but it doesn’t seem like the best tactical move, so I wait for her to speak again.

“You know, Finn used to come over to my place to play pool,” she says finally. “Quite often actually.”

I try to hide my shock, but she’s too savvy.

“Oh my, he never told you, did he?” She bares her teeth in a facsimile of a smile and pats my shoulder. “And you were his best friend and everything.”

“He never talked about you at all.” I mean it as a slam, to insinuate that she wasn’t important enough to be a topic of conversation, but if it bothers her, you’d never know it by looking at her. How did a Manic Pixie become such an Ice Queen Diva? I’m surprised the Council hasn’t transferred her Trope allegiance.

She points at the formation of balls on the felt. “You’re behind the eight ball like he was.”

I start to get a very bad feeling. “What do you mean?”

“Finn also fell in love with a fellow Manic Pixie.”

I want to protest, but no words come out. What can I say, anyway? Apparently I’m so obvious about my crush on Zelda that even Nebraska has cared to notice. So instead I ask the obvious question. “Who was Finn in love with?”

As far as I know, Finn spent most of his time either working or hanging out with me, and we rarely talked about girls, except in relation to our current projects.

Nebraska fans herself with the feathers of her peacock shawl. “With me, dummy,” she says.

“No way.” If that’s true, I really didn’t know Finn at all.

“He wrote me enough love letters to fill a slew of hatboxes. He asked me to shred and scatter them after I read them, and I honored his wishes.”

I feel woozy. I sit down on the floor, and some gelatinous substance sticks to my jeans. From this angle, I can see up Nebraska’s appealingly upturned nose.

“But that’s not the point,” she continues. “The point is you’re playing a dangerous game, and as a friend, I’m advising you to be careful. You know very well what happened to dear Finn.”

Except I don’t. At least, I have no idea why he was terminated. Is Nebraska implying Finn’s alleged crush on her led to his untimely demise?

Before I can ask her to clarify, Nebraska hops off her stool and saunters away.

I stay seated on the floor, my mind racing. Manic Pixies aren’t explicitly forbidden to date unless they are in therapy together, are they? Though I suppose if Finn hid a relationship with Nebraska from me, he could have also hidden a stint in group therapy . . .

But there’s a more chilling implication: maybe it will never be safe for me to date Zelda. Like Mandy said earlier, maybe Manic Pixies simply aren’t made for one another, and the TropeTown authorities will intervene at some point.

I’m no longer up for playing pool. I don’t even want to wait for the others to arrive or to see Zelda. I get up and walk out without a backward glance.