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.