Chapter 52

The mannequins lean against the walls, already half-dressed. One of them looks just like me, down to wearing the yellow baseball cleats I scuffed on the ice while doing snow angels with Zelda at Winter Lake.

Clearly they mean to make an example of me. They want to show how my choice of fanciful footwear somehow contributed to the downfall of an entire Trope.

“Oh my god, that’s supposed to be Riley!” Zelda says in a choked voice. She’s shaking, and her expression vacillates between outrage and abject terror.

I nod because my throat is a desert, and I’m too afraid to speak. The Council could be judging us right now, spying on us via hidden cameras, ready to use anything we say to defend ourselves as more proof that we’re toxic.

“I can’t believe this.” Nebraska levies a series of harsh curses before clamping a hand over her own mouth. She composes herself and glares at Milton. “What vicious falsehoods have tainted our good name?”

“Well,” Milton says carefully, “some in Reader World say you are one-dimensional characters with no inner life or goals of your own.”

Nebraska lets out a laugh so harsh it could rip someone’s throat out. Possibly Milton’s. “Manic Pixies are beautifully multifaceted, well-rounded, and deep. Whoever thinks otherwise hasn’t experienced the pleasure of getting to know me.”

“You mean us,” Zelda corrects.

“Us,” Nebraska repeats, but in an unconvincingly smarmy way.

I try to see the issue from the Reader World perspective. My Author gave Marsden goals that had nothing to do with Ava. But I’ve also been part of projects where my role was far less nuanced, as we all have. We complained about it enough in therapy sessions.

“What else?” Nebraska demands.

“It’s sexist,” Milton says.

“Nonsense!” Her eyes land on me and narrow. “We have Riley to prove otherwise.”

Am I the token boy though? One exception to the rule doesn’t necessarily let our trope off the hook for its historic objectification of women.

I understand now why some people in Reader World would want us to be retired. And maybe it would be for the best if Authors stopped leaning so heavily on our Trope. But do I deserve to be locked away forever, far from public consumption, because of what I am and what I represent?

Does Zelda? Or Nebraska, or any of the others?

We’re not just reductive stereotypes. We’re so much more than that. Or if we’re not, we can be.

Milton shrugs, clearly not invested enough to make a counter-argument. “Also, some say the term itself is restrictive, because it lumps all ‘quirky’ women together, essentially dismissing them.”

Nebraska ponders this for a moment as if it stumps her. She pulls out her flask and tries to take a sip, apparently forgetting that the guards emptied it. She shakes it sadly and returns it to her pocket. Finally she squares her shoulders. “Well, you know what? I embrace the term. I’m a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, and I’m damn proud of it. And why shouldn’t I be? Don’t you agree, Riley?”

Honestly, after everything Nebraska’s done, if the Council said they were going to lock only Nebraska in this exhibit and let the rest of us go free, maybe I’d be okay with it. But the way things stand, we need her if the rest of us are going to survive.

And we deserve to survive.

“Yes,” I say. “We should all be proud of who we are. Manic Pixies are awesome. And we’re going to prove it to the Council . . . and to the world.”