Chapter 57

After Bridget’s pronouncement, Zelda tells me we need to talk. When did the use of that phrase ever turn out well?

Maybe she’s worried that Ava’s unexpected arrival in TropeTown complicates our relationship. My own feelings are so knotted, I’m not sure how reassuring I can be. But I try to push Ava out of my mind for now to concentrate on Zelda.

“I want to take you to my tree house,” she says. “It’s where I was going with all those books when I dropped them at your feet.”

It’s a reassuring offer, because it shows that she trusts me. And isn’t it about time?

On our way, we stop for a moment of reflection on our bridge.

“That day we met doesn’t seem so long ago, does it?” The ducks quack at her for crackers, but she makes a show of her empty palms.

“It wasn’t that long ago.” I scrounge for a stale cracker in the pocket of my sport coat and give it to her to appease the ducks. “But I still feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“I’m so happy I’ve gotten the chance to know you.” She retrieves a pocket knife from one of her ankle boots and carves Z + R into the wood. It’s a surprising and flattering gesture. Even though I know it’s shown up in hundreds of Novels, in this moment it feels unique.

She takes my hand, and we walk on with our fingers entwined. Maybe this talk will turn out well, after all.

Her tree house hides itself well in plain sight. She has to point it out to me before I can find it in the canopy of leaves above us. She sheds her gold snowsuit bottoms to reveal a simple pair of black leggings underneath.

“Watch your head,” she warns as we climb the wooden slats nailed to the trunk. “The ceiling hangs low.”

Once inside, I whistle. “Wow. You have a lot of treasures, don’t you?”

The floor of the tree house sags with clutter. In one corner lies a croquet mallet next to a yellow blow-up chair that, thanks to algae stains, looks like it was rescued from the neglected life of a pool floatie. A makeshift bookcase supports a vintage set of encyclopedias, a pair of binoculars, and a dog-eared guide to the birds of North America. And a tray table holds a microscope with an assortment of marked slides and glass beakers and other science-y stuff.

“Thank you for not calling it junk.” She clears a space for me on a braided rag rug and I sit across from her.

“Anything for you, Empress of the Anatidae.”

“Riley.” Her eyes are wet and sad. She gives me this uncomfortable sort of smile that tells me she’s about to say something she knows I won’t want to hear.

So I cover my ears. “Don’t.”

She reaches up and removes my hands and puts them back in my lap. “I’ve been thinking it over, and this whole Pixie-Off plan is simply too risky for me. I’ve decided my best option is to plant.”

I’m stunned. “But we dazzled Bridget. We can do this, I know we can.” I have to believe that, because I don’t have the option of planting.

“Riley.” She sniffles. This is as difficult for her as it is for me, which is some consolation. “If only you could plant with me.”

When I don’t answer, she babbles on. “Though I guess that would be awkward because Chet and my character in the book have a happy ending. But that’s a moot point since you can’t plant in a book you never worked on.”

Hearing Chet’s name is like a thousand porcupine quills straight in the heart. “You get a happy ending?”

She smiles sadly. “Isn’t a happy ending what we always say we want?”

“But that’s not your happy ending. That’s a character called Priscilla’s happy ending. Will you be content with playing out a character all your life?”

“It’s better than being retired.”

“The Council may still decide to keep us on.” Depending on whether we go through with the plan to sabotage Nebraska . . .

“For now, maybe. But do you really want that axe hanging over your head?”

“Well . . .” I take a deep breath. “If the Council’s decision doesn’t go the way we hope, there’s still another option. What if Finn was right? What if the Termination Train isn’t an ending, but a new beginning?”

“It’s a fantasy,” she says firmly. “Born out of desperation and deception. That’s all it is.”

“Let’s work this out logically,” I propose, realizing as the words come out of my mouth that logic is not something Manic Pixies are especially known for. “What we do know is outdated Tropes are retired to the Trope Museum, right?”

“We saw that with our own eyes.” Zelda shudders.

“But why would the Council bother with all that if they had a much easier and faster method like the train?”

Zelda shrugs. “Okay, let’s say your hunch is right, and we do make it to Reader World. What then? What if our Trope brains are too limited to handle all the infinite possibilities of a self-controlled life?”

“I believe we’re capable of growing—capable of dealing with a more complex universe,” I say. “You yearn for freedom the same as I do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have risked going Off-Page for that rumor.”

“I do,” she says carefully. She scrunches up her mouth, as if possibly reconsidering. It gives me hope.

“I know it’s a risk, but it’s a chance to live life according to our own rules.” I smack my palms so hard on the floor that the glass slides rattle. “It’s the only opportunity we’ll ever have to write our own stories.”

She shakes her head. “I wish I were as brave as you are.”

“You are braver by far,” I insist. “Please stay with me. We can face whatever comes together.”

“I love that you’re idealistic and romantic, but we need to be pragmatic. We are talking life and death stakes here. If our roles were reversed, I would be begging you to plant.” The urgency in her voice reveals her fear, but also how much she truly cares about me.

Am I being selfish to ask her to throw away her one sure avenue for continued existence? Maybe I am. If she plants, at least one of us will be guaranteed to survive.

“You’re right,” I say, even though a part of me dies when I say it.

She touches a finger to my lips. “I’ve already decided. I’ll plant tomorrow afternoon during my final work session. My Novel is nearly done.”

“But that means . . .”

“I won’t be there for the Pixie-Off.”

After all we’ve been through in the name of seeking justice for our Trope, she’s not even going to stay to see our defense through. A direct punch to my kidney would hurt less.

“I know it sucks,” she says in the understatement of the year, “but it’s my last window to plant. And you don’t need me.”

If she only knew how much I needed her. But telling her that won’t change anything. Even if there’s no happy end in the cards for me, I can be happy for hers. “I’ll miss you.”

“Hey! This isn’t goodbye!”

“It isn’t?” Hope swells up my chest.

“Come over to my apartment tomorrow morning. I want to give you something before I go.”

And hope leaves again in my next heavy exhale.

I have the urge to scream in frustration at the universe introducing us, showing me how amazing life can be, and then taking her away. I know it’s the typical character arc of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl, but this time is more agonizing because it’s happening to me. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

Still sitting, she leans forward and gives me an awkward hug that’s all arms. “See you.”

On my walk home, I go the long way around the park so I can avoid our bridge and our initials. All they are now is a permanent monument to my heartbreak.

Ava sneaks into my mind again. My belief in her led her to take a giant risk in leaving her novel. And her belief in me may be what saves our Trope from extinction. Don’t I believe in myself enough to give myself the chance to make my own adventures, too?

When I get home, I sit and face my heart mosaic hanging on the wall. I remember how Clark mourned the loss of his perfectly formed glass lobsters. Maybe I’m like one of those glass lobsters: if I can break out of my restricting mold, I can put the pieces of myself back together in a way that reflects who I’ve grown to be. It might be messier, but it’ll be all mine.

The more I think about everything, the more convinced I am that the Termination Train is truly is the gateway to Reader World. I decide that I am going to go, whether or not the Pixie-Off saves our Trope. With or without Zelda.

Because I owe it to myself to be my authentic self.