Chapter 2

Now, I bet you have a lot of questions. About where I come from and what my purpose is and who I really am inside. I have those same questions.

You want an origin story. Fine. Our Council founded TropeTown to be a repository for commonly recurring literary devices, situations, and characters in creative works. So I appeared here one day a few years ago, fully formed. Was I created, or did I spring spontaneously into existence because of Reader World’s need for my type? The fact I came with a character trait sheet seems to point to intelligent design, but I don’t actually know.

And now that I’ve mentioned it, you want to see my trait sheet, don’t you? So curious! I like that about you.

Name: Riley

Trope: Manic Pixie Dream Boy (sub-type of Manic Pixie Dream Girl)

Age: 17

Birthday: June 6, Gemini

General physical description: Tall enough, but not lanky. Toned enough, but not a gym rat. Green eyes. Dark hair. Thick eyebrows that look brooding, but a killer smile to balance out that impression. Basically, hot—but in a non-threatening way.

Clothing style: Mix of trendy and vintage. Cool with girls choosing his clothes. I’ll even let them put eyeliner on me, though only for special occasions.

Hobbies: Writing silly love songs and picking out chords on the guitar. Memorizing French poetry. Darts.

Talents: Dance moves to pull out in montages to show how quirky and fun I am, the right witty banter for every occasion, the ability to spout off platitudes and sound achingly sincere, ninety percent free-throw average (but not aggressive enough to actually play full court basketball). I could go on, but I’m starting to sound like I’m bragging, so I won’t.

Strongest positive personality traits: Flexible, kind, excellent listener.

Strongest negative personality traits: Can be flighty, indecisive, superficial.

Ambitions: Am I allowed to have these?

Life philosophy: I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

Favorite foods: Pie. Chicken wings but only if they are from free-range chickens, though I’m good at pretending. If I ask you if the chicken was free-range, I hope you say yes even if you don’t actually know, so I can eat my chicken with a clear conscience. Coffee latte with soy or almond milk unless it costs extra in which case I will begrudgingly have regular milk or creamer.

Phobias: Clowns.

Do you feel like you know me better now? Does this make me more sympathetic? It’s important to me that you like me. Because the more you like me, the more you’ll care about what happens to me, and the more likely it is you’ll continue to read my story. And I want you to continue because I don’t exist otherwise.