Brooding YA Hero Read online

  Broody sneezed.

  “Bless you.”

  He jumped at the sound of her voice, then turned and blinked at her like a very confused puppy, who’d just been caught rolling in something he shouldn’t have. The surprise only lasted a moment before he leaned one arm on the back of his plush chair, which was as over-padded as his ego. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Surprise.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m bored. My latest Author kicked me out of the narrative in the fourth chapter.”

  He muttered something she wasn’t sure she quite caught, but it sounded a lot like, “At least you got to be in chapters.”

  Well-versed in catching what other characters muttered, Blondie narrowed her eyes. Was Broody … Was there another reason he was working on this project? Time passed strangely for fictional characters, certainly, but it did seem like Broody suddenly had an awful lot of free time.

  Almost as much free time as the pack of vampires she knew, who hadn’t gotten to be in a book in years.

  Could Broody be on hiatus?

  No. Surely not. He couldn’t be. Authors adored him. “How’s the book?” she asked.

  “It’s awesome. All the supporting characters in all the fictional worlds are gonna love me!” He paused, winked rakishly at her (a different wink from his seductive one, and completely unrelated to the one he used when he was joking), and added, “Even more than they already do.”

  Tilting her head so her perfect blonde curls slid perfectly over a shoulder, she asked, her tone even more perfectly styled than her hair or her head tilt, “Broody … how many characters do you know?”

  “Lots,” he muttered, chewing on the end of his pencil and trying to remember how to spell dialogue. He’d failed most spelling tests since he was too cool to study.

  Luckily, he’d stolen a powerful tool known as Spell-check from his last Author, and was now wielding its might over his manuscript.

  “Like who?”

  “My love interests, my best friends.” He lifted his head to smile at her again. “You.” Quickly, Blondie started mentally listing her ten favorite nail polish shades so her knees would stop wobbling. Darn him and his Author-given charm.

  He raked a hand through his tousled mane, golden highlights (natural, of course—Heaven forbid Broody admit otherwise) and the soft locks shaded his vivid blue eyes.

  “Fight Me Fuchsia, Blood of My Enemies Red,” she muttered, desperately trying to retain her cool.

  “Yeah, I think that’s about it.” He finished his list with a mention of his evil older brother.

  In other words, he only knew successful characters. Those weren’t the ones who needed this book most.

  “Broody, have you ever been to the Deleted Files Hall?”

  He shuddered. “No. Never.”

  All archetypes knew of it—a great and desolate hallway where characters, half-written and then deleted from pages, haunted those who still walked the pages of stories.

  “Well, we’re going.” She leapt to his side, moving lightning-fast despite her high heels. Unlike a heroine, Blondie could slink, sprint, and seduce in her high heels from the very first page.

  “C’mon.” She tugged at Broody’s arm until, with a mighty sigh, he stood and followed her.

  They walked through the halls, which connected the rooms where most of the teen character archetypes lived. Blondie had tried to explore beyond her own hallway, but unless she was with a main character, like today, she always ended up back at her own front door, a circular route for a character with no arc. She relished the chance to see more of the massive building, and let her fingers trail along the cool stone walls, the air as crisp as the pages of a new novel.

  Today, the setting was inspired by a castle, which explained why their clothing had magically changed to flowing robes. As they were both used to story-shifts, they didn’t even blink at the sudden wardrobe changes. Although Broody did take a moment to twirl his cape dramatically.

  “Dramatic.” Blondie said, rolling her eyes.

  “Always,” he replied. “And, anyway, you’re one to talk. How many times have you thrown dramatic temper tantrums just because I dumped you?”

  “If I was given any character traits aside from jealousy and the obsessive need to be your girlfriend, maybe I’d be more rational,” she replied, her words like ice, with small icicles hanging dangerously off the frozen punctuation.

  They reached the Deleted Files Hall. “There.” She pointed at the expanse in front of them, a long, dark corridor, with only a few lights throwing shadows in sharp relief against the gray stones.

  Blondie wasn’t quite sure exactly what that bit of exposition meant, but it certainly sounded cool.

  Broody saw shades of supporting characters, each adorned with bits of personality and adjectival description, before their Authors had ruthlessly hit the DELETE button, sending them to their unfinished doom. Broody even recognized some of the slaughtered darlings surrounding him. There in the corner, was a teammate from one of his sportsball teams. And the ghost over to his right, that was his former love interest’s cousin. Or sister. Or niece. He couldn’t remember. Love interest’s family were rarely given much page time, anyway.

  “Go on.” Blondie urged him, prodding him into the hall. “If you’re going to write about being a main character, you should know what happens to those who fail to reach this goal.”

  The door slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone, and suddenly, the only POV character in this scene.

  Not only did Blondie now have his book, but he was trapped in the hall with the deleted characters. Of course! How could he have trusted her? Why did he always fall for her tricks? Was it really the strawberry lip gloss? Perhaps there was a mind-melting magic attached to its scent?

  As it was a medieval setting, Broody reached for his sword belt, but there was no weapon there. No! How would he defend himself? What could he possibly do to fend off these ghosts of stories unfinished?

  “Stay back!” he called out. “Or I’ll … I’ll hit you with my very piercing stare!”

  “Who are you?” one ghostly voice questioned.

  “What do you want?” another asked, hauntingly.

  “Why are you here?” the third phantomimed.

  Broody shivered under the chilling, relentless barrage of ghoulish questions, to say nothing of the painfully obvious puns. No wonder these characters had been cut from their stories.

  “I …” Broody tried to be the brave, brilliant, full-of-machismo hero he always naturally was. Somehow, he found this was getting harder to do, and he wasn’t sure why. It just … wasn’t coming easily to him anymore. It was as if the more words he put into the book, the less he felt like … well … like a Broody. “I’m here to help you! I want to ensure that everyone can become a main character!”

  The ghostly voices whispered among themselves:

  “Impossible!”

  “Inconceivable!” That was from one character whose only discernible trait was never letting go of quoting The Princess Bride.

  “Sacrebleu!” a third character, who spoke in the French their Author had learned in seventh grade, chimed in.

  Broody waited for them to calm down again before he spoke. “I want to know why each of you was deleted, and then … then I’ll be able to advise others. Help them. Ensure they never make your mistakes.”

  “We don’t make mistakes!”

  “Je suis bon en français,” Frenchie said, and his friend patted him on the shoulder, sympathetic to his character flaw.

  “No, no, not you!” Broody waved his hands, his eyebrows leaping like small, brown dancing caterpillars.

  Drat. Even his similes had gotten less swoonworthy lately.

  “The Authors. They’re the ones who make mistakes,” he told them. And this, this he believed with every beat of his heart, which beat in his chest at quite a standard pace, unless he was meeting another love of his life. “Trust me. I’ve realized that.”

  Frenchie muttered an insult about st
upide Authors.

  “So, I’m working on this book to fix what Authors do.”

  For the next two hours, Broody did something he’d never done before. He listened. He carefully took notes on each character’s flawed path. Some had been cut because their stories already had too many characters. Others were deleted for simply not being right for their roles. Still others had found their way to the Deleted Files Hall because their Authors had simply given up.

  Broody had never before realized how lucky he’d been to possess such firm main character status. He was never deleted. Once in a while, he turned out to be a villain but, even then, he was always integral to the story.

  It was so sad that a character could be cast aside so easily. They must not have tried hard enough. He’d be sure to write more in his book to fix that, ensuring that his readers would know all the tricks to remaining a popular character. Heck, it sounded like Frenchie listened to logic when a character called him out on his terrible French.

  And main characters should never listen to logic.

  Just as Broody finished jotting down a particularly good note to that effect, a new ghost appeared before him. “So, like, my Author was inspired by her totally righteous teen years in the eighties. Totally tubular, right?” The ghost adjusted his neon hat and sunglasses, flipping his mullet over his shoulder. “It’s not my fault that kids these days can’t embrace the gnarly awesomeness that is me.”

  Wait. Was that … a hair flip? And adjectives? Broody leaned forward. “What … what was your role in your novel?”

  “Me? Take a chill pill, man! I was the freshest skater guy you’d ever met. A real bad-to-the-bone dude, who impressed all the bodacious ladies with my sweet kicks and rockin’ fashion.”

  “You’re wearing overalls and a crop top,” Broody said.

  “As if!”

  “No, you most certainly are. I can see them. Shockingly, the neon hasn’t burned my eyes yet.”

  “Whatever, dude. I’m just saying, I was the bad boy getting all the chicks in my sweet ride, till my Author decided I was outdated.”

  Broody dropped his notebook, coughed, and turned bright red. This … this strange, multicolored peacock of a man had once been a … bad boy? Perhaps even some strange version of Broody himself?

  Surely not. Overalls? Neon? What self-respecting heartthrob would ever wear those?

  And yet … The discarded character’s mullet was incredibly luscious, and his eyes twinkled with the bright green-on-black of text on the first computer screens. Could it be true? This … this castoff had once been a Broody.

  Until his Author had gotten tired of him.

  Could my Author be tired of me … ? Broody wondered. Also, am I using too many ellipses … ?

  It was almost, but not quite, enough to make him consider changing.

  Eventually, the door opened, and Blondie peeked her head in. Her hair was now done up in some cool sci-fi headgear, which meant the setting must have shifted again outside. “Well,” she asked, “did you learn anything?”

  “If you use too many puns or eighties references, your Author will definitely cut you from the story.”

  Blondie sighed, the weight of the POV now settling again on her shoulders. It seemed, unfortunately, that her work wasn’t done yet. Broody still failed to comprehend that other characters existed and had their own issues that were more complex than a bad cover photo.

  It was time to employ an old trick guaranteed to make the narrative speed up.

  She leaned in close, smiled charmingly at Broody … and hit him over the head with her futuristic designer purse, knocking him out.

  Uh. Hello, dear readers. Sorry. Broody here. I can’t exactly remember where I left off writing, and, quite frankly, rereading is not something I enjoy. Why would I reread a story when there are far more fascinating new stories ahead?

  So, I’m going to jump into the next section. I may have promised to cover some other topic in earlier chapters, but I know you’ll forgive me, right?

  No?

  Shall I remind you of my tragic backstory? Of how no one has ever loved me? How you are the only one who could ever possibly understand me?

  Ah. There we go. I see you are now on my side.

  CHAPTER 6

  WHAT IF SOMEONE STOPS YOU FROM ACHIEVING YOUR DESTINY?

  So now, thanks to my brilliant teaching, you’ve decided that you want to be a main character. Excellent. I knew you’d listen to me. The world would truly be a better place if every day at 2:00 p.m., the world gathered to listen to me and peer into my brilliant, sea-deep, star-bright, cerulean gaze. Can we make that happen?

  You agree? Good. I knew I liked you.

  Until the rest of the world signs on to the brilliant plan I like to call “Everyone Falls in Love with Me and Appoints Me as Leader of the Universe,” I’ll stick to giving you life advice.

  We were discussing how some people may oppose your plan to become a main character. Surprisingly, not everyone wishes to be described with at least one hundred adjectives and featured on over a thousand book covers. Shocking, really.

  Some of these people—antagonists—might even try to stop you from achieving your destiny! They’ll confront you with things like “facts” and “strong logic” and “reality” in an attempt to quash your main character dreams.

  Should you listen to these “rational” people?

  Absolutely not.

  I don’t care what they have to say, or how many objections they have to the concept of a main character. Logic is for lesser characters, my budding protagonist flower. You run solely on a stronger substance … drama. Why, if I allowed myself to be stopped by anyone who quoted “facts” and “reality” at me, I would never have become a sixteen-year-old-rock-super-star-who-flies-his-own-helicopter-while-also-being-fluent-in-nineteen-lanugages.

  So, if the haters try to get you down (That’s still cool slang, right? Look. I’m a little worried about becoming … outdated, after a rather terrible run-in with some neon.) don’t listen to them. You are a main character. I can sense it.

  No, Broody, you cry, they have so many good facts.

  False. One of the best parts of being a main character is that you get to ignore any fact you don’t like.

  For example, let’s say I am a prince in medieval England. (Or really, any fantasy world, since we know that all fantasy worlds with medieval kingdoms are basically England.) I’d like to ride my horse to Paris to rescue a princess.

  “But Prince Broodium,” my page calls. “There is an ocean in the way!”

  “That sounds like a clear and simple fact,” I reply, reining in my stallion. “And, as such, I shall choose to ignore it completely.”

  And, thus, I happily gallop from London to Paris in under five paragraphs.

  So, if someone presents you with cold, hard facts, hit them with an adjective-filled stare and ignore them completely. That’s what I’ve always done, and it’s never failed me.

  Sure, a strange subset of readers known as “reviewers” have questioned the facts found in my books on a few occasions. But I think “reviewers” are just sad souls in search of true love. Maybe I should invite them all to prom.

  Okay, but what if they try to stop you with more than just facts? What if they use the dreaded tool known as … logic?

  This is a much trickier situation, to be sure, but nothing a main character can’t handle. I’ve ignored logic countless times, no matter how often it’s been presented to me. Why, I’d even hazard to say that the more logic offered, the more irrational my choices become.

  Allow me, again, to illustrate.

  I am invited to my love interest’s Very Important violin recital. I’m already unpopular with her family, because they’re incredibly jealous of how incredible I am (and, also, they think I’m sort of creepy and a bad influence on her, but that’s beside the point). Anyway, my love interest states that I must attend this recital to prove my love.

  But then plot happens, and I end up having to
drive out of town to save the day. Because that’s my main character job.

  Now, logically, I should call my love interest.

  Or text her.

  Or post on any of her social media pages.

  Perhaps my sidekick/best dude friend will even point these “logical” facts out to me. I will listen to his so-called logic, nod my head, maybe even clench my manly jaw. Then, I will say, “No communication. We handle this like men,” and throw my phone out the window.

  And you know what? My love interest will still eventually take me back. Even though the loss of my diamond-bright smile in the audience meant that she completely forgot how to play her instrument, threw it on the floor, and ran off in a shower of tears, thereby ruining her chance to gain entry into the music school of her dreams … Yeah, she’ll still forgive me. Therefore, logic (and communication) are totally overrated.

  Still worried that someone may push you to drop this whole main character quest? Don’t worry.

  Here are my three rules to use when dealing with anyone who is intent on stopping you from completing a goal:

  1. Assume they are jealous.

  2. Reassert that you are a main character.

  3. Know that you are way better looking than them.

  Let’s go over those again, nice and slowly.

  Always assume that someone trying to give you life advice is wrong and is also very jealous of you. Especially if that person is an adult. In novels, adults are always wrong. They’ll give you bad advice like, “Hey, main character, maybe you should dump that creepy werelemur boyfriend of yours.” Likewise, I firmly believe that all best friend supporting characters secretly wish they, too, were main characters. And what better way to become a main character than by removing your main character competition? Your “friends” secretly wish to have sparkling gemstone eyes, a devastating smile, and a thousand love interests pursuing them.

  As for reasserting that you are a main character, that part is simple. All you have to do is say, very loudly, “My needs are more important than yours.” Voilà, you have established that the plot revolves around you.