I recently attended an excellent online workshop on “Weird Barbies.” As you might imagine, it focused on people who feel like they are outsiders in society. We talked about how early and often we were told we were weird or wrong and how much we’d internalized that view of us—how we had learned to see ourselves as others see us. Then we talked about how our weirdness held gifts, had given us certain skills, even made us experts in certain things.

We talked a lot about the character of Weird Barbie in the recent “Barbie” movie. She’s a Barbie who was “played with too hard” in childhood—a metaphor for trauma—and as a result, doesn’t look or act like other Barbies, and so has been called weird “both behind her back and to her face.” She’s been isolated from the rest of the Barbies and lives in a strange-looking house.

But she’s the only person who understands when Stereotypical Barbie, the main character of the movie, starts being weird herself. First she starts thinking about death. Then her feet go flat instead of always being on tiptoe; as one of the presenters said, her soles represent what’s happen to her soul. Then she falls off her roof instead of floating. None of the other Barbies can tell her what’s happening, so she is sent to Weird Barbie—who sends her on her journey to “the real world.”

Yet I found myself, as we talked, wondering, “What about Allan?” Allan is the only denizen of Barbieland who is unique unto himself. He was made to be “Ken’s friend,” but despite there being multiple Kens, there’s only one Allan. “I have a lot of questions about that,” he says quietly. We don’t see him being a friend to Ken or vice versa. He just is there. Allan’s not a sidekick; he is the odd man out, the person on the fringes. He’s not considered weird; he’s not considered anything; he’s just Allan. He’s simply part of the landscape, standing off to one side, observing everything and thinking. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, and no one asks.

After Ken takes over Barbieland and he and the other Kens seduce most of the Barbies into giving up their own lives and devoting themselves to the Kens, Stereotypical Barbie tries to escape from what is becoming Kenland. This time, instead of Ken popping up and announcing “I’m coming with you,” it’s Allan who pops up from the backseat.

Allan, a friend says, is the moral compass of the movie. The quietly observant and questioning character standing on the fringes knows what the right thing to do is and does it when the time is right. One by one he defeats all the construction-worker Kens who try to stop Barbie from leaving. Even though all he wants is to leave, after Barbie realizes she needs to go back and save the other Barbies, Allan comes with her and helps.

Near the end, there’s a council of war in Weird Barbie’s house. Those present include not just the Barbies who have seen through what the Kens are doing, but all the discontinued dolls who didn’t sell. And Allan. He is fulfilling his purpose as a friend, but not as Ken’s friend. He has become the ally of the misfits, the weird ones, the ones rejected by society.

Allan reminds me of Luna Lovegood in the Harry Potter stories. She sees things others don’t, and they think she’s “loony” as a result, but in fact she’s usually right. (She’s in Ravenclaw, which is the house of the smart kids, after all.) She rescues Harry after Draco stupefies him and leaves him paralyzed in the train, because she is wearing glasses that allow her to see what others can’t. She figures out what the missing Horcrux must be when everyone else is baffled. She can tell when people want to be left alone or have something preying on their minds. She is not fazed by even the most horrific events; she always does the right thing; and she is always kind. Neville Longbottom is a similar character. He seems like a nerd off in his own world most of the time, yet he gives Harry the answer to how he can breathe underwater in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and in the final battle it is Neville who stands up to Voldemort and kills the snake Nagini, the last horcrux.

Merry of The Lord of the Rings (in the book, not the movie) is another Allan. He is mostly on the fringes of the action. Yet it is Merry who arranges for baths, food, and bed to be ready for Frodo, Pippin, and Sam when they arrive at Crickhollow at the end of the first stage of their journey; Merry who has ponies and supplies ready for them to leave the next morning; Merry who looks at the maps and always knows where they are; and in the great battle of the Pelennor, Merry who quietly sneaks up on the Witch-king and stabs him with the magic knife that undoes his physical being so that Éowyn can kill him. He does the right thing always–and hardly anyone notices.

The leading characters of a story need an arc. They need to evolve, to learn and change. They need a sidekick to always have their back and to talk to. And they need the Weird Barbies, the wise ones of mystery, to help guide them on their journey. But they also need the quiet and steadfast Allans to step up at just the right moment–the unsung heroes of the piece.