Trolls Prequel Novel Read online

  I get so wrapped up in my picture that eventually I don’t even hear Poppy’s murmurings. After a bit, when I go to switch colors for shading, it hits me that it’s been a while since we came out here.

  What could be taking Biggie so long?

  I glance over at Poppy’s hammock just in time to see her roll over. She makes a sound that’s probably a snore but sounds more like sqwaaaaaathrsk.

  I reach over and jostle her gently. “Little dream-weaver…it’s time to wake….”

  Poppy sits up with a start. “Crinkle with a paper-crimper!”

  When she sees me grinning at her, she wrinkles her nose and sits up. “Is Biggie ready for us?”

  I raise one shoulder. “I don’t know, but it’s been some time. Think we should go check on him?”

  She yawns and stretches. “But it’s so nice in the sunshine. Let’s give him five more minutes.” She blinks over at my lap. “Were you drawing?”

  I turn the sketchbook around so she can see the picture I drew of her rocking away in the hammock. Her mouth forms a little O.

  “You are a whiz with those pencils, Harper!”

  I shrug. “Thanks! It’s funny, I can see what the finished product will look like in my head. So I just try to get what I put on the paper to match up with what I see in my mind’s eye.”

  “So cool,” Poppy says, gesturing for me to pass her the picture so she can inspect it more closely. I hand it over.

  “Is it like that for you? With your scrapbooking?”

  Poppy nods. “Sometimes. But it’s also fun to experiment. A lot of the time I won’t even let myself think about the end result, and I just play and try different things without any goal in mind.”

  I scratch my chin. “How do you know what you’ll end up with will be any good?”

  “If it feels good doing something, that’s all that matters.”

  “I think one of the things that’s stressing me out about the gallery opening is that I don’t have that end vision in my mind’s eye. I didn’t realize how much the end result affects my overall creative process. I feel like if I could just form that picture in my head of what the gala should look like, I’d be able to figure out how to get there. It makes me so nervous that the opening exhibit is relying on my ‘I’ll know it when I see it’ plan.”

  Poppy nods sympathetically. “I can see where it would be super hard to do things differently than you’re used to. But maybe that’s a good thing. Besides, I’ve watched you paint. You do this—”

  Poppy hops up and whips her hair around so her hammock gets absorbed into a new hairstyle. She stands on the branch next to me and swishes her hand in the air like she’s painting a canvas. Then she steps back, rubs her chin, and steps forward again to paint one small stroke. She steps back, tilts her head and rubs her chin, and steps forward to add another swirl.

  I laugh. “That’s not what I look like.”

  “Totally is,” she insists, plopping down next to me on the branch and matching her swinging leg motions to mine. “So even with your perfect vision, you still tweak your art a bunch, right?”

  “Yes.” I have to admit: I tweak it a lot. A painting of mine can look finished to anyone else for weeks before I finally declare it done. “Which is probably another reason this is stressful. With my art, I can revise, paint over a spot, adjust a color or a line. With this opening gala, I only get one shot to have everything be perfect.”

  Suddenly, I’m not feeling so bad that I’ve been a stress case over this. How could I not be?

  “Or else?” Poppy asks casually. Her eyes are on the carpet of vivid flowers on the ground, but she nudges my shoulder to let me know she’s right here in this conversation.

  “What do you mean, ‘or else’?” I ask.

  Poppy twists her ankle around mine so our legs are swinging together. “You keep talking about this big scary Harper failure, and I’m just saying, what does that look like? What’s the worst thing that happens if the gallery opening is a total and complete bust?”

  “I don’t know.” I never thought about that exactly, I just know that it would have to feel terrible. Right?

  “Okay,” says Poppy. “So let’s say Harper’s Dream Gallery Extravaganza—that’s what I’m calling it until you pick a name, okay?—is a failure. Are we still the best of friends?”

  When I stare at her with an open mouth, she bumps my shoulder harder. “You’re taking too long to answer an obvious question. The correct answer for tonight’s final jackpot prize is YES! Ding, ding, ding! Applause, cheers, a mass of falling confetti.”

  Poppy smiles. “Go with me on this. We’re still friends. Let’s just say everyone else decides they can stand to be in your presence, too, okay? Because you know Trolls aren’t all judgy like that. Ever. So, no lost friends. What else is at stake?”

  “Hmm.” I pause to think. “I want a way to show everyone in Troll Village how creative we all are.”

  “Oh, well. I can see where a gallery would be the single only possible way you could ever do that in your life.” Poppy raises her eyebrows, daring me to argue her point. Which I can’t. Obviously, there would be plenty of other ways to do that if this one doesn’t work out the way I want it to.

  “No, probably not,” I admit. “Then why does opening an art gallery feel so scary?”

  Poppy shrugs. “Probably because you aren’t great at it…yet. You will be super soon. But right now you’re just used to being great at creating art.”

  I study the ground. “Everything you’re saying makes sense, but it still feels scary. How do I make that feeling go away?”

  “Maybe you don’t,” Poppy says. She gives me a quick hug, then slides down the tree trunk. “New things are always scary. But if you stick to doing the things you’re sure of all the time, you’ll never grow.”

  I wrap my hair around the branch and lower myself to stand next to her. “I think I’ve already achieved all four inches of my maximum height, Pop.”

  Poppy picks a flower and hands it to me. Then she kicks up her foot to tap me lightly on the shin. “I didn’t mean that kind of growing!”

  I twist the stem in my hand. “I know you didn’t. It’s a lot to think about, but I’ll try to keep it all in mind while we look at the rest of the entries. Speaking of which…”

  Poppy follows my eyes to the pod, which is perfectly still and incredibly quiet. “Think he needs help with his display? Maybe he’s worked himself into another crying fit of happy tears and he’s too consumed with it to call for us. Maybe Mr. Dinkles needed an outfit change, and that derailed things entirely.”

  Oh, wow, I hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

  It’s totally adorable to watch Biggie concentrate on fastening the small clips and buttons around the tiny patient friend he loves to dress up.

  It’s also time-consuming, which is what concerns me now. I grab Poppy by the hand and tug her in the direction of the pod. “I’m thinking we need to go investigate what the delay is!”

  Poppy

  Halfway through the opening to the pod, we collide with something solid but squishy.

  “Oof!” I say into Biggie’s belly.

  I sway backward, and then Harper props me up again.

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  “I was just coming to get you!” Biggie declares, and it’s impossible to miss the hint of pride in his voice. Go, Biggie!

  “Ta-da!” He steps out of the doorway to reveal the display inside.

  Every single solitary inch of the pod’s massive walls is covered in framed pictures.

  Every. Single. Solitary. Inch.

  A few hundred even dangle from the ceiling by strands of Troll hair.

  “There’s certainly no need to worry about empty walls anymore,” I observe, turning slowly to take in the images.

  Harper does the same, her jaw practically on the floor.

  I hold up a hand and walk into the space, lightly touching the hanging portraits. They sway as I move through them.
>
  “They’re all the same!” I murmur. I really can’t get over this. Everywhere I turn, I see Mr. Dinkles reflected back at me.

  “No! They’re not,” Harper says, gesturing me over to the wall by the entrance, where she has her nose nearly pressed to the glass of a portrait of the tiny worm. When I reach her, she points at two hanging just over my head. “In this one on the left, Mr. Dinkles’s top hat is set at a forty-five-degree angle, but this one is closer to fifty degrees.”

  She’s right. Harper’s the one with the trained eye, so I’m not surprised she’s the first to pick up on the subtle differences between each and every portrait. Now that she’s shown me, I can spot a whole bunch of others along the row.

  “Wow, Biggie. This is impressive,” I say.

  And it is. Biggie’s collection is enormous, and I’m crazy-impressed with his monumental artistic feat of capturing the tiniest variances in each pose.

  Harper seems to agree. She moves slowly from frame to frame. “Oh, and this one is overexposed just the smallest amount; whereas this one looks a shade or two underexposed. Am I right, Biggie?”

  Unfortunately, he can’t answer because once more, he’s overcome with happy tears. Oh, Biggie!

  “I just love seeing so much Mr. Dinkles in one place, on display for everyone else to see, too,” he says, sniffling.

  “Look, Mr. Dinkles. It’s you,” I say. “And you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and—”

  “We get it, Poppy!” Harper interrupts, smiling at me before turning to Biggie. Her eyes widen. “What is it?”

  Biggie is staring into his hand. “He’s not here!”

  “What?” Harper and I shout at the same time. Mr. Dinkles is always there, any time Biggie isn’t posing him in front of the camera. Always.

  “Where would he go?”

  Biggie is frantically turning in circles. I step toward him, but he jerks to a stop and sticks out a giant arm to halt me. “Wait! Don’t. Move.”

  I freeze mid-step, one leg lifted and the other planted. Biggie drops to his knees and pats the ground in front of me.

  “Okay, you can step here. But only here. Mr. Dinkles is small. One misplaced foot could…”

  He can’t finish his sentence, and this time, for the first time ever, it seems like Biggie might actually be about to cry with…sadness. Which positively can’t happen.

  “Mr. Dinkles!” I call. “Oh, Mr. Diiiiiiinkles!” We all strain our ears to listen for an answer, but there is none.

  “I am totally on this. Operation Locate and/or Rescue Mr. Dinkles starts right now. Biggie, you have nothing to worry about. We will find him and return him to you safe and sound, or I’m not the princess of Troll Village!”

  This seems to reassure Biggie. Thankfully. For her part, Harper is frozen in place, too, staring at me with wide eyes.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” I say. “Uh, you didn’t happen to come across an astoundingly bejeweled and sparkling clipboard while you were hanging pictures, by any chance, did you, Biggie?”

  He shakes his head slowly, but I’m already racing on.

  “Harper, pass me a piece of paper from your sketchbook and one of your pencils. Please.”

  She stretches out her hand, and I do as well, but there’s too much distance behind us. With a quick “Don’t worry!” to Biggie, I drop to my knees and examine every inch of the ground in front of me as I crawl over to Harper. I definitely don’t want to endanger any stray pet worms.

  “Hi,” I whisper when I reach Harper’s toes. “Little help?”

  She reaches down and tugs me up. “What’s your plan?” she whispers back. We glance at Biggie, who is rocking in place, clutching to his chest the portrait of Mr. Dinkles that’s dangling closest to him.

  “I’m going to mount a search mission to rival no other,” I declare. “Mr. Dinkles will be tucked back in Biggie’s arms before you can say ‘Trolls rule.’ ”

  “Trolls rule,” Harper says dryly.

  I pop a hand on my hip. “Okay, so maybe not that fast. But fast.”

  Harper bites her lip. “I know he couldn’t have gotten far. I’m just worried about letting down all the Trolls we have on the list to show their entries today. Should I—”

  I interrupt her. “Of course! You should stay and keep to the schedule. I’ll pop out and find Mr. Dinkles and be back before you even notice I’m gone.”

  Harper has given only half a nod when a whimper comes out of Biggie. I drop to my knees and speed-crawl back to him.

  “Okay, big guy. Let’s start with a little fact-finding expedition. When was the last time you saw Mr. Dinkles?”

  Biggie’s eyes are filled with unshed tears. “Right after I came in, I guess. I was worried that all the stretching I’d have to do to hang the pictures of him would disrupt his nap, so I went to set him down next to the cupcakes. Except he made that adorable little ‘Mew!’ sound he makes. You know that sweet ‘Mew!’?”

  I nod hard. “It’s so cute!”

  Biggie whimpers again. “The cutest.”

  “So he made the noise, and you…”

  “Hmm? What? Oh. Right. I knew that was him telling me he didn’t want to be set down, so I curled up my hand so he could take a nap.”

  “Of course. Makes perfect sense,” I tell him. He seems relieved.

  “I did everything using only my free hand, and I honestly don’t remember uncurling it, but I guess I must have, because…”

  He trails off, staring sadly at his empty palm.

  “Okay,” I say, using my most chipper voice. “Well, it might not seem like it right now, but this is progress. If we can rule out the places where Mr. Dinkles isn’t, we’re that much closer to figuring out where he is.”

  Biggie seems cheered by this, so I whip out the pencil and paper again and ask my next question. “What was Mr. Dinkles wearing today?”

  “Which hour?” Biggie asks. Harper has been down on her hands and knees, methodically covering the floor of the pod in a gridlike pattern as she searches.

  “Um, probably just the last outfit change,” I tell Biggie. “What he had on when you were going to set him down next to the cupcakes.”

  “Right,” he answers. “Well, he has his tiny top hat perched on his sweet little head.”

  I nod, smiling my encouragement for him to continue before emotion overtakes him.

  “And that’s about it. He was between outfit changes—I had this little shirt picked out for him after I hung all the portraits, but…”

  “I think we can rule out the pod,” I say. “He would have answered us if he were in here.”

  Harper nods in agreement. “He’s definitely not here.”

  Before Biggie can react, I rush right in with a plan of action. “Let’s go check with the other Trolls. Maybe someone has seen him. Sound good?”

  Biggie swallows and nods. He lifts a foot to take a step and hesitates before putting it down. Harper squeezes his arm. “He’s not on the ground, Big. I’m a thousand percent positive.”

  Biggie nods again and sniffles his way past the dangling portraits of his missing friend as he heads for the door.

  “I’m right behind you,” I assure him, pausing to turn to Harper.

  She’s grimacing. “Go. You have to do this. I’ll be fine…on my own.”

  Her voice gets smaller with each word, so I know she’s not sure about that. I give her a hug and a happy smile. “Duh. Obviously. You’ve totally got this. Remember what we talked about outside.”

  She nods slowly, keeping her eyes on the floor. “I remember.”

  I squeeze her arm once more and lean down to swipe a cupcake off the tray. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten, and search parties require stre
ngth and fortitude. “Back super soon. Think of all the added growth potential of working independently for a bit.”

  “Yup. Growth potential.” She doesn’t sound convinced, but she’s definitely trying to put on a brave face.

  “You just have to trust yourself!” I call over my shoulder as I exit.

  Poppy

  We’re in total luck because there are three Trolls we can ask right outside the pod. I catch up with Biggie, and he’s pulling something out of his hair—it’s a looooo­ooooo­ong strand of photos, attached to each other accordion-style. They spill out and form a line twenty feet in front of him on the ground.

  “Oh my gah,” says Smidge, one of the gathered Trolls, who is surely waiting to go next with an exhibit submission.

  Oooh, I wonder what it is. She’s really good at crocheting things. And she also loves, loves, loves Swedish death metal. Maybe she has another musical entry to match DJ Suki’s. Ugh, not the time for this line of thought, Poppy. Mr. Dinkles is missing! If anything were to happen to him, I—I can’t even think of that. I have to be positive. Of course we’ll find him, safe and sound!

  I refocus on the scene in front of me.

  “Oh, Biggie, we’re so, so sorry,” says Satin, and her twin sister, Chenille, finishes: “I wish we could say we’ve spotted him today, but we haven’t seen anyone other than Smidge since we got here.”

  “We’ll help you look!” Smidge offers, already doing a handstand to check inside a hole at the base of a tree trunk next to her.

  Smidge is always in motion, so I’m not surprised she’s jumping in to help now.

  If she isn’t rappelling down the felt bark of a tree or trampolining on the tops of mushrooms or surfing the backs of friendly, ambling critters or jumping rope with her hair, she’s weightlifting, which is her favorite hobby.

  Smidge is especially tiny, but she’s also super fierce, and she can handle a bar of heavy weights like it’s a feather.

  “Nothing there,” she says, popping back up to standing position. Her voice, in total contrast to her size and the delicate pink bow she wears in her tower of hair, is as deep as a bullfrog’s.