Trolls Prequel Novel (5 page)

B
iggie is exactly that: big.

Compared to most Trolls, that is.

You could see how all that XXL might come across as imposing, but not Biggie. The biggest thing about him is his heart.

So it isn't that surprising to find him crying, propped up against a wall of the pod. It's also why it isn't remotely surprising that the sight makes Harper and me smile. That's because we know there's even more to Biggie than meets the eye.

We race across the pod, and I stand on tiptoe to chat with my huddled friend. “Hello, Biggie. Anything we can do to help here?”

Biggie sniffs, and sniffs again, and sniffs a third time. Then he's able to speak.

“No, thank you. I'm fine.”

We both grin up at him because we have a really good idea of what the tears are all about.

In addition to being giant, soft, and cuddly, there is one other word that always, always comes up when anyone tries to describe Biggie: blue.

To be honest, not even blueberries are as blue as Biggie and
they
have “blue” right at the front of their name. The only two things
not
blue on Biggie are his nose (a rather lovely fuchsia-ish shade of pink, and I'm not just saying that because it's more or less a perfect match to mine) and his outfit (a lilac vest and matching shorts, though it should be noted that they DO have blue stitching at their edges).

But I know, and Harper knows, that even though Biggie
looks
blue—and even
sounds
blue when he sobs—he rarely, if ever,
feels
blue.

Biggie is very prone to frequent outbursts of happy tears.

Yes, happy. I promise.

The smallest thing—like a particularly picturesque sunset or a truly inventive Troll hairstyle—is just a bit too much for his overflowing heart to handle. So what choice does he have but to empty some of those happy feelings into buckets of tears?

Even though Harper and I know Biggie's tears are happy ones, Harper says, “Hi, Biggie. Would you like us to give you a minute to collect yourself?”

“No, really. I'm good.” His voice catches on one last tearful sob, and then he dries his face and stands.

“Way to go, Biggie!” I cheer. “Do you have something awesomely awesome and astounding for us today? I'll just bet you do.”

Biggie smiles now, and nods energetically. “I do. I really do.”

He turns to Harper. “May I have a few moments to set up my entry? And is it all right if I use the walls to display it?”

I catch the overjoyed look on Harper's face, and I'm betting she could throw her arms around Biggie (that is, if she had any hope of getting them around even a quarter of his belly). I know she was hoping for an exhibit that she could display on the walls of the pod, and it sounds like that's exactly what Biggie's planning to deliver. Hooray!

Biggie's request has Harper acting excited for the first time all day. I'm so happy to see her looking optimistic. I just wish she'd trusted me all along. I know in my heart of hearts everything will work out perfectly for this gallery. Now maybe Harper will believe me when I tell her that.

She practically drags me to the opening and says, “Take all the time you need, Biggie! We'll catch some rays outside while you set up. Just call for us when you're ready.”

We're barely out into the sunshine before Harper turns to me. “I have such high hopes for this, Poppy.”

“Me too, Harp!”

This break is coming at exactly the right time. I'm
wiped
from all that crowd-surfing and the head-spinning dance moves. Plus I'm coming down from my cupcake sugar rush. I could really go for a relaxing nap in the treetops.

I stretch my hair into a cozy hammock, string it between two tree trunks, and hop on in. Before I close my eyes, I peek at Harper, who's nestled herself into a crook of a branch and is staring off into space with a dreamy look in her eyes. “I'm super glad you're feeling enthusiastic about all this again. I keep
telling
you we're going to have tons of spot-on entries to choose from.”

Harper looks a little embarrassed. “I know, I know. And I doubted you. But I swear I'm thinking on the bright side now. Sorry about before.”

I wave her apology away, wink, then turn my face to the sun and close my eyes. This is what I'm talking about. Good friends, good food, good music, a little relaxation in the middle of a fun day—it doesn't get any better than this.

I
t takes about two seconds before Poppy is loudly snoring.

I reach into my hair for my sketchbook and a handful of colored pencils and begin drawing my friend. Of course, I can't help a few quiet giggles when she starts to drool and talk in her sleep, narrating some dream she's evidently having about hosting a seminar for all the Trolls of Troll Village on the finer techniques of cut-paper appliqué in regards to scrapbook-making.

“Pinking shears are essential,” she murmurs sleepily.

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!”