Trolls Prequel Novel (10 page)

I
stare at Poppy's pros-and-cons chart in one hand and at the rating cards in my other.

What to pick, what to pick?

“You know who would be really good at getting us focused?” Poppy asks, twirling her hair around her finger with a faraway expression on her face.

“Who?”

“Creek.”

Poppy sighs dreamily, and I join in absentmindedly. I murmur, “Oooh. Yeah.
Creek.
”

“You rang?”

I whip my head around to the pod's entrance. Sure enough, a lavender-colored Troll with blue hair just poked his face around its corner.

My hand flies to my mouth. “Creek! How did you—?”

Creek shrugs casually. “I sensed a confused aura as I drifted by.”

I glance at Poppy, but she doesn't seem to care how or why Creek's here…only that he is.

She squeals and jumps up, racing over to grab his hand. She pulls the rest of him into the pod and over to our spot. “Oh, Creek, you're so perfect. I mean, uh…
this. This
is so perfect.”

Poppy was telling the truth with what she said first. Creek
is
pretty perfect. And he always knows the perfect thing to say in any situation.

“Tell me everything,” he says.

Poppy and I begin talking at once.

I say, “Well, we're trying to pick an exhibit for—”

At the very same time, Poppy says, “Harper and I have seen every—”

Creek holds up a hand, quietly and calmly, and both of us clamp our lips shut. Creek has this ability to make you feel like you're under a tranquil spell, even when you know you're not. He's positively captivating.

“Harper, you begin.”

I take a deep breath. “I'm trying to find a showstopper for my gallery opening. We've seen loads of amazing entries today, but none of them feels
completely
right. Except I don't know what
would
feel right. Or how to pick the perfect one.”

When I finish, Creek turns to Poppy. “Anything to add?”

“Sure. So, we've got our pros-and-cons chart….”

She thrusts it under Creek's chin, and he grabs it to examines it carefully. “Nice handwriting,” he says.

Poppy wobbles on her feet and practically faints at the compliment while I fight back a giggle.

“Thanks!” she says. “Anyway, we've been debating the pros and cons of each entry. For example, Guy Diamond's is unique, but—”

“But,” I interrupt quickly, “we really hadn't talked about it specifically, and sure, Guy Diamond found a new and different—and highly creative—way to use glitter, but the magic of it is really in the specialness of the setting, and if we tried to move the exhibit here so everyone in the pod could experience it, it wouldn't be the same. Except, if we brought people to the enchanting spot he found to demonstrate it for
us,
then they wouldn't be
here
for the opening. And what's the point of having a gallery if the exhibit can't be housed in it? So that makes me think it's not right. It seems like none of the entries have exactly what I envisioned for the opening, and—”

I start talking faster and faster as I go on, which isn't really like me, but I'm getting worked up. Poppy's mouth is hanging open, and I feel like I'm making a fool out of myself. I clamp my mouth shut when Creek very calmly holds up a hand again.

“I understand,” he says.

I exhale in relief. “You do?”

He nods and I smile. I instantly feel about a zillion times better. My heartbeat, which had been
thump-thump
ing away the more nervous I got as I blabbed on and on, slows to normal again.

Creek studies me carefully, tilting his head left, then right, like I have all the answers written on the tip of my nose or something. Then he says, “Let's back up for a moment. You said the entries weren't what you envisioned. What
had
you envisioned?”

Now I sigh. For her part, Poppy is staying really quiet, taking it all in. Or possibly daydreaming about Creek's perfect eyes.

But for now, I turn my focus to Creek's question. “That's the problem. I don't have a specific vision—it all looks kind of…fuzzy…whenever I try to imagine the opening. But if I had to say…well, I've had this daydream where there's something in the center of the room, perfectly lit and mounted on an easel, with an enormous curtain covering it.”

While I talk, I move into the middle of the pod and gesture with my hands as I create an imaginary scene with my words.

“And the sheet would hide the thing underneath it until that one magical moment when I'd whip it off to a chorus of oohs and aahs from everyone in attendance. And then they would all start chattering at once about the piece's
impact.
” I pause and lower my eyes, a little embarrassed. “Um, or something like that.”

Poppy stands and applauds. “I think that sounds incredible, Harper.”

Creek smiles his serene smile again. “It does sound lovely. But you mentioned an easel, which makes me think there is a painting underneath. Would this be one of your paintings?”

I don't even take a breath before answering. “No! I don't want to open the gallery so I can show off
my
work. I want people to see the other incredible artistic talents in Troll Village.”

“Hmm.”
Creek nods thoughtfully.

“Maybe it wasn't a painting on the easel in my daydream. It may have been a sculpture.”

I spot Poppy's mouth opening and beat her to the punch. “And
not
Smidge's sculpted muscles, either,” I say.

Poppy clamps her lips shut, and her shrug clearly says “Well, I tried.”

“Hmm,”
says Creek again.

We look at him expectantly, but all he says is “Perhaps we should meditate on this for a moment.”

Poppy bounces. “Oooh, yes. Sounds fun!”

We watch closely as Creek folds effortlessly into a cross-legged position. He pulls his heels into his lap and puts his hands palms-up on the tops of his knees. “Now just sit and listen. Let the universe send answers.”

Poppy and I struggle to match his pose. I get one foot into position, but I can't make the other one fit on top. Poppy manages both, but then nearly tips onto her side, and I hide my giggle in my shoulder. We both check quickly to see if Creek is noticing how much we're struggling to start, but his are eyes closed, and it seems that he's already miles away.

We try to follow his example. For a moment, everything in the pod is totally silent, but I can't resist peeking through one eye. I catch Poppy doing the exact same thing. It's not that I'm not taking this seriously, but something about trying to force myself to be still and my mind to be quiet makes me extra punchy. Oh my hair, how long is this meditation going to last, because I don't know if I can keep this pose much longer. The worst part is it's only been twelve seconds or something.

It feels like an
eternity
passes before Creek opens his eyes.

“That was enlightening,” he says, looking to us for confirmation that we'd experienced something deep and moving, too. I really
wanted
to. Does that count?

I wait expectantly for Creek to share his big revelation with us so we'll have the answers we need.

Creek is always disciplined and mellow, which means he's also unhurried. Finally, he stands and offers each of us a hand. I try not to shiver when he takes mine, but Poppy doesn't have as much success. He smiles sweetly at her.

Once we're all on our feet, he brushes his palms together.

I can't take the suspense one second longer. “What were
your
insights? Just so we can,
er,
compare them to ours, I mean.”

“Of course,” Creek agrees.

Phew.

“Well,” he says. “The universe spoke to me and said, ‘The journey is more important than the destination.' ”

I glance at Poppy. Hopefully this makes some sense to her
and
she's inclined to share the explanation, because I'm baffled. I was hoping for something a little more…specific. Such as “Choose entrant number two and live happily ever after.”

Is that too much to ask of the universe?

I don't want
Creek
to know that I'm more perplexed than ever, though, so I just smile wide and thank him for his help.

“Don't mention it. Glad I could be of assistance,” he replies before breezing out of the pod as smoothly as he arrived.

As soon as he's gone, I turn to Poppy, seeking guidance.

She's beaming. “I understood perfectly.”

“You
did
?”

She nods. “Yep. It's all crystal clear now. And because of my revelation, I'm going to have to leave you now, Harp.”

“You're
what
?”

“I'm leaving. In my heart of hearts, I believe that what Creek—and/or the universe—was trying to say is that I'd be doing you the greatest friend favor ever if I left you alone to make this decision.”

“No! I don't have a clue which one to pick! You promised to help me!”

She's not serious right now. Is she? How could she expect me to make this decision on my own when I'm as confused as I've ever been?

“I know I promised to help you,” she says. “And this
is
me helping you.
‘The journey is more important than the destination.'
Your problem isn't that you can't pick an exhibit, it's that you don't
believe
you can pick an exhibit.”

I shake my head. “I still don't get it.”

“I don't think you need help picking the exhibit. I think you need help realizing you
don't
need help.”

I raise both eyebrows and give her my best “Are you crazy?” look. “Uh…no. Agree to disagree. Pretty sure what I most need help with is the exhibit selection.”

“Not true,” Poppy says, taking both of my hands. “You
can
do this. If I leave now, you have no choice but to decide for yourself, and when you see how perfectly the decision
you
make turns out, you'll believe that you can rock running a gallery every bit as well as you rock your art.”

I crinkle my forehead. “And what if I pick one and it
doesn't
turn out perfectly?”

“But it WILL. I know for a fact. All you have to do is just let go and trust yourself as much as I trust you.”

She hugs me, gives my hair a gentle tug, and before I can even get out another word of protest, she slips out of the pod.

I
CAN'T BELIEVE SHE JUST DID THAT!

I feel like shouting it out the gallery pod opening.

And while I have no problem accepting that she truly believes she's doing something she thinks will help me (meaning I'm not
mad
at her or anything), I definitely have a problem believing it
will
help me.

How am I supposed to trust my gut? The only time my gut speaks to me is when I'm painting, and it's not like there's a way to paint my way out of this dilemma.

Although.

Maybe I just need to refocus my attention for a little bit. Taking a break from all this indecision to focus on something I never have doubts about will clear my head. And then I can come back refreshed and with a better energy.

I gather my stuff before leaving the gallery behind and zipping my way to my home pod.

“I'm home!” I call to my potted flower. “Man, did you miss some day!”

As I chat, I pull out a fresh canvas and plop it onto my easel. The second I have wet paint on the tips of my hair, I feel a million times better.

I brush paint onto the canvas and let my mind get wrapped up in all the tiny little decisions: where to dab the next bit, which color to choose next, how light or how heavy a stroke to use. My brain starts to hum and I'm in a zone. My breaths deepen. I'm not thinking about galleries, or exhibits, or really anything beyond the here and now.

After an hour or so, I step back.

“What do you think?” I ask, biting my lip as I concentrate on the picture from this viewpoint. I receive a happy hum from Flower in return.

“Yup, I agree,” I say, stepping close to the canvas again.

I'm painting a landscape of the view from my pod, and I'm trying to capture the velvety texture of the leaves that dangle just outside the opening—only, something's not quite right. I think I need to add a minty green on top of the forest green I've used.

This is the stage of a painting that I love the most: when the initial image is captured, but then I get to tweak and add here and there to give everything more depth and make the work pop off the canvas. It's the combination of all those layers working together that—

I sit down hard on my floor, not even caring that I've landed in a wet glob of paint that dripped from my hair earlier.

Oh.

Oh, whoa.

That's it!

I rush over to Flower and grab him off the windowsill, clutching him to my chest and spinning us in circles. “I know exactly what would make the PERFECT exhibit for the gala.”

He does a little dance with his petals.

“Poppy was right—I DID have it in me!” I exclaim. “I just had to get out of my own way and step back and do my own thing for a bit.”

The fizziness is back in my belly. I can't decide if it's more from excitement over the exhibit itself—because now I can see it all unfolding in my mind and it's whoa to the seventh degree!—or pride over having figured it out on my own, but it doesn't matter. I've finally got it!

I whip my hair ahead of me, using it to swing myself out of the pod and across the treetops. I have no time to waste and a thousand things to do.

This gala is going to be amazing!