by Jen Malone
She bounces in place a little before scaling the tree to check the entire trunk.
“Remember, ruling out places Mr. Dinkles isn’t counts as progress, too,” I reassure Biggie, who nods sadly.
“Satin and Chenille, think you guys can search this whole clearing while you wait for Harper?” I ask.
“We’re on it,” the twins answer in unison. If they said “Jinx!” and “Double jinx!” every time they spoke at the same time, they wouldn’t have time for anything else. They’re conjoined at the hair—matching puffs of cotton-candy pink and blue, which meet in the middle in a super-cute shade of flamingo—but it’s like they share a brain instead.
“Thanks, guys,” I answer. They immediately head to one corner of the clearing and drop to the ground.
I call up to Smidge, who’s still scouring the tree trunk. “I think Harper’s ready for you, if you want to head on in. Tell her I’m taking Biggie to help spread the word to everyone so we can turn all of Troll Village into one giant search party. We’ll get Mr. Dinkles safely back to you super-duper fast, Big.”
He nods and lets me tug him along the pathway.
Poor Biggie. He’s devastated. Oh, we just have to solve this mystery!
Harper
Trust myself. I just have to trust myself.
Doesn’t sound that hard. I do it every time I pick up a paintbrush or a pencil. So maybe, yeah. I can do this.
I repeat that to myself as I remove Biggie’s hanging portraits to clear space for the next entrant. Hopefully whoever is next doesn’t need the walls, because there are way too many pictures hanging there already. I don’t know how Biggie set this all up on his own. I wipe a thumbprint off the glass of one of the portraits and swallow hard at the image of Mr. Dinkles.
“I sure hope you’re safe, little guy,” I tell it.
When a Troll shadow fills the doorway, I chuckle at the sight of Smidge momentarily frozen in place (especially since she never, ever, ever stands still normally), waiting for her eyes to adjust to the shady pod after being in the bright sunlight.
“I’m here,” I call.
She bounds over to me. Smidge’s philosophy is always “Why walk when I can run?”
But she’s also a Troll of few words, so I just have to imagine from her crazy energy that she’s excited to be here. Of course, I have no idea what to expect from Smidge. Maybe an elaborately crocheted something?
“Can’t wait to see your entry,” I say.
“Can’t wait to show you,” Smidge replies. Her deep voice is hilariously cute coming out of such a little body. But I know better than to smile. I don’t want her to think I’m not taking her seriously.
“Okay, then. Let me get back behind the table.” I cross the pod and scoot into an empty chair. “What do you have?” I ask.
Smidge grins and turns her back to me. She plants her feet hip-width apart, her torso slightly angled so that she’s looking at me over her shoulder.
She flexes one of her arms and an impressive biceps pops up. Whoa. She has my attention with that, and when she notices, her grin stretches. Then she jumps into a whole series of poses that show off her strength. First, she lets the fingers of one hand encircle the wrist of the other, then holds both over her head. Her left is foot flexed and pointed. Next, she does a squat to show off her wowzadoodle quads.
“I just want to make sure I have this exactly right so I can fill Poppy in when she gets back, since she’ll be helping me pick the opening exhibit. Your entry is…your muscles?” I ask.
Smidge nods proudly. “My body is a work of art.”
Well, she does have a point. It’s not art in the most traditional sense, but I applaud her for taking a broader view. It’s something I want my gallery to represent, too.
“You are in seriously good shape,” I say.
Smidge grins and executes a tiny bow.
She drops to the ground and begins running through a series of exercises that are designed to show off her flexibility and strength. Then she pauses. “Oh my gah.”
I look around, confused. “What?”
But all Smidge does is hold up a finger. “Idea!”
My eyebrows are practically up to my hairline right now, but Smidge doesn’t pay me any attention. She leaps over to the entrance and claps three times.
In response, a whole parade of Trolls appear and peek in, and Smidge gestures for them to come inside.
“Pile on,” she orders, holding out her arms.
What is going on here?
Trolls are pretty open to trying wacky new things. One Troll uses Smidge’s arms as a step and climbs up to her hair. Smidge wraps the ends of her hair around him. The others hop on, each using the current top Troll’s hair as a rope to scale the Troll mountain they are creating.
Smidge grunts once before she gives her own hair one giant push—and lifts the entire stack. The Troll stack reaches halfway to the ceiling, and I can’t contain myself.
“Oh my gah!” I shout.
“Hey,” Smidge says through deep breaths as her hair shakes from the effort. “That’s my line.”
I applaud excitedly. “Smidge, you’re amazing!”
Then, one by one, the Trolls slide down each other’s hair to the ground. Smidge remains rock solid. She makes it all look effortless.
She doesn’t wait for me to give her the details about when I’ll contact her—she chases after the other exiting Trolls and leaves me in stunned admiration. Getting muscles to be that strong takes a lot of dedication. They are a work of art. Anyone would have to agree.
Can I picture an exhibit revolving around Smidge’s strength?
I’m not sure.
I badly wish Poppy were here right now to help me put this entry into perspective, compared to the others we’ve seen.
Trusting my own opinion is not as easy as Poppy makes it sound.
Harper
If Poppy were here, she would be oohing and aahing over the next two Trolls who squeeze through the opening just seconds after Smidge exits.
“Hi, Satin! Hi, Chenille!” I try to always address them separately, because even though they’re twins, they’re still two unique Trolls, and I like to honor that. “Any word on Mr. Dinkles?”
They shake their heads, which isn’t an easy thing to do when your hair is connected to someone else’s.
“Nope. Poppy had us searching the clearing—” Satin begins.
“—but we didn’t find him,” Chenille finishes.
“Is Poppy still out there looking?”
Another double head shake. “She and Biggie went to round up a larger search party,” Satin says.
I nod. I didn’t expect her back so quickly, but I couldn’t help hoping they’d found Mr. Dinkles safe and sound by now. For Biggie’s sake, of course, but also for Poppy’s. Satin and Chenille are THE most talented clothing designers in Troll Village, and Poppy loves a good wardrobe refresh as much as the next princess. She would really adore this.
These twins have their fingers on the pulse of anything fashion-related, from haute couture to formal wear to street wear and everything in between.
“Did you bring clothes? I mean, obviously you brought clothes. What else would you bring?” I’m usually not too concerned with personal fashion, since I live in my smock, but I can’t deny that I’m impressed with Satin and Chenille’s design artistry, so I’m actually really excited to see what they’ve cooked up.
“Clothes? Oh, we have clothes,” Satin says.
Chenille adds, “We brought allllll the clothes! Ready?”
I nod eagerly.
The twins pop outside, and seconds later they’re back again, dragging a suitcase bursting with accessories. Hats and necklaces and scarves spill out the sides. Before I can get out one minuscule exclamation, they head for the doorway again.
When they don’t return right away, I walk over to the entrance and peer out.
In the clearing, the two are loading one rolling rack after another. Each rack is crammed edg
e to edge with hanging clothes.
“Stand back!” they call when they catch sight of me. I barely have time to hop out of the way when a half second later, the carts are sent via slingshot straight into the pod. I wait a few moments to make sure that no other projectile outfits are incoming, but I can’t keep from running my fingers along the fabrics.
The colors! The embellishments! The fibers! I’m starting to get even more intrigued than I already was.
“Do you have a model?” I ask when the twins join me inside again.
Chenille looks me up and down with a mischievous expression.
“We sure do,” replies Satin, grinning and hip-checking her sister.
I point to myself, raising my eyebrows, and they nod in unison.
“If you’re game for it?” Chenille says. I nod and smile. This should be fun, actually.
Apart from the hair, appearance-wise the girls are exact opposites, so it’s easy to tell them apart. Where Satin is pink (which is everywhere except her blue nose and lips), Chenille is blue and vice versa.
Plus, they have really different styles. They never, ever dress alike, even down to the accessories. If Chenille’s wearing chandelier earrings, Satin’s going to have leg warmers on. They’re all about individuality when it comes to their own wardrobes.
When dressing someone else—me, for example—they’re totally simpatico, though. They reach for the exact same hanger at the exact same time. On it is a tailored daffodil-yellow trench coat, complete with striped ticking and buttons shaped like tiny daisies.
They yank it right over my smock. Then Chenille whooshes a licorice-black floppy hat out of the suitcase and props it on my head. The look is complete.
The twins spin the last rack in the line around to reveal a full-length mirror.
“Do you love?” they ask jointly, positioning me in front of it so I can see myself in the dress.
“I do love.” My answer is a little breathy because I’m blown away. “I really, really do.”
I turn from side to side and then do a little spin to watch the way the skirt flies out around me. It’s so…artistic!
“Satin, this is just…and Chenille, I mean…”
The twins beam.
“Oh, we’re only getting started,” Satin says.
They stretch their hair around me to form a makeshift dressing room.
“Unhook all the buttons before you try to put in on,” Chenille says.
“Toss the yellow dress out whenever,” adds Satin.
“The gloves go on last,” they instruct.
I follow all their orders until they finally say, “Okay. Show us.”
I part the curtain of hair and tiptoe out in the violet romper they gave me to wear. “Wh-what do you think?”
“Y to the yes, yes, YES,” Satin says, and Chenille adds, “What she said!”
I’m admiring the construction and their artful applications of color, but I have to admit that playing dress-up is seriously fun. With the twins egging me on, I turn a stretch of empty floor into my own personal makeshift runway and do a silly strut. I really wish Poppy were here, because she would be acting even more the diva than I am right now. I can just picture her passing me in the opposite direction on the runway, whispering under her breath to me, “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!”
I turn to the twins. “These outfits are amazing, and I can see you have tons more on the racks. I was just wondering, since this is for an art exhibit and all, if maybe you have anything even more…out there. I really want to get all of Troll Village talking about this grand opening for the gallery.”
Satin and Chenille do that twin thing where they have an entire conversation with each other without exchanging more than a few smirks and raised eyebrows. Then they wink at me.
“If you want avant-garde, just say so!” they chime.
Harper
“The question for you is—” Satin begins.
“—how adventurous are you feeling?” Chenille finishes.
Do they even need to ask? I’m an artiste. We love a little crazy more than the next Troll. I don’t even blink before answering, “For sure!”
The two of them speak some kind of twin shorthand as they pull item after item off the rack, holding some up and then letting them fall to the floor as they reach for others. There are fashions strewn everywhere by the time they finally nod at each other. I’ve been standing just off to the side, not wanting to get in their way, but now they gesture for me to join them. This time, they step through their hair and join me in their makeshift dressing room so they can help me out of one outfit and into the next. I can’t see much of what they’re doing as they adjust something here and pull at something else there, but I am prepared to be dazzled.
When they’re done, they take me out and spin me to face the mirror. All I can do is stare in wonderment.
My hair has been spiked in every which direction, and a bird’s nest (or possibly a fascinator?) has been propped in the center of my head. Little fuzzy branches are sticking out at odd angles. My face is partly covered by a mask over my eyes that swoops up at the edges like dragonfly wings. It has tiny detailed veining outlined in delicate seed beads that curve across the bridge of my nose. Whoa.
But that’s not even all. From the tips of my toes to the edges of my fingertips and all the way up to the top of my neck, I’m wrapped in this netting made of…I don’t know what. I just know it’s beautiful. Some of it looks like grass, and other parts seem to be braided hair, and all over it, brightly colored flower petals peek out.
“We call this Dawn in the Rushes,” the twins proclaim in unison.
Satin and Chenille glued bits of feathers with tiny rhinestones onto them to make them dramatic, and I have to give them so many props for thinking of every last detail, like the true artists they so clearly are.
“Like it?” they ask. But their smug smiles tell me they know exactly how wowed I am.
“I wish Poppy were here to see this!”
She would be on her feet, giving Satin and Chenille a standing ovation.
I can barely look away from my reflection in the mirror. “It’s so unexpected. And creative.”
I hate to take the outfit off, but it’s given me a true sense of what they’re capable of, from an exhibit perspective. My gaze becomes a little unfocused as I consider an exhibit of the twins’ clothing. “They’d have to edit the looks, that much is clear.” I’m thinking so hard, I murmur out loud. “We’d need to create a distinct collection for display, with its own unique point of view.” I pause and glance around the space. “How would we display them? Mannequins? Under glass in a display case, so visitors could get the full 360-degree view?”
I shouldn’t be worrying about this just now, because I know there are still more entries to go. Even without Poppy’s schedule, I’m sure we—I, at the moment—must be way behind schedule. With one last (long!) look into the mirror, I sigh and duck back into the changing room.
I come out in my own smock and gesture at its stark whiteness. “I know this keeps me from wearing my art when I paint,” I say to the twins, “but your clothes made me feel like I was wearing one of my paintings in an entirely different way. I’m in awe of your work. I bow to you both.”
Satin and Chenille wink at each other. “We love that you love it.”
“I do. I really do.”
I let my eyes fall to the piles of clothes on the floor and grimace. “This looks like my pod when I’m making a collage.”
Satin makes a face at the mess, but Chenille just shrugs. “We’ll handle it.”
I drop to the ground and begin scooping clothes closer to me. “Don’t be silly. I’ll help!”
Satin yanks a handful of empty hangers off the rack next to her and passes them down to me. I’m just slipping the strap of a dress onto one when something falls free.
I gasp!
“Mr. Dinkles’s hat!”
“What?” Satin and Chenille crowd beside me, and the three of us peer
at the teeny-tiny black top hat. I glance up at the closest wall, which is still covered in portraits of Mr. Dinkles.
“There’s no denying, it’s an exact match,” I breathe.
“No denying,” both agree.
“Omigosh, he must be somewhere in this pile of clothes!” I kneel in front of them and begin tossing pieces left and right. “I hope he can breathe in there! Don’t worry, Mr. Dinkles, we’re coming for you!”
Immediately, all three of us begin separating tops, dresses, hats, and skirts from the pile, gently but urgently shaking each one out.
“I found it!” I cry at one point, bringing the clothes-tossing to a halt.
“Mr. Dinkles is a him, Harper!” Satin says.
I hang my head. “Drat, I know. I didn’t find him. I found Poppy’s missing clipboard,” I reply, holding it up. The dazzling gems glued to its back catch the rays of sun filtering in. They wink in the light, but it’s a hollow victory. Mr. Dinkles is the only missing thing I care about finding right now.
“Oh,” Satin says.
Chenille’s forehead wrinkles. “I didn’t even know we were looking for a clipboard.”
“We weren’t, exactly.” I drop back to my knees and dig into the pile of clothes again. “Come on, Mr. Dinkles. Where are you?”
Both girls smile and resume their own search. We study the items for any signs of movement as we do so. Every pocket gets turned inside out, every sleeve and pant leg examined.
Once all of the clothes have been turned inside out, we have bare floor in front of us, and clothing strewn every which way behind us.
What we don’t have is a pet worm.
Or any sign of him.
“This stinks,” I say. “I really thought we’d found him.”
Satin nods sadly, and Chenille’s smile is sympathetic. “We’ll look through each one just as carefully again as we hang everything up,” Satin says.
I sigh and get to my feet. “Definitely. Let’s be twice as thorough. If he’s here and we’re missing it, I’d feel terrible.”
Allowing for careful rechecks, it takes quite a while to hang each item, but there’s no other sign of Mr. Dinkles. Eventually, we all exchange hopeless glances.
