Trolled

  Unfortunately, shutting up has never been my strong point. So I said, “Anyway, all that got me thinking, and I realized I know hardly anything about your life before you came to America. So I wanted to ask you about it. And about what happened with Grampa Raimo.”

  She dropped her cup. But instead of springing to her feet to deal with the spill, she closed her eyes and said softly, “I’d rather not have this conversation, Cody.”

  Her voice was sad, but very firm.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked.

  She bent to pick up the fallen teacup, which let her avoid my eyes. “No, you’ve done nothing wrong, dear. Even so, you’d better go now. I need to clean up this mess.”

  “I’ll help you,” I said.

  “No!” she said, her voice sharper now. “I’ll take care of it. Please, Cody, you need to go now.”

  I almost started to cry. Clearly I had done something wrong. But what?

  Whatever it was, I didn’t want to make things any worse. So I held in my tears and left.

  But, seriously, what the holy heckenlooper was THAT about???

  And why do I feel so terrible when I can’t even figure out what I did to upset her?

  Tuesday, Sept. 20

  I have decided to write some things about my past. That’s because I have been looking at A Troddler’s Guide to Life, the book I brought with me when I left Troll Mountain to come to America. It was a book that I loved, and it brings back many memories.

  I lived in terror of my father. Fortunately, I did not have to see him that much, since he was always busy being king. My mother terrified me as well. As I was her only child, she expected much of me.

  But children will be children, whether trolls or humans, and despite the fear I felt at home (my mother’s lullabies were terrifying), I played and laughed with my troddler friends. We happily annoyed our elders by running races through the mountain passages. And there is probably no better place in the world for hide-and-seek than the inside of Troll Mountain. Oh, the nooks! Oh, the crannies!

  Also, there were the animals. Troll Mountain is filled with cats, and they were very good to talk to. (To be honest, they were more intelligent than many of the trolls…especially the three-headers, who have to share one brain divided into thirds.)

  I do miss the kitties.

  The other animals we had in abundance were ravens, which were trained from shortly after hatching to be messengers between the troll kingdoms. Like cats, the ravens were able to talk to us. I had several good friends among them. They also liked big words, which was a deliciousness we shared.

  When I was young I also had many friends among the tonttus. Though most tonttus live in the forests, we did have a tribe inside Troll Mountain. And a good thing, since the tonttus actually did much of the important work, being generally far more sensible than trolls.

  When we were young our size difference was not so great. But as we grew older the tonttus topped out at about three feet, whereas we trolls kept growing, and growing, and…well, let’s just say that at nearly seven feet, I am only medium height.

  This size difference became more of an issue the larger it grew. I hated that it seemed to make the trolls feel they could order the tonttus around, in ways that were sometimes cruel. I tried to stand up for the little people, but it was not always easy.

  I had one special friend among them, a particularly clever tonttu named Aspen. We got into a great deal of mischief together, especially when we would sneak out of the mountain to visit the human world. Sadly, that eventually led to our being separated, since we got caught at it one time too many. My father was furious and decreed that I was no longer allowed to play with Aspen. It was only my pleading that saved my friend from a beating.

  Well, all that was long ago. But I still think of it often. Some things, I think, never go away.

  Biography Project, Assignment One

  Wednesday, Sept. 21

  THIS IS ME

  By Cody Takala

  My name is Cody Takala. I am eleven years old and have just started the sixth grade.

  My father’s family comes from Finland, and we are very proud of our Finnish heritage. We love America, but sometimes we think Finland is more sensible in the way it handles things. (I am sort of quoting my great-grandmother, Aino Takala, on this. I will write more about her later.)

  Sometimes people hear my last name and think I must be part Japanese. That is because there is a surprising similarity between the Japanese and Finnish languages. However, it is mostly in sound, not word meaning or how it is written.

  No one knows why this is.

  My father is in charge of Night Security for Grand Central Terminal, which is, in my opinion, the greatest building in the history of the world. (Most people call it Grand Central Station, but that is not the real name. It’s properly called a terminal because so many trains end—terminate—there.)

  My mother is a pianist/singer and performs at hotels and clubs in New York City. Her name is Mala, which is Indian (as in India-Indian).

  Mala is actually her middle name. Her first name is Dorothy. My Aunt Ellen, who is Mom’s sister, likes to bust on her about this. She says Mom only married Dad because she thought Mala Takala would be a great name for a performer.

  Mom says if that was all she wanted she could have changed her name without going through the trouble of getting married.

  Mom can be pretty snarky.

  Since Mom and Dad both work at night, I often go to Dad’s office at Grand Central with him. This is because Mom considers her workplaces “inappropriate” for me (meaning she doesn’t want me hanging around in bars). Happily, I am welcome at Dad’s place as long as I don’t interfere with his work. I have a cot in his office where I can sleep, and a small desk of my own so I can do homework. I know a lot of the security guards by name. It’s pretty cool.

  But don’t think I always have to go to work with Dad. My grandfather on my mother’s side lives with us, so I can stay home with him if I want. Grampa used to work in a circus (I’m not skying about this!) and he traveled all over the world performing. So Mom being in show business comes naturally.

  To be honest, I am happier about Grampa living with us than Mom is. I know she loves him. But she also thinks he is exasperating.

  (Mr. Liebe—you told us we should be completely honest in these essays, so I am counting on you NOT showing this to my mother!!)

  Another thing I am lucky about is that my great-grandmother on Dad’s side lives only a few blocks away. I totally love her, even if she is slightly strange. Most of my friends only have grandparents. Only a few have a great-grandparent, and I bet not one of them is as cool as Granny Aino. And that’s not just because she’s rich, though she is. You should see her apartment! She has the most ginormous wall-screen TV I have ever seen. Sometimes I get to stay over and watch movies on it, which is awesome.

  I will tell one odd thing about her. We have pictures from when she was young, and she looked like a movie star. Heck, she looked BETTER than most movie stars!

  Not anymore.

  (Okay, Mr. Liebe, I’m asking you again to be true to your word and keep this private! If you don’t, I’m dead.)

  The truth is, somewhere along the way my great-grandmother got pretty homely. It’s weird to compare how she looks now with how she looked way back when.

  I have scanned in a couple of pictures so that you can see the difference.

  It doesn’t really matter, of course. After all, great-grammas aren’t supposed to be beauty queens!

  It also doesn’t matter because Granny Aino is the best and sweetest person in the world!

  Seriously.

  Even so, I’m always puzzled by what happened to her.

  One more thing about Granny Aino: she is responsible for my special talent. I can speak Finnish! That’s because from the time I was born she spoke to me only in that language. It’s not something I get to practice a lot, but I am glad I can do it. I hope to go to Finland someday. That
would be cool. (And not just because of the climate, ha ha.)

  Okay, on to my life today. Mom says I am a New Yorker born and bred. I suppose it’s true, because I have lived here all my life. I know some people think the city is scary, but I can’t understand that. If you don’t go where you shouldn’t, when you shouldn’t, New York is very safe.

  Mom takes me to the theater a lot. Sometimes we see Broadway shows, which I love! Other times we go to little theaters down in Greenwich Village. Those shows are a “mixed bag.” Some are truly amazing. Others leave me going “HUH?”

  Mom says the “Huh?” shows are good for me.

  Dad says they will be my downfall.

  My parents do not always agree. But they really do love each other, which makes me happy.

  More about me: I like to tell stories, sometimes more than I should. I call this skying. I’m really good at it, but sometimes it gets me in trouble. My last year’s teacher, who I will not name because he was so mean to me, used to get really mad about it. Sometimes he would yell at me so bad it made me cry. I always felt stupid when that happened.

  I am pretty good at sports, but not totally crazy about them.

  My favorite comic book is Spider-Man, and my favorite movie is Guardians of the Galaxy. (I love Groot!!)

  The thing I hate most is bullies.

  When I grow up I would like to be a hero who saves someone. Or maybe a veterinarian. That would be cool, too.

  I am Cody Takala, and that is all I have to say about myself for now. And you’d better keep it secret or I will never trust you again!

  Cody—

  This was fascinating. I think you have a very good life, and I am glad that you appreciate it. And don’t worry, this essay was just to help me get to know you. I promise I will not spill your secrets!

  —Mr. L

  Thursday, Sept. 22

  I want to talk more about my home.

  I live underneath—way underneath—the most beautiful building in the world.

  At least, it’s the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen. It’s called Grand Central Terminal and it is a wonder and a glory. Its central area is like a vast, man-made cavern…only aboveground!

  Painted across its arched ceiling, 125 feet above the station floor, is a mural of the constellations. Something few people know is that the constellations are reversed. Goodness, was there some unhappiness when that was first noticed! Made me glad I had been digging tunnels rather than painting skies!

  Something else about that ceiling. Over the years it had become increasingly dark as the paint was covered with grime. Everyone thought it was soot from the trains…until they cleaned it several years ago and discovered that what actually turned the ceiling dark was the smoke from hundreds of millions of cigarettes! True story!

  I could go on and on—there is so much that is wonderful about this building. But fantastic as it is, it’s what lies underneath Grand Central that really matters to me. Hardly anyone knows about this. Only someone like me, who is comfortable underground and in the dark, can really understand it.

  Here is how I became part of the world of Grand Central.

  I came to America in the mid-1800s (as humans reckon time). There were masses of us coming from Finland then, so many that it was easy for me to pass as human in the throngs.

  Even though I was passing, I was always noticed, since I was invariably the biggest, ugliest person in any group. (I wasn’t really a “person,” of course, but I needed to pretend I was. I don’t think they were letting trolls through Immigration.)

  I tried not to let the way people looked at me hurt, but it was hard…especially given the reason I had to leave the Enchanted Realm to begin with.

  Pah! I do not want to talk about that now…or probably ever. I will say only that when I departed from Troll Mountain I felt as if my heart had been sliced in two. But I had to go, because I was no longer safe there. So, with my mother’s reluctant help, I joined the great migration. It was the best way to save me from my father’s wrath, and one of the few good things she ever did for me.

  I was lucky in my timing….I arrived in America as the first Grand Central (there have actually been two of them!) was being built. With all the underground work needed, it was a perfect place for a troll to get a job. Being large and remarkably strong (by human standards), I easily found work with the excavation crews.

  Oh, the digging! Oh, the tunneling! You would have thought men had become trolls, the way they burrowed, burrowed, burrowed through some of the hardest rock I had ever seen.

  It was demanding work, but I loved it.

  Now, here is the important part: as I worked, I watched and waited. Eventually, as I had hoped, I found a way through one of the stone walls to a hidden set of caves.

  These I claimed as my home.

  In the years since then, using my trollish skills, I have made my private space quite comfortable…so comfortable that a number of undergrounders have tried to steal it.

  That does not happen much anymore. Word has gotten around about how scary I can be. That’s partly because the last time someone tried to steal my place, it did not end well for him.

  The memory of his terrified squeals still makes me happy.

  I love my home.

  I would love it more if I had someone to share it with, but that seems an impossible dream. Certainly it could never be with the one I loved so much that I lost all.

  I try not to think about that. My home is of stone, and my heart must be as well or it would surely break in two.

  Or perhaps shatter into a million pieces.

  Pah! Why do I write such simpering things? I am a troll. My heart is not soft and stupid! It is a thing of stone! Well, mostly of stone.

  It does have a soft spot. Which was the source of my shame, and why I had to flee Troll Mountain.

  About Troll Mountain

  From A Troddler’s Guide to Life

  Troll Mountain exists in both the human world and the Enchanted Realm.

  In the human world it is mountain through and through, with a small number of caves and tunnels.

  However, in the Enchanted Realm the mountain houses a vast and thriving world of caves, caverns, hidey-holes, and passages. For those of us who live here, Troll Mountain’s exterior is much like an eggshell for a gigantic egg…a thin, protective coat that shields and protects all the life packed inside.

  Many passages lead out of the mountain to the human world. A troll can pass through them to tromp about among people whenever he or she wants…though despite the agitation by younger trolls for a world-merger, we do that tromping about less often these days.

  Of course, those passages lead into the mountain as well, but only for trolls! Unless a human has a special guide, or a key to enter, when he or she enters one, all that will be seen is a short tunnel ending at a solid wall. Yet a troll who passes through the very same opening will be once more in the Enchanted Realm, and can roam the mountain at will.

  (Author unknown)

  Human view

  Troll view

  Friday, Sept. 23

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Takala,

  I am truly enjoying having Cody in my class. He is cheerful, quite bright, and very creative. His autobiography was lively and witty.

  Unfortunately, his creativity tends to get the better of him on occasion, which is why I am writing to you now.

  To be blunt, Cody has a tendency to…well, to tell stories.

  Let me be clear. He does not do this with bad intent. And often the tales are quite amusing, if not entirely believable. When I—or one of his classmates—call him on his yarns, he will smile and say, “Heck, I’m just skying.”

  I hesitate to call this lying. In most cases Cody is quite truthful. For example: if something goes wrong and I ask if he was involved, I can count on a straight answer. He does not tell tales to get out of trouble. He just does it because…well, it’s as if he can’t help himself.

  His classmates are mostly amused by this?
??mostly, but not always. Some are getting frustrated by his tendency to “sky.” Last week we had a minor incident when I read the class a story from a collection of tales gathered by Raimo Takala, a Finnish folklorist.

  When I was done reading, Cody tried to tell everyone that Raimo is his grandfather, that he is the world’s most important authority on Finnish folklore, and that he has published over twenty books and collected dozens of previously unknown folktales.

  Since Cody talked a great deal about his family in his autobiography but did not even mention this famous grandfather, it seems likely he was skying again.

  I truly do appreciate Cody’s creativity. However, I felt I should alert you to the possibility that he may suffer some social backlash from his proclivity for spinning a yarn.

  You might want to have a word with him.

  Sincerely,

  Herb Liebe

  Saturday, Sept. 24

  I have found that writing in this diary does seem to help with my loneliness. Which is odd, since at the same time it is making me aware of how lonely I really am.

  I wish I could go home.

  NO! Stop. That is foolish.

  Why would I want to go back to that cruelty?

  Because it is home? Or, more accurately, used to be home?

  What is it that makes me long for Troll Mountain…and even for Mother and Father, despite how badly they treated me?

  That’s a useless question, given that going home could never happen. Mother would never allow it. And Father would…well, I don’t even want to think about that!

  I wonder if they are even still alive.

  Probably. We trolls live a long time.

  On the other hand, I am fairly certain—no, completely certain—that my friend is gone.

  So what reason would I have to return?

  Text messages between Alexandra Carhart and Cody Takala

  Alex

  Hey, Rosie, how you doin’?