by Will Taylor
As the Shipwreck Treehouse came crashing down.
And I came crashing down with it.
Four
Maggie
“Miss Hetzger, I need you to tell me.”
I swished my tongue around my lower lip. It had stopped bleeding, but the metallic taste was still there. I shifted in the hard plastic chair in front of the director’s desk and winced. That was going to be a nasty bruise on my hip.
“Tell you what?” I asked, playing for time. My story-spinning skills felt sluggish and slow.
“I need you to tell me exactly what you thought you were doing in that treehouse.” Director Haggis leaned over his desk. “Apart from proving my point that it should be condemned.”
Ugh. I thought back. After the floor lurched, and Abby disappeared down the open trapdoor, and the treehouse and I plummeted to the ground in a heap, there had been thirty seconds of hollow, ringing silence. Then the shouting had started: counselors, grown-ups, Director Haggis. Their shock over the collapse of the treehouse had turned to alarm when they found me under it, and suddenly there were more grown-ups, and the camp nurse, and people waving their hands and yelling into their cell phones.
But while they were all doing that, I wiggled my toes and elbows and legs and discovered I was mostly okay. I managed to tell the nurse so, and once he’d confirmed I only had a cut lip, a bunch of bad bruises, a twisted ankle, and a few splinters, everything changed. Suddenly I wasn’t the poor child who needed rescuing but the seriously-in-trouble camper being marched to the office for questioning.
Which was why Director Haggis was sitting across from me, his white hair and mustache gleaming in the fluorescent lamplight, waiting for an explanation.
“I just wanted to see inside it,” I said finally. “I heard all about that treehouse before I came here.” Okay, good, that was good. The most important thing was not to mention Abby. As far as I’d been able to tell, they had no idea she’d been out there with me.
“But you heard my announcement, didn’t you, that the treehouse was unsafe and strictly off-limits this year?”
“Yeah.”
“And you saw the sign and the caution tape all around it?”
I nodded.
“But you decided to explore it anyway.”
I shrugged. Director Haggis’s eyebrows locked together in one disapproving line.
“I expect campers to follow the rules, Miss Hetzger,” he said. “Especially rules that are there to keep them safe. But before we get to your punishment for sneaking out of bed . . .” He leaned to one side and pulled something bulky off the floor. “I’d also like you to explain this.” My supply pack hit the desk between us, the zipper hanging open. I could see my compass, first-aid kit, and backup rope poking through.
Oof.
I touched my wrist to my lip as through checking for blood, stalling. What could I say? How could I explain away a backpack of survival gear?
“It seems to me,” said Director Haggis, “that this is the backpack of someone not planning on returning to their cabin after a quick tour of the Shipwreck Treehouse. This seems to be the backpack of someone planning on . . . running away.”
“No! Not running away,” I said. “I mean, it’s an island, isn’t it? How far could I get?” Director Haggis blinked, like that was a weird point to make. “I wasn’t running off, I was just going to hide . . . in the treehouse . . . for a bit.”
“But why? After one day? I see from your records this is your first year with us. Were you feeling homesick already? Are the other campers bullying you?”
“No! I’m not homesick, and no one’s bullying me. I was . . .” Come on, Maggie! “I was . . . trying to see the moose!”
Ah. There it was. The perfect cover story. The tension in my chest eased.
“Trying to see . . . the what?” said Director Haggis carefully.
“The moose. The ghost moose. Some of the other campers were talking about it, and how it rescues lost campers, and it sounded really cool. And since this is my last year, and my only chance to see it, I thought we could try and find it, you know, the old-fashioned way.”
There was a silence while I mentally patted myself on the back for the top-rate recovery, and Director Haggis looked at me.
“We?” he said quietly. “Are you saying you weren’t the only camper who snuck out of bed tonight?”
Oh, double oof.
Think, Maggie, think!
I’d have to fall back on a partial truth.
“Um, yeah,” I said. “My best friend Abby—Abby Hernandez—she wanted to see the moose, too, so we . . . made a bet! Just for fun. We thought if we split up and both got lost in the woods, it would have to choose one of us to rescue first, and that person would win.”
Director Haggis put his head in his hands. “You and your friend snuck out of your cabin so you could deliberately get lost in the woods, in the dark, in order to see a moose,” he said, speaking to the desk. “On the first night of camp.”
“Not a moose,” I said. “THE moose. The ghost moose of Camp Cantaloupe.”
“There’s no such thing,” said Director Haggis. “If you were eight-year-old campers, I might understand, but for two seniors to go out in search of an absurd campfire legend—”
“It’s not absurd,” I said, bristling. The ghost moose was real! I’d already seen it! If only I could tell him exactly how wrong he was.
Not that he was going to believe that story right then.
“Listen to me very carefully, Miss Hetzger,” said Director Haggis, raising his head. “There is no ghost moose of Camp Cantaloupe. There never was, has been, or will be. It’s nothing but a ridiculous kids’ story, and pretending to believe in it will not excuse your behavior.” I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from correcting him. “Now I want you to tell me clearly and honestly: where is your friend?”
“She went . . . the other way.” I waved a hand vaguely toward the far side of camp. “My plan was to camp out in the treehouse so I’d have a better view, but she decided to head to where the woods were the thickest.”
“Of course she did. And did she have a similar backpack of supplies?”
I nodded. Director Haggis looked slightly relieved.
“Well, that’s something,” he said. “It’s a temperate night, and so as long as she doesn’t fall down or trip over any tree roots, she shouldn’t be in any real danger. We’ll get the staff out looking for her right away. Do you know where exactly she went?”
“No, we were both keeping our plans secret.”
Director Haggis shook his head again and reached for the phone on his desk. “What on earth were you two thinking? Did you really believe you’d find the thing? Maybe ride into camp during morning roll call tomorrow? Were you picturing some impressive grand entrance that would earn you a spot in Camp Cantaloupe history?”
I twisted my face in a noncommittal reply and winced as my lip throbbed.
“And instead here you are, injured and in very deep trouble, after causing the collapse of a historic treehouse. And your friend is out in the woods somewhere, waiting for an imaginary moose and forcing me to wake up the whole staff to go find her. Now, I want you to think about the impact of your choices and actions tonight, Miss Hetzger.”
He gave me a look I felt right down to my toes, then dialed the phone and started filling the remaining adults in on the situation. I sat there, pretending to think about my actions, relishing the chance to finally go over what had actually happened in the treehouse.
Abby had vanished through the trapdoor—that much was clear. I’d seen it happen, and she and her backpack weren’t in the driftwood pile when they found me. So the big question was: where was she now? Was she in another treehouse somewhere? Or in a locked safe in a secret bank vault? Or an underwater volcanic library? Or even back in the pillow fort networks?
I thought and thought. Outside the window the moon had disappeared. A little clock shaped like a woodchuck on Director Haggis’s desk
said 1:45 a.m. My brain got foggier and foggier as the minutes ticked by, but I couldn’t come up with any way to follow Abby. Not with the Oak Key gone and the trapdoor shattered in the wreckage. What I really needed was more to go on, more possibilities for where that trapdoor could have led. Hmm. There was no chance of going back to the scene of the accident to look for clues from the door itself; they wouldn’t let me within a hundred miles of the Shipwreck Treehouse now.
But the Oak Key had opened the lock. And the Oak Key had come from le Petit Salon, the heart of the global pillow fort networks. Okay. That was somewhere I could begin. . . .
It was after two by the time the director finally hung up the phone for good. And despite my need for sleep and my various injuries, I felt good. I had something like a plan. All I needed was a few hours safely on my own tomorrow to put it into action. That is, if I wasn’t expelled from camp first.
Director Haggis set the handset back into place, heaving one of those big sighs grown-ups do when they want you to know how inconvenient you’re making things for them. “Well,” he said, “half the staff are heading out to look for your friend. Obviously they’re not happy, but keeping our campers safe is our top priority. If she’s not back by morning, we’ll have to notify the island police. And let’s not even discuss what will happen if they can’t find her and we have to call in the sheriff or even search and rescue.
“As for you, Miss Hetzger, I’ve decided not to send you home immediately, but only because we may need your assistance in the search for Miss Hernandez. Instead, I’m assigning you a place in our new buddy system.”
“Um, thanks,” I said. “And a place in your what-now?”
“Our buddy system,” Director Haggis said. “It’s a program I’ve instituted, pairing first-timers with more experienced campers. I never dreamed any seniors would be childish enough to need one, but after tonight I think we can both agree that isn’t the case. So I’ve chosen one of the most dedicated, well-behaved, and responsible campers here to look after you. You’ll eat meals with your buddy, walk to and from every class and lesson with your buddy, and so on. The two of you will be joined at the hip until I see you can be counted on to navigate your time at camp more appropriately.”
I gaped at him. “What? But . . . who is it?” I stammered, really not wanting to know the answer.
“Someone far too mature to believe in silly things like ghost mooses, for one thing,” Director Haggis said. “The ideal person to keep you from getting into any more trouble. Your buddy will be Charlene Thieson.”
Five
Maggie
I was still in a state of shock when our cabin counselor arrived to walk me back to the cabin. She left me at the door, grumbling as she headed out to help with the search for Abby. I sidled over to my bunk as stealthily as my throbbing ankle would allow. There were five hours left before wake-up call, so hopefully I could grab enough sleep to get my head to stop spinning.
One of my cabinmates turned in her sleep as I passed. Another was snoring. Charlene was sleeping with one arm straight up over her head under her pillow, and the other out to the side, like she was telling on me using semaphore code or making up some responsible new dance move. Ugh. Starting tomorrow I’d be stuck with her. How on earth was I supposed to rescue Abby with Charlene tagging along every second of the day? That was definitely going to require a solution.
I dropped my supply pack on the floor—it had been a near thing, but Director Haggis had decided not to confiscate it—plopped down on the edge of my bunk, and stared into the gloom.
I’d been planning for this day for ten whole months. I’d worked out every single obstacle, every pitfall, everything that could possibly go wrong, but I’d never in my wildest of wild planning dreams imagined that our attempt on the treehouse could end with me walking back into this cabin alone.
But it had happened, and here I was. On the wrong side of the trapdoor. Stuck at camp. With no Abby.
I got to my feet, pulling off my sweatshirt, and something shiny on the wall of the top bunk caught my eye. I was halfway up the ladder when I realized it was taped-up pictures. Abby sure hadn’t wasted time settling in. I ran a finger over them in the faint light: Samson curled up with Creepy Frog, his very favorite of Abby’s old stuffed animals; Abby and me at Alex and Tamal’s wedding, all dressed up and squeezed into a group hug with the beaming, adorable grooms; Abby racing bikes with Matt and Mark, her handsome older twin brothers; and—best one—me and Abby looking completely embarrassed about having our photo taken on the first day of middle school.
I slid back down the ladder, got under my blanket, and looked up at the dusty slats of the bunk above me. That was where Abby should be, right there. Where was she instead? What awesome, possibly dangerous adventures was she having? And how on earth was I going to get her back?
Well, somehow, I’d have to. Partly because my best friend needed me, partly because otherwise I’d be stuck alone at camp with Charlene Thieson all summer, and partly because of the warning Director Haggis had given me as he sent me out of his office.
“Oh, and I should tell you, Miss Hetzger,” he’d said. “If Miss Hernandez hasn’t been found by the end of breakfast, I won’t just be alerting the local police, I’ll also be calling her parents.”
Clearly, that was not an option. I wasn’t about to let Director Haggis ruin Alex and Tamal’s honeymoon by scaring them with the news about Abby. They’d come right home, and the truth was there was nothing they or any other grown-up could do to find her.
Only I could do that.
But I did need help, and that was where the plan I’d cobbled together in Director Haggis’s office came in. I wasn’t going to get any answers from the wreckage of the trapdoor, but I might get some leads about the key that had opened it from the people who knew it best: the kids on the Council of the North American Founding and Allied Forts Alliance, also known as NAFAFA.
The pillow fort kids were the ones who had taught Abby and me how every link between every fort in the whole worldwide network relied on a scrap of fabric from the First Sofa in le Petit Salon to work—the same room the Oak Key came from. Bits of the First Sofa were few and far between on the west coast, but somehow at least one piece had made it out here in a patchwork quilt, and that quilt found its way into the odds-and-ends bin in the Camp Cantaloupe arts and crafts cabin. And last summer Abby had made me a scarf using pieces from that bin, and that was how our whole pillow fort adventure had started.
So, new plan.
Step one: come up with a name for the plan. Operation Patchwork? Check.
Step two: search the arts and crafts cabin for scraps of that quilt. Pending.
Step three: build a pair of pillow forts and link them up, forming a mini-network, then go back and forth between the forts until I get the attention of NAFAFA. Pending.
Step four: hope my friends in the Hub can help me figure out where the trapdoor might lead.
Of course there was no way I could get that done, rescue Abby, and be back by the end of breakfast. Not with my ankle throbbing, and grown-ups and teenagers swarming all over the grounds. I could scope out the arts and crafts cabin during class tomorrow, but the best time for fort building would be tomorrow night, which would mean sneaking out again. Which would mean no sleep. Which meant I’d better do some marathon snoozing here while I could.
Worries jostled like dinosaurs inside my brain, but I did my best to ignore them as sleep pulled me under. My best friend in the whole world was lost and probably in a world of trouble. She needed me, and to be honest I needed her, and there was nothing on Orcas Island—or off it—that could stop me from going to her rescue.
Six
Abby
So the first thing I remember thinking was Maggie, Maggie, why are you climbing over the side? Why do you have to be like that? There’s a perfectly good ladder I just used. Seriously, it’s right there.
The second thing was What was that cracking noise?
The third th
ing was Maggie, watch out!
After that there was the falling, and the darkness, and the SLAM as my backpack hit solid ground with me splayed on top of it.
And there I was, in total darkness, with my head spinning. I tried to raise my hands. Huh. There were smooth wooden panels pressing down barely an inch from my face. Apparently I was in some sort of long crate. Or box. Or . . . coffin.
It was like one of Maggie’s stories come to life. Last summer she was always worried that every new pillow fort we discovered would lead to a creepy abandoned classroom or booby-trapped space station or something. Figures the one time she turned out to be right, she wasn’t here to see it. Not that I wanted her to be here. No way would we both fit in this . . . whatever it was, and I’d have to spend all my energy keeping her calm and then we’d never escape.
Man, I hoped she was safe, though. The treehouse definitely felt like it was collapsing, and Maggie was barely clinging to the railing. . . .
Okay, obviously my job was to focus on getting out of here. I twisted to my left, trying to at least get on my side so I wouldn’t be stuck like a flipped-over turtle anymore. My hand cracked against something cold and hard. Ouch. Nope. Not working.
I tried twisting to the right, keeping my hands in. Better. Much easier. Maybe just . . . a little . . . more . . .
Victory! I was half curled on my side!
Only now what? I reached out again, and my hands found squishy fabric running alongside me. Did coffins have padded edges? I ran my fingers back over the wood panels. There had to be something. Some sort of lid, or latch, or—got it. There was a definite seam right at the edge where the main panel met another one.
I wedged my fingers into the crack and shoved. For five awful seconds, nothing happened, then—yay! Movement! The panel gave a creak, and a blaze of light stabbed me hard in the eyes.
