by Will Taylor
Oof. It was hard taking the blame for that all by myself.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But can’t you rebuild it?”
“The Shipwreck Treehouse? Oh, no. Too many pieces were shattered in the collapse. Proving once again that it was totally unsafe to begin with. Several counselors and staff members have already requested we start building a replacement, but that takes money, which we don’t have lying around. And anyway, given how distraught they all appear to be, it was the long, precious history of the thing that made it special. There’s no way to replace that.”
Oof times ten. That made one more thing I’d have to find a way to set right if I could.
Director Haggis looked at his watch. “You’d better head back to rejoin your cabinmates, Miss Hetzger,” he said. “I have to meet the police when they get here, and you’ve got”—he consulted a schedule on the wall—“drama right now, then arts and crafts. Your buddy will be in class already. Would you like someone to show you the way?”
“No, thanks.” I got to my feet. “I know where those classes are.” I’d learned the layout of Camp Cantaloupe by heart as part of my prep work for the summer. I was in no hurry to rejoin my cabinmates or—ugh—my new buddy, but I had pillow fort kids to contact, and that meant surviving camp until arts and crafts was just the next stage of my mission.
A mission I was not going to fail.
Fourteen
Maggie
I found my class sitting in the grass outside the drama cabin, listening to the teacher, who was pacing back and forth. He was barefoot and had a manicured red beard, clear-framed glasses, a denim shirt tucked into denim shorts, and shadows under his eyes.
“—got some seriously major set design plans for this year,” he was saying. “So I hope you’re all ready to wo-ooo-rk.” He hid the rest of his yawn behind the big stack of papers in his hands. Great, he’d probably been one of the teachers up half the night searching for Abby. He spotted me, and his frown told me I was right. “And now we’re all present, break into pairs, please, and I’ll come around with your scenes.”
There was a surge of noise and movement as everyone jumped up, grabbing arms and screaming, fighting over who was with who. I waited for exactly no one to pick me, but Charlene found me in less than five seconds. “So, you’re still here,” she said. “Did Director Haggis yell at you? He seems like the kind of director who yells. Also why aren’t you expelled?”
I shrugged. “Sorry, just not. And Director Haggis didn’t yell. He wanted me there when he called Abby’s dad.” I looked around. “Are we a team, then?”
“Obviously!” Charlene said. “And what are you two staring at?” She rounded on a pair of boys who were openly eavesdropping.
“That girl is still missing?” one of them asked. I nodded. The boys shared a look. “That’s bad.”
“The moose should have rescued her by now.”
“She must be really, really lost.”
“Or hurt.”
“Or abducted by aliens!”
“Or kidnapped by pirates!”
“Or—”
“That’s enough, break it up,” cut in the drama teacher. “Don’t let those wild imaginations run away with you just yet. I’m sure the missing kid is fine and will turn up soon.”
I wanted to burst out laughing. Wild imaginations? These boys weren’t even scratching the surface. They had absolutely nothing on me.
The teacher handed the boys a bundle of papers, then turned to me and Charlene. “There are only two left,” he said, “so I’ll let you choose. Would you rather do Orpheus and Eurydice or Theseus and the Minotaur?”
I blinked. “What is this for, exactly?”
“Your senior scenes. You’ll be performing them at the end of the week.”
“What?”
“It’s camp tradition. You hear the old Greek myths your junior year; you perform them first week your senior year. So, which one?”
I had no idea. I looked over at Charlene, but she was frowning at the two boys, who were laughing over something in their script.
“The second one, I guess,” I said. If I had to do a scene, I didn’t want it to be about Orpheus. I knew that story after last summer, when Uncle Joe had named his favorite whale Orpheus because they were both super-good singers. But the story ended all sad, with Orpheus losing the person he cared about most forever. And given the Abby situation, I didn’t need to be acting out a story like that.
I scanned the script as the teacher walked away, shouting at us all to pick our parts and get practicing.
“Um, okay,” I said, shuffling the papers. “Looks like there’s one big part and three little ones. Do you want to be the main guy on a mission, or the king, the girl with the string, and the monster thingy?”
Charlene didn’t reply. I looked up. She was still glowering at the boys. “Hello? Should we maybe, you know, start?” It honestly didn’t matter to me—I had a rescue mission taking up most of my brain. But I couldn’t fast-forward the clock, and practicing a play seemed like a decent way to fill the next forty-five minutes.
Charlene looked at me. “I don’t think it would, you know,” she said.
“What?”
“The ghost moose. Those boys were wrong. I don’t think it will rescue Abby, and it definitely wouldn’t have rescued you.”
“Huh?”
“Think about it—you and Abby got lost on purpose. Abby did a much better job getting lost than you, but obviously the moose saw right through it, because she hasn’t been rescued back yet. It would never reward someone trying to cheat. Your plan was a complete waste. And now”—the full power of her glower turned on me—“the whole summer will be messed up. You know they’re gonna double down on rules and head counts and stuff, even when Abby gets found. It’s seriously unfair and inconvenient.”
Inconvenient? There was that word again. “Oh, I’m so-o-o sorry,” I said. “Maybe next time I see the moose, I should ask it to tell Director Haggis to relax.”
Charlene’s eyebrows disappeared into her bangs. “You have never seen the moose, Maggie.”.
“Actually, I already did!” I hadn’t meant to tell anyone that, but I couldn’t help it.
“When?”
“Last summer.”
“Ha! You weren’t even here last summer, so how could you have seen it?”
“I can’t tell you that part.”
“Or, you know, you’re making this up for attention. I think—”
“Hey hey hey!” The drama teacher strolled by, twirling a whistle. “Less talk, more acting over here, please!”
I glared at Charlene as I handed over her script, but with the teacher watching, we had no choice.
“You play the three little parts,” she announced. “I’ll be the main character on a mission. It’ll be more believable that way.”
It was my turn to glower, biting back a retort that would have gotten me even deeper in trouble. I had light-years more mission experience than Charlene. We weren’t even in the same universe. I was on one right now! Ugh. Why did no one here know how good I was at stuff?
Although my spy senses had caught something interesting: Charlene had already bragged about having plans for the summer, but now she was hinting she had a full-blown mission. What could she possibly be up to? Was it her mission to get every other kid in camp in trouble with the teachers? To give ten lectures a day until the end of summer?
“Fine,” I said. “I’m happy doing most of the work if you want to take it easy.”
Charlene’s mouth fell open, but the sound of tires tearing over gravel cut through our argument. The drama teacher stopped twirling his whistle. The whole class looked across the field.
Two dark blue SUVs were pulling up in the little parking strip in front of the admin building. ORCAS ISLAND POLICE was written on the sides in yellow, above an official-looking seal. The doors opened, then slammed, and four people in matching uniforms marched toward Director Haggis, who was coming down the steps to
meet them.
The local police had arrived.
“Wow,” the teacher said. “That’s serious.” He caught my eye and blinked. “I mean, it’s probably no big deal!” He faked a smile. “I bet those folks are only here so the director can say they’re involved. They’ll probably just do a sweep through the woods near camp looking for clues. Anyway, your friend will be back safe and sound before they’re done, right?” His smile was sliding into more of a grimace. For a camp teacher, he wasn’t all that good at talking to kids. “Anyway, how about you two keep working on that scene? Your friend can join your group when she gets back!” He waved again and walked off, clutching his whistle with both hands.
Charlene flipped through her script. “He’s right,” Charlene said irritably. “Let’s get this over with.”
I stared down at the pages in my hand, pondering.
The local police being there should actually be a good thing, since they’d want to do their own search before calling for more authorities. That should buy me enough time to put my plan into action. I’d just have to make extra certain they weren’t still searching when I snuck out that night.
There was a new Charlene clue to consider here, too. Her blond bangs had whipped around like a duck taking off from the lake when the teacher mentioned “a sweep through the woods near camp,” and a look of genuine alarm had flashed across her face.
And now here she was, staring right through her lines, clearly thinking hard about something else. Did Charlene really have a real mission of her own, after all?
Maybe I wasn’t the only one at Camp Cantaloupe keeping secrets.
Fifteen
Maggie
By the end of drama class, Charlene and I had managed one complete read-through of the not-very-long script, which was impressive considering we were both so distracted by our own plans and problems that we even forgot to keep fighting. We headed off to arts and crafts with the rest of the group in silence.
Abby had described the art cabin for me in her postcards the year before, but hearing about it and walking into it were two very different things.
It was, in one word, dramatic. There were faded posters overlapping each other on every bit of wall; metal shelves collapsing under paint cans and stacks of butcher paper; jar after jar of googly eyes, brads, rainbow glitter, and fuzz-bristled paintbrushes; colonies of lopsided easels, stools, and drying racks; and—best of all—two dingy sofas and a spray-painted loveseat shoved into the back corner. I grinned. Almost everything I needed to build a new pillow fort network was right there in front of me.
“Hello, everyone!” Ms. Sabine trilled as our class tromped in. She was wearing turquoise-and-purple overalls today, topped with a massive straw sun hat and a collection of jelly necklaces. “Come in, come in! We’re starting this summer with—yes, yes, come in, gather round—a collage festival! I’ve arranged some exciting supplies on the tables for you. Find a place, dive in, and let your imaginations run wild!”
There were a few eyes rolled at her enthusiasm, but everyone found chairs around the long, beat-up tables and began gluing construction paper, dried pasta, seashells, string, and bits of wood to cardboard squares.
Charlene steered me to a spot at the end of the farthest table.
I looked up and down the heaps of junk, relieved at the lack of fabric. Phew! That meant the scrap bin might still be just the way it was last summer when Abby found that patchwork quilt. All I needed was an excuse to search it.
I raised my hand as Ms. Sabine walked by. “Could I maybe use some different materials?” I asked. “I’ve always felt inspired by, you know, fabric . . . and cloth . . . and stuff.”
“Oh, hello,” Ms. Sabine said, the smile dropping from her face. “You’re the girl who broke the treehouse, aren’t you? Quite the way to win yourself a place in Camp Cantaloupe history, dear.” Charlene’s head snapped up beside me.
Ms. Sabine examined me for a moment like I was a strange form of modern art she was trying to decide if she liked. Then her face split into a smile and she leaned in. “I’m not supposed to say,” she whispered over the clacking of her jelly necklaces, “being a teacher and all, but when I heard what you did, I said to myself, ‘Now there is an independent spirit!’ Taking your destiny into your own hands! Pursuing your dream of seeing the moose! It’s a sign of a courageous risk taker who trusts her instincts, and that’s the first thing you need to become a great artist. Even if I am heartbroken to lose the treehouse.”
“Um, thanks,” I said, trying to keep up. Charlene, whose circle of cardboard was already half covered in even rows of dried pasta, was looking furious. “So, can I use some scrap fabric?”
Ms. Sabine stood up, throwing both arms over her head. “The world is yours, dear. Or at least, the contents of this cabin. Follow your inspiration!”
I nodded in thanks, turned my back on Charlene, and went to check out the rest of the room. After a bit of searching, I found the famous scrap-fabric bin crammed between one of the paint shelves and a tower of empty plastic buckets. The clamor and chatter of the rest of the cabin seemed to fade away.
Okay. This was it. My entire plan hinged on finding what I needed somewhere in here. This had to happen.
I pulled out the top piece of fabric and held it up, spilling little scraps all over the floor.
“Careful!” sang Ms. Sabine from across the room. “Any mess made here, you clean up yourself!”
“She should clean up what’s left of the treehouse, then,” Charlene said loudly.
Ms. Sabine tsk-tsked, but a ripple of laughter ran through the class. I ignored them all and resumed my search.
There was way more material crammed in the bin than it looked like from the outside. I dug and dug, and the pile around my feet grew and grew, until finally—yes!—right at the bottom, hacked and fraying but still mostly intact, I found the tail end of a patchwork quilt.
I ran my fingers from square to square, until with a jolt I found the one I was looking for: soft green velvet shot through with gold thread. Thank all that was good whoever made this quilt used a repeating pattern. Another square of fabric from the First Sofa had survived! And I was holding it in my hands.
I had to contain an actual whoop of joy. For once everything in this place was going right! I just had to get through the rest of this impossibly long day, stay awake until everyone fell asleep, then sneak out again and break in here so I could start building forts. It was a tallish order, even for me, but the clock was ticking, and I was not about to leave Abby hanging.
Director Haggis came to see me during dinner that night—sloppy joes, not cucumber casserole, thank the ghost moose. “I thought you should know Mr. Hernandez called,” he said. “He’s having car trouble and won’t be able to get here until tomorrow. It’s a real shame.” Director Haggis didn’t look like it was a real shame. He looked like it was a massive relief.
“Oh, too bad.”
“Yes. I know you were probably looking forward to seeing him,” Director Haggis said. He paused. “Oh, well.” And he walked away, whistling.
After dinner, the littlest kids sang us songs about woodchucks and tadpoles around the barricaded campfire. And then we all headed for bed.
Charlene had apparently decided that her buddy duties stopped at the cabin door, and most of our cabin got pulled into a disagreement about some video game I’d never heard of, so I got a little time to myself before lights-out.
I pulled out a book, trying to pretend I was off on a grand adventure like I should have been, but I couldn’t keep my mind on the page. After reading the same paragraph five times in a row, I finally had to admit that what I really needed was someone to talk to. Someone who would understand just how frustrating it was being trapped here. Someone who would appreciate the brilliant plan I’d come up with to fix things. Someone to confirm I was doing good.
What I needed was Abby.
But Abby was gone, possibly in mortal danger, and I couldn’t even send her a postcard.
I dug around in my bag, pulled out a postcard with a cartoon map of Orcas Island on the front, propped myself up on my pillow, and poured out my troubles to my best friend.
Dear Abs,
It’s been almost twenty-four hours since you disappeared through the trapdoor, and everything here is terrible. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m still stuck at camp. Everyone hates me for breaking the treehouse (oh, yeah, it collapsed, by the way) (on me) (which is why I couldn’t follow after you), and Director Haggis assigned CHARLENE to be my BUDDY and watch over me and guard me everywhere, and we have to do a scene together in drama, and there are police searching the woods for you, and basically it’s gonna take all my secret-agent skills to sneak out tonight and launch my rescue plan. It’ll work so long as everything goes to plan. Obviously. Because that’s the plan.
Hope you’re not trapped in a fire pit or ancient Greek labyrinth or
Or what? I tapped my pen on my knee, staring around the cabin. Why couldn’t I think of more dangers Abby could have run into? Why was my brain so full of camp stuff? What was this place doing to me? I tapped some more, then put the pen back on the paper.
an even worse summer camp than this one. If things can just work around here for once, I’ll see you soon. Somehow.
Love,
Mags
I finished writing—wrapping all the way around the edges of the card in tiny letters, because it turned out I had a lot to say—just as our counselor called a truce in the video-game argument and told us all to get ready for bed and lights-out.
I tucked the postcard into my pack beside my socks. It would make a nice welcome-home present for Abby once I got her back. Which, depending on what the kids at NAFAFA knew, could be as soon as tonight.
