Maggie & Abby's Neverending Pillow Fort

by Will Taylor

  “Whoa,” said Abby. “All he’s missing is a ride on a moose.” She looked up. “Hey! I still have to tell you the story of the Camp Cantaloupe moose! It’s the very best story ever! Here, let me get comfortable.”

  Um, okay. Hey there, New Abby.

  Abby rolled over onto her stomach and pushed her feet through the link. “This place is so much better now that we’ve got two rooms,” she said. “Love it. Okay, so, this is the story the camp director told us:

  “Camp Cantaloupe was founded a long, long time ago, over half a century, and originally it wasn’t called Camp Cantaloupe, it was called Camp Orcas after the island. One night in the middle of its first summer this massive storm came through, and the next morning the beaches were covered with all this wreckage and debris that washed up on shore, along with a super confused moose that people figured must have gotten blown down from Canada. Big huge storm. Big huge mess.

  “The campers back then volunteered to help clean up the beaches if they could keep all the cool stuff they found, so they did and they used it to build the most incredible tree house. The moose kept wandering around the beaches watching them while they worked, and I guess it got used to having company, because when they were done, it followed them back to camp and stayed there.

  “Everyone loved the moose and tried to feed it from their lunches, but the only thing it would ever take was . . . ta-da, cantaloupe! So they gave the moose all the cantaloupe they had, and it became the camp pet. And it must have loved them as much as they loved it, because when the kids and counselors went home in the fall, the people who lived on the island said the moose got really sad and wouldn’t eat anything. And that winter it died of a broken heart.”

  I couldn’t help it—I laughed. Abby shushed me.

  “The next summer all the returning kids showed up with cantaloupes, because of course they were excited to see the moose again, and when they heard the news, they couldn’t believe their favorite moose in the whole world was gone. People were so sad, they talked about canceling camp. But soon stories started going around about kids seeing the moose at night, peering through the windows of the cabins, all eyes and antlers and big huge nostrils. Kids even left their cantaloupes outside for it, and the next morning they were always gone.

  “Then one day a girl got lost in the woods and everyone was worried, but that night she turned up at camp safe and sound and told everyone the moose found her and showed her the way back, leading her through the trees. From then on everyone hoped they would see the friendly ghost moose, and they voted to change the name and motto and everything, and that’s why the official camp call is . . . Cantaloupe Cantaloupe, Moose Moose Moose!”

  I blinked at her. Seriously, a fruit-loving ghost moose that blew in on a dark and stormy night? That was the best story ever? The big, mysterious legend of Camp Cantaloupe? I’d come up with better stories while brushing my teeth.

  “Neat,” I said. “That’s really . . . neat. So, did you ever see it?”

  “Not the moose, no,” Abby said. “But I hung out in the tree house all the time. That’s where the camp director told us first-timers the story. You would seriously love this tree house, Mags. It’s all made out of driftwood and planks and window frames and things. It even has this trapdoor with a real old-timey lock, although it’s stuck shut, so you have to go around and over the side to get in the tree house. But once you’re there you can see over Puget Sound to the other islands, and on clear days you can see Canada. It was my favorite place in the entire camp, and that’s saying a lot.”

  Abby reached back with her foot and flipped Creepy Frog over her head. “The director went to Camp Cantaloupe when he was our age,” she continued. “He said it’s camp tradition to sit in the tree house on your very first day, eat cantaloupe, and hear the story of the moose. Hey!” Her eyes lit up. “We should have one too!”

  “What, a weird fruit tradition?” I said

  Abby whapped me with Creepy Frog. “No, a camp director. I nominate you.”

  “Wait, me?”

  “Sure,” said Abby. “I mean, you built the first fort. And you like running things more than me.”

  I looked down at my hands, trying to keep my smile under control. This was perfect! I was great at running things, and as director I could start steering us away from summer camp games ASAP. But I didn’t want to make New Abby suspicious. How to accept power without sounding too eager?

  A bass rumbling filled the fort, and I looked up. Samson had arrived from Fort Comfy, strolling up and over Abby’s back with a square of toilet paper stuck to his paw.

  “Ow! Honestly, Samson.” Abby twisted and grabbed him. “What now, toilet paper? Where did you get that? You’re like the garbage-collector-in-chief.”

  “Ooh! Perfect!” I said, spotting my chance. “Why don’t we make Samson our director instead?”

  “Samson?”

  “Yeah. He’s around all the time, and he’s definitely a fan of the forts.”

  “Ha! Cute idea,” said Abby. “All in favor?” We raised our hands. “Motion passed. Congratulations, Samson.” She shook Samson’s tail.

  “I guess we still need someone to manage meetings and stuff, though,” I said casually. “Maybe a vice director, or something . . .”

  “Well, that’s you, then,” said Abby.

  “You’re sure?” Don’t smile, Maggie.

  “Obviously. All in favor of Maggie being vice director of Camp Pillow Fort?” She stuck a hand in the air and raised Samson’s tail with the other. “Awesome. Motion also passed. Where do you— Hey, no, Mr. Director! Leave it!” Samson was batting happily at the patchwork scarf hanging above the entrance. Abby seized him, barricading him in her arms, and he settled down, purring like a lawn mower.

  “All right,” I said, brandishing my pen. Excellent. It was my turn now. “If that’s all the moose-storytelling and leader-electing business out of the way, let’s get started on this game—camp—thing.”

  “Hooray,” said Abby. “What should we do first?”

  I gave her a look. “Are you serious?” Don’t do this to me, New Abby. “You know the answer to that.”

  Abby smiled and rubbed Samson’s head with her chin. “‘All good games start with a map,’” she said, quoting my long-standing policy. I gave a sigh of relief.

  We divided up the work. Abby did the actual drawing, since she had the art and graphic-design superpowers, while I surveyed the forts and picked out colored pencils.

  Abby did a beautiful job. She put our forts side by side right in the center of the map, making sure to draw in the correct number of pillows, and outlined the whole thing in a border of sheets and blankets. In the blank spaces at the edges she wrote Here There Be Margins, which she said was an inside joke from camp. I decided not to ask what that was about.

  All good maps are supposed to be jagged at the edges, technically speaking, but the crimping scissors I stole from my mom were missing, so we had to settle for artistically ripping the paper instead. Abby added a picture of Creepy Frog in one corner for scale, and another of Samson with his tail pointing north for a compass, and our map was complete.

  “Dude,” said Abby, running a finger over Fort Comfy. “Look at how many unlinked pillows we have. Hey, what if they all went somewhere? There could be another fort here, and here, and here. We could go so many cool places!”

  “Cool places?” She had me just a pillow fort away. Wasn’t that enough? “What sort of cool places?”

  “Anywhere! Come on—use your famous imagination, Mags.” She counted off on her fingers. “We could have links to the pool, the museum, the library, the teachers’ lounge at school next year, both ice cream shops, the Roller Derby rink, that one amazing costume shop, the aquarium . . .”

  I gaped at her. That was brilliant. Although my highly trained brain already saw a problem. “Okay,” I said, “but wouldn’t we have to somehow get to all those places and build pillow forts in them first?”

  “What do you mean?”<
br />
  “Well, our forts only connect to each other, not to other rooms in our houses, right? So there probably always needs to be a fort on the other end to connect to. And I seriously doubt there’s already a pillow fort hidden in the aquarium waiting for us.”

  “Shoot,” said Abby, “fair point. Well, I hope we figure it out and find a way to add more forts and people soon.”

  “What, Samson and I aren’t good enough for you anymore?” I asked, only half joking.

  Abby suddenly became very interested in smoothing out a corner of the map. “Of course you are. It’s just that, you know, two people and a cat isn’t much of a camp, is it? If we had more campers, we could really do it right. And that would mean we’d have more cabins, too.” She tapped the paper. “I mean, how cool would it be if somebody else did have a fort somewhere, like some kid nearby. What if we were linked in already and we just didn’t know it yet?” She looked around hopefully at the pillows lining the walls.

  “That would be awesome,” I said. Except obviously it wouldn’t. I’d only just gotten Abby back; I wasn’t about to start sharing her with someone new. “But it’s pretty much impossible.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Abby sighed. She cuddled Samson closer. “They’d probably need some sort of connection with us, not just a fort of their own. And I’ve been gone all summer, so that’s no good. And you haven’t really been in touch with anybody at all, right?”

  I nodded. She didn’t have to say it like that, but it was true. “Only my mom,” I said. “And, ugh, tennis lessons—I never did learn those kids’ names—and Caitlin for like a second, and you, but no one else except . . . hey . . . maybe . . .”

  Five

  Abby beat me to the punch. “Your uncle!” she cried, pointing dramatically at the postcard box. “Your uncle Jim, Mags!”

  “Uncle Joe.”

  “Your uncle Joe, Mags! He’s been sending you postcards, right? And you’ve been writing back from inside your fort?”

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “Only I really don’t think—”

  But Samson was upended with a yowl as Abby jumped up and started pulling pillows aside.

  “Hey, hang on,” I said. What if she brought the whole place down? What if she collapsed the link? What if the collapsing link sucked us down with it into some blankety underworld? “Uncle Joe probably doesn’t even have a—”

  “BINGO!” cried Abby, clenching a wall pillow in one hand, pointing dramatically with the other at a completely out-of-place gray cushion filling the gap.

  I goggled.

  “But—but this doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Why would Uncle Joe have a pillow fort?”

  “Why not?” said Abby, a massive smile on her face. “Maybe you gave him the idea in one of your postcards and he thought it sounded fun, and whatever’s making them all connect is affecting his, now.” She held out a hand to the strange gray cushion. “So, after you!”

  I shook my head. This was happening way too fast.

  “Hold on, hold on,” I said. “Just wait a second. There’s no proof that link goes to Uncle Joe’s fort. None. What if it goes to a . . . a haunted platinum mine instead? Or a space station that had a massive hull breach and there’s no more oxygen? Or an underwater trench full of razor-backed assassin crabs? What if I go through that pillow and never come back?”

  Abby raised her eyebrows. “Seriously? Earth to Maggie. This isn’t one of your games. This is real life, and it must be your uncle through there because who else could it be? And since he’s your relative, I thought it would be polite if you went first. But if you’re scared . . .” She turned to the gray cushion.

  “No, no, it’s okay,” I said. “I get it. I’m vice director. I should go first.” Abby lowered her eyebrows and sat back.

  I took a deep, slow breath, preparing for the worst, and crawled forward into the mysterious fort.

  And immediately almost threw up, because I was facing the wrong way.

  From my perspective, I’d just pushed forward into a gray cushion standing on its side. But it turned out that from the perspective of the new fort, I was actually under the cushion, meaning my entire world gave a quarter turn up and back in the space of about two seconds. It was not my favorite sensation.

  “How-nuh-whaha?!” I said, clutching at the pillow.

  “What is it?” asked Abby behind—or, no, beneath me. “Is it a spaceship full of oxygen crabs? Are you dead?”

  I ignored her and tried to get my bearings.

  I wasn’t in a spaceship, or in an underwater trench, but I wasn’t in a pillow fort, either. I was on a sofa, under a musty-smelling blanket that seemed to be just lying there normal style. Light was seeping through around the edges, but no sounds were coming from the room or spaceport or whatever was outside to give me any clues. It was just me and the sofa and the blanket and silence.

  It was strange. Very strange. Without a pillow fort how had I linked to wherever I was? I left my legs dangling back in Seattle in case I needed to make a speedy getaway and felt around carefully in the gloom. My hand hit something: a small, stiff piece of paper.

  “I think I found a clue,” I called back—or down, heaving myself all the way up through the link. I sat beside the gap, squinting at the paper in the dim light, and my stomach gave a happy lurch as I recognized the last postcard I’d sent Uncle Joe.

  “Hey, you were right!” I called. I tucked the card back between the pillows, slipped out from under the blanket, and emerged into what was absolutely without a shadow of a doubt my uncle’s cabin.

  Okay, this was awesome.

  The cabin was small, just two rooms. The one I was in held the sofa, a desk covered with notebooks and electronic equipment, and a twin bed. The other had a basic kitchen setup with mini appliances, two folding chairs, and a tiny table. The place smelled old and musty and might have been completely boring, except for the whales plastered over absolutely everything.

  Poster-size glossy photos covered the walls: whales diving, whales swimming, whales leaping, whales slapping the water with their fins. There were smaller photos tacked up between them, filling every corner, and even more piled on the table and spilling onto the floor. Most of them had official-looking numbers across the bottom, so they were probably important scientific documents, but Uncle Joe had them pinned up on every surface like a teenager obsessing over a favorite band.

  I felt a rush of affection for my dorky uncle. If I had to share Abby and our linked-up forts with someone, he was the only acceptable choice.

  “Well, I almost puked,” said Abby, clambering out of the sofa. “We could totally charge kids good money for that ride! How weird that your fort just linked to a regular sofa, though.”

  I looked back at the sofa. It definitely was weird. How on earth did a cushion with a blanket over it count as a fort? And what was making it all work? We had to figure it out soon. We’d been lucky to end up somewhere safe, but if the rules were this loose, well, things could go wrong—very, very quickly.

  Abby whapped me on the arm. “Dude, stop staring at that sofa like it’s possessed,” she said. “We can figure it out later. C’mon, we’re in Alaska!”

  She ran around exploring every corner of the cabin, discovering a closet full of cold-weather gear and a door to a tiny bathroom papered with more photos. “I guess your uncle’s not that into whales, huh?” she said. “I wonder where he is, anyway.”

  “Out researching, I guess.”

  We went to the window over the desk.

  “Whoa, that view,” said Abby. “I would love to work up here.”

  It was a bright, clear day. The window in the main room showed rocky arctic tundra turning into craggy hills, then snow-covered mountains in the distance. We ran to look out the window over the kitchen sink and saw more of the same, plus a rusty red pickup truck and a shed that looked like it might hold a generator. But it was the window in the front of the cabin that had the real view: a beach of black rock and silver-blue ice curling around a dark, gle
aming, wave-flecked bay.

  “It’s just like the pictures on his postcards,” I said, drinking in the light and the water and the great big sky. My heart began pumping hard. For the first time all summer I was free. No more filling in time, no more bumming around my house and yard waiting for Abby to get back and my summer to start. I was stepping out into the wide world. I could already see myself striding across this beach, my head held high, seagulls flocking to my call, and the sun shining down as I went to meet my destiny with the wind blowing through my hair.

  “Look, there he is!” said Abby, pointing to a motorboat bobbing out in the bay.

  She pulled open the front door, and we ran down the steps, shouted in shock, and ran right back in.

  “Man! It’s freezing in Alaska!” Abby said. We raided the closet, bundling up in coats and hats and sweaters at least three sizes too big, and headed outdoors again. The air was fresh beyond belief and smelled like seaweed and stone and cold salt water.

  We clattered down the rocks to the shore and jumped up and down, waving our arms and yelling. The figure in the boat didn’t look up.

  “I think he’s wearing headphones or something,” I said, holding a hand over my eyes. “And he’s not looking this way. How are we supposed to let him know we’re here?”

  “On it!” said Abby. She grabbed a baseball-size chunk of ice in each hand and flung them as far out into the bay as she could, which, seeing as it was Abby, was pretty far. There were two big splashes. The figure in the boat lifted its head. If I hadn’t already known it was Uncle Joe, the yell that echoed across the water would have told me for sure.

  “Holy whale poop!”

  Uncle Joe tugged the motor to life and turned his boat toward shore. We waited, hopping around to keep warm.

  “Hang on—wait a second,” Abby said suddenly. “What exactly are we doing here?”

  “What do you mean?”