Maggie & Abby's Neverending Pillow Fort

by Will Taylor

  “Look at you!” she said, bopping me on the arm. “Look at your tan. I missed you.”

  “You too,” I said, bopping her back. “And how dare you get taller without me?”

  “Did I?” Abby stood up straighter. “It must have been all the tree climbing. And swimming. And hiking and everything and—” She grabbed my arm. “Mags, summer camp is the best thing everrrrrr!”

  Wait. What?

  “Oh, come on, you can drop the act,” I said. “You’re safe now. What was your code, anyhow? You better tell me right this second. I’ve been trying to crack it all summer.”

  It was Abby’s turn to blink. “Code? What code?”

  “The coded messages. In your postcards.”

  “I never sent any coded messages in my postcards.”

  We stared at each other. Something wasn’t adding up here. “But . . . you did,” I said. “Remember? All that I love camp and stargazing-in-the-canoe out on the sparkly perfect lake talk, and everything.”

  “Well yeah, I wrote that ’cause I did love it. Obviously.”

  The pieces of the summer puzzle I thought I was working on split apart and began swirling around in my brain, forming new, awkward shapes. “But . . . when you left you said you wouldn’t,” I said. “You promised to hate it.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t understand about camp back then,” said Abby, shrugging. She made it sound like a lifetime ago. “When I got there it turned out to be ah-may-zing!”

  The sun was beating down on my shoulders, and Abby was right there in front of me, but for a moment I wondered if any of this was really happening. Maybe I’d fallen off the roof and hit my head after all. That would explain the spinning sensation in my stomach.

  “But Abs, I really thought you were miserable,” I said. “I spent the whole first month planning out rescue missions to get you back.”

  “Ha! That’s right,” said Abby. “You said in your letters. I’m glad you kept busy playing your games. I was kinda worried about you being all on your own here, to be honest.”

  Wait, wait, wait. My games? Hidden hideouts and secret codes and daring island rescues were our games. And why on earth had she been worried about me? I was the one safe at home where I belonged.

  Abby heaved an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Seriously, Mags, I have so many stories to tell you. But first you have to tell me all about your summer. Oh! And where’s this fort-base thing you built?”

  I hitched on a smile, determined to keep my cool. It was hard considering I felt like the ground was crumbling away beneath my feet, but I managed it.

  “Come on, I’ll show you,” I said. “How’d you, uh, get all those scratches, by the way?”

  “Oh, one of the older girls tried to bully me by throwing my backpack in the blackberry brambles.”

  “Did you get it back?”

  “Yup,” said Abby, with a grin I’d never seen on her sweet face before. “I might have left hers in there instead, though.”

  She followed me into the living room, where my glorious fort took up most of the floor.

  “Whoa!” Abby stopped dead. “This is awesome! How does your mom feel about it?”

  I shrugged. At first my mom had been really unhappy about having her living room torn up, but after a few pointed comments from me about how it wouldn’t have happened if I’d been away at camp like we’d planned, she let me get on with it. I felt a little bad about making her feel guilty—she was super busy taking care of sick kids, after all—but not bad enough to give up my Fortress of Fortitude.

  “Ooo!” Abby said, crawling in. “I love it. It’s so you.”

  I looked around, trying to figure out what was me about it. It was a big fort—I’d definitely been ambitious—but other than that it looked like any one of my typical brilliant, well-organized secret lairs. One thing I’ve learned over the years: if you’re going to be taking part in epic adventures ranging from international spy agency wars to intergalactic dinosaur smuggling, it helps to start with a neat base.

  “Aw, hey!” Abby said, reaching up and batting at the patchwork scarf hanging from the ceiling. “I made you this.”

  “I know. I love it. And here, uh, somewhere . . .” I dug around in the arts-and-crafts corner and pulled out a bundle. “I made you this.”

  Abby opened it. “A scarf! You made me a denim scarf. With gold tassels!”

  “Old jeans and curtains. Sorry, I didn’t have any patchwork quilts to work with.”

  “That’s okay. I wouldn’t have either without the craft bin at Camp Cantaloupe,” said Abby. “It’s crammed with all the things campers have left behind over the years. I found the quilt right at the bottom. But I love this scarf so much!”

  She put the scarf around her neck—it looked ridiculous—and grabbed me in another hug. Hello, New Abby. Old Abby never hugged this much. She even smelled different, like woodsmoke and fruit punch and coconut sunscreen. My heart gave a pang.

  “Oh, it is so, so good to see you,” she said, letting me go. “But why did we make each other scarves? It’s eighty-five degrees outside.”

  “You started it.”

  “That’s all they taught us how to sew before we moved on to candle making.”

  “Whee. Sounds fun.”

  “Ha!” Abby adjusted her scarf and leaned back against the sofa. She looked even older in the lamplight. “It was, actually. You have to promise me you’ll absolutely, seriously go next year. No matter what. I don’t even know how I’m going to wait that long. Camp Cantaloupe”—she raised her hands toward the ceiling—“is the beeeessssstt!”

  My stomach lurched. This wasn’t cool. If there really had been no secret codes coming in from Abby, and no messages hidden in the presents she’d sent me, then that meant I’d wasted the whole first half of summer trying to figure it all out for nothing. That meant Abby really had had a wonderful six weeks without me. That meant I really had been alone. And that meant we needed to start the summer over, right here, right now.

  It was time to put this camp business behind us.

  “Yeah,” I pointed out, “you already said. But you’re home now! And I have the most amazing idea for a new game. It’s based around this place, which is actually called, wait for it, Gromit’s Room! Now, I know you don’t need me to explain the name, but I thought—”

  “Let’s play something else,” said Abby, flipping through the books stacked along one wall. I stopped, my mouth hanging open. “Something with more people,” Abby went on. “I’ve gotten really used to having lots of people around. Or at least let’s do something more— OH!” Her head snapped up. “We can do camp! We can start a summer camp game!”

  I stared at her. “But you’re finally back from camp. . . .”

  “And this way I don’t have to be! I’ll teach you all the songs and the official camp dance and we can find other kids to join and yes! Project!” She was using even more exclamation marks than she had in her postcards. She whapped me with the tassels on her scarf. “So, this fort or cave or whatever will be your cabin now, yeah? That means it needs a real cabin name. What do you want to call it?”

  Oof. Abby was moving way too fast. Way too fast without me, and I’d only just gotten her back. If I have gotten her back, said a suspicious voice in my head. Maybe this New Abby was some sort of robot clone. Was that a hidden seam running along the side of her jaw . . . ? No, no, I couldn’t start thinking that way. Old Abby was under there somewhere. It just might take a little time to bring her all the way home.

  And hey, at least she was enthusiastic. I could play along for now, and we could start the summer over with Abby’s camp theme, and once things got rolling I’d be able to step in and take the reins just like always.

  “Um, I dunno. I guess I could call it Fort . . . Mc . . . Forterson?”

  New Abby snorted. “Cute. Okay, then, let’s go make my cabin-fort! It’ll have to go in my bedroom, but I bet my dad will totally let us tear apart the sofa in the garage. And I can tell you all
my camp stories while we build it!” She unfolded her extra-long limbs and stretched, knocking over one of the wall pillows and exposing the row of wooden chair legs behind it.

  “Whoops!” she said, repairing the damage as the bedsheet roof sagged alarmingly. “Sorry. Let’s get out of here before I totally destroy your cabin. It’s probably too early to have a supervillain wrecking your base and spoiling all your plans.”

  Ahh, that sounded like Old Abby.

  “Does that mean you’re volunteering when we need one?” I asked, reaching out and tweaking her fancy new braid.

  Abby’s eyes narrowed, and she grinned her new grin. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Two

  Loud pop music blared from the kitchen as we walked through Abby’s back door, and the tightness in my chest eased as the familiar warm smells of the Hernandezes’ place rolled over me.

  “Dad,” Abby called. “I brought Maggie over!” She turned to me. “Okay, seriously, it is so weird to be home.”

  Abby’s dad bounded out of the kitchen, a giant bowl of corn and peppers balanced in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other.

  “Maggie! So good to see you again!”

  “Hey, Alex,” I said. “You too.” Alex and I were on first-name terms. He was Dad to Abby and her twin brothers, and Mr. Hernandez to his art students up at the high school, but he had always been Alex to me.

  “I’ve spotted you perched majestically up on your roof a few times this summer,” Alex said, stirring wildly. “You were drenched in the light of the setting sun like a Pre-Raphaelite muse. Looked like fun! But aren’t you just so incredibly glad to have Abby home?”

  “Totally!”

  “Of course you are. And did you hear how much she loved camp? I’m so glad she went. You have to go back with her next year. She can show you around and introduce you to all the other kids!” A burst of corn and pepper chunks escaped the bowl and scattered decoratively over the floor. “I put your bags in your room for you, by the way, Abby,” Alex went on. “I knew you wouldn’t want to waste one second before reuniting with your best friend.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” said Abby. “Hey, can we take the cushions off the garage sofa and build a fort in my bedroom?”

  “Sure! Sounds like an amazing project! Whatever you do, don’t let me interfere. Can you stay for dinner, Maggie? We’re having a feast in honor of Abby’s homecoming.”

  “Absolutely, thanks,” I said.

  “Victory! I’d better get back in there, then.” He danced into the kitchen, and loud singing started up a moment later.

  I turned to Abby. “I think I missed your family more than I missed you,” I said. She whapped me on the arm.

  “Come on,” she said. “Pillow time, and then I have so many camp stories to tell you.”

  We waded into the cheerful mess of Abby’s house, stepping past laundry baskets, stacks of books, construction-paper animal heads, newspapers, soccer blankets over mismatched chairs, cat toys, random shoes, and all the other comfortable clutter of a family that was actually, well, home most of the time.

  “Did your brothers miss you?” I asked as we headed down the hall, but before Abby could answer, a teenage boy bounded out of a doorway to our left, followed by another, and she was lifted right off her feet.

  “Hey, Matt! Who’s this stranger wandering around our house?” said the first boy.

  “Ooh, I don’t know, Mark,” said Matt, a perfect copy of his twin except for the bike accident scar curving down his cheek. “She looks a bit like that girl we used to know. What was her name . . . Abby? Only this girl’s made of muscle and she’s ten feet tall. Where’s Abby, you burly stranger? What have you done with her?”

  “It’s me, you goons,” said Abby, laughing as she fought her way free. I smiled. There was Old Abby.

  “Hey, now here’s someone we can trust,” said Matt, spotting me. “Tell it to us straight, Maggie: Is this really our sister?”

  “Yefinally,” I said, ducking my head a little. All the blood in my entire body stampeded to my face. “I mean definitely! Totally. Yes.”

  Matt and Mark Hernandez were sixteen. They were tall. They played soccer and baseball and rode bikes and were very, very popular. And it was weird to say, seeing as I’d known them since forever, but they were getting to be seriously cute.

  Especially, um, Matt.

  “I guess it is you, then,” Matt said, holding Abby at arm’s length. “If Maggie says so then we’ll let you pass.”

  “Do we get to hear all about your adventures at camp?” Mark asked, propping an elbow on his brother’s shoulder. Gah, they were adorable.

  “Obviously,” said Abby, “at dinner. But right now Maggie and I have work to do.”

  “Work?” said Matt, stepping back.

  “During summer vacation?” said Mark, putting a hand over his heart.

  “Work,” said Abby, her hands on her hips.

  The twins screamed and dove back into their bedroom. Abby snorted, and we continued down the hall.

  “Missed you!” called the twins.

  “You too!” Abby called back.

  In the Hernandezes’ musty, jam-packed garage we stripped the cushions off the old orange-plaid sofa, then hauled them back to Abby’s little bedroom.

  “Ohhhh, there you are,” she said, dropping her armful of cushions in the doorway and throwing herself dramatically onto the bed. “Seriously, Mags,” she rumbled into the comforter, “if there was one thing I missed at camp, it was my perfect, wonderful mattress.” I coughed loudly. She looked up. “Oh, right. And you, I guess.”

  I threw a cushion at her.

  With no bulky sofa to build around, we had to improvise a rougher pillow fort than mine, but after three or four collapses we managed to construct a lopsided dome in the corner between the foot of Abby’s bed and her desk. It was super cozy, with just enough room for both of us to sit or one of us to stretch out, and once it was filled with pillows, blankets, sleeping bags, and Abby’s old stuffed animals, it became a big squashy nest of comfortable.

  For finishing touches Abby brought in a spare desk lamp with a bright-pink shade, I hung the denim-and-gold-tassel scarf across the ceiling to match the patchwork one in mine, Abby pinned a sign saying Fort Comfy over the entrance, and her pillow fort was done.

  And I had to admit, it was pretty great. I hadn’t planned on Abby having her own fort—that was supposed to be my thing—but this place could really come in handy once our games got going: spare food supply depot, cocoon for hatching Venomous Wolfbird eggs, emergency backup base in case our primary base got discovered by enemies or invaded by warrior jellyfish. There were so many options once Abby got tired of playing, ugh, summer camp.

  “Okay,” Abby said as we snuggled in. “This is so perfect. You’ve got your cabin, I’ve got my cabin, now we need a name for the camp itself. By our cabins combined, we are Camp . . . Camp . . . hmm . . . Camp Bestie?”

  “Really?” I said, although I couldn’t help smiling. “Even I think that’s silly. What if we combine our names: Camp Magabby? Camp Abbgie?”

  “Ew, no. And I think the name should say more about what the camp is.”

  “Fine. Camp . . . Spymaster, then?”

  “This isn’t that kind of camp, Mags. We’re talking summer camp here. Maybe Camp Sofa Cabin?”

  “What about Camp Pillow Pile? Or, oooh—!”

  Abby sat up and our eyes locked.

  “Camp Pillow Fort,” we said together. And I had to admit I liked it.

  “Obviously,” said Abby. “Okay—” She glanced past my shoulder. “Hey! Samson, no!”

  I turned to see my favorite cat in the world pushing through the brand-new entrance flap, a dead mouse clamped between his teeth.

  “Aw, buddy,” said Abby. “Get that out of here!”

  Samson blinked adoringly at her, then gently laid the mouse right on Creepy Frog, a gangly, googly-eyed stuffed monstrosity Abby had loved since forever.

  I leaned
in for a better look. “I think it’s a welcome-home present. Isn’t a mouse sort of like a dozen roses coming from a cat?”

  “Yay, me,” said Abby. She squeezed Samson and kissed the top of his head. “Thanks, I guess, buddy. I’m happy to see you, too, but there were plenty of mice in my last cabin and I don’t want any in this one.” She picked the mouse up by its tail and crawled out of the fort.

  “Hi again,” I said, grabbing Samson around the middle and burying my face in his fur. He nudged me briefly with his cheek, then slipped free and started exploring the new space, kneading happily through the piles of soft things. Well, half kneading, half getting stuck with his snagglepaw.

  “All right,” said Abby, poking her head back into the fort. “Mouse returned to the great outdoors. But now it’s go time! I want to get this unpacking done before dinner.”

  So, for what was left of the afternoon, Abby unpacked, and Abby talked, and I listened, stretched out in the entrance to the fort with my chin in my hands, Samson purring beside me.

  Abby told me every single detail about life at Camp Cantaloupe. She told me about her splintery, wasp-infested cabin, the terrible food—“Cucumber casserole is not a thing!”—the embarrassing sing-alongs, the goofy counselors, and the unbelievable summer stars. She told me about the kids who’d been going to camp for years already, and about the kids like her who were there for the first time. She told me about all her new friends.

  And it was awful. Sure, I’d wanted to go to Camp Cantaloupe once too, but I hadn’t; and there was only so long I could hear about things I’d never done, places I’d never seen, and kids I’d never met before I started to feel even more left behind than I had that morning.

  So it came as a serious relief when we heard a loud knock and Alex’s head appeared around the door.

  “Hi, you two,” he said, “dinner will be ready in— Ooo, hey! Nice fort!”

  “Thanks, Dad.’”

  “Why’s it say Fort Comfy on it?”