“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!
