“Thanks, Bobby,” Murray said, “but we’re already doing the new member tour here. And if we don’t get a move on, I’ll be in trouble for holding up the rest of the Council.”
Bobby slumped dramatically against the pillow pile.
“Fiiiine,” he said. “But I’m going to go splash in the fountain for a bit. You two have fun!”
“Thanks for showing me Basil,” I said.
“It was an honor meeting you,” said Bobby. We shook hands, I got another full-face wink, and Murray and I headed back through the blue-star fort to the Hub.
“So,” said Murray as we got to our feet. “That’s Bobby.”
“He’s great!” I said. “Is everyone in your network like that?”
“Oh, no, there’s only one Bobby,” said Murray. “But my network is the most fun of the four. Everyone knows that.”
Murray led the way back into the crowded maze of the floor, throwing out waves and greetings, and stopped at the far wall, where a tall red-and-gold tapestry hung between two mismatched pillows.
“What’s this?” I asked, poking the fabric. The gold threads shimmered in the light from the chandelier. “How can a tapestry be a link?”
“It can’t,” said Murray. “The tapestry doors”—he spun in a circle and pointed to five other points along the wall—“are just regular doors. The rooms behind them are right here, part of the Hub.”
“Wow,” I said, craning my neck to look around at the massive space again. “So where exactly are we? A fort this size must be hidden inside a stadium or airport or something.”
Murray beamed at me. “I asked that same question on my first tour,” he said. “Don’t worry—you’ll find out in good time, eh? Come on.” He pulled the tapestry aside and waved me through.
We stepped into a long, quiet hall lit with hanging lamps. It was super fancy. Gilded mirrors ran along each side, reflecting the polished wood floor and the walls and ceiling of pale sky-blue sheets. In front of each mirror was a short marble column with a different pillow on top. The whole place felt like an art museum, and I automatically put my hands behind my back as I leaned forward to read a plaque set under the first pillow, a dingy square with a cross-stitch pattern of daffodils.
NEW YORK, 1897. ANNA ELEANOR ROOSEVELT.
“Okay, so this is where the tour actually starts,” said Murray. He coughed, grinned, coughed again, and went on in a formal, tour-guide voice. “As Noriko told you, the story of NAFAFA goes back a very long way. This hall is where we preserve and display significant pillows from our pillow fort history, just as other networks around the world preserve theirs.”
“Wait, there are other pillow fort groups around the world?” I said, standing up straight. “Seriously?”
“Of course. One Alliance for each continent except Antarctica. And they all keep their own records and histories. Every pillow in this room is from a North American fort. Well, with one exception.”
I whistled. This. Was. Awesome. Murray slowly led the way forward, giving me time to examine the different pillows on display: red velvet with white brocade; soft silver corduroy; worn black denim; rough burlap stuffed with straw; canvas painted with galloping horses.
“I recognize a lot of these names,” I said, stopping at a plaque above a plain yellow square.
CALIFORNIA, 1939. NORMA JEANE MORTENSON, LATER MARILYN MONROE.
“Yup,” said Murray. “These pillows are all from former NAFAFA members who went on to do great things in the world. Their pillows are here to remind us of what we can do with our lives if we try. Everyone who joins NAFAFA dreams of having a pillow here someday.”
“And that happens if you grow up and do something important?”
“Exactly. Not that you’ll ever get to see it. Adults aren’t allowed anywhere near the networks unless there’s a life-or-death emergency, not even former members. We send a coded message and a nice plaque to people who get accepted, though, so they know. Look, here’s someone who got in a bit more recently.”
He led me over to a beautiful little pillow quilted in pink and blue roses.
TENNESSEE, 1955. ARETHA FRANKLIN.
“Hey, I know who that is,” I said. “She’s a singer. I like her.”
“Everyone knows who she is,” said Murray. “And she performed her first concert right here.”
“In this hall?”
“In this hall.”
I whistled again. “So this pillow is from . . .”
“Her first fort,” said Murray. “When you age out of the network—which happens when you turn thirteen—you choose a pillow from your first fort and hand it in to the record keepers. It’s stored in the pillow library, and once a year the Council goes through the pillows from exactly fifty years before and votes on whether any should get their own column.”
“What happens if they get voted down?” I asked.
“Then they’re released back into the wild,” said Murray.
“The wild?”
“Junk shops, garage sales, that sort of thing.”
I gazed up and down the hall. All these people, all these legends had started out as kids with pillow forts, just like me, and gone on to change the world. I looked down at the closest plaque. That could be my name someday. I could have a pillow here on my very own personal column. And years from now some future kid being led down this hall could stop to read my name and say, “Hey, I’ve heard of Maggie Hetzger!” and be amazed that I had been here too, right where they were standing.
I shook my head as the first curl of wind ran through my hair. I had to stay in the present, and there was something nagging at my secret-agent senses.
“What did you mean earlier?” I asked. “About every pillow here being from a North American fort except one. What’s the one?”
“The next stop on our tour,” said Murray. He led the way to the end of the hall, where a pillow made of green-and-gold velvet was set into the wall at floor level. It looked faded and fragile, and some big patches of
