“You are!” Ben sounded like he was on the verge of a tantrum.
“Hey, don’t talk to Noriko like that,” said Miesha. “Especially not in front of guests.”
“Maggie Hetzger is much more than a guest,” objected Murray.
Suddenly everyone was talking at once, waving their hands and pointing dramatically across the table. It was turning into a full-blown ruckus when one of the bulbs in the chandelier above us blew with a sharp pinging pop.
“Bulb!” cried a muffled voice from the maintenance crew over our heads. A tiny shower of glass shards tinkled down behind Ben’s chair.
The Council members all looked up. “Bulb!” they shouted in unison. The background hum of voices filling the Hub stopped abruptly.
In the silence Noriko raised her hands over her head and clapped three times. I glanced around. Every eye in the place was fixed on the chandelier.
“WAY TO GO, KID!” yelled every last person in the Hub except for me. “KEEP IT UP! HAAA-AAAVE FUN!”
Noriko clapped again, and the talk and chatter returned as everyone went back to what they were doing.
“So,” said Noriko, turning to me, “as I was saying, in addition to freezing your network—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “What just happened?”
Noriko frowned. “Please don’t interrupt, Maggie Hetzger. We’ve had enough of that for one day.”
“But what was that chant thing you all just did?”
“Oh, that. There’s a tradition that every time a bulb burns out in the NAFAFA chandelier, a kid somewhere in North America has just built their first pillow fort. That means they might discover linking and end up here someday, so we mark the moment to wish them well.”
I looked up at the chandelier. “Really?” That was pretty out-there, even for me.
“Yes, really,” said Miesha. “Now will everyone please let Noriko give the instructions so we can get this meeting over with?”
“Thank you, Miesha!” said Noriko. “So, Maggie Hetzger. In addition to freezing Camp Pillow Fort, there is one important thing you need to do before you and your network can be accepted as members of NAFAFA: you must use your forts”—she paused dramatically, her sunglasses glinting in the golden light—“to perform a good deed.”
I blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You must use your forts to perform a good deed,” repeated Noriko. “A very good deed. And you have exactly three days to do it.”
I stared at Noriko for a full five seconds before I realized she must be joking. Weird lighting-fixture traditions or not, these just didn’t seem like the sort of kids who would run their club like a fairy tale. I burst out laughing.
“Ha!” I said. “That’s hilarious. What, are we supposed to give a wandering old woman shelter for the night? Or defeat the evil adviser to the empress? Or rescue a cursed prince who’s been turned into a washing machine that makes everything washed in it turn to gold, and the only way to save him is to track down his matching dryer and decipher the counterspell written in code on the lint trap?” I made a mental note to actually remember that one for later. “I mean, you’re totally kidding, right?”
Four silent faces told me they weren’t.
Oh, cucumber casserole. Way to go, Maggie.
“Wow, okay.” I tugged at my pajamas. “So, um, what do you want us to do?”
“That’s up to you and your network,” said Noriko. “Coming up with a quality good deed is part of the test. We want to know you can think of others and use the powers of the forts for good. We’ll judge your efforts and vote, and if we approve, you’ll be in.”
“And if you don’t approve?” I asked. “What happens then?”
“If you don’t meet our expectations, then you are officially declared a rogue network and we attack and shut you down.”
She spoke so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that I almost missed it.
“Wait, attack?!” I said as the news reached my brain. “What sort of attack?”
“Parental,” said Noriko, “the most effective kind. Break our rules or fail to meet our expectations and we’ll let kids loose in your house. Kids who will eat your food, mark up your floors, track dirt on your carpets, leave the cap off the toothpaste, unmake your bed, hide your family’s favorite things in your fort, and generally do everything they can to make sure you get in trouble. There’s no way to prove it wasn’t you, and nine times out of ten it results in the demolition of the fort and loss of fort-building privileges forever.”
I stared at her. The fairy tale had become a gangster movie. I looked over at Murray, but his eyes were fixed on the table. “That is . . . that’s horrible,” I said. “Do I even want to know what you do the one time out of ten it doesn’t work?”
“In those cases we remove the causal element ourselves,” said Ben. His unfriendly smile was back.
“The casual what-now?”
“The cau-sal el-e-ment,” he said, tapping out each syllable on his clipboard. “The thing with a scrap of the First Sofa in it that makes your network work. For you that means the patchwork scarf.”
“My scarf?” I said, appalled. “But Abby made that for me. You can’t just steal my things!”
“We know,” said Miesha. “That’s why removing the causal element is only used as a last resort. We don’t really want to take someone else’s things, but if it’s a choice between that and endangering the entire Alliance, well, we kind of have to.”
“Exactly.” Noriko nodded. “And Ben is correct, Maggie Hetzger. You don’t have a choice about the good-deed test. If you refuse to take it, we’ll declare you a rogue network and shut you down right here. The only way you can keep your links is to do what we say and pass the test. Maybe that seems unfair now, but the benefits of NAFAFA membership outweigh any unfairness by a thousand to one. In the end, we’re doing you a huge favor by asking you to join.”
I looked around at them. After that tour I’d been ready to sign up in a heartbeat so
