“What?!” said Abby. “You mean you gave in?”
“Calm down,” said Miesha. “Calm down, it was her idea. Well, hers and mine. Noriko’s aging out of NAFAFA so soon it doesn’t really matter to her. And she’s still on the Council for now—she’s just not head anymore.”
“Who is, then?” I demanded.
“No one. We’re on a cooling-off break before we vote on who the next leader will be. After that we can decide whether you all should get in. Like I told you, we’ve got a lot going on.”
“Wow,” I said. It was weird to think all that had been happening while I’d been sound asleep in my fort. “But wait.” I spotted a major problem here. “Wasn’t the whole point to get us on the Council before Noriko stepped down so we could be the fourth vote for you? Isn’t having no leader exactly what Ben wanted? Won’t he hold his vote hostage until he gets our territory?”
Miesha sneezed. “Ugh, sorry,” she said. “And you’re absolutely right, Maggie Hetzger. That’s where my part of the plan comes in. Noriko stepping down has Ben thinking he’s already won. But he doesn’t know you have that key—my idea, thank you, thank you—and once he realizes you do, we can put as much pressure on him as it takes to get me elected head.”
“This. Is. Incredible,” said Abby, staring wide-eyed at Miesha. She was completely entranced. “Intrigue! But, okay, why does us having this key let us tell Ben what to do?”
“Because Ben’s obsessed with that key,” I said. “He thinks he’s the chosen one or whatever, and that someday it’ll let him open the door in le Petit Salon.”
“Exactly,” said Miesha. “With you holding it hostage here, I’ve got him by the overalls. Either he gives up the west coast for good, votes for me as head, then votes you in along with the rest of us, or we cut you two off permanently from all links and he never sees it again. He’ll have to do what we tell him. He’s got no choice.” She took another bite. “Mmph, seriously, why don’t I eat cinnamon rolls every day?”
“That is brilliant!” Abby said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
Miesha snort-laughed just like Abby. “Aw, thanks,” she said bopping her with an elbow, “but this is already way outside your skill set. I want you on my Council, for sure, but you two are still beginners here, and I’ve been doing this stuff for years. Just hang on to that key, keep it safe, and I’ll come get you after it’s all over. I’m totally making you two in charge of Snack Committee once I’m head, by the way. You bring these to every Council meeting and we’ll probably never have a serious pillow fight again!”
She beamed at me. I smiled back as best I could, but my brain was spinning.
I honestly didn’t know what to think anymore. Was being on the Council always going to be like this? This constant battle of votes and plans and hostages and schemes? It wasn’t exactly the type of secret-agent detective work I’d signed up for. And how could Miesha say she wanted us on her side, then calmly talk about shutting us down for good if she and the others didn’t get their way?
“Wow, that sure is a lot to take in,” said my mom. I jumped. I’d completely forgotten she was in the room.
Miesha nodded. “Yes, ma’am, it is. And like I said, that’s why you all should just leave it to the pros.” She glanced at the stove clock. “Thanks again for the amazing cinnamon roll, but I really gotta get back. Don’t worry—one of us will be in touch soon.”
We said good-bye and watched her disappear into Fort McForterson. My head was pounding with questions, questions, and more questions, but it looked like I’d have to wait until after the vote to get any answers.
I was about to ask Abby what she wanted to do while we waited when there was a cry from the fort, followed by a yowl and a storm of angry hissing.
“Samson!” cried Abby. We jumped up and ran for the living room.
“Hey, you’ve got a rat in here!” came Miesha’s yell. “Also—achoo!—angry—cat! Great.”
Abby reached the quaking fort first and ducked inside. “Oh!” she said. “It’s Mr. Chompers!”
I followed after her and stopped in the entrance, staring.
The fort was in pandemonium. Half the links were knocked open, postcards were flying everywhere, and the contents of my arts-and-crafts corner were scattered wildly across the floor.
Abby had become a one-girl hurricane flailing after Samson, who was tearing around and around in circles, hot on the heels of an enormous, panicked rat. Miesha was up against the sofa in a standing crouch, sneezing nonstop and dancing from foot to foot, trying to reach her link without stepping on anyone. As I watched, Samson and the rat streaked right between her feet and she staggered, slipped on Creepy Frog, and fell hard, grabbing at the walls on the way down. The ceiling began to collapse.
“Gotcha!” cried Abby, seizing Samson around the middle. “Are you okay, Miesha? Ouch, Samson! Maggie, get that ceiling up!”
“On it!” I said, shoving the key in my pocket and squeezing in to help.
It was chaos. I battled against the blanket and fallen pillows; Abby wrestled with a squirming Samson; Miesha sneezed nonstop and clawed her way toward the link to the Hub; and the huge rat tore over everything—pillows, books, and people—in a scrabbling panic.
I struggled to my feet just in time to see Mr. Chompers make a sharp turn, scamper up one of Miesha’s legs, and disappear through the half-open link back to the alley. Miesha spun around,
