“Uhhhh,” Jonathan interrupted, covering his mouth as he burped.
“Anyway, as I was saying, I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure you’re in the throes of a junk-food hangover. By my count, you’ve ingested forty-two packets of peanuts, ten bags of potato chips, thirteen Coca-Colas, and three candy bars so far on the flight.”
Jonathan looked down at the floor surrounding his cramped airplane seat, littered with junk-food wrappers and crumpled soda cans, and nodded. “I don’t even remember eating half this stuff.”
“I do,” Shelley said. “You tend to chew very loudly when you’re stressed. It was like sitting next to a chipmunk for the last six hours… chmmm… chmmm.…”
Ignoring Shelley, Jonathan shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. Hammett says my parents stole classified government documents. They committed treason? How is that possible? They don’t even know who the president is. They think the House and the Senate are names of bands. They ask me on a regular basis if taxes are optional. They still don’t know the difference between their, there, and they’re! My mother performed a cheer at my grandfather’s funeral and she didn’t understand why people were offended. ‘You’re dead, you’re dead, Mother said you’re dead. We’re sad, we’re sad, we’re going to miss you, Dad!’” Jonathan remembered.
“Cheerleading at a funeral?” Shelley remarked. “I’m kind of impressed.”
“There must be some sort of explanation. Maybe it’s a case of mistaken identity,” Jonathan muttered, both of his hands atop his head.
“Johno, it’s time to face the facts,” Shelley said as she placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Your mom and dad, aka Carmen and Mickey Murray, are currently sitting in the clink. And it’s not because they forgot to mow their lawn for the last twelve years or because they fed the animals at the zoo, even though the sign explicitly says not to.… Your parents are being held at the CIA, which means they’ve done something really bad.”
“You don’t understand; your parents are geniuses. If they were caught spying, we would know they knew what they were doing. But my parents? They must have been manipulated or tricked. They’re intellectually challenged. Oh, forget it, who am I kidding? They’re dumb! Anyone could trick them!”
Shelley nodded. “And just to clarify, the they’re you just mentioned, it’s spelled t-h-e-y-apostrophe-r-e, right?”
Jonathan’s eyes widened. “Are you even listening to me? My parents have been arrested for the worst crime imaginable!”
“I think you’ll find that if you ask Nurse Maidenkirk, there are a lot worse crimes out there, but I get what you’re saying.… It’s bad… really bad… especially since you’re a spy and all.…” Shelley trailed off.
“What do you mean?”
“Hammett and President Arons might wonder if you’re working with your parents.”
Jonathan pointed to himself. “Me? I can barely handle being a spy, let alone a double agent! How smart do they think I am?”
“Actually, they don’t think you’re smart at all—that’s why they recruited you for the League.”
Jonathan gave Shelley a steely look.
“That was a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?” Shelley said, furrowing her brow. “I just don’t get it—why ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer? It’s like ordering a meal you aren’t going to eat!”
“There has to be some other explanation. There just has to be. I know my parents. They’re not spies.”
“They would probably say the exact same thing about you. But having met your parents, my gut tells me you’re right. And my gut is never wrong, except about dairy products and a few other things. Bottom line, my gut is mostly right. Like fifty-eight percent of the time, which now that I think about it is an F,” Shelley babbled as Jonathan looked ahead, lost in thought.
“More peanuts?” a stewardess asked, pushing a cart down the aisle.
“Come on, lady. What are you doing? Trying to kill him?” Shelley scoffed before pulling out a newspaper from the seat pocket in front of her and then shaking her head. “This is seriously messed up.”
“Let me guess,” Jonathan droned, his stomach turning with anticipation. “My parents were behind the Kennedy assassination?”
“Who’s Kennedy?”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “Really, Shells? You don’t know who John F. Kennedy was?”
“Oh, him? Of course I do. He’s the guy they named the airport after in New York.”
“I don’t even know how to respond.”
“Then don’t,” Shelley said as she held up the paper, featuring a large photo of Carmen and Mickey Murray. “Your parents are officially famous, which means you’re famous, which is totally unfair because I have always wanted to be famous! Remember the Change.org petition I started, Make Shelley Brown Famous or She’ll Cut Off a Toe?!”
“The Internet is a weird place,” Jonathan said, shaking his head. “Or maybe you’re just weird.”
“Why did I have to get stuck with scientists for parents? Who cares about curing cancer? I would make an awesome daughter of internationally known criminals!”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
Shelley nodded. “I do, and honestly, half the time I can’t even believe what I’m saying.”
OCTOBER 30, 3:43 P.M. TAXI. WASHINGTON, DC
Seated next to Jonathan in the back of a nondescript yellow cab, Shelley looked absolutely crestfallen. She was a shell of her usual animated self, everything from her eyebrows to her lips drooping toward the floor in a sign of total emotional annihilation.
“The Son of Spies,” Shelley blurted out in a cold, monotone manner.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the title of your memoir,” Shelley said, before adding, “Oh, and you’re welcome. With that title, it’s sure to be a bestseller.”
“Shells? My parents are facing life in prison, possibly even death! And you’re jealous?! That’s deranged!” Jonathan snapped as the taxi entered the always-immaculate town of Evanston, Virginia. Though in the throes of a major scandal—“Local Dog Walkers Arrested for Espionage,” read the morning paper—the town looked as pristine as ever with uniformly cut lawns and freshly polished cars.
“Is that a clinical diagnosis? Derangement? Because right now, I could really use something to make me feel special, even if it is a mental disorder.”
“That comment alone should ensure safe passage to the sanitarium of your choice,” Jonathan said before dropping his head into his hands.
Ever since Jonathan first heard the news, he had fought diligently to keep one very frightening thought at bay. Was it possible his parents weren’t who he thought they were? Could they actually be spies? Had they been pretending to be dumb all these years? Was he the sole idiot in the family? Jonathan had always taken a certain amount of solace in the fact that his parents were challenged in the intelligence department. With genetics like that, he didn’t dare hope for anything more than average. But if they were in fact spies, then they must be brilliant too. For no one short of a genius could pull off this level of deception. And that was simply too much to bear: to be the only butter knife in a family of machetes.
“I think my head’s going to explode,” Jonathan said as he winced, sharp pain flashing like lightning behind his eyes.
Yet another claim to fame: the boy whose head exploded, Shelley thought as the taxi came to a stop.
“You kids sure this is the right address?” the driver called out as he parked in front of the Murray residence, which was swarming with news vans, reporters, looky-loos, and nosy neighbors.
“This is the right address,” Jonathan droned as he handed the driver cash, grabbed his suitcase, and pushed open the door.
Walking a few steps behind Jonathan, Shelley carefully took in the back of her friend—plain white shirt, khaki slacks, hunched shoulders that said “Don’t bother looking at me; I’m no one.” This was it—these were to be Jonathan’s last moments of anonymity. From here
on out, he would be Jonathan Murray, son of spies—forcing Shelley to once again retreat to a world where Zelda the goldfish took top honors as her best friend.
“Johno! Wait!” Shelley said seconds before the boy reached the back of the crowd. “Could you do me a favor?”
“Now?”
“It will only take a second.”
“Fine,” Jonathan acquiesced, motioning for Shelley to hurry.
“Would you mind telling the reporters that your parents have been holding me hostage the last few years? Using me as an indentured servant, kind of like Cinderella. Maybe even drop the name Shellerella?”
Jonathan shook his head, turned, and walked straight into the throng of people.
“Is that a yes?” Shelley called out, trailing a few feet behind the boy.
“Excuse me! Let me through! I live here!” Jonathan screamed as he tried to penetrate the wall of bodies surrounding his house.
“Get out of here!” a reporter snarled as he stepped in front of Jonathan, blocking his path.
Red in the face, stressed, sweating, and dragging a suitcase, Jonathan exploded.
“NO! I will not get out of here! I LIVE HERE! My name is Jonathan Murray and I am Carmen and Mickey’s son! Now move it!” Jonathan announced in a voice so loud and authoritative that it shocked Shelley and momentarily quelled the boisterous crowd.
So this was the new Jonathan, Shelley thought as she experienced a mixture of both awe and jealousy. Was it possible that her friend with the flat black hair, poor posture, and painfully boring clothes was now a cool, tough-talking dude?
OCTOBER 30, 4:20 P.M. THE MURRAY RESIDENCE. EVANSTON, VIRGINIA
“The Murrays don’t have any children,” a neighbor yelled from the crowd.
“Yeah,” another seconded. “I’ve lived next door to the Murrays for fifteen years and I’ve never so much as seen this kid!”
“Mr. Donaldson? I spent three days in your basement after your son forgot he was playing hide-and-seek with me!”
Hide-and-seek was a dangerous game for unexceptionals. Why, the League was littered with stories of children who passed days, sometimes even a week under beds, in closets, or behind curtains—all the while desperately waiting to be found.
“What are you trying to do? Get the scoop for the school paper?” a reporter asked Jonathan as he pulled him by the collar of his shirt and dropped him on the curb. “This is a matter for professionals.”
“But I’m telling the truth! I live here! Carmen and Mickey are my parents!”
“There are about thirty-five of the best reporters in the country here today. Trust me, if these two traitors had a son, we’d know about it.”
From behind, a familiar gravelly voice interrupted. “Look here, kid, this is no place for a pip-squeak like you. So why don’t you take this fiver and go get yourself a hot dog.”
Upon hearing the man’s voice, Jonathan looked up and smiled.
Hammett Humphries. Tall. Hair slicked back. Dressed in a double-breasted gray pinstripe suit. Toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth. Lurking behind him, dressed in her usual white uniform, was the always somber-looking Nurse Maidenkirk.
“Ethel and Julius Rosenberg were executed for treason in 1953.”
“Can it, Maidenkirk!” Hammett snapped before turning to Jonathan. “Like I said, why don’t you go grab yourself a hot dog.”
And with that, Hammett and Nurse Maidenkirk turned and walked away. Jonathan watched them cross the street, comforted by their presence. It was going to be okay; somehow, someway, it would be okay, Jonathan thought.
“It happens more than you’d think,” Shelley said, approaching Jonathan. “Plants and people fighting, but as the saying goes, It’s easy to get peeved… when dealing with leaves… and thieves… and people who wear shirts without sleeves… or something like that.”
Across the street, face flushed, arms waving, Hammett was speaking animatedly to a medium-sized bush.
“Hammett’s screaming at a plant?” Jonathan questioned.
“Sure looks that way,” Shelley replied.
And just like that, Jonathan’s hope faded.
OCTOBER 30, 5:18 P.M. FAMOUS RANDY’S HOT DOG PALACE. WASHINGTON, DC
“Hello, young lady,” Shelley called out to the teenage girl standing behind the register snapping her gum and checking her phone.
“Young lady?” Jonathan repeated. “She’s at least three years older than us.”
“And by young, I am, of course, referring to the fact that I am an old soul, wise beyond my years… and behind my ears too… get it? That’s where my brain is.…”
The teenage girl, totally unaware of Shelley’s presence, grabbed a near-empty soda and began noisily sucking the last remnants through the straw.
“Hey!” Shelley said impatiently, tapping the girl’s arm. “I’m talking to you!”
“Slow your roll, angry bird,” the teenager drawled.
“Angry bird? I am neither angry nor a bird. Although if I come back in another life, I am definitely open to being a bird.”
“So you can fly?”
“So I can relieve myself on the heads of irritating people like yourself!” Shelley huffed as she adjusted her glasses.
“That’s one messed-up fantasy,” the girl responded as Jonathan stepped forward.
“Give us a double dog with a side of mustard, two sides of relish, a diet Fanta, fourteen packets of ketchup, two straws, and seven napkins.”
“Right this way,” the girl said as she motioned for Jonathan and Shelley to step into the kitchen, whereby she quickly opened the fridge and removed tray after tray of hot dogs.
“Rest in peace, piggies,” Shelley said. “Or should I say rest in pieces? Since you’ve been ground up into a million different pieces and then molded into the shape of bloated noodles.”
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite part-time vegetarian,” Jonathan mumbled as he crawled into the cold, salty-smelling fridge, Shelley directly behind him.
Leaning down, the teenage girl smiled at Shelley and said, “Some cultures consider a bird pooping on you to be a sign of good luck.”
“Then you’re going to be one lucky girl in about seventy or eighty years when I come back as a bird. Although seeing as you’re older than I am, you’ll probably already be dead by the time I die, which means this plan, like so many before it, isn’t going to work out.…” Shelley trailed off as the door closed.
After two forceful thumps, the back wall of the fridge opened, dropping Jonathan and Shelley into the League’s waiting room. It was exactly as they remembered—unruly orange carpet, a few chairs, a wooden desk, a black typewriter, and an elderly secretary with a beehive hairdo.
“Take a seat, children,” the woman said while carefully filing her nails. “Mr. Humphries will be right out.”
OCTOBER 30, 5:39 P.M. LEAGUE HEADQUARTERS HALLWAY. WASHINGTON, DC
Hammett led Jonathan and Shelley through the main room awash in secretaries clacking away furiously on typewriters, past the throng of gray filing cabinets, around a couple of ferns, and down a long hall.
“Hammett?” a boy’s voice called out from the patch of greenery.
“Not now, Carl!”
Jonathan and Shelley turned toward the ferns just as a boy, covered in moles and freckles, emerged from the foliage. Dressed in camouflage army fatigues, he was a natural chameleon, blending into the background almost anywhere he went.
The voice, chipper and squeaky, asked Hammett, “Did you think about what I said?”
“Stop following me, Carl! I already told you, you’re a green banana—you’re just not ready.”
“Oh,” Jonathan muttered to himself, “Hammett was talking to Carl… not the bush.… What a relief!”
Smiling, Carl motioned toward Jonathan and Shelley. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
“They’re not my friends; they’re my operatives,” Hammett barked. “Jonathan? Shelley? Meet Carl, with a silent h.”
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“My mom slipped it in just to mess with me,” Carl explained.
“So your name is Charl?” Shelley asked.
“It’s pronounced ‘Carl.’”
“But it’s spelled C-h-a-r-l?” Shelley pressed on.
“Since it’s a silent h, it’s invisible.”
“If it’s invisible, how do you know it’s there?” Shelley continued, eyeing the boy carefully.
“Oh, it’s there. I can feel it,” Carl assured Shelley. “It’s like a piece of popcorn stuck in my throat, irritating me, making it impossible to concentrate on the movie.”
Shelley nodded. She had no idea what this kid was talking about, but she could relate to the annoyance of having a piece of popcorn stuck in your throat. Try as she might, she could never ignore the feeling. She would start off with a cough that quickly turned into something akin to a cat dislodging a fur ball. All in all, it was a most unpleasant experience, which may explain, Shelley thought, why her grandmother never let her buy popcorn at the movies.
Jonathan watched Shelley watch Carl. What was she doing? Why was she still staring at him? Seconds passed. Jonathan’s palms, a sweaty mess, began to tremble. Every second he stood here was another second his parents sat locked away at the CIA.
“Shells? Just a quick reminder: My parents are facing life in prison and possibly even worse, so if we could move this along I would really appreciate it,” Jonathan said, the words friendly, the tone anything but.
“Sorry about that, Khaki; the popcorn comment really got to me,” Shelley offered dramatically, prompting Jonathan to roll his eyes as Hammett opened the door to his office.
“This way, shorties.”
“Don’t worry about the hallway. I’ll keep an eye on things out here,” Carl hollered as Hammett closed the door.
Nurse Maidenkirk, seated in the corner of the room, nodded hello to Jonathan and Shelley while flipping through one of her favorite publications—Taxidermy Monthly. Pictures of deceased animals stuffed to look as though still alive put Nurse Maidenkirk at ease. It was an unusual reaction, but then again, Nurse Maidenkirk was an unusual woman. Some might even say she was a very unusual woman.
The League of Unexceptional Children--The Kids Who Knew Too Little Page 2
