The League of Unexceptional Children

by Gitty Daneshvari

  Jonathan pulled on his backpack and exited the house at exactly 8:15 a.m., the time when all Evanstonian students were encouraged by the Community Patrol to depart so as to avoid tardiness. Jonathan nodded hello to his neighbor’s ancient pug, sunbathing on the lawn, and then turned onto the sidewalk next to a tall, athletic boy in a letterman jacket.

  “Good morning, Tom,” Jonathan offered flatly.

  “Oh, hey! You must be that new kid my mom was telling me about. Welcome to Evanston. You’re going to love it here. Especially if you play ice hockey, number one in the nation four years running,” Tom said, and then pointed to one of many shiny gold pins on his jacket.

  Jonathan brushed away the hair on his forehead and rolled his eyes. Some things never changed. “Tom, it’s me, Jonathan Murray. We’ve lived three doors down from each other our whole lives. Your sister Cathy once babysat me. It was kind of a big deal. She lost me at the mall and then took home some other kid because she couldn’t remember what I looked like.”

  “No way! That was you? Crazy! Well, see you around, Jeff,” Tom replied, and then disappeared into the herd of students crowding the sidewalk.

  This was the story of Jonathan’s life. No one ever noticed him, so he could hardly be surprised when they failed to remember him. He was white rice, there but never focused on. And yet as Jonathan puttered along at the tail end of the mass of students, he heard footsteps behind him. Steps that mimicked his own, starting and stopping just as Jonathan did. He shook his head, certain that it was a case of mistaken identity. For no one would ever purposely follow Jonathan Murray. Eager to educate the misguided stalker, Jonathan turned around and scanned the street behind him. But there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  And so the boy continued on his way, unnerved by the sensation that someone was watching him, paying attention to his every move.

  OCTOBER 15, 8:26 A.M. EVANSTON MIDDLE SCHOOL. EVANSTON, VIRGINIA

  The quad at Evanston Middle School consisted of perfectly trimmed grass surrounded by redbrick buildings, cleaned biweekly so as to maintain their rich color. Classical music played in the halls, and organic food carts filled the cafeteria. To put it simply, Evanston Middle School took being the best very seriously.

  A small-framed girl with shoulder-length dirty-blond hair, round glasses, and slightly hunched shoulders made her way across the student-filled quad.

  “Hey, Sarah,” the girl offered with a smile, but Sarah didn’t so much as glance in her direction.

  “What’s up, Phil? You chillin’ like a villain?” the girl called out cheerfully as she continued across the grass, having failed to elicit even the faintest response from the boy. “Just kidding, you are obviously not a villain. But that’s not to say you aren’t strong and tough like a villain. I guess the real question is, do you want to be a villain? You know what? I’d like to retract that whole comment. Forget I said a word. Talk soon!”

  It would be easy to assume that Sarah and Phil were ignoring the girl on purpose, but that simply wasn’t the case. The girl’s name was Shelley Brown. And to put it bluntly, she was forgettable. She had a face that looked like a million other faces. Brown eyes. Smallish nose. Normal-sized ears. And then there was her voice. Shelley was cursed with a soft voice, one that merged with surrounding sounds and further hindered her quest to be noticed. So terrible was Shelley’s vocal affliction that she once sang the entire national anthem in front of her history class without anyone even noticing.

  Twelve-year-old Shelley was the younger of two girls born to world-renowned scientists Dr. Heathcliff Brown and his wife, Dr. Lillian Brown. The Browns had relocated to Germany four years prior to run a research lab. However, Shelley had been unable to learn German from YouTube videos as the rest of her highly academic family had, and so she was sent to live with her maternal grandparents in Evanston, Virginia.

  “Remember, Shells, life is a bowl of cherries… or was it cherubs? A bowl of small, plump babies or fruit? Neither really makes sense. Why can I never remember these things?” Shelley mumbled to herself as she entered one of the brick buildings off the quad, annoyed that she couldn’t even get her own pep talk right.

  Shelley took her usual seat in American Government and then turned to the boy next to her. “Hey, Gavin, you ready to watch the president’s State of the Union address, also known as a really long speech from the leader of the free world? Although, I don’t know if that’s still accurate. I mean, aren’t corporations the new leaders of the free world?”

  Gavin stared straight ahead, unaware that anyone was even speaking to him. Unfazed, Shelley leaned over and tapped the boy on the arm. “Hey!”

  Gavin turned and looked Shelley straight in the eyes. “That’s not your seat.”

  “Mr. Apted moved me here about three weeks ago. Remember, I let you cheat off me on the last test? And for that I should really apologize. I had no business letting you think that I was smart. I know that I look like a nerd, but I don’t have the brain of one. Talk about false advertising!” Shelley said, lifting her eyebrows. “But we’re all good, right, Gav?”

  Staring at Shelley, carefully taking in her nondescript face, Gavin asked, “Who are you?”

  “Shelley. Shelley Brown. But feel free to call me Samantha.”

  “Samantha?” Gavin repeated with a perplexed look.

  “That’s what you called me a week ago. And honestly, I’ve always liked the name. So really, I should thank you, Gav!”

  “Okay… whatever,” Gavin said as he turned away.

  In that moment, Shelley knew the conversation was being erased from Gavin’s memory. It’s what people did. They let go of pointless, meaningless interactions in order to make room for the worthwhile ones. And sadly, for reasons Shelley could never understand, she wasn’t regarded as a girl of substance, a girl to be listened to, a girl worth remembering.

  As the president spoke to the nation, Shelley’s attention drifted from the television to her classmates, none of whom she could call friends. They were strangers even after four years in Evanston. Her eyes bounced from face to face until finally landing on the window to the corridor. It was then that she noticed a woman, but not just any woman: Nurse Maidenkirk. Tall with flame-red hair and lips thinner than thread, she was clad in a sharply ironed white dress that came just below the knees, pale stockings, thick wedged shoes, and a small square hat with a red cross on it. And though Nurse Maidenkirk looked as she always did, there was something about the way she stared at Shelley now that sent a chill up the young girl’s spine.

  Two corridors away, a hall monitor entered Mr. Dunlap’s Spanish class and handed him an official-looking slip.

  “I’m sorry, young man, but there’s no Jonathan Murray in this class,” Mr. Dunlap said.

  Jonathan sighed and then quickly stood up. “I’m Jonathan Murray.”

  Mr. Dunlap stared at the boy suspiciously.

  “And no, I’m not new,” Jonathan answered as though for the thousandth time.

  “Well, of course you aren’t new. I know that,” Mr. Dunlap poorly covered. “But has your name always been Jonathan? Because I’m pretty sure it used to be Hank—or was it Salvador?”

  “Jonathan. It’s always been Jonathan Murray.”

  “Well, ‘Jonathan,’” Mr. Dunlap said, using his fingers to mimic quotation marks, “Nurse Maidenkirk wants to see you.”

  Great, Jonathan thought as he made his way down the hall toward the infirmary. The last time he saw Nurse Maidenkirk, she had regaled him with gory stories about the gruesome practices used in the early days of medicine before pinning him to the bed and jabbing his arm with a needle. Failing to get a flu shot was tantamount to spreading smallpox in Evanston, and so the Community Patrol had asked Nurse Maidenkirk to take matters into her own hands where resisters were concerned.

  Jonathan entered the stark white lobby of the infirmary and began looking around.

  “Mr. Murray,” Nurse Maidenkirk hissed as she approached, a large needle in her left hand. “Did you he
ar the Feldmans’ cat was hit by a car this morning? It survived, but apparently it left quite a stain on the road.”

  A word Jonathan had learned the month before in English class suddenly popped into his mind: macabre. It meant horrifying, gruesome, or ghastly.

  “That’s really sad. Poor cat,” Jonathan mumbled, his eyes glued to the sharp metal tip of the needle in Nurse Maidenkirk’s hand. “I’m pretty sure I’m up to date on my vaccinations if that’s what this is about.”

  Nurse Maidenkirk pressed the tip of the syringe, sending a few drops of clear liquid straight into the air. “Very well, then.”

  The flame-haired woman dropped the needle into the front pocket of her dress, adjusted her small white cap, and then motioned for Jonathan to follow her into the next room.

  Twelve hospital beds, each with its own private curtain, lined the walls of the sick bay. Metallic fixtures with flickering lightbulbs hung from the ceiling. And an old television, half the size of a Buick, sat atop a cart on the far side of the room.

  “Nurse Maidenkirk, what am I doing here?” Jonathan asked, his arms tightly crossed.

  “The Feldmans estimate the car was moving ten miles an hour. Imagine what would have happened if it had been going faster,” Nurse Maidenkirk said, having completely ignored Jonathan’s question.

  “Thanks, but I’d rather not.”

  “As you wish,” Nurse Maidenkirk said as she turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Why? Did you wish to discuss the Feldmans’ cat further? I suppose we could review the damage done to the feline’s spleen.”

  “I’m not really interested in the cat’s spleen. Can’t I just leave?” Jonathan asked.

  “No, you can’t.” And with that, Nurse Maidenkirk exited the sick bay.

  From the far corner of the room came the sound of a door creaking open. Jonathan stepped closer. A girl—small, with dirty-blond hair and brown eyes—exited the bathroom.

  “Jerome?” “Susan?” Shelley and Jonathan blurted out simultaneously.

  But before either could correct the other, one of the crisp white hospital curtains whipped open, revealing a tall and lanky man in his mid-forties. His jet-black hair was heavily oiled and carefully arranged, his part so straight, it might have been done with a ruler. Dressed in a gray double-breasted suit with a thin black tie and well-polished oxfords, he looked positively out of place in the school’s infirmary, not to mention this decade.

  “That’s the thing about you unexceptionals, you don’t even remember each other,” the man said in a quick, rapid-fire manner before popping a toothpick into his mouth.

  “The name’s Hammett, with two ts. Hammett Humphries,” the man added in a gravelly tone that reminded both Jonathan and Shelley of someone overcoming a bout of the flu.

  Hammett quickly sized up the kids, scanning everything from their shoes to the hair on their heads, all the while bouncing the toothpick from side to side in his mouth.

  “Listen up, kiddos, ’cause I don’t have time to say this twice. Well, actually I do, I just don’t have the patience—”

  “Is this about my art project? Because I realize it was a little… how should I say… avant-garde—” Shelley started to explain.

  “Enough with the chitchat, kid. I’m not here about some weird-looking papier-mâché thing. I’ve got news. Big news. The kind of news that will turn your socks inside out.”

  “You’ve got big news for me? Jonathan Murray of sixteen Forrester Lane?” the boy asked skeptically.

  “That’s right, kid. I’ve got big news for both of you,” Hammett announced, tossing his toothpick into the trash can and then promptly popping in a new one.

  “Well, what is it?” Jonathan inquired.

  “From the moment these words leave my lips, nothing’s going to be the same. Not a doggone thing. You understand?”

  “No offense, but I don’t really believe that. Unless, of course, you tell me that you poisoned me ten minutes ago. But how could you have poisoned me ten minutes ago if we just met?” Shelley rambled.

  “Listen, doll, you don’t have to believe me, but the truth is simple. After I tell you, you’re not going to see the world the same way. You’re not even going to see yourself the same way.”

  “Just tell Hammett you believe him,” Jonathan mumbled to Shelley, eager to get to the point of all this commotion.

  “Okay, fine, we’re never going to be the same,” Shelley relented.

  Hammett nodded, widened his eyes, and took a deep breath. The kids watched the man with bubbling impatience. Shelley pursed her lips to stop herself from yelling, “Oh just get on with it!” And then right as Jonathan was about to release a sigh fraught with frustration, Hammett looked them both straight in the eyes. But this wasn’t just any old look. It was a heavy, burdensome expression, one that made Hammett appear at least a decade older.

  “Are you telling us telepathically? You know, brain to brain? Because I’ve been told I have something of a gift in the supernatural realm,” Shelley said, while Jonathan rolled his eyes.

  Unwilling to let Shelley derail the moment, Hammett pressed on. “The League of Unexceptional Children needs you, both of you,” he declared dramatically, thrusting a pointer finger in each of the kids’ faces.

  Jonathan nodded to be polite, but he hadn’t a clue what Hammett was talking about. Not one clue.

  “Is that the bowling team for uncoordinated kids?” Shelley asked before breaking into a confident smile. “I knew I’d get a callback! Silver fingers and sticky feet equal dynamo in the lanes!”

  “I don’t understand what silver fingers even means. Do you wear silver gloves?” Jonathan asked Shelley, while Hammett started shaking his head.

  “Our country is in grave danger and we’re just about out of hope,” Hammett blustered in a way that only a frustrated adult could. “Except for you two, that is…”

  “So you’re definitely not a bowler?” Shelley interjected, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “We’re not bowlers, kid,” Hammett said, bending down until he was mere inches from Shelley’s face. “We’re spies.”

  OCTOBER 15, 10:03 A.M. EVANSTON MIDDLE SCHOOL. EVANSTON, VIRGINIA

  “You want me to be a spy? With all due respect, I don’t think you want me. I don’t even want me,” Jonathan said honestly. “I’m not qualified to serve our country. But I’d be happy to make sandwiches for the people that do. My bologna and cheese is acceptable.”

  “We don’t need sandwiches. We need you,” Hammett answered, and then turned to Shelley. “And you.”

  “Being a spy has been on my to-do list for a long time,” Shelley said, and then made a check mark in the air using her finger. “Shelley Brown, spy. I like the sound of that.”

  “I’m pretty sure spies don’t use their real names,” Jonathan pointed out as Hammett abruptly started pacing.

  “It sure is a crazy thing to find you two right here in our own backyard, so to speak. You see, we’ve got agents all over this country looking for kids just like you. And trust me, you’re not that easy to find, not these days, anyway.”

  “Just like us? Why would you want people just like us?” Jonathan asked.

  “I’m the chief operating agent for the League of Unexceptional Children. What exactly is the League of Unexceptional Children? Well, I’m glad you asked.”

  Of course, they hadn’t asked, but Hammett knew they would have eventually, and he didn’t like to waste time.

  “We are a covert network of spies comprised of this country’s most average and utterly forgettable kids. Why average? Why not the brainiacs? Or the athletes? Or the beauty queens? Well, people remember those kids. They remember their names, their faces. They notice them when they walk into a room and they notice them when they walk out of a room. They are people with a footprint, a paper trail, an identity. But not you guys. You are the forgotten ones. You spend your days reintroducing yourself to kids you’ve known since preschool
. And when people call on you, on the rare occasion it happens, they never call you by the right name. And you know why? Because you blend in. You are right there in the world’s blind spot.”

  Jonathan and Shelley stared, mouths agape, at Hammett as he managed to praise them for the very asset that they each loathed—their averageness.

  “President Eisenhower founded the League of Unexceptional Children after seeing how his granddaughter effortlessly eavesdropped while wandering around the White House. She was a nosy bugger, by all accounts. Really got into everything. And yet no one ever noticed her… she was too plain, too average, too unexceptional. Since that time, the League has reported directly to each successive US president. And while it is a poorly kept secret in the espionage world that the president has his own clandestine organization of spies, no one, not even the head of the CIA or the FBI, knows who they are or what they do.”

  “So you work for President Arons?” Jonathan asked in an attempt to keep up with the onslaught of information.

  “Glad your ears are open, kid. It’s an essential part of listening,” Hammett said with a smirk before returning once again to his normal no-nonsense demeanor.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I think there has been something of a misunderstanding,” Shelley said, raising her eyebrows at Hammett. “Because I’m actually pretty exceptional. I can break-dance. I speak Russian… Lenin… Stalin… Borscht…”

  “Those are just names of dictators,” Jonathan mumbled.

  “And soup,” Shelley huffed before returning her attention to Hammett. “I also regularly try new foods. Why, just last week I headed over to Koreatown—”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Evanston doesn’t have a Koreatown.”

  “No, but they have a Korean food truck, which is basically Koreatown on wheels. Now, as I was saying, I ordered a plate of kimchi. That’s spicy pickled cabbage, for those of you who don’t know. And get this, I loved it,” Shelley stated proudly.