The League of Unexceptional Children

by Gitty Daneshvari

“Hardly,” Jonathan said with a sigh. “Although Jeffrey’s not very gentle with the dog. Look at the way he’s yanking on the leash.”

  “I bet Vera and Felix are hanging from rafters taking pictures of Gupta while we’re waiting for a dog to take a poo,” Shelley huffed as Jeffrey returned home with the Labrador in tow.

  A glimpse of red, seen out of the corner of his eye, suddenly grabbed Jonathan’s attention. “Uh-oh, we have company.”

  Shelley looked up, shook her head, and plastered a phony smile across her face. “This is bad, very bad.”

  “Just try and act natural,” Jonathan whispered.

  “I am!”

  “You’re smiling like the Joker!”

  “That’s how people smile in Evanston,” Shelley retorted through clenched teeth as a woman on a bicycle with a large red flag pulled up in front of them.

  “Good morning, children. My name is Mrs. Malins and I’m from Evanston’s Community Patrol.”

  “Mrs. Malins, it’s me, Shelley Brown, Carla and Gerald’s granddaughter. You know, the one who’s not a genius…”

  But as usual, Mrs. Malins didn’t hear Shelley and so the woman carried on. “I’m going to need to ask you two a few questions, starting with what brought you to Evanston today?”

  “We live here,” Jonathan answered.

  “You live here?” Mrs. Malins repeated. “That trick may work in other towns, young man, but not here. In Evanston, we know our own.”

  “It’s not a trick,” Shelley said, standing up to get the woman’s attention. “We go to Evanston Middle School.”

  Mrs. Malins looked Jonathan and Shelley up and down while narrowing her eyes.

  “You’re hooligans, aren’t you? Here to write graffiti all over our clean walls! Well, I won’t have it!”

  Just then a black SUV stopped in front of the Foster residence and a Secret Service agent dressed in a suit exited the front seat. The man was medium sized with broad shoulders and a rather severe-looking scowl, the kind of expression that seamlessly communicated: “I will not hesitate to shoot.”

  “We need to get in the car,” Jonathan instructed Shelley. “It looks like someone’s on the move.”

  “I am not done with you!” Mrs. Malins hollered as she followed the two kids to the sedan. “Who is this man? Your father?”

  “Our father? No. We are not related to each other and we are definitely not related to him,” Shelley declared strongly.

  “Then who is he?” Mrs. Malins inquired.

  “He’s a friend,” Shelley lied as she and Jonathan jumped into the car.

  Arthur Pelton, seemingly oblivious to Mrs. Malins, revved his engine, sending plumes of black smoke out the tailpipe.

  “That, sir, is a serious infraction!” Mrs. Malins shouted as she tapped on Arthur Pelton’s window. “I’m afraid I’m going to need to write you up!”

  Harold, Rita, and Jeffrey Foster exited their home right as Mrs. Malins pulled out her ticket book.

  “Hit the gas!” Shelley yelled at Arthur as the Fosters’ black SUV pulled away.

  “Not so fast!” Mrs. Malins screamed as she jumped on her bicycle, popped a flashing light on her helmet, and took off after the blue sedan.

  OCTOBER 17, 9:35 A.M. ON THE ROAD. EVANSTON, VIRGINIA

  “Pull over! Right this second. You are in violation of at least three ordinances!” Mrs. Malins shouted while riding alongside the car.

  “I don’t want whatever you’re selling,” Arthur grunted, and then threw an old hamburger wrapper out the window at Mrs. Malins.

  “Make that four ordinances! Littering is a serious crime in Evanston!”

  “Can we please lose the trash police?” Shelley yelled, all the while keeping her eye on the black SUV two cars ahead.

  “How am I supposed to do that, Miss Backseat Driver? If I go any faster, I’ll smash into the car in front of me!”

  “Pull over! I’m calling the police!” Mrs. Malins screamed.

  “It’s against Evanston Community Patrol regulations to talk on a cell phone while riding a bike,” Jonathan pointed out. “She’ll never do it.”

  “I don’t know,” Shelley remarked. “Look at her—she seems pretty serious.”

  “I have memorized your license plate! You will be permanently banned from entering Evanston ever again! Do you hear me?”

  “The whole darn town hears you! Now will you leave us alone! We’re trying to spy on someone!” Arthur raged, banging his pink hands on the steering wheel.

  “You’re not supposed to tell people we’re spying! It’s the first rule of being a spy,” Shelley chastised him. “You’re losing the SUV! You need to pass this car!”

  “You’re now three miles over the speed limit! If you injure a squirrel, I will hold you personally responsible for the vet bills,” Mrs. Malins shrieked.

  “Pass the car, but please try not to crash. Crashing brings a lot of unwanted attention,” Jonathan advised Arthur as he overtook a red sedan, losing Mrs. Malins in the process.

  “Where are the Fosters? We lost the Fosters!” Shelley exploded as she desperately looked for a glimpse of the SUV.

  “They’re in the parking lot of Southern Kitchen!” Jonathan screamed as Arthur crossed two lanes of traffic, shot over three speed bumps, and finally slammed on the brakes in front of the restaurant.

  “This place makes the best fried chicken,” Arthur said as he undid his seat belt and got out of the car.

  “I guess that means he’s coming with us,” Shelley whispered under her breath.

  “I realize that no one has ever remembered us, but I feel like that’s about to change with Mrs. Malins,” Jonathan said as he looked over his shoulder for either sight or sound of Community Patrol.

  Before they had even opened the doors, the scent of syrup and barbecue sauce wafted past them, igniting rumbles from Shelley’s stomach. And though they entered a few minutes after the secretary of state and his security entourage, whispers of excitement were still flickering around the room.

  “I need to sit down. Car chases aren’t for me,” Jonathan moaned as he grabbed a chair at the closest unoccupied table.

  “Let’s not get carried away, it was a car chase with a bicycle. That’s one small step above being chased by a poodle,” Shelley remarked, watching the Fosters peruse their menus surrounded by Secret Service agents.

  “I hate poodles almost as much as seals,” Arthur groaned. “They think they’re so special because they go to the hairdresser.”

  “Here we go again,” Jonathan mumbled as a waiter approached the Foster table only to be patted down by Secret Service agents.

  “Check it out, Secretary of State Foster is harder to talk to than Jason Heyman, who, by the way, once bumped into me in the hallway—I fell and skinned my knee but it was totally worth it,” Shelley recalled, and then refocused her attention on the Fosters.

  “Jeffrey hasn’t changed much since elementary school,” Jonathan assessed as he watched the boy ram his shoulder into a Secret Service agent’s waist as he walked away from the table. “Interesting, the agents don’t follow Jeffrey.”

  “They’re probably hoping someone grabs him; he’s such a menace,” Shelley joked.

  “Who? The Seal! You don’t have to tell me that. I swear, if I ever get my hands on that guy, I’m going to bend down, grab him, and swing him around until he’s begging for mercy!” Arthur growled, sweat dripping down his face.

  “That’s quite an image,” Shelley said, and then paused. “What do you mean bend down?”

  “The Seal is a tough-looking man, but he’s short,” Arthur explained.

  “But neither Gupta Nevers nor Harold Foster is short,” Jonathan said as he checked their profiles in How to Make Great Popcorn in the Microwave.

  “No one could pull off something like this without help. Whoever is behind this obviously hired a short guy to do the kidnapping,” Shelley speculated.

  Jonathan nodded and then turned his attention back to Arthur. “What els
e do you remember about the Seal?”

  “Not a lot. Only that he hated the Met Chil Phil too.”

  “The what?” Shelley asked.

  “The Metropolitan Children’s Philharmonic. They were playing their annual concert that night. He said they were nothing but a bunch of ingrates,” Arthur recalled. “I remember because I had to look up that word. And I hate looking up words!”

  “Jeffrey’s back,” Shelley interrupted as she watched the boy return to the table, stepping on multiple Secret Service agents’ feet along the way.

  OCTOBER 17, 1:39 P.M. THE SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM. WASHINGTON, DC

  “For the last time, you can’t touch any of the art, especially not the paintings,” Shelley reprimanded Arthur Pelton while trailing the Foster family, as well as the requisite Secret Service agents, through the Smithsonian.

  “What kind of a museum doesn’t let the visitors touch the artwork? I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Arthur fumed. “What? Do they think I don’t wash my hands? That I’m some kind of animal? Man, do I hate museums!”

  “Oh, brother. First seals, then poodles, and now museums,” Shelley muttered to herself as the Foster family turned into a small exhibition room.

  “This thing hurts my eyes. It’s just a bunch of spots,” Arthur huffed as he, Jonathan, and Shelley pretended to be absorbed in an unusual sculpture.

  “The menace is on the move,” Shelley whispered as the Foster family left the exhibition room.

  “Who’s the menace?” Arthur squawked loudly.

  “Shh!” Jonathan and Shelley hushed the rotund man before popping in to see what the Fosters had been looking at—the world’s most expensive cello, a Stradivarius dating from the eighteenth century. So renowned was the instrument that before being purchased by the Smithsonian, it had passed through the hands of British monarchs and Russian czars.

  “What’s with the big violin? You’d have to be a giant to play that,” Arthur remarked.

  At least there was one upside to hanging out with Arthur Pelton: He made Jonathan and Shelley feel smart—like geniuses, actually.

  “Come on, we need to stay on the Fosters’ tail,” Jonathan said, and then turned to leave. Standing directly in front of him was a tall, gangly teenage boy holding a copy of How to Make Great Popcorn in the Microwave.

  Shelley and Jonathan immediately froze, mouths agape. They stared at the boy. They stared at his book. But they didn’t know what any of it meant and they most certainly didn’t know how to handle the situation. And so they simply kept walking.

  “Excuse me,” the boy said as he squeezed past Jonathan, dropping something into his pocket.

  OCTOBER 17, 2:29 P.M. THE SMITHSONIAN. WASHINGTON, DC

  Jonathan and Shelley walked warily down the corridor, the hairs on the back of their necks standing on edge. Their stomachs turned. Their mouths dried up. Their knees shook. Meanwhile, Arthur Pelton hadn’t noticed a thing. He was waddling comfortably down the hall completely oblivious to what had transpired.

  “I thought all League operatives were grounded,” Shelley whispered. “Do you think he was an imposter? Has the Seal made us?”

  “I have no clue. He could be an imposter or he could be an agent. The only thing I know for sure is that he dropped something in my pocket,” Jonathan said to Shelley as she turned once again to confirm that the boy wasn’t following them.

  “Well, what is it?” Shelley asked, her voice dry and raspy from nerves.

  Jonathan pushed the hair off his forehead and sighed. He knew he had to drop his fingers into his pocket and yet he waited. He waited as if somehow, some way, it would become easier. That he would stop wondering whether it might be something dangerous like a baby rattlesnake. Or a razor blade.

  “Come on, Johno,” Shelley urged.

  “I’m doing it,” Jonathan grumbled as he pushed his left hand into his pocket, forcing his fingers to graze the smooth cylinder-shaped item.

  “Johno, this isn’t a contest to see if you can guess what it is without looking, so please just pull it out,” Shelley complained impatiently.

  And so he did. It was a jalapeño.

  Shelley removed her glasses and shook her head. “He put a pepper in your pocket? Now that’s just weird.”

  “You still haven’t read How to Make Great Popcorn in the Microwave?” Jonathan moaned.

  “I know it’s not actually about popcorn, but it just sounds so boring,” Shelley explained.

  “A jalapeño means there’s an emergency.…”

  “The VP!” Shelley yelped. “The Seal finally broke him!”

  OCTOBER 17, 3:03 P.M. THE SMITHSONIAN. WASHINGTON, DC

  Jonathan, Shelley, and Arthur Pelton had only just exited the museum when they spotted Hammett pacing a few feet away.

  “We’ve got a situation on our hands, kiddos. We need to move now!” Hammett instructed Jonathan and Shelley, and then turned to Arthur. “Here’s a fiver, go get yourself an ice cream.”

  “But I’m lactose intolerant.”

  “Then make it a sorbet!”

  As Arthur walked away, Hammett ushered Jonathan and Shelley off the Mall to an idling 1970s black Cadillac with Nurse Maidenkirk behind the wheel.

  Hammett threw open the heavy door. “Get in.”

  OCTOBER 17, 3:12 P.M. ON THE MOVE. WASHINGTON, DC

  Squeezed into the backseat between Vera and Felix, Jonathan and Shelley exchanged confused looks. The car rattled and squeaked at every bump and crack in the road. It was an old car, but to Jonathan it felt more like a boat. It swayed and rocked, leaving him queasy. He wanted to scream “Pull over,” but he couldn’t. Something big was happening, something more important than a twelve-year-old’s car sickness.

  “Here’s the deal: Vice President Felinter woke up in a Dumpster on the south side of town this morning. He was covered in black trash bags, old food, and items that I’d rather not say. He doesn’t know where he was kept the last few days and he never got a good look at his captor. Bottom line, he’s pretty much as useless as ever,” Hammett expounded.

  “The Seal wouldn’t have let the vice president go without the code, so I assume he now has access to the mainframe,” Vera said solemnly.

  “We don’t know that he caved; have a little faith,” Shelley said, more because she wanted to disagree with Vera than because she actually believed it.

  “Unfortunately, Vice President Felinter caved like an old mine shaft in an earthquake,” Hammett interjected. “He wrote down the second code yesterday and this morning he woke up in the trash, literally.”

  “Then what are we doing here? Just waiting for the documents to come out and the country to crumble?” Jonathan asked.

  “It’s not quite over yet. We have one last chance to stop the Seal before the documents get out,” Hammett explained. “The vice president heard the Seal whispering about meeting someone for the handoff on Tuesday.”

  “Which means we have a little more than two days to identify the Seal and stop the exchange,” Nurse Maidenkirk added as she pulled the car in front of a redbrick building on New York Avenue.

  OCTOBER 17, 3:20 P.M. THE OCTAGON HOUSE. WASHINGTON, DC

  “This is the Octagon House, one of Washington’s least famous museums, but an important one nonetheless. Presidents have stayed here, treaties have been signed here—”

  “But what are we doing here?” Vera interrupted Nurse Maidenkirk. “We only have a few days to figure out whether the Seal is Gupta Nevers or Harold Foster. We need to be trailing them, not visiting the sights in DC.”

  “Jonathan and Shelley are meeting Vice President Felinter inside. If he can remember anything, even if it’s something small, it could help us,” Hammett said as Vera rolled her eyes and released a Jonathan-worthy sigh.

  “You’re sending them in? What about us?” Felix protested.

  “Don’t call us them!” Shelley snapped.

  “Vera, Felix—you’re too noticeable. You look like models, and people remember models,” Hammett expl
ained.

  “Then why did you bring us here? We could be shadowing Gupta,” Vera said in a rather prickly tone of voice.

  “Jonathan and Shelley blend well, but they’re new. They’re inexperienced. If something goes wrong, we’re going to need backup to rescue them,” Hammett answered.

  “Do you have to use the word rescue? It’s not much of a confidence builder,” Jonathan mumbled.

  “Vice President Felinter is undercover, dressed as a tourist with a fanny pack and all. I need you to question him, see if he remembers anything,” Hammett instructed, and then motioned for Jonathan and Shelley to exit.

  “Enjoy the car, tacos.… I’m not really sure why I called you tacos; it just slipped out. Although, I do really like tacos,” Shelley babbled to Vera and Felix as she and Jonathan climbed out of the enormous black Cadillac.

  The Octagon House was a traditional redbrick building dating from the early 1800s, three stories tall, and impeccably maintained. Jonathan and Shelley crossed the sidewalk and mounted the few steps leading to the building’s dark brown door.

  “Welcome to the Octagon House! Admission is free, although we do accept donations,” said a bald man with thick Coke-bottle glasses, no older than fifty, as the two entered the building’s lobby.

  “No problem. I’ve always been very charitable,” Shelley said before dropping something shiny into a jar and moving toward the imposing staircase that wrapped around each of the three floors.

  “I would have given him some change, but I only have bills. And donating a dollar is kind of steep for a twelve-year-old,” Jonathan whispered to Shelley as they started upstairs.

  “Don’t worry, I totally get it,” Shelley mumbled. “You’re cheap.”

  “What? No!” Jonathan responded.

  “Shh, we’re in a museum.”

  “I’m not cheap, I’m responsible. There’s a big difference!”

  “Fine, whatever you say, big spender, just lower your voice, we’re working here,” Shelley reprimanded Jonathan as the two stepped onto the second floor.

  “Straight ahead,” Jonathan whispered upon seeing a tall man in a baseball cap, jeans, sneakers, and most important, a fanny pack.