The League of Unexceptional Children

by Gitty Daneshvari

  “This is it, Johno, this is the moment our lives finally become interesting.”

  “Shelley, we’re spies. We were kidnapped and tossed out of a van with burlap sacks on our heads. We regularly crawl through a pork-filled refrigerator to get to headquarters. I think we can both agree, our lives are already interesting.”

  “That was the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Shelley said, and then threw her arms around Jonathan, causing him to blush.

  “There’s no hugging in espionage—be professional,” Jonathan mumbled as he started toward the man with the fanny pack.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Jonathan called out, prompting the man to turn around.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you here on a vacation?” Shelley asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “What did you say? You’re going to have to speak up, little lady.”

  “I said, are you here on vacation?” Shelley repeated loudly.

  “In DC? I sure am.”

  “So you’re a tourist?” Jonathan asked.

  “Yeah, I’m a tourist. What’s this about? Is the government taxing tourists now?”

  “I think you know what this is about,” Shelley declared pointedly as she stepped closer to the man.

  “Pardon? I’m having a real hard time hearing you,” the man told Shelley as he leaned down.

  “You’re really working your cover,” Shelley said, staring at the man over the top of her glasses. “I get it. You want to fully vet us before you spill the beans.”

  “What did you say about a vet? Is an animal hurt?”

  “Why don’t I take over; he clearly has some hearing issues,” Jonathan whispered.

  “No.” Shelley bristled. “You’re not blocking me from being a part of history! This is something I’m going to tell my grandkids about!”

  “Actually, it’s not. It’s top secret. Everything we do for League is confidential,” Jonathan reminded Shelley.

  “You always were a buzzkill.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but like I said, I’m on vacation,” the man explained as he started to walk away.

  “Not so fast, fanny pack!” Shelley barked. “The future of this country could depend on what you tell us, so cut the act and give us the info.”

  “What did you call me?” the man asked.

  “You heard me, fanny pack!” Shelley replied angrily.

  “Something doesn’t feel right here.… Abort… abort…” Jonathan muttered as he stared at the man’s genuinely confused face. “There’s no way the VP is this good an actor.”

  “Oh, it’s him all right,” Shelley declared. “I can see the glue on his mustache from here.”

  She then lunged at the man, grabbed hold of the strip of thick brown hair on his upper lip, and pulled with all her might.

  “AHHHHHH!!!!!” the man shrieked as his face turned beet red.

  “Shelley, it’s not HIM! Let go!”

  Having realized that she just attacked an innocent man and attempted to rip out his facial hair, Shelley lowered her head in shame. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s not much I can say other than my friend is crazy,” Jonathan said solemnly as the man with the fanny pack turned and exited the room, all the while shaking his head in disbelief.

  “I guess fanny packs are making a comeback,” Shelley said sheepishly. “It never occurred to me that someone would wear one of those for fun.”

  “Come on, we need to find the VP,” Jonathan said as he ushered Shelley into the next room.

  Unfortunately, after thirty minutes, they had yet to see another person. The museum was literally empty.

  “Maybe he had to cancel?” Jonathan supposed as they made their way down the staircase to the lobby.

  “Excuse me,” the bald docent called out as they passed the front desk. “But we don’t accept gum wrappers as donations.”

  “Fine, whatever! I’m not in the mood!”

  “You put a gum wrapper in the jar? And to think, you called me cheap,” Jonathan scolded Shelley.

  The docent stood up from behind the desk, revealing a large and incredibly ugly fanny pack. Bulky, made of green-and-yellow fabric that crinkled when he moved, it was an absolute eyesore.

  “I wanted to grab you on the way in, but I was worried the man upstairs might be listening,” the docent explained.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Jonathan offered sincerely, extending his hand to shake.

  “Johno, it’s not him. Trust me. I’d know Carl if I saw him,” Shelley said with a sense of authority that Jonathan didn’t quite understand.

  “Don’t call him Carl like he’s your old friend. Show some respect.”

  “It’s not him, Johno,” Shelley stated emphatically.

  “Shells, you thought that random guy upstairs was our target, so excuse me for not trusting your instincts,” Jonathan shot back.

  “No need to argue,” the docent said. “I’m Carl.”

  “You’re Carl?” Shelley repeated. “Like the Carl.”

  “Stop calling him Carl!” Jonathan snapped, and then turned to the vice president. “We don’t have much time, sir; is there anything you can tell us about the Seal or where you were kept?”

  “Not a whole lot,” Carl replied. “The walls were padded. He fed me potato chips and candy bars. He was ruthless. He plucked my nose hairs one at a time until there were none left, then he moved on to my ears.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. That sounds dreadful,” Jonathan commiserated.

  “I wish I could be of more help. But the only useful thing I heard was that he’s meeting the buyer on Tuesday,” the vice president said, and then dropped his face into his hands. “I let my country down.”

  “It’s not over yet,” Shelley declared, and then held up her hand for a high five. “What? You’re not feeling the high five? How about a hug?”

  “Do not hug the vice president,” Jonathan reprimanded Shelley.

  “Actually, I could use a hug.”

  And so Shelley Brown hugged the vice president of the United States—definitely a moment worthy of her memoir.

  Sunday was an unremarkable day. The sun stayed hidden behind a scattering of clouds. The wind blew lightly. Leaves fell to the ground. It was the kind of day that blended into a million others. But not for Jonathan Murray and Shelley Brown. This was the day they passed fifteen hours on a bench in Evanston, Virginia, staring at a house, waiting for someone, anyone, in the Foster family to leave. But they never did, not even to walk the dog. In fact, the only human interaction Jonathan or Shelley had came in the form of Mrs. Malins from Community Patrol, who was passing out fliers featuring an impressively accurate sketch of Arthur. And though it worked to their advantage, Jonathan and Shelley couldn’t help but feel miffed at the flier’s small print “last seen in the company of two nondescript children.”

  OCTOBER 19, 6:32 A.M. EVANSTON, VIRGINIA

  After the failure of the previous day’s mission, Jonathan and Shelley had realized they needed a new plan. There was no longer time to simply watch Secretary of State Harold Foster from afar. They had one day left before the Seal sold the documents, and they were determined to make it count, especially since Vera and Felix’s failure to uncover anything incriminating on Gupta Nevers meant that no one could be ruled out.

  Just past six thirty in the morning, Jonathan pushed back his plain white sheets, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and took a deep breath. He didn’t feel ready for what lay ahead, but he also knew that he would never feel ready. And so the boy showered, brushed his teeth, and dressed, only this time he decided to try something a little different. This time Jonathan Murray put on a pair of jeans. They were stiff and uncomfortable. He looked at himself in the mirror; he felt younger, more like a kid. Maybe he didn’t need his khakis as much as before. He had always worn them because they set him apart from his parents. They told the world that unlike Carmen and Mickey, Jonathan would always maintain a respectable lawn. But somehow, after everything that had
transpired, Jonathan was no longer afraid that he would turn into his parents. For if there was one thing he had learned, the future couldn’t be predicted. After all, it was only a week ago that he was a boring, dull kid walking aimlessly through life. And yet today, he was a member of the League of Unexceptional Children, tasked with saving his country.

  Jonathan slipped out the front door and walked the two blocks to Shelley’s grandparents’ place, a house as perfect and well manicured as any other in Evanston. It was the kind of place that used to make Jonathan jealous; he had always wanted a well-painted home. But as his last chance to stop the Seal fast approached, he realized how little such things mattered.

  “Johno,” Shelley called out as the garage door opened. “What do you want, wind or strings?”

  “What did you choose?”

  “The trumpet,” Shelley answered.

  “Then I’ll take the violin.”

  Seconds later Shelley exited the garage with two hard black cases. However, upon seeing Jonathan, Shelley quickly dropped to the ground.

  “I don’t feel so well.…”

  “What is it?” Jonathan asked as he hurried to his friend’s side.

  “I’m hallucinating.… Your khakis look like jeans,” Shelley said, and then broke into a fit of laughter.

  “Very funny,” Jonathan responded as Shelley handed him one of the black cases.

  “Your sister can really play both the trumpet and the violin?”

  “She’s basically a one-woman band. Pretty impressive, right?”

  “It’s okay”—Jonathan shrugged—“but it’s not like she’s a spy or anything.”

  OCTOBER 19, 7:42 A.M. THE METRO. WASHINGTON, DC

  Jonathan and Shelley marched up the stairs of the Metro and into the heart of the District of Columbia. They walked with the confidence of Vera and Felix. And not because they knew what they were doing. They most definitely did not know what they were doing. But this was their last chance to get close to the secretary of state, to see if he was the Seal, and they were determined to give it their all.

  OCTOBER 19, 8:00 A.M. METROPOLITAN SCHOOL FOR MUSIC. WASHINGTON, DC

  The Metropolitan School for Music was not nearly as clean or impressive-looking as Evanston Middle School, nor was there classical music piping out of every corner or organic food carts in the cafeteria. It was a city school spread over four levels, the halls positively crawling with students and instruments.

  “I was thinking maybe we should try out some new first names. Veronica? Vladimir? Aretha? Frank?” Shelley proposed as the two walked down a crowded corridor.

  “Shells, Hammett said to use our own first names. Plus, I think it’s best we don’t overcomplicate things.”

  “I take it that means you want to skip the accents too?”

  “Let’s leave the accents to Vera and Felix and just focus on Jeffrey.”

  “I’m sure if we listen carefully, we can follow the sound of his classmates’ screams,” Shelley said.

  “He’s not that bad.”

  “Jeffrey kicked a Secret Service agent in the shin and then laughed,” Shelley reminded Jonathan.

  “Admittedly, he’s not the most charming or gentle of children. But we need to find a way to relate to the little barbarian,” Jonathan said as he pulled out his copy of How to Make Great Popcorn in the Microwave. “Come on, he has English first period. And remember, no accents, no limps, no fake first names.”

  “No problem. Shells is all bells, which means she won’t ring unless… uh… you know what?”

  Jonathan held up his hand. “No need to even ask, the statement has already been retracted.”

  Shelley and Jonathan sat smack dab in the middle of the classroom. Not that anyone looked at them or questioned them. On the contrary, the students and teachers didn’t even notice them. It was as if their chairs were empty.

  “There he is,” Jonathan whispered as Jeffrey marched into the classroom, knocking his backpack against another student’s desk, sending her folder to the floor.

  “Where’s Mr. Nelson? I don’t have all day to just sit around here,” Jeffrey complained as a young teacher no more than thirty entered the room, bicycle helmet still on his head. “You’re late, Mr. Nelson.”

  “My apologies, Mr. Foster, but there was an accident, and as a witness, I had a civic duty to stay and give my account to the police officers,” Mr. Nelson explained as he removed his helmet and dropped his bag.

  Throughout the period Jeffrey argued relentlessly with his teacher, challenging his every statement. So much so that by the time the bell rang, Shelley and Jonathan were so sick of the sound of Jeffrey’s voice, they decided to hide out in one of the practice rooms in the basement until they could approach him at recess.

  The Metropolitan School for Music’s basement was a sorry affair. It was dark, damp, and as such rarely used. Jonathan and Shelley tucked into one of the ten small square rooms whose walls were covered in foam to block the sound of students practicing their instruments.

  Seated on the floor, with their backs against the wall, Shelley leaned in and whispered, “Tell me a secret.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m bored. Plus, the world as we know it might fall apart, so what have we got to lose?” Shelley answered honestly.

  Jonathan nodded and then sighed. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

  He then closed his eyes and racked his brain for something worthy of being called a secret. But it wasn’t easy, for the boy had led a rather dull life, leaving him with few skeletons in his closet.

  “I once bought a book called How to Be Interesting,” Jonathan finally mumbled.

  “Did it work?”

  “Let me put it to you this way: Both of my parents fell asleep during my Thanksgiving toast last year,” Jonathan answered seconds before the bell rang.

  Upon exiting, the two made their way down the long vending machine–filled corridor to the staircase to the cafeteria.

  “You remember your story?” Shelley asked Jonathan as the two covertly watched Jeffrey from across the lunchroom.

  Seated alone at a table reading a magazine, Jeffrey emitted an unfriendly, that-seat-is-taken kind of vibe.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to do the talking?” Shelley asked Jonathan as they approached.

  “No, I have a legitimate backstory. We went to elementary school together for a few years. He even assaulted me.”

  “I know it’s true, but it sort of sounds like a lie. I would go with something more believable, like band camp,” Shelley advised.

  “Band camp?” Jonathan repeated.

  “No need to make that face, it was just an idea,” Shelley said as Jonathan moved closer to Jeffrey’s table.

  Standing mere inches from the target, he felt his mouth dry up. He wanted to turn around and get a glass of water, but he knew he couldn’t. Spies didn’t stop for water breaks.

  “Hey, you’re Jeffrey Foster, right?” Jonathan asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s me… Jonathan… from band camp. I just transferred in with my sister, Shelley.”

  “How riveting,” Jeffrey answered flatly, and then looked down at his magazine, effectively dismissing Jonathan from the table.

  Unsure how to proceed, he turned and looked at Shelley, who motioned to continue with the conversation.

  “Your solo last summer was—”

  “I didn’t have a solo last summer,” Jeffrey corrected Jonathan harshly.

  “Exactly. What I was going to say was your solo was stolen from you last summer.”

  “You got that right. But you know Mr. Plimpton, always trying to make everyone feel special, pretending that everyone’s equal. What a load of garbage.”

  “Total garbage,” Jonathan agreed. “Plimpton’s the worst.”

  “Let me see your fingers.”

  Jonathan slowly presented his hands to the boy.

  “Interesting. What instrument do you play?”

  “Th
e violin.”

  “But you don’t have the fingers of a violinist,” Jeffrey countered, prompting Jonathan to immediately start sweating.

  “That’s because I just switched to the violin from the saxophone,” Jonathan fibbed, his mouth growing drier by the second.

  “I hate wind instruments,” Jeffrey growled.

  “Me too. That’s why I switched to the violin. I wanted to play the cello, but after hearing you last summer, I thought, Why even bother?”

  “You were right; there’s no reason to bother. I will always be the best,” Jeffrey crowed, and then looked Jonathan up and down. “What are you doing after school? Do you want to come over and watch me play? I won’t charge you.”

  “That sounds great, but can I bring my sister?”

  “As long as she doesn’t talk.”

  “No problem, she’s basically a mute,” Jonathan lied, amazed that Shelley hadn’t already inserted herself into the conversation.

  “Okay, Paul, meet me in front of the main hall after school. I’ll be in the black SUV.”

  OCTOBER 19, 3:07 P.M. METROPOLITAN SCHOOL FOR MUSIC. WASHINGTON, DC

  “Remember, he thinks my name is Paul,” Jonathan reminded Shelley as the two exited the school.

  “Of course he does.”

  “And no talking,” Jonathan reiterated as he spotted the black SUV.

  “What a shame,” Shelley lamented. “My mouth is my greatest asset in espionage.”

  “You don’t need to talk for the plan to work. I’m going to keep Jeffrey busy while you look around and see what you can find on his father.”

  “Fine,” Shelley relented as the two approached the vehicle and then tapped lightly on the tinted glass.

  Jeffrey rolled down the window and removed his sunglasses.

  “Paul, you and your sister need to sit in the back. This row’s only for me and my cello,” Jeffrey stated, and then promptly rolled up the window.

  “Why don’t we just ride in the trunk?” Shelley muttered under her breath as the two climbed into the highly claustrophobic third row.

  Jeffrey didn’t speak for the entire car ride home. He didn’t speak to the driver and he didn’t speak to Shelley or Jonathan. He just sat there next to his cello.