Get Smart-ish

by Gitty Daneshvari

  “Well, my guidebook says the guards are part of a cult who are waiting for their leader’s return, hence the furry hats. Their leader is an intergalactic bear. Okay, I made that up. I just really wanted a fact that could outdo your fact.”

  Jonathan rolled his eyes and then sighed, “I think it’s time to call Randolph and admit that we forgot what he told us and that we should have written down his instructions instead of pretending to have good memories.”

  “I would rather swim back to America than admit we can’t even remember a few simple things!”

  “I hate to point fingers, but you were the one who said your brain was better than a computer’s hard drive, that nothing could be erased from your mind,” Jonathan recalled, much to Shelley’s aggravation.

  “Excuse me, kiddos, but would you mind taking a photo of me and the missus?” a man asked, prompting Jonathan and Shelley to look up.

  Standing before them, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts with cameras dangling around their necks, were none other than Hammett and Nurse Maidenkirk.

  “Here’s our camera, kid,” Hammett instructed Jonathan. “All you need to do is look through the lens.”

  “I’m actually not a very good photographer. I have a tendency to cut off people’s heads or feet,” Jonathan conceded.

  “Just look through the lens, kid,” Hammett insisted.

  And when Jonathan finally did, he found a message. THIRD FROM THE LEFT.

  “But how could you possibly know?”

  “He’s the only one who noticed the two of you standing here arguing,” Hammett said quietly before raising his voice. “Thanks for the picture. Enjoy the rest of your vacation.”

  “It’s the third guard from the left,” Jonathan informed Shelley as she watched Hammett and Nurse Maidenkirk disappear into the crowd.

  “I don’t want to say I’m psychic…but I had a feeling it was the third guy from the left.”

  “And yet you said nothing while we were standing here, searching our brains for some small detail to help us figure out who was the informant,” Jonathan responded.

  “You are what is known as a psychic hater.”

  “Great,” Jonathan said. “You can add it to the list after fun killer, Negative Ned, sunshine sponge…”

  Shelley snapped her fingers. “Get it together, Johno. We have work to do,” she said, then started toward the informant.

  “Hey there, furry-hat man,” Shelley whispered. “Seen anything fishy? And by fishy, I don’t mean an aquarium.”

  The guard stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware of Shelley.

  “Is he ignoring me? Or does he just not hear me?”

  “Let me try,” Jonathan said, leaning into the guard. “Seen anything?”

  “Negative,” the man replied, most impressively, without even moving his lips.

  “Come on, Shells, we have two more stops to make,” Jonathan said as he turned to leave.

  “Just one thing,” Shelley said before grabbing the guard’s arm. “I hope no bears were killed or injured in the making of that hat.”

  Jonathan sighed. “The part-time vegetarian strikes again.”

  OCTOBER 23, 4:36 P.M. THE LONDON ZOO. LONDON, ENGLAND

  The zoo was crowded. Children as far as the eye could see. Jonathan and Shelley navigated the strollers like land mines, stealthily moving out of the way every time a double-wide, titanium-plated beast barreled toward them.

  “There should be a law against double-wide strollers,” Jonathan griped. “They’re nothing but a public nuisance!”

  “What about slow walkers? Unless they’re really old or injured, there’s no acceptable excuse,” Shelley said before turning her attention to something in the gorilla compound.

  “Shells? What is it?” Jonathan asked.

  “I think this might be love at first sight.”

  “You’re in love with a gorilla?”

  “No! He’s in love with me! Look at the way he’s staring at me,” Shelley said, grinning from ear to ear.

  “It must be rewarding to finally be noticed—even if it is by another species.”

  Shelley grabbed Jonathan’s arm. “We’ve got eyes on us, and I’m not talking about my new friend.”

  “A gorilla looks at you for a couple of seconds and suddenly he’s your friend?”

  “To the left of the gate, there’s a woman in a khaki outfit,” Shelley whispered while pretending to read the sign posted in front of the gorillas’ cage.

  “The woman is to the right of the gate, not the left,” Jonathan corrected Shelley.

  “What is this obsession with right and left? Is there really that big of a difference?”

  “Actually, yes, there—”

  “She’s signaling us!”

  “You remember the signal?” Jonathan asked with genuine surprise.

  “No, of course not,” Shelley replied impatiently. “But she’s waving us over, which is a universal signal for ‘Hey, I want to talk to you.’”

  Shelley waved good-bye to her new “friend,” prompting Jonathan to shake his head, before approaching the middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and brown, leathery skin.

  “You guys are friends of one-eyed Randy?”

  Jonathan and Shelley nodded.

  “Then what’s the problem? I’ve been signaling you for almost four minutes now.”

  “My friend here forgot the signal,” Shelley said, motioning to Jonathan.

  “What kind of operatives forget the signal? I’ve never heard of such a thing!” the woman barked at Jonathan and Shelley.

  “He recently suffered a head injury that has impacted his short-term memory,” Shelley said, eyeing the woman closely. “Don’t feel guilty. How were you to know? Yes, you hurt his feelings, there might even be a few tears later—”

  “There’s no crying in espionage!” Jonathan burst out before giving the woman a tell-us-what-you-got kind of look.

  “There was a break-in, someone stole a tranquilizer gun, that’s it.”

  “Got it,” Shelley said to the woman. “You were caught committing a crime, weren’t you? That’s how you wound up as an informant, isn’t it?”

  “Shells, I think someone’s following us. We need to move,” Jonathan said in a brusque manner as he pulled her away from the cage. “I’ve noticed an orange hat trailing behind us since we entered the zoo. At first I thought it was a coincidence, but we’ve moved around so much that it can’t be.”

  Walking at a brisk yet inconspicuous pace, Jonathan and Shelley started making their way through the throngs of people.

  “Casually glance behind us and tell me if you see someone with an orange baseball cap,” Jonathan instructed Shelley.

  “You got it,” Shelley replied, then dropped to her knees. “My ankle, my ankle!”

  “This is your idea of casual?” Jonathan grumbled.

  “The orange cap is still on our tail,” Shelley said as Jonathan helped her back onto her feet. “Do you think it’s Nina?”

  “It’s possible that she’s come to finish what she started yesterday.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill us? We’re such good people,” Shelley whined.

  “Because we’re trying to stop her and she believes what she’s doing is more important than a couple of nobodies’ lives,” Jonathan said as he scanned the path ahead for an exit.

  “Nobodies count too!” Shelley cried dramatically, pumping her fist in the air. “Just because no one remembers our names doesn’t mean you can kill us!”

  “We don’t know that the person in the orange cap is Nina. For all we know, she’s working with other people and she’s sent one of them to get us,” Jonathan said.

  “I’m not going to just wait around for her to take another shot at us,” Shelley said, suddenly turning and charging full speed, or more precisely, as fast as an unathletic kid can, toward the person in the orange cap.

  Arms flailing. Legs jutting out. There was no hiding Shelley’s physical awkwardness.

  �
��You’re going down!” Shelley hollered as she rammed into the person with the orange cap with all her might.

  “Ahhhh!” a young girl’s voice cried out. “Help me! Somebody help me!”

  Upon hearing the girl’s terrified voice, Jonathan looked around and suddenly noted the smattering of orange caps all around the zoo. Much like a lightning bolt, the truth of the situation hit Jonathan with such force that he was momentarily paralyzed.

  After regaining control of his body, Jonathan ran toward Shelley, wailing, “It’s a field trip! It’s a field trip!”

  “Tell me where Nina is!” Shelley hollered at the frightened girl.

  “I made a mistake!” Jonathan screamed in between gasps of air. “A bunch of kids are wearing orange caps as part of a field trip!”

  Glistening with perspiration, Shelley immediately let go of the young girl. “I’m really sorry. This seems to have been a case of poor detective work on my partner’s behalf. Is there any chance you’d be willing to accept a full retraction of my behavior?”

  “What? I can’t hear you,” the girl responded as Jonathan grabbed Shelley’s arm.

  “She called for reinforcements! Run!” Jonathan shrieked as a mass of orange hats descended upon them.

  OCTOBER 23, 5:33 P.M. TATE BRITAIN. LONDON, ENGLAND

  “What do you say we keep the whole tackling-of-a-young-child story to ourselves?” Jonathan asked sheepishly as the two walked up the steps to the palatial entrance to the Tate Britain Museum.

  “Is someone feeling guilty that their substandard detective work led to the emotional scarring of a poor, innocent girl?” Shelley asked, peering judgmentally over the frames of her glasses at Jonathan.

  “I never told you to tackle the girl. You just took off. You didn’t even give me a heads-up,” Jonathan responded. “So I think it’s only fair that we share the guilt fifty-fifty.”

  “Fine,” Shelley conceded. “Plus, it wasn’t that bad. At least she has an interesting story. I’ve been waiting my whole life for an interesting story.”

  “Shells, twenty years from now, I’m pretty sure that girl is going to be telling this story to a therapist,” Jonathan said, shaking his head.

  “I’ve been waiting my whole life for a therapist. Someone who has to listen to me whether they want to or not because they’re being paid? Dream come true.”

  OCTOBER 23, 5:42 P.M. J.M.W. TURNER EXHIBIT, TATE BRITAIN. LONDON, ENGLAND

  Huddled in front of paintings, men and women conversed in a hushed yet serious manner. It was a strange thing about museums, but much like one’s elderly aunt, they demanded good behavior. And in the many decades since the museum had opened, the Tate Britain had rarely faced an incident more irksome than a tourist snapping their gum or texting while walking—but then again, that was before Jonathan and Shelley arrived.

  “Shells, were you able to find the details of this mission on your hard drive?” Jonathan asked, stifling a laugh as they entered the J.M.W. Turner exhibit.

  “So I exaggerated my memory capabilities a little,” Shelley said, looking around the room. “Big deal. I remember the important bits, like that there’s a flash drive hidden behind a painting by some guy named Turner.”

  “But which painting?”

  “The one by Turner,” Shelley responded impatiently.

  “Shells, maybe the sign on the wall isn’t clear enough for you, but this whole exhibit is by J.M.W. Turner.”

  “So we’ll look under every painting,” Shelley answered nonchalantly.

  “There are people everywhere,” Jonathan said as he scanned the room.

  “It appears you may have a point,” Shelley said, rubbing her chin before suddenly snapping her fingers. “You know what clears a room in less than a minute?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Fire!” Shelley said proudly. “People hate fire.”

  “You’re suggesting we start a fire in a museum? Are you insane?” Jonathan asked.

  “Relax, Dr. Downer, I’m talking about pulling the fire alarm and tricking everyone into thinking there’s a fire when there’s not.”

  “While that’s preferable to starting an actual fire, I still have a bad feeling about this,” Jonathan said.

  “But you have a bad feeling about everything.”

  “That’s true,” Jonathan acknowledged. “Sometimes, just waking up gives me a bad feeling. Is that normal?”

  “No, but unfortunately we don’t have time to deal with your emotional baggage right now. We have a building to clear,” Shelley said as she slipped her hands into her oversized trench coat and started skulking around the exhibit, carefully scanning the walls for a fire alarm.

  “Johno,” Shelley said, “check out three o’clock.”

  “The guy in the green sweater?” Jonathan responded.

  “No! That’s eleven o’clock.”

  “How is that eleven o’clock?”

  “Oh, forget it,” Shelley said with a huff. “See that small red square on the wall next to the door? That’s a fire alarm.”

  “Again, I have a really bad feeling about this plan,” Jonathan reiterated.

  “Which is why I think you should pull the fire alarm.”

  “No way.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘He who doubts the plan must use his hand to execute the plan’?”

  “First of all, you just made up that saying. I can tell because it makes absolutely no sense. And second of all, I’m never going to do it. And by never, I mean making-the-dean’s-list kind of never.”

  Shelley released a long Jonathan-worthy sigh, threw her hands up in the air, and relented. “Fine, I’ll do it, you big baby!”

  Strutting across the room, weaving in and out of tourists, Shelley exuded the kind of inexplicable confidence that Jonathan couldn’t help but envy. To feel strong and self-assured while walking straight into the unknown: That was impressive. Or insane. Or both, Jonathan thought as he watched Shelley nonchalantly pull the small red lever marked FIRE. Thunderous sirens blared. A frenetic strobe light flashed. People scattered, desperate to find the closest exit. And watching it all, a smile draped across her face, was Shelley.

  A job well done, or so she thought. For just as Shelley prepared to take a bow, a security guard appeared before her, red-faced and visibly angry.

  “Why did you pull the fire alarm?” the man screamed over the sirens.

  Shelley couldn’t help but smile, flattered that someone other than a gorilla had taken notice of her.

  “I said, why did you pull the fire alarm!” the man repeated just as the sirens ceased. “Young lady, you’re going to need to come with me.” He grabbed hold of Shelley’s arm.

  “See that boy with the black hair plastered to his head? That’s my friend. And wherever I go, he goes.”

  Jonathan sighed. “I’m pretty sure this policy is going to land me in jail one day.”

  OCTOBER 23, 5:59 P.M. BACK ROOM, TATE BRITAIN. LONDON, ENGLAND

  “I’ve got to tell you guys, I’ve been interrogated before, but never in a room this nice,” Shelley said as she took in the beige sofas and potted plants.

  Jonathan nodded in agreement while seated next to Shelley on one of the sofas.

  “Is that lavender I smell? With just a hint of—”

  “Miss?” an overweight bald man interrupted Shelley. “My colleague informs me that you pulled the fire alarm in the Turner exhibit. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct,” Shelley confirmed, leaning back against the sofa.

  “Sit up!” Jonathan hissed.

  “Relax, Khaki, I got this.”

  “And you did this because you thought it would be funny? Perhaps in some misguided attempt to impress this young man over here?” the bald man continued.

  “Impress Jonathan? Why would I need to do that? This kid worships me!”

  “I think worship is a bit of an exaggeration. I like you, most of the time. Although sometimes you really annoy me,” Jonathan answered h
onestly.

  “Here’s the thing, Officer—can I call you Officer?” Shelley continued, completely ignoring Jonathan’s comments.

  “No, you may call me Mr. Phillips.”

  “Mr. Phillips, I smelled smoke. And as the concerned citizen I am, I didn’t want to waste a second. Because as any good fireman or -woman will tell you, hesitation costs lives,” Shelley stated theatrically.

  Mr. Phillips narrowed his eyes at Shelley and said, “I find your story highly suspect.”

  “Well, I find your whole outfit highly suspect!”

  “Mr. Phillips,” Jonathan screeched loudly in an effort to drown out Shelley. “My friend is not very smart. Sure she wears glasses and looks like a nerd. But the truth is, she’s a real dud in the classroom,” Jonathan continued as he pulled his pocket-sized version of How to Make Great Popcorn in the Microwave from his jacket. “As a matter of fact, I just so happen to have a copy of Shelley’s report card with me, if you would be so kind as to take a look.”

  Mr. Phillips begrudgingly took the report card from Jonathan and began to read it aloud. “‘A profoundly disappointing student…the inability to logically reason bars advancement in mathematics….Middle-of-the-road results are the best-case scenario for Shelley.’”

  “It’s almost tragic, isn’t it?” Jonathan uttered.

  Mr. Phillips turned toward Shelley and offered a condescending smile. “We can’t all be special, now can we? Poor thing, you really were trying to help.”

  OCTOBER 23, 6:38 P.M. STREET. LONDON, ENGLAND

  “Any time you want to thank me, by all means, go ahead,” Jonathan said as the two walked away from the Tate Britain, albeit without the flash drive they had intended to pick up.

  “You expect me to thank you for humiliating me? And to think, you call me crazy,” Shelley said, eyes pricking with tears.

  The voice in the back of Shelley’s head, the one she tried so hard to block out, grew louder by the second. It’s not Jonathan’s fault; he didn’t write the report. Your teachers did, which means it’s all true. You’re a no one, Shelley. A dim-witted no one.

  Shelley’s shoulders hunched forward, her head dropped, and she closed her eyes.

  “Are you okay?”