Get Smart-ish (8 page)

“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 honestly.

“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?”

“You don't know how lucky you are that your parents are dumb. It's awful to be the only dunce in a family of geniuses,” Shelley sputtered.

“I prefer the term
intellectually challenged
, rather than
dumb
, when it comes to my parents. And you're not a dunce, Shells.”

“Yes, I am. You heard the report.”

“That report is just one small fraction of who you are. Fine, maybe you're not good at math or history. But you're good at other things, things they don't write about in those reports,” Jonathan said, placing his arm around Shelley's shoulders.

“Like what?”

“You have a wild imagination,” Jonathan answered. “Remember the time you told me that you wanted to come back as a sloth in your next life so you could nap every twenty-five to thirty minutes?”

“Sloths rule,” Shelley said quietly before adding, “I guess my imagination is pretty unique.”

“And you're an optimist. You look on the bright side of everything. A raccoon dies in a garbage can and you think,
Hey, at least he died doing what he loved—eating trash.
As a lifelong pessimist, I know firsthand what a difference optimism can make.”

Shelley's shoulders relaxed. She lifted her head, wiped away her tears, and cracked the faintest of smiles. This was yet another great thing about Shelley: She recovered quickly.

“Who am I kidding? I'm incredible, aren't I?” Shelley declared as she transitioned into her superhero stance—shoulders back, hands on hips.

“You're amazing, Shells. And I mean that.”

“Would you say I'm your own personal role model? Someone you think of in times of struggle?”

Jonathan couldn't help but smile. “If it makes you feel better, sure, why not.”

OCTOBER 23, 8:12 P.M. BAE HEADQUARTERS. LONDON, ENGLAND

Randolph appeared more disheveled than usual. Slightly matted on the sides, his hair was in need of a brushing. Pacing back and forth in front of Jonathan, Shelley, Darwin, Oli, and Hattie, he emitted an anxious air. Not that Jonathan and Shelley were focused on Randolph's stressed demeanor; they were far too preoccupied with his glass eye, which was currently stuck looking down at his nose.

“Teeth, I'm quite certain that Nina is going to make contact with the ministers—namely those from Sussex and Kent—soon, as the vote to drill in nature preserves is fast approaching.”

“You needn't worry, Darwin. Security measures are already in place,” Randolph answered as he continued to pace.

“Why didn't you tell us?”

“Because I'm your boss and because you continue to call me Teeth!” Randolph barked.

“What is the plural of
Teeth
?
Teeves?
” Hattie asked from the corner of the room.

“
Teeth
is the plural of
tooth
, remember?” Jonathan answered, inwardly thrilled to finally be able to correct a BAE agent.

“Ah, yes, that's right,” Hattie said before resuming her newfound hobby of staring off into space.

“Remember, Randolph,” Oli said as he stood up. “‘It ain't what they call you, it's what you answer to.' W. C. Fields.”

“Come on, Teeth, you're making too big a deal of it. You don't hear Glasses or Khaki complaining, do you?” Darwin said.

“Actually, I've complained,” Shelley stated, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Quite extensively, as a matter of fact.”

“Your name is Teeth?” Hattie asked Randolph as she fingered her pearl necklace. “Dear me, I do believe I've been calling you by the wrong name for quite some time. Not to worry, Teeth, I shall make it up to you with a mince pie. Or a chocolate bar. I love chocolate, don't you? Wait. What was I talking about? Ah, yes, cavities. They're dreadful, aren't they?”

Eyes bulging with fear, Jonathan leaned in and whispered to Shelley, “One drop of bat saliva and I'll make my parents look like Nobel Prize winners.”

“My name is not Teeth!” Randolph snapped at Hattie before regaining his composure. “My apologies, Hattie, I know you are not yourself these days.”

“I think someone needs a hug, maybe even two,” Shelley said as she approached Randolph, arms extended.

“The situation must be very dire, for that does not sound entirely horrendous,” Randolph said as he dabbed his perspiring brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. “The prime minister is losing patience. We need to find Nina before she infects someone else.”

“We all want to find Nina,” Oli replied. “We just haven't a clue where to look.”

“Why don't Johno and I check out Nina's dorm room? Maybe we'll find something you guys missed,” Shelley said.

“I don't think that's necessary,” Oli responded curtly. “We were very thorough. We are, after all, professionals.”

“As are we,” Jonathan pointed out.

“I don't see any harm in letting the Americans give the room another glance,” Randolph declared, prompting Oli and Darwin to exchange tense looks.

The BAE boys' reaction piqued Jonathan's and Shelley's curiosity. Were they really that competitive? Or could it be something else?

OCTOBER 24, 10:00 A.M. EVERGREEN BOARDING SCHOOL. LONDON, ENGLAND

Weathered limestone buildings surrounded by perfectly manicured hedges made up the campus of Evergreen Boarding School. Formal with a hint of stuffiness, the ambiance immediately rubbed Shelley the wrong way.

“Is it me or are these kids looking down their perfect little noses at us?” Shelley asked Jonathan as the two made their way toward boardinghouse number three.

“How could they be judging us when they don't even see us?” Jonathan replied.

“You may have a point,” Shelley conceded before looking up at the gray sky. “This weather makes me think global warming might not be such a bad thing.”

Jonathan ignored Shelley entirely, which in and of itself was not such an extraordinary thing. After all, listening to her blather on all day long was no easy feat. However, on this particular occasion Jonathan had not zoned out, but rather zoomed in—on two people, to be precise.

“I know you're probably not going to believe me after the incident at the zoo, but someone's following us,” Jonathan announced.

“Let me guess—you've noticed a girl in a red-and-gray uniform trailing us,” Shelley said with a smirk as she looked around the quad teeming with girls in red-and-gray uniforms.

“No, it's Darwin and Oli,” Jonathan said as he looked across the lawn. “Only they keep losing sight of us. Trailing unexceptionals is hard work, even for trained professionals.”

“They're worried we're going to find something they missed, which makes me really hope we do!”

OCTOBER 24, 10:15 A.M. NINA'S ROOM, EVERGREEN BOARDING SCHOOL. LONDON, ENGLAND

A wooden bed. A dresser. And a closet. Nina's dorm room was a stale and impersonal space, barring a couple of plants and photos.

“Ferns remind me of doctors' offices and
liberries
. Two places I've never cared to spend a lot of time,” Shelley said as Jonathan shook his head and resisted the urge to tell his friend that the word was actually
libraries
.

While looking at the potted plants along the windowsill, Shelley noticed a picture of Nina's grandmother in front of a bakery. “This must be the place mentioned in the e-mail, Petit Four and Petit More.”

“Hmm,” Jonathan said as he opened the closet doors.

“What does
hmm
mean?”

“Aerosol cans are terrible for the environment,” Jonathan said as he held up aerosol deodorant, hair spray, and room freshener.

“Obviously, Nina doesn't know that.”

“Shells, if
I
know that they're bad for the environment, trust me, Nina knows.”

“Then maybe she confiscated them from other people, sort of like what I've been trying to do with your khaki pants collection.”

“Maybe,” Jonathan muttered as he spotted the trash can in the corner.

The medium-sized wicker basket was overflowing with crumpled papers, a couple of half-eaten sandwiches, and a slew of empty soda cans.

“Shells, something isn't right. A radical environmentalist who doesn't recycle aluminum cans and uses aerosol deodorant and hair spray? I don't think so.”

Shelley's eyes widened. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“I just told you what I was thinking. Remember?”

“How much easier would life be if we could read each other's minds? Although, reading your mind could also be seriously boring, like, I'm getting tired just thinking about it.”