Free Get Smart-ish by Gitty Daneshvari Page A

Jonathan said as he scanned the path ahead for an exit.
    â€œNobodies 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!”
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œYou’re going down!” Shelley hollered as she rammed into the person with the orange cap with all her might.
    â€œAhhhh!” 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!”
    â€œTell me where Nina is!” Shelley hollered at the frightened girl.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œWhat? I can’t hear you,” the girl responded as Jonathan grabbed Shelley’s arm.
    â€œShe 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
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œIs 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œFine,” 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.”
    â€œShells, 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œShells, 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.
    â€œSo I exaggerated my memory capabilities