My homework for Monday was as good as done, because that art review had more reading-connection words than I’ve ever found in one place. It started like this:
An artist known by the moniker of Ursula opened her one-woman show at Gallery 24 in Georgetown last night, and I, for one, would have been in a more convivial mood had I been attending a closing instead. Ursula’s work is didactic, shows no innovation, and is redundant besides. Her inspiration is the fish, and like the creature she so admires, I find her work malodorous. Her paintings appear realistic enough, but her fishes’ sad eyes give them the twee appearance of Precious Moments figurines. Like Ursula’s much-loved salmon, the artist will have to fight her way upstream. This reviewer was not hooked, and when he told the artist of his disappointment, she smeared his suit with salmon pâté.
Nanny X explained some of the words: “didactic” (which means you’re being too lecture-y), “convivial” (which means pleasant and agreeable), “pâté” (which means ground-up meat or fish) and “moniker” (which I already figured out meant name). The part I didn’t have to ask about came in the last paragraph, when he said that one of Ursula’s fish sculptures looked like a turnip and she should go back to doing arts and crafts with the local Girl Scout troop. Plus, he said that the gallery should have installed a show by his eight-year-old niece instead.
Boris punched more words into his phone—“Ursula,” “fish” and “art”—so we could find a picture of her work. All he got was a bunch of pictures of the Sea Witch from The Little Mermaid.
But he also saw a breaking news story about the art world. Portrait of President Washington Disappears from National Gallery of Art,” the headline said.
Nanny X looked at her watch again. “Ten past noon,” she said. “This is it. The Angler has made the first move.”
Ali stared at the ground and looked like she’d been the one who was hit in the head with a giant thumb. It was a full minute before any of us said anything.
“A portrait of George Washington doesn’t seem like much of a treasure,” I said, to make everybody feel better. “As long as it wasn’t the one of him crossing the Delaware. There are loads of portraits of Washington. Aren’t there?”
Boris shook his head. “It says here that this was a rare portrait painted by the artist Salvador Dali. He did not live in Washington’s time, of course, but he’s very famous. Nobody knew the portrait existed until three months ago when it was discovered at a flea market. This article even hails it as ‘a new national treasure.’ It’s worth millions.”
I thought we would go straight to the gallery until Ali said, “We should go see Bartholomew Huffleberger. I’ll bet he could give us a list of people who could have made the fish statue. He could tell us if one of them was Ursula.”
“How can he do that if he’s never seen the fish statue?” I said. “We haven’t even seen it.” I looked at Nanny X. “Do we have a picture?”
Nanny X lifted her hat. She took Mr. Ow off her head and put it back in the diaper bag. “I checked on that last night,” she said. “The statue was in transit to the White House. No photo was available.”
“I checked this morning,” Boris said, “and was told the same thing. But surely the statue must be there by now.”
“Then we should go see it,” Stinky said.
“Museum,” I said.
“Reviewer,” said Ali.
“We are a big team, no?” said Boris. “Perhaps we need to divide and conquer once more. I will take Ali to see this Artsy Bartsy.”
“I’ll take Jake to the White House and get a visual,” said Nanny X. “We’ll meet at the National Gallery.”
Of course they were doing my idea last. I pretended that was because it was the best, like when you’re the cleanup batter in baseball. “Howard gets to come with us, though, right?” I said.
“Right.”
“We get Yeti,” said Ali.
“And me,” added Stinky. He turned a little reddish, probably because he’d just said we should be going to the White House. Or maybe because he liked my sister. It is amazing the things you can notice when you are working on your powers of observation. I was ready for action, even if my shoes were still squishy.
Nanny X called the White House to let them know we were coming. Her diaper phone has a direct line there.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Boris asked Nanny X.
“Fine,” she said, touching her hat.
“Okay, then.” Boris took off with my sister and Stinky. Nanny X reached into her diaper bag and pulled out her bunny slippers. At first I thought she was going to give them to me instead of my squishy shoes. But she took off her own shoes and slid them on. Then she whistled. A pedicab driver came biking toward us, pulling a chair like a chariot.
“Get in,” said Nanny X. “You too, Howard.”
Howard adjusted his bonnet and climbed from the stroller into the pedicab. “Sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue,” Nanny X told the driver.
“The White House?”
“Precisely.”
“What about you and Eliza?” I said. Nanny X had just gotten conked on the head. She needed to sit down. But the pedicab would be a little crowded with four of us, plus Eliza’s stroller.
“Don’t worry about me,” said Nanny X. She reached into the bag and pulled out an old-fashioned motorcycle helmet, the leather kind that matched her motorcycle jacket. Then she pushed the noses on her bunny slippers. Wheels popped out of the bottoms. She looked pretty spry as she skated over to the bike path, pushing Eliza in the stroller.
I leaned over to Howard. “She’s being conspicuous again,” I said. “Very conspicuous.”
At least no one was looking at him anymore; they were looking at our nanny, who was skating expertly down Independence Avenue.
Howard and I settled back as our driver pedaled past a bus. He signaled right and turned onto Fourteenth Street. Howard signaled, too, like he knew just what it meant. He gave me a thumbs-up as the driver put on the brakes, right in front of the White House gate.