Series title extrapolated from hardcover edition.
Get to know the only kid on the FBI Director's speed dial and several international criminals' most wanted lists all because of his Theory of All Small Things in this hilarious start to a brand-new middle grade mystery series. So you're only halfway through your homework and the Director of the FBI keeps texting you for help...What do you do? Save your grade? Or save the country? If you're Florian Bates, you figure out a way to do both. Florian is twelve years old and has just moved to Washington. He's learning his way around using TOAST, which stands for the Theory of All Small Things. It's a technique he invented to solve life's little mysteries such as: where to sit on the on the first day of school, or which Chinese restaurant has the best eggrolls. But when he teaches it to his new friend Margaret, they uncover a mystery that isn't little. In fact, it's HUGE, and it involves the National Gallery, the FBI, and a notorious crime syndicate known as EEL. Can Florian decipher the clues and finish his homework in time to help the FBI solve the case? Kirkus Reviews praised the "solid, realistic friendship bolstered by snappy dialogue," and School Library Journal said "mystery buffs and fans of Anthony Horowitz's Alex Rider series are in for a treat."
James Ponti is the New York Times bestselling author of four middle grade book series: The Sherlock Society following a group of young detectives; City Spies, about an unlikely squad of five kids from around the world who form an elite MI6 Spy Team; the Edgar Award-winning Framed! series, about a pair of tweens who solve mysteries in Washington, DC; and the Dead City trilogy, about a secret society that polices the undead living beneath Manhattan. His books have appeared on more than fifteen different state award lists, and he is the founder of a writers group known as the Renegades of Middle Grade. James is also an Emmy-nominated television writer and producer who has worked for many networks including Nickelodeon, Disney Channel, PBS, History, and Spike TV, as well as NBC Sports. He lives with his family in Orlando, Florida. Find out more at JamesPonti.com.
Florian resembles a young Sherlock Holmes, and together he and Margaret use the TOAST technique to prove that things are not always as they first appear. This book will grab readers from the first page with its witty characters and non-stop action. It would be a great read for fans of Chasing Vermeer (Scholastic, 2005).
-- "School Library Connection"
What stands out is the portrayal of Florian's and Margaret's intelligence, their close friendship, and athlete Margaret's sports prowess. Refreshingly, the adults aren't portrayed as completely clueless; they are respectful of the kids' crime-solving abilities, even though the preteen sleuths, as they realize themselves, are not infallible. Young readers will enjoy this first caper in a projected series.
Framed! 1. The (Not So) Safeway MY NAME''S FLORIAN BATES. I''M twelve years old and a seventh grader at Alice Deal Middle School in Washington, DC. My two favorite foods are pizza and egg rolls. I''m on the student council, I''m in the Scrabble club, and I plan to try out for soccer. I also work for the FBI. I know. That last one kind of comes out of the blue, doesn''t it? Technically they classify me as a "covert asset," which sounds very James Bond spylike but only means they want to keep me a secret. After all, it would be pretty embarrassing for them to admit they get help from a twelve-year-old, and it would be even worse if one of the guys on the Ten Most Wanted list showed up at my front door in a bad mood. So the covert part is good for both of us. Becoming a detective wasn''t something I meant to do. It just sort of happened because I notice things other people don''t. My brain''s weird that way. It spots details that seem insignificant and snaps them together like puzzle pieces. The only people outside the Bureau who are supposed to know my status are my parents and my best friend Margaret. But that changed the day the Romanian Mafia kidnapped me after school. I was taking a shortcut behind the Safeway supermarket, and unless they were trying to influence any upcoming student council votes, it meant my identity was no longer a secret. It''s funny because earlier that day Margaret had warned me not to take that route. Normally we walk home together. But on Thursdays she has piano, so I go alone. That''s when I look for shortcuts. Not because I''m in a hurry, but because it''s like another puzzle. "There are a lot of Dumpsters back there," she pointed out when I told her about it. "And you know what Ben Franklin said about Dumpsters. ''Nothing good ever happens when you''re surrounded by them.''?" "I''m pretty sure Ben Franklin was dead about a hundred and fifty years before the Dumpster was invented," I countered. "Then maybe I saw it on a poster. Either way, it''s good advice. You shouldn''t go back there." "It may smell bad," I said, feeling suddenly defensive, "but it''s not like it''s dangerous or anything." "Hmmm," she replied. "And how do you know that?" I thought about it for a moment and smiled. "Because it''s called the Safeway. If it was dangerous it would be called the Un-Safe Way." She didn''t find this nearly as clever as I did. So while I laughed, she just shook her head and said, "Boys are soooo funny." Then she leaned in close and added, "And soooo stupid." Considering I was kidnapped in the exact place she warned me not to go, I''d say that little nugget belongs on a poster too. In my defense, I was going to walk the long way, but it started raining and I didn''t want to get soaked. I''d just squeezed through the gap in the fence and was hurrying behind the store holding my backpack over my head when I noticed the delivery truck. It should''ve been parked by the loading dock, but I was too busy worrying about getting wet to pay attention to that. The rain was so hard I could see through its windshield only when the wipers swished across the glass. That''s why I didn''t notice the driver had gotten out and left the engine running. I figured someone was just sitting inside waiting for the storm to pass. When he stepped out from behind a Dumpster I almost crashed into him, which would have hurt because he was enormous. The sign on the truck said it belonged to a flower shop called the Happy Leprechaun, but this guy was neither. He was about six foot four, three hundred pounds, and looked like a professional wrestler. One of the villains. He just stared at me, unconcerned about the rain pelting down on his giant bald scalp, and smiled. For a nanosecond I thought I was letting my imagination run wild. Then I looked down and noticed he wasn''t wearing comfortable shoes like a delivery person would. He had on steel-toed work boots popular among factory workers, bricklayers, and international assassins. I sprinted in the opposite direction, digging around in my backpack as I ran. I was trying to find the "panic button" the FBI had issued me. All I needed to do was push it twice and a team of agents would be put on instant alert. Unfortunately, he got to me before I got to it. He tackled me and we skidded across the wet pavement into a pile of old fruit cartons. At first I thought I''d sliced my knee open, but what looked like blood turned out to be rotted strawberries smushed into my jeans. I tried to scramble up onto my feet, but he wrapped his arms around my head and put me in a sleeper hold. Just before I blacked out I looked at all the Dumpsters and told myself that I really should start following Margaret''s advice. I don''t know how long I was unconscious, but when I woke up, I had a throbbing headache and was lying on the floor of the truck with my feet bound together and my hands tied behind my back. I let out a low, painful moan. "Uunnnnnffff." "Feel better if sleep," he said with a thick accent. "Twenty minute." For a few seconds my vision was blurry, but when things came into focus I saw something beautiful--my backpack. He must have picked it up so no one would find it and come looking for me. That meant I still had a chance to press the panic button. I just needed to distract him long enough to scoot over to it. I''d taken a hostage survival course at Quantico, the FBI training center, but at the time I couldn''t imagine anyone wanting to kidnap me, so I didn''t pay as much attention as I should have. Crazy stupid, I know, but at least I remembered the basics. SURVIVAL STEP 1--Build a Rapport with Your Captor "That was an impressive tackle," I said. "Are you a football player?" "Football is baby sport," he scoffed. "Pads. Helmets. I play man sport. Rugby." "Well, I bet you''re great at it," I said. "Did you play back home in Romania?" He looked into the rearview mirror and eyed me suspiciously. "How you know I Romanian?" I didn''t want to tell him that the FBI had warned me that the Romanians were after me or that I saw the Romanian flag tattooed on his forearm when he put me in the sleeper hold. I wanted him to like me, so I tried buttering him up. "My grandfather is from Romania," I said. "I have a picture of him when he was a soldier and he looks just like you." This made him smile. (For the record my papa Gio is from Italy, and my grandpa Ted grew up in New Hampshire. But I think it''s okay to lie when you''ve been abducted.) "By the way, as one Romanian to another," I continued, "I think you''ve made a mistake. I think you nabbed the wrong kid." The smile turned into a scowl and I worried that I''d offended him. "I''m not saying you''re not good at your job," I added. "It''s just that with peer pressure and our need to fit in, kids look and dress so much alike that even we have trouble telling each other apart. One time my parents drove right by me at pickup. My own parents. So there''s no shame in grabbing the wrong one." "Not wrong," he replied forcefully. SURVIVAL STEP 2--Disrupt Your Captor''s Train of Thought "Do you mean ''not wrong'' as in I''m not wrong in what I''m saying? Or ''not wrong'' as in you''re not wrong in whom you kidnapped?" I waited for a response, but all I heard was a low, frustrated growl. I assumed this was his deep-thinking noise. "If you don''t use pronouns, it really makes the conversation hard to follow. You need to say ''You''re not wrong'' or ''I''m not wrong.'' Especially in a situation like this with threats and demands. The wrong pronoun could have someone else ending up with your ransom money, and that wouldn''t be good for either one of us." "Not wrong!" he barked again as if saying it louder suddenly solved the grammar issues. Just then he swerved to avoid another car, blasted his horn, and yelled what I assumed were choice Romanian curse words. I figured he was distracted enough for me to start inching toward my backpack. "Don''t feel bad," I continued. "I understand how hard it is to learn a new language. My family moves all the time. I''ve had to learn French and Italian. It''s molto difficile. That''s Italian for ''very difficult.''?" "Stop talk!" "That''s a perfect example of what I mean. You said ''stop talk'' but it should be ''stop talking.'' English is so complicated. But let''s forget about grammar and get back to you kidnapping the wrong person. Like I said, it''s an easy mistake and easy to fix. If you let me go, I promise not to tell anyone. Just drop me off at the nearest Metro station." "Shut mouth or else!" The "or else" was ominous, and combined with the continued lack of pronouns it reminded me of the third step from my training. SURVIVAL STEP 3--Do Not Antagonize Your Captor (When I told Margaret about the steps, she couldn''t believe this wasn''t first.) So far I''d managed to get about halfway to the backpack, but I still needed one big push to reach it. When my FBI handler warned me about the Romanians, I did some studying and came across a website with phrases
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