Dial Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Dial Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2020
Copyright © 2020 by Paul Acampora
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Acampora, Paul, author. Title: Danny Constantino’s first (and maybe last?) date / Paul Acampora. Description: New York : Dial Books for Young Readers, [2020] | Audience: Ages 9–12. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: Between going to the middle school dance with his celebrity crush and watching his mom campaign to be the next town mayor, Danny has a lot to learn about life in the spotlight.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019054656 (print) | LCCN 2019054657 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984816610 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984816627 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Celebrities—Fiction. | Elections—Fiction. | Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.A17298 Dan 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.A17298 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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For Debbie, Nicholas & Gabrielle
Table of Contents
1: tripping over ghosts
2: bring on the dancing tigers
3: rom-com for short
4: how to survive falling down a well
5: natalie flores griffin is doomed
6: it’s always now somewhere
7: unicorn pride is justified
8: do not say shebang!
9: i am now a chatface snapcracker virus
10: use the horse, duke
11: total meet-cute
12: in time the savage bull doth bear the yoke
13: you can never have too many battle helmets
14: but that’s not all!
15: i used to be a kid with a dog
16: this is not a dark night of the soul
17: i don’t know if those are her real teeth
18: have a nice day
19: cooper the trojan unicorn is dead
20: a visual and terrible revelation of truth
21: there is no such thing as a good fish stick
22: a dark night of the soul is sort of inevitable
23: the definition of an epilogue
acknowledgements
about the author
Chapter 1
tripping over ghosts
I do not believe in ghosts, but that doesn’t stop me from tripping over the spirit of my dead dog and falling flat on my face to start the day.
Jacko, a big mutt who was basically a cross between a Labrador retriever and an orange bulldozer, always claimed the same spot at the bottom of our stairs. Like Jacko, I am a creature of habit. Unfortunately, my dog has been gone since summer. It’s October now, and I’m racing around to get ready for school. I sprint down the steps and jump over the place where Jacko—short for Jack-o’-lantern—used to sleep. Mid-leap, I remember that Jacko’s not here anymore.
It is fair to say that I do not stick the landing.
Instead, I trip, tuck, roll, and smash into our front door, which is located a few feet away from the bottom of the stairs.
Mom steps out of the upstairs bathroom and leans over the railing. She’s got a curling iron in one hand and a hairbrush in the other. She’s wearing a dark blue skirt and super high heels, which means she’s getting ready to show a very expensive house this morning. According to my mother—the number one real estate agent in all of Cuper Cove, Massachusetts, if you believe her business cards—the higher the price, the higher the heels.
“Danny,” she calls down to me, “did you knock over my campaign stuff?”
Our stairs are covered with pamphlets, posters, and lawn signs because Mom wants to be Cuper Cove’s next mayor, and the election is just a few weeks away.
“I tripped over Jacko,” I explain.
“Danny,” Mom says. “Jacko is dead.”
As if I didn’t know. Of course, the fact that I’m sprawled on the floor does make it look like I might need a reminder.
“Sometimes it feels like he’s still here.”
“Earth to Danny,” says Mom while she runs the brush through her hair. “Yesterday is gone. Focus on today.”
I turn my head toward the collection of photos sitting inside a display cabinet near the front door. Every frame holds a picture of my father, a man I don’t remember because he died when I was still in diapers.
Mom sees what I’m looking at. “Your father is a different story,” she says, and returns to the bathroom.
She’s right. Jacko was around lots longer than my dad. Also, Jacko died at home. My father, Marine 1st Lieutenant Matthew Owens, died on duty. He’s a big hero in our town, and Mom likes to tell everybody that I’ll be going to the United States Naval Academy one day too. It’s a prediction that always gets a round of applause on her campaign trail, but I’m not so sure about the marines in my future.
While I definitely appreciate my father’s service, and I’m very glad he was around long enough to help bring me into this world, I don’t know that I want to follow in his footsteps. First of all, my only battle-ready role models are make-believe superheroes and comic book characters. That’s probably not enough to get me ready for real-life military service. I’m not even sure if it’s enough to get me through middle school. Second, my Dad’s footsteps would be lots more interesting if he wasn’t dead.
Before I can get to my feet, our front door swings open. My grandmother, who lives just a few blocks away, steps inside. Gram is gray-haired, blue-eyed, short, and petite. Unlike Mom, who is a blond, high-heeled, dressed-for-success kind of person, my grandmother wears jeans, comfy shoes, and a loose sweater every day. She’s the school secretary at Cuper Cove Middle School, where I’ve been a seventh grader for about eight weeks. Gram’s been there since the beginning of time. These days she’s like the unofficial school mascot. Our official mascot is a unicorn named Cooper.
Gram takes a look at me on the floor. “Did you trip over Jacko, again?”
I sit up. “I keep forgetting he’s gone.”
“I still put a plate out for your grandfather sometimes, and he’s been gone for thirty years.” She offers a hand and helps me to my feet. “I’m parked at the curb. Are you riding with me today?”
Mom reappears at the top of the stairs. “Danny’s taking the bus to school,” she announces.
I don’t mind the school bus, but given a choice I’d rather ride in Gram’s car. It’s an old green Camaro with awesome black racing stripes, front and rear spoilers, shiny chrome wheels, and dual exhaust pipes that roar like a
squadron of fighter jets when Gram punches the gas. Seriously, who wouldn’t choose the Camaro? Unfortunately, I do not seem to have a choice today.
Mom trots down the stairs and squeezes past Gram and me. “I want you to give something to Shad,” she tells me.
“Who’s Shad?” I ask.
“Your bus driver,” says Gram.
“Mr. Beamon?”
“The one and only,” Mom calls back.
Mr. Beamon is a tall, skinny white guy with a short beard and a long black ponytail. He wears a red flannel jacket, and he decorates the school bus dashboard with toy spaceships and pine tree fresheners so the bus always smells like Christmas. He also keeps a stack of fat books beside his seat, and he gives out tiny toy gumball machine monsters if he thinks you need one. On the day Mom announced her campaign for mayor, Mr. Beamon offered me a small plastic bunny rabbit wielding a carrot like an orange broadsword.
“What’s this for?” I asked him.
“Some people carry a rabbit’s foot for luck.” Mr. Beamon nodded toward Mom’s face on a MISSY FOR MAYOR sign already planted on a lawn across the street from school. “Living with the mayor will require the whole rabbit.”
“She’s not the mayor yet,” I said.
“Do you think she knows that?” Mr. Beamon asked.
I accepted the battle bunny.
Now Gram and I follow Mom into the kitchen, where she reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a fat white mug. On one side of the cup, small, neat letters say YOUR FAVORITE REALTOR, MISSY CONSTANTINO! On the other side, bold, black script promises that EVERYTHING I TOUCH TURNS TO SOLD! She hands me the cup.
“For me?” I say.
“For Shad. I hear he’s putting his house up for sale.” Mom tucks one of her business cards into the mug. “And give him my best.”
“What kind of name is Shad?”
“Ask him yourself,” says Mom.
“Shad is a kind of fish,” Gram tells me.
Mom glances at her wristwatch. It’s one of those high-tech things that checks your pulse, takes your phone calls, orders your groceries, and sings you to sleep. Believe it or not, it tells time too. “I’m running behind,” Mom says, then mutters a quick prayer. “Saint Expeditus, speed my way.”
“Saint Expeditus?” I ask.
“Patron saint against being late.” Mom’s got a saint and a prayer for everything.
“Once upon a time,” Gram says, “your mother didn’t even want to get married in a church. Now she turns the saints into her own personal assistants.”
“Danny knows that his father and I never married.” Mom grabs a stack of papers off the kitchen table and shoves them into a fat black briefcase. “I’d change that if I could, but I can’t.”
I rub my knee. “What’s the saint for falling down the stairs?”
“Saint Stanislaus Kostka is patron saint of broken bones.” Mom zips her briefcase shut and then plants a quick kiss on my forehead. “But let’s not give Saint Stan any work today.”
A moment later, the door slams shut behind her.
Gram turns to me. “Your mother and I don’t see eye to eye on everything, but I agree with her when it comes to Stan. Please try to avoid activities that lead to broken bones, okay?”
“How’s that going to work in the marines?” I ask.
“You’re not joining the marines, Danny.”
An argument about whether or not a seventh grader should join the marines might seem silly except that it’s caused temper tantrums, name calling, and ruined dinners between my mother and grandmother for over a decade now. Meanwhile, I can barely walk downtown anymore without somebody complimenting me on my patriotism or thanking me for my future service.
Did I mention that I’m in seventh grade?
“Did you really trip over Jacko?” Gram asks me.
I cross the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and grab the brown-bag lunch I put together last night. “It sure felt that way.”
Gram leans forward and puts a hand under my chin. At school she handles bites, bruises, cuts, scrapes, loose teeth, and other assorted minor medical emergencies. Now she stares into my eyes while she tips my head up, down, back and forth. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I think so.”
“And Jacko?”
“I still miss him.”
Gram glances down at my feet. “But isn’t it nice to have shoes without holes chewed in them?”
“That bothered Mom more than it bothered me,” I tell her. “And best friends are worth having cold feet.”
Gram releases my face, which I guess means no concussion, cracked skull, or brain contusions. “Love is not a church raffle,” she says. “You don’t always have to be present to win.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Just because Jacko’s gone doesn’t mean he’s not here anymore.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
Gram laughs. “I tell your grandfather the same thing every day.”
Chapter 2
bring on the dancing tigers
On days that I take the bus, I meet up with my best friend, Ajay Kalli, who lives less than four minutes away if I jog through three backyards, hop over one wooden fence, and avoid Marcel, an unchained black-and-white Russell terrier who doesn’t bite but won’t let me pass unless I toss him a tennis ball at least a couple dozen times.
Ten minutes later, because Marcel spotted me, I’m seated at Ajay’s dining room table, where he’s filling up on dosas and fruit chutney.
“Good morning, Danny.” Mrs. Kalli, wearing a loose, flowery housedress, steps out of the kitchen and puts a plate in front of me.
I already ate a piece of cold pizza at home, but I don’t push the food away because first of all, I love dosas and chutney. Second of all, trying to say no to Ajay’s mom is pointless. “Thanks, Mrs. Kalli.”
“You’re a good boy,” she tells me. “You know what a good breakfast is supposed to look like.”
I don’t mention the pizza.
Mrs. Kalli points at Ajay’s big sister, Asha, who is scooping up neon-colored cereal from a bowl filled with lime-green milk. “This one eats candy for breakfast.”
“It is not candy.” Asha, a junior at Cuper Cove High School, points at the cereal box. “It’s made with all-natural whole-grain ingredients fortified with vitamins and minerals to start your day right.”
Neither Ajay nor I have any real medical knowledge, but even we know where lime-green milk and marshmallow cereal should live on the food pyramid.
“It’s still candy,” I tell Asha.
Ajay nods. “Definitely candy.”
Asha grins, pushes long black hair out of the way, and drinks the last of the green milk straight out of the bowl. “Maybe that’s why it’s magically delicious.” She wipes her face with a sleeve. “And speaking of magical, have you two come up with ideas for this year’s Halloween costumes?”
Some people might say seventh graders are too old for Halloween costumes, but that’s not true in our town. Cuper Cove’s annual Halloween festival, which is less than three weeks away, is the biggest event of the year. Everybody’s part of it, including Asha, because, in addition to being tall and smart and pretty, she is a total theater geek. At Cuper Cove High School, she makes costumes and works on stage crew for the plays and musicals. Asha’s constructed wings for Tinker Bell, sewed ball gowns for Cinderella, and built a giant singing dragon puppet for Shrek. With Asha’s help, Ajay and I have dressed for Halloween as giant robots, X-wing fighter pilots, the Batmobile, several different superheroes, and a cow.
Not two cows. Just one cow.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
“You could be Pulikali dancers,” Mrs. Kalli suggests.
I look up from my dosas. “What are Pulikali dancers?”
Ajay rolls
his eyes. “Here we go.”
“When I was a little girl in India,” Mrs. Kalli tells me, “my parents would take me to the Swaraj Round to see Pulikali during the Hindu Onam festivities. It was very exciting.”
I have no idea what Mrs. Kalli is talking about.
“You left out the tigers,” Asha tells her mom.
I glance between Asha and Mrs. Kalli. “Tigers?”
Mrs. Kalli laughs. “That is the point, Danny. Puli means ‘tiger,’ and kali means ‘play.’”
“Tiger play?”
“Exactly! During Onam in Kerala, many hundreds of men will spend all day and all night decorating themselves with paints to resemble tigers. Following preparations, they will pounce and leap and dance through the streets for hours and hours in a public display of manly spirit and macho energy. It is quite spectacular.”
Asha shakes her head. “I don’t think Cuper Cove is ready for a public display of Danny and Ajay’s macho spirit.”
“Danny is going to be a marine like his father.” Apparently, Mrs. Kalli has been at my mother’s campaign events. “That is very manly,” she adds.
“There are girl marines,” Asha tells her mother.
Asha might be the kindest, gentlest, and most creative girl in Cuper Cove, but there is no doubt in my mind that she would be a much better marine than me.
“We’ve already been a cow,” Ajay reminds everybody. “How much more manly can you get?”
Mrs. Kalli laughs. “You were a very good cow.”
I have no idea whether or not we were a very good cow. The view from my part of the costume was limited. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
I spread chutney on another dosa. “I wouldn’t mind going as a dancing tiger.”
“You could be Cuper Cove’s first Pulikali dancers,” says Mrs. Kalli.
“I’ve got a better idea,” says Ajay.
I bite into a chutney-covered dosa and talk with my mouth full. “What could be better than dancing tigers?”
“A Trojan unicorn,” says Ajay.
I shake my head. “That’s not a real thing.”
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