Danny Constantino's First (and Maybe Last?) Date

by Paul Acampora

“What’s going on there?” I ask.

  “It’s a movie thing,” she explains. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. But I can tell you that I think this scene relies a little too much on blowing stuff up.”

  Sometimes, drawing helps me to relax a little, so I grab a pencil and paper and start a quick sketch of the Batmobile. I’m apparently still on schedule to take a movie star to my middle school dance, so I need all the relaxation I can get. “I like movies where things blow up.”

  “Me too.” Natalie lowers her voice. “But it’s lots better when there’s a story to go along with the fireworks.”

  BOOM!! BOOM!!! BOOOOOOM!!!!

  I give the Caped Crusader a dark mask. “It sounds like you’re getting shot out of a cannon.”

  “I’m not even in this scene. I’m just hanging out on set and doing my homework. I have to identify some key organisms that coexist as part of a California coastal habitat.”

  I think about my own homework. “What about insects?”

  “Good one,” says Natalie. “What would we do without insects?”

  I wish I knew.

  BOOOOOM!!!

  “Is that why you called?” I say. “To ask about organisms?”

  “I just wanted to talk,” Natalie confesses.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Anything,” she says, “as long as it’s not about any new movies connected to characters whose names rhyme with Marth Crader and Duke Frystalker.”

  “Marth Crader and Duke Frystalker?” Suddenly I’m shouting. “ARE YOU IN THE NEW STAR WA—”

  “Can’t talk about it, Danny.”

  “But—”

  Natalie laughs. “Big fan, huh?”

  I reach up and touch the homemade lightsaber sitting on a shelf above my desk. “Pretty big.”

  “Me too,” Natalie admits. “One day, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  “But not today?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  I force myself to think about something else. “Everybody is talking about you at school,” I tell her.

  “What do they say?”

  “Mostly they want to know if you’re really coming to Cuper Cove.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “Mostly nothing. It’s none of their business.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.”

  “Then why do you share online about coming to see me?” I blurt out.

  There’s a long silence before Natalie explains. “My mother wasn’t going to let me go to the dance with you, Danny. But if I put it online and told the whole world . . .”

  “Then she couldn’t say no?”

  “It worked this time.”

  “My mother would kill me if I did something like that.”

  “Mine too,” Natalie confesses. “But I think it will be worth it.”

  I sketch a Bat-Signal in the sky behind Batman’s car. “You really want to come all this way for a middle school dance?”

  “You think it’s weird that I accepted your invitation even though we’re three thousand miles apart, we haven’t talked in years, and the last time you saw me I was kind of angry all the time?” she says.

  “It was a little bit of a surprise.” I start feeling nervous about where this conversation might be going. “I didn’t know you were angry back then.”

  Natalie laughs again. “That’s why I said yes, Danny.”

  “What?”

  “I had such a crush on you when we were in third grade.”

  “What?!” I say again.

  “You are still the nicest eight-year-old boy I have ever met.”

  “I’m not eight anymore.” I grab another piece of paper and begin sketching Batman in front of Gotham City’s skyline.

  “I bet there’s a lot about you that’s still the same.”

  “Like what?” I ask just in case there’s anything about myself I need to change before Natalie arrives.

  “When we were little,” she tells me, “my parents used to fight all the time. They’re friends now that they’re not married anymore, but back then it was really kind of terrible. I think I tried to behave as badly as possible to make them feel as rotten as I felt. Does that make sense?”

  I outline Batman’s mask. “Sort of.”

  “It wasn’t a good plan,” she confesses.

  “You were eight,” I remind her. “Eight-year-olds aren’t supposed to be good planners.”

  “I was a monster,” she tells me. “Remember when I shot fruit juice up your nose?”

  “I remember.” I give Batman a cape and boots. “I also remember that I told you I didn’t like it. Then you apologized, and you never did it again.”

  “You were so calm,” Natalie recalls. “You were supposed to pitch a fit or throw a tantrum, and that would have given me a chance to scream and cry and ruin everybody’s day.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You really were a planner.”

  “But you just wiped your face. And then you offered me one of your cookies.”

  “I was probably afraid of what might come next if I didn’t share my dessert.”

  Okay. Not probably.

  “Danny,” Natalie says seriously, “you made kindness seem like an option. You made me think some kind of peace and quiet might be possible.”

  I stop drawing for a moment. “You thought all that when we were in third grade?”

  “No,” she admits. “But I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

  “My grandmother says you used to wrestle kids to the ground and then bounce up and down on their heads until they cried.”

  “But thanks to you, I was trying to think kind and peaceful thoughts when I did it.”

  Rather than reply, I concentrate on sketching Batman’s outfit which includes a utility belt that holds bat rope, bat grapples, batarangs, and of course an ultrasonic bat beacon because Batman without cool tools is just an angry white man in tights.

  “I have a question for you,” Natalie says now.

  I nod even though she can’t see me. “Ask away.”

  “You said you didn’t ask me to the dance because of the celebrity stuff.”

  “So?”

  “So the celebrity stuff comes with me whether you want it or not.”

  “I don’t care,” I say.

  “You say that now.”

  “Is it really that bad?”

  “Not every day,” says Natalie, “but some days. It’s easier around Hollywood. There’s almost always some A-list personality just around the corner. Yesterday a group of ladies wouldn’t leave my mother and me alone in the grocery store, so we told them Taylor Swift was in the produce section. The way they turned and ran, it was like we hit them with pepper spray.”

  “Was Taylor Swift really in the produce section?”

  “I would never do that to Taylor Swift,” says Natalie. “She’s too nice.”

  “You know Taylor Swift?”

  “Just a little. I was in one of her videos. She’s been famous since before you and I were born, so it’s not like we’re friends, but she calls and checks on me now and then. She’s more like a mentor.”

  I don’t mention it, but if Taylor Swift is calling to check on you, you might just be an A-list celebrity. In fact, if you look up A-list celebrity in the dictionary, I bet it says:

  (noun): a person that Taylor Swift calls to check on.

  “None of the celebrity stuff is really about me,” Natalie continues. “People just like the stories I’m in and the characters I get to play. If it weren’t me in those parts, it would be somebody else. The stories would be just as good. Maybe even better.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Either way,” says Natalie. “I don’t think most of those people really care about me. H
ow can they? They don’t even know me.”

  I think about Miroslava Sergiyenko, the little redheaded girl who looks like she’s going to burst into tears every time she sees me at school. “I think some people care.”

  “Like you?” says Natalie.

  “I wasn’t talking about me.”

  Natalie does not reply, which makes me realize that I just said something really stupid.

  “I was talking about your fans.”

  “So you’re not a fan?”

  Now I think she’s teasing me. Either way, I don’t think I’m helping myself here. “I mean that I am your friend. I would be your friend even if you were not a movie star. Also, you were awesome in Mutant Zombie Soul Pirates.”

  “You saw Mutant Zombie Soul Pirates?”

  “And Mutant Zombie Soul Pirates II: The Wreckening.”

  “Whoa,” says Natalie.

  “Friends see all their friends’ movies,” I tell her.

  “Even when they’re not good movies?”

  “Especially then. Fortunately, all your movies are very good.”

  Natalie laughs. “You must like me a lot, Danny.”

  For a moment, I consider asking Natalie about the Sidewalk Scarecrows movie, but then I decide that it doesn’t matter. Or maybe Gram’s right, and I’m just afraid of an answer I’m not going to like. Before I can figure it out, we’re interrupted by the biggest explosion yet.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “It’s Duke Frystalker,” Natalie whispers. “He just used his horse to bring down a transport ship filled with Form Snoopers.”

  “His horse?”

  Natalie lowers her voice to a ridiculous, deep bass. “Use the horse, Duke.”

  She’s interrupted by an alarm bell ringing in the background.

  “Are Marth Crader and Duke Frystalker about to have a kite scraber duel?” I ask.

  “I have no idea what you just said,” Natalie tells me, “but I think something just caught on fire.”

  “Really?”

  “I should probably exit the building. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “I’d like that,” I tell her.

  “May the horse be with you, Danny.”

  The line goes dead. I glance down at the drawing of Batman. “Now what happens?” I ask him.

  The Dark Knight says nothing. The ability to see the future is not one of the Caped Crusader’s superpowers. Actually, Batman kind of stinks at relationships in general, so even if he could speak, he’d be useless.

  I guess I’m on my own.

  Chapter 11

  total meet-cute

  A week later, it’s Saturday morning, and I’m in Ajay’s garage sliding a utility knife along the outline of a big cardboard hoof. As it works out, building a Trojan unicorn out of cardboard and scrap wood is a lot harder than you might think. But after a few false starts and an unfortunate incident involving a sheet of plywood and Mrs. Kalli’s minivan, we’ve got the project on track.

  As I cut, I think back on the last few days. In school, kids continue to wait at my locker to ask about Natalie. Around town, strangers take my picture and then post photos online with hashtags like #NataliesDate, #NataliesBeau, and my personal favorite, #WhatIsSheThinking? Even Mom got flustered when a couple giggly teenagers showed up at our front door.

  “Is Natalie Flores Griffin here?” a tall blond girl asked when Mom and I answered the doorbell.

  “Why would Natalie Flores Griffin be here?” said Mom.

  “We just want to say hi,” explained the girl’s companion, a dark-haired boy in an oversized Patriots jersey.

  Mom turned to me. “Please handle this, Danny.”

  “You’re the one who wants to be their mayor,” I reminded her.

  Mom studied the kids in the doorway. “Do you live in Cuper Cove?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said the girl.

  “Are you old enough to vote?”

  “No,” said the boy.

  Mom swung the front door shut. “Buh-bye.”

  “How do you put up with this?” I ask Natalie when we talk on the phone or text, which happens pretty regularly now.

  “It’s just part of my job,” she explains.

  “You’re a thirteen-year-old girl,” I point out. “You’re not supposed to have a job.”

  “You’re a seventh-grade boy,” she tells me. “When did it become your job to have an opinion about what I’m supposed to do and not do?”

  “That would be never,” I admit.

  According to Gram, growing up without a strong father figure makes it easier for a boy to recognize when he’s wrong.

  Of course, growing up with a strong mother figure isn’t the solution to everything either. Mom has informed me, in no uncertain terms, that she intends to recruit Natalie to be our Halloween queen. For better or worse, Natalie’s mother doesn’t sound much better. “Your mom sells real estate,” Natalie told me earlier in the week. “My mom sells me.”

  Mrs. Griffin is Natalie’s manager. She works with agents and lawyers and various television and movie executives to make sure Natalie gets good parts and good money.

  “According to my mother,” Natalie told me on the phone, “I need to think of myself as a brand, a business, and a platform.”

  “What about actress?” I asked.

  “Sometimes I think my main roles are cash cow and golden goose.”

  “I have experience if you ever need help with cow parts.”

  “I’m mostly vegetarian,” Natalie told me.

  “So?”

  She laughed. “I avoid cow parts.”

  A sudden, sharp stinging sensation in my foot interrupts my thoughts. Looking down, I see that I’ve accidentally slid the utility knife off the cardboard and through the top of my sneaker. Asha, who is helping Zoey paint, points at my shoe. “Danny,” she says, “I think you’ve got a problem.”

  Ajay stops pulling apart an old wheelchair in the corner of the garage. He turns to see what’s going on. I hear him gasp. “That looks like blood.”

  I stand, and pain shoots from my foot and up my leg. On a hunch, I glance at the utility knife still in my hand. Sure enough, a drop of blood clings to the end of the blade. “Uh-oh.”

  Ajay drops a wrench to the floor. “Put pressure on the wound!” he hollers in a voice that sounds several octaves higher than usual.

  “How about you go into the house and get a bandage?” Zoey tells him.

  “I will go into the house and get a bandage!” Ajay repeats, but he does not move.

  “Shouldn’t you go into the house?” I say.

  “And get a bandage,” Zoey adds.

  “Right.” Ajay sprints inside.

  Zoey watches him run away. “Does he seem especially weird right now?”

  Asha nods. “He can’t stand the sight of blood,”

  “Do you think he’ll come back?” says Zoey.

  Suddenly I feel very lightheaded. “Sure,” I say, “but I might be unconscious by then.”

  “Lie down on the floor,” Asha instructs me.

  “What?”

  “Just do it.”

  I lower myself onto the cold concrete while Asha grabs an old folding lawn chair and places it in front of me. “Lift your foot onto the seat.”

  Dimly, I recall a first aid lesson from a couple summers ago. Billy Bennet’s dad was our teacher. “When it comes to treating an injury, just remember RICE,” Mr. Bennet told us over and over again.

  RICE stands for Rest, Ice, something that begins with C, and Elevate.

  “We’re elevating the wound,” I say to Asha.

  She nods.

  “I can’t remember what the C stands for,” I confess.

  Asha unties my shoelaces and slides the sneaker off my foot. “I have no idea wh
at you’re talking about, Danny.”

  “RICE,” I say.

  “Ice?” says Zoey.

  “That’s the I,” I tell her. “What about the C?”

  “I SEE a lot of blood,” says Asha.

  “That’s not it.”

  “Keep your foot up.”

  I keep trying to remember the C. Is it Cut? Coma? Convulsion?

  “We could use some bandages!” Asha shouts toward the door leading into the house.

  Bandages do not begin with a C. “Cardiopulmonary resuscitation?” I suggest.

  Asha grabs the utility knife that I dropped on the floor. “Don’t move,” she tells me. “This might hurt.”

  “What are you—”

  She slips the sharp blade beneath my sock and makes a quick cut. A moment later, she peels a blood-soaked cloth away from my foot.

  “Ouch!”

  “We need those bandages!” Zoey shouts. “Stat!”

  I lift my head and look at my bloody foot. “Stat?”

  “They’re always saying ‘Stat!’ on hospital shows,” she explains. “I’m not exactly sure what it means, but it’s like when somebody’s been bitten by a poisonous snake, and they need the medicine immediately or else the patient will die. That’s when they say, ‘Get the anti-venom! Stat!’”

  “It means immediately,” Asha informs us.

  “I haven’t been bitten by a poisonous snake,” I say.

  “Good thing,” says Asha. “Because Ajay definitely doesn’t know the meaning of Stat!”

  Zoey leans over and examines my foot. “You didn’t hit an artery.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “Blood would be shooting out of your foot like a fountain. I’ve seen it in the movies.”

  “Just because it’s in the movies doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “Actually,” says Asha, “the fountain-of-blood thing is true. But we should still put pressure on the wound.”

  I remember what the C stands for. “Compression!” I announce.

  “I got this.” Zoey grabs a strip of silver duct tape and a roll of paper towels. Quickly, she puts together a homemade bandage and wraps it around my foot while Asha and I watch.

  “Nicely done,” Asha tells her.

  “I learned it from the movies,” says Zoey.

  “Is there anything you haven’t learned from rom-coms?” I ask.