“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I just went home.”
“Billy, Darius, and Madeline are coming back after school today,” he continues. “They’re going to help us finish so everything can be ready for the pep rally on Thursday, then the parade on Friday.”
“I don’t know if I’m going to make it,” I tell him.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“But—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
The bus arrives before Ajay can reply. “I know I’m running late,” Mr. Beamon tells us as we climb aboard. “But don’t worry. This is the school bus that made the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs.”
Sometimes, even Star Wars fans can find other Star Wars fans annoying.
Zoey joins us a few minutes later. “Where did you go yesterday?” she asks me.
“He doesn’t want to talk about it,” Ajay tells her.
“Natalie’s not going to the dance with me,” I blurt out. “Okay?”
“Whoa,” says Zoey. “It’s a little early for a dark night of the soul.”
“It’s just a stupid dance,” I say. “I didn’t want to go in the first place.”
“Then why are you upset?” she asks.
“Because now I want to go.”
“And Natalie doesn’t?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“What did you do?” says Ajay.
I look outside just in time to see a sidewalk scarecrow holding a MISSY FOR MAYOR sign. “It’s not my fault,” I tell my friends.
“Is it Natalie’s fault?” asks Ajay.
The bus goes over a big bump, which causes my backpack to bounce off my lap and onto the floor. “Are you aiming for the potholes?” I shout at Mr. Beamon.
The bus driver shoots an annoyed look at me through his rearview mirror.
“It might not be anybody’s fault,” offers Zoey. “On the other hand, blame is an important ingredient in most romantic comedies.”
I shake my head. “Natalie’s not the problem. It’s the whole world that’s the problem.”
“Classic rom-com,” Zoey says thoughtfully.
“This is not a rom-com!” I yell at her.
“She didn’t say it was,” Ajay snaps at me.
We ride the rest of the way without speaking. When we get to school, Ajay and Zoey grab their stuff and head off the bus without me.
“Danny,” Mr. Beamon says before I leave. “Wait just a minute.”
I step aside and let everyone move past. Finally, I’m the last student remaining. Mr. Beamon closes the school bus door. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Yelling at your friends probably isn’t going to help.”
I shift the backpack on my shoulder. “Can I ask you a question?”
Mr. Beamon nods.
“Are you the same Shad that dated my mom in high school?”
He laughs a little. “I am.”
“Why are you named after a fish?”
Mr. Beamon smiles. “My dad was a fisherman, and my mom was a history teacher.”
I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.
“During the Revolutionary War,” he continues, “George Washington’s army was near starvation when huge schools of American shad swam up the river near the encampment at Valley Forge. Soldiers who’d eaten nothing but lard and maggot-infested bread for weeks rushed into the water and caught thousands of fish by hand. It was like something out of the Bible. An American miracle. Without shad, most of those soldiers would have had to leave Valley Forge or starve to death. Thanks to the shad, they stayed. Three years later, those men defeated the British at the Battle of Yorktown so that the colonies could become the United States of America. My parents named me after the fish that saved our nation.”
“I never read that in any history book,” I tell him.
“Because it’s probably not true.”
“Oh.”
“It’s the kind of story you make up to prove that God is on your side. After a couple hundred years, everybody just accepts it. But then a few historians visit the Revolutionary War toilet pits at Valley Forge and discover that there aren’t any fish bones there.”
“That’s disappointing,” I say.
Mr. Beamon nods. “Toilet pits can be like that. If it makes you feel any better, Shad is also the name of a spunky space pilot from the future who leads a group of ragtag mercenaries to defend his planet against mutant soldiers in the classic sci-fi film Battle Beyond the Stars. It’s also short for Shadrach, one of three Hebrew boys who got thrown into a furnace by an ancient Babylonian king.”
“What happened to them?” I ask.
“Faith, friends, and miracles,” Mr. Beamon says simply.
“I could use a miracle.”
My bus driver shakes his head. “You don’t need a miracle, Danny. You need faith.”
“Faith in what?”
“Start with yourself,” says Mr. Beamon. “And then go from there.”
“Could I have a miracle too?”
“What do you need a miracle for?”
“For my mother,” I say. “For my friends. For Natalie Flores Griffin. For everything, I guess.”
My bus driver looks suddenly concerned. “What’s wrong with your mother?”
“Nothing, but—” I double-check to see that the school bus really is empty, then I lower my voice and tell Mr. Beamon the truth. “I don’t want her to win the election.”
Mr. Beamon nods thoughtfully. “Danny,” he finally says, “your mother is running unopposed. She’s the only candidate in the race.”
“What?” Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to the campaign from the beginning. “What do you mean?”
“Missy Constantino is going to be the next mayor of Cuper Cove. It’s a sure thing. She’s the only one that wants the job.”
I think about the signs and buttons and pamphlets sitting in piles all over my house. “Then what’s all the campaign stuff for?”
“If your mother can get an especially large number of votes,” Mr. Beamon explains, “she can assume that most people agree with her agenda and her plans for our town.”
“Mr. Beamon,” I say, “she’s going to assume that most people agree with her no matter how many votes she gets.”
Mr. Beamon is still laughing when I step off the bus.
The more I think about Mom’s meaningless campaign, the more annoyed I get. In fact, I spend the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in an angry blur. I skip lunch so I won’t have to talk about it with my friends. After school, I sit and stew in the office until Gram brings me home.
“What’s bothering you?” Gram asks when I slam her car door.
“I figured something out,” I tell her.
She cuts off an old Volkswagen and pulls into traffic. “What did you figure out?”
“I figured out that Mom would rather sell houses or run for an election she can’t lose or be the mayor of Cuper Cove than spend any time with me.”
“I see.” Gram says nothing else until she brings the green Camaro to a stop in front of my house. She points at Mom’s car parked in the driveway. “Maybe you should go inside and tell your mother how you feel.”
“I don’t want to talk to her right now.”
“If you do nothing,” Gram tells me, “then probably nothing will change.”
“Why am I the one that has to do something?”
“Somebody has to go first.” Gram shifts the Camaro into gear, so I step out the car.
“But why me?” I ask.
“Why not you?”
She makes a good point. And I don’t care. Once she pulls away, I cut through the neighbors’ yards, and I hea
d to Ajay’s.
“Look who’s here,” Ajay says when I get to the garage.
Zoey steps out from behind a nearly fully assembled Trojan unicorn. She’s joined by Billy, Maddie, and Darius too. “I told you he’d come,” Zoey says to everybody.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Zoey tells me. “It’s not unusual to be grouchy after a dark night of the soul.”
“I am not having a dark night of the soul,” I insist.
“In that case,” says Zoey, “you really do owe us an apology.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’ll try to be better.”
Zoey puts her hands on her hips. “Try not. Do. Or do not. There is no try.”
But seriously, Star Wars fans can be very, very annoying.
I point at the unicorn pieces all around us. The giant head sits on the garage floor. The body—a big cardboard box with legs painted on its sides—is mounted on the rolling platform. At the back, a long tail made from several pieces of clothesline rope serves as a handle for the hatchway that leads inside the Trojan unicorn.
“How are we going to get all this to the parade?” I ask.
“My dad’s got a delivery truck,” says Zoey. “He’ll come after school tomorrow to load everything for the pep rally.” She grabs a thick black marker. “Now’s the time for finishing touches.”
I find a hammer and a tin can filled with small nails. Working with Madeline and Billy, I secure stray flaps of cardboard to the pine frame that is now our unicorn’s skeleton. At the same time, Ajay and Asha finish the rolling platform while Darius and Zoey use paints and markers to highlight hooves and hocks and a bold, horsey face.
“Danny,” says Maddie, “is Natalie Flores Griffin really coming to the pep rally?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her.
Zoey stops detailing the unicorn. “What do you mean you’re not sure?”
I bang a nail through a piece of cardboard and into the wooden frame. “We didn’t make any final plans.”
“Don’t you think you should do that?” says Ajay.
Ajay is right. I should call Natalie about the pep rally. And while I’m at it, I should tell her how her whole visit sort of happened because of Asha. I should tell her that I might have made kindness and peace seem possible for her, but she made losing a best friend seem possible for me. And now it feels like I am learning that lesson all over again.
I step back to get a better view of the Trojan unicorn. Thanks to Zoey, Cooper’s got a thick, curly mane now. Also, Darius has braided Cooper’s tail into something that looks like a cross between a macramé planter and a nest of snakes.
“Danny,” says Zoey, “are you going to call Natalie or not?”
“You know what?” I say. “One of you should call her yourself.”
Chapter 17
i don’t know if those are her real teeth
On Wednesday morning, Mr. Maggio finds me at my locker. “Mr. Constantino,” the principal asks, “are you and Natalie ready for tomorrow’s pep rally?”
“As ready as we’re going to be,” I tell him.
For the rest of the day, I do my best to avoid all human contact because who the heck knows what else I might have to lie about. Still, people shout at me in the hallway and corner me in classrooms.
WAS THAT YOU ON TV WITH NATALIE FLORES GRIFFIN?
Yes.
WHEN ARE WE GOING TO MEET HER?
I don’t know.
WHAT IS NATALIE REALLY LIKE?
That’s a good question.
My friends find me at my locker before lunch. “Where have you been all day?” asks Madeline.
“Danny,” says Billy, “are you coming to the cafeteria?”
I shake my head. “I—”
Darius interrupts before I can finish. “Danny’s a celebrity now. He doesn’t sit with the little people.”
“You’re six feet tall,” Maddie reminds Darius.
“So?” he says.
“It’s not just the little people Danny doesn’t sit with.”
“You guys,” I say. “I just don’t want to deal with—”
“Go,” says Maddie. “Go eat your avocado roll and your sushi toast with your Hollywood girlfriend.”
“For your information,” I say, “my lunch for the last week has been nothing but dried-out packages of peanut butter crackers while I hide in the school office.”
Billy holds up a greasy paper bag. “Sit next to me, and you can have some of my pizza.”
“You brought a pizza in a paper bag?” says Darius.
Maddie retrieves a plastic lunch box from her own locker. “He doesn’t mean the whole pizza.”
“Yes, I do,” says Billy.
“Thank you,” I tell Billy, “but I’m going to eat with my grandmother today. I am not enjoying being the center of attention all the time.”
Darius shrugs. “It must be tough to be as popular as you, Danny.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
My friends slam their lockers and turn away.
By the end of the school day, I’m walking around with a sweatshirt hood over my head. I’m trying to make it to the office without getting trapped by more questions about Natalie. Every time I think I’ve heard them all, somebody pops up with a new one. WHAT’S NATALIE’S FAVORITE HALLOWEEN CANDY? WHAT DOES SHE THINK ABOUT HARRY POTTER? DOES SHE LIKE PINEAPPLE ON HER PIZZA? ARE ZOMBIE SOUL PIRATES SMARTER THAN THE GHOST PIRATES OF VOOJU ISLAND? ARE THOSE HER REAL TEETH?
Why do people care about these things? Why do they think I know them?
I keep moving, and I almost make it too, but tiny Mira Sergiyenko steps between me and the office door at the last minute. “Danny!” she says. “I’m glad I caught you!”
“I don’t know if they’re her real teeth, okay?”
“Huh?” says Mira.
“They look real to me,” I tell her.
Mira tilts her head a little. “Are you okay?”
“What if I am? What if I’m not? It’s not like anybody cares.”
“I care,” says Mira.
I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that.”
Mira pushes red hair out of her face, reaches into her backpack, and pulls out a fat envelope that’s clearly stuffed with cash. She pushes it toward me. “And could you give this to Natalie?”
“Mira,” I say. “I am not a mailman. Also, I don’t think Natalie needs any money.”
I have no idea whether Natalie needs money or not, but I am very certain that I’m no mailman.
It doesn’t matter because Mira continues as if I haven’t said a word. “My dad added Natalie’s Halloween cake to our dessert menu. We’re donating all proceeds from cake sales to the Natalie Flores Griffin Foundation. Rather than put the money in the mail, I thought it would be easier if you just gave it to her.”
“What exactly is the Natalie Flores Griffin Foundation?” I ask.
“The Natalie Flores Griffin Foundation raises money to promote healthy food choices in school cafeterias across the nation,” Mira explains. “Her mission is ‘Let’s Eat Something Good Today!’”
“And you’re supporting this effort by selling cake?”
“Cake is good,” Mira tells me. “And cake is Natalie’s passion. She’s even got an online show called Let’s Bake Cake with Natalie.”
“She does?”
Mira rolls her eyes. “Do you know anything about Natalie at all?”
So if I understand correctly, Natalie’s got a mission, a passion, her own cooking show, and let’s not forget that she’s a movie star. Meanwhile, I struggle with my math homework and eat peanut butter crackers for lunch. I wouldn’t want to go to a dance with me either.
Mira
presses the envelope into my hand. “Here’s two hundred and twelve dollars. There’s more where that came from.”
I examine the wad of cash in my hand, then give it back to Mira. “Give it to her yourself.”
Mira’s eyes go wide. “Is Natalie coming to the pep rally tomorrow?”
I consider the small girl in front of me. Mira has been nothing but kind and caring and very, very enthusiastic since this whole roller-coaster ride with Natalie began. There is no reason for me to be annoyed with her. There is no reason for me to be annoyed with anybody. And yet.
“Listen,” I say. “I’ll call Natalie. I’ll make sure she knows what you’re doing with the cake. I’m sure that talking with you will make her happier than getting an envelope from me.”
Suddenly, Mira is crying. “Danny Constantino, you are so nice.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
“You are,” she insists. “And I’m just a sixth grader. And you’re like an upperclassman.”
“I’m in seventh grade,” I say. “That is not upper-class.”
“I don’t care what other people say about you.” Mira throws her arms around my waist and gives me a big hug.
“What do other people say about me?”
“You’re the best, Danny.” Mira steps away and wipes her nose with the back of a sleeve. “Really, you’re the best.” She gives me a quick grin, turns, and sprints away.
“What do other people say about me?” I ask again, but it’s too late. I’m left alone in the hallway, so I let myself into the office, where Gram sits studying a stack of invoices on her desk. Happily, Mr. Maggio is nowhere in sight. I drop into a chair beside my grandmother. “What do people say about me?” I ask.
“What people?” she asks without turning away from the invoices.
“I don’t know,” I say. “People.”
“People say you’re short,” Gram tells me.
“I’m not short.”
“I know, but people say you’re short.”
“What people?”
“Freakishly tall people.”
“Can we go home?” I ask.
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.” Gram shoves the invoices into a folder and tucks them into a drawer. Together, we make our way outside. At the Camaro, we fall into our seats as if we just got done running a marathon. Gram rubs her eyes. “I’m so tired, I actually wish you could drive today.”
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