“All you ever wanted was to be a school bus driver,” Mom tells him. “I wanted more.”
“You wanted a marine,” Mr. Beamon says gently.
“It wasn’t that simple,” Mom tells him.
The nurse shakes her head. “It never is.” She turns to me. “So what’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.” I nod toward my mother. “She’s the one with the problem.”
“My problem,” says Mom, “is that my son thinks I’m a monster.”
Suddenly, a nearby privacy curtain flies open to reveal my grandmother. She’s seated in a wheelchair and wearing a dull green hospital smock. She’s got a cast on one foot and a pink ankle-high sock on the other. It is not a good look for her. “Sometimes,” she announces, “we are all monsters.”
“In horror movies,” says Zoey, “the monster is basically a visual and terrible revelation of truth.”
Everybody turns and stares at the small girl wearing a cardboard hat and cat’s-eye glasses.
“Don’t worry,” Ajay tells us. “She just says stuff like that sometimes.”
“How’s the ankle?” Mr. Beamon says to Gram.
“It hurts.” She nods at the tinfoil costume. “Nice outfit. Let me guess. Spunky space pilot from the future heading into a Battle Beyond the Stars?”
Mr. Beamon points at me and my friends. “I even brought a motley crew of ragtag rebels.”
Gram grins. “How’s the bus business?”
“This is probably my last year behind the wheel,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Are you quitting?” says Zoey.
“Did you get fired?” asks Ajay.
“He can’t get fired,” Gram tells us. “He owns the bus company.”
“You do?” says Mom.
He shrugs. “I run a transportation empire.”
“Seven school buses is not an empire,” Gram tells him.
“And three vans,” Mr. Beamon says.
Gram rolls her eyes. “They’re minivans.”
“That sounds like an empire to me.” The nurse turns to my mother. “This man is a catch. Are you still single?”
“Enough,” says Dr. Kalli. “Ms. Constantino needs to rest.”
“I really do,” says Mom.
“He’s not talking about you,” I whisper.
“Everybody follow me,” Mrs. Kalli announces. “Today is Thursday, and that means fresh chocolate chip cookies in the cafeteria. My treat.”
My friends head down the hall with Ajay’s mom. Zoey reaches out and takes Mr. Beamon’s hand. “We can take the stairs.”
I stand, unsure whether I should stay or go.
“Danny,” says Mom. “I’d like to sit and talk with your grandmother for a minute.”
“Without me?” I ask.
“Just for a minute,” she says. “But maybe you could bring us back a couple of those cookies.”
I nod. “I’ll be right back,” I promise.
Chapter 21
there is no such thing as a good fish stick
Sometimes a group of seventh graders is like a sack of grasshoppers. That’s what Gram says. We’re all motion and noise. Plus we’re kind of gross. And according to the Bible, we might be a plague. Also, we eat a lot, so bringing us to a cafeteria is a very good idea. Still, I drift away from my friends once I get my cookies. Sometimes even a grasshopper needs a little time alone.
I sit at a table near a window and look outside at a cold, gray sky. I hope it doesn’t rain on tomorrow’s parade. Rain or shine, the Halloween parade route ends at the school so kids can move straight into the gym for the Friday night dance. I’m pretty sure I won’t be there. Now that I think about it, I don’t even have a costume anymore, so Saturday night trick-or-treating is out of the picture too.
Behind me, a chair scrapes across the floor while somebody takes a seat at a nearby table. I turn to see if one of my friends has decided to invade my space. Instead, I find Natalie Flores Griffin.
“Do you mind if I sit?” she says.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I was worried about your grandmother.” She places a tray on her table. “And I was worried about you. Also, I’m obsessed with cafeteria food.” She offers me a paper box filled with something that’s fried, breaded, and shaped like a bunch of short squished candles. “Want a fish stick?”
“I hate fish sticks.”
“My parents say I cried about missing Cuper Cove cafeteria fish sticks for a month after we moved to California.”
“I thought you hated fish sticks too.”
She shrugs. “For a while, going to cafeterias was like a family thing for us. In between auditions and rehearsals and dance classes and acting lessons, we’d go hunting for the perfect fish stick. Sometimes, we’d drop by a nice school somewhere around Los Angeles. My parents would tell the principal or the headmaster that we were house shopping and wanted to learn what the neighborhood school had to offer. We’d usually get a quick tour, and then we’d eat lunch in the cafeteria, which was the only point.”
“That’s kind of funny.”
“That’s how I learned that school cafeterias need some serious help.”
“And that’s why you started your foundation?”
Natalie shakes her head. “My publicists and financial advisors recommended that we give some of my money away. Giving kids food that’s not gross seemed like a good cause.”
I try not to obsess over the fact that Natalie has publicists and financial advisors. “Did you ever find any good fish sticks?”
“Danny,” Natalie says to me, “there is no such thing as a good fish stick.”
“So you do hate fish sticks?”
“Always did. Always will. I just missed sharing them with you and the squirrels.” She stands, discards the box of greasy food, and takes a chair at my table.
“Did you really come to Cuper Cove just because I asked you?”
“You didn’t ask me,” she points out.
I forgot that she knew about that. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I always wanted to. I just thought it would be weird.”
“I think you may have been right.”
Neither of us speaks for a long moment.
“I’m glad you’re here now,” I finally say.
Natalie slides her chair a little closer. “Me too.”
“But what about Sidewalk Scarecrows?” I ask.
Natalie looks confused. “My mom’s movie?”
“My mother says it’s your movie. She says you’re just here to use Cuper Cove for publicity.”
Natalie leans back and crosses her arms. “Sidewalk Scarecrows is a documentary. You’ll never guess what it’s about.”
“What?”
“Scarecrows,” Natalie tells me.
“Like actual scarecrows?”
Natalie nods. “My mom is obsessed with them. She says it’s because she grew up surrounded by scarecrows in Cuper Cove. Last year, she put a small film crew together, and they went all over the world talking to people about—”
“Scarecrows?”
“Exactly. And Cuper Cove definitely plays a big part, but Sidewalk Scarecrows is no blockbuster. They’re going to show it next year on some Internet travel channel. All the publicity in the world isn’t going to change the Rotten Tomatoes score on that one.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Sometimes my mother . . .”
“She’s got a strong personality,” Natalie offers.
“You noticed?”
“My mother has made Quentin Tarantino and Dwayne The Rock Johnson cry,” Natalie tells me. “I recognize the type.”
The two of us sit quietly and stare outside at a hint of blue peeking through October clouds. “My grandmother is going to be okay,” I tell Natali
e.
“I know,” she says.
“I’m sorry about the things I said in the gym.”
“I know,” she says once more.
“It’s just—”
Natalie interrupts. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a person you only know from the movies.”
“But that’s part of who you are,” I say. “You’re a movie star.”
“Being in a movie doesn’t feel like being a star,” she tries to explain. “It just feels like playing. Later, people who actually know what they’re doing put it all together. If the writing is good and the lighting is good and the editing is good and a million other things that have nothing to do with me are good, then people think I’m brilliant. If not, people go online and call me names. Either way, I just happen to be there when they’re taking the pictures.”
“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.”
“I’m sorry I can’t go to the dance,” she says now.
“Is your mom really afraid that it could turn into a madhouse?”
“Were you at the pep rally today?” Natalie asks.
“That wasn’t your fault,” I point out.
“But it could have been. And I would hate if somebody got hurt because—”
“Because you are a movie star,” I say.
Natalie nods. “But this isn’t a movie,” she tells me. “There is no script. There is no map. There are no stars. If it is possible, we will find our way together.”
I study Natalie’s face. “Isn’t that a line from Mutant Zombie Soul Pirates?” I ask.
“It is,” she admits. “But it’s a good one. Do you remember what comes next?”
“Isn’t that when you—”
Natalie leans forward and gives me a quick, soft kiss on the lips. “Yes.”
I feel my face burn red.
“I think that was even better than the one in the movie,” she tells me.
“The movie was animated,” I remind her.
Natalie stands. “I have to go.”
“When do you leave for California?” I ask.
Suddenly, Natalie looks small and uncomfortable. “My mom is trying to get a flight for tonight.”
I feel as if all the air has rushed out of my lungs. “Why?”
“Filming is back on schedule. The director wants to shoot a scene with me the day after tomorrow. Since I’m not going to the dance, and I don’t want to be the Halloween queen, my mom says we can get home so I have a day to rest.”
“But—”
“But we can still talk on the phone,” she says.
“Okay,” I get out. “I’d like that.”
Without warning, Natalie steps forward, wraps me up in a quick hug, and then runs out the nearest door.
I don’t know if I will ever see her again. I don’t know if I can wipe the tears out of my eyes before I have to face my friends. But I do know one thing. Natalie Flores Griffin says I’m a better kisser than a cartoon pirate. That’s not nothing. And it definitely takes a little bit of the sting off of a long, hard day.
Chapter 22
a dark night of the soul is sort of inevitable
On Friday night, Mom and I sit in Gram’s hospital room and watch an old movie called Corpse Bride. It’s an animated story about a boy who’s supposed to marry a girl he’s never met, but then that goes wrong and he accidentally marries a different girl who just happens to be dead.
And I thought I had problems.
The movie is a good Halloween choice even though it’s not very scary. Actually, it’s kind of sweet and even a little sad because the boy and both girls—the living one and the dead one—are really very nice. And the boy likes them both. No matter what he does, somebody is going to get hurt. We’re well into the movie when I realize something. “This is a romantic comedy.”
Gram laughs. “Everything is a romantic comedy, Danny.”
I point at the television set mounted above the foot of Gram’s hospital bed. “All these characters are going to face a dark night of the soul.”
“Half the people in this movie are corpses,” says Mom. “A dark night of the soul is sort of inevitable.”
“Everybody will have to sacrifice something,” I say. “Everybody is going to lose, but it will be a joyful defeat because . . .”
“Because there’s kissing,” says Gram.
“Because there’s true love,” I tell her.
Mom turns to look at me. “What do you know about true love?”
“Zoey explained it to me.”
Gram shifts in her hospital bed. She’s really ready to go home. “Did Zoey end up taking Ajay to the dance?”
I nod. “That’s where they are now.”
Gram holds out her hand. “I won that bet.”
Mom digs into her purse, finds a five-dollar bill, and hands it over.
On-screen a few minutes later, the dead girl in the bride’s dress returns a wedding ring to the boy so he can pursue his true love. “You kept your promise,” she tells him. “You set me free. Now I can do the same for you.”
Mom dabs at her eyes. “I love this part.”
“Have you seen this before?” I ask.
“It’s a rom-com,” she says. “Of course I’ve seen it before.”
I’m not sure if she means Corpse Bride or if she means any final scene that includes happy kissing, eternal vows, and true love.
“Are you going to call Mr. Beamon?” I ask once the movie credits have come and gone.
“Funny you should ask,” says Mom. “He called earlier today wondering if we might get together for a cup of coffee.”
“What did you say?”
“It’s just coffee,” Mom tells me.
“Is that a yes?” Gram asks.
“Yes,” Mom says to Gram and me. “I am going to meet Shad Beamon for a cup of coffee.”
Gram nods. “And I won that bet too.”
I dig into a pocket, find a five-dollar bill, and hand it to my grandmother.
The following morning, we help Gram back into her own house. “I think you should stay with us for a few days,” Mom tells her.
My grandmother, still in a wheelchair, rolls into the kitchen to check on her plants. Her favorites are lined up neatly along a window ledge above the sink. “The doctor says I’m supposed to rest for a few days. I can do that here.”
“What about Halloween?” I ask.
Gram pulls herself to a standing position at the counter, fills a measuring cup in the sink, and begins pouring water into each plant. “What about it?”
“It’s tonight,” I remind her. “Trick-or-treaters will start ringing your doorbell before the sun goes down.”
Gram stops, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. “I forgot about that. I never even bought any candy.”
“We’ve got plenty,” says Mom. “How about I come and get you for supper? You can help Danny and me hand things out, and then I’ll bring you home when the night is over.”
“Aren’t you going trick-or-treating with your friends?” Gram asks me.
“I’d rather stay with you,” I tell her.
“Are you afraid I’m going somewhere?”
I shrug.
“I’m not going to die from a broken ankle,” she promises.
“You have other risk factors,” I tell her. “You’re supposed to control your blood pressure, manage your cholesterol levels, stay away from fried foods, limit your salt intake, and avoid inflatable sharks. And,” I add, “there might be sharks.”
Gram rolls her eyes.
“I want to help,” I say.
“Plus,” says Mom, “Danny doesn’t have a costume.”
After a surprisingly limited protest, Gram agrees to
join us for dinner and trick-or-treating. I suspect her ankle must still hurt a lot.
Later, she parks her wheelchair just inside our front door so she can greet trick-or-treaters. The first group includes three Raggedy Anns, two ballerinas, one witch, and a goat. The goat is not in a costume. It’s an actual goat. One of the ballerinas holds the animal on a leash. “He likes marshmallows,” she tells us.
Gram gives the goat a box of marshmallow Peeps. The goat eats the Peeps and the cardboard box too. “Kid tested,” Gram says. “Nanny goat approved.”
The next time the bell rings, I find my friends standing on our doorstep. Billy, Maddie, Darius, Zoey, and Ajay are dressed like Greek soldiers. They’ve fully repaired and repainted their cardboard helmets and armor, and they look great.
“Fársa í kérasma!” Maddie yells at me.
I turn to Ajay, who is holding hands with Zoey. “Did she just call me a name?”
“It’s ‘trick-or-treat’!” Maddie explains. “In Greek!”
“At least according to Google,” says Zoey.
Gram and Mom join me at the door, and we pour candy into my friends’ bags. It’s obvious that the whole group is more than a little sugared up already. Before I know it they’ve all said thank you and goodbye and Happy Halloween, and now they’re gone.
“Are you sure you don’t want to join them?” Gram asks after we close the door.
“I’m exactly where I want to be,” I tell her.
The bell rings again.
“I’ve got it,” says Mom. She swings the door open and stares at a lone trick-or-treater carrying a giant plastic pumpkin and wearing a costume that neither one of us recognizes. It’s a furry brown body with fat matching mittens, a long brown tail, and feet that look like paws. At the same time, the head belongs to an eagle, with feathery white ears and a bright yellow beak. Plus, it’s got wings. “What are you supposed to be?” Mom asks.
Gram leans forward to get a better look. “That’s a griffin.”
“A griffin?” says Mom.
“The body of a lion with the head and wings of an eagle,” Gram explains. “Definitely a griffin.”
The trick-or-treater nods, then puts both paws on the eagle beak and tries to lift it off. After a moment’s struggle, it’s clear that the mask is stuck. I step forward to help. After some awkward wrestling, the eagle head pops off revealing a sweaty, red-faced Natalie Flores Griffin.
Danny Constantino's First (and Maybe Last?) Date Page 14