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

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Paul Acampora writes novels and short stories for young readers. Kids, parents, and critics praise his work for its laugh-out-loud humor, rollicking dialogue, and heartfelt characters. His books include Defining Dulcie, Rachel Spinelli Punched Me in the Face, I Kill the Mockingbird, How to Avoid Extinction, and Confusion Is Nothing New. Paul is a dad, husband, former kindergarten teacher, and full-time development professional now living in Pennsylvania's Lehigh Valley.

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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...