The Yo-Yo Prophet (10 page)

Sasha rolls her eyes. Annette yawns, flips open her cell phone and examines the screen.

“Did anyone read the blog?” My stomach shrivels. “Do you know what they thought of it?”

“Yeah, they read the blog,” Rozelle says, “and they watched the video. It got ten thousand frickin' hits on YouTube.”

“What? Marshall posted it to YouTube?” My chest gets that tight feeling. “What were the comments?”

The buzzer goes for the end of the period. Classroom doors open. The hall floods with people.

A couple of guys do a doubletake when they see me.

“Is that him?”

I'm swarmed in seconds.

“Calvin, show us some tricks!”

“Yeah, I hear you're a genius.”

Was that sarcasm?

They come at me like wolves at a dead lamb. Rozelle laughs.

“Let's go, Yo-Yo Prophet,” some grade-twelve guy shouts as more people gather.

“Let's see how you do it!” someone yells.

“Give 'em that Buddha one!” Joseph says.

I take in the smiling faces of the people who usually ignore me. Now they're praising me, calling for a show. It's incredible. I feel like I can take on anything.

“Yeah, this is kickin'.” Rozelle drapes an arm over my shoulder, and I don't flinch. “So enjoy it.” She pushes me toward the crowd.

I see Geordie, who looks star-struck. Maybe I could have shown him my routine. A girl comes up and asks me for an autograph. I get this feeling of being airborne—of hovering in place like I'm about to take off.

I sign the front of the girl's binder, scan the faces of the kids clamoring to see me throw. It's okay with me if they never stop.

Sasha's standing back, scowling. Annette looks bored.

I shrug them off and pull out my twin racers to throw my best show ever.

I'm tossing two-handed loops, flying high, setting everyone on fire, when Sasha steps too close.

“Watch out!” I yell, as I glimpse Mr. Davis, the principal, barreling toward us, probably to break up the party. He's got the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his massive biceps. There's a frown on his face. Rumor has it that he used to be a pro-football player. Probably a linebacker.

Sasha's eyes flick to Mr. Davis before she flashes me a wicked grin, fakes a shriek and lets the yo-yo smack her beside her right eye.

“Ow!” She moans, clutching her eye and falling to one knee.

“Are you okay?” Annette lunges for Sasha, but Rozelle holds her back, her glare scorching.

My hands are fists around my yo-yos. I shut my eyes. Sasha's a venomous spider, and I'm a stupid fly.

“What's going on here?” Mr. Davis bellows.

My show ends as I'm hauled away by the collar for the second time that day.

10

My pockets are empty. My yo-yos have been imprisoned for the last hour in Mr. Davis's oversize desk. My hands ache to finish my last trick. Why did Sasha do this to me? Am I really that much of a threat?

I squirm in a hardback chair as Mr. Davis smoothes his tie against his shirt and sits in his cushioned leather chair. His chest muscles are barely contained by his shirt. He looks like a pro wrestler, or maybe a giant troll with hairy knuckles. As he rolls the chair closer to his desk, he runs a hand over his balding head and then frowns across at Gran and me. “Thanks for coming in, Mrs. Layne. I prefer to have serious conversations with a parent or guardian present. As for you, Calvin”—his eyebrows knot—“what do you have to say for yourself?”

“It's not my fault,” I say. “Sasha stepped into my trick.”

Gran purses her lips disapprovingly. She's pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes. It's my fault she's here when she should be home in bed.

Mr. Davis's endless forehead wrinkles. “You've had an hour to think about your actions, Calvin, and I had hoped you would use the time to seriously consider what you've done.” He opens a desk drawer, plucks out my twin racers and dumps them on the desk, making me wince as they bang against each other. “Physical assault. Possession of weapons.” He raises a finger for each of my crimes. “Even though this is your first offence, those are seriously inappropriate behaviors.” He rests his hands on the desk.

I want to leap up and rescue my yo-yos. Instead, I sit on my hands and dig my nails into the fabric of the chair. “Yo-yos aren't weapons,” I say, unable to keep quiet. Maybe Rozelle is rubbing off on me. Maybe I'm finally standing up for myself.

“No, they're not intended to be, but when you aim them at a fellow student, they become weapons.”

“I didn't aim them at anyone!” I leap up. “She wanted to be hit. She did it on purpose!”

“Calvin!” Gran's voice is sharp. “What's got into you? You never get in trouble and now you talk back?” She stifles a cough. At least she's not calling me Richard.

I thump back into my seat. “But, Gran, you don't understand. She screamed before the yo-yo even hit her. I'm not making this up.” Sasha set me up. Can't they see?

Mr. Davis shakes his head. “I can't force you to feel remorse, but I do hope that more time to reflect will help.” He sighs as if he's deeply offended. “I'm going to suspend you from classes for the rest of the day, as well as for Thursday and Friday. Of course, you'll be permitted to sit your exams next week, so I suggest you arrange to get class notes from another student.”

“He will.” The veins in Gran's hands bulge as she grips the handle of her purse.

I slump as his words sink in. Suspended? Me? I can't believe it, although I'm guessing Sasha will be pleased.

She gets attention while I get punished.

Mr. Davis continues. “And I must insist on a written apology to Sasha Reynolds.”

“An apology!” I explode. “No way!”

“Calvin, stop!” Gran says, her chest gurgling.

I try to calm down.

“The safety of the students is my priority, Calvin,” Mr. Davis says. “You have my decision. I suggest you consider the choices you made today—really think about your actions. I don't want a repeat of this situation.” He stands, rattling the coins in his pocket. “I expect to see you first thing Monday morning in my office with that apology in hand.”

“Okay,” I mutter. It's not like I have a choice.

“Thank you, Mr…” Gran's voice trails off. She's probably forgotten his name.

I eye my yo-yos. “Can I have them back now?”

Before Mr. Davis can speak, Gran reaches an unsteady hand to sweep them off the desk and into her wide purse. She clicks the purse shut and tucks it under her arm. “I'll take care of them.” She gives me a stern look.

I'm so thrilled to see them with Gran that I manage to nod repentantly at Mr. Davis on the way out.

“Sorry, sir,” I say. I don't have to mean it.

“That's more like it.” He bobs his head, the fluorescent lights reflecting off his shiny scalp. “Keep it up, Calvin, and you'll be back on track in no time.” He shakes my hand, squeezing too hard.

As Gran and I are leaving the office, we bump into my two least-favorite teachers—Mr. Marnello and Ms. Kinsela. I cringe. If Ms. Kinsela ever got hold of my twin racers, I'd never see them again.

I try to steer Gran around them, but Mr. Marnello steps in my path.

“Calvin.” His bushy mustache wriggles as he talks.

“Why weren't you in math?”

I get the feeling that whatever I say will be wrong, just like in math class.

“I, uh, got suspended, Mr. Marnello.” I duck my head, suddenly ashamed. Everyone will think that I did something wrong, that I deserve to be suspended. I stare at Gran's scuffed black shoes with the wide, clunky heels, wishing we were out of here.

“I'm not surprised,” Ms. Kinsela says.

I glance up. What does she mean? I'm not that bad.

“Well, I am.” Mr. Marnello turns to Gran. “Calvin always tries so hard in class. He's not afraid to answer questions.”

Answer them wrong, I think. And math terrifies me. But I'm stunned. Mr. Marnello is on my side?

“How long will you be gone?” Ms. Kinsela's red hair is pulled back into a bun. It makes her skin look tight.

“Till Monday.”

Her face falls—like she's actually disappointed.

“Why?” I have to ask.

“I heard about the”—she pauses to glance at Mr. Marnello and then at Gran—“incident with the yo-yo this morning. I had hoped you might do a yo-yo demonstration in my physics classes, but, with a student hurt and you suspended, it's impossible.”

“You'd want me to come to a physics class?” I'm amazed. “Why?”

“Planes,” she says. “A yo-yo operates on the principle of planes. You wouldn't be able to do complicated tricks if you didn't keep the yo-yo on a plane when you threw it.”

“Oh,” I say, not understanding a word.

“You see, the plane is formed by the yo-yo itself. When it's spinning, it has gyroscopic stability.” Ms. Kinsela pretends to toss a yo-yo, which is too weird. “That's how the yo-yo stays in a line when you throw it.” She goes on about inertia and spinning molecules. “My physics students would have enjoyed a demonstration.”

“Maybe he could come in next year.” Gran looks at me proudly. Her sweater has dipped off one shoulder and her dress sags. She's lost too much weight.

“That might be possible.” Ms. Kinsela nods.

“I guess I could,” I say, still surprised.

When Gran starts asking my teachers about my grades and the exams next week, I notice Rozelle down the hall, hanging around, probably waiting to hear what happened with the principal. I slip away from the adults.

“Three-day suspension,” I tell Rozelle. “Because of Sasha.”

Rozelle shrugs. “It's just school. Now, you get more time to practice.”

“Yeah, I guess. But why did she do that?” I pace the hall. “I mean, she's always out to get me.”

“Jealous, I guess,” Rozelle says. “She thinks I spend too much time on you. Don't worry 'bout it.”

“Why not?” I come to a sudden stop. “Are you going to make her pay for sabotaging my show?”

“I already took care of her. She won't pull that shit again.” Rozelle grins, leans against a locker.

“What'd you do?” I ask. I'm imagining a fight behind the school—maybe a broken arm.

Rozelle shrugs again. “Let's just say I straightened her out. Listen, don't let her get to you. You're the man right now. They love you.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” They had still been cheering for me when Mr. Davis hauled me away. “But I wish—”

“We got bigger plans.” Rozelle nudges me. “School's almost out. We should take the show to the streets this summer—maybe find a few carnivals or get into that busker festival downtown. I got us a street permit now, so the cops can kiss my—”

“How do you think of all this?” I shake my head, amazed. “You should do this for real, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Manage talent.”

Rozelle looks pleased. “You still don't get it.” She gives me a friendly slap on the cheek. “This is for real.”

Real? Even the predictions? I know what Rozelle would say. Who cares? Just ride it as far as you can. And maybe she's right.

Then Gran's beside me, looking exhausted as she extends a hand to Rozelle. “So nice to meet one of Calvin's friends. I'm his grandmother.”

Rozelle raises one eyebrow, probably surprised by my white grandmother. “Hey.” She shakes Gran's hand, introduces herself. They look odd together—Gran pale and tired, Rozelle dark and powerful.

Rozelle is saying, “I manage Calvin's shows. You should come see one. It's pretty cool.”

“Well, I better get out of here,” I say, breaking up the awkward party. I can just imagine what Gran thinks of Rozelle's low-cut shirt, jean miniskirt and combat boots, and I don't want Gran to embarrass me. “Suspended, you know.”

Gran frowns. I guess it's not a joke to her. Me either, really. I've never been suspended before, and it doesn't feel so great.

Gran and I head down the hall, and I'm surprised when Rozelle strolls along with us, babbling about her plans for my summer, like she doesn't have a class to go to. Gran nods and asks questions, but I can tell she needs to lie down before she collapses. I speed up, hoping to end the conversation and get Gran home. I burst through the school doors, holding one open for Gran.

Outside, a cameraman and a female reporter wait at the sidewalk beside a white van from the local
TV
station.

“What's this?” Rozelle strolls out after Gran.

“That him?” The cameraman points at me. He's got messy brown hair and he's wearing an AC/DC T-shirt.

I stop abruptly. They're here for me?

The reporter glances up. “Are you Calvin Layne?” She's holding a microphone and wearing a pink jacket with black pants and high heels. “The Yo-Yo Prophet?”

“Oh, my!” Gran claps a hand over her mouth and chokes back a cough.

My heart races. How did they hear about me? Marshall's blog? Maybe YouTube? I glance questioningly at Rozelle, who looks as surprised as I am.

“Don't blow this, Yo-Yo,” she whispers, elbowing me hard in the ribs, “or I'll knock you flat.”

I elbow her back, just to show she can't push me around. “I can handle this.”

Rozelle smirks, almost as if she's proud.

“I'm Calvin.” I stroll across the dandelion-dotted grass toward the reporter, sweat beading on my forehead, trying to act confident.

Shafts of sunlight break through the leaves overhead.

A breeze blows through my hair. Gran and Rozelle keep pace on either side—a heroic triangle with me at the center. As I near the sidewalk, a
TV
camera is shoved in my face. I grin into it, glad I remembered to gel my hair this morning.