The Yo-Yo Prophet (17 page)

I wake to someone shaking me.

The room is dark, except for the blinding rectangle of light from the hall door.

“Gran?” I mumble. “Is it time for school?”

“Who you calling Gran?” snaps a female voice with a thick Jamaican accent. “Wake yourself up and get on home! This isn't a hotel.”

I jump to my feet, head reeling. Gran is sleeping in a hospital bed. The horror rushes back in.

“How'd you get in here anyway?” The nurse has her hands on her hips.

“That's my grandmother,” I plead. “I have to stay with her.”

“It's four in the morning!” she says, although her expression softens. “Come back during visiting hours.”

“But they let me stay last night—”

“Not on my floor.” She nudges me toward the hall. “I've got enough people to watch. I don't need you hanging around.”

The nurse blocks my view of Gran, although I can hear her snoring as loud as ever. I grab my backpack and scurry out of the room, squinting at the fluorescent lights in the hall.

“Make sure you take care of her.” I glance back. Then I head down to the emergency department, where the waiting room is packed with dozing people.

I'm sure one more won't hurt.

I spend the rest of the night avoiding the hospital security guards. In the morning, I get my breakfast from the vending machine—three packages of chocolate-chip cookies—and sneak past the new shift of nurses to Gran's room. I find Gran awake, staring into space, too doped up to know what's going on. When a woman in a white lab coat bustles in, I'm licking chocolate off my fingers, although my stomach is growling for more.

“Oh!” The woman startles when she sees me.

I leap up, scattering wrappers on the floor. “Are you her doctor?”

“Yes, I'm Dr. Chen.” She shoves her hands in the pockets of her lab coat and frowns slightly. “Are you a relative?”

“I'm her grandson, Calvin Layne,” I say. The inside of my mouth feels like it's coated in slime. I wish I'd brought my toothbrush.

“Visiting hours start in”—she glances at the wall clock—“three hours.”

“I know. Please don't kick me out. I need to be with her.” I stand tall, trying to look as mature as possible, like I won't cause any trouble.

Dr. Chen regards me skeptically, although her eyes are kind. “Where's the rest of your family?”

“Uh, my dad's out getting breakfast.” It could be true, and I sure don't want Family Services to get involved. “Can I stay?”

“I suppose for now you're not bothering anyone.” She glances at the empty bed beside Gran's. “But next time, follow the rules.” She moves to Gran's bedside.

“Great. Thanks.” I pick my wrappers off the floor and dump them in the garbage. I watch Dr. Chen, hoping she'll tell me what's wrong with Gran.

Dr. Chen brushes a strand of hair off Gran's face.

“How are you today, Nancy?”

“Fine, Your Majesty,” Gran slurs, waving her away.

I cringe and step closer, so I'm on the opposite side of the bed from Dr. Chen.

The doctor glances at me. “Your grandson's here early. He seems very fond of you.”

“Calvin is a good boy.” Gran smiles in my general direction, and I reach for her hand. I'm glad she remembers my name, although I'm not sure how good I am.

“His father stepped out to get breakfast. Did you see him earlier?”

My eyes get wide. Is Dr. Chen checking up on me?

“Richard's not here right now,” Gran mumbles.

For the first time ever, I'm glad Gran is not alert.

Dr. Chen nods. “I understand you run a dry-cleaning business?”

“For more than forty years.” Gran sighs. Her eyelids droop and her grip on my hand relaxes.

“She sold it though,” I say. “We're moving soon.”

“Good.” Dr. Chen nods again and says to Gran, “I suspect that your health issues may be a result of prolonged exposure to perc. Did you use it in your cleaning process?”

Gran nods, and then her eyes shut, like she can't keep them open any longer.

“In that case, I'd like to identify the specific chemicals involved. Is that possible? Nancy?”

Gran struggles to open her eyes and fails.

“Maybe we should talk about this later,” Dr. Chen says.

“What's perc?” I ask. I never paid much attention to the cleaning process. I only worked the front counter.

“It's short for perchloroethylene—a chemical used in dry cleaning. It can cause dizziness, confusion, inflammation of the respiratory system, fluid buildup in the lungs, kidney problems—all of which your grandmother has.”

“Is she going to get better?”

“Of course I am,” Gran mutters, her eyes still closed.

Dr. Chen and I exchange smiles.

“I agree, Nancy. Your symptoms should improve now that you're away from the perc. Although there is a danger that, over long periods of time, perc can cause more permanent problems…” Her voice trails off.

“Like what?” I'm instantly on edge.

Dr. Chen glances at me and then looks away.

“Please,” I whisper. “We have to know.”

Gran mumbles, but I can't make out what she saying.

“Maybe we should discuss worst-case scenarios when your dad gets here,” Dr. Chen says. “I've reduced your grandmother's pain medication, so she'll become more alert shortly. We can talk then.”

“It's bad, isn't it?” I think of my mother. “Just tell me it's not cancer,” I beg.

Dr. Chen's eyes remain steady, but her forehead furrows.

I swallow hard.

“We need to think positively.” Dr. Chen examines my face, as if she really cares how I feel. “We should know more soon. In the meantime, I promise I'll do everything I can. Okay?”

I nod, unable to speak.

Dr. Chen checks the clock and gives me a sympathetic smile. “It's still a while until visiting hours start, but you can stay with your grandmother, as long as you're quiet. I'll let the nurses know you're here.”

“Thanks.” My hands are jittery. I reach into my pocket for a yo-yo, but there's nothing there.

Although I'm afraid to leave Gran for long, my stomach eventually demands more food. At lunch time, I head to the cafeteria, where I buy some pizza. There's a tv tuned to the local news.

I eat my pizza quickly, eyes on the screen. It's not Urban-tv News, but it gets me thinking. Did they air the duel? Is it posted on YouTube? Am I a laughingstock yet? I don't want to see the video, but I can't stop myself. I have to find out how bad it is.

I hurry down the street to the public library. Inside, there are two rows of computer terminals with Internet access. Three people are already lined up for the computers, and I fidget while I'm waiting, thinking about Gran. When I finally get a turn, I navigate to the Yo-Yo Prophet blog first, wondering if Marshall has taken down the site, but it's still there.

My stomach sinks when I read the title of his latest post: Yo-Yo Prophet or Yo-Yo Profit?

At a duel to determine the ultimate Local Yo-Yo Master, the Yo-Yo Prophet proved to be seriously outclassed by World Yo-Yo Champion Black Magic—in more ways than one.

First, Black Magic demonstrated superior yo-yo skill in trick after trick, and the crowd crowned him the clear winner of the contest.

Then Sasha Reynolds, a source close to the Yo-Yo Prophet, revealed he was a fake who relied on others to make his “predictions” come true.

The Yo-Yo Prophet? More like the Yo-Yo Profit.

We've been duped, readers. All of us. We believed the words of a cheat who tricked people out of their money with sensational lies.

I've resigned my job as personal online reporter to the Yo-Yo Profit and revised his prediction accuracy rate on this site. Take a look at the stats. This guy is clearly a fake.

I grind my teeth. Like it was ever about the money. Marshall doesn't get it. And he doesn't even mention Rozelle. Like it's all my fault. Although maybe it is. I'm the fool who followed her.

I scroll through a few of the blog comments, which read more like hate mail.

As soon as I saw him, I knew this kid was a flake… …just another scam artist preying on innocent people…
I want to leave my own comment, but what would I say? You're right? I am a loser?

Marshall estimated my prediction accuracy rate to be forty percent. Some record.

I think back to the last predictions I made about my own life: Gran is worse, not better. We still haven't found a new apartment. The gray-eyed girl isn't interested in me. And I'm no yo-yo master. A zero-percent accuracy rate. Nice.

I can hardly bear to watch the newscast on YouTube. Black Magic looks like a god beside me. The reporter smiles as if she's enjoying my failure. I hate Rozelle for making me look stupid. I hate how everyone can see my humiliation forever. I hate that reporter for ever taking an interest in me.

I was better off when I was anonymous.

For the next few days, I spend as much time at the hospital as I can, only going home when I have to.

One afternoon during visiting hours, Gran moans and struggles to sit up.

I jump to her side. “Careful.” I push the button to raise the head of the bed.

“Calvin?” Gran glances around the hospital room like she's just figuring out where she is.

“How are you feeling?” I'm glad she recognizes me.

“I've been better.” She grimaces, coughs and then wipes her eyes with a trembling hand. “What happened? How did I get here?”

“You fell, Gran.” I sit on the edge of her bed. “When I was out.” I remember her collapsed on the landing. “I'm so sorry. If only I had—”

“Oh, Calvin,” Gran scolds, her voice hoarse, although she speaks without slurring. “You're my grandson, not my babysitter.”

I crack half a smile. “Now I know you're feeling better.” I tell her what Dr. Chen said, although I don't mention the cancer part. I'll leave that to the doctor, mostly because I can't bring myself to say the word. “You've been here for days,” I finish.

Gran rests her head against the pillow. Her brow furrows. The hollows in her cheeks deepen. She's silent for a while, and then her eyes close. Just when I wonder if she's falling asleep, she says, “How was your yo-yo show?”

“Terrible,” I say, surprised she remembers. I explain what happened. “I'm so stupid. I wish I could erase the video from the Internet.”

Gran's face contorts with pain. She clutches the blanket.

“I'll get the nurse.” I leap to my feet. My problems are nothing compared to Gran's.

“No,” she croaks. “It'll pass.”

I sit beside her, uneasy.

Her blue eyes are unfocused. The veins in her hands bulge beneath her pale skin. “Her Majesty knows we've both made mistakes,” she mutters.

Not again. I wince. “Gran, what are you talking about?”

“Queen Elizabeth the Second.” Her nose whistles as she exhales. “She's reigned for so long and so well through so many changes.” She gets a faraway look. “I always wanted to be queen, ever since I was a little girl. Although I was a queen, in a way. Queen of my shop.”