The Yo-Yo Prophet (7 page)

7

I can practice yo-yo tricks night and day before a show. I can do study group with Mr. Marnello before the fractions test. But some things I will never be ready for.

I spent four days perfecting new yo-yo tricks and debating whether I should meet up with Rozelle. Now, it's Saturday morning, and I'm standing in the men's washroom at Angelo's burger place, face to chest with Rozelle. I can't breathe. I can't look straight ahead.

“The yo-yo shirt's a start, but you need to pimp up.” Rozelle reaches out, smears my hair with fruity-smelling gel and then rubs it in a little too thoroughly.

“I like my hair the way it is.” I edge sideways. The air is stifling, and the urinals stink. I hope no one else comes in. I couldn't take it.

She yanks me back. “Come on, Yo-Yo. We made a deal. You can run the show, but I gotta do somethin' 'bout your look.” She frowns. “And it ain't easy.”

I glare, keeping my chin tilted up, away from the view of what's busting out of her lace-trimmed tank top.

She wrenches tufts of my hair upright. Her arm muscles ripple with each pull. Her bracelets clang together. The tugging lasts a painfully long time. Squirming just makes her clasp a gooey hand onto my scrawny bicep.

I try to jerk free. “Let go.” Does she know how hard she squeezes?

“Then stay still.” She releases me.

More tugging. She takes a step back, tilts her head sideways, squints and studies my head.

“I guess that'll do.” She slides to one side, leaving me in front of the mirror. “What do you think?”

The fluorescent lights make me look disturbingly pale with big hollows under my eyes. As for my hair—I guess it's okay. It's spiked and wet-looking, as if I'd just toweled it dry.

Rozelle's head appears above mine. “Better than mattin' it down anyway.”

“It looks like I just got out of the shower.”

She shakes her head, making her dangly earrings swing. “You got no taste.” She tries to rearrange a few strands, but I jerk away. She scowls. “Did you at least watch how I did it?”

“How could I see? You were standing in front of me!”

“This is serious, Yo-Yo. Your dweeb image has to go.” She grabs my hand and slaps the tube of gel into it. “Here. Keep it.”

“Thanks.” I make sure she hears the sarcasm in my voice.

A black cloud passes over Rozelle's face. She goes to grab my shirt—the yo-yo one she gave me—and then stops. She rearranges her face into a forced smile. “I better see you usin' it. My gifts don't go to waste.”

“Sure.” I hold back a grin. Making her angry is kind of satisfying now that I know she won't hit me. I mean, why would she damage her meal ticket?

I shove the gel into my bag as we exit the men's washroom together, which is too weird. Sasha and Annette are leaning against the counter, looking lean, brown and tough. Angelo's forcing a guy I recognize from school to buy a coffee.

“Nice hair.” Annette raises her eyebrows at me. She's wearing a skimpy dress with heels, while Sasha's in tight jean shorts and a sparkly top. I can't stop my eyes from skating over them.

“What were you two doing in there?” Sasha sneers. “Did you need a little alone time?”

“Shut up,” Rozelle and I say at the same time. We glance at each other, surprised.

Sasha hoots. “They're even starting to sound the same.” She nudges Annette, who hides her smile with one hand.

“Now, play nice while we have company, kids.” Rozelle flips her straightened hair in Sasha's face as she turns to smile at the guy buying coffee.

Sasha glares at me like I'm to blame for my own existence.

“This is Marshall,” Rozelle says. “And this”—she shoves me forward—“is the Yo-Yo Prophet.”

“Uh…hi.” I shuffle from foot to foot, wondering why he's here. He must be in grade eleven or twelve. Too old to want to talk to me.

Marshall sips his coffee, examining me through the steam. He's got a hard set to his mouth and a skeptical expression on his narrow face. His hair is almost shoulder length—blond with wide chunks of orange and pink. The nose piercing is okay, but the bar through his lip disturbs me.

“Is it true that yo-yos were once used as weapons?” Marshall asks me.

Strange first question. “Weapons?” I say. I see Rozelle and the girls perk up. Not surprising.

“Yeah, I read that sixteenth-century hunters in the Philippines would tie a rock to a long cord and throw it at their prey.” Marshall steps closer as he talks. He's taller than Rozelle but not by much. “Apparently the hunters could pull the rock back like a yo-yo.”

Sasha pretends to throw a rock at me. I ignore her.

“Maybe they did,” I say. “But it's not the same as a yo-yo.”

“What do you mean?”

“When a yo-yo hits something, it loses spin and can't return.”

“Of course.” Marshall sets his coffee on the counter and pulls out a notebook and pen from his back pocket. Behind the counter, Angelo flips a burger, which sizzles and spits on the grill.

“Marshall blogs 'bout cool stuff, Yo-Yo. Lotsa people at school follow him,” Rozelle says. “He's gonna blog 'bout you. Maybe post a few photos or a video. Spread the word online.”

“He is?” My chest gets tight.

“Yup.” Marshall tucks a strand of orange hair behind his ear. “If there's a good story.” He flips to a blank page and starts writing.

I swallow hard. No pressure.

“Okay, let's get goin'. You can talk on the way,” Rozelle says.

“Where are we going?” I ask warily.

“You'll see when we get there.”

“But I—”

“Just worry 'bout your tricks, Yo-Yo. I'll do the rest. Remember?” Rozelle points to a huge portable stereo on one of the tables. “Sasha and Annette, you'll be carryin' that.”

“What's that for?” I'm getting more jittery by the moment.

“I'm makin' improvements,” Rozelle says. “You got the shirt and the new do, now we need tunes for our show.”

Annette grabs the handle and yanks, barely lifting the stereo off the table before she drops it. “Ugh.

It weighs a ton!”

“I don't need music…,” I begin.

“It's a relic.” Sasha rolls her eyes. “Where'd you get it? King Tut's tomb?”

“It's my brother's.” Rozelle glares. “And I carried it here, no problem.”

“Roz, it's too heavy,” Annette whines.

“Yeah, we're both skinny,” Sasha adds, and I know she's implying that Rozelle isn't.

“This'll help you bulk up.” Rozelle hurls the words at Sasha, her jaw muscles clenching and unclenching. Then she links arms with me like she owns me. “You gotta earn your way, just like Yo-Yo and me.”

My arm is burning where it touches hers, but I wait till we head out to pull free. Rozelle waves goodbye to Angelo, whose eye is still twitching like crazy. Now that I know him a bit, it doesn't bother me as much. Marshall leaves his coffee behind; he's still scribbling notes.

As we walk the one block to the subway, Sasha and Annette lag behind, struggling with the stereo. When Marshall hangs back to ask them a question, I whisper to Rozelle. “Are you sure this is a good idea? The blog, I mean?”

“'Course it is. We gotta get the word out 'bout you.”

“But no one at school knows that I do yo-yo tricks. Except you. And them.” I stab a finger toward Sasha and Annette.

“Soon they'll all know, Yo-Yo.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

“You worry too much.” She elbows me in the ribs.

I wince. Then I notice Marshall has caught up to us, and he's listening to every word.

I shut up. It's bad enough that he's blogging about my yo-yoing. He doesn't need to blog about my fears too.

On the subway, Marshall sits on the bench opposite me. Rozelle sits beside me, and Sasha and Annette are one seat over. As the subway rocks, Rozelle knocks against me, but I can't move away since I'm already jammed against the edge of the seat. Marshall asks questions nonstop. What tricks can I do? How did I start yo-yoing? I try to answer well, even though my heart is racing and my face feels hot. Marshall writes everything down.

He asks, “What type of yo-yos do you use?”

Rozelle hovers over my shoulder like she's afraid I'm going to make a mistake.

“Uh, any kind. I've got about eight different ones so far.”

“Do you use them all in your show?”

“No, just this one.” I pull my favorite neon yo-yo out of my backpack. “It's a…uh…modified yo-yo—good for string and looping tricks.”

Marshall glances up from his scribbling. He nods.

“And I just got two new yo-yos in the mail. I've been… uh…trying some two-handed tricks.” Should I have said that?

“Two-handed tricks?” Rozelle interrupts. “Why didn't I hear 'bout this?”

“I didn't know it mattered to you.” I sink lower in my seat.

“Everythin' you do matters to me, Yo-Yo.”

I frown.

“Will you be using those today?” Marshall asks.

“Not yet. I've got to practice with them a bit more.” A lot more.

“You should go for it today,” Rozelle says. “Take it up a notch.”

“No.” I fiddle with my yo-yo, wishing I could break into a few tricks. “I didn't even bring them.”

Rozelle crosses her arms, muscles tight. “Next time.”

“If I'm ready.”

“How often do you practice?” Marshall's still writing.

“All the time.” I don't tell him it's what I do to relax.

It sounds like I have no life.

“And what about those predictions?” Marshall flips back through his notebook, scans a page. “You predicted a robbery and…a job offer?”

It sounds lame when he says it. “I guess.” I shrug.

Rozelle leans in. “The predictions came true.”

“But I don't know if it'll happen again,” I add. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'll never do it again, no matter what Rozelle wants.

“It will.” Rozelle tosses me a frustrated look. “It happens when he doesn't expect it. He'll be doin' his hardest tricks and then…boom…he comes out with this random comment 'bout someone in the crowd. It's pretty cool.”

“Uh-huh.” Marshall sounds unconvinced.

“It's not that cool,” I say.

I stare at Marshall's tiny, neat writing, but I can't read what it says upside down. What if his blog post makes me look stupid?

We get off at Union Station and walk east. Everything feels wrong. My hands are sweating. My hair feels stiff. How am I supposed to perform with stiff hair?

“Tell me where we're going,” I say to Rozelle when we reach the St. Lawrence Market. I can't stand not knowing.

“Right there.” Rozelle points to an open area on the north side of the street, where the market has spilled outside.

We weave between the cars that are stopped for the light. Across the street, a few small trees shade the vendors selling fruits and vegetables at makeshift tables. Baskets overflow with strawberries, herbs and tomatoes, scenting the air and making me feel queasy. Throngs of people mill among the tables, squeezing fruit, browsing, haggling. They don't look ready for a show.

Sasha and Annette drop the stereo near a low brick wall that arcs around a concrete-lined pond. Annette moans. Sasha rubs her shoulder. Marshall sits on the brick wall, his pen perched behind his ear and a camera in one hand. His eyes never leave me.

“This place is hoppin'.” Rozelle glances at the Saturday crowd.

“Are we allowed to perform here?” I cringe. Too many people. Why would they want to watch me?

“Sure we are, Yo-Yo. You just get ready.”

As we set up, Eleanor Rizzo—the woman I predicted would get a job—appears. I glare at Rozelle, who must have invited her, but she's busy introducing Eleanor to Marshall, who starts interviewing her. No one asks me if this is what I want.

I pull out my yo-yo and toss a few. Eleanor looks different—brighter, happier, better dressed. As she answers Marshall's questions about my last show, it bugs me that I can't get a clear idea of what he's thinking, what he might blog about me. His mouth is always set in that same thin line, and his eyes narrow like he doesn't believe a word he hears.

My scalp feels tight. I'm on edge. When Marshall insists on taking a few photos of Eleanor and me together, I feel guilty, like I'm still lying to her. But I can't let anything get to me. Sasha and Annette are cuing the music—another distraction to deal with.

I step onto the brick wall, which is just wide enough to hold me. Rozelle places a red plastic bucket in front of me. On it, she's painted Yo-Yo Prophet in yellow letters. “For all the money we're gonna make,” she says. “Get started. Then I'll introduce you.”

“Okay.” I spin my neon yo-yo in an inside loop, hoping my hands will stay steady.

Rozelle nods to Annette, who's positioned beside the stereo. Marshall starts video-recording my performance, which I try to ignore. The music blares. Heads turn. I throw ten reach-for-the-moons to keep their attention.

“You call this music?” I hear Sasha yell.

A circle of people begins to form around me. I glimpse anger flaring on Rozelle's face, but she stays concentrated on me and the crowd.

“It's Teknonaut,” Annette scolds. “Remember? Her brother's techno sound.” She nods toward Rozelle.

I'm curious about her brother's music, but I have no time to think. I walk-the-dog along the brick wall.

“Some music!” Sasha hoots. “I predict great success. Does that make me a prophet too?”

I have to agree with Sasha. The music is bizarre: random noises, droning vocals and a techno beat. But I like the steady rhythm. It calms me and lets me focus.

I begin a roller-coaster trick by throwing a trapeze, making the yo-yo loop around the finger of my left hand and then land back on the string. Keeping time with the music, I bounce the yo-yo off the string and swing it to loop around my right hand into another trapeze. Then I send it back again for a double or nothing on the left hand and swing into a dismount.