The Yo-Yo Prophet (8 page)

A few people clap. I soak it up. It's like rain after a drought.

“Isn't he wonderful!” exclaims Eleanor.

I head into my next trick, eager to please.

“Yo, people!” Rozelle yells over the music. “This here's the Yo-Yo Pro-phet!” She sounds like a hip-hop carnival caller. “A pro with a yo-yo! With a knack for predictin' the future!”

Will she ever shut up about that? I move into a zipper—a smooth trick with loads of cool flips.

“Whoa! Look at him go!” I hear a man say.

Everyone's energy is feeding into mine as more people gather. Marshall's staying near the front, his pen still lodged behind his ear, his camera glued to my every move. Annette's chomping on her gum like a cow chewing its cud.

The zipper's a big hit with everyone but Sasha, who's not even watching. I throw a few around-the-worlds. My blood's pulsing, the music's pounding.

Then I sense a disturbance, like I've lost people's attention. I scan between throws. A cop in uniform is striding toward me, his hat pulled low over dark sunglasses.

My legs begin to shake. I switch to a series of loop-the-loops so I can catch what's going on. People turn and gape as the cop pushes through.

He stops between Rozelle and Marshall, right in front of me. Annette's wide-eyed, one hand on the stereo, lowering the music to half volume. Sasha's smirking. The cop tucks one thumb into a utility belt that Batman would be proud of.

“Can I see your permit?” His voice is so deep it rumbles.

“Permit?” I squeak. My yo-yo wobbles in its loop.

A few people laugh, Sasha loudest of all.

Be strong, I tell myself. Keep control.

“You do have one, don't you?” He adjusts his hat. “The City requires it for all street performers.”

“Uh…” I glance at Rozelle.

“Officer,” Rozelle says, and I recognize that smooth voice she uses on teachers. “I'm his manager. Maybe we could talk over here?” She puts a hand on his arm, tries to lead him away.

The cop's black boots remain planted. “Just show me the permit.”

“You don't understand. I'm—”

“Young lady, I'm here to enforce the law, not chat. Now, do you have a permit?”

The crowd murmurs. Rozelle looks tiny next to this cop. I'm just trying to keep the show going—whirling, twisting, endless loops.

“We'll get one tomorrow—,” she begins.

“No permit. No performance.” He motions to Annette to cut the music, which she does.

My blood still keeps the beat. I've never done so many loops in a row.

“No!” Rozelle yells at Annette, who doesn't move to turn it back on. “Really, sir, we'll only be a few more minutes. Let us finish.”

The cop places both hands on his hips. “If you're going to cause a disturbance, miss, I'll have to take you in.”

Rozelle blinks. She scoops up the bucket. “Do we still need a permit if we're not collectin' money?”

“That's enough.” The cop pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. “What's your name, young lady?”

Rozelle's mouth falls open and then shuts.

No way. Is he going to arrest her? For some reason, this gets to me. Why should she matter?

I rev up. My hands are on fire. My cheeks feel blistered. The yo-yo and I are like a piston engine, gaining power with each crazy revolution.

“Officer, give us another chance, please.” I find my voice, try to sound calm. “It's not like we're bothering anyone. We're not wrecking things or robbing people.” I think of the jewelry store owner. “I mean, there are probably people who need you more than we do.” I try to laugh—make it a joke. “Like, maybe there's a crime happening around the corner right now?”

Before the cop can react, a police car races down the street, sirens blaring, red-and-blue lights flashing. A few people gasp. Eleanor shrieks. The cop's head spins so fast it's unnatural. The radio on his belt crackles to life. The car pulls to a screeching halt a few buildings away. The cop takes off, one hand pulling his radio free.

“Get that permit,” he calls as his boots pound the sidewalk.

People are talking all around me.

“How did he know?”

“I can't believe it!”

My head is reeling. My yo-yo hangs limp. I can't remember what trick I was throwing.

“The Yo-Yo Prophet!” Rozelle steps onto the brick wall beside me, her face flushed and gleaming. “You heard it from his own mouth.” She slaps me hard on the back. “This guy can predict the future.” She gives me a sideways look. “He really can.”

Someone begins to clap. Others join in until it fills my ears, flooding me with happiness. Marshall cheers as loud as the rest. Coins ring into the bucket.

They believe her. And for the first time, I do too.

8

I wake the next day with my hair flattened against my head, the spikes gone, like yesterday never happened.

I should feel deflated—back to my usual boring self— except for the bills and coins on my dresser.

I pick up the stack of bills and fan myself; I run the coins through my fingers, liking the metallic smell. It's more money than I've ever made before. More people swarmed me after the show. And that cop car appearing right after I… My skin tingles. I still can't believe it. Did I really predict it? Or was it dumb luck?

I flop back onto the tangle of sheets and stare at the peeling paint on the ceiling. I had said what was on my mind. It was instinct. But somehow, it came true. Like in a comic book, when the scrawny guy discovers his special power—sonic speed or immortality—and he's suddenly more than a pathetic loser. He has potential.

Do I have potential?

Is that why Rozelle won't leave me alone?

I sit up with a jerk, craning my neck so I can see into the mirror above my dresser. When I turn to the side, I try to catch a glimpse of my profile. Does my hair really look matted? Not that I care what she thinks.

I pull on a T-shirt and shorts. Rozelle's tube of gel sits on the dresser beside the coins. I snatch it up and squeeze a blob onto my palm. It won't hurt to try. I yank and tug my hair into tufts, like Rozelle did.

It just looks messy.

Who am I kidding?

I rake my hands over my head, trying to scrub off the gel. When I stop, it actually looks not bad. At least, not bad for me. Almost as if Rozelle did it.

I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if Marshall will write about me—the Yo-Yo Prophet. Maybe he already has. My stomach does a loop-the-loop. I hope he doesn't trash me.

My eyes drift again to the pile of bills and coins— money people threw after I made that prediction—and I get to thinking: If I can predict when Eleanor Rizzo will get a job, or when a crime will happen, can I predict my own future?

I know what I want to happen. I want to be a yo-yo master. To be accepted, even liked. But I also want Gran to get better. And I want this deal with Spader to work out well for us.

So what does my gut tell me will happen?

Only one way to find out. I grab my new red twin racers from my desk and slide the slip-loop onto the middle finger of each hand. There's not much floor space in my room so I scoot into the living room. Gran's nowhere in sight. It's Sunday morning, so maybe she's at the flea market. She hasn't been well enough to go in ages.

Alone with the painted royal faces, I break into alternating two-handed loops. I keep my loops horizontal so I'm throwing above Gran's collection. When I almost hit the Queen Elizabeth II commemorative tankard, I shift backward. I can picture a red yo-yo slicing through the air to explode it. Not good.

My left hand is weaker than my right, although hours of practice have helped. But it isn't just about practice. It's knowing how to feel the yo-yo—when to tug, when to let it out, when it's going off track.

I time my throws so one yo-yo is going out as the other one is coming back. I lose myself in the rhythm of it, my hands shaping the loops. I relax, let mistakes happen, move into the flow of the yo-yos, the endless cycle. They pull away, recover, spin back. I follow the momentum, let it carry me into the zone.

I'm loose yet focused, like riding a bicycle without holding the handlebars.

“What's going to happen to me?” I ask, trying to keep it casual.

I wait one, two, three beats. Then the answers hit like a slap from Rozelle.

I'm practically a yo-yo genius. One yo-yo smacks against my palm. Spader's deal is too good to be true. The other yo-yo thuds home. And Gran's getting sicker.

I slump onto Gran's rose-colored couch, still reeling from my predictions, trying to ignore those stiff china faces with their penetrating eyes. Maybe I can predict the future. Too bad I can't do anything to change it.

I head downstairs to check if Marshall has posted anything; I might as well find out how bad it is. I enter through the back door. The machines are quiet, since it's Sunday, and the chemical smell is faint. I find Gran with Van, clearing out the shelves under the front counter, getting ready for Spader's takeover next week.

Van is on her knees, her blue cotton skirt tucked under her legs. Her head is under the counter, and she's scrubbing the inside of a cupboard with a soapy cloth, her arm muscles like ropes.

Gran is seated on a low stool, gazing into a cardboard box as if she's forgotten what she was doing. Her T-shirt is twisted around her waist.

“Gran? You okay?” I kneel next to her.

“I'm fine, Jimmy.” Gran waves me away with one hand.

Great. Now she thinks I'm Gramps.

Gran straightens her shirt, picks up a stack of receipts from the box and drops them back in. “Just tidying up.”

Van pulls her head out from the cupboard and says, “Good morning, Calvin.” She passes me a cloth and points at the second cupboard. “A good grandson helps his bà.”

“Sure.” I take the cloth. Not that I get why we need to clean for Spader. “I just want to look something up online first.”

Van nods. “Okay.” She dips her cloth into the nearby bucket and then wrings it out.

I turn on the computer and pull up a chair.

“I remember when we first bought this place.” Gran sighs. “We had loans from three different banks, and none of them knew about the others. That first year, we ate a lot of onion sandwiches.”

“Onion sandwiches?” I make a grossed-out face. “Why?”

Gran startles, as if she hadn't realized she'd been talking. “Sorry?” Her clouded blue eyes find my face. “Oh, it's you, Calvin.” She pats my leg. “Onions make a cheap meal. It was all we could afford.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Rough.” I hope she won't be eating onion sandwiches again because Spader ripped her off.

I google Marshall's blog. When it starts to load, I stiffen, bracing for impact. What if Marshall wrote something terrible about me? What if he didn't write anything at all?

Seconds later, the headline stuns me. Yo-Yo Genius. Just like I predicted.

My skin prickles.

I glance at the photo of me with Eleanor, and then I skim the post:
Calvin Layne—yo-yo master or fortuneteller? There's no question that Layne can throw a yo-yo. He practically defies the principles of time and space. The question is: can he ascend into a Zen state that allows him to see the future?

It goes on for a while, reviewing my shows and predictions. Then it says,
Based on what this blogger witnessed, Calvin Layne deserves the title Yo-Yo Prophet
.

“Whoa.” I lean back in my chair. Even Marshall believes in the Yo-Yo Prophet.

“What is it, Calvin?” Van is at my shoulder.

“Uh, nothing. Just something about these yo-yo tricks I did,” I say. “I can help you clean now.” Marshall also posted a video of my performance, but I plan to watch it later, in private.

I turn off the computer and push in the chair. I start wiping down a cupboard, not with as much enthusiasm as Van, but it gets clean enough.

“So this deal with Spader…,” I begin.

Gran is gazing into the box again, looking lost.

“The sale closes on Friday,” Van says.

“In five days. I know.” I think about the prediction I made earlier this morning that Spader's deal is too good to be true. “What do you know about this guy? I mean, why does Spader want to buy this place? Can he be trusted? People try to cheat all the time, you know.” I leave out the bit about Gran being an easy target right now.

“Oh, Calvin.” Van stops scrubbing. “We talked about this before. Your bà needs this sale.”

“I know, but Gran should find the best deal, shouldn't she? Because if this deal sucks, you and I can take care of the shop until a new deal comes along. It's not like we're in a rush or anything. Maybe we should…” I trail off because Van has gone stiff, although her deep brown eyes are soft on me.

“It is time to tell him,” she says to Gran.

Gran looks surprised, and then she nods. “It is.”

Her eyes seem clearer, like she's back from wherever she went.

“What's going on?” I glance back and forth between them, squeezing my cloth so tight that it drips water on my leg. “Tell me what?”

Van drops her cloth into the bucket. She settles back on her heels. “I have been trying to find a good time to tell you, but no time is right.” She sighs. “I am moving to Vancouver. You know my daughter's baby will be born soon, and her son, Samuel, is only two. With two young ones, she will need my help, and I want to be close to them.”

“But you can't!”

Van and Gran exchange looks. Gran grips one of my hands. Her fingers feel cold, frail.

“This is hard. I know.” Van is wringing her hands. “For me too. That is why I did not tell you before. I wanted to, but…I just could not find the words. They”—she makes a fluttering motion with her hands—“flew away.”

“But we need you too.” My voice is too loud. “Can't someone else help your daughter?” Even as I say it, I realize how ridiculous it sounds.