The Yo-Yo Prophet (9 page)

Van shakes her head and looks away. “I have to go.”

I'm trembling now. I guess I'm being selfish, not caring about her family, but I just can't help it.

Gran squeezes my hand. “That's one of the reasons I'm selling the store.” Her voice is raspy, like how she gets before the coughing starts. “I can't run it without Van's help.”

“I have already given notice to my landlord,” Van says. “I leave at the end of June.”

“In two weeks? But, Van!” I lean against the wall and rub my eyes. Is this really happening? Vancouver is on the other side of the country.

The bell over the front door rings as someone enters the store. I'm numb. I thump the back of my head against the wall.

Van leaps to her feet, saying, “Sorry, the door should be locked. We are…oh, hello, Mr. Spader.”

Spader's face appears over the counter. I can see the disgusting little hairs inside his nostrils. What does he want?

“Mr. Spider.” Gran struggles to stand.

I help her up.

“Mrs. Layne,” he answers, bowing his head slightly. Spader's salt-and-pepper hair is freshly cut. His shirt is clean and wrinkle-free.

Gran brushes off her skirt. She muffles a cough with her hand.

I watch Spader carefully, hoping he'll slip up and expose whatever scam he's planning.

“I'm sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” he says, “but I just happened to be driving by. Are we on track for next Friday?”

“Certainly. We're just clearing out a few things.” Gran's voice is still raspy.

“Wonderful. And the apartment?”

“Yes?”

“You've found a new place to live?”

“To live?”

“A new home.” Spader's nostrils flare. “Remember? We agreed that you would vacate the apartment by August first. I only ask because I know it can be hard to find good rental properties right now.”

Gran stares blankly at Spader. I get a sinking feeling. Van looks grim.

“Please tell me you've been looking for a new home, Mrs. Layne.” Spader raises his eyebrows.

“Well…” Gran is visibly shaking. She glances at Van.

“I haven't found anything yet.”

Van puts a hand on Gran's shoulder. “It is okay, Nancy. There is still time. We will find you a place.”

A wicked cough erupts from Gran's throat. “Of course we will.” Gran slumps as a coughing fit overtakes her. She leans against the counter. Her face goes red. Her eyes water.

“Gran!”

“Mrs. Layne!”

Van and I both reach for an arm, but Gran's legs collapse, and she's falling, still coughing.

“No!” I yell.

Gran thuds to the floor, just missing the stool, clutching her chest. I'm tugging at her arm to ease her fall, but I only manage to collapse on top of her.

I leap off, afraid I've crushed her. Van and I kneel beside her.

“Gran?”

She hacks and splutters as we prop her up. Her face gets redder. She struggles for air. Her eyes shut. Tears stream down her cheeks. Spader towers over us.

There's a long moment when I'm holding my breath for Gran, as if it will help her catch hers. I can only hear Gran's cough, smell the dust and chemicals of the store, feel my heart hammering, my hand clenched around Gran's. I want to force her throat open, make her be okay.

One big cough and then Gran gasps in air. She moans. Her eyes open. They find me. “Richard?” she asks.

“Call the doctor,” I tell Van. To Spader I say, “Leave us alone. I think you've done enough.”

9

Gran's room smells worse than my locker at school.

The blind is drawn, although a crack of morning sunlight slices across the hardwood floor and up the pink and green floral wallpaper. I tiptoe from the door to her double bed. She's in a flannel nightgown, rolled on her side facing the wall, the faded pink covers tangled around her legs. Her breathing is heavy, rattling.

I stand there, watching her shoulder rise and fall. It's about all I've done for the last three days, other than take her to doctor appointments and worry about her. I've even missed two days of school so far, although I couldn't care less. Gran is more important.

The drawer of her night table is open, and photos lie scattered across the bed—pictures of Gramps and my father, and one of my mother as a girl in Vietnam. There's also a newspaper open to the classifieds. A few ads for apartments have been circled.

I frown. The doctor said she should be resting. He's going to run some more tests—try to figure out what's wrong with her—once she's stronger.

I turn to leave, trying to avoid the squeaky floorboards. Gran's steady wheeze grows louder, bubbling into a cough.

I turn back as she wakes, hacking. She rolls on her back and props herself up, coughing till her eyes stream with tears. The covers shift, and photos fall to the floor.

I hand her a tissue and pick up the photos. I wish I could do more. “You okay?” I ask, knowing she isn't.

She nods and wipes her eyes. Then she reaches out a shaking hand for the photos.

I pass them over. “You don't have to look for an apartment right now. Van has promised to help.”

Gran sighs heavily. “I know.” Her voice is rough. The skin on her face is sagging and gray. It scares me.

She glances at the photos, and her eyes glaze over.

“I remember the day Richard got that bicycle. Red, it was, with a loud horn. Jimmy ran it over with the car that very night.” She shakes her head, her lips curving up at the corners. “An accident, of course. Richard left it in the alley, right behind the car.” She strokes the photo. “Remember how he cried? He was always so sensitive.”

My father cried? “Gran, I wasn't even alive then.”

“What?” Gran peers up at me, squinting as if she's trying to figure out who I am. “Calvin? Why aren't you in school?”

It's like she disappears and then comes back to me. And I never know when she'll go, or if she'll stay away for good. “I'm not going today.”

“Because of me? You should go. Don't you have exams next week? You've missed two days this week already.”

I blink, surprised. How does she know all that when she seems so out of it most of the time? “But the doctor said someone should—”

“Van's downstairs. She can help me out. Now go on.” She sets her chin in the way that means she's serious.

I consider arguing, or just refusing, but it's not worth upsetting her. Anyway, I'd like to go, just to see if anyone at school has seen Marshall's blog post or the video. I could only bear to watch the video once—I looked so dorky. Some of the comments were okay, but what will people who know me think? My stomach knots. Most people think a yo-yo is just a toy.

“I'll be back right after school,” I say. “And I'll tell Van to come up.”

In a few minutes, I'm veering into the back of the shop, looking for Van.

Franco's at the steam press, looking bulky and tough even though he spends his time pressing clothes. His biceps ripple as he pulls the arm down on the press, trapping the clothes and releasing a cloud of steam. When he catches sight of me, his gaze falls heavy, and his face changes—downturned eyebrows and a pitying half smile.

I hold his gaze without smiling. I don't need his pity.

Lucy's blocking my way. She's short, round and red in the face, with a bundle of dark hair wound into a loose bun on top of her head.

“How are you doing, Mr. Calvin?” She grips my arm.

“Fine, Lucy. Where's Van?”

“I think she went out.” Lucy wipes a damp hair off her forehead.

I stare her down. Her eyes shift sideways, which is a sure sign she's lying. But why?

I hear Van, talking loudly at the front counter. It's her telephone voice—the one she uses to be heard over the sound of the machines. She's been here so long that she sometimes yells into the phone even when the machines are quiet.

“I've got to go, Lucy.” I pull my arm free.

“But Mr. Calvin—”

I push past her. Van is standing at the counter, phone to her ear, her back to me. The sun shines through the front window, giving her straight black hair a silver halo. As I near, I hear her shout, “I said Richard Layne. Do you know where he is?”

Suddenly my throat tightens. My stomach flips. She'll never find him. Because if he wanted to come home, he would. He knows where we are: right where he left us.

I exit through the back of the shop.

“Tell Van I'm at school,” I say to Lucy and Franco.

“Tell her to watch over Gran.”

I stop in front of the doors to the school and wipe my palms dry on my shorts. I peer through the narrow window.

No one's in the hall, or on the grounds. I've probably missed most of first period by now. I grab the door handle and then let go like it's electrified. What if everyone thinks yo-yos are lame? What if they laugh?

My head is buzzing. I scrunch up my toes inside my shoes and lean my forehead against the window.

Maybe I should wait till second period starts. I could sneak in when the hall gets crowded. I hate how everyone gapes at me when I come in late. I hate Ms. Friezen, the school secretary, who hands out hall passes along with endless lectures.

I peel my forehead off the window and reach into my pocket for one of my red yo-yos. What I need is some gravitational satisfaction before I face Ms. Friezen, Marshall, anyone. Or maybe I should just head home.

I turn to see this guy coming up the walk toward me.

He's in grade ten, I think. Blond hair in his eyes, baggy T-shirt, jean shorts, bright green Converse. He's working a yo-yo badly, like it's his first time.

I watch that yo-yo wobbling up and down the string like a drunk on a skateboard. My eyes see it, but my brain can't process it. This guy—older than me—is bringing a yo-yo to school? And he's worse at it than Gran would be? Talk about social suicide.

The guy looks up. His eyes widen when they land on me. “That you?” His yo-yo falls limp, flattens into a spin. “Calvin?”

I glance around. No one else is in sight. “Are you talking to me?”

He grins. “Sure. You are Calvin Layne, aren't you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He holds up his dangling yo-yo. It's a piece-of-crap wooden one, painted with orange flames. “Can you tell me how to work this thing?”

“Um. I guess.” What's going on?

He wanders closer with his pathetic yo-yo. I explain to the guy—he tells me his name is Joseph—how to power throw and when to tug to make the yo-yo return. While he's working on that, I can't help tossing a few. The sun's beating down on us, and the smell of fresh-cut grass drifts on a warm breeze. Joseph is easygoing—he grins when his yo-yo spins outs. I'm starting to mellow, when I catch Joseph gaping.

“That's so cool!” he says. “Do that one with the flips again.”

“You mean Buddha's revenge?” I start with a breakaway that leads into a one-and-a-half mount. Swing the yo-yo over my throwhand, landing it on the string on the opposite side. I bring my other hand underneath, making the yo-yo land on the string between my hands. Then I use my throwhand to land the yo-yo back on the string, let the yo-yo roll out to a trapeze and end with a Ferris-wheel dismount.

When I look up, Joseph's got this lopsided smile. “You're frickin' awesome!” He slaps me on the back.

A laugh bursts out of me, and my face gets hot.

“Show me more,” Joseph says.

I shrug and let loose a few more moves. It's not showing off, really. He wants to see.

“Let me try that.” Joseph lobs out his yo-yo and it flatlines. He can't even throw a sleeper. “I'm useless.” He snorts. “Let's see that Buddha thing again.”

I laugh. “You've got to start small. Buddha's revenge isn't for beginners.”

I try to teach him a sleeper, but he keeps asking for Buddha's revenge. When I start to play it out for him one more time, I hear the squeak of hinges as the door to the school opens behind me. Focusing on my moves, I ignore it. When someone yanks me by the collar, I gag, stumbling backward into the school and jerking my yo-yo home before it crashes against the metal doorframe.

“Hey,” I yell, twisting free.

“Where you been, Yo-Yo?”

“Rozelle.” I face her—and Sasha and Annette. I don't exactly hate seeing Rozelle, but my throat hurts from where she yanked my collar. They're all looking as polished as usual, and I want to smack myself for noticing.

“I was gonna come lookin' for you.” Rozelle is actually grinning, like she's sincere. “I mean, who would wanna miss this?”

“Miss what?” I glance around. My new best friend Joseph has trailed us in. Beside me, he's busy trying to throw a sleeper—and failing miserably. Other than us five, the hall is empty, the classroom doors closed.

“You.” Rozelle smirks. “Goin' hard-core. Thanks to me.”