The Yo-Yo Prophet (12 page)

“Yes, I know,” Spader answers mildly. “Is your grandmother available?”

He leans the signs against the wall. One says in bold green lettering
Chemical-Free Dry Cleaning
, but it's the other one that irks me:
Under New Management
.

I fold my arms across my chest. “She's sick. The doctor says she has to stay in bed.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I had hoped she would be better by now.” He strokes his neatly trimmed goatee.

“And her next in charge—Van, I think it is? May I see her?”

“You can”—I narrow my eyes—“with a five-hour flight.”

“I beg your pardon?” Spader's starting to get huffy.

“I don't understand.”

“She's in Vancouver.” I shrug and slide into the chair in front of the computer, even though it's off. I pretend to type, like I have something important to do. “You'll have to deal with me.”

Spader goes silent, and I can feel his eyes on me. I wish I were wearing a better T-shirt—at least a clean one—and that I'd put gel in my hair. I wish I could make my hands stop trembling over the keys.

“In that case, please tell your grandmother that I'll speak with her another day.”

I meet Spader's eyes, which are steel blue. “Unless she's resting,” I say. I keep my voice strong. I won't let him upset Gran again.

“Of course. I don't want to intrude.” Spader motions to his signs. “In the meantime, do you mind if I leave these window signs here? It will save me lugging them home and back again.”

“Well…” I love that he has to ask my permission.

“I guess I'll allow it.” I make my face go stony.

“Thank you, Calvin.”

When Spader leaves, I bolt the door. He won't get close to Gran if I can help it.

12

On Monday at school, even the coolest grade twelves ask me for predictions. The power of YouTube, I guess. Joseph follows me around at lunch, asking me to teach him tricks. Geordie is happy to let me copy his notes from the last few days of classes; he acts like I'm some kind of celebrity.

“Why didn't you tell me you could do this?” he asks.

I shrug. “Guess I didn't know if you would like it.”

“What are you talking about?” He gestures with his oversize hands. “You're awesome. Predicting the future is even better than reading minds. And it's so cool how it works with the yo-yo.” He nods and looks thoughtfully into the distance. “It makes me think about yo-yos differently. They're like”—he pauses—“this source of untapped power.”

I feel so good that I don't even mind handing my written apology to Mr. Davis.

Before my math exam, Mr. Marnello asks with a wink, “Any predictions about how well you'll do, Calvin?”

“I'll do okay, Mr. Marnello.” I smile. On the weekend, I predicted that I'd get a B, which is pretty good, for me.

“I hope so.”

When I bump into Marshall, he won't stop talking about the Urban-
TV
piece.

“I can't believe they picked up the story!” He tucks a strand of pink hair behind his ear. “I mean, I sent them a link to my blog, but I never thought they'd do anything with it. Do you think they liked it? Maybe I should send them more of my work.”

“Course they liked it,” Rozelle interrupts our conversation. “That's why you're gonna build us the official Yo-Yo Prophet blog, Marshall. You get to be our exclusive online reporter.” She slaps Marshall on the back, and he grins.

Over the next week, between exams, Rozelle has me performing all over the city. I perform new and improved yo-yo tricks and spout one prediction per show. I predict a man with stooped shoulders will find his lost cat, a guy about my age will pass his science exam and a woman with large teeth will break up with her boyfriend. They're not huge, world-changing predictions, but people like them. Rozelle carefully records each prediction, and she collects my cash in her red plastic bucket. She assigns Annette to work the music box and puts Sasha behind the video camera, with her two fading bruises—the one beside her right eye where my yo-yo hit her and the larger one on her left eye, supplied by Rozelle. I can't stay mad at Sasha when her eyes look like that.

Meanwhile, Marshall creates the Yo-Yo Prophet blog, complete with videos and photos from my performances, my Urban-
TV
interview, reports about my latest predictions and music supplied by Teknonaut. It's unreal, like a dream that might fade any minute.

At the end of June, when my last exam is finally over, I celebrate with yet another performance—this time down at Harbourfront. The girls and I end up on the walk beside the lake, near the dock for the local cruise boats. I'm wearing baggy red shorts and a black T-shirt with Yo-Yo Prophet on it in psychedelic lettering. I'm still trying to get used to the red streaks Rozelle put in my spiked hair.

I leap onto our makeshift stage—a few upside-down crates. I plan to impress the heck out of a crowd of tourists and office workers who are snatching a few summer rays. I toss double-handed and blindfolded, just for kicks. I send my red racers in loops under one leg and then the other, never slowing the pace, alert for reactions from the crowd.

“Whoa, I wanna see that again,” some guy says.

My smile could crack my face in half. I can almost forget about Gran's illness, and how she hasn't yet found us a new place to live.

“Aw, that was sick.” The girl sounds about my age, and if her body is as sexy as her voice, I can't wait to see her.

The music—courtesy of Rozelle's brother—sends a techno beat pounding through my chest. The sun toasts my face and shoulders. My yo-yos slice the air like a pair of medieval Japanese swords. I'm so frickin' amazing, I even impress myself.

I finish with crisscross punching bags and then call my twin racers home. I whip off my blindfold—a black and white silk scarf that Rozelle bought—and toss it like I couldn't care less where it lands. Rozelle snatches it up and pockets it.

“Yo, all!” Rozelle calls. People at the outdoor café lean in to listen, while Annette cuts the music. “My boy here is the Yo-Yo Pro-phet!” She raises her arms, making peace signs with both hands. “Not only can he yo,” she bellows, “he'll tell ya how to go.”

People laugh at her lame rapper imitation. I break into a series of double loops to carry me through Rozelle's chatter.

“This boy can give you the dope.” She struts like she's in a music video. “Your own personal hor-o-scope.”

Rozelle looks good in hot-pink leggings with a black sequined top that glitters in the sun. I scan the crowd for the girl with the fantastic voice.

“So step up if you wanna know”—Rozelle gestures at the crowd—“the way your future is gonna flow.” She points to me with both hands and then steps away with a flourish.

On Rozelle's cue, Annette starts the music up again, at a lower volume this time so the crowd will be able to hear my Yo-Yo Prophet wisdom. A few people meander up, and Rozelle chats with them, one by one, since she likes to screen them—find one dramatic question for me to answer. But today, I'm impatient for the fun to begin. I decide to warm up the crowd with a few samples.

“Hey, people,” I say, breaking into around-the-worlds with one hand and crossover loops with the other. “Let me show you how it works.” I'm revving up my engine, getting ready to receive the visions.

“Stop it, Yo-Yo,” Rozelle says. “That ain't a good idea.”

I ignore her. Who's in charge here anyway?

I close my eyes, relax my neck and shoulders, even though I'm still tossing out my twin racers. I soak in the heat of the sun, the sounds and smells around me, till I swear I can taste the coffee-scented air from the café. The music takes me deeper inside, hypnotizing me with the steady rhythm, and my yo-yos become more than just plastic, stainless steel and string. When I toss them out, it's like I'm freeing them, releasing good vibrations into the air that eventually rebound back to me. Like I'm in my body yet riding those pulsing vibrations at the same time.

When I reach a Jedi-like state, I open my eyes and let them skim over the crowd, sensing my way, until they land on Sasha, filming my show.

I nod in her direction. “I predict…” I pause dramatically as people crane to look at Sasha. “I predict she is filming yet another Yo-Yo Prophet YouTube hit.”

Sasha's face appears over the camera long enough to grimace at me and then at Rozelle. Her makeup covers most of the bruising.

I grin, catching sight of a gorgeous girl who just has to own that voice I heard before. She's got these enormous slate-gray eyes and soft blond hair that falls in loose waves to her shoulders. As she lifts her hair off the back of her neck with both arms, she smiles in this sexy way that heats me up.

Whoa. I thunk one yo-yo home and then the other. “I predict you,” I point at her, my blood pounding, “are going to fall for a short Asian-Canadian guy.”

The crowd laughs—they're on my side. I catch Rozelle scowling at me, but I don't care what she thinks. The girl's smile is smooth and easy.

I toss out my yo-yos again and crank into a double staircase to keep the groove. The sky is brilliant blue, while the lake glows green with sunlight riding the waves.

When Rozelle announces it's time for my big prediction, people at the café shuffle their chairs for a better view. I break into inside loops with one hand and reach-for-the-moons with the other.

On Rozelle's signal, a willowy woman—maybe twenty-five years old—flounces toward me. She moves like a ballerina, with her toes pointed out, and she beams first at me and then at the audience.

The crowd goes quiet, like it's holding its breath. I hear the waves break against the docks. I can tell why Rozelle chose this woman—the crowd seems to like her.

“I'm getting married next month—on August twentieth. It's a Saturday.” Her eyes flip to a guy who's seated at a table outside the café. She waves to him, and a few people laugh. He waves awkwardly back. “So I want to ask you to predict the impossible.” Her face becomes serious. “We're having this outdoor wedding in a park by the lake, so I'm really worried about the weather. There can be huge thunderstorms in August, and I have to know: Will the weather spoil our wedding? Should I have a backup plan?” She clasps her hands together and sends me a pleading look.

I focus on her question while spinning loop-the-loops—till the answer washes over me. “It may rain a bit,” I say with confidence, “but it won't ruin your wedding.”

The crowd applauds.

“I hoped you would say that!” The woman kisses both my cheeks, and I grin.

Rozelle works the crowd for donations to the “Yo-Yo Prophet fund,” while Annette writes down the woman's info so Marshall can keep track of the prediction on my blog. So far, Marshall reports I have a one-hundred-percent accuracy rate, although I haven't yet proven I can beat Black Magic in a duel. Once this latest prediction comes true, Rozelle will be bragging that I can even predict the weather.

Rozelle pulls out a secondhand yo-yo and announces it's challenge time—where anyone can try to beat me at a trick—either the longest sleeper or the most consecutive loops.

Of course, it's a joke, because I can easily beat anyone. But people seem to like to be defeated by me, so I let them try. I even pretend to almost fail, every now and then.

When I call it quits, Rozelle tells the crowd where they can download Teknonaut songs. I've got to give her credit—she's always looking out for her brother. I have the usual group of keeners around me, praising my show and asking questions about how to yo-yo. Then—this is the best part—the gray-eyed girl poses with me as her friend takes a photo with her camera phone.

Our arms touch when she slides up against me, and my skin sizzles. Her hair smells like heaven. She's the perfect fit—a bit shorter than me—and her long blond hair falls against my shoulder.

“When's your next show?” she asks, her voice sweet and low in my ear.

“Uh…” I momentarily forget how to speak. “You can…check my blog for my next performance,” I tell her.

“I'll be there,” she breathes, “wherever it is.”

I'm suddenly floating above the ground.

Then she leaves, swinging her hips in this slinky summer dress, glancing back at me before she disappears behind a hot-dog cart.

The crowd clears. Rozelle, Annette and Sasha gather around. I'm still pumped with adrenaline.

Sasha's looking sullen in all black—ripped jeans and a skintight top. She's shooting daggers my way. I'm sure she's still trying to plot my downfall.

Annette's in plaid short-shorts, bouncing at Rozelle's elbow. “How'd I do, Roz? I did it just like you said.”

Rozelle is scowling at me, but she nods at Annette, who shoots Sasha a smug glance.

“If that video ain't top-notch, you'll be sorry,” Rozelle says to Sasha, and I wonder what has set Rozelle off this time—we had such a great show.