The Yo-Yo Prophet (13 page)

“I told you I'd do it, so get off my back,” Sasha yells, which does nothing to improve Rozelle's mood. Sometimes I wonder why those two are friends.

“And you,” Rozelle growls at me, one hand on her hip. “What's up with makin' predictions I don't authorize?” She adjusts her tank top, but I refuse to get distracted.

“What do you care?” I fire back, tired of her random mood swings. “It's not like you're the talent, Roz. You're just a manager.”

Rozelle's cheeks go burgundy. “You ain't nothin' without me.”

Sasha snickers.

“Since when do you call her Roz?” Annette steps between us. “Only her friends call her that.”

I ignore Annette and lock eyes with Rozelle. “Why do you always talk like you've got a grade-two education?” I ask. “Do you have to say
ain
't all the time?”

Rozelle's eyes are scorching. She pushes past Annette, one fist ready, the bucket of cash swinging from her other hand. “I'm gonna pound you till you can't stand up.” Her breath is hot and sour.

I remember all the times she's threatened me—that first time after math class when I accidentally bumped into her, after my first show when she took half my earnings. Over and over again, she's bossed me around, made demands.

“What? You're going to harm your star?” I flip a yo-yo between us with a power throw, barely missing her knee. She flinches. I let the yo-yo smack hard into my palm and then yank the bucket from her grip. “I'll divide up the money. You can get your cut later.”

Annette gasps. Sasha chuckles. Rozelle's eyes bulge like she's going to explode.

I walk away, swinging the bucket.

The world is spinning at the end of my string, and I'm not about to let go.

13

The first thing Spader does when he takes over the shop is put up his new window signs. I get mad every time I read
Under New Management
—it's like he's bragging that he's better than Gran. Sure, she sometimes miscounted the change or confused an order, but her customers loved her, even gave her Christmas gifts.

Spader hires two guys to replace the sign over the blue-and-white-striped awning.
Queen's Eco Dry Cleaning
, it reads now. It may only be a small change, but it feels huge to me. Like Gran is already forgotten.

Changes are happening inside the shop too. From the apartment upstairs, we hear the screech of heavy machines grinding across the floor tiles, and we see the truck in the back alley delivering new machines—like Gran's old ones aren't good enough. Even the smell of the place changes. I'd kind of gotten used to the chemical smell that leached through the floorboards of the apartment. The new
perfume-free scent
that Spader is advertising is lame.

But the worst part is that we haven't got a new apartment, never mind a house with a garden. It's not about the money—with the sale of the business, Gran says we'll be fine. There are some nice places available for September first, but because Gran left it so long, all she has managed to find for August 1 is a room in a boardinghouse without our own kitchen and bathroom, or a termite-infested dump over a nightclub. And each time we make the trek to check out a place, Gran becomes more of a wreck—coughing, clutching my arm and complaining of lower back pain so much that, about a week after my Harbourfront performance, I take her to the doctor again. Not that Spader cares about her health; he just wants us out by the end of the month.

So when I head home from the drugstore with a new prescription for Gran's pain, I'm already pissed at Spader.

I see him inside the store, bent over like a pretzel to remove Queen Elizabeth II's photo from the window, and anger curls into a tight knot in my stomach. I can't let it go.

Yeah, the poster is cheesy, faded and out-of-date, but it's like Gran is being deposed. Like Spader is the new monarch. Maybe he should post a photo of himself so we can bow down to him.

I can't watch Spader peeling the tape off the window, bending the photo back as if he doesn't care if it tears. I yank open the familiar shop door and march in. An electronic bell sounds; he's ripped out Gran's metal bell over the door too.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

Spader glances up. “Oh, hello, Calvin. How's your grandmother?”

“As if you care!”

He straightens. His long fingers release the photo, leave it dangling half off the window. “I'm sorry?”

“Are you?” My voice is loud. “As if you don't know what you've done, what you're doing right now.” I point to the curling poster.

Two men emerge from between the racks of plastic-wrapped clothes. One man has a shaved head. The other has bleached-blond, short-cropped hair.

“Even Gran's staff wasn't good enough for you,” I yell. I know that Franco has found work in a sock factory, but Lucy is still looking.

“Calvin, maybe you should sit down.” Spader motions to a row of cushy chairs lining the far wall. “Then we can talk.”

“I don't want to sit.”

The two men weave toward us through the clothes.

Spader waves them back, like I'm no threat, which makes me even madder. The men melt away into the racks of clothes. “Really, Calvin, you need to calm down.”

I notice yet another sign on the wall:
Non-toxic Dry Cleaning—The Green Alternative
.

“You're mocking her.” I stab a finger at the sign. “Like your ways are so much better.”

Spader glances at the sign. “That? It's just advertising. I want to let people know about my methods. Some dry-cleaning chemicals are quite harmful. People want non-toxic alternative.”

“Should we also let everyone know that you'll kick us out at the end of the month, even if we can't find a decent place to live?”

“But I—”

“Do you know how sick she is?” I grip the plastic drugstore bag, my fingernails digging into my palm. “She shouldn't be out of bed, except to go to the doctor, but you've got her hiking all over the city to find us a new apartment!”

“I'm sorry to hear that. It was not my intention to—”

“If you really were sorry, you wouldn't make us leave.”

“But, Calvin, it was your grandmother's decision to give up the apartment as of August first, so I signed a lease agreement with new tenants—”

“Who cares about your tenants? What about Gran?” I march to the door and swing it open, making the electronic bell sound again. “I always knew you would screw her over.”

I slam the door. The glass rattles in its frame. Through the window, I see Spader staring after me, openmouthed.

My chest is bursting as I turn away.

I march around to the alley and up the stairs to the apartment to take care of Gran. I give her the medicine and a glass of water. I head to the kitchen to heat up the macaroni casserole Lucy delivered—she's still bringing supper each day, the way she promised. I also make Gran a cup of the Vietnamese green tea my mother got her hooked on.

When I have the supper tray loaded, I carry it into Gran's room and set it on the night table. With her pale skin and white hair against the rose-colored pillowcase, Gran looks ghostly, although her eyes seem clear and focused.

“I heard yelling from downstairs,” she says. “Is everything is okay?”

“Everything is fine.” I sit on the bed and pass her a cup of tea. It's in a William-and-Kate souvenir wedding mug—only half full so she won't spill. “I was just talking to Spader.”

“Talking? Then who was yelling?” She takes the mug from me. “Calvin, I know you've been skeptical of Mr. Spider, but he really has been wonderful to us. No one else was interested in buying this place, and his offer was generous. I hope you didn't upset him.”

I can't believe her. “Don't worry about Spader.” I pat her leg through the blanket. “Just get better.”

The lines on Gran's forehead furrow deeper. “I wish I could,” she says. She sips from the mug, her anxious eyes watching me over the rim.

After Gran goes back to sleep, Van calls. She's been calling every day or two to check up on us.

“Calvin, how are you?” she says in Vietnamese. “How is your bà?”

“I'm fine, Van,” I say, smiling at the sound of her voice.

“And Gran is too.” I try to sound convincing. “I'm taking good care of her.”

“And you have a place to live?”

“Uh, almost. We'll sign a lease soon.” I hope. I don't want her to worry. I tell her about Gran's new pain medicine, and even about my Yo-Yo Prophet blog, which she promises to look at. “How's your family?” I ask.

Van tells me that in about two more weeks it will be safe for the baby to be born. She says that Samuel has been drawing pictures for the baby. Then Van says goodbye, promising to call soon.

The silence closes in on me when I hang up, suspended in the air like a bad stink.

I wander into the living room. There's a pile of cardboard boxes along one wall, and no plates left on the discolored walls. I turn on the
TV
for company and to dull the ache in my chest. I should do some more packing, but instead I push the couch back and hurl some long loops since there's no china left to hit. When I've relaxed a bit, I work out the kinks in some of my more challenging tricks. I make a few predictions for myself: Will we find a new apartment? Yes. Will Gran get better? Yes. Will the gray-eyed girl be at my next show? Yes.

I let out a long sigh and tell myself that I've got everything under control.

There's a knock at the door—hammering, really—and I rush to it, cursing whoever is threatening Gran's rest. I open the door and step out, shutting it behind me. Rozelle stands on the metal landing, glowering.

“Shhh.” I frown. “My grandmother's sleeping.”

“Well, we got a schedule to work out.” She curls one side of her lip, and I think how much prettier and nicer the gray-eyed girl is. “Unless you
ain't
”—she emphasizes the word—“got use for your manager no more.”

I hold her gaze. We're face to chest on the landing with no room to move. “Sure, I like what you do for me,” I say. “What's the plan?”

Her eyes smolder, but she gets to business. “First, we got this duel between you and Black Magic. I got it arranged for Saturday, three days from now, at four o'clock in Dundas Square. I even got that reporter comin'.” She glares as if daring me to challenge her.

“Not bad.” I nod slowly, not wanting to show her how excited I am. Then I add, “At least we know that I'll win the duel—since I predicted it.”

Rozelle raises one eyebrow. “I also got you into the busker festival later this summer,” she continues, her voice smug, “which sure weren't easy.”

“Even better.” I lean back against the railing. “You're doing all right.”

“All right?” Rozelle's face turns red and her jaw tightens.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I mean, sometimes you forget whose show it is, but you do a good job, most of the time.”

“You ungrateful turd!” Her nostrils flare like some wild horse in a western movie. “I update your image! Buy you new clothes! Get you gigs! Set you up right! And you say I'm doing
all right
?”

“Relax, Rozelle,” I say.

“I ain't gonna relax. I'm gonna tell you how it is.” She leans in, flattening me against the railing. “The manager is in charge of the money. The manager says what goes down.”

“Is that what this is about? The money?” I try not to smile, knowing that it will drive her mental, but Rozelle has been yanking my strings from the beginning, and I like that I can make her crazy. “I've got it in my room. I didn't spend any, although I could have. After all, I made it.”

“We made it.” She pokes a finger into my chest.

I can't help grinning. “If it will make you feel better,” I say, “I'll give you your cut now.”

“You better!” Rozelle raises a fist, as always. “And you better believe that I'm collectin' the money in tomorrow's show. Because that's what managers do.”

I ignore her fist. “As long as you remember who's in charge.”

She narrows her eyes, her face in mine. “You think you can cross me? I made you the Yo-Yo Prophet, and I can bring you down. You couldn't get a gig without me.”

“And you couldn't make money without me,” I say. “Now, wait here while I get your cut.”

14

I wake up, curled in a ball, protecting my head with my hands.

In my dream, I was about to battle Black Magic. We were on a stage in Gran's living room with her royal plates, figurines, cups and mugs arranged around us. People crowded one end of the room, with more pushing in from the hall. The gray-eyed girl was there, smiling at me. When I threw my first loop, I smashed Gran's rare George V coronation plate. “No,” I yelled, as the plate fractured. I fought to stop throwing, but my hands wouldn't obey. Again and again, I destroyed her collection—the Queen Elizabeth II commemorative tankard, the Charles-and-Diana wedding teapot—shattering them with my yo-yos, crying out with each hit. Bits of china rained down. The gray-eyed girl screamed. Rozelle laughed hysterically. Black Magic didn't seem to notice. He threw an awesome routine while I demolished Gran's entire collection like a crazed ninja.