The Yo-Yo Prophet (3 page)

I can't figure out where to put my hat.

It's a blue baseball cap with a black brim. An old hat I don't care about. When I sit it upside down on the brick path, it looks like the wind tossed it there. No one will drop a coin in it.

I'm at Mason Parkette, a triangular thoroughfare to the subway with a line of shops on one side. I scan the parkette for a better place to set up: the walkways crowded with people, the weedy patches of grass, the scattered benches.

A few spindly trees struggle to grow in large block planters. A low circular fountain glitters with pennies— wishes that might never come true. I resist the urge to toss my own penny in the fountain, like I used to do when Mom was sick. Instead, I find an empty stone bench near the row of shops: Athena Travel Service, Lucky Convenience, Hillier's Jewelry, Iron Kettle Pub. The bench is an island on a concrete pad. A perfect place for my crowd to gather. If they gather.

I drop my hat on the bench. It's upside down, ready for coins. I dig in my backpack for my yo-yos, which I tucked safely away before detention. First, Ms. Kinsela lectured me about respect, and then she made me write lines for an hour. At least no one was around to humiliate me when I left.

I pull out my neon yo-yo and my spare, just in case. I unzip my hoodie and toss it and my backpack under the bench. Then I stand on the bench and begin to warm up with a few forward passes.

I launch into some large looping tricks to attract attention: around-the-world forward and backward. I'm distracted by trying to figure out if anyone's watching me, so my loops are wobbly and weak.

Pigeons strut around the bench, pecking at the seeds someone tossed there. A mother pushing a baby in a stroller ignores me. A kid practices skateboarding off another bench. Three old men sitting near the fountain shout at each other in what I think is Italian. They sound like they're arguing, but they might just be talking about their favorite soccer teams.

The pigeons are my only audience.

Should I give up before I embarrass myself? I whir through a few more lame tricks and then launch into my routine even though I'm shaking and unsteady. I begin with a breakaway loop leading to a double or nothing, which I barely manage. I try to throw a three-leaf clover, but I give up mid-trick.

My tricks are rocky. I need to calm down. I break from my routine to throw as many loop-the-loops as I can. Three. Five. Seven. My brain begins to untangle. My shoulders loosen. Thoughts of how stupid I look unwind and spin off in all directions. When the yo-yo slows, I tug it home and begin a fresh series of loops.

When I feel stronger, I do ten reach-for-the-moons. Perfectly. My body's starting to hum along with the yo-yo. I'm doing it, and people are coming to watch. I steal glimpses at the skateboarder, his board tucked under one arm; the mother with the stroller, the baby sucking her thumb and following the yo-yo with her eyes; a group of kids who are maybe eleven years old; a man smoking a cigarette. All watching me. And no pigeons in sight.

I'm smooth. In the groove. I walk-the-dog, letting the yo-yo run along the bench like a dog on a leash. I throw another sleeper, bringing the dog behind my legs to walk through them. I put my yo-yo hand on my hip. I would say, “Jump through the hoop, Rover,” but I don't want to jinx myself by trying to talk. I tug the yo-yo to make it leap up from behind and through the hoop made by my arm.

“Cool!” one kid says. “Do it again.”

I smile. Warmth fills my chest. My hands guide the yo-yo through the tricks. I'm a lion tamer dominating a wild beast. It's awesome. Powerful.

I think I see Rozelle in the growing crowd. My hands tense and I miss a trick, although no one seems to notice. I stare again between tosses. Catch a glimpse of her behind a tall man with wide shoulders. She's turned away, ignoring my show. If it's her. Why would she be here? As if she'd follow me.

I have to relax. It can't be her. I focus only on the yo-yo spinning at the end of the string. I make the shape of the Eiffel Tower and follow it with a bow tie. My audience applauds.

I finish my routine and launch into it again. I'm not ready for this to end. I feel like I'm floating, my feet levitating off the bench. I'm not Calvin Layne anymore, but someone new, someone bigger. Better.

As I work my tricks, the crowd yells its approval, goes silent and then bursts to life again. I begin to think of them as one unit, one living creature that moves together, claps together, breathes together. When a single voice from the crowd speaks out, I'm surprised.

“Go away! Get out of here!”

Outside Hillier's Jewelry, a short man in a sweater vest is making shooing motions with his hands. He's wearing tiny metal-frame glasses and a scowl.

I ignore him. Maybe he'll leave. I perform a hop-the-fence trick, where the yo-yo jumps over my hand.

“Did you hear me, boy?” the man yells. “It's hard enough to earn a living without riffraff hanging around outside my store.”

Riffraff? What am I—some kind of criminal?

I throw some loop-the-loops and glance around. Maybe ten or more people stand in front of Hillier's Jewelry. They fill most of the space, except for a wide circle around the glaring man.

I think of Gran, trying to make money in her shop. She wouldn't mind if I performed outside Queen's Dry Cleaning. Maybe it would bring her more customers.

“I'm not doing anything wrong, sir.” I'm pumped, not ready to quit. I whirl into another trick.

The man's still yelling. “I was robbed twice last month. I know how you street punks operate.”

Street punk? My jaw tightens. I have as much right to be here as he does.

“Are you here to case out my store?” the man continues. “Or maybe you're the lookout? Well, I'm not giving you the chance. Go on now!”

“Don't go! We want more yo!” someone yells.

I get an injection of energy. These people love me. Me! “I'm a performer, not a thief,” I tell the man.

The crowd shouts its approval.

“And if you yelled like that, you'd scare off any thieves,” I say.

A few people laugh. The man's face reddens. His eyes bulge out. He's going to blow.

Maybe I went too far. “I meant that when—uh, if— some guys try to rob you, you would be tough enough to get rid of them. You're…” The man's face is deep crimson. Time to clear out—before he calls the cops. “I'll be gone in a minute.”

He shakes a fist at me. “You'd better be.”

I take a breath before my final trick. I throw a hard sleeper and then carefully remove the loop of string around my middle finger. I call the yo-yo back up with a tug on the string and just before it reaches my hand, I jerk the string up and let go, string and all. The yo-yo skyrockets into the air. The crowd cheers, and I'm defying gravity again. I grab my hat, catching the yo-yo in it on the way back down.

“Thanks!” I wave my hat in the air and then place it back on the bench, hoping to attract contributions. Not that I need the money. The cheering is enough. “Come back next week.” I add, without thinking. I'd love to work this crowd forever.

“Not in front of my shop!” the jewelry store owner yells.

“No, over there.” I point toward the fountain.

Several people shout their approval. Others drop coins in my hat.

The man huffs away, back to his shop.

When I step down from the bench, I'm surrounded.

“That was awesome!”

“How'd you do it?”

“Where did you get that yo-yo?”

“What kind is it?”

One boy asks me to sign his forehead with black marker. Another wants to try my yo-yo.

When the crowd has finally left, I'm still buzzing. I pack away my yo-yos and hoodie. Turn when I feel eyes on my back. Another fan?

Rozelle. She's watching me from across the parkette. My stomach clenches. She smiles and then meanders toward me. The new, stronger Calvin Layne thuds back down to earth.

“Thought you were up to somethin'.” Rozelle's eyes are outlined by hard black lines with deep purple shadow on her eyelids. Her skin-tight top and faded blue jeans reveal every bulge, every curve. I tear my eyes away.

“Uh…” I struggle to find some hard words to shoot at her.

“You could do better though.” She nods, making her huge hoop earrings wobble. “Looks like you need a manager, Low-Cal.”

“Wha-at?” The word sticks to the roof of my mouth.

Rozelle eyes my hat, heavy with coins and even a few bills. “I could do it for fifty percent.” She scoops about half my earnings out of my hat.

“But…that's mine!” My hand comes to life. Jerks the hat away from her.

Rozelle grimaces and leans in. She cracks her peppermint gum like it's some kind of threat.

I cringe, waiting for the blow to fall. Rozelle has been beating guys up since grade three, although she's never bothered with me before.

Her grimace twists into a half smile, lips closed.

“Listen, I got a personal interest here.” She looks down and away, like she's embarrassed, and I wonder if she's faking it and why.

“What are you talking about?”

“I gotta show my brother I can be a good manager.”

Her tough face reappears. “Not that it's any of your business. And if you go tellin' anyone, I'll…” Her hands become fists, but she keeps them at her sides.

I step back. I can't imagine what her brother must be like. Or the rest of her family. “I don't know—”

“We can make a lot of money together.” She smiles and steps closer. Her fists relax. “I'll be a frickin' awesome manager. I'll make you famous. Anyway, you owe me for what you did in math class. Remember how you slammed into my boobs? Almost knocked me over? That was harsh. But you can make it up to me now.” She grabs my hand and shakes it like we just made a deal.

Her touch sends an electric shock through me. Her hand is surprisingly warm, firm and strong. I nod dumbly and immediately regret it.

“Cool.” Rozelle grins. “I'll start makin' plans. Be in touch soon.” She releases my hand and saunters away.

I watch her hips sway. They're hypnotizing. My hand is still warm. My blood is pumping fast.

What have I done?

She disappears around the corner of the Iron Kettle Pub. I collapse onto the bench, clenching my hat full of money between white-knuckled fingers.

4

“Hey, Peeper! Roz's looking for you.” Sasha is posed beside Annette's locker like a skinny praying mantis about to pounce. “She wants to talk.”

Annette smirks at me as she slams her locker closed. I pick up the pace, head down and jaw clenched, racing for the exit doors—and freedom—pretending I don't hear.

“Where you going?” Sasha calls.

“I think he's going to spy on the girls in the change room.” Annette giggles and Sasha joins in.

The metal door clangs shut behind me, but the laughter still burns my ears.

When the door opens again, I'm already scurrying away like the bug I am.

“Roz isn't going to like this!” Sasha calls from the doorway.

I race down the sidewalk and past the entrance to the subway, nails digging into my palms. Today I need to walk. I don't care if it takes hours to get home. I want time to think about how to get rid of Rozelle.

Thanks to her, the last three days have been hell. I've been skulking around the school, never sure when she'll pin me down, try to make plans for my next show. I had to dart into washrooms to avoid her girls, and duck her double-barreled stare in classes.

At least it's almost June. After school is over, I'll be free of them—for a while.

I slow down, in no hurry to get home, and clomp past rows of townhouses with wrought-iron gates and tiny yards. I hit a main street, still fuming. Why did I let her take my money? Why did I shake her hand? What exactly does she think I agreed to? Rozelle is a thief. A liar. A bully. I don't want anything to do with her.

I pass a homeless shelter, the front stairs crowded with sprawling men. Then a tattoo parlor, a Thai restaurant, a Greek bakery with the door open—the smell of pastry and honey wafting out to tempt me.

My mouth waters, but I've brought none of my hard-earned cash, half of which Rozelle stole. I grind my teeth, wishing I hadn't told my yo-yo crowd when and where I'd be back. Will they expect me to keep my word? What if I find a new place to perform, away from Rozelle? But I want to go back. I want to feel that good again. And she'll probably hunt me down no matter where I go. So I have to do it. I have to tell Rozelle that I don't want a manager.

My stomach lurches. Impossible. I step into the street to avoid a dog walker with a pack of dogs. Rozelle will probably clobber me and then do whatever she wants anyway.

My hands become jittery. I pull a yo-yo from my bag and begin to toss it. I strike a rhythm, throwing a forward pass every other step. The string tightens around my finger; the yo-yo smacks against my palm. With or without Rozelle, I have to make a new routine. My show has to be different than before, better somehow. Should I learn a new set of tricks? Or use the same ones in a different order? How can I keep my show fresh?

A new yo-yo? Or maybe two. I can learn two-handed tricks. That will bring the crowds.

I pick up my pace, tossing every three steps now. I'll order two new yo-yos online. Silver Bullets are too much, but I'll find two cheaper ones that are the same weight and color. I'll have to ask Gran to use her credit card to order them. After all, I can pay her back. I have cash now, even if Rozelle stole half of it.