The Yo-Yo Prophet (5 page)

On the street, a cyclist races to get ahead of a bus belching out diesel clouds. I smooth the yo-yo design flat on my chest. I can't help but admire it, but I don't want Rozelle to know. No point in giving her more ammunition.

I spin around to catch the end of a glaring session between Sasha and Annette. Rozelle is fetching an old milk crate from the stack in front of Lucky Convenience. The two boys are watching me from near the fountain.

“Not bad.” Annette nods at me.

I squirm. Is she mocking me? I drop my old shirt, fish a yo-yo from my pocket. It's the neon one. My twin racers haven't come yet.

“What did I tell you?” Rozelle drops the crate at my feet. “You can dress him up.”

“Oooh! Roz's getting hot!” Sasha teases.

Rozelle's glare shuts her down.

“Get on with it, Low-Cal.” Rozelle pronounces my name with malice, probably to make it clear that she could never like me.

My hands shake as I position the loop of string around my middle finger. I'm a mess, and it's Rozelle's fault. I slap my hat on the ground in front of the crate. For a brief moment, I consider refusing to perform, although I can already feel the jabs to my gut that would be sure to follow. Anyway, I want to perform. I want to get a rush from the crowd again.

I climb onto the milk crate and begin to warm up. I stretch my arms back to loosen my shoulders, and I throw a few sidestyle. The girls flank me—Sasha on my left, Annette on the right, Rozelle center front. A built-in audience I'd rather do without.

When a sideways loop slices close to Annette's ear, she yelps. “Watch it!”

“Sorry.” I fight a smile as they all step back. Then I start into my new lineup of tricks.

Dealing with Rozelle has made me forget how jittery I am, till now. My hands start to sweat, and my heart beats faster. I hope I can pull in a crowd. I hope I don't screw up any tricks.

For this routine, I had to stay up late, practicing in the darkened shop. A few of the tricks still make me nervous, especially the atomic bomb—the one I messed up most often. I'm not sure I can do it under pressure.

I toss a few vertical punches, trying to work my way into the zone.

Calm down. Breathe. You can do this.

I think only of my feet on the milk crate, the string around my finger, my yo-yo flying through the air.

When I can imagine pulling off my first trick flawlessly, I suck in a load of oxygen and begin.

I throw a hard sleeper and pinch the string about a hand's length from the spinning yo-yo. I swing the yo-yo in a small circle a few times and then release the string, tugging the yo-yo back to my hand. A pinwheel. I repeat it three more times, turning on my box after each toss, hoping people from every direction will come to watch my show.

The two boys yell and hurry over, raising heads throughout the parkette. The old men are here again, arguing on benches by the fountain. They glance over and return to their loud talk, obviously not impressed by yo-yo moves.

“That was great!” one boy says. The boys push in front of Rozelle.

I smile down at my audience of two—Rozelle and her girls are only here for money. My money.

My next trick is shaky. I'm letting Rozelle get to me. I block out everything but the yo-yo as I skin-the-cat, an easy trick to get me back on track.

A crowd slowly gathers. When I've got about ten people watching, I make a move. I jump off the milk crate and land with both feet on the ground, liking how it startles Rozelle.

“Hold your arm out sideways,” I say to one of the boys, my best—maybe my only—fans. I throw the yo-yo perpendicular to his arm.

He yelps but holds still.

The yo-yo loops around his bare forearm from underneath, circling up and over to land back on the string between us. A trapeze.

“Wow!” The boys' eyes are huge. There's a smattering of applause.

I flip the yo-yo back around and take a quick bow. I'm itching for more, eager to feel in control of the crowd.

Back on my crate, I form a one-handed star out of the yo-yo string and then a two-handed star. More people are gathering. A guy in his twenties wearing a funky fedora eyes me critically. I wonder if he can toss a trick. I want to impress him if I can.

I toss another hard sleeper, making sure the yo-yo is vertical, not leaning to the side. I swing the string behind my yo-yo arm, so that the yo-yo hangs draped over my tricep. I grab the string just above the spinning yo-yo and jerk the yo-yo up and over my arm. A pop-the-clutch.

The crowd claps. I notice the fedora guy nodding. I can't stop grinning. I'm riding high, ready for my next trick.

Just then, the jewelry store owner pushes through to the front, his glasses perched low on his nose, his hair combed over his bald spot. Not him again.

“My store was robbed last week,” he yells up at me.

I'm doing a warp drive, trying to concentrate on the trick.

“They came a few hours after you left.”

Can't Rozelle act like a manager and get rid of this guy? The man's gesturing too close to my huge loops, which I shift sideways, making the yo-yo quiver.

“But I was ready, see? I knew you were up to something. I called the cops before those punks got to me, and they got nothing but a ride in the police car. All except one.” The man's eyes narrow. “He got away.”

What's he saying? I move into a brain twister, but I have too much slack on the string and the yo-yo smacks my knuckles hard. It dive bombs. My knuckles sting. I call the yo-yo back to my hand and toss it out again.

“So you were checking out my store last week, weren't you?” The man's still talking. “Admit it. You were the lookout.”

“What?” He's accusing me?

People in the crowd mutter. How can I make this guy shut up?

“You have to be involved somehow”—he pokes a finger at me—“because you knew what was about to happen.”

“I didn't—”

“Come on, Low-Cal.” Rozelle is beside the jeweler now, and for a moment I'm glad to see her. “I saw what you did last week. Tell the poor man the truth.”

“No, don't…,” I begin, still trying to concentrate on my routine, to save my show. I can tell from the tone of her voice that I'm not going to like what she says.

“Listen, I know this guy,” Rozelle says to the jeweler. “He goes to my school. And I've seen him do this before.” She nods dramatically.

“Don't listen to her!” I say. I don't know what she's up to, but I know it'll end with me getting hurt.

“Don't be so modest, Low-Cal.” Rozelle sounds innocent, even kind. How does she play the part so well? “He doesn't like to brag, but…he's got a knack for seein' things—before they happen.”

“What?” I'm almost at the atomic-bomb trick, but it's Rozelle that I want to blow up.

A murmur runs through the crowd. A few people laugh.

“Yeah, his mind goes somewhere when he yo-yos. Then he says things that usually come true.”

“That's ridiculous.” The man snorts. “He's a thief, not a prophet.”

“A prophet! That's it!” Rozelle's tone brightens like she's been given a gift. “He said last week that you were tough enough to get rid of any thieves. You're so busy accusin' him that you're not seein' how he predicted what would happen.” She zeroes in on the two eager boys still clutching their yo-yos. “You were here last week. Remember?”

I'm still trying to keep my yo-yo moving, but I manage to see the boys nodding enthusiastically.

“That's not how it—,” I begin.

“If you don't believe me, see for yourself.” Rozelle grabs my hat. “Who wants to hear from the Yo-Yo Prophet?” She waves the hat, ready for donations.

A hush falls over the crowd, and I'm relieved. No one will fall for it.

“I do!” says an overweight woman. Her face is blotchy, bloated, sad. “Ask him if I'll find a job soon.” She drops a five-dollar bill in the hat.

I hate where this is going. “I can't—”

“Come on,” Rozelle pretends to plead. “These people need you.”

I shake my head, start my atomic-bomb trick instead. I flip the yo-yo over my left hand and under my right before I mount the spinning yo-yo on the string. I can't think about the woman, the jeweler, Rozelle, the crowd. I can only think about the string around my fingers, the yo-yo's position, the warmth building in my chest, my steady breathing.

Sasha and Annette start a chant. “Yo-Yo! Pro-phet! Yo-Yo! Pro-phet!” A few others join in. So many faces, watching, waiting, for me.

Still working the atomic bomb, I shoot the yo-yo back and forth from one string segment to another, my thoughts tossing like the yo-yo.

“Please,” the woman pleads. “I've been out of work so long…”

Answer her, Rozelle's glare says.

“I…uh…” Is it so wrong to give this woman hope? She's obviously upset. What's the worst than can happen? “Sure you will. Next week,” I hear myself say.

My stomach thunks as soon as the words leave me.

I'm no better than Rozelle—lying to these people.

The crowd hums with whispers and muttering. The woman clasps her hands together. I'm spinning the atomic bomb now. The trick is working, but my hands are shaking. Sweat is beading on my forehead. My head feels like it's going to explode.

“If he's a prophet, then I'm a monkey,” the jewelry store owner says.

The hum from the crowd gets louder. I try to forget about my lie by finishing the atomic-bomb trick with a spectacular Ferris-wheel dismount. The crowd breaks into a fit of cheering. The air crackles with energy.

I'm liking the attention, the heat from the crowd. Still, the prediction nags at me. I wonder what I've gotten into. How is that woman going to feel when she realizes I'm a fraud?

I end my show with a repeat of my atomic bomb. My moves are radioactive now. Red hot. The crowd hoots and claps. The jeweler marches back to his store.

After the show, I teach the two boys the dizzy baby, which they love. People compliment me while Sasha and Annette collect the cash and Rozelle chats up the jobless woman. When the crowd thins, Rozelle grabs the cash— more bills than last time—and stuffs about half into my backpack. I'm about to insist on more when she thumps me on the shoulder, sending another electric pulse that knocks me off-guard. “Good job, Yo-Yo Prophet.”

She didn't call me Low-Cal. I don't know if Sasha and Annette notice, but I do. It shouldn't matter, but it does.

“Uh…thanks.” I feel like I've shed my old too-small skin. Grown larger. Sleeker.

Rozelle ignores me.

I let her keep the cash.

6

The next Saturday morning, Gran is browning sausages and cooking scrambled eggs in the same pan, her white hair like a hovering cloud. I'm setting the table, disgusted by the fried tomatoes already shriveled and steaming on the plates. I hate fried tomatoes, but Gran loves them, so I don't say anything.

“Calvin, how did your street performance go with your little”—her eyes scan the room as if she's searching for the missing word—“your little toy?”

My jaw tightens. “Gran, it's not a toy.”

“Sorry, dear. You're right.” She scoops up some egg with a spatula and then slops it onto the counter, missing the plates entirely.

My stomach knots. “Let me help.”

“I've got it.” Her lips press together. She smears bits of egg around on the counter before she rescues most of it.

She stabs the sausages one by one, dropping them to land on the plates beside the egg.

I add the thick slices of buttered toast and carry the plates, one in each hand, unable to avoid the stench of greasy tomatoes.

Our table-for-two is shoved between the fridge and the end of the counter. I squeeze into my chair, leaving room on Gran's side for her to sit easily.

“Nothing like a proper British breakfast,” she says as she always does, crumpling into her chair with a sigh.

“Just like your mother used to make,” I reply. It's our little Saturday-morning routine. I sit, remembering how my mother used to serve noodle soup for breakfast.

A cough begins deep in Gran's chest, rumbling up to explode from her mouth.

I leap up. “You okay, Gran?”

Her head is turned away from the food. One sleeve of her bathrobe dips into her tea. She gulps, blinks back tears and nods. Then she wipes her sleeve and turns back to her plate, squishing a tomato in half with her fork. “The yo-yo,” she says, finally remembering the word. “How did it go with the yo-yo?”

I sit again, heart racing. What's wrong with her? Watching my mom get sick was bad enough. I can't take it if Gran gets sick too.

The tomatoes are fleshy, wrinkled. I push mine off to the side and grab a piece of toast. “It was pretty good.” I crunch my toast loudly, wondering how I could ever explain about the Yo-Yo Prophet.

“Pretty good? What does that mean?” Gran cuts into a sausage.

“I performed twice, over at Mason Parkette.” Just thinking about that blur of faces, and the applause, makes me smile. “It was incredible, Gran. They loved me.”

“That's not incredible. Of course they did.”

I shovel in some eggs and talk with my mouth full. “I did most of my tricks okay, even the atomic bomb. The people were awesome. I felt like I could make them cheer whenever I wanted.”

Gran chuckles, bringing on a small fit of coughing.

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was great.” I drop my fork, remembering. “They were yelling and clapping for more…and then they started calling me—” I stop abruptly, pick up my fork and shovel in another mouthful.

“What did they call you?”

I shrug. “Nothing,” I say with my mouth full. I can't tell Gran about the Yo-Yo Prophet, or how I let Rozelle take over my show and make me lie. “After, there were these two kids who wanted to learn some tricks. And this girl from school gave me a yo-yo T-shirt to wear.”