The Yo-Yo Prophet

by Karen Krossing

  “Mr. Spider?” I touch Gran’s rounded shoulder. “Gran, what are you talking about?”

  Gran pats my hand absentmindedly. Her skin is dry and loose, like it’s too big for her bones. “I did it for you.”

  “Did what, Gran?”

  Gran swivels in her chair. Her crinkly eyes find mine. “Sold to Mr. Spider, of course.”

  There she goes again, I think.

  “Gran, I need to talk to you,” I begin. “Listen.” I wait as she slides her glasses to the tip of her nose and her eyes seem clearly focused on my face. Then I tell her everything: how I earned money doing yo-yo tricks on the street when I wasn’t even trying, how I practiced a routine of string and looping tricks with my best yo-yo, how I need someone to tell me if my routine is good. I even tell her how terrified I am that I’ll fail.

  Gran watches my routine three times, frowning when I miss a trick and nodding when I succeed.

  “Not bad,” she says. She goes to the cash register, opens it and offers me a five-dollar bill.

  I refuse it. “Do you think I should do it?”

  “You’ll be great, Richard.”

  I turn away, my eyes burning. Just when I think she may be getting better, she gets confused again. A lot of the time now, she has no clue who I am. Gran can’t help me. Still, I have to try street performing. I need to chase that rush one more time. Even if I fail. Even if they laugh me off the street.

  3

  On Monday in science class, I trip over Geordie’s backpack, stumble and hit the floor with my hands raised to break my fall. My legs are splayed across the aisle between the desks. Shock waves pulse through my arms and chest, and I gasp for air, inhaling dust and the scent of industrial floor polish.

  The laughter starts with a muffled snort from the back of the classroom. Whispers and giggles spread as fast as a computer virus. My face heats up.

  “Sorry, Calvin,” Geordie mumbles. “You okay?”

  Geordie’s size-twelve basketball shoes appear beside my head, but I can only blink. The yo-yos in the pockets of my hoodie press into my gut.

  “Get up, Mr. Layne,” calls my science teacher, Ms. Kinsela. “We have bean plants to measure.”

  I groan and push off the floor. Twenty-nine sets of eyes are on me. Potted bean plants sit ignored on the desks. Geordie towers over me, making me feel puny. I duck my head, but I can’t avoid the weight of all those eyes.

  My hoodie hangs slack off one shoulder. As I yank it back in place, the neon yo-yo spills from my pocket. It clatters across the floor and twirls to a stop three desks back—at Rozelle’s feet.

  I freeze.

  Rozelle rests an elbow on the desk she shares with Sasha. She glances down at the yo-yo and raises one eyebrow, her dark eyes measuring mine. “You sendin’ me a gift, Low-Cal?”

  “Uh…” A shiver of panic crawls up my back. Will she tease me about playing with a toy? Pretend it’s not yours, I think. But then I’d never get it back.

  Sasha smirks. “Maybe he likes you.”

  My eyes dart away and back again. I’m sure my face can’t get any redder.

  “All right.” Ms. Kinsela raises her head from her marking. “You should be recording your observations in your growth chart now.”

  I head toward my seat, shoving my second yo-yo and spare string deeper into my pocket. Ms. Kinsela has a drawer full of stuff she’s taken from students. Did she see my yo-yo go flying? Will she take it? Will Rozelle?

  I have to rescue it.

  When Ms. Kinsela returns to her marking, I scoot down the aisle, my body awkward, like I’m just learning to walk.

  Rozelle is whispering to Sasha, and as I get closer I can hear what she’s saying. “So I told my brother he’s gotta learn the music business. You know, get his name out there. He’s got a sweet sound. He could be frickin’ huge.”

  Avoiding eye contact, I try to casually crawl under Rozelle’s desk as if it’s something I do every day. My neon yo-yo rests beside Rozelle’s black combat boots; her chunky legs are barely contained by a jean miniskirt. I tremble. This is territory I never expected to encounter.

  “Calvin! Get out! Ms. Kinsela!” Sasha lets out a phony scream; she can’t possibly be afraid of me. I jump, whacking my head on the underside of the desk.

  My head throbs. I reach toward my yo-yo. Rozelle’s chair slides back, and her face appears under the table.

  “Are you peepin’?” She sneers. “Teacher’s not gonna like that.”

  I cringe. Peep at Rozelle? Never. My chest is pounding. I grab my yo-yo before Rozelle can snatch it, and then I shimmy backward, out from under the desk.

  Ms. Kinsela is waiting in the aisle, her arms crossed over her lab coat, one heel tapping.

  “I’ll see you for detention, Mr. Layne.”

  I leap up, swallowing the wave of acid burning my throat. I nod at Ms. Kinsela and pray that Rozelle won’t point out the yo-yo behind my back.

  “Did you see him, Ms. Kinsela?” Rozelle fakes a wounded voice. “He tried to look up my skirt!”

  I stand rigid, hands clammy with sweat.

  Sasha joins in, ever faithful to her leader. “He was right underneath us! What did he think he was doing?”

  I flush again. It’s too much humiliation.

  “Enough, girls.” Ms. Kinsela silences Sasha. “I’ll address the situation after school.”

  “But I feel so vi-o-la-ted,” Rozelle says, drawing out each syllable. “Maybe he should be suspended.”

  “I said that’s enough, Miss Jones. Now get back to work. All of you.” Ms. Kinsela stares pointedly at me.

  I scurry to my desk and drop into my chair. I slip my yo-yo back into my pocket, wipe my hands dry on my shorts and hunch over the desk, wanting to disappear. So what if Rozelle knows I have a yo-yo? Maybe no one else saw. Maybe no one will care.

  Geordie slouches into the chair beside mine, folding his legs under the desk. “Was that a yo-yo?” he whispers.

  “Um, yeah.” I stiffen. “But it’s not mine.”

  “Then why is it in your pocket?”

  I glance down at my pathetic bean plant. Its brown leaves are withered, and a dank smell of rot rises from it.

  Geordie’s long, lush plant winds around its bamboo stake.

  “It’s for…my cousin.” As if I have anyone other than Gran.

  Geordie nods. He ducks his head as Ms. Kinsela marches to the front of the room.

  Does he believe me? I’ll never know because Ms. Kinsela is surveying her domain, forcing our conversation to end.

  I pick up my ruler and begin measuring my scrawny plant. I have to be smart. Smarter than everyone else. Smarter than Rozelle. That can’t be so hard, can it?

  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 i
t’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.