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.
When I get home, I can hear Gran chatting in the living room, probably talking to her collection of plates. I kick off my shoes, frowning.
Another voice makes me strain to hear more. A man’s voice. No man has set foot in the apartment since the last time my father visited, maybe three years ago.
My chest tightens. It couldn’t be him. Could it? I hurry down the narrow hall and burst into the living room, colliding with a Charles-and-Diana wedding teapot on a side table. I catch the teapot before it falls off the table. Then I spin around to see Gran in her wingback armchair across from a tall pale man seated on the couch, a neat triangle of stubble on his chin.
Not my father. My gut twists. I get a flash of my father six years ago, stony-faced at my mother’s funeral. He had always traveled a lot for work, designing the lights for music concerts. But after my mother died he left me with Gran and came home less and less often. After a while, we hardly saw him and didn’t even know which city he was in. I flinch. Too much in one day. I want to crash into bed and pull my pillow over my head. Instead, I force a smile onto my face.
“Gran?” I glance back and forth between her and the man on the couch.
Gran looks lumpy in her sacklike blue dress. The man is stick-thin in skinny jeans, pointed black shoes and a purple collared shirt. When he stands, his head almost touches the ceiling light.
“This must be Calvin.” He extends a bony hand, swallowing mine in his firm grip.
Who is this guy?
“Calvin, this is Mr. Spider,” Gran says.
“Spider?” I feel like I’ve been slapped. Is this who Gran has been talking about? He’s real? Maybe she isn’t as far gone as I thought.
“Actually, my name is David Spader,” the man is saying. “Most people just call me Spader, although your grandmother is determined to rename me.”
“I’ve just been showing Mr. Spider the apartment, dear,” Gran says.
“Gran, his name is Spader.”
“Your grandmother can call me whatever she wants.” Spader stands with his shoulders back, arms loose, one leg forward—like Gran’s Prince Philip figurine. “I’m just glad we made a deal.” He settles onto the couch.
“A deal?”
“I sold the building to Mr. Spider.” Gran waves at the official-looking documents sitting on the coffee table between half-empty cups of tea. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“What?” My jaw drops. “But…why? Where will we live?”
“Well, I’m not sure I’ve got all the details straight…” Gran begins to cough, hunching over, one hand covering her mouth and the other fluttering to her chest. Her face reddens.
“Gran!” I reach for her, but she motions me back. How can she not know where we’re going to live?
“I’m…okay.” She breathes heavily. “Really.”
Spader clears his throat. “If I may explain?” He glances at Gran, who gives him a royal nod of assent.
I narrow my eyes at Spader, who smiles pleasantly. What is this guy up to?
“Your grandmother approached me a few months ago, offering to sell Queen’s Dry Cleaning. She’d heard from a mutual business acquaintance that I wanted to start an eco business with an established customer base.”
I stare at Gran. “Is this true?”
Gran nods, sips some tea and fans herself.
Spader continues. “After researching the potential of eco dry cleaning, I agreed to the purchase, and we signed the deal on May first. I’ll take ownership of the building and Queen’s Dry Cleaning in three weeks—on June seventeenth. You’ll stay in the apartment above the store until August first. Your grandmother has told me that she prefers to find a new place to live, starting in August.”
Why would he want to buy this place? I don’t trust him. He’s probably trying to swindle Gran. I turn to Gran, not caring if I sound rude. “You don’t have to sell.” She seems clearheaded right now, but does she really understand what she’s doing?
“But I do, Calvin. I’ve been planning it for a long time, although I couldn’t find a buyer—until now.” She smiles at Spader like he’s doing her a favor. “Things have to change. I’m not as young as I used to be. And I don’t want to leave you with more than you can handle.”
“Leave me? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I just mean that I’m ready to retire. I can’t keep up with things like I used to, Richard.”
I wince.
Gran coughs, swallows hard and says to Spader, “Oh, there’s one thing I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Are you going to change the name of my shop? Because I am rather partial to it.”
“Queen’s Dry Cleaning? I can live with that.”
Spader’s smile matches the one that Prince Charles wears on his wedding teapot. Insincere. My stomach twists. I can’t listen another minute. I have to get out of there. The dust gathering on the royal faces, the sound of traffic through the closed windows, the sun burning through the curtains, the smell of chemicals seeping up from downstairs. They all stifle me.
Without a word, I flee the apartment and end up pacing the back alley.
The contents of the Dumpster are festering in the heat, and the grease on the asphalt is as slick as Spader’s smile. What if he turns out to be a crook? Con artists like to prey on old people, especially sick ones. I want Gran to have a nice retirement, but we could end up homeless and broke. I kick the Dumpster so hard that I slip and fall backward. I stumble to my feet, my arms, legs and clothes smeared with oil.
I want to scream. To throw things. Everything’s going wrong. I want Rozelle off my back. I want Gran to get better. And I want Spader to leave us alone.
Then I notice the silence. The back door to the shop is propped open, yet the familiar hiss of the machines is missing. I step into the shop and listen.
Van and the other workers—Lucy and Franco—are huddled together, talking. I’ve never seen the shop so still, unless it was after hours.
“So you’ve heard?” I ask.
&n
bsp; All eyes settle on me. Van takes in my grease stains and shakes her head. “Oh, Calvin. You need to get cleaned up.”
Lucy and Franco slip away, the conversation abruptly over. As the hiss of machines starts up again, Van insists I wash up at the large industrial sink.
“Van, what’s going to happen?” I turn on the water.
“I don’t know,” she says in Vietnamese, assuming I’ll understand. She tries to wipe at my arm with a warm cloth, but I take it from her. “I suppose Mr. Spader will take over Queen’s Dry Cleaning.”
“Spader is a creep,” I say, scrubbing my arms harder than I need to.
Van shakes her head. “No, he is a businessman.”
I snort. “But is he honest? Who knows what kind of deal he made her sign?” I try to wipe the grease off my legs, but it just smears. “Did you read it?”
“I cannot read English legal papers so well, but your bà hired a lawyer to look it over. You know, she was lucky to find Mr. Spader.”
“I hope so.” I glance up. “Anyway, you’ll still work here, right, Van? You’ll be around to help Gran and me?”
Van’s eyes slide sideways. She says something in Vietnamese that I don’t understand. Then she adds, “I will always try to help you and your bà.”
The bell jangles as someone enters the shop.
Van tries to pat me dry, but I take the towel from her.
“I’ll get it,” I say. There’s no use talking to Van about Spader. I need to keep busy so I won’t think about him.
I push through the rows of plastic-sheeted clothes to the front counter. The light from the window blinds me for a moment. I squint at the outline of a person as I inhale a whiff of familiar perfume.
No. It can’t be.
“You’ve been avoidin’ me, Low-Cal.” Rozelle glowers.
“What are you doing here?” I’m painfully aware of the grease stains on my clothes. “Do you follow me everywhere?” My hands tense. I’ve never wanted to hit anyone until today.
Rozelle leans on the long counter between us. “What’d you say?” Her tone is dangerous.
“I…uh…” Her biceps are bigger than my thighs. My hands turn to rubber.
“That’s better,” Rozelle says. “Now, I’ve been tryin’ to talk to you for frickin’ days.” She shakes her head, looking disappointed. “That’s not cool, Low-Cal. I had to ask ’round to find out where you live.”
“What do you want?” I say.
“I’m your manager, right? I wanna do a little managin’.”
Outside, Sasha and Annette pace the sidewalk, waiting for their leader to return. As I glare, Sasha fixes me with a stare. I look away. “I don’t need managing.”
My big moment—standing up to Rozelle. Pathetic.
“Trust me. You do. Here.” She tosses me a shirt.
“You want a shirt cleaned?”
“Naw, you brain-dead little turd. Look at it.”
I hold up the T-shirt, gripping it between clenched fingers. It’s black. Size small. The price tag is still attached. On the front is this awesome graffiti-style yo-yo outlined in red and yellow.
“Think it’ll fit?” Rozelle asks.
I’m speechless.
“You gotta know I’ll be makin’ a few changes, Low-Cal. Like that shirt you were wearin’ the other day.” She sticks her finger into her mouth and pretends to gag. “I gotta update your wardrobe.” When I don’t speak, she says, “What the hell’s wrong with you?” She reaches over the counter to tap her fist against my head. “Don’t be goin’ stupid when you’re yo-yoin’ or I’ll have to get at you.” Her fist relaxes. “Well, gotta go now.” She jabs a thumb at her posse. “Sasha and Annette are waitin’.”
Rozelle pushes open the door with her hip, swings her fleshy arm in a final salute and then she’s gone.
I sit with a thump on Gran’s swivel chair. What just happened? Did Rozelle bring me a gift, bought with my own money, right after she threatened me?
I thought she’d spend the money on herself. Is she actually trying to help? Yeah, right.
I swivel the chair back and forth, twisting the shirt in my hands. I don’t know what Rozelle is up to. I don’t know how to get rid of her. I don’t know if I can resist wearing the shirt.
I throw the shirt on the counter and pull the chair up to the computer. When I find my favorite yo-yo site, I begin scrolling through the latest models. I’ll choose what I want before asking Gran to charge it. No matter how much Rozelle interferes, I won’t let her ruin my plans.
5
The perfume hits me first. Three scents blended into a toxic cloud: Rozelle’s is like getting assaulted by flowers; Sasha’s is musky; Annette’s is apple-scented. All of it is mixed with the sweat and stink from an afternoon in hot classrooms with no air-conditioning. My eyes water. My nose runs.
There’s the clunk of Rozelle’s boots on the sidewalk. The click of Annette’s high heels, as if she needs to be taller. The swish of Sasha’s spandex. And the constant chatter from them all, most of it mocking me.
My blood thuds in my ears with each step. They swing their brown limbs, which gleam in the sun. I walk with stiff arms, trying to avoid the electrifying shock I get if they brush against me. I hang my head since my eyes are at the same altitude as certain body parts that bounce when they walk. I can’t seem to stop staring.
They hustle me to the parkette exactly seven days after my first busking attempt, just like I promised my crowd.
An old car rattles by on the street. Water splashes in the fountain. Two boys are waiting near the bench where I performed last time. They have eager faces, their cheap plastic yo-yos ready to throw.
“Hey, can you teach us some tricks?”
They’re a cool breeze on this stifling day. A flashback to a younger me. I remember feeling impatient to learn new tricks, amazed by what others could do in online videos, desperate to figure out their moves.
“He’s busy.” Rozelle pushes in front of me before I can answer. Sasha and Annette imprison me on either side.
I frown and slither sideways between them without making contact. The boys look dejected. “Find me after,” I say. “I’ll show you some moves then.”
“Awesome. Thanks!” They scoot away from the girls’ glares, flashing enthusiastic grins at me.
“Let’s get it goin’, Low-Cal.” Rozelle nudges my shoulder.
Even though her touch is electric, I don’t flinch. “You didn’t have to scare them,” I say.
“Scare them!” Sasha hoots. “Good idea.” She tiptoes after them, her hands extended above her head like claws, a demented look on her face.
Rozelle yanks her back by an exposed bra strap.
“If that scares ’em, they deserve it,” Rozelle says, ignoring Sasha’s scowl.
Annette giggles. Sasha kicks her where the strap of her high-heeled shoe crosses over her ankle bone.
“Ow!” Annette hops on one foot to rub her ankle.
“Besides, I can’t have you givin’ private performances to little snots,” Rozelle continues. “No money in it.” She heads off, trusting we’ll follow. “Come on. We’ll set up over there.”
I step in line behind Rozelle with a sigh. I’m like a dog on a leash, getting tugged wherever my master leads. I hate following her, but I don’t know how to get free.
We set up between the street corner and the fountain. The jewelry shop is on the far side of the parkette, beyond the fountain. I don’t want a face-off with the jeweler again.
“Where’s the shirt?” Rozelle demands.
“Under this one.” I lift my old T-shirt to reveal the one she bought with money I earned.
“Then get ready.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
Her jaw muscles ripple. “Don’t push me, Low-Cal.”
If I were a cartoon character, I’d have a black cloud over my head.
I turn away to pull off my old T-shirt. I don’t want an audience yet. The yo-yo shirt underneath rides up, exposing my bony
ribcage and hairless chest.
My back goes stiff as I anticipate the jabs. Scrawny. One bite. I’m making up the jokes for them now. I struggle out of the old shirt as fast as possible and then yank the yo-yo one back down.
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.
The Yo-Yo Prophet Page 3