The Yo-Yo Prophet

by Karen Krossing

  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 f
raud?

  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.”

  “I’m glad you’re making friends.”

  Yeah, right. Friends. I’m not an idiot. I’m just Rozelle’s fool, her cash grab. I grip my fork tighter. I can’t let Rozelle push me around.

  Gran forks her second tomato. The insides squirt out like blood from a wound.

  I wince. “Gran, I have to tell you something.” I push my plate away.

  “What is it, Calvin?”

  “I don’t like fried tomatoes.” I hold my breath.

  “You don’t?” Gran’s face falls. Her brows bunch together.

  I take a breath. “Yeah. I really hate them. I always have.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? All these years, I could have had your share.” She grins and leans over to spear one of my tomatoes.

  I grin back. That was easy. Now it gets harder. “And there’s something else.”

  “You don’t like sausages either?” Gran eyes my plate.

  “No, they’re okay. It’s Spader. How do you know we can trust him?”

  Gran sighs. “Mr. Spider? Why shouldn’t we trust him?”

  “His name’s Spader. And I just want to be sure he’s offering you a fair deal. Because you don’t have to sell the shop, if the deal isn’t good. I could help out more. So could Van, if we ask her.”

  “Mr. Spider is fine. So is the deal.” Gran presses her lips together again. “I’ve thought this through, and checked the paperwork thoroughly.”

  “Okay.” I pause. “So where will we move to?”

  “I’ll find us a place. Maybe a small house with a garden. I’ve always wanted a garden.”

  “Do we have enough time to find a place? It’s June fourth already. We need to move by August first.”

  “It’ll be fine.” Gran wipes her mouth with her napkin and then crumples it in her fist. “I know you’re nervous about the changes. This isn’t easy for me either.” Her blue eyes hold my gaze. “Selling the shop is like giving up a piece of your grandfather. We started it together, you know, over forty years ago. And with him gone, and Richard, and your mother, well…” Her voice falters. “It’s hard to leave it behind.”

  “I know,” I say, only I’m afraid that Gran’s slowly leaving me behind as well.

  “I just can’t keep up anymore.” She leans her elbows on the table and rests her head in her hands. “And there’s nothing you or I can do about that.” Her voice is muffled.

  When she looks up again, her face is drained of color and the fine hairs on her upper lip stand out darker than usual.

  “Okay, Gran,” I say, even though nothing is okay. Not the defeated look on her face. Not the helpless way I feel.

  “It’s the right thing to do, Calvin.”

  I stare down at my half-eaten breakfast. I hope she’s right.

  Three days later, I’m leaving the school cafeteria when Sasha stops me.

  “Roz wants to see you,” she says.

  “But I have to get to class.”

  “So?”

  I check my watch. Seventeen minutes till math with Mr. Marnello. Enough time to tell Rozelle that I’m in charge of my show, not her. “Okay.”

  Sasha rolls her eyes, one hand on her hip. “I love how you think you have a choice.”

  She strides down the hall like a model on a runway and heads out the nearest doors. I trail her, wondering where we’re going.

  We end up at the burger joint across the street—it’s where the cool people hang out. I cross into Rozelle’s turf, tight-fisted and wary.

  The fluorescent lights are too bright. The smell of grease reminds me of Gran’s fried tomatoes. There’s a long counter for ordering and a few tables bolted to the floor in the back. Rozelle is lounging on one table, swinging her legs and barking orders at Annette, who sits on a chair at the next ta
ble.

  “Hold my drink, would ya? And gimme a couple of fries.”

  Annette leaps to do her bidding. Roz leans back on one arm—she’s the queen of burgers and fries.

  “What are you ordering?” the guy behind the counter asks me.

  Sasha strolls on by.

  “If you come in here, you buy something!” He’s got a moustache as wide as a strip of bacon and a twitch in one eye that makes me freeze solid.

  “Be good, Yo-Yo,” Rozelle drawls. “Angelo throws dishes when he gets cranky.”

  Angelo grins. He picks up an empty stainless-steel bowl and tosses it playfully from one hand to another.

  I pull out enough change to buy the cheapest thing on the menu—a small orange soda. I don’t argue, mostly because I don’t want to be late for Mr. Marnello’s class. Math is hard enough without pissing him off.

  While I’m waiting for my drink, I notice that a few other people have dared to enter Rozelle’s palace. A long-haired guy with a mean stare makes me nervous, and a skinny guy from our school gives me the once-over before turning away.

  Angelo bangs my cup on the counter, sloshing soda over the edge.

  I jump. “Uh, thanks. Do you…uh…have a straw?”

  He rolls his eyes. “You want me to drink it for you too?”

  Rozelle and her girls laugh. My back goes rigid. My face heats up.

  Angelo motions behind me. “Straws are with the lids, kid.” He gets out a damp cloth and vigorously wipes the counter.

  I get my straw and lid, hands jittery. I head to the back, where Sasha’s up on the table beside Rozelle, looking down on Annette with a smirk. When Rozelle sees me coming, she pushes Sasha off and pats the empty space beside her.

  “Sit here,” she orders.

  I obey without thinking. Sasha stomps over to sit beside Annette, who gives her a look that says, Now you know what it’s like. Sasha glares at me, making me squirm. I sip my soda without tasting it. The skinny guy is watching, probably wondering what Queen Rozelle is doing with a nobody like me.

  Rozelle puts an arm around my shoulders, and I stiffen.

  “Welcome to my office,” she says.