Annette lets out a high-pitched giggle. She’s got her legs crossed, swinging one foot and eating fries while enjoying Rozelle’s show. Rozelle is watching me as she talks, her face too close to mine, her breath smelling of fries. I stare straight ahead, gripping my soda.
“So here’s how I wanna run it,” Rozelle begins. “You start the act with yo-yo tricks, and then you use the prophet angle for the finale. I’m gonna ask the crowd who wants a prediction—it’s better if I find the best situation for you to predict.”
“But—,” I begin.
“Only one prediction for each performance. I don’t wanna tire you out.” She winks at her girls, and I wonder why. “Don’t get too specific either. Keep it loose, easy to interpret.”
“Roz, I was thinking…,” Sasha says.
“You don’t wanna be doin’ that,” Rozelle replies.
Annette guffaws.
Sasha’s face goes red, but she keeps talking. “Maybe we could check out a few fortune-tellers, see how they make predictions.”
“Naw.” Rozelle waves away Sasha’s idea. “The Yo-Yo Prophet knows how to handle it.”
Now Sasha’s really glowering. Rozelle gives my shoulder a squeeze, and I almost drop my drink. I’m wearing shorts and she’s in a miniskirt, so our bare legs are touching. It’s awkward, electrifying, disturbing. I try to wriggle free, but Rozelle’s grip is too tight.
“I don’t know.” I choke out the words. “I’ve had enough of that prophet stuff. I just want to do my yo-yo tricks.”
“No way.” Rozelle shakes her head. “Think ’bout it. Yo-yo tricks are good, but you need more if you wanna stand out. The Yo-Yo Prophet is a better act. It gives ’em entertainment and inspiration.”
I grit my teeth. Tell her you’re in charge, I think. But I can’t make myself say the words.
“Remember, you still owe me—,” Rozelle begins.
“Owe you! Because you didn’t beat me up when I accidentally bumped into you?” I’m about to explode, but I force myself to be calm. “I think we should call it even.
I can take care of things myself.”
“Yeah? Like you took care of that frickin’ jewelry store guy?” Rozelle snorts. “You need me as much as I need you, Yo-Yo Prophet. And I ain’t walkin’ away.”
“But I’m no prophet,” I say. “That was just some stupid…I mean…wild scheme you thought up to make more money. Well, I don’t care about the money. And I don’t like lying.”
“Not a prophet, huh?” Rozelle stares me down.
“That’s right.” My soda’s starting to sweat in the heat. Drops of condensation trickle down the cup and onto my hand.
“Well, you may wanna know that a certain unemployed woman found work today.” Rozelle gazes intently at me. “Eleanor Rizzo—the woman from your show at the park—just called.” She slides off the table and worms a cell phone from her skirt pocket.
“Yeah?” I leap to my feet, relieved to put some distance between us.
Rozelle waves her cell phone. “Some copy shop downtown needed help.”
“Good for her. Although I’m sure I had nothing to do with it.” I drop my drink on a table and turn to leave.
“Forget this. I’ve got to get to math.”
Behind the counter, Angelo slams the fridge shut and bangs a few plates around.
“Just a minute,” Rozelle says. “I’ve got somethin’ you wanna hear.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Just shut up and listen.” She starts pressing buttons on her phone. The skinny guy from our school gets up to leave. I guess he’s trying to get to class on time. Rozelle holds her phone in front of my face. A woman’s voice comes through the speaker. She sounds happy.
“Hi Rozelle. This is Eleanor. I just had to tell you that I got the job at Kopy Kingdom. It’s the night shift, which isn’t great, but I start tomorrow! Please, tell the Yo-Yo Prophet how grateful I am. Without him, I couldn’t have done it, mostly because I didn’t believe I could. He changed my life. And so did you, Rozelle. Thanks for the—”
Rozelle snaps the phone shut, stopping the message. “The rest is personal,” she says.
I can’t believe Rozelle would want to get personal with that woman. “Did you get her that job?”
“Naw. It was all you. You predicted it. Then it happened. That’s all that matters.” Rozelle’s eyes are wide. Her voice is smooth, easy.
“So why were you talking to her after my show?”
“I was just checkin’ out the crowd.” Rozelle slides her phone back into her pocket. “And I was gettin’ her number so we could find out when she got a job.”
Yeah, right. “Why would you care?”
“Advertisin’, stupid. Your prediction came true. She loves you for it. And she’s willin’ to tell her story to whoever will listen.”
I refuse to tell Rozelle that she sounds more like a manager all the time. “But I don’t want her to tell anyone about it.”
“Why not? If it brings the crowds, who cares what she says?”
“But I don’t want to predict—”
“Think ’bout it.” Rozelle drapes her arm around my shoulder again, making me tense. “You’re just givin’ ’em what they want.” She pauses. “Hope.”
“But…” Hope? That kind of makes sense.
Rozelle squeezes me closer. Her arm is hot, heavy. “And the Yo-Yo Prophet is a cool name.”
I pull away. “I know.”
“And the money is sweet. Don’t tell me you can’t use the money.”
I think of all the cool yo-yos I could buy. “Sure I can.”
“Damn right. So what’s the problem? You’re not givin’ up on me, are you?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, this is my show, not yours. I should decide what happens.”
There. I said it. I brace for Rozelle’s anger. She’ll hit me, or at least threaten me. But she doesn’t do either.
“Oh, I get it,” Rozelle says. “This is ’bout creative control.” Her eyebrows knot. “You run the show. I take care of the rest. I’ve heard ’bout this—with musicians and stuff.”
I’m so relieved that I’m not getting hit. “Well, I—”
“I can work with that,” Rozelle says. “So you plan your tricks, decide when to do the prediction. We’ll scope out the next venue.” She nods at Sasha and Annette. “I figure we should move it up. Find a boss location.”
“That…sounds good.” Have I just made another deal with Rozelle? I check my watch. Two minutes till class. I’ll never make it.
“How’s Saturday? We could meet here in the mornin’. Maybe at nine?”
“I…guess so.” I glance over the long counter and out the grimy front windows. No one’s hanging around on the school grounds. Even the smokers on the sidewalk have gone in.
“Then it’s settled.” She grins. “Now get out of here.” She pushes me toward the exit. “Don’t be late for class.”
“Yeah, and get the homework for us,” Sasha says.
Annette laughs and then stuffs a fry in her mouth.
I spin away from them, feeling light-headed. I’m not sure who’s pulling the strings now, but I hope it’s me. I push the door open, squinting at the sunlight. I’ll get detention, for sure. And I’ll probably show up on Saturday, just for kicks.
7
I can practice yo-yo tricks night and day before a show. I can do study group with Mr. Marnello before the fractions test. But some things I will never be ready for.
I spent four days perfecting new yo-yo tricks and debating whether I should meet up with Rozelle. Now, it’s Saturday morning, and I’m standing in the men’s washroom at Angelo’s burger place, face to chest with Rozelle. I can’t breathe. I can’t look straight ahead.
“The yo-yo shirt’s a start, but you need to pimp up.” Rozelle reaches out, smears my hair with fruity-smelling gel and then rubs it in a little too thoroughly.
“I like my hair the way it is.” I edge sideways. The air is stifling, and the urin
als stink. I hope no one else comes in. I couldn’t take it.
She yanks me back. “Come on, Yo-Yo. We made a deal. You can run the show, but I gotta do somethin’ ’bout your look.” She frowns. “And it ain’t easy.”
I glare, keeping my chin tilted up, away from the view of what’s busting out of her lace-trimmed tank top.
She wrenches tufts of my hair upright. Her arm muscles ripple with each pull. Her bracelets clang together. The tugging lasts a painfully long time. Squirming just makes her clasp a gooey hand onto my scrawny bicep.
I try to jerk free. “Let go.” Does she know how hard she squeezes?
“Then stay still.” She releases me.
More tugging. She takes a step back, tilts her head sideways, squints and studies my head.
“I guess that’ll do.” She slides to one side, leaving me in front of the mirror. “What do you think?”
The fluorescent lights make me look disturbingly pale with big hollows under my eyes. As for my hair—I guess it’s okay. It’s spiked and wet-looking, as if I’d just toweled it dry.
Rozelle’s head appears above mine. “Better than mattin’ it down anyway.”
“It looks like I just got out of the shower.”
She shakes her head, making her dangly earrings swing. “You got no taste.” She tries to rearrange a few strands, but I jerk away. She scowls. “Did you at least watch how I did it?”
“How could I see? You were standing in front of me!”
“This is serious, Yo-Yo. Your dweeb image has to go.” She grabs my hand and slaps the tube of gel into it. “Here. Keep it.”
“Thanks.” I make sure she hears the sarcasm in my voice.
A black cloud passes over Rozelle’s face. She goes to grab my shirt—the yo-yo one she gave me—and then stops. She rearranges her face into a forced smile. “I better see you usin’ it. My gifts don’t go to waste.”
“Sure.” I hold back a grin. Making her angry is kind of satisfying now that I know she won’t hit me. I mean, why would she damage her meal ticket?
I shove the gel into my bag as we exit the men’s washroom together, which is too weird. Sasha and Annette are leaning against the counter, looking lean, brown and tough. Angelo’s forcing a guy I recognize from school to buy a coffee.
“Nice hair.” Annette raises her eyebrows at me. She’s wearing a skimpy dress with heels, while Sasha’s in tight jean shorts and a sparkly top. I can’t stop my eyes from skating over them.
“What were you two doing in there?” Sasha sneers. “Did you need a little alone time?”
“Shut up,” Rozelle and I say at the same time. We glance at each other, surprised.
Sasha hoots. “They’re even starting to sound the same.” She nudges Annette, who hides her smile with one hand.
“Now, play nice while we have company, kids.” Rozelle flips her straightened hair in Sasha’s face as she turns to smile at the guy buying coffee.
Sasha glares at me like I’m to blame for my own existence.
“This is Marshall,” Rozelle says. “And this”—she shoves me forward—“is the Yo-Yo Prophet.”
“Uh…hi.” I shuffle from foot to foot, wondering why he’s here. He must be in grade eleven or twelve. Too old to want to talk to me.
Marshall sips his coffee, examining me through the steam. He’s got a hard set to his mouth and a skeptical expression on his narrow face. His hair is almost shoulder length—blond with wide chunks of orange and pink. The nose piercing is okay, but the bar through his lip disturbs me.
“Is it true that yo-yos were once used as weapons?” Marshall asks me.
Strange first question. “Weapons?” I say. I see Rozelle and the girls perk up. Not surprising.
“Yeah, I read that sixteenth-century hunters in the Philippines would tie a rock to a long cord and throw it at their prey.” Marshall steps closer as he talks. He’s taller than Rozelle but not by much. “Apparently the hunters could pull the rock back like a yo-yo.”
Sasha pretends to throw a rock at me. I ignore her.
“Maybe they did,” I say. “But it’s not the same as a yo-yo.”
“What do you mean?”
“When a yo-yo hits something, it loses spin and can’t return.”
“Of course.” Marshall sets his coffee on the counter and pulls out a notebook and pen from his back pocket. Behind the counter, Angelo flips a burger, which sizzles and spits on the grill.
“Marshall blogs ’bout cool stuff, Yo-Yo. Lotsa people at school follow him,” Rozelle says. “He’s gonna blog ’bout you. Maybe post a few photos or a video. Spread the word online.”
“He is?” My chest gets tight.
“Yup.” Marshall tucks a strand of orange hair behind his ear. “If there’s a good story.” He flips to a blank page and starts writing.
I swallow hard. No pressure.
“Okay, let’s get goin’. You can talk on the way,” Rozelle says.
“Where are we going?” I ask warily.
“You’ll see when we get there.”
“But I—”
“Just worry ’bout your tricks, Yo-Yo. I’ll do the rest. Remember?” Rozelle points to a huge portable stereo on one of the tables. “Sasha and Annette, you’ll be carryin’ that.”
“What’s that for?” I’m getting more jittery by the moment.
“I’m makin’ improvements,” Rozelle says. “You got the shirt and the new do, now we need tunes for our show.”
Annette grabs the handle and yanks, barely lifting the stereo off the table before she drops it. “Ugh.
It weighs a ton!”
“I don’t need music…,” I begin.
“It’s a relic.” Sasha rolls her eyes. “Where’d you get it? King Tut’s tomb?”
“It’s my brother’s.” Rozelle glares. “And I carried it here, no problem.”
“Roz, it’s too heavy,” Annette whines.
“Yeah, we’re both skinny,” Sasha adds, and I know she’s implying that Rozelle isn’t.
“This’ll help you bulk up.” Rozelle hurls the words at Sasha, her jaw muscles clenching and unclenching. Then she links arms with me like she owns me. “You gotta earn your way, just like Yo-Yo and me.”
My arm is burning where it touches hers, but I wait till we head out to pull free. Rozelle waves goodbye to Angelo, whose eye is still twitching like crazy. Now that I know him a bit, it doesn’t bother me as much. Marshall leaves his coffee behind; he’s still scribbling notes.
As we walk the one block to the subway, Sasha and Annette lag behind, struggling with the stereo. When Marshall hangs back to ask them a question, I whisper to Rozelle. “Are you sure this is a good idea? The blog, I mean?”
“’Course it is. We gotta get the word out ’bout you.”
“But no one at school knows that I do yo-yo tricks. Except you. And them.” I stab a finger toward Sasha and Annette.
“Soon they’ll all know, Yo-Yo.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You worry too much.” She elbows me in the ribs.
I wince. Then I notice Marshall has caught up to us, and he’s listening to every word.
I shut up. It’s bad enough that he’s blogging about my yo-yoing. He doesn’t need to blog about my fears too.
On the subway, Marshall sits on the bench opposite me. Rozelle sits beside me, and Sasha and Annette are one seat over. As the subway rocks, Rozelle knocks against me, but I can’t move away since I’m already jammed against the edge of the seat. Marshall asks questions nonstop. What tricks can I do? How did I start yo-yoing? I try to answer well, even though my heart is racing and my face feels hot. Marshall writes everything down.
He asks, “What type of yo-yos do you use?”
Rozelle hovers over my shoulder like she’s afraid I’m going to make a mistake.
“Uh, any kind. I’ve got about eight different ones so far.”
“Do you use them all in your show?”
“No, just this one.” I
pull my favorite neon yo-yo out of my backpack. “It’s a…uh…modified yo-yo—good for string and looping tricks.”
Marshall glances up from his scribbling. He nods.
“And I just got two new yo-yos in the mail. I’ve been… uh…trying some two-handed tricks.” Should I have said that?
“Two-handed tricks?” Rozelle interrupts. “Why didn’t I hear ’bout this?”
“I didn’t know it mattered to you.” I sink lower in my seat.
“Everythin’ you do matters to me, Yo-Yo.”
I frown.
“Will you be using those today?” Marshall asks.
“Not yet. I’ve got to practice with them a bit more.” A lot more.
“You should go for it today,” Rozelle says. “Take it up a notch.”
“No.” I fiddle with my yo-yo, wishing I could break into a few tricks. “I didn’t even bring them.”
Rozelle crosses her arms, muscles tight. “Next time.”
“If I’m ready.”
“How often do you practice?” Marshall’s still writing.
“All the time.” I don’t tell him it’s what I do to relax.
It sounds like I have no life.
“And what about those predictions?” Marshall flips back through his notebook, scans a page. “You predicted a robbery and…a job offer?”
It sounds lame when he says it. “I guess.” I shrug.
Rozelle leans in. “The predictions came true.”
“But I don’t know if it’ll happen again,” I add. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ll never do it again, no matter what Rozelle wants.
“It will.” Rozelle tosses me a frustrated look. “It happens when he doesn’t expect it. He’ll be doin’ his hardest tricks and then…boom…he comes out with this random comment ’bout someone in the crowd. It’s pretty cool.”
“Uh-huh.” Marshall sounds unconvinced.
“It’s not that cool,” I say.
I stare at Marshall’s tiny, neat writing, but I can’t read what it says upside down. What if his blog post makes me look stupid?
We get off at Union Station and walk east. Everything feels wrong. My hands are sweating. My hair feels stiff. How am I supposed to perform with stiff hair?
“Tell me where we’re going,” I say to Rozelle when we reach the St. Lawrence Market. I can’t stand not knowing.
The Yo-Yo Prophet Page 5