She gets attention while I get punished.
Mr. Davis continues. “And I must insist on a written apology to Sasha Reynolds.”
“An apology!” I explode. “No way!”
“Calvin, stop!” Gran says, her chest gurgling.
I try to calm down.
“The safety of the students is my priority, Calvin,” Mr. Davis says. “You have my decision. I suggest you consider the choices you made today—really think about your actions. I don’t want a repeat of this situation.” He stands, rattling the coins in his pocket. “I expect to see you first thing Monday morning in my office with that apology in hand.”
“Okay,” I mutter. It’s not like I have a choice.
“Thank you, Mr…” Gran’s voice trails off. She’s probably forgotten his name.
I eye my yo-yos. “Can I have them back now?”
Before Mr. Davis can speak, Gran reaches an unsteady hand to sweep them off the desk and into her wide purse. She clicks the purse shut and tucks it under her arm. “I’ll take care of them.” She gives me a stern look.
I’m so thrilled to see them with Gran that I manage to nod repentantly at Mr. Davis on the way out.
“Sorry, sir,” I say. I don’t have to mean it.
“That’s more like it.” He bobs his head, the fluorescent lights reflecting off his shiny scalp. “Keep it up, Calvin, and you’ll be back on track in no time.” He shakes my hand, squeezing too hard.
As Gran and I are leaving the office, we bump into my two least-favorite teachers—Mr. Marnello and Ms. Kinsela. I cringe. If Ms. Kinsela ever got hold of my twin racers, I’d never see them again.
I try to steer Gran around them, but Mr. Marnello steps in my path.
“Calvin.” His bushy mustache wriggles as he talks.
“Why weren’t you in math?”
I get the feeling that whatever I say will be wrong, just like in math class.
“I, uh, got suspended, Mr. Marnello.” I duck my head, suddenly ashamed. Everyone will think that I did something wrong, that I deserve to be suspended. I stare at Gran’s scuffed black shoes with the wide, clunky heels, wishing we were out of here.
“I’m not surprised,” Ms. Kinsela says.
I glance up. What does she mean? I’m not that bad.
“Well, I am.” Mr. Marnello turns to Gran. “Calvin always tries so hard in class. He’s not afraid to answer questions.”
Answer them wrong, I think. And math terrifies me. But I’m stunned. Mr. Marnello is on my side?
“How long will you be gone?” Ms. Kinsela’s red hair is pulled back into a bun. It makes her skin look tight.
“Till Monday.”
Her face falls—like she’s actually disappointed.
“Why?” I have to ask.
“I heard about the”—she pauses to glance at Mr. Marnello and then at Gran—“incident with the yo-yo this morning. I had hoped you might do a yo-yo demonstration in my physics classes, but, with a student hurt and you suspended, it’s impossible.”
“You’d want me to come to a physics class?” I’m amazed. “Why?”
“Planes,” she says. “A yo-yo operates on the principle of planes. You wouldn’t be able to do complicated tricks if you didn’t keep the yo-yo on a plane when you threw it.”
“Oh,” I say, not understanding a word.
“You see, the plane is formed by the yo-yo itself. When it’s spinning, it has gyroscopic stability.” Ms. Kinsela pretends to toss a yo-yo, which is too weird. “That’s how the yo-yo stays in a line when you throw it.” She goes on about inertia and spinning molecules. “My physics students would have enjoyed a demonstration.”
“Maybe he could come in next year.” Gran looks at me proudly. Her sweater has dipped off one shoulder and her dress sags. She’s lost too much weight.
“That might be possible.” Ms. Kinsela nods.
“I guess I could,” I say, still surprised.
When Gran starts asking my teachers about my grades and the exams next week, I notice Rozelle down the hall, hanging around, probably waiting to hear what happened with the principal. I slip away from the adults.
“Three-day suspension,” I tell Rozelle. “Because of Sasha.”
Rozelle shrugs. “It’s just school. Now, you get more time to practice.”
“Yeah, I guess. But why did she do that?” I pace the hall. “I mean, she’s always out to get me.”
“Jealous, I guess,” Rozelle says. “She thinks I spend too much time on you. Don’t worry ’bout it.”
“Why not?” I come to a sudden stop. “Are you going to make her pay for sabotaging my show?”
“I already took care of her. She won’t pull that shit again.” Rozelle grins, leans against a locker.
“What’d you do?” I ask. I’m imagining a fight behind the school—maybe a broken arm.
Rozelle shrugs again. “Let’s just say I straightened her out. Listen, don’t let her get to you. You’re the man right now. They love you.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” They had still been cheering for me when Mr. Davis hauled me away. “But I wish—”
“We got bigger plans.” Rozelle nudges me. “School’s almost out. We should take the show to the streets this summer—maybe find a few carnivals or get into that busker festival downtown. I got us a street permit now, so the cops can kiss my—”
“How do you think of all this?” I shake my head, amazed. “You should do this for real, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Manage talent.”
Rozelle looks pleased. “You still don’t get it.” She gives me a friendly slap on the cheek. “This is for real.”
Real? Even the predictions? I know what Rozelle would say. Who cares? Just ride it as far as you can. And maybe she’s right.
Then Gran’s beside me, looking exhausted as she extends a hand to Rozelle. “So nice to meet one of Calvin’s friends. I’m his grandmother.”
Rozelle raises one eyebrow, probably surprised by my white grandmother. “Hey.” She shakes Gran’s hand, introduces herself. They look odd together—Gran pale and tired, Rozelle dark and powerful.
Rozelle is saying, “I manage Calvin’s shows. You should come see one. It’s pretty cool.”
“Well, I better get out of here,” I say, breaking up the awkward party. I can just imagine what Gran thinks of Rozelle’s low-cut shirt, jean miniskirt and combat boots, and I don’t want Gran to embarrass me. “Suspended, you know.”
Gran frowns. I guess it’s not a joke to her. Me either, really. I’ve never been suspended before, and it doesn’t feel so great.
Gran and I head down the hall, and I’m surprised when Rozelle strolls along with us, babbling about her plans for my summer, like she doesn’t have a class to go to. Gran nods and asks questions, but I can tell she needs to lie down before she collapses. I speed up, hoping to end the conversation and get Gran home. I burst through the school doors, holding one open for Gran.
Outside, a cameraman and a female reporter wait at the sidewalk beside a white van from the local TV station.
“What’s this?” Rozelle strolls out after Gran.
“That him?” The cameraman points at me. He’s got messy brown hair and he’s wearing an AC/DC T-shirt.
I stop abruptly. They’re here for me?
The reporter glances up. “Are you Calvin Layne?” She’s holding a microphone and wearing a pink jacket with black pants and high heels. “The Yo-Yo Prophet?”
“Oh, my!” Gran claps a hand over her mouth and chokes back a cough.
My heart races. How did they hear about me? Marshall’s blog? Maybe YouTube? I glance questioningly at Rozelle, who looks as surprised as I am.
“Don’t blow this, Yo-Yo,” she whispers, elbowing me hard in the ribs, “or I’ll knock you flat.”
I elbow her back, just to show she can’t push me around. “I can handle this.”
Rozelle smirks, almost as if she’s proud.
“I’m Cal
vin.” I stroll across the dandelion-dotted grass toward the reporter, sweat beading on my forehead, trying to act confident.
Shafts of sunlight break through the leaves overhead.
A breeze blows through my hair. Gran and Rozelle keep pace on either side—a heroic triangle with me at the center. As I near the sidewalk, a TV camera is shoved in my face. I grin into it, glad I remembered to gel my hair this morning.
“Okay, roll it,” the cameraman says.
The reporter positions herself beside me, tosses back her long black hair and squares her shoulders at the camera, microphone in hand. “Roberta Chow reporting for Urban-TV Community News. We’re here with Calvin Layne, also known as the Yo-Yo Prophet, a grade-nine student at Cliffdale High School. Sources say he earned his street name by making accurate predictions while performing yo-yo tricks. Can you give us a demonstration, Calvin?” She aims the microphone at my face.
I’m a little thrown by how aggressive the reporter is, but I recover quickly. “Sure I can,” I say, glancing at Gran. She gives me a grim look—probably to remind me that I’m still in trouble—and then opens her purse and hands me my twin racers. Rozelle gives me a thumbs-up.
I go full-out, beginning with ten crisscross loops and shifting into double vertical punches over my head. I finish with multiple milk-the-cows in front of me.
The cameraman records it all, while the reporter bombards me with questions. How long have I been yo-yoing? Have I won any competitions? How many predictions have I made? How accurate have my predictions been?
I answer the best I can while I stay focused on my tricks.
The school buzzer goes for lunch. Soon, people are pouring out the doors, and I’m surrounded by cheering as I do a sword-and-shield trick.
“As you can see,” says the reporter, “this kid is a big hit!”
The cameraman pans the crowd—Joseph applauding and grinning; Geordie, a head taller than the rest, looking shocked at what I can do; Rozelle nodding; Marshall snapping photos of the event; musclehead jocks and rapper-wannabes cheering side by side. The camera returns to me as I impress with a circular fountain of two-handed trajectories, starting out nearly horizontal and ending fully vertical.
Gran retreats to the bench by the bus stop when a coughing fit overtakes her. She waves to show me she’s okay. I should get her home, but I need to rule this show.
I rock one trick after another, even find new combinations that I’d never tried before.
As I’m starting into a windshield-wiper trick, the reporter asks, “Have you heard of Black Magic?”
“What?” I’m throwing a breakaway with one hand and a reverse breakaway with the other to wipe the windshield.
“He won the World Yo-Yo Contest a few years back. He lives here now.”
“I’ve seen him online.” I’m an ace, playing it up for the camera. Blood screaming through my veins, the yo-yos screaming through my fingers.
“Well, the talk is starting—Yo-Yo Prophet versus Black Magic. Who do you think would win a spin-off?”
I switch into a looping arm wrap. “I would, of course.” No one can touch me now.
“Is that a prediction?” the reporter says it like a challenge.
“Sure is.” I’m invincible. Solid gold. I can beat anyone, anytime.
I finish my show without interruptions. Sasha left ages ago, and Annette is nowhere in sight.
Afterward, the reporter pulls me aside. “That was better than I expected. You’re all right.” She smiles without showing her teeth.
“He’s more than all right.” Rozelle saunters over. “He’s the frickin’ best.”
“And who are you?” The reporter’s eyes rake over Rozelle, sizing her up.
“I’m his manager,” she says, “and we need to talk ’bout how I can get a copy of that video.”
11
On the subway ride home, the walls of the tunnel flash by at dizzying speed. Gran and I share a bench. My hands twitch in my lap as if they’re still working tricks. Gran leans her head against the Plexiglas window. She’s tilted away from me, like a car with two flat tires on one side.
I know I should be worried about her, but I’m too excited. “So what’d you think of the Yo-Yo Prophet, Gran?” I can barely stay seated. I bet she thought I was awesome.
“I think you need to study for exams,” she says.
“But—”
“And you need to keep your yo-yos out of the school.” Gran coughs hard, holding her chest till she catches her breath. She purses her lips and shuts her eyes.
Then I realize how hard she’s been working to hold it together for me—trying to be strong because she thinks I messed up, even though I didn’t. It’s all because of Sasha. I grit my teeth, reaching into my pocket to finger a yo-yo.
The subway rattles across a track connection, rocking us in our seats. The car smells faintly of garbage and sweat. Across from us, a tough guy dressed in gangsta gear sits next to a businessman in a suit. They look as mismatched as Gran and me.
“I have no problem with you playing this Yo-Yo Prophet.” Gran’s eyes open. “And I don’t believe you’d harm a young girl on purpose. But you do need to be more careful. You need to keep those yo-yos under control.”
“That’s what I do best.” I can’t help but smile. “No worries, Gran.”
Gran studies me with her eyebrows raised before she leans her head against the window again and closes her eyes.
When we get home, we head straight upstairs, skipping the shop and the status report from Van. Gran falls into bed. In the living room, I notice that someone—probably Van—has started to pack Gran’s collection of plates. The walls are mostly bare, with round patches of unfaded paint to mark where each plate once hung. I guess we really are moving, even if we haven’t found a place yet.
I switch on the TV and flip to the local channel, wondering when Urban-TV News will come on. A boring talk show is playing, so I press Mute and stare at the screen. When I can’t sit still any longer, I pace the room, weaving among the half-filled packing boxes, thinking through what happened at school. Not my typical day— that’s for sure. First I get suspended, and then I’m a celebrity, a hero. The kind of guy that always gets the girl. As if.
Rozelle says it’s only the beginning.
My hands are jittery. I pull out my yo-yos and replay my favorite moves.
When there’s a knock at the door, I hurry to open it before the noise wakes Gran. Lucy and Franco, Gran’s workers from the shop, are outside. Lucy’s standing on the metal landing, her hands clutched together. Franco is one step behind her, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. I can’t remember them ever coming upstairs before.
“What’s wrong?” I ask in a whisper. Gran’s room is just across the hall.
“It’s Van.” Lucy stumbles over her words. Franco’s mustache is twitching. “She had to go.”
“Go where?” Tension rises through my stomach to my chest, tightening my throat so my voice comes out in a squeak. “Where did she go?”
The telephone rings.
“Just a minute,” I say, leaving them standing awkwardly at the door while I run to the living room for the phone, hoping Gran won’t wake.
The TV is still on mute, displaying images of silky hair for some shampoo ad. When I pick up the phone, I hear Van’s voice through the receiver before it’s even to my ear.
“Hello? Hello?” she says.
“Van? Where are you?”
“I am at the airport,” she says. “My flight will be going in a few minutes. I keep calling and calling, but you take so long at school. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” Her urgent tone gets me on edge. “Why are you at the airport? You’re not leaving till the end of June, right?” She can’t leave me yet.
“I have a change in plans. My daughter, she is in the hospital. She went into labor,” she says.
“The baby is coming? But it’s not time.” My heart contracts. I’ll never see Van again. Never get her
back. She’ll be so busy…
“Yes, it is too soon for the baby to be born.” Van’s loud voice startles me. “They managed to stop the labor, but my daughter will need to stay in the hospital until it is safe for the baby to be born. That is why I am needed as soon as possible. Someone must watch Samuel, since his father has to work.”
“I understand,” I say, keeping my voice calm, even though I want to scream. How can she leave me now? With Gran sick? Who will find us a new place to live?
Maybe we can use Van’s place. “Is your apartment rented yet?” I ask.
Van sighs. “Yes. the landlord already rented it, although it would have been too small for you and your bà. I did leave a list of apartments for rent on the front counter in the shop. Your bà should be able to find something soon.” She mutters something in Vietnamese. “So sorry. I feel so bad. I should not leave you with this mess. And your bà sick!”
“It’s okay, Van.” I try to lie well. “Gran and I will be fine. Soon we’ll be calling you from our new place.” I grip the phone tighter. “We’ll probably get a house,” I add.
“You always take good care of your bà,” Van says. “But everyone needs help sometimes. That is why I asked Lucy and Franco to watch out for you. Lucy will bring supper each night, and Franco lives nearby, if you need anything else. They will even help you pack.”
“Thanks, Van,” I say, even though I’m planning to keep Lucy and Franco out of my business. They’ve both worked for Gran a long time, but they’re not like Van.
I write down her daughter’s phone number and then wish her luck.
“Goodbye, Calvin. Don’t forget to bolt the door to the alley at night,” Van says.
I hang up.
The apartment is silent.
At the door, Franco clears his throat.
Ignoring him, I gaze stupidly at the living-room walls, remembering how customers would sometimes mistake Van for my mother. And suddenly, I hate the empty walls. I snatch a newspaper-wrapped plate from a nearby box, wanting to rehang all the royal porcelain faces.
Maybe then I won’t feel so alone.
I unwrap the plate. A weak-chinned Prince Charles offers no comfort.
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