Gran mumbles, but I can’t make out what she saying.
“Maybe we should discuss worst-case scenarios when your dad gets here,” Dr. Chen says. “I’ve reduced your grandmother’s pain medication, so she’ll become more alert shortly. We can talk then.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I think of my mother. “Just tell me it’s not cancer,” I beg.
Dr. Chen’s eyes remain steady, but her forehead furrows.
I swallow hard.
“We need to think positively.” Dr. Chen examines my face, as if she really cares how I feel. “We should know more soon. In the meantime, I promise I’ll do everything I can. Okay?”
I nod, unable to speak.
Dr. Chen checks the clock and gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s still a while until visiting hours start, but you can stay with your grandmother, as long as you’re quiet. I’ll let the nurses know you’re here.”
“Thanks.” My hands are jittery. I reach into my pocket for a yo-yo, but there’s nothing there.
Although I’m afraid to leave Gran for long, my stomach eventually demands more food. At lunch time, I head to the cafeteria, where I buy some pizza. There’s a tv tuned to the local news.
I eat my pizza quickly, eyes on the screen. It’s not Urban-tv News, but it gets me thinking. Did they air the duel? Is it posted on YouTube? Am I a laughingstock yet? I don’t want to see the video, but I can’t stop myself. I have to find out how bad it is.
I hurry down the street to the public library. Inside, there are two rows of computer terminals with Internet access. Three people are already lined up for the computers, and I fidget while I’m waiting, thinking about Gran. When I finally get a turn, I navigate to the Yo-Yo Prophet blog first, wondering if Marshall has taken down the site, but it’s still there.
My stomach sinks when I read the title of his latest post: Yo-Yo Prophet or Yo-Yo Profit?
At a duel to determine the ultimate Local Yo-Yo Master, the Yo-Yo Prophet proved to be seriously outclassed by World Yo-Yo Champion Black Magic—in more ways than one.
First, Black Magic demonstrated superior yo-yo skill in trick after trick, and the crowd crowned him the clear winner of the contest.
Then Sasha Reynolds, a source close to the Yo-Yo Prophet, revealed he was a fake who relied on others to make his “predictions” come true.
The Yo-Yo Prophet? More like the Yo-Yo Profit.
We’ve been duped, readers. All of us. We believed the words of a cheat who tricked people out of their money with sensational lies.
I’ve resigned my job as personal online reporter to the Yo-Yo Profit and revised his prediction accuracy rate on this site. Take a look at the stats. This guy is clearly a fake.
I grind my teeth. Like it was ever about the money. Marshall doesn’t get it. And he doesn’t even mention Rozelle. Like it’s all my fault. Although maybe it is. I’m the fool who followed her.
I scroll through a few of the blog comments, which read more like hate mail.
As soon as I saw him, I knew this kid was a flake… …just another scam artist preying on innocent people… I want to leave my own comment, but what would I say? You’re right? I am a loser?
Marshall estimated my prediction accuracy rate to be forty percent. Some record.
I think back to the last predictions I made about my own life: Gran is worse, not better. We still haven’t found a new apartment. The gray-eyed girl isn’t interested in me. And I’m no yo-yo master. A zero-percent accuracy rate. Nice.
I can hardly bear to watch the newscast on YouTube. Black Magic looks like a god beside me. The reporter smiles as if she’s enjoying my failure. I hate Rozelle for making me look stupid. I hate how everyone can see my humiliation forever. I hate that reporter for ever taking an interest in me.
I was better off when I was anonymous.
For the next few days, I spend as much time at the hospital as I can, only going home when I have to.
One afternoon during visiting hours, Gran moans and struggles to sit up.
I jump to her side. “Careful.” I push the button to raise the head of the bed.
“Calvin?” Gran glances around the hospital room like she’s just figuring out where she is.
“How are you feeling?” I’m glad she recognizes me.
“I’ve been better.” She grimaces, coughs and then wipes her eyes with a trembling hand. “What happened? How did I get here?”
“You fell, Gran.” I sit on the edge of her bed. “When I was out.” I remember her collapsed on the landing. “I’m so sorry. If only I had—”
“Oh, Calvin,” Gran scolds, her voice hoarse, although she speaks without slurring. “You’re my grandson, not my babysitter.”
I crack half a smile. “Now I know you’re feeling better.” I tell her what Dr. Chen said, although I don’t mention the cancer part. I’ll leave that to the doctor, mostly because I can’t bring myself to say the word. “You’ve been here for days,” I finish.
Gran rests her head against the pillow. Her brow furrows. The hollows in her cheeks deepen. She’s silent for a while, and then her eyes close. Just when I wonder if she’s falling asleep, she says, “How was your yo-yo show?”
“Terrible,” I say, surprised she remembers. I explain what happened. “I’m so stupid. I wish I could erase the video from the Internet.”
Gran’s face contorts with pain. She clutches the blanket.
“I’ll get the nurse.” I leap to my feet. My problems are nothing compared to Gran’s.
“No,” she croaks. “It’ll pass.”
I sit beside her, uneasy.
Her blue eyes are unfocused. The veins in her hands bulge beneath her pale skin. “Her Majesty knows we’ve both made mistakes,” she mutters.
Not again. I wince. “Gran, what are you talking about?”
“Queen Elizabeth the Second.” Her nose whistles as she exhales. “She’s reigned for so long and so well through so many changes.” She gets a faraway look. “I always wanted to be queen, ever since I was a little girl. Although I was a queen, in a way. Queen of my shop.”
“I know you were,” I say.
“It wasn’t much, but it was mine to reign over, no matter what.” She sighs. “Now I’m only queen of myself. But that’s enough.” She lifts her head and shoulders off the pillow, her neck muscles straining. “No illness is going to reign over me.”
I hope not. I shut my eyes briefly and try not to think about Gran with cancer. “That’s a good attitude.” I try to sound positive.
“Of course it is.” She collapses back against the pillows, obviously exhausted. “We can’t control the world, but we can reign over our own little piece of it.” She grips my hand. “Maybe you’re not a prophet,” she pauses, “but you are good with a yo-yo.”
A royal lecture. I make a face and pull my hand away. “Not as good as Black Magic.” Why did I ever think I could beat a world champion? I must have been seriously delusional.
“So what?” Her eyes flutter closed. “You’re good enough to put on a show that people want to watch.”
“Maybe.” If Rozelle hadn’t ruined it for me.
Then Gran mumbles, “Did you talk to Richard yet? Or Van? You shouldn’t be staying alone.”
“I…uh…Lucy and Franco are helping,” I say. “You just take care of yourself.”
18
I spend the rest of the afternoon watching over Gran. I’m too wired to sleep. Too tired to think straight. My gut is grumbling, but it’s not hunger. More like a festering ache.
Gran kicks me out when visiting hours end.
“I’ll be fine.” Her eyes are crusty with sleep. “Go home. Get some rest.”
On the subway, I frown out the window at the tunnel walls. My eyelids are heavy, but my mind can’t stop churning.
I feel like I’m a yo-yo, getting tossed by some master player. Sometimes it’s Rozelle holding the string. Sometimes Spader, my dad or even Gran. But it’s rarely me. And I’m sick of it.
&nb
sp; My hands clench. The businesswoman in the seat across from me is staring over the top of her newspaper like I’m one of those crazies who talk to themselves.
I make a get-lost face at her and duck my head for the rest of the ride. I almost miss my stop, lunging off the train just as the doors are closing. I take the escalator to street level and trudge along the sidewalk toward home.
When I pass the bank where I earned my first coins with my yo-yo, I think about the busker festival. Would I even want to face a crowd again? Would they boo me? I don’t think I could stand it.
I cut into the alley when I’m a block from home. It’s not dark yet. The muggy air makes it feel hotter than it is. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my shirt. The stench from the Dumpsters turns my stomach.
As I near the stairs to our apartment, I notice the back door to the dry cleaner’s is open. Hot, perfume-free air rushes out.
“No perc there,” I grumble. Why is Spader so annoyingly right?
I swing one foot onto the stairs, hoping to avoid Spader. He’ll only ask questions that I can’t answer.
“Calvin.”
Busted.
I slowly turn. Spader leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms.
“What do you want?” I mutter.
The triangle of stubble on his chin twitches. He raises one eyebrow. “I want to know how your grandmother is—and whether she’s found a new place to live. It’s almost the end of the month.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.” I’m not in the mood to deal with him.
Spader frowns. “I’m just trying to help, Calvin.”
“Help?” My backpack slides down one arm, and I jerk it back up. “Yeah, you’ve been a lot of help.”
He pinches his lips together. “How is your grandmother? I’ve been hoping to chat with her, but I haven’t seen her recently.”
Ask her doctor, I want to snap at him, but I don’t want to bring Gran into it. “She’s at East General Hospital… she’s been there for days.”
“The hospital?” Again, he jacks his eyebrow. “Is she all right?”
I shrug. Of course she isn’t, but I’m not discussing it with Spader. I pivot on the stairs and start to haul myself up.
“I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother, Calvin. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“We’re fine,” I say without slowing my pace up the stairs.
“At least take my phone number,” he insists. “In case you think of something.”
“Just leave it in the mailbox,” I say.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” he pleads, like he’s feeling guilty.
I should try to be nice, but I’m tired of him pulling my string.
“You could find us a house,” I grunt. “With a garden for Gran.” I reach the landing, unlock the door and open it.
“Calvin, be reasonable. I’m trying to—”
I slam the door on his words, grateful for the slab of wood between us.
My footsteps echo off the walls and floor. The apartment is sweltering. I open all the windows, but it doesn’t help. I shower and eat, but sleeping is impossible.
I call Van at her daughter’s place. When I tell her about Gran’s condition, she freaks. “So sorry,” she says in Vietnamese. “I will come when I can, Calvin.” Then she tells me that the baby could be born any day. “Please understand,” she begs. “I am needed here too.”
Next I dial my father’s number. I hold my breath, waiting for him to pick up, not exactly sure what I’ll say. But I don’t have to worry, because it goes to voicemail again. He’s avoiding me. I stumble through a message about Gran being admitted to East General. I don’t ask if he’s coming home.
When I hang up, the silence closes in.
I try the tv, but there are only a few fuzzy channels since Gran canceled the cable. Normally, I’d practice new yo-yo tricks to distract myself, but just thinking about yo-yoing brings the whole mess with Rozelle crashing around me again. If only she hadn’t invented the Yo-Yo Prophet, forced it down my throat. Maybe I would have seen that Gran was getting sicker. Maybe I would have realized that I wasn’t a yo-yo master, just a geek who knows a few tricks.
I decide to pack the rest of the apartment, even though we have no place to go. It’s better than obsessing over ways to destroy Rozelle.
I pack most of the dishes and all of Gran’s clothes. After midnight, I collapse into bed and fall into a restless, dreamless sleep.
I wake early in the morning, sweating and exhausted.
After another cool shower, I start packing my room. I get stalled when I get to my yo-yo collection.
I keep it in my top drawer at the front. My yo-yos are lined up in a row from oldest to newest, with my extra strings and spare parts on the left. I reach out, hesitate, run my fingers over the row. Do I dare?
I pick up one of my twin racers and slide the string over my middle finger. I haven’t tossed a yo-yo since my defeat five whole days ago. I wonder if I can still pitch a simple power throw.
I launch the yo-yo, and it spins and returns to my hand like it’s glad to be home. I smile. God, I love yo-yoing. The string cutting into my finger. The soft whirring sound. Even the plastic smell.
How did I screw up the Yuuki slack trick? Maybe it was the way I pinched the string. Not firmly enough. I hustle into the living room, where there’s empty space between the piles of boxes and jumbled furniture. I let the yo-yo fly free into the start of a Yuuki slack…and tangle the string.
I fix the string and spin the yo-yo out once more. When the yo-yo flatlines, I toss it again. When I whack it against a stack of boxes, I check it for cracks and then go at it some more.
I toss steadily, mess up, repeat—until my finger gets raw from the string.
I collapse against the living-room wall. I slide to the floor and rip my yo-yo off.
“Forget it,” I mutter. I’ll never be like Black Magic.
Outside the window, dull gray clouds are gathering. I rub my finger, replaying in my mind the moment when the string broke. The vibrating string pulled taut, the horrible snap and the weightlessness as the yo-yo soared away.
It’s a simple thing—a broken string. A random, destructive event. Like cancer. Only maybe that’s not so random. Did Mom get cancer from perc? Will Gran?
And suddenly I’m furious at how helpless I am. I need to get a grip, take control of my piece of the world, like Gran said. Starting with my dad. Why does he get to run away? How am I supposed to handle this mess by myself?
I reach for the phone, pulling it toward me across the floor by the cord. I dial his number; I’ve got it memorized already. I bite my lip, waiting for him to answer, but of course, it goes to voicemail. My hand tightens around the phone. I listen to his message. My words burst out after the beep.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s your son. Remember me? Just one question: Why’d you leave? I figure you ran away from what you couldn’t handle. So I wonder, Dad, did it help? ’Cause right now Gran is at the hospital getting tested for cancer while I’m packing the apartment we have to leave in two weeks, even though we have no place to go.” Blood throbs in my temples. “Nothing’s going right. And I can’t fix any of it. You know why, Dad?” I grind out the words. “Because shit happens. We don’t get to decide how things work out.”
I slam the phone down. My eyes rake the empty room, looking for someone, something, to latch on to.
My twin racer lies beside me on the floor.
I pick it up. I run my thumb over it. I grip it in my fist.
Rozelle ruined yo-yoing for me. Until I met her, it was the best thing in my life.
She shouldn’t get away with that.
I curse her under my breath, but it’s not enough.
I want to scream at her, rage till she begs for mercy, tell her what a bitch she’s been.
So what’s stopping me?
I dig the telephone book out of a cardboard box, remembering when Sasha once mentioned Rozelle’s street. I rifle through th
e pages for Rozelle’s address. Twelve Glebe Road. I write it on the back of a drug-store receipt. Then I hike over to Rozelle’s place, before I lose my nerve.
19
It’s midmorning when I arrive, still fuming about all the shit Rozelle has put me through. Rozelle’s place is a small bungalow on a tree-lined street. There are a few flowers planted out front and a huge maple tree in the yard. Twelve Glebe Road is nicer than I expected, which pisses me off even more. Why does Rozelle talk ghetto when she comes from a place like this? It’s like everything is an act to her—a game for her amusement.
She’s not going to screw with me anymore. I march up the walk and knock on the edge of the screen door. The inside wooden door is open. Through the screen, familiar techno music throbs.
No one comes.
I hammer harder, peering inside, where I can see a leather couch and a large flat-screen tv. Why does Rozelle have it so good? Eventually, a silhouetted figure lumbers down the hall toward me. By the shape, I know it’s Rozelle.
I tense up.
Rozelle pushes the door open with one hand. She’s wearing baggy sweatpants, a tight T-shirt and no makeup. Without the heavy black eyeliner, she’s not so intimidating.
“Calvin Layne.” She rolls her eyes. “If you’re here to give me shit, don’t bother.”
“I’ll give you shit if I want to.” It feels good to blast her.
“You deserve it.”
“Whatever.” She starts to pull the screen door shut.
I block it with my leg. “You ruined my show!”
“You’re such a lame ass.” Her lip curls in disgust. “You think I did wrong by you?” She puts one hand on her hip. “I got you up onstage and made you a star. They loved the Yo-Yo Prophet—and so did you!”
“Well, they don’t anymore. Did you see Marshall’s last post?”
“Sure.” She gives me a face full of attitude. “And did you read the comments?”
“I read enough.” I snort.
She shrugs. “Nothin’ like a scandal to get people hot.”
“Are you crazy?”
“You got hundreds of comments on that site. People can’t stop talkin’ ’bout you.”
The Yo-Yo Prophet Page 13