The Yo-Yo Prophet

by Karen Krossing

  The crowd applauds him.

  “Awesome job!” I clap too. “Will you help me with another trick?”

  “Yeah.” He’s louder now.

  I pull out three soft foam balls. They’re bright yellow and smaller than tennis balls.

  “Throw these one at a time in front of me—around shoulder height—when I shout ‘Pull.’ Got it?”

  “Sure.” He beams.

  “Great!” I say. “It’s time for some skeet shooting!”

  The audience cheers.

  I start looping with both my twin racers. “I predict I’ll hit the first ball and the third ball with one of my yo-yos,”

  I call into the mike, not caring if I’m accurate. I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not.

  Once I’m channeling the power of my twin racers, I bellow, “Pull!”

  Zack throws the first ball. I hit it. The crowd roars.

  A little girl catches the ball and rolls it back to Zack.

  “Lucky guess!” yells the heckler.

  “Pull,” I shout again, ignoring him.

  I hit it again. People groan, like they’re sorry for me.

  “Too bad. Maybe I’ll get the next prediction right.”

  I grin. “Pull.”

  I smash the third one. The crowd goes crazy. They drown out the heckler, who scowls and then turns away.

  “Thanks so much,” I holler over the applause. I’m floating ten feet off the ground.

  Zack returns to his mother, beaming.

  The crowd is pumped.

  I flip the balls and one of my racers to my backpack. I jump into position for my final sequence of tricks.

  “Now for my grand finale.” I bow as the crowd shouts for more. “But first, I want to say that if you liked what you saw, please toss a few coins or bills my way after the show.” I motion to my red bucket. “And you should know”—I take a breath—“that I’m donating all the money from today’s performance to East General Hospital, where my grandmother is a patient.” I pause. “This is for you, Gran,” I say.

  There’s silence. Did I blow it? Then a burst of applause. I grin. Rozelle blasts the music. I launch into the routine I’ve been practicing for days.

  First, I blaze through all the tricks I’ve mastered. A double or nothing. Three-leaf clover. Skin-the-cat. Atomic bomb. It’s so satisfying. My shoulders are loose. I’m in the rhythm.

  Rozelle starts a chant. “Cal-vin! Cal-vin!” It’s good to hear my own name. When others pick it up, I can’t help smiling.

  Next, I fire the big guns. Buddha’s revenge. Zipper. Shockwave. Cold fusion. Even a double iron whip.

  I don’t distinguish faces anymore. I hardly hear the crowd. I exist alone, with my yo-yo.

  I finish with a perfect Yuuki slack.

  The crowd erupts into a riot of screaming.

  I feel dizzy, energized. I wave and bow. “Thank you!”

  I don’t have to beat Black Magic to win.

  My bucket overflows with money. Coins litter the asphalt.

  People swarm me, saying how much they liked the show. I demonstrate a few moves for Zack and some other eager yo-yoers. I notice the man in the red baseball cap hanging around. A few people have brought their own yo-yos. Rozelle saunters over as the mob eases.

  “The yo-yo geeks are out in full force today.” She grins.

  “Yeah, I didn’t know there were so many of us around.”

  “It’s a frickin’ epidemic. They love you.” She slaps my back, but not hard enough to knock me over.

  “Thanks, Rozelle.” I smile.

  “It was nothin’.” She glances away. “I owed ya.”

  That’s a first. “What for?”

  “My brother. I dunno what you said to him, but he’s finally lettin’ me be his manager.”

  “Really? That’s great. But I didn’t do much.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugs. “Anyway, I gotta retire from bein’ your manager. I got big plans for Tyrone, so no beggin’ me to stay.”

  Who’s begging? “What about Sasha and Annette? Marshall?”

  “What ’bout ’em?”

  “Are they going to help?”

  “Naw. They’re too pissed off.”

  “Too bad.”

  “They’ll get over it. And if they don’t, they miss out.”

  I nod. “I guess you’re right.”

  Rozelle takes off. I shove my gear into my backpack. I wonder if I should warn Tyrone about Rozelle—explain how far she’s willing to go for her “talent.” But he must know what she’s like. Maybe that’s why he was hesitating. As I’m picking up the last few coins off the asphalt, I hear a voice.

  “Calvin Layne? Do you have a minute?”

  I turn to see the guy in the baseball cap. “Sure.” I nod.

  “Great!” He holds out his hand. “I’m Dennis Harley. I run a gaming and collectibles store on Bloor Street, and I have a business proposition for you.”

  21

  On August 1, I’m carrying a cardboard box into our newly rented house—the one near Rozelle’s. The garden is still full of weeds and the windows are still grimy, but I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight.

  My shoulders ache as I cross the creaky wooden porch. I have no idea what’s in the box since I forgot to label it, but it’s heavy enough to be Gran’s royal china. I step carefully, squeezing sideways through the doorway. Inside, it smells like lemon-scented cleaner and leftover pizza—a powerful combination. I dump the box in the living room and then rub my shoulders.

  “Good news, Calvin,” Van calls, her voice echoing off the hardwood floor and the bare walls. Van’s granddaughter, Misha, was born about a week ago, and she’s already at home with her mother. I’m glad Van is here, even if it is only for a visit.

  “What happened?” I meander over to the front windows, where Van is attacking the grime with a bucket of soapy water and a cloth.

  “My daughter called.” She waves toward the telephone sitting in a dusty corner. “She says Misha smiled for the first time when Samuel was singing to her, although I suspect Misha may have just had gas. Either way, she is doing well.”

  “That’s great.” I grin. “I bet you can’t wait to get back to them.”

  “Yes, but first there is work to be done here. So much dirt!” She rinses her cloth.

  “Thanks, Van.” I know the place will be spotless before she leaves.

  “What you standin’ ’round for?” Rozelle clomps into the room, peering over the two large boxes she is carrying. “You expect me to do all your work?” She unloads her boxes next to mine.

  “Who made you boss?” I fake a punch to her gut.

  Rozelle catches my fist easily. “Remind me to teach ya how to fight.” She smirks.

  It takes most of the afternoon to empty the truck that Van rented. As I haul boxes with Rozelle, I think about how random life can be. I mean, if I hadn’t met Rozelle, I wouldn’t have become the Yo-Yo Prophet. If Gran hadn’t opened a dry-cleaning shop, she wouldn’t be sick. My parents wouldn’t have met. I wouldn’t even exist. Which only proves how impossible it is to predict what will happen next. Just when I think I have everything figured out, there’s a new trick to master.

  As we’re finishing, Spader appears with some last-minute papers for Gran to sign—something about the renter’s insurance he’s insisting we get.

  With his long arms and legs, he reminds me of a grasshopper. He hands me the papers, along with a stack of letters. “You need to forward your mail,” he tells me. “Get your grandmother to do it, when she can.”

  “I will.” I walk him to the door and say goodbye, glad to be rid of him. He’s been helpful, but I still don’t like him that much.

  Looking through the stack of mail, which has been building up for a while, I notice a letter from my school. My report card. I tear it open, hoping my math mark isn’t too terrible.

  “I got a C in math,” I tell Van. It’s not a B, like I predicted, but it’ll do.

  “Is that all?�
�� Rozelle comes up behind me. She reads over my shoulder. “I got a B.”

  “No way!” I turn, holding my report against my chest.

  “You hardly went to class!”

  “You callin’ me a liar?” Rozelle takes a step closer. She breathes in my face.

  “No.” I snort. “I know how smart you are.”

  “Damn right.” Rozelle nods, satisfied.

  Van and I give Rozelle a ride home. After we drop off the truck, we head to the hospital to visit Gran.

  I plan to tell Gran more about the house—where she can plant a garden, where she can hang her collection of royal plates, which bedroom I claimed. Dr. Chen has said she can leave the hospital once we make arrangements for home care. At least I’ll have some help after Van leaves.

  As we enter Gran’s room, I’m relieved to see her sitting up in bed, talking on the phone. She’s got a new nightgown on—a blue one that Van brought. Her eyes are bright as she waves us in. Although she’s lost a lot of weight, it’s the best I’ve seen her in months.

  “Yes, I got your gift basket,” she says into the phone, pointing at a shrink-wrapped basket filled with gourmet teas and English biscuits. From Richard, she mouths.

  My jaw drops. I glance at Van, whose eyes are wide.

  “Calvin told you that?” Gran’s eyes find mine. “He’s been under a great deal of stress.”

  No kidding. I hurry to the basket and check the card. Richard, it reads. I stiffen. He’s never sent anything before. What does it mean?

  “No, I’m cancer free, apparently.” Gran stifles a small cough. “They can’t explain the pain in my kidneys, but it could be much worse. I could be heading into chemotherapy.” She pauses to listen.

  I strain to hear his voice through the phone. Van steps out into the hall and shuts the door, probably to give us privacy.

  “Yes, I remember.” Gran’s voice softens. She shudders.

  Remember what? My mother?

  “He’s here. Just a minute.” Gran holds the phone out.

  “He’s asking for you.”

  “Me?” I take the phone, cautiously, like it might burn my hand, and put the receiver to my ear. “Hello?”

  “I…uh”—my father’s voice is gravelly—“got your messages, son.”

  “Yeah?” I nod. “You could have called.” The word son bothers me. He’s hardly been a father.

  “Yes, well, I wanted to say that…I’m…sorry I missed your calls.”

  “Sure.” I clench my jaw. Time for the violins to play. Time for him to say that he never meant to hurt me. That he’ll be home soon. That he was just too busy. That he lost his cell. Whatever.

  He blathers on. “I told your grandmother that I can’t travel right now. I’m tied up with this show…”

  I stop listening. I don’t need him to come. He doesn’t belong here anymore. He hasn’t for a long time. Even though it’ll be hard, we can do it ourselves.

  “It’s okay,” I interrupt. “You don’t need to leave work. Gran is much better, and we’ve got a great place to live. Listen, I’ve got to go, but you can call later at our new number.” I tell him the number. Then I hang up.

  Gran gives me a funny smile. “What was that about?”

  I shrug. “We’ll be fine without him.” I squeeze her hand. He’s let us both down, again and again, but at least we have each other.

  Van and I visit with Gran for a few hours and grab some supper at the cafeteria. Afterward, I take the subway to my new job.

  Game Z—Dennis Harley’s store—stands at the corner of two busy streets in the west end. He sells video games, retro board games, every action figure you can imagine, gaming books and even a few comic books. It may be one of the coolest stores I’ve ever seen. In the window is a poster-sized photo of my grinning face. Yo-Yo Master Calvin Layne, it announces in huge red letters on a yellow background. Appearing weekly. I love seeing my real name in print.

  At the busker festival, Dennis told me how his grandfather used to tour for a big yo-yo manufacturer back in the thirties, performing and teaching tricks. “Sounds like a dream job,” I said. Then Dennis offered me this gig.

  A tune from a movie soundtrack plays when I open the door. Inside by the front cash, there’s a wall-to-wall yo-yo display with tons of models: butterfly and classic, beginner and expert, glow-in-the-dark and off-string. I’ve bought a Silver Bullet already—the selection is as good as my favorite online shop.

  Dennis is behind the counter. His freckled face brightens when he looks up. “There’s a bigger group today.” He bounces out to greet me. “Mostly twelve-year-olds and teens, and one guy about thirty. Word travels fast.”

  “Great.” I pull out my new Silver Bullet—I’ve retired my neon one—and shove my backpack behind the counter.

  From the rear of the store comes the sound of excited voices.

  “Calvin Layne’s here!”

  “I see him!”

  I shoot Dennis a lopsided smile.

  “Oh, yeah.” Dennis snaps his fingers. “There’s a guy back there who says he knows you. Someone from school? His name is Geordie.”

  “He came here?” I grin. Of course Geordie would know this store. Maybe we can hang out afterward. I head for the back.

  “Who wants to reach-for-the-moon?” I call.

  A cheer erupts.

  I toss out my yo-yo and show them how it’s done.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  During the writing of this book, the Ontario Arts Council and the City of Toronto through the Toronto Arts Council generously provided financial support. Pat Bourke, Patricia McCowan, Karen Rankin and Sarah Raymond offered astute critiques on the work-in-progress. Members of the forums at yoyonation.com and yoyoexpert.com demonstrated and explained yo-yo tricks. Barb Thompson generously answered my medical queries. Sarah Harvey and the team at Orca Books provided insightful editorial and production support. My family listened to me rant about yo-yo performances and praised my wobbly yo-yo tricks. Thanks to all for your support.

  Karen Krossing is addicted to stories. She began to create her own stories when she was eight, and today she writes novels and short stories for children and teens. Karen also encourages new writers through workshops for kids, teens and adults. Karen lives with her family in Toronto, Ontario, where she volunteers at a family shelter and practices her yo-yo tricks. The Yo-Yo Prophet is her first book with Orca. For more about Karen, please visit karenkrossing.com.