The Yo-Yo Prophet (11 page)

“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.

When Lucy and Franco enter the living room, I jump.

I'd forgotten that I left them standing at the door.

I return Charles to his box and then shoo Lucy and Franco out of the apartment as fast as I can, hating their sad eyes and promises to help. When they're gone, I flop onto the couch and stare at the mute
TV
. My brain's humming and my body's wired like a radio receiver ready to pick up signals from outer space, but I can't move. I can't even grip a yo-yo.

When I hear Gran stir, I heat up some tomato soup. She eats propped up on pillows and then falls asleep again. I let my soup grow cold. The smell of it disgusts me, although I could sure go for a bowl of my mother's noodle soup right now.

When the news comes on, I watch myself on screen, heart pounding. The reporter calls me a “local sensation” and says I “capture the spirit of street performers in the city.”

My hands come alive first. I'm standing, miming my moves, unable to stay still, reliving the glory. It's just a community program, but it feels like
Entertainment Tonight
.

If I shut my eyes, I can still feel the crowd urging me on.

By Thursday, I'm going multiball, trying to keep everything in play. I study math until my brain hurts, and then I start packing the pieces of my life with Gran into cardboard boxes. When Gran finally wakes, I get breakfast, making her promise to rest between the phone calls she's making to find us a new place. Van can't help us find an apartment from Vancouver. I go downstairs to help out in the shop. I take in clothes that will become Spader's responsibility. I try to study science between customers. And I run up to check on Gran every so often.

I almost wish Rozelle were here, forcing Sasha and Annette to pack or write my study notes. But I don't want them in my apartment, going through my drawers or Gran's old photos, mocking everything.

Near the end of the day, Van calls to check on us. I promise that everything is fine, and she tells me how happy she is to see her daughter and grandson. “The nurses take good care of my daughter, and Samuel is—how do you say it?—a little angel.” Van's voice softens when she talks about Samuel. “When he visits his mother in the hospital, he sings to the baby in her belly. In four more weeks, it will be safe for the baby to be born.” Van is breathless and in a hurry, so we don't talk long.

Lucy, Franco and I clean up the shop for the last time. I straighten the few things left on the front desk. I'm going to miss the computer, but it belongs to the shop. Lucy and Franco tidy the back. I won't really miss working in the shop or the smell of chemicals or the dust, but I'm sad for Gran, especially since she's not even here to say goodbye. Lucy and Franco have to find new jobs, since Spader is hiring his own staff.

Just as I'm powering down the computer, the bell over the front door jingles and Spader walks in. He's fumbling with two large signs mounted on white foam backing. He's all elbows and knees. “Calvin.” He nods.

“It's only Thursday,” I say. I still can't forgive him for upsetting Gran. He practically made her collapse.