The Yo-Yo Prophet (14 page)

I sit up, trembling, and wipe imaginary slivers of china from my hair.

I glance around. I'm on the living-room couch. The sun is pouring in the windows, baking the cardboard boxes and barren walls. It must be almost noon. Did I fall asleep here last night?

I rub my eyes, confused.

Then I remember it's Saturday. Today I duel Black Magic.

My stomach knots.

Why am I nervous when I predicted what will happen? I will out-yo-yo Black Magic. The gray-eyed girl will come. It has to happen that way, doesn't it?

I stumble past Gran's room, where I can hear heavy snoring, and head to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. As I eat, I think about Black Magic. I know that he was a champion at the World Yo-Yo Contest a few years ago, although I don't remember in which division. I plan to check online, and then I remember that Spader now owns Gran's computer. I crunch down hard on the cereal, biting my tongue, which only makes me madder.

Gran is still sleeping, so after breakfast I head down the narrow hall to the living room to practice my tricks, even try a few new ones. I release two yo-yos with one hand, trying to make them both spin simultaneously. I have visions of tossing four yo-yos at once, two in each hand, impressing everyone, especially Black Magic. But my yo-yos tangle and flatline.

“Stop it,” I say aloud. I know I'm going to win. So what's the problem?

I shower, gel my spikes, decide what to wear.

When the phone rings, I figure it's Van. I pick up the phone and try to sound cheerful. “How's your daughter today?”

“What? Calvin, is that you?” The gruff male voice jerks me to attention.

“Who's this?” I snap back, just like Rozelle would.

“I want to talk to Nancy Layne,” he demands. “Is this the right number?”

I know who it is. I sink onto a stack of boxes. My father.

“Hello?” he yells. “What's going on?”

“Dad?” My voice wavers.

There's silence at the other end. A scuffling sound. Then, “Calvin?”

I nod, like he can see me. My throat's dry, and words won't come.

“You sound—older,” he says.

“I am.” Six years older than when you left, I think.

Three since you last bothered to visit.

“Your grandmother there?” he finally says.

“Uh…” My tongue is thick and slow. “She's asleep.” I say. Then I add, “She's sick.”

“Yeah, I heard,” he grunts. “Van left a message with a friend of mine.”

There's that damn silence again, but the words are building up inside me, gathering into a clump, pushing to break out. “Where are you, Dad?” I sound like a whiny kid.

“West coast,” he says. “South of Seattle.”

“What town?”

“Can you wake her? This is long distance, and I don't know when I can call again.”

“Uh, okay.” What if he hangs up? Or disappears again?

“Just a minute. Don't go anywhere.”

“Thanks, son,” he says, and something breaks off in my chest and starts to throb.

I blink back tears, set the phone on the stack of boxes and run for Gran's room.

“Gran. Wake up. Hurry.” I nudge her awake and pull off the covers. “Dad's on the phone.”

Her eyes widen. She looks confused, exhausted and shocked all at once, but she pulls herself up. “Get my robe,” she croaks.

I snatch her robe from the chair and help her into it. My hands tremble and our eyes lock. She grips my hand briefly before we head down the hall to the living room.

I race ahead and grab the phone. “You still there?”

“'Course I am. Put her on.”

Gran shuffles into the living room in her lace-trimmed pink robe, wheezing a bit. I can tell a cough's coming on.

“When are you coming home?” I say. My whole body tenses up, waiting.

Gran starts hacking, holding her chest where her robe gapes open.

“Just let me talk to her.”

“But, Dad—”

“I can't do this now, Calvin.” His voice has an edge that could slice me open.

I shove the phone at Gran, who's finished coughing. Her blue eyes are watery, and the skin around them is gray.

“Richard?” Her voice is rough.

I hover at her elbow, listening to Gran's side of the conversation, wishing I could hear more.

“I've been better,” Gran says. “It's this cough…and there's pain in my back. The doctor's doing some tests… I've sold the shop…yes, I know…over forty years.” She sighs. “Calvin is a big help, but with Van gone, it was too much to handle.”

Gran asks the same questions I did. “Where are you? When are you coming home?”

She doesn't ask:
Why did you leave
? It's the question I want to ask most of all, but I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.

“What do you mean you're not coming home?” Gran says, and my heart contracts.

I strain to hear the low growl of his answer, but I can't make out the words.

“But Calvin needs you. I need you.” Gran's lips tremble as she listens. “I realize that you have responsibilities. Yes…I understand. But—” She listens, pursing her lips. “At least leave your number. For heaven's sake, he's your son!”

I shut my eyes and turn away. There's more growling from the other end of the line. Then Gran whispers, “A pen! Get a pen!”

I scramble to find one among the unwashed plates, string and packing tape on the coffee table. When I stampede over to her with a stubby pencil, our fingers fumble. Then Gran grips the pencil and scribbles down a number on the flap of a cardboard box, her hand shaking so much that the figures are wobbly. “I've got it, but really, Richard, don't you think you owe the boy more than that?” She listens for a while. “Yes, I know. We all miss her. But—” She droops. “I'll tell him.”

She hangs up.

“What?” I want to scream but only a whisper comes out. “Tell me what?”

Gran sighs heavily. She shuffles to the couch, lowers herself and regards me grimly. “He's not coming home.”

She wrinkles her forehead. “It seems he can't leave his job.”

“His job?” My head feels pinched and tight. How could his job be more important than his sick mother and his only son?

“He's working on a show, designing the lights. Apparently, there's a deadline.” Gran pats the couch beside her. She holds out an arm. “Come here.” Her white hair is a tangled mess. Her robe and nightgown are riding up one leg, showing the large purple veins on her thigh.

I flop beside her and let her drape an arm around me.

“The job's just an excuse,” Gran says. “I think…I think you remind him of your mother.” She rubs my shoulder, but I can hardly feel it. “At least we have his number now. We know where he is.”

I swallow. My eyes are hot and sore. He's never coming home. Why didn't I see it?

“Maybe we can…” Gran's voice fails.

When I glance at her, she's staring into space.

I tell Gran we don't need my father. Then I try to forget about him by keeping busy—making food for Gran, spinning some tricks, keeping my thoughts focused on the duel.

By three o'clock, I'm more than ready to head out. I have an hour to get there and set up. I check my hair in my bedroom mirror one more time. I'm shoving my yo-yos and extra string into my backpack when Gran appears in my doorway, dressed to go out, her purse on her arm.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Will you come to the appointment with me?” Her eyes are cloudy. “I…I could use some help.”

“What appointment?” I clench my jaw. “You never mentioned one.”

“It's for”—she gives me a confused look—“a test… the doctor…” She starts rummaging through her purse. “I don't remember exactly.”

“I have a show, Gran.” I shift from foot to foot, eager to get going. She probably has the time or date wrong—that is, if she even has an appointment.

Gran pulls a bent appointment card from her purse.

“Here it is.”

Nancy Layne

has an appointment at

the Eastside Medical Clinic

July 9, 4
PM

“Crap,” I mutter. “It's today.” Could this day get any worse?

“What's that, Richard?” Gran says.

Richard. It's like a punch to the gut. “Don't call me Richard,” I say a bit too loud. “I'm Calvin.”

“Oh!” Gran's hand flutters to her mouth. “Did I do that? I'm so sorry. I got jumbled after that phone call…” Her eyes water.

“No, I'm sorry, Gran.” I take her hand. “It's just that I have a yo-yo show, a really important one. I hate to ask this, but do you think that, if I take you there, you can get a cab home by yourself?”

Gran dries her eyes. “Okay, Richard,” she says.

I sigh. Gran still has Richard, even if I've lost my father.

As I'm helping Gran down the steep stairs from the apartment, Spader appears in the alley.

“Mrs. Layne,” he begins, “I'm so glad to run into you.”

“We can't talk now.” I support Gran's elbow as she lowers herself down the final step. “We're late for an appointment at the clinic.” I shoot him a look, hoping he'll feel guilty for harassing Gran.

Spader frowns, obviously frustrated. “I understand. Perhaps when you get back, Mrs. Layne? I'd like to discuss something your grandson told me—”

“We'll be gone for hours.” I weave Gran around him, hoping he'll back off.

“Yes, we'll talk later.” Gran nods, but I can tell she's still out of it.

I check my watch constantly on the subway, hoping I won't be late for the duel. Once Gran is safely delivered to the clinic, I run back to the station, trying not to think about her traveling home alone.

By the time I arrive at Dundas Square, I'm feeling guilty about abandoning Gran, and I'm still shaken by my father's phone call, but I try to block it all from my mind. Tall buildings with flashing billboards tower over the square. On the south side, water jets into the air through metal grates set into the stone tiles. There's a massive stage with a mike on a stand at one side and real theater lights suspended from an overhanging roof. Rozelle is on the steps leading up to the stage, doing an interview with Roberta Chow, the reporter from Urban-tv News. A cameraman is filming them while Sasha, Annette and Marshall watch. A few people slow down to check out the scene.

“We'll start with one of our yo-yo masters performin' a single-yo-yo trick, which the other has to repeat,” Rozelle is saying to the reporter. “We'll see who can toss each trick the best. Then they get three minutes to freestyle. Impress the crowd.”

“Who determines the winner?” the reporter asks. Her black hair falls to her shoulders, and she's got one hand on her waist.

“It's up to the crowd.” Rozelle grins. “Whoever gets the most noise.”

Sasha smirks as she notices me. Her bruises are either gone or covered with makeup. Marshall breaks away to head over to me, while Rozelle continues her interview.

“What do you think of the redesigned blog?” His hair is dyed black now with blue streaks, although both piercings are still there. “I think it could get nominated for a Webby Award.”

“I, uh, haven't seen it yet.” I make a fist, thinking of Gran's computer. “My computer…crashed.” I consider explaining, but it's easier to lie.

Marshall's smile fades fast. His eyes look wounded.

“But I hear it's great,” I add.

That's not enough for Marshall, I can tell. I should have found a way to check it out. An awkward silence hangs between us till he finds an excuse to escape.

I'm disappointing everyone, it seems. Rozelle slides over to me, a grin plastered on her face. “The talent ain't supposed to be late,” she hisses through her smile.

“Personal emergency.” I shrug. As if I owe her an explanation.

“Yeah, right.” Her eyes narrow.