The Yo-Yo Prophet Read online

  THE

  YO-YO

  PROPHET

  KAREN KROSSING

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Text copyright © 2011 Karen Krossing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Krossing, Karen, 1965-

  The Yo-Yo Prophet [electronic resource] / Karen Krossing.

  Electronic monograph in PDF format.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469-828-8

  I. Title.

  PS8571.R776Y6 2011A JC813’.6 C2011-903341-0

  First published in the United States, 2011

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011907467

  Summary: Small, shy Calvin becomes the Yo-Yo Prophet when his street tricks get the attention of a bully named Rozelle.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photo by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, STN. B PO BOX 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  14 13 12 11 • 4 3 2 1

  For Tess, Paige and Kevin

  “Pull the string, and it will follow wherever you wish.

  Push it, and it will go nowhere at all.”

  —Dwight D. Eisenhower

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Acknowledgments

  1

  After math class, I end up with my face planted in Rozelle’s chest.

  I don’t know how it happens. One moment I’m shuffling between the desks, eager to get to my locker and escape. Head down, black high-tops scuffing the floor, binders tucked under one arm. Math class always leaves me feeling stupid.

  “You’ll know the answer to this problem, Calvin,” my math teacher, Mr. Marnello, always says. As if I must be good at math because I’m half Asian.

  I glance across the classroom to see Mr. Marnello gazing after me, shaking his head. His glasses slip down his nose, and his eyes are still quizzing me over the rims. I cringe and lurch away. The next moment, I find my nose burrowed in Rozelle’s floral-scented flesh.

  I jerk free, shaking. My face is level with her cleavage. Rozelle looks nothing like she did when I met her back in grade three, when she beat up Marcus Ramsay, the biggest guy in our class, just to prove she could. My eyes dart nervously from one magnificent boob to the other before they rise to meet her glare.

  “Little Calvin Layne.” Rozelle sneers, her teeth white against dark skin. “What the hell you think you’re doin’?”

  Her posse gathers around, shielding me from Mr. Marnello. Rozelle shoves me into the hall, her beefy arms jingling with bracelets.

  My cheeks burn, making my eyes water. “I didn’t mean…” My voice fails.

  “Whoa, Roz! I do believe you’re gonna make this boy cry.” Sasha, who is Rozelle’s number one, pretends to sob.

  “He’s too small to bother with.” Annette, Rozelle’s number two, giggles. Her hand rises to her burgundy-painted lips. “He’s the smallest guy in grade nine!”

  “Yeah, he’s Low-Cal.” Sasha grins.

  My shoulders sink.

  “Hardly a mouthful.” Rozelle snorts.

  “Not worth a taste.” Sasha nudges her.

  Rozelle throws back her head, hooting. “You’re right, girls. I need somethin’”—she pauses—“meatier.”

  Her posse cackles. Sasha slaps Rozelle on the back. Annette collapses against a locker, laughing.

  I attempt to run, but Sasha blocks my escape. Rozelle’s breath flames the back of my neck. Her fist closes around my puny bicep.

  “Remember this, Low-Cal,” she says. “I ain’t bustin’ you. So you owe me.”

  When she releases me, I burst through the tangle of polished brown arms and legs. Brush against fabric that’s silky to the touch. Flee the perfume that makes my head ache.

  Minutes later, I erupt from the school, backpack sliding off one shoulder. A hot breeze assaults me. It feels muggy and thick, like it’s summer already, even though it’s only May. I weave around a knot of grade twelves, not slowing until I reach the sidewalk, shaded by overhanging trees.

  “Calvin!” I hear Geordie call from somewhere behind me. Geordie, who sits beside me in science, is obsessed with superheroes.

  I’m beside the bus stop now, where two guys in black leather jackets stand on the concrete bench like they own it. Guys who like to mock geeks who talk about superheroes.

  I take off toward the subway, pretending I don’t hear Geordie. My arm feels bruised, the back of my neck raw. After my encounter with Rozelle, I want to stay off the radar. Fly low to the ground.

  I slouch on the subway seat until I get to my stop, and then I hike up the stairs to blink in the sunlight. At a busy street corner, I stop with the crowd, waiting for the traffic lights to change. My hand slips into my pocket, and I clutch the lightweight butterfly yo-yo I find there.

  Tired two-story shops line the streets; they look like they’re trying to prop each other up. Across the street and twelve doors down is home: the cramped apartment above Queen’s Dry Cleaning, named for Gran’s love of British royalty. I can see the blue-and-white-striped awning from where I stand. There’s a cheesy poster of a young Queen Elizabeth II in the window.

  It will be stifling in there. Skunky. It always is, till hours after the shop has closed and the equipment has cooled. And Gran will be either giving back too many coins or shortchanging the customers. How does a person who’s run a shop for over forty years suddenly forget how to make change?

  I pull back from the crowd at the corner. I don’t want to deal with Gran yet. I’m not ready to hear her call me the wrong name, or listen to her watery cough. I feel like an elastic band that’s pulled too tight.

  With my shoulders against the sun-warmed bricks of the bank, I pull the yo-yo from my pocket, cupping it in my palm. People like Rozelle would call it a toy and make fun of me forever, but the street-corner crowd won’t care what I do.

  I loop the string around my middle finger before throwing the yo-yo. I put it to sleep—spinning it in place at the end of the uncoiled string—and then toss a few power throws. My mind whirls with the yo-yo, unraveling my thoughts.

  The traffic lights change, and the crowd surges on without me, jostling against the people heading the opposite way. A car horn sounds as the driver tries to edge through the throng to turn the corner. At the curb, a cube van belches out diesel fumes, its engine rumbling.

  Moving out from the wall, I can’t resist tossing a few simple tricks—rock the ba
by, elevator, tidal wave. My hands whir, my arms loosen up. I’ve only practiced at home, but this feels pretty fine. I take up more of the sidewalk. People weave around me, staying clear of the yo-yo as it extends and then glides back. There’s only me and the yo-yo, working with the noise and confusion of the street corner.

  A new crowd is forming at the lights, waiting to cross. I make the yo-yo hover like a flying saucer.

  “Nice trick,” one guy says.

  A little girl with tight braids stares at me until the Walk signal blinks and her mother yanks her away.

  Grinning, I throw a breakaway loop to the right, letting the yo-yo circle down and across to the left. I loop the string up and over the index finger of my left hand and flip the yo-yo to trapeze across the horizontal string.

  I’m in the zone. The crowd and the street are vanishing, leaving a calm circle of light and heat around me. The yo-yo dances at the end of the string, spins back into my hand and then releases again. It’s a dream. A happy one.

  “Hey!”

  A man’s voice. I look up, my yo-yo still spinning.

  A balding man in a dark blue suit heads toward me.

  He extends one hand, fingers closed around something.

  “Here you go, kid.”

  My right hand is still working the yo-yo. No time to think. My left hand flashes out, palm open.

  The balding man unloads a handful of change. I close my fist around it. What the hell? I tug my yo-yo home.

  The man steps off the curb into the street.

  “Thanks!” I call.

  The man turns and smiles before he disappears into the crowd.

  2

  A week later, I’m shoving a pile of comic books off my bed and arranging my yo-yo collection across my faded Star Wars sheets. Which yo-yo should I choose?

  As the shadows lengthen outside my window, I try out my favorites, one by one. My first ever—a wooden yo-yo I got in a loot bag when I was six. Chipped and horribly unbalanced. No good for performing, but I’ll never get rid of it.

  My butterfly yo-yo is great for string tricks. Metallic purple. Hard-core quality. Too small though. A crowd wouldn’t be able to see it.

  I test a red yo-yo with a classic shape. It’s larger, brighter, excellent for looping tricks.

  But my neon-yellow yo-yo catches my eye. Brilliant color. As big as my fist. Shaped for both string and looping tricks. It feels steady in my hand. Comfortable. Impressive, I hope. Will it be enough?

  The idea has haunted me for days—ever since that man on the street corner gave me a handful of coins. Could I perform on the street for money? Would people actually pay? Would they even stop to watch?

  Over and over I’ve relived the scene. The guy who admired my flying-saucer trick. The girl who stared at me. Best of all—the man who gave me the coins. I guess he thought I was a street performer.

  My fingers tighten around the neon yo-yo. I could do even better. Earn enough for a new yo-yo. Maybe a Silver Bullet. I’ve always wanted one, but they’re expensive.

  As Gran’s snores begin to drift from her room, I head down to the shop to power up her ancient computer, leaving the lights off and the blinds slanted shut.

  Surrounded by rows of neatly hung clothes trapped in plastic bags, I download videos of world championship yo-yo routines, studying the moves. When I watch a little kid who can out-perform me, my stomach twists. Will people laugh at me? What am I thinking?

  I have to create a routine I can’t mess up. No difficult tricks, just ones that will amaze people long enough to make them stop and watch. People who usually take one look at me and think I’m too small, too young, to do anything really cool.

  The chemical scent in the shop gives me a headache. My eyes get sore. I lower my head onto my arms and close my eyes, just for a minute. I fall asleep over the keyboard and dream of performing to a jeering crowd.

  I wake with an aching neck and the imprint of the keyboard on my cheek. Overhead, the floorboards creak with Gran’s footsteps. The sun is peeking through the blinds, trapping dust in its beams.

  I groan and stretch. Then I turn off the computer and hurry upstairs to dress. As I brush my teeth and flatten my spiky hair, a series of tricks begins to form in my mind. A double or nothing. And I’ll do reach-for-the-moon. That will be good for a crowd. I can imagine that Silver Bullet in my palm already.

  At school, I avoid Rozelle and her gang as much as possible. I sit in the front row in math and science, the two classes I have with them, and I eat in the cafeteria, a place they’d never be caught dead. I hope they’ve moved on to fresh targets. I hope Rozelle’s forgotten me.

  At home I practice my tricks in the living room, performing for the royal faces on Gran’s collection of souvenir plates, teacups, mugs and saucers. Mounted on walls and cluttering the tabletops, the hand-painted china makes me jittery, but my room is too small for looping tricks. I haven’t broken any of Gran’s stuff yet.

  When I get too hot—and too worried about crashing a yo-yo into royalty—I move to the alley behind the store. The smell of rotting food drifts from the Dumpster, and the laneway is coated with grease from the diner next door.

  Van sits out back on an old kitchen chair, taking a break from the shop. She’s second in command after Gran, and I know that for the last few months she’s held the shop, and Gran, together.

  Van claps after every trick. Her cheeks dimple. “Your bà must be so proud!”

  I shrug. “I haven’t shown Gran.”

  Van was my mother’s childhood friend in Vietnam.

  She’s as soft on me as I imagine my mother would be.

  Even when my yo-yo spins out of control, snaps its string and whacks against the Dumpster, Van praises me.

  “I only hope my new grandchild will be as fine as you!” Van smiles. Her daughter, who lives in Vancouver, is about to have another baby. Van is young for a grandmother, way younger than Gran.

  “Thanks, Van.” I examine my yo-yo for cracks, frowning.

  Van heads inside. “See you later,” she says in Vietnamese, even though I hardly understand the language.

  When I’m sure my yo-yo isn’t broken, I head up the back stairs, brooding. Van makes me feel good—almost like my mother did—but she’s a lousy audience. I need a tougher sell to see if I’m good enough to take it to the streets.

  As I restring my yo-yo, I think about showing my routine to Geordie. I met Geordie back in September when we started grade nine. He’s pretty much my only friend, since most of the people I knew in middle school are too cool to talk to me now. They go to ravine parties that I’m not invited to and talk about who wants to hook up. Since no one’s asking to hook up with either of us, Geordie and I hang out together, mostly at lunch. Geordie is really tall, pimpled and crazy about his comic collection. He fits in about as well as I do. If I show him my routine, maybe he won’t laugh.

  I bring my yo-yo to school three days in a row before I even try to show Geordie. What if Rozelle sees me yo-yoing? What will she do to me then?

  I convince Geordie to eat lunch behind the portables because it’s out of the way. He paces across the strip of weedy grass between a portable and the parking lot, talking about which superhero has the coolest powers.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t mind superstrength or mind control.” Geordie speaks slowly, like he has to chew each word before he says it. He hunches his shoulders, which doesn’t make him look any shorter, and his oversize T-shirt hangs over his skinny chest. “Flying is all right, but you can’t fight anyone with it.”

  I grip the yo-yo in my pocket, willing myself to say it: Check this out. Then I’ll launch into my routine, and Geordie will fall over in shock. I’ve never shown anyone at school what I can do.

  But my hands tremble so much that I know I’ll fail.

  It has to be Gran. She’ll be my practice audience.

  I approach Gran in the shop late Saturday night, after Van and the others have gone home. She’s bent over a sewing machine, wearing blue je
ans and a pink T-shirt. Her pale skin and white hair give off a ghostly glow under the glare of her table lamp. Tall and heavyset, with blue eyes and a slight mustache, Gran looks nothing like me. With my Vietnamese features, it’s like I’m not related to her.

  “Must be something wrong with the bobbin, Your Majesty,” Gran says. She opens a door in the side of the machine and pulls out a silver bobbin, tangled with thread. She tugs at the thread to unravel it, pausing when a cough overtakes her.

  I cringe at the sound of her cough. “Gran?”

  “Give me a minute, Richard.”

  “It’s me—Calvin.” I sigh. “Dad’s not here, remember?”

  “I’m just finishing up with Her Majesty.”

  I grit my teeth, wondering who she’s talking to. I remember when her thoughts were clear. When she could answer all the questions on Jeopardy—her favorite game show—before the contestants did. When she’d tell me stories about my father getting into trouble around the shop as a kid. He almost suffocated in a plastic dry-cleaning bag when he curled up inside, pretending to be a goldfish in a bowl. Gran also told me how my parents met when she hired my mother. How my father asked my mother out every day until she said yes.

  I moved in with Gran six years ago, after my mother died and my dad disappeared to “run the bases,” as Gran called it. “He’s wandering the world, looking for a place to belong, forgetting that he belongs right here with us,” she used to say.

  Now, her mind sometimes gets cloudy and her watery cough never goes away. Not that she’s old. Only sixty-eight. But she seems much older.

  My chest hurts when I remember how she used to be. Only a few months ago, she could finish the newspaper Sudoku in half an hour. She managed the shop as if she were the Queen of England and still had the energy to go to flea markets on Sundays, looking for more royal china to add to her collection.

  “Mr. Spider wants to buy it, Your Majesty,” Gran rambles on, as she replaces the bobbin in the machine. “I finally found a purchaser. After all this time.”