The Yo-Yo Prophet (19 page)

I can't think. Nothing makes sense. I step back.

The music stops abruptly. A tall lean guy with a shaved head squeezes into the doorway beside Rozelle. Although he's a couple of years older than her, they look so much alike that he has to be her brother.

“Roz, what's going on?” He examines my face. “Hey, I know you.” He snaps his fingers. “Calvin, right? I'm Tyrone.” He grips my hand and shakes. “You've been using my music in your shows. Thanks a lot, kid.”

“S-sure, I stutter, trying to calm down.

Then he says, “I hear my sister's got you at the busker festival next weekend.” He winks at Rozelle, who gets a proud tilt to her chin. “Things are going great for you.”

My mouth drops open. “It's next weekend?” My head is spinning.

He laughs, deep and low. “You two need to talk.” He elbows Rozelle aside. “You'd better come in.”

Tyrone yanks me into the hall, past Rozelle, and into the kitchen, which is far from ghetto with its high-tech gas stove and stainless-steel fridge with an ice dispenser. Their parents must have some money, which is not what I imagined. Rozelle heads down the hall to the back of the house, and I wonder where she's going.

“Have a seat.” Tyrone motions to a couple of stools pulled up to a marble counter. “Want a drink?”

“I'm not thirsty.” I can't stop thinking about the busker festival next weekend. Could I perform again?

“Come on. It's the least I can do after you got me that exposure. You know, I'm getting more downloads than ever before. At this rate, maybe I'll get a recording contract before I'm fifty.” He laughs.

“I didn't get you that exposure.” I sit awkwardly. “Rozelle always talked about Teknonaut.”

“Yeah, she says she hyped me big-time.” He leans in close. “Tell me. Does my sister know the business as well as she thinks she does?”

“Don't tell her I said this, but sometimes I think she knows it too well.”

“Yeah, she's done okay for you.” Tyrone nods, hands me a can of Coke and then opens his own. “You know, she wants to build me a bigger profile, but I can't help wondering—what could my little sister know about it?”

He starts yakking about Rozelle's plans for him, while I'm remembering what Rozelle said when she first bullied her way into my business.
I gotta show my brother I can be a good manager
. Why didn't I see it before? It was all about Tyrone. She never cared about me.

“So what do you think of her?” Tyrone finally asks. “As a manager, I mean?”

I think carefully before I speak. “Rozelle would do anything to make me successful,” I say. Even lie. “I can only imagine what she'd do for you.”

Tyrone nods and strokes his chin. Rozelle meanders into the kitchen.

“Hey, sis,” he calls. “Where were you?”

“Gettin' this.” Rozelle slams her palm flat on the counter right in front of me.

I jump. “What are you doing?” That's when I see it. My neon yo-yo on the counter. Tyrone laughs. He sips his drink.

“Where did you find this?” I grab my yo-yo and examine the hairline crack along one rim.

Rozelle wanders to the fridge and grabs a root beer.

“I got my ways.” She pops open her can and takes a long swallow.

“Well, thanks.” I pocket the yo-yo. She probably mowed some kid down to get it.

Rozelle leans against the counter and watches me.

“I thought you might need it next weekend.”

“Course he will.” Tyrone guzzles the rest of his drink.

“I might.” I nod slowly. Tyrone's enthusiasm makes me want to perform again, even though I'm terrified to face my pissed-off fans.

“Well, you two got things to talk about.” Tyrone disappears into the hall, and the music starts up again.

With the techno beat thudding in my chest, I ask, “When am I supposed to perform?” I try to sound casual, like it doesn't matter much.

“Next Saturday. July twenty-third.” Rozelle leans across the counter. “You gonna do it?”

“I think so.”

“Huh!” She slurps her drink. “I figured you were too chicken.”

I ignore her. “I just need to know where and when to show up. I'll handle this one myself.” I tense up. “If they still want me.”

“Why wouldn't they?” Rozelle gives me a careful look.

Then she tells me the info. “Good luck, Yo-Yo,” she says evenly, never taking her eyes off me.

“Thanks,” I say. “But…you're not going to come, are you?” I hold my breath. Does she get what I'm saying? That I'll do this my way, without her?

Rozelle crushes her pop can and tosses it in a recycle bin next to the fridge. “Naw.” She wipes her mouth and glances away. “You're better off without me. I'll just be in the way.”

I narrow my eyes. What is she up to? “What about Sasha and Annette? Will they come?”

“Dunno. Ain't talked to 'em much.”

I nod, relieved. The gang must have split up. I wonder if she's lonely. Not that I care. She did it to herself.

I leave Rozelle's place with the red Yo-Yo Prophet bucket in my hand and Tyrone's music running through my head. Outside, the clouds are clearing. A fresh breeze pushes me down the sidewalk, away from Rozelle.

I'm free of her. Finally. I swing the bucket and take big steps. I hope I can go it alone.

I take a different route out of Rozelle's neighborhood since I'm heading to the hospital to see Gran. On a quiet street, I see a homemade
For Rent
sign in front of a house.

I stop in my tracks. “No way.”

The garden is weeds. The windows are grimy. It would look a lot like Rozelle's house, if it wasn't so run-down.

We'd be neighbors.

I stroll up the walk and ring the bell. Nothing happens.

There are no curtains on the windows, so I push between the prickly bushes and peek in. Hardwood floors. Barren walls. No furniture.

I memorize the phone number.

As if anyone will rent to me.

I need an adult. Someone who knows about leases. Someone who—

“Spader!” I yelp.

20

I'm more worried before the busker festival than I was before my first show. And more confused too.

I faked being the Yo-Yo Prophet. Now, I'm not sure who I am—or what kind of show I should plan for the festival. They booked the Yo-Yo Prophet, but I don't fit the name anymore. I can yo-yo, but not like a master. And I'm a failed prophet. So what do I do? People will expect a prophet who can yo-yo, unless they've already heard about me—the prophet who can't predict the future.

I can do better than that. But how?

I ponder for days till I hit on a solution.
Entertainment and inspiration
, Rozelle once said. Entertainment I can give them. I'm not so sure about inspiration.

The rest of the week is a blur. I visit Gran twice a day, waiting for the results of her tests. Lucy and Franco come to see her as well—after Van tells them what happened—and they insist that one of them stays with me each night, which cramps my style, but keeps Family Services off my back. Spader sends Gran flowers, but my dad doesn't show up. I confirm my spot at the busker festival—they're still happy to have the Yo-Yo Prophet perform. I convince Spader to call about the house for rent near Rozelle's. I send Marshall an email, apologizing for lying to him. And I try to rehearse a performance like no other I've done before.

July 23 arrives faster than a street racer.

By eleven o'clock on Saturday morning, I'm weaving through the crowd at the busker festival, with my stomach doing flips. I'm wired with a headset supplied by the festival. It's attached to a battery pack clipped to the back of my shorts. My hair is spiked, still red at the tips. I'm even wearing the Yo-Yo Prophet T-shirt since I can't hide who I am, what I've done. Whether the crowd likes me or not, I'm here.

The buildings on Front Street trap the sun's heat between them. Barricades keep the cars off the roads. Crowds of people weave between the stalls of clothing for sale, food vendors, face painters and henna tattoo artists.

The racket from three nearby performers is deafening—clashing songs, miked voices and cheering hordes.

I've got no music. No one to introduce me. Somehow, I'm supposed to set up a show for myself at an intersection of closed-off streets.

I squeeze past a kid playing a pennywhistle, people watching a beat-boxer, and a long lineup for souvlaki on a stick. As I inhale the scent of grilling pork, I let myself get jostled by the crowd.

Eventually I find the intersection where I'm supposed to perform. There are marks on the pavement for a wheelchair zone. People mill around me.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts and unload my backpack. I've got a few surprises for my audience. I hope they won't hate the new Yo-Yo Prophet.

A roar erupts from the people watching the performer to the left of me. Over the heads of the crowd, I glimpse a man on stilts, juggling fiery torches.

Not bad. Better than a few yo-yo tricks from a guy accused of being a cheat and a liar. I swallow hard, push down the nervous rumblings in my stomach and plant myself a nice distance from the wheelchair zone.

This show's for Gran, I think. If she can fight to get better, I can face these people.

I turn on my mike. I set down my red Yo-Yo Prophet bucket. Then I fix my twin racers in place, one on each hand.

God, I miss Rozelle. She could call a crowd.

“Hey, folks,” I say, getting a load of feedback from the mike. People wince and cover their ears.

I position the mike farther from my mouth, accidentally releasing a yo-yo. It falls and falters.

“Damn,” I say into the mike.

A few parents glare. One man laughs. Maybe he thinks I'm a clown act.

A boy who looks about ten years old says, “Look, Mom. The Yo-Yo Prophet!” He's holding a blue yo-yo in his fist. “Can we stay?”

The mother nods. I've got my first two audience members.

I try to hold myself together.

“Welcome to the busker festival.” I try not to think about how much better Rozelle would sound. “I'm Calvin Layne—the…uh…Yo-Yo Prophet.”

No one boos. I start into my routine. A few simple yet impressive looping tricks. I turn in a slow circle, trying to pull people in.

A couple holding hands slows down briefly. A few kids sit cross-legged on the pavement, facing me.

I start blabbering, not sure what to say. “Two-handed yo-yoing mostly uses the forward pass.” I perform a sample. “Around-the-world”—I swing into the trick with one yo-yo—“and loops.” I return to two-handed loops.

A few people clap politely.

“Right now I'm tossing two-handed loops simultaneously.” I change my rhythm. “But it's more fun to shoot one out while the other's coming back.”

A middle-aged man in a red baseball cap stops to watch.

I shift my loops to vertical. “Vertical punches shoot the yo-yos straight up.” I nod to the boy holding his yo-yo. “And here's a tip for this trick. You've got to keep your string tight and then punch hard. Make the yo-yo grab fast when it reaches the end of the string.”

I'm rambling, trying to stay calm, trying to keep people interested.

I swing into inside loops combined with reach-forthe-moons. I've got a small group gathering in a circle. Maybe about twenty people, mostly kids. I notice a few people gripping yo-yos, but I don't have time to think about it. Because suddenly I hear familiar techno music booming. I glance sideways, almost losing my flow with the yo-yos. Rozelle is there, grinning sheepishly.

She swings the massive stereo off her shoulder with one arm. “Brought you some music,” she shouts.

I can't believe I'm glad to see her. I can't believe she's demoted herself to volume control. “My sound technician is bringing us music from Tek-no-naut” — I pronounce it like Rozelle would—“an awesome new techno sound.”

Rozelle gives me a sideways glance, but she doesn't object to her new job title, at least in front of the audience.

The music fuels my show. I pump my yo-yos in time to the beat. People catch the rhythm and hurl energy back at me. I pull into a looping arm wrap.

My crowd gets bigger, till it's an enormous circle of people. Kids sitting in front. Adults standing behind, craning their necks to see. Lots of teens too, which makes me jittery. It's my largest live audience ever. I couldn't escape if I wanted to.

I tug my yo-yos home. How many know about my failed predictions? Will my new show be enough to please them?

“Who wants to see some dawg racing?” I call into the mike.

A few people holler. I roll out a long piece of gray foam and set a few homemade cardboard ramps and moguls along it.

“Are you sure?” I'm buzzing with energy.

“Yeah!” They yell louder.

I get in position to throw out my yo-yos—one red racer and my battered neon yo-yo, with a new string.

“Count down from three to start the race,” I say. “Ready?”

The crowd cheers in reply. I glimpse two guys about my age, watching intently. Kids jump up and down. I start them off. “Four…”

“Three…two…one…go!” they shout.

“And they're off!” I walk-the-dog with both yo-yos, racing them along the foam. “Red is in front”—I'm talking like a sportscaster—“but neon is catching up.” I run my dogs over a ramp. “Who's going to win?”

Some people call out.

“Red's winning!” a girl yells.

“Go, neon!” shouts the man in the baseball cap. He seems pretty keen.

Tyrone's music gets intense, pounding out a wacky sequence of notes. My dogs speed over the moguls. Red is still in front.

“One final ramp!” I bellow.

The two yo-yos battle for position. They head into the last, and biggest, ramp. Red topples sideways. Neon jumps the ramp, landing neatly at the end of the foam.