Free The Yo-Yo Prophet by Karen Krossing

We’re not wrecking things or robbing people.” I think of the jewelry store owner. “I mean, there are probably people who need you more than we do.” I try to laugh—make it a joke. “Like, maybe there’s a crime happening around the corner right now?”
    Before the cop can react, a police car races down the street, sirens blaring, red-and-blue lights flashing. A few people gasp. Eleanor shrieks. The cop’s head spins so fast it’s unnatural. The radio on his belt crackles to life. The car pulls to a screeching halt a few buildings away. The cop takes off, one hand pulling his radio free.
    â€œGet that permit,” he calls as his boots pound the sidewalk.
    People are talking all around me.
    â€œHow did he know?”
    â€œI can’t believe it!”
    My head is reeling. My yo-yo hangs limp. I can’t remember what trick I was throwing.
    â€œThe Yo-Yo Prophet!” Rozelle steps onto the brick wall beside me, her face flushed and gleaming. “You heard it from his own mouth.” She slaps me hard on the back. “This guy can predict the future.” She gives me a sideways look. “He really can.”
    Someone begins to clap. Others join in until it fills my ears, flooding me with happiness. Marshall cheers as loud as the rest. Coins ring into the bucket.
    They believe her. And for the first time, I do too.

8
    I wake the next day with my hair flattened against my head, the spikes gone, like yesterday never happened.
    I should feel deflated—back to my usual boring self— except for the bills and coins on my dresser.
    I pick up the stack of bills and fan myself; I run the coins through my fingers, liking the metallic smell. It’s more money than I’ve ever made before. More people swarmed me after the show. And that cop car appearing right after I… My skin tingles. I still can’t believe it. Did I really predict it? Or was it dumb luck?
    I flop back onto the tangle of sheets and stare at the peeling paint on the ceiling. I had said what was on my mind. It was instinct. But somehow, it came true. Like in a comic book, when the scrawny guy discovers his special power—sonic speed or immortality—and he’s suddenly more than a pathetic loser. He has potential.
    Do I have potential?
    Is that why Rozelle won’t leave me alone?
    I sit up with a jerk, craning my neck so I can see into the mirror above my dresser. When I turn to the side, I try to catch a glimpse of my profile. Does my hair really look matted? Not that I care what she thinks.
    I pull on a T-shirt and shorts. Rozelle’s tube of gel sits on the dresser beside the coins. I snatch it up and squeeze a blob onto my palm. It won’t hurt to try. I yank and tug my hair into tufts, like Rozelle did.
    It just looks messy.
    Who am I kidding?
    I rake my hands over my head, trying to scrub off the gel. When I stop, it actually looks not bad. At least, not bad for me. Almost as if Rozelle did it.
    I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if Marshall will write about me—the Yo-Yo Prophet. Maybe he already has. My stomach does a loop-the-loop. I hope he doesn’t trash me.
    My eyes drift again to the pile of bills and coins— money people threw after I made that prediction—and I get to thinking: If I can predict when Eleanor Rizzo will get a job, or when a crime will happen, can I predict my own future?
    I know what I want to happen. I want to be a yo-yo master. To be accepted, even liked. But I also want Gran to get better. And I want this deal with Spader to work out well for us.
    So what does my gut tell me will happen?
    Only one way to find out. I grab my new red twin racers from my desk and slide the slip-loop onto the middle finger of each hand. There’s not much floor space in my room so I scoot into the living room. Gran’s nowhere in sight. It’s Sunday morning, so maybe she’s at the flea market. She hasn’t been well