Free The Yo-Yo Prophet by Karen Krossing Page A

enough to go in ages.
    Alone with the painted royal faces, I break into alternating two-handed loops. I keep my loops horizontal so I’m throwing above Gran’s collection. When I almost hit the Queen Elizabeth II commemorative tankard, I shift backward. I can picture a red yo-yo slicing through the air to explode it. Not good.
    My left hand is weaker than my right, although hours of practice have helped. But it isn’t just about practice. It’s knowing how to feel the yo-yo—when to tug, when to let it out, when it’s going off track.
    I time my throws so one yo-yo is going out as the other one is coming back. I lose myself in the rhythm of it, my hands shaping the loops. I relax, let mistakes happen, move into the flow of the yo-yos, the endless cycle. They pull away, recover, spin back. I follow the momentum, let it carry me into the zone.
    I’m loose yet focused, like riding a bicycle without holding the handlebars.
    â€œWhat’s going to happen to me?” I ask, trying to keep it casual.
    I wait one, two, three beats. Then the answers hit like a slap from Rozelle.
    I’m practically a yo-yo genius. One yo-yo smacks against my palm. Spader’s deal is too good to be true. The other yo-yo thuds home. And Gran’s getting sicker.
    I slump onto Gran’s rose-colored couch, still reeling from my predictions, trying to ignore those stiff china faces with their penetrating eyes. Maybe I can predict the future. Too bad I can’t do anything to change it.
    I head downstairs to check if Marshall has posted anything; I might as well find out how bad it is. I enter through the back door. The machines are quiet, since it’s Sunday, and the chemical smell is faint. I find Gran with Van, clearing out the shelves under the front counter, getting ready for Spader’s takeover next week.
    Van is on her knees, her blue cotton skirt tucked under her legs. Her head is under the counter, and she’s scrubbing the inside of a cupboard with a soapy cloth, her arm muscles like ropes.
    Gran is seated on a low stool, gazing into a cardboard box as if she’s forgotten what she was doing. Her T-shirt is twisted around her waist.
    â€œGran? You okay?” I kneel next to her.
    â€œI’m fine, Jimmy.” Gran waves me away with one hand.
    Great. Now she thinks I’m Gramps.
    Gran straightens her shirt, picks up a stack of receipts from the box and drops them back in. “Just tidying up.”
    Van pulls her head out from the cupboard and says, “Good morning, Calvin.” She passes me a cloth and points at the second cupboard. “A good grandson helps his bà.”
    â€œSure.” I take the cloth. Not that I get why we need to clean for Spader. “I just want to look something up online first.”
    Van nods. “Okay.” She dips her cloth into the nearby bucket and then wrings it out.
    I turn on the computer and pull up a chair.
    â€œI remember when we first bought this place.” Gran sighs. “We had loans from three different banks, and none of them knew about the others. That first year, we ate a lot of onion sandwiches.”
    â€œOnion sandwiches?” I make a grossed-out face. “Why?”
    Gran startles, as if she hadn’t realized she’d been talking. “Sorry?” Her clouded blue eyes find my face. “Oh, it’s you, Calvin.” She pats my leg. “Onions make a cheap meal. It was all we could afford.”
    â€œOh.” I frown. “Rough.” I hope she won’t be eating onion sandwiches again because Spader ripped her off.
    I google Marshall’s blog. When it starts to load, I stiffen, bracing for impact. What if Marshall wrote something terrible about me? What if he didn’t write anything at all?
    Seconds later, the headline stuns me. Yo-Yo Genius. Just like I predicted.
    My skin prickles.
    I glance at the photo of me with Eleanor, and then I skim the post: Calvin