Read Online The Yo-Yo Prophet by Karen Krossing - Free Book Online Page A

doin’ his hardest tricks and then…boom…he comes out with this random comment ’bout someone in the crowd. It’s pretty cool.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Marshall sounds unconvinced.
    â€œIt’s not that cool,” I say.
    I stare at Marshall’s tiny, neat writing, but I can’t read what it says upside down. What if his blog post makes me look stupid?
    We get off at Union Station and walk east. Everything feels wrong. My hands are sweating. My hair feels stiff. How am I supposed to perform with stiff hair?
    â€œTell me where we’re going,” I say to Rozelle when we reach the St. Lawrence Market. I can’t stand not knowing.
    â€œRight there.” Rozelle points to an open area on the north side of the street, where the market has spilled outside.
    We weave between the cars that are stopped for the light. Across the street, a few small trees shade the vendors selling fruits and vegetables at makeshift tables. Baskets overflow with strawberries, herbs and tomatoes, scenting the air and making me feel queasy. Throngs of people mill among the tables, squeezing fruit, browsing, haggling. They don’t look ready for a show.
    Sasha and Annette drop the stereo near a low brick wall that arcs around a concrete-lined pond. Annette moans. Sasha rubs her shoulder. Marshall sits on the brick wall, his pen perched behind his ear and a camera in one hand. His eyes never leave me.
    â€œThis place is hoppin’.” Rozelle glances at the Saturday crowd.
    â€œAre we allowed to perform here?” I cringe. Too many people. Why would they want to watch me?
    â€œSure we are, Yo-Yo. You just get ready.”
    As we set up, Eleanor Rizzo—the woman I predicted would get a job—appears. I glare at Rozelle, who must have invited her, but she’s busy introducing Eleanor to Marshall, who starts interviewing her. No one asks me if this is what I want.
    I pull out my yo-yo and toss a few. Eleanor looks different—brighter, happier, better dressed. As she answers Marshall’s questions about my last show, it bugs me that I can’t get a clear idea of what he’s thinking, what he might blog about me. His mouth is always set in that same thin line, and his eyes narrow like he doesn’t believe a word he hears.
    My scalp feels tight. I’m on edge. When Marshall insists on taking a few photos of Eleanor and me together, I feel guilty, like I’m still lying to her. But I can’t let anything get to me. Sasha and Annette are cuing the music—another distraction to deal with.
    I step onto the brick wall, which is just wide enough to hold me. Rozelle places a red plastic bucket in front of me. On it, she’s painted Yo-Yo Prophet in yellow letters. “For all the money we’re gonna make,” she says. “Get started. Then I’ll introduce you.”
    â€œOkay.” I spin my neon yo-yo in an inside loop, hoping my hands will stay steady.
    Rozelle nods to Annette, who’s positioned beside the stereo. Marshall starts video-recording my performance, which I try to ignore. The music blares. Heads turn. I throw ten reach-for-the-moons to keep their attention.
    â€œYou call this music?” I hear Sasha yell.
    A circle of people begins to form around me. I glimpse anger flaring on Rozelle’s face, but she stays concentrated on me and the crowd.
    â€œIt’s Teknonaut,” Annette scolds. “Remember? Her brother’s techno sound.” She nods toward Rozelle.
    I’m curious about her brother’s music, but I have no time to think. I walk-the-dog along the brick wall.
    â€œSome music!” Sasha hoots. “I predict great success. Does that make me a prophet too?”
    I have to agree with Sasha. The music is bizarre: random noises, droning vocals and a techno beat. But I like the steady rhythm. It calms me and lets me focus.
    I begin a roller-coaster trick by throwing a trapeze, making the yo-yo loop