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So, people were pointing daggers at Kya now because of what I tweeted? Good.
She punched me, and I punched back.
Our fighting styles varied.
Fuse Is Heartbroken @FuseZilla14
THREAD! 1/? #ParSecNation Some disturbing things about the #MadScientist we all know as KC have come to my attention …
Fuse Is Heartbroken @FuseZilla14
2/? Y’all know me and @DJParSec butted heads from time to time, as creatives do. That’s how you get the art you love, it’s how you know where to find it. Trust me, @DJParSec and me were a team …
Fuse Is Heartbroken @FuseZilla14
3/? But KC has always been on some different stuff. Like, a little possessive if you ask me. Angry because she wasn’t in the loop like she used to be. And I think that’s worth noting over the next few weeks as more truth comes out. When @DJParSec spoke on old friends changing up on her, welllll …
Fuse Is Heartbroken @FuseZilla14
4/? So all you non-crazy people out there think on this: an up-and-coming artist, beloved by almost all (me included) gets got under mysterious circumstances. Who should you look at first? The person who’s mad. The person who’s off.
Fuse Is Heartbroken @FuseZilla14
5/? The person who was at the scene of the crime.
Fuse Is Heartbroken @FuseZilla14
6/6 Oh you didn’t know that part? Well, welcome to the Information Age, my friends. Do with it what you will. Love y’all! #TurnUp #ParSecNation
I was a statue on the toilet, the rim covered in five flimsy-thin seat liners. This was the second-floor girls’ bathroom, where I’d missed the third-period bell to sign up for my own Twitter account—@KCappwiz—and see, exactly, why I suddenly had a target on my back. Now I knew.
Her last tweet was accompanied by a GIF. It was the basketball player Kobe Bryant of the Los Angeles Lakers, on the night of his final game, in home-court gold and purple, blowing a kiss to the crowd, and performing an epic mic drop. MAMBA OUT! flashed along the bottom of the animation. I somehow managed to superimpose another word in place of the catchphrase.
FUSE!
FUSE!
FUSE!
How could she throw me under the bus like that when she was at the crime scene too?
The GIF kept going, as they do, the loop hypnotizing. It was as if Kobe—no, Fuse, all of this was Fuse—were another snake, a cobra instead of a black mamba, eyes locked, swaying, hissing before the strike. Deadly in a different way, but venom was venom.
I had some too.
My analytical mind kicked in, the same way I organized to-do lists to maintain maximum efficiency day to day, the way I drew meticulous flowcharts before diving into any kind of coding or design project, the way I picked my clothes in the morning, factoring in outdoor temperature with the patterns of the school’s erratic HVAC system. Failing to plan was planning to fail.
The likes and retweets on her rant were in the hundreds and climbing. A response, in kind, was due. Not on this platform with my bird’s egg avatar and zero followers. @FuseZilla14 had over nine thousand followers (thanks to her loose, exaggerated connection to Paris, no doubt). I didn’t have the troops to fight a war on that front.
I knew who did.
Quickly, I found the ParSec Love Tumblr, clicked the direct message icon, and thumbed out my SOS—
Hi, this is Kya Caine. We don’t really know each other, but we should. I’ve got some DJ ParSec scoop that you and the rest of #ParSecNation need to hear. It’s … killer.
We were to meet after school in the empty cafeteria, at the very table where she now spent lunch periods schmoozing with the cliquiest of cliques. But I lingered at the door, peering through the porthole windows, cataloging her. I hadn’t taken notice of her wardrobe when she’d advised me to check Twitter that morning. Now I sized her up the way Mama taught me when girls like this would’ve been my competition on the tiaras-and-talent circuit.
She wore a We’ll Always Turn Up for You, DJ ParSec shirt that seemed to be of higher quality than the quick airbrushed numbers I’d seen around the school. It was long-sleeved, thicker, almost a sweater despite the heat. She’d paired it with a denim skirt, pink heels, and a psychedelic neckerchief accenting everything. Her fingernails shimmered, so did her eye makeup. Her head was shaved on one side, while a thick mop of hair on top swooped in the other direction.
Her name was Florian Dominguez (something I learned from the signature of her email setting up this meeting) and she was mourner chic.
She perked up when I entered, opening the computer that had been dormant on the table, as if we were about to study. I approached cautiously, second-guessing myself.
Florian began working me immediately, typing while she talked. “It’s smart to want your side of the story told. I promise you ParSec Love is the place to do it. My Tumblr is among the top-five DJ ParSec tribute sites, even with more launching every day. More importantly, I’m ParSec Nation. If she were still with us, Paris could tell you I was there in the early days, when she was spinning at house parties.”
“Wouldn’t you have been in middle school?”
She got sheepish and proud at once. “I might’ve tagged along with my older cousins after my mom went to sleep. It was worth it to hear the hottest DJ around.”
I was regretting this already. I should’ve at least taken a seat where I could see her monitor. So I’d know what she was writing down. “You don’t have to give me a sales pitch. I just want people to know what Fuse is implying is trash nonsense.”
She peered over the top edge of her laptop. “What is she implying exactly?”
“I don’t know. It’s weird. Like she’s trying to say I had something to do with what happened to Paris.”
Her keys clacked. “You didn’t find DJ ParSec’s body?”
“I did. But so did Fuse. She was there first.” Fuse’s car had been the first thing I noticed when my Lyft pulled up. I watched her walk into the warehouse. Was halfway through the door myself, when I heard her scream.
Florian said, “Now that’s interesting. It’s something none of the other sites will have. That’s not even in the news. What did she look like?”
“Fuse?”
“No. What did DJ ParSec look like when you found her?”
The question hit me like ice water. “Dead. She looked dead.”
Those clacking keys again.
What the heck had I done coming to this digital ghoul? Half of me wanted to push away from the table and run from the school. The other half remembered what this long day had been like. Stares, and whispers, and low-key threats. No invisibility, no matter how much I wanted it. Because of Fuse’s insinuations. “Are you going to write something that lets people know Fuse is being dishonest? I mean, I’m not on social media like that. People pay attention to your stuff.”
“Absolutely.”
I pulled out my phone and bookmarked her site. “Should I look for it soon? Like, by this evening?”
“Not so fast,” she said, closing her laptop. “While this is a scoop for my page, it’s also kind of a favor. If I’m being real, rumors probably drive traffic more than honest accounts, so just linking to Fuse’s Twitter rant will get me traffic.”
She let that hang and made me reach. “What do you want?”
“I hear there’s going to be a secret memorial service for DJ ParSec this Saturday. You know anything about that?”
I knew a lot about that. “What if I did?”
“The only thing that drives traffic more than rumors is secrets. What are your photography skills like?”
“Ohhhhhhh! It’s at eight thousand plays, Kya. In two days.” I clicked the refresh button, and the browser flashed white as my SoundCloud updated. I promptly lost my ish again when I saw the count jumped to 8,024. Pushing my chair back, I stood and did a little shimmy. While I danced, Kya sidestepped me, leaned toward the screen, and opened more tabs.
“What you doing?” I asked, still jamming.
She mumbled something about it being a pain to click through all the apps one by one like that—Little Miss Efficiency, missing the point again. Finally, she settled on what was actually important. “People like it.”
Kya returned to the SoundCloud window, her cursor hovered over the heart icon, which had a count of six thousand plus, then she moused through the incremental in-the-moment comments like: FIRE! and BANGER! and THEM DRUMS THOUGH!
“It’s not all praise,” Kya said.
I stopped dancing. “Why are you being a butt right now? Don’t kill my vibe.”
“Don’t be thin-skinned. The music is fine. People aren’t as hype about the feature. You should keep that in mind for whatever you do next.”
Kya highlighted the portion of the song that was all Lil’ Redu’s corny, shoot-’em-up verse. The part of the song getting the most negs.
SHOULD’VE PUT ME ON THE TRACK, I GOT BETTER BARS THAN THIS.
THESE “RHYMES” KINDA KILL THIS SONG FOR ME.
IS “REDU” SHORT FOR “REDUNDANT”? DUDE SOUND LIKE EVERYBODY EVER. #NoOriginality
It went on, clearer and clearer as Kya kept expanding the feedback. Basically she was saying, “Told ya so.”
“He’s not that bad,” I said. People got mean when they were internet anonymous.
Kya said, “He’s not that good either.”
“I needed some vocals. It wasn’t like you were going to do it, right?” I stared her punk tail down. What you got to say about that, Kya?
She shook her head and opened a different browser tab. “I’ve been looking over the analytics and comparing them to what a typical SoundCloud user does. Honestly, you’re crushing it. Despite Lil’ Redu.”
“So, what else the dialysis—?”
“Analytics.”
“Whatever. What’s all that mean?”
Kya leaned back in my grandma’s kitchen chair, fiddled with the little porcelain saltshaker that was shaped like a bluebird. “I think you want to maximize on the growing following somehow.”
“Like, another song?
“Maybe. I guess.”
That was where I knew Kya struggled. Her uncertainties came in doubles. She kept going, talking about things that might work. Everything she said seemed like she was pulling it out of the air. Put links to the SoundCloud on Insta, with some cover art. Send my track to the local radio station and see if they’d play it. Burn it to some thumb drives and hand them out to sketchy men in dark parking lots.
I don’t know if she actually said any of those things. Only knew this wasn’t her lane. So while she talked, I threw up a Bat-Signal on Twitter.
The Queen Is Here! @DJParSec
Yo, fam. I got this fire track that I’m trying to get the word out on. Anyone got LEGIT tips on world domination? DM only if you for real! #CalmDownTurnUp
Kya kept talking. “Maybe we could make a banner.”
“How about we hit Five Guys for a burger. That seems like the move. Right?”
A ripped brown bag turned dark by fries, grease, and vinegar divided our table. I pawed at the fries blindly while checking SoundCloud from my phone. Bit down on a hard, tasteless fry that cracked, then splintered in my mouth. Panicking, I spit the pieces onto the foil my burger had been wrapped in.
“That’s a fork,” Kya said.
What the—? With a bouquet of napkins, I swabbed drool from my chin and made sure I didn’t swallow any shards. “Where’d it come from?”
“While you were focused on your phone, I got up, refilled my tea, asked that nice man behind the counter for a fork. Then I put it where your hand was. It was like watching a Hungry Hungry Hippo snatch a marble.”
“Are you crazy?”
“If all you were going to do was what you were already doing at your house, I could’ve just brought food back for you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s up to ten thousand plays, K. Forgive me for being a little excited about people liking my stuff.”
“Don’t make it seem like I’m not excited too. It’s just … if being with someone feels like being alone, I’d just rather be alone. That way neither of us worry about being distracted. We could connect later, after you work on your thing and I work on mine.
That was news. “What thing are you working on?”
Her eyes flicked away, and she took a minute to answer. I don’t know what she was annoyed about. Her attitude got on my nerves sometimes. She said, “The coding club at school—”
“You talking about them white-boy nerds you be around?”
A flung fry bounced off my chest. What? What I say?
“First of all, Jim’s Korean. Second, what’s that got to do with anything? We’re working on some cool stuff.”
My plays jumped to 10,200. “Whatever you’re working on ain’t this!”
Kya flinched. Parted her lips as if to say some other nonsense but knew better and stayed quiet.
“This is huge,” I said. “Like first steps to something big. I can feel it.”
She had that hurt look she got whenever I was too real with her. God. “Big for both of us, Kya. You’re in on this too, even if you ain’t on the track. Where I go, you go.”
“Cool.” She nibbled her burger.
Cool. That’s settled, then. Refocusing on my phone, I swapped apps and checked my Twitter inbox. A solid thirty-plus messages were there. Mostly useless troll stuff that I blocked, and a few positive, if not totally feasible, offers to help me with my marketing. They were notes from people in New York, LA, one person from Australia (which got me hype all over again … AUSTRALIA!). Among them was a name I’d seen a few times before in some Cooke High–related threads—funny memes, various draggings. @FuseZilla14. Her message said:
Hey, DJ ParSec, we don’t have classes together, but we both go to Cooke High and I’ve been to a couple parties where you were spinning. That new track you dropped is SO HOT! And I saw you looking for some help getting more listens. Let’s connect, and I can tell you some thoughts I have. I know you’re probably skeptical, but hear me out. Just think on these three words: personal music army.
Intrigued? (I know you are.)
All I need is a when and where.
~Fuse
Kya slurped her sweet tea down to the ice water. Said, “What you wanna do tonight? We could go bowling. Or see a movie.”
“I don’t know, Kya. My stomach’s feeling funny. I might just go turn in early.”
Her head bobbed. Tight, tense nods. “Oh, okay.”
Was I not convincing? Oh well. She had her own thing to work on, right?
Focused on my phone, I gave Fuse Fallon the time and place she asked for.
Friday night, 8:00 p.m. My bedroom.
My parents reinstated my rights to my MacBook and other devices. After a few unpleasant communications, even I had to question their decision.
There were the multiple missed texts from Shameik, intense and persistent in a way I’d hoped we’d moved past.
SHAMEIK
I’ve sent like a hundred texts. You just going to keep ignoring me?
SHAMEIK
I know you’re getting them. I can see the little “read” message after each one.
SHAMEIK
It ain’t right, Fuse. Who else am I supposed to talk to about what happened between her and me? And me and you?
ME
Stop! Okay? I can’t do this yet. Just, give me some time.
SHAMEIK
More time, you mean. Infinity? Is that what you’re going for?
I muted him. Thought about blocking him but knew if I was capable of that, I would’ve done it long before now.
That intensity made him the poet he was. His delivery like gut punches. What he crafted paired well with our mutual friend’s music, even if what they did together never went public. That wasn’t something I wanted or needed to get into that night.
Nothing in my inbox was as overtly u
gly as the public jabs and private messages popping hourly on all of my social media. That was the nature of those platforms on a normal day. Some of it was vultures scavenging for anything newsworthy, and I’d expected that. Radio personalities from a couple of the local stations, a few podcasters, journalists wanting some scoop from someone close to ParSec. Winston Bell, a reporter from MIXX magazine, had been particularly persistent, having emailed almost daily since the night of. I flagged most of those for follow-up, not knowing if I ever actually would.
The worst emails, the ones I lingered on, were personal. The nastiness camouflaged in niceties and professionalism. Corporate shade from one of the best:
From: Paula Klein
To: F. Fallon
CC: HR (PK Music Group)
Subject: Ongoing SM Manager Duties
Fatima,
I hope this email finds you well. We’re all still grieving over losing Paris—I’m barely sleeping. You’re lucky to have your family to lean on in these difficult times. Cherish them, always.
Given the recent tragedy, I’m sorry to turn to business matters, but since we’re closing out the current pay cycle, I wanted to make you aware of a change in roles. We have an outside firm taking over social media manager duties for the PK Music Group, therefore you won’t be burdened with those responsibilities anymore. You’ll still be paid for your work through the end of the month, but I’ll need you to supply all username-password combinations for each of the social media platforms associated with the DJ ParSec brand. It seems they were changed at some point, and we don’t currently have access here at the office.
If you can get that info to me by Monday, I’d be willing to add a $500 bonus to your final paycheck.
Hope to hear from you soon. Take care.
Paula Klein
Founder and CEO of the PK Music Group
Ocean Shore, VA
There was so much trash in that email. So much Paula. Last I checked, the PK Music Group consisted of exactly three people. Paula, ParSec, and me. So that “we have an outside firm” and “we don’t currently have access here at the office” stuff was lies. It’s just you and me now, you crooked old bag!