Spin

by Lamar Giles

  “You didn’t come to school today. You told me you were sick. I came here to check on you. You seem fine to me.”

  Lord! “Look, my grandma gone all day with her sister and I didn’t have any tests. We skipped to get this video shot, edited, and uploaded ASAP because Fuse and her people going skiing this weekend.”

  She went to a true whisper, her face turned away, like I was hard to look at, direct sun with no shades. “Do you hear yourself? You lied. To me!”

  “Because you act like this.”

  Her mouth gaped, as if she had more to say (I’m sure she did), but her eyes flicked toward the staircase. Fuse was so petite the creaky stairs didn’t make a sound beneath her. “I got what we need, ParSec. Seems like I should probably go. I’ll email you about the schedule over the weekend. When things are less volatile.”

  Kya shook her head and disappeared into the kitchen. I stopped Fuse from letting herself out. “Hey, maybe not today, but I want y’all to work this out. I think you’ll really like each other if y’all sit down and really talk.”

  Fuse glanced toward the kitchen, then met my eyes. “No thanks. You need new followers way more than I need new friends. I can’t help if she’s jealous. Can’t let it slow us down either. I hope you get that.” She peeled my hand off the doorknob. “Watch all your feeds this weekend. Major gains coming. Calm down …”

  “Turn up,” I said, with a boost of fake energy.

  Fuse walked into daylight, and I went to finish the vibe-killing conversation with Kya. Only she was gone too. Escaped out the back door.

  I didn’t follow her.

  Paris’s service was … hard. And fake. Not what a funeral should be, and nothing in me believed she’d asked for this. No flowers, though I’d seen bouquets stacked five high on the street outside of Miss Elsie’s house, along with teddy bears, and burned CDs, and other respectful tokens to Paris’s fame. Here there were blown-up photos of Paris on tripods, though. Promotional shots from shows and music releases.

  That Paula lady gave a eulogy about Paris’s talent and revolutionary style that somehow didn’t feel like it was really about Paris in the least. “Not many would’ve recognized the incredible package Paris Secord represented. I’ve prided myself on spotting the star power others missed, and she appreciated me for it.” It felt like she was presenting an award. The coffin goes to …

  The Fifth Street Baptist Church choir should’ve been here. That was Miss Elsie’s church, a short drive from our neighborhood, where Paris got dragged every Sunday before she could call shots. There was no “Amazing Grace,” no “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” Songs I’d heard at every funeral I’d ever been to in my entire life. Including Paris’s mom’s.

  Instead, five white guys who had boy band written all over them sang—this was so crazy—“Over the Rainbow” from The Wizard of Oz. Huh?

  Miss Elsie’s breathing quickened. Her look, I’d seen it plenty, from the times Paris and I really crossed the line. Drawing on her walls as kids. Sneaking in late like we had homes big enough to make sneaking in feasible. She was angry. I was too.

  We endured. The sermon from a Catholic priest named Father Cullen. Another selection, Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” by the boy band that then doubled as pallbearers, carrying Paris’s sealed coffin to a waiting hearse.

  Paula Klein had programs printed. To continue the vast differences from any kind of funeral proceeding I was familiar with, there was no information about a burial site. We found out why as the vulture-like onlookers departed the theater.

  Paula approached us in the emptying lobby, cutesy-waving to her guests. When we had her attention again, she said, “Miss Secord, something I didn’t do was make burial arrangements. I thought you’d might want Paris to be with her mother.”

  “That’s one thing you were right about,” said Miss Elsie, a hint of gratefulness bleeding into her tone.

  “If you have a preferred mortuary service, let me know.”

  Miss Elsie nodded, and Paula produced a tiny notepad and pen. They walked to the theater concession counter to scribble out the arrangements that I tried not to think about as handing off Paris’s body, though if we were being honest …

  Alone, in a nearly abandoned lobby, I took the opportunity to sneak my phone out, snapping pictures in quick bursts, honoring a deal I’d made with Florian. I sent them quickly, along with the pics I snuck before and during the “service,” hoping the skeezy, dirty feeling I had over being a spy left quickly too. It didn’t.

  Maybe I was shady becoming Florian’s secret agent. But I didn’t get here on my own. Fuse started this pettiness with her tweets. Though, judging by the way she got booted from this service, my brand of payback might not rank high among her priorities.

  When I saw her having a hard time with Paula and the security, I’d wanted to savor it. But everything here was so, so wrong. Fuse was the only other person here who, at one time, seemed like an actual friend to Paris. Regardless of how everything went down, Paris shouldn’t have less friends in attendance today.

  Wonder where she ended up?

  Miss Elsie returned, looking smaller than she did when the day started. “Let’s go, child. Are you ready?”

  She didn’t have to ask me twice.

  The funeral home limo dropped us off on our street, inside Harding Home Estates, aka “the Home,” and I saw Miss Elsie back to her unit. A yellow, weather-grimed town house in a row of weather-grimed town houses. They all used to be identical, inside and out, but a few years back whoever made the decisions replaced the siding so each unit was a different color. The row now looked like a series of children’s building blocks stacked side by side. Ours was pink. It’s the only improvement of the property I recalled in my entire life.

  People—strangers, fans—had stopped hanging around several days ago, but their shrine remained. The gifts, the candles, poster-board signs. All those “Love you, ParSec” items that looked like trash since it rained the other day, soaking everything into a mushy mess. On my way to school this week, I’d seen the neighborhood motormouth Miss Sal out in the street fussing at Miss Elsie about how all that junk made the street look “ghetto.” I hated that word and all its racist, classist implications. Kind of hated Miss Sal too. When the limo pulled away, I spotted her in her living room window, blinds bent wide, staring.

  Heavy sighing, Miss Elsie said, “I need to call the city to come clear this mess so that hateful witch will leave me alone. Probably cost money. Everything do.”

  I wasn’t convinced I should leave her, but my phone had been buzzing for the last half hour with texts from Mama, several variations on “Where you at?” and “Call me. Now!” Plus, Paris’s grandma wasn’t one for forced charity.

  “Go home,” she said. “We both need rest, and I need some time to think.”

  Think of what, I didn’t know and didn’t dare ask. Knew better. I’d been well trained in recognizing “grown folks’ business.” If I was meant to know, she’d mean to tell me. “If you need anything, I’m right down the street …”

  Miss Elsie cupped the back of my head. Short and wide like Paris, she tugged me into a stooping posture to kiss me on the cheek. “You always have been, child. At least I have one granddaughter left.”

  My smile was tight, lips pinched. She had no idea that while she still considered me a granddaughter, Paris hadn’t considered me much of a sister in those last days. Did Miss Elsie know I’d given Paris the same treatment back?

  You’re rotten on the inside, Paris.

  Someone should throw you away.

  I left, no goodbye. Hugging myself with one arm while rechecking all of Mama’s texts. She was picking up an extra shift, wouldn’t be home until late. Mama’s hostess job at a restaurant on the boardwalk often left her too tired to be concerned with things other than payday. That worked for me. I began the walk home. Maybe she didn’t have to know the details of my day.

  I sent a preemptive text. Not a lie, since I had no reason to think I would
n’t make it to my door.

  ME

  I’m home.

  MAMA

  Now you are. Where you been all day?

  ME

  School stuff.

  It wasn’t a direct answer, so it couldn’t be a blatant lie. Right?

  There were seven units between Miss Elsie’s house and mine, and the black van parked at the halfway mark only registered in my back brain. A low, dull ping, dismissed too easily. I was so oblivious. The perfect victim.

  The van door wasn’t well oiled. When I passed and it opened like a mouth, it was with a light scrape. I didn’t even glance over my shoulder; my mind was on all the cameras at the memorial. Surely there’d been social media posts, stuff Mama could easily find if she put in any effort. What would I do then?

  The quick footfalls behind me were hushed. The sound that finally got my attention was the grunting coming from inside the vehicle, like someone coughing through thick cloth. I turned—too late—to see two white masks rushing at me, duct tape stretched and ready.

  The first strip pressed hard against my lips while one of my assailants wrapped me in a bear hug, pinning my arms. It was so fast, there was no time to feel fear. This was happening to someone else.

  The two of them danced around me. More tape wrapped my wrists, then my ankles, with the speed of a spider entombing a fly in silk webbing. Then I was off my feet, bent at the waist on some man’s shoulder, hoisted toward that gaping van door. Even then, the fear didn’t register.

  It came when I heard the tune they hummed. A Paris song. In perfect harmony.

  Somehow that frightened me more than anything.

  My kidnappers totaled five. One in the driver’s seat, four in the back of the van with me. All wearing familiar masks that I never expected to see this close.

  They didn’t openly threaten me. Since removing the sack from my head no one pointed a knife at my throat, or detailed the horrible things they’d do to me if I didn’t comply. That’s the thing about sitting in the back of a van, where the walls, roof, and floor were covered in foamy, ridged soundproofing. They didn’t have to. I already knew what this crew was capable of.

  As terrifying as this was—I’d never been so scared—having been with these monsters for a couple of hours now allowed me to calm down slightly. With my panic decreased by a percent, I remembered things Mom and Dad told me when I was much younger, should I ever find myself in this very situation. Pay attention. Look for opportunities to signal for help or escape.

  We’d been sitting for a while, waiting on something.

  Suddenly two of the four masks who’d been surrounding me for what felt like days jumped out of the van, while the remaining two angled their pale faces toward me. Were they watching me? Maybe. I couldn’t see their eyes, so they could’ve been sleeping behind the facade. Though every time I flexed my wrists, or tried loosening the plastic ties restraining me, at least one mask would tilt, a gesture I read as, “Really, Fuse?”

  Then I’d go still again.

  This open door was the first real opportunity I’d had, even if it meant flinging myself through it and inchworming away. There were still two people between me and the exit, so that wasn’t really happening. Maybe someone was close by, someone who’d find a nondescript black van creepy-strange, and human screaming even more so. So I tried it!

  “Help! Help me!”

  Because of my gag, it sounded like MMMDMD! MMMDMD-MD!

  A mask—the smallest, most aggressive of the bunch—slammed a palm into my chest, pushing me back against the van wall. If anyone heard me, I couldn’t tell, because the two who’d gone outside returned, humming, with a new passenger flung over one of their shoulders.

  The newbie thumped next to me. One mask banged the ceiling with his fist, yelled, “Go, go!” as he resealed the door. We were in motion.

  The new captive twisted into a seated position, stared at me with her face splayed in terror.

  Kya?

  Fuse?

  I scooted closer, screaming unintelligibly through my taped lips that we need to fight. She flinched like I was attacking her.

  The van lurched out of my neighborhood. Soon, we’d reach an intersection, and a right turn would take us toward a highway ramp. Then, who knew?

  Bucking, trying to get her to do the same, I only drew the attention of a mask, who bopped me on the head with a rolled-up newspaper. Like I was a dog.

  “Stop that!” she said, voice distorted by plastic covering her face. “We don’t intend to hurt you. That’s not what this particular meet and greet is about.”

  She was smaller than the others, her dark hoodie too baggy on her, while the muscles in her fit legs flexed through yoga pants. Her sneakers—white high-top Nike Air Force 1s—had loose laces, and the Looney Tunes character Bugs Bunny drawn on the right foot, while Elmer Fudd and his ever-ready shotgun took aim at the “wabbit” from the left. She’d opted for total comfort and style in the commission of her felonies. From that moment on, I thought of her as …

  Elmyra Fudd said, “Good, you’re calm now.”

  I wasn’t, but there were four of them crowded back here with us, one drove. Loser odds even if our hands and feet were free. Only impossible white guys—Tom Cruise and Captain America—in movies won those fights.

  The van turned right. Accelerated to highway speeds.

  “Get the gags off,” she instructed. Her minions obeyed. One tore off my tape, along with some skin. Another undid the bandanna knot at the back of Fuse’s head, and she hocked up some balled-up, spit-soggy cloth.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  Fuse only sighed and chewed her lip. Later, I’d understand it was because she already knew.

  Elmyra Fudd said, “We’re the Dark Nation.”

  Oh. Crap.

  Now that they’d admitted what I suspected, and I knew how crazy these lunatics could get, I couldn’t stop squirming, trying to free myself of the zip ties around my wrists and ankle. We had to do something.

  There was nothing to be done, though. Not physically. I think Kya got that. She remained still, her eyes bouncing from one assailant to the other. Their dark hoodies tugged up so their masks looked like chunks of moon floating in a starless sky.

  #ParSecNation worked a certain way. They were fun, bold, relentless, all with one goal: serve DJ ParSec. I’d made them that way.

  #DarkNation was a different animal altogether. A group I’d never intended. One that rose up like a weed, scary in their devotion to ParSec’s songs. Ask the music blogger in San Diego who ended up in a marina tied to a boat’s mast because she’d written a scathing diss of ParSec’s entire catalog. Or the record executive who got his ribs broken in a New York nightclub for saying indie artists like ParSec and her fans were the death of music. They had been a problem when she was still around. Now that she was gone, how would the kingdom honor a dead queen?

  All masks angled toward my futile gyrations. One of the males, his voice soft and high, said, “She thinks that’s going to work?” He spoke to me, “Unless superstrength is part of your Super Groupie powers, you can stop now.”

  Kya, glaring, said, “Did you do this, Fuse?”

  “Me?” I shook my bound wrists at her. “I’m not exactly flying first class here.”

  “Then what is this?”

  The girl in the cartoon shoes said, “That, I can explain.”

  One of the male masks passed her a tablet. She woke it, turning her white mask a spectral blue in the glare, and tapped the screen. “Kya Sherée Caine and Fatima Alexis Fallon, also known as Fuse. Former friends of the incomparable DJ ParSec, both present at her murder scene.”

  “Wait, wait,” I said. “We weren’t ‘present at her murder scene.’ I mean, yes, we found her, but we weren’t there when it happened. We didn’t do it!”

  Cartoon Shoes’s mask tilted toward me. “That doesn’t seem to be what you implied in your lengthy Twitter thread earlier this week.”

  She showed me my own words on her
tablet. The subtle shade I tossed Kya’s way. No outright accusation, just enough to … well … get us here.

  Kya said, “You couldn’t leave things alone, could you?”

  Cartoon Shoes bopped Kya on the head with the rolled-up—something—she’d used earlier. “Ah, ah, ah. You’re not much better on this front. Are you, Kya?”

  The tablet turned toward Kya, but I still saw the screen. Cartoon Shoes swiped to a browser page. It was that ParSec Love Tumblr that girl at school ran. The latest post titled: “What We Don’t Know About Fuse. UPDATED!”

  Whoa. Hold up! There’d been a post about me? Up long enough that it required an update?

  Suddenly Paula’s you don’t need more bad coverage made sense. I’d been too busy scamming Winston Bell for a way into the venue to pay attention to my mentions today.

  My viewing angle was too severe, and the font was too small for me to read any of the text. The accompanying photo made it pretty clear what that “update” was about. It was me arguing with Paula and her security at today’s memorial service. The pic Kya took on her way into the auditorium before I was thrown out.

  Swinging my bound legs around so fast I almost tipped over, I threw a two-heeled kick toward Kya’s chest. Must’ve telegraphed it, because a mask grabbed my calves before I connected, spun me back into a seated position. Cartoon Shoes bopped me on the head. “Stop it. Don’t make this worse, Super Groupie.”

  Angry enough to tear a chunk out of Kya—what did that post even say?—but recognizing the insanity of everything, my patience wore thin. “Make what worse? What do you want?”

  “Did one of you do it?” one of the bigger, gruffer masks asked. “Did one of you take her from us?”

  Kya flinched at his heavy voice and possibly the implications of the questions. I might’ve jerked away too, if I wasn’t so used to my dad asking gruff questions or yelling gruff things, suddenly, with no preamble. This wasn’t so different than conversations at my house, with the exception of the kidnapping and restraints.