by Lamar Giles
“Paula Klein? Why would she want anything to do with this?”
Her heavenly white suit flared in my memory, how proud she’d seemed over that soulless service. If she’d wanted to be involved with Paris’s friends and fans, why not open her memorial to the public when she had the chance? Seemed odd.
“Penance, maybe,” said Shameik, “or she was worried about her dough. Probably the latter. I contacted her, told her how much of a bad look her event was, and how it could really be bad for her business if the ParSec Nation got it in their head that she wasn’t interested in how the fans wanted to honor Paris. I think she saw the sense in my argument. I’m charming like that.”
Was charming the right word here? Arrogant? That felt better.
Shameik said, “You may not be much with the poetry but think you can help with this? I promise we won’t put you on front street for anything. You can run concessions or something.”
Visions of me selling Starbursts in a half-packed school auditorium while our mediocre marching band did a rendition of “Calm Down, Turn Up!” made me shudder. But even that had to be better than what Paula Klein had done.
Shameik, putting something like this together on his own, was admirable. If such grand gestures were his thing, I got why Paris liked him.
The vibe I got from Fuse suggested maybe there was more to it than affection. That Shameik shouldn’t be trusted. She’d yet to tell me why, but no matter what, we needed to know where he was on the night of. Only one way to do that.
“Sign me up.”
School felt eternal before Dad signed me up for solitary confinement. Ever since he made arrangements for me to be isolated whenever I wasn’t in class to keep me away from “deplorables,” it had become something like psychological warfare. WHY? I wasn’t like the other troublemakers in there. I didn’t steal any exams. I didn’t smack anyone with half of a ham sandwich in the lunch line. Yet, I was being tortured in Cooke High’s version of a sensory deprivation chamber. I mean, I could still hear, see, smell, taste, and touch … just not with my phone.
All that to say, now that I had my car keys and a moment to myself after a long day in the hole, I wasn’t rushing back to the House of Tension and Malcontent.
Also, since witnessing firsthand what ParSec Nation (Dark) had become, there was newly discovered comfort in the over bright halls of Cooke High. Even if mostly deserted.
The school secretary and Principal Corgis sorted paperwork on the other side of the main office windows; I skirted by them quickly, in case Corgis’s soul was still bound to Dad’s intimidation magic. Didn’t need him infringing on this rare bit of school-day freedom.
In the auditorium, musical theater kids goofed around, harmonizing old songs and enjoying their last couple of weeks together before summer. Hovering near the doorway a moment, I enjoyed the tunes. They wrapped up a song I didn’t recognize, though it sounded great, then started a poppy rendition of “Started From the Bottom,” Drake’s hit that I remembered from the days Dad enjoyed tunes too.
When I was little, my dad gave life a soundtrack. From his old-school mix CDs, with Sharpie titles like “Smoove Drive” and “Chocolate City ’09,” I’d kick my legs to while strapped into my kiddie car seat. Then came “Clean Rap” iPod playlists he fed through a snaking AUX cable into the old car’s stereo system, where only half the speakers worked, so we’d rhyme along together to make up the difference. He’s the reason I have an ear. Like, I knew ParSec was special before “Calm Down, Turn Up!” when she was posting beats, not yet full songs, for the world to hear, because my whole childhood was filled with special music he supplied.
These days when Dad and I rode together, it was so different. The car was better, the sound system insane, but wasted. Dad only listened to business audiobooks and current-events podcasts. I tried playing some of ParSec’s stuff for him last year, when things really started taking off. His response, “Music sure isn’t what it used to be.”
Of course not! ParSec was the future.
I leaned against the auditorium door, listening with my eyes closed, and dozed off to a doubling of sound. Music from then, and the singing from now, weaved into some nonsensical remix that sounded amazing, if only in my dreams. When someone touched my shoulder, I shrieked awake.
“Whoa!” A girl not wearing a mask recoiled.
Those melodic voices beyond the doorway ceased abruptly. Someone shouted, “Everything all right out there?”
Freaked beyond reason, I went for the exit, and the person who’d scared the crap out of me chased. “Fuse, wait up!”
Spinning, pressing my lower back to the door’s push bar, I shoved my way into the late spring heat while tracking this girl, prepared to claw her eyes if needed.
Whatever she saw froze her. She raised her hands defensively. “Hey, be cool. I’m Florian.” Only when the door began its backward swing did Florian resume her chase, letting herself outside. “I run the ParSec Love Tumblr.”
“So?” The area was canopy-shaded, with a bench no one ever used. Until then. I flopped, and Florian seemed to consider if she should sit too.
“I want to tell your story.” She remained standing. It was the right decision.
“Like the one you told Friday?” I’d read the post her and Kya collaborated on, plus the updates after the memorial service. Character assassination of the highest order.
“That’s one side of it,” Florian said. “I want yours.”
“You said I stole from Paris. That’s a flat-out lie. I never took one cent.”
“I said ‘allegedly.’ ”
“Where do you even get this stuff? What about that nonsense with ParSec’s bodyguards having orders to break my fingers if I tried to get near her? She didn’t have bodyguards! If she did, then maybe—”
Too close to snapping, I stared upward, asked angels to spare this girl’s life. This was stupid. Why was I even talking to this gossipmonger anyway?
She said, “I’m only reporting things as I hear them.”
Oh. Okay. That explained ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!
If Florian wasn’t a liar herself, then most of her sources were. Kya told me about the parts she contributed to the post. Me being at the warehouse, finding Paris at the same time. Our fight in the police station. Basically, what actually happened. All that other stuff …
My phone buzzed. Likely Dad making sure I’d gotten home to my cell safely. Florian kept pleading her case while I glanced at the incoming message. Not Dad.
WINSTON BELL
I’m sorry about what happened to you at the service, but you shouldn’t have used me like that.
WINSTON BELL
If you’d been straight with me, we could’ve worked something out. Maybe made it so you could stay.
WINSTON BELL
You still owe me a real conversation, you know.
My eyes flicked between the messages and Florian’s motor mouth. Were these two a tag team?
Florian leaned in as if to read my texts. “Who’s that?”
“Yoooo. You are not for real right now.” I walked away, secretly daring her to follow. She didn’t.
Alone again, I watched the little flashing dots dance on the screen, Winston typing another message. I began tapping out my “LEAVE ME ALONE, OLD MAN” response, when his next message popped.
WINSTON BELL
If you’re ignoring me, I get it. I’m not going to harass you. However, I have been doing some digging into this, and some commentary from you and/or Kya Caine would be nice before I go to print. Your call, though.
One last message came through, a screen capture. Of a poll.
Sprinting, I passed Florian, who seemed to be RECORDING ME, WHAT!?! I raced up the corridor, swung a wide left, my feet clopping loudly on the way to the Earth Science room, before skidding to a stop just outside the door. The Seaside Poets meeting was still in progress, and I didn’t know if me pulling Kya out in front of everyone would mess up whatever plan we had to interrogate Shameik. I needed to
talk to her. Immediately.
Pull the fire alarm, a loud and irrational voice screamed in my skull. Followed by one more sensible: Or you could text her. You could’ve always texted her.
Right.
ME
K, get to the gym right now.
KYA
5 mins. Meeting’s almost over. What’s wrong?
ME
Everything.
To the gym I went. Sports were done for the year, but the hardcore athletes still managed to find something to sweat over. Some boys in tank tops lifted heavy things by the weight room, while others did push-ups in a row, or jumped rope really fast. I settled into the bleachers, let the view distract me from nervous-gnawing my own fingernails off.
Kya eventually skittered into the gym, scanning the place with frantic, jerky neck gestures, as if checking for snipers. I waved her over. “Why do you look so nervous? Did something happen in Seaside Poets?”
“Yes, something did happen, but that’s not it. This is just not my favorite wing of the school. A lot of failed chin-ups freshman year. What’s up with you? Why the red alert?”
“We have a major problem. Before I get into that, a question.”
“Okay.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how comfortable are you lying to a reporter if it will save our butts?”
Back in the passenger’s seat of Fuse’s cramped car, we navigated afternoon traffic into the next town over. When I last rode with her, we’d survived the Dark Nation, so danger was a relative thing. I’d thought she was a perfectly fine driver then. I was mistaken.
“You’re pretty close to that truck,” I said. In case she didn’t notice.
“I’ve got plenty of room.”
The truck slowed, its lights flaring red, and she jammed her brake, locking my seat belt, then wrenched the steering wheel left, jerking us into the next lane, to the dismay of the Mercedes we cut off. Luxury car horns were very loud.
Somehow we didn’t die getting off the highway—to more angry horn play—in downtown Norfolk. The slower city pace didn’t improve Fuse’s driving, as she maintained something way too close to highway speed, finding every traffic gap and whipping her tiny car into it. Half of me wanted the ride over, but the other half recognized where we were going and quivered.
We were on the same streets from Saturday, traveling in reverse to the same general section of Norfolk where the Dark Nation had dropped us off. I simultaneously could not wait to reach our destination—my knees! God this car was small!—and dreaded being near anywhere I’d been with those masked freaks. Given what Fuse said about this reporter guy Winston, convincing him to stay away from this story—or at the very least exclude us from it—was a necessary evil to keep the Dark Nation off our backs. The warning about exposing them to any extra attention had been clear. A feature article in MIXX seemed like a lot of extra attention.
Fuse coasted to a curb near the coffee shop where we were meeting Winston. I left her vehicle, started strolling toward the spot. Fuse rushed next to me, linked her elbow in mine, and angled us into the comic book shop that was on the way. The door chime tinkled, and a smiley guy with a full hipster beard greeted us. “Hey, anything I can help you find?”
Fuse greeted his wide smile with a tight one. “We’re fine. Just browsing.”
We continued into a back corner.
“What are we doing?” I ogled the prices for the intricate action figures, statues, and busts in a locked display case behind her. Two hundred dollars for a Green Lantern Power Battery replica. Five hundred for a full-sized Infinity Gauntlet. Phillip, Simon, and Jim would have, undoubtedly, considered these reasonable prices for such iconic items. My lingering sadness over the missing people in my life notched up a degree.
Fuse said, “I was hoping to talk this over in the car, but you kept distracting me with you whining about collisions and such. We gotta be careful with this dude.”
“Already told you I don’t feel super comfortable lying about stuff. I twitch.” Not the total truth, but my days of plastering on a fake smile greased with fake enthusiasm were long gone.
“That’s fine. Just remember this, when we sit down, first thing out of your mouth is ‘All of this is off the record.’ Whatever he has, we don’t want to give him too much more, and we don’t want to give him explicit permission to publish any of it. Guys like him are good at getting you all chatty and comfortable. I told ParSec the same thing. She was so caught up with him being from MIXX, she didn’t listen. Her thinking was if anyone was going to tell all her business, why not one of the hottest music magazines on the planet.” Fuse puffed herself up, bobbed her head side to side, and spoke in a gruff manner. “ ‘Good enough for OGs like Timbaland and Missy, good enough for me.’ ”
It was a flawless Paris impression. I clamped a hand over my mouth, cramming back the laugh. So I only cracked up half-loud, and Fuse did too.
Peeking over the shelving, the clerk gave us the “Shoplifters Beware” glare, and I did the thing Mama always taught me. Buy something, even if it’s small. Show them we ain’t all thieves.
Searching the alphabetized display rack, I found the latest issue of Ms. Marvel and walked it to the counter. Relieved, the clerk rang me up, and I paid with the credit card Mama didn’t know I had. Fuse was at my hip, eyeing the transaction. When my merchandise was bagged up, and we stepped back outside, she said, “That was an Amex Gold Card.”
“It was.”
“Why do you have an Amex Gold Card?”
I felt a pang in my chest. “Remind me to tell you about some smart guys I used to hang around. This first, though.”
Café Clementine was crowded. There were a lot of students in Old Dominion University apparel, either hunched over laptops or open books, studying, or chatting it up with friends. A boisterous party at the back pulled together several tables, and a bouquet of birthday balloons hovered above the midpoint, bopping along as folks talked loudly, laughed loudly, and made the entire place part of the celebration. No one seemed like an obvious creeper, and there were no white masks hovering in darkened corners. As far as I was concerned, this meeting was off to a decent start.
Winston was easily recognizable. The only black man in the place, with gold-framed glasses and long salt-and-pepper dreadlocks falling down his back and shoulders, he pecked away on his MacBook, the Apple logo obscured by colorful band decals. He waved us over.
“Remember what we talked about,” Fuse said through unmoving lips, like a ventriloquist.
He’d saved two seats for us, standing as we approached, his hand extended. “Ladies.”
I shook and grabbed the seat closest to the window. Fuse greeted him, ignoring his handshake, and took the other chair.
“Order you something?” Winston asked, sitting down.
The chalkboard menu mounted behind the counter listed some tasty-sounding drinks. “A honey vanilla latte, may—”
Fuse cut me off, full-on death stare. “Naw. We’re good. And we’re off the record. All of this. How do you know about that poll you screenshot?”
Winston said, “Right to it, then. I’m ParSec Nation too.”
I clutched the edge of the table, tried to remember if anyone from the van smelled strongly of store-bought musk.
“Since when?” Fuse’s tone sharpened.
Winston frowned, confused. “Since I started my original interviews with Paris. Since you told me about the enthusiastic fandom that developed around DJ ParSec’s songs. There’s a sign-up right on her website. ParSec Nation Newsletter.” He tapped keys and spun the MacBook so we could see a “Join the Nation” page on Paris’s site.
I leaned in. “So if you sign up for a … newsletter? You get to see them talk about us.” Why were those creeps in the van so concerned with secrecy if it was that easy?
Winston spun the computer back, typing new things, and explaining. “No. Joining ParSec Nation is sort of like hearing Wonderland exists. The Dark Nation is kicking it with the Mad Hatter, if you feel
me. I’d heard some rumors about a branch of this fandom that’s all about wildin’ in the name of DJ ParSec’s music. Got a tech-savvy friend to get me access to a site on the dark web. Was just planning to use it as a sidebar on my primary story. Then she died, and it sort of became the story when I saw that poll.”
“That’s all you got? The poll? You don’t know too much, then.” Fuse pressed back in her chair, arms crossed, scrutinizing. “I did say we’re off the record?”
“You did. You still owe me a good, on-the-record conversation. Deal’s a deal.”
“Or you’ll publish whatever it is you have?”
“I’d rather not go that route. But a journalist gotta eat, and my ParSec story needs an ending, since we know she’s not around for a continuation, I’m sorry to say.” He snapped the MacBook closed and looked between us, a silent plea. “We can help each other here.”
“How?” I wasn’t interested in fending him off the way Fuse was. I’d be careful, yes. I also thought some adult help was a good thing. Better than the two of us against a faceless mob of crazy superfans.
“I’ll explain. Tell me this, first … are you two trying to figure out who killed Paris Secord on your own. Real-life Veronica Mars? Marses? Whatever the plural is.”
Fuse said, “We have strong motivation to find clues.”
Winston nodded. “Fair enough. Here’s where I come in. I think the story becomes about injustice. The police work on this thing, shoddy at best.” He reopened his MacBook, his eyes sweeping back and forth as he read, the screen’s ghostly reflection haunting the lenses of his glasses. “I know they brought you two in on the night of. Then, over the course of about three days, they questioned anyone associated with her at the time of her death, that’s her grandmother, Paula Klein, a Shameik Larsen”—Fuse stiffened, but Winston kept going—“me, and they made phone calls to some of the regional artists she worked with, though I’m unclear if those leads went anywhere.”
