Spin

by Lamar Giles

  “I’m sorry”—I couldn’t just sit back clueless—“I don’t understand what you want us to do.”

  “Help me hold the authorities’ feet to the fire on this, Kya. It can’t be another Tupac, or Biggie, or Big L, or Jam Master Jay, or— You two don’t know who I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Biggie and Pac, sure.” The others, no. Maybe that was his point.

  “I bet whoever did this was counting on the exact thing that happened with everyone I named. The police becoming apathetic, the public losing interest. What Biggie, and Pac, and … all the rest didn’t have was the technology of your generation. The savvy fandoms. Find out what you can about the night Paris died. I’ll do the same, we share our information. Worst-case scenario, we get a story that puts more visibility on the killing. Best case, we do the police’s job for them and crack this thing wide open.”

  “So you want to use us too?” said Fuse.

  “You always want to make me the bad guy. I didn’t mess up your friendship with her. We both know that.”

  Fuse sneered, and I could see the clapback bulging up her throat. I said, “The Dark Nation members we’ve met are insane. You don’t know what they did to us this weekend.”

  He slid his phone forward, the voice memo app cued up. “Care to talk about it on the record?”

  “If we do it,” said Fuse, “you hold off on blowing up the Dark Nation? Kya’s right, they don’t play, and you spilling the tea on them is only going to cause problems for us.”

  Winston made a dramatic swiping gesture across his chest, one way, then the other. “Cross my heart. This story will be at its best with your cooperation. I get that. I need you two on a clock, though. No dillydallying. That’s not just for me. The trail is already cold and getting colder. I mean, do you have any ideas, at all, who might’ve done it?”

  Fuse jabbed a thumb at me, then herself. “Ruling us out, right?”

  “The police already have. I don’t see why I shouldn’t. Admittedly, you two are in the best position to identify someone who might’ve had it in for her.”

  Reluctantly, with a loud, huffing sigh, Fuse said, “Still off the record, we’re looking at her ex, Shameik.”

  “Ex?” I said. “I thought they were dating. Like, current.”

  Winston’s head bobbed my way, then to Fuse. “She doesn’t know?”

  “Know what?” To Fuse. “Know what?”

  Winston said, “Lord, y’all need to communicate better than that if you’re going to be a team.” He stood, grabbing his empty cup. “I’m getting a refill while you two work that out.”

  He strolled away, leaving us, and I said again, “Know? What?”

  Fuse wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Shameik and Paris. They broke up. And she maybe, kinda blamed me.”

  “This,” Fuse said, “is all my fault. Yuck. Should’ve never invited you for waffles.”

  “You’re a hater,” Shameik said, and kissed my neck again. It tickled, but I didn’t giggle, because I liked acting as if those kisses didn’t affect me so he’d keep trying.

  We were in Fuse’s room, and I was at her desk, clicking through all the DJ ParSec accounts she’d set up. Seeing how ParSec Nation was living life. Shameik hunched over me, hands on my shoulders, mouth nuzzled by my ear.

  “We’re supposed to be working.” Fuse tried for that stern Mama Bear tone of hers when she wanted things her way. “You could’ve at least brought a friend if we were going full PDA today.”

  I said, “You don’t like none of his friends. Picky tail.”

  “I have standards. A boy who puts raw onions on his turkey sandwich every day is not up to them.”

  Shameik scoffed. “Leave my mans alone. I talked to him about how the appropriate time for raw onions is really never.”

  “You, sir, are truly making the world a better place with the power of your words.”

  “Speaking of,” Shameik said, his voice high and hopeful. I knew him well enough now to spot his not-so-subtle hints. My stomach sank a little.

  Fuse’s eyebrows leapt up. “Speaking of what?”

  Shameik released my shoulders and turned to her, his hands animated, pleading his case. “I’m trying to get us to do a track together.”

  Fuse tossed her tablet onto the pastel pillow mountain accumulated at the head of her huge king-sized bed, popped to her feet. “That’s a great idea.”

  I kept clicking through internet tabs. Silent.

  Fuse said, “Am I missing something? It really does seem like a good idea. Shameik’s nice with the wordplay.” To him, she asked, “You got any songs ready?”

  He said, “Naw. Not songs, exactly. A bunch of spoken word that would just be fire over her beats. I mean, everybody do songs, right? We could set off something different.”

  And that was the problem.

  The different thing I wanted to set off was mine. Not his. My sound. My tempo. My composition. If he was talking about messing around, doing it for fun, sure, why not? We’d see what we got. Heck, I’d done tracks with Lil’ Redu … I was only so discerning.

  But whenever he brought it up, it was always some grand plan. DJ ParSec was all of sudden DJ ParSec and Shameik. He had ideas for YouTube videos and—

  “Maybe you could help me get my online following up, Fuse. I already got the hashtag. #MeikFreaks!”

  “Um.” I felt Fuse eyeing me for a bailout. Nope, homie, you went down this path with him.

  If I focused right, Shameik’s ghostly reflection was visible in the MacBook screen. I saw his shoulders slump. “You too, Fuse? How come y’all ain’t feeling me on this?”

  Fuse said, “I’m not saying I ain’t feeling it. I just need to think about it. These plans don’t come together instantly.”

  His reflection tensed in that springy way of his, the posture before he recites a new poem. He was ready to argue, to plead his case. I changed the subject. “Fuse, you wanted to listen to some new tracks for the next set of videos?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” She sounded as grateful as a rescued hostage.

  Shameik heavy sighed. Paced to her window, mumbling something I didn’t even care to try to decipher. Fuse joined me at the computer, but before we got into it, there was a single knock on her door. Mr. Fallon barged in. “Fatima, I— Oh, you’ve got guests.”

  “Hey, Dad,” Fuse didn’t even look at him, indifferent.

  “Mr. Fallon.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Every time I saw her father it felt like I was seeing something exotic—a safari lion.

  He pointed at me. “Paris, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t know you, young man.”

  Shameik deactivated his pouty mode quick, fast, and in a hurry. He shuffled toward Mr. Fallon with his hand extended. “Shameik Larsen, sir. I go to school with Fuse—I mean, Fatima.”

  Mr. Fallon shook Shameik’s hand and gave us all a look like he was searching for evidence. “You all are doing homework.”

  I expected a lie. Was totally prepared to back Fuse up. But, I don’t know, she did this super unpredictable thing and told the truth. “Naw. We’re listening to some of Paris’s new music for the YouTube channel.”

  “It wasn’t a request, Fatima. You can play mogul when schoolwork’s finished.”

  Fuse, annoyed, huffed something that might’ve gotten me the added chore of scrubbing the toilet, or cleaning the baseboards if I ever did that in front of Grandma. “Okay, Dad. We will. Cross my heart.”

  Shameik and I froze like scared squirrels. How far was this going to go?

  But Mr. Fallon simply backed toward the hall. “Leave this door open. I expect to hear some equations, Spanish conjugations, reciting of the periodic table, or something other than music.”

  “Dad!”

  “Or you can take your friends home. No more back talk. Test me.”

  I knew Fuse and knew she wanted to. I stepped in. “We will, Mr. Fallon. Thank you for helping us get back on track.”

  “See,”
he said. “She gets it. I’ll have Suzanne make sandwiches.”

  And he was gone. It was strange how Fuse’s pops was cool having so many people over here, even with one of them being a boy. Grandma won’t let boys sit on our porch. Like, we literally had to talk in the street. Mr. Fallon was all like, whatever. I didn’t know this kind of privacy was a real thing.

  “He’s so aggravating,” Fuse said, louder than what felt safe. Part of me wanted to smack her in the back of the head. I’d give up a limb to know even a little bit about my dad, let alone have a rich, kind-of-cool dad who got a maid to make sandwiches and let you have boys in your room.

  Though the boy thing wasn’t all that fun right now. With Mr. Fallon gone, Shameik resumed his pouting by the window. He was so stuck on this spoken-word collaboration thing. Me, I liked the kissing more.

  I hoped he did too.

  Sometimes I wasn’t sure.

  “I was going to tell you.”

  “When?”

  “Eventually. I swear.”

  “You”—Kya hugged herself, scandalized—“and Shameik?”

  “No!” It was overly loud. Some college students seemed frightened. Leaning in, I whispered, “I can’t stand him.”

  Did that sound convincing?

  “And she was wrong. It wasn’t what she thought it was, not even close.” It was painful even thinking about it. “I would never do the things she accused me of.”

  “Why did she accuse you of anything, though? What was confusing? They broke up for a reason, why would she think the reason was you, Fuse?”

  “Right. Look for the logic from the most irrational person either of us knew when she got mad. Am I wrong?”

  She considered it. “Okay. Point taken.”

  “They broke up. He’d been trying to get back. She wasn’t trying to hear it. In a lot of ways, Shameik and I were in the same sinking boat. Only he’s the one who put us there.”

  At least that’s the way I preferred to remember it.

  Winston returned, so I shut this particular conversation down. None of his beeswax. He had three drinks. Kya got her Honey Vanilla Latte. I got a plain black coffee—jerk.

  He took his chair, eyebrows raised. “Well? Off the record don’t mean we can’t talk. Are you going to tell me what went down with the Dark Nation? I need to know how to frame things if and when you give me the green light.”

  I still felt hesitant. Reporters, man.

  Kya seemed ready to burst, and after a sip of honey vanilla whatever—I could smell the sugar in that thing—she went full motormouth. “The other night I was walking home …”

  She gave him everything, and I sat back, arms crossed, eyes on Winston. He looked like someone told him Christmas Eve got rescheduled to today, and it came with a bulging bag of Halloween candy. He barely looked up from his Mac screen, his fingers dancing to capture whatever he was noting from Kya’s story. The typing broken up by the occasional “That’s insane” or “Way more extreme than I imagined.”

  Kya’s conclusion was me dropping her off. Then Winston pinned me with his gaze. “So they grabbed you first?”

  “Yep. Right after I got booted from the memorial service.”

  His head tilted. “You were with them for a few hours before they got Kya, then?”

  “Sure. My mom says I don’t drink enough water, in that instance I think it was the right decision. No bathroom breaks. No snacks.” I pumped my fist, playing off the uncomfortable memory. “Hung in there like a trouper, though.”

  His eager tone shifted, became reserved. “Girls, they didn’t hurt either of you, did they? If they did, maybe we should put some energy into tracking them down while we’re looking into the circumstances surrounding Paris.”

  Kya and I exchanged looks. I said, “The worst of it was some pins and needles from being tied up. It wasn’t pleasant, but not as bad as it could’ve been either.”

  Winston sighed heavy, relieved. “That’s something, then. You’re kids. You shouldn’t be going through any of it.”

  “But since we are, you’re happy to document it.”

  Kya elbowed my shoulder. “Fuse.”

  Winston snapped his MacBook shut and waved off my jab. “It’s fine, Kya. Me and this one go way back. If she wasn’t mean to me, I’d know she wasn’t okay.” He stood and slipped the computer in his bag.

  “Wait.” I sat up, wondering if we should follow him. “That’s it?”

  “This is a lot. I could probably spend a month digging into this dark faction of the Nation. They seem organized, tech-savvy. I got people I need to holler at who can maybe tell me how deep the rabbit hole goes. You two keep looking into the ex. We got each other’s numbers when we need to link up.”

  Kya went full butt kiss. “Thanks so much for the beverage, Mr. Bell.”

  Beverage? Mr. Bell? God.

  “It’s nice to see some young people still have manners.” His gaze was quite pointed. “Pick up if I call. Cool?”

  My answer: an eye roll.

  “I’ll be in touch. Peace.” Exit Winston to the sound of door chimes.

  Kya sipped the remains of her sweet drink, while I choked down my cool bitter brew. She said, “I think it’s good an adult knows what’s happening.”

  “If you say so.” I didn’t want to admit it did feel kind of good to have one more person in on the Dark Nation secret. Even Winston.

  “So, we’re on Shameik.”

  “No.” The phrasing just felt wrong to me, and my response was reflexive. “You are, Little Miss Volunteer. We need to find out where he was that night. If he’s got an alibi.”

  “Is that what Veronica Mars would do?”

  I nearly snorted coffee. “How old is that guy anyway?”

  “He could be our dad.”

  “Ew.”

  As if summoned by the mere mention of his title, my phone buzzed. The incoming text was the last thing I wanted to see in that moment.

  DAD

  I’m home. Where are you?

  ME

  I’m on my way now.

  “You okay?” Kya sensed me reeking of doom.

  “Remains to be seen.”

  Fuse was quiet on the ride home. No radio or nothing. So I let her be. We could figure our next steps later. Especially since she wasn’t the only one stressing.

  The closer we got to my street, the sweatier my palms felt, the faster my heart beat. Turning the corner, I already had an angle on our town house. The dark windows. Mama’s car gone. There were no nondescript vans on the street, but in my head now, there was always a nondescript van on the street.

  I didn’t like being in my house anymore. It used to be peaceful, even when it wasn’t—like when Mama was really cranky about work, but she yelled about the carpet not being vacuumed so she could “see the lines” or something else that wasn’t the real problem. Tuning her rants out was one of my stronger skills. In those moments when I muted her, I thought up ideas, ways to tinker with the SoundChek code, or plans for living in different states with big, famous cities when I went to college. Now I was just waiting for the next mask to pop out of the shadows. If I didn’t hate Paris’s stupid fans before …

  “Here good?” Fuse pulled into the same spot the Dark Nation lurked in a few nights ago.

  “Sure.” It took some internal bolstering to work the door latch and let myself out.

  Fuse’s fingers grazed my wrist. “Are you sure this is good?”

  A jerky nod. “I’m fine. I am.”

  Then I was out of the car, door closed behind me, tapping the roof so she knew to go.

  Fuse didn’t move right away. My stomach lurched, thinking she’d watch me until I stepped through my door. Seconds passed and Fuse eventually swung a three-point turn, peered at me one last time while I stood in the street, undecided on which direction I’d be heading. When the brake lights were no longer visible, I craned my neck up at my darkened bedroom window as if staring into the face of a tall bully I had no hope of beating.

>   Down the street, Miss Elsie’s porch light was on, same as when we were kids. Paris used to say it was crazy, like her grandma thought she’d get lost without that light to get her home. I let it guide me.

  Her doorbell gonged and echoed, no other sounds to compete with. Maybe she wasn’t home, not with the house that silent. I nearly left, but shuffling footsteps getting louder, louder said otherwise. “Hang on, hang on. I’m coming.”

  A chain clinked. A couple of dead bolts turned. Finally the knob twisted, and Miss Elsie peeked outside. When she recognized me, she beamed. “Oh, child, come in here.”

  The house was warm as ever. Light sweat made my shirt clammy, but it was still more comfortable than going to my own lonely place. “I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Elsie.”

  “Ain’t no bother.” She led me through her front room, flipping on lights as we went. Then into the kitchen, another room she brightened with a wall switch. Had she been sitting in the dark?

  Unlike the memorial service, where she’d worn her best outfit, best wig, and best hat, Miss Elsie looked out of sorts. No wig, so her short gray hair was matted. A pale blue terry cloth robe was cinched tight at her waist, pink open-toed slippers exposed unclipped nails. Hunched, more sliding across the floor than walking, she’d aged a hundred years since I last saw her.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

  Desperately. The dry heat made my throat feel as rough as an old sock. “I’ll pour us some water, Miss Elsie. Please, you go on and sit down.”

  I filled two glasses from a pitcher in the fridge, then sat at the kitchen table with her. Working hard, I ignored the sickly sweet smell coming from the piled-up dishes in the sink. Back in the day, Miss Elsie wouldn’t allow a single dirty fork in the sink—I know because Paris and I washed plenty. Gulping my water, I noticed her watching me, a weak smile flickering. “I wish I had some of that ginger ale you like, Kya. I haven’t had a chance to go shopping.”

  “This is fine. Mama says I need to drink more water.”