by Lamar Giles
The next couple of days were mundane, more so than any week in recent memory. Summer crept closer, each day hotter than the last. In school, a joyous vibe radiated from the seniors getting ready to take on the world soon. From the juniors, ready to take their places as the kings and queens of the school. From the faculty, just ready for a break.
I kept expecting the song I gave the Dark Nation to hit the web, make the rounds among Paris’s fans, or even go viral. #NewMusic
Didn’t happen. So the Dark Nation wasn’t all about sharing the new music love. Fine by me.
There was enough to deal with. Class, homework, Mama only annoyed over her hostess job and the young singers snatching summertime gigs at the oceanfront bars. “Jobs you could be getting,” she’d snark at me under her breath. Her pestering about performances didn’t bother me the way they used to. At least she wasn’t wielding garden shears.
Online, the #ParSecNation hashtag slowed significantly, with most mentions centering around someone playing a Paris song and others chiming in on whether it, or another, was their favorite. Based on the loose chatter, it was hard to tell she was dead, not the way her music lived on.
Fuse kept in touch via texts, nothing earth-shattering there either. The concert planning meeting was still our way to Paula. Once we got to her, then what? Instead of working out an answer, our texts mostly devolved into exchanges like this:
FUSE
Did you know Cap’n Crunch has a for real whole name?
ME
Huh?
FUSE
It’s Horatio Magellan Crunch.
ME
How do you even … what?
FUSE
It was the answer in this trivia app I play sometime. Here’s another good one: How much you think Judge Judy makes in a year?
ME
The mean lady with the doily collar on TV? IDK. I guess it’s a lot.
FUSE
45 mil. Per. Year. Kya! I NEED that job. I can talk slick to dudes suing their landlord over defective doorknobs just as good as her.
ME
Wow. Now you’ve got me considering law school.
FUSE
Do TV judges need law school?
ME
They gotta be a judge before the TV part. Right?
FUSE
Searching. Hold, please.
There were more conversations like that, mostly in the evenings. Sometimes random ones in the middle of the night. The phone vibrated next to me, where it rested beneath my covers. It never woke me because it was hard to count what I did these days as actual sleep. I didn’t mention it to Fuse, because I knew—I think we both did—that if she texted me trivia at three in the morning, and I hit her back, neither of us were sleeping easy. Though we soldiered on.
On Thursday, I thought Fuse found a solution. She texted right after final bell, catching me before I boarded the bus home.
FUSE
You got somewhere to be this evening? Can you roll with me?
ME
Mama’s working. I got time.
FUSE
Meet at my car.
She didn’t tell me where we were going. She didn’t have to. “We’re driving toward the Savant,” I said.
“You still got that key?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Trust, K. Trust.”
Fuse drove us straight into the parking deck beneath Paris’s apartment building, and pulled directly into the space designated for apartment 14-D. She grabbed her bag, and I joined her outside the car. “Is this a good idea?”
She said, “It’s the best idea. You’ll see.”
We took the garage elevator to the fourteenth floor and let ourselves into the apartment. We’d left the balcony door slightly ajar, and the breeze had aired the place out, leaving behind the scents of rain and salt. I closed the door, cutting off a draft. Fuse plopped her bag on the couch, snatched the zipper open, and rummaged inside.
“Do you think there are more clues here? Are we opening more boxes?”
“Nope.” She tugged slim plastic Blu-ray cases from her bag. I recognized the cover art immediately. Beyond the Lights. Love & Basketball. The Five Heartbeats. House Party. Girls Trip. Each movie still shrink-wrapped.
Fuse said, “I’m sure her copies are in one of these boxes, but I didn’t feel like searching, so I just bought these from Best Buy last night.” She pulled one more thing from her bag. A miniature disc player. “Since you’re tech support, wanna hook this up while I get the plastic off these movies?”
“Why?”
“Because we can’t stick unopened DVDs into the TV, Kya.”
“No. Why are we here? Doing this now?”
She seemed genuinely confused. “Because they don’t get to dictate what we do in her honor. Not the Dark Nation. Not Paula. Not even Shameik. When ParSec wanted to chill, she didn’t make beats or go to parties.”
“She did this.” I held the mini player in my hand, a smile coming so hard and fast it made my cheeks ache. I worked, as did Fuse. I got the proper cables connected, she crinkled plastic wrap into a clear pile on the floor. With the Blu-ray player’s menu screen displayed on the TV and five awesome movies spread on the couch cushions, Fuse said, “Which one first?”
Without thinking, I said, “The one she’d pick.”
“Love and Basketball,” we said at once.
At the start menu, just before Fuse pressed play on the remote, I said, “Wait. Wait, wait, wait!”
Fuse hiked an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”
I hadn’t contributed. She was right, we chose how we grieved for Paris. Only, the movie idea was all Fuse. I needed a fingerprint on this, and I think I knew how to make that happen.
I checked a frequently used app on my phone. “Yes! Five Guys is on Grubhub, delivery in forty-five minutes. If we’re going to honor her, we have to go all out. What do you want on your burger?”
On the couch, blinds closed, huddled over empty burger wrappers and abandoned fries, we were crying way before the epic one-on-one game between Sanaa Lathan and Omar Epps at the film’s climax. We’d both shared tears with Paris over this film and others. We both missed the good times we’d never have with her again.
When the credits rolled, we took a long moment to gather ourselves. In the quiet, a new question came to me. Will I ever be able to do any of the stuff I used to do with any of you and not feel sad?
I opened Notes, added it to my list.
“What are you writing?” Fuse asked, sniffly.
I’d forgotten she was there.
“What?” she persisted, sliding closer.
“They’re just questions. Stuff I can’t answer because they’re for the people who aren’t here anymore.” That it came out so easily surprised me. Maybe I hadn’t forgotten Fuse was there, I’d just gotten comfortable with her.
“Like what?” She didn’t wait for an answer, butting up against my shoulder and peering at my screen. She read aloud, “How much grief, on average, does it take to break a person? Oh, Kya.”
My comfort level eroded. I turned my phone down. “You think it’s dumb.”
“I don’t. I was just pondering. My thinking is, it doesn’t take much grief at all to break a person, and nothing’s wrong with that. Broken things can be fixed. What else you got?” She pawed for my phone, which I transferred to my other hand and held at arm’s length.
“You’re Iyanla Vanzant now?”
“I’ve had a therapist since I was, like, eleven. Picked up a lot of good advice. It’s nice to have someone to talk to. Tell me it’s not just you and that phone.”
I didn’t want to lie.
“Oh my God, Kya. Not even the grief counselors at school?”
Again, no lies here.
“I’m here for you, kid. Let me see those other questions.”
I put my phone in my pocket, not quite ready for all that.
“Fine, fine,” Fuse said, unoffended. “But my therapist told me if you keep all that stuff bo
ttled up too long, it leaks in unexpected ways. You could be cool one minute, raging the next.” She palmed the eye I punched at the police station a million years ago. “I’d rather not be on the receiving end again when it does.”
“Noted. What now?”
We decided we could do one more of Paris’s favorites—Girls Trip—before the parents got too antsy about our whereabouts. I left it to her to swap the discs while I took a bathroom break. When I returned, what was on the screen was far from funny.
Fuse stood before the TV, pale light flickering over her body. “I switched back to cable while I was waiting for you. This was on the news.”
It was a story about long-missing Adelaide Milton.
5:47 p.m. on a random weekday, and someone was shining a beacon over the airwaves for a kid who went missing years ago. Paris died less than two weeks ago. Who was telling her story?
I mashed the TV’s power button and a cheesing, gap-toothed Adelaide winked out of existence.
Fuse said, “It’s really just us. Isn’t it?”
“Feels that way.”
The movie marathon would have to continue some other day. Neither of us had to say it. We cleaned up our mess, locked the Savant apartment, and in the elevator down to the parking deck, Fuse said, “I might have an idea on how to deal with Paula.”
The counter decreased and dinged through several floors. “Are you going to tell me about it?”
“Probably best if I don’t.”
“Well, this is unexpected. I trust you enough now to let that go.”
“You’re going to make me cry again.”
The ride home was relatively quiet. We didn’t talk, but while I rested my head against the cool window and watched the world zoom by, I hummed a DJ ParSec song.
Someone had to.
Sleep did not come easy after we left the Savant, so I was on the struggle bus at school the next day. I’d downed my second Red Bull by the time final bell rang and considered the third I’d brought along, but Kya looked like a wild-eyed demon when we met in the science hall, so I gave my fix to her. She bucked the can like she was practicing for a college party. Three gulps and the crumpled empty was in the recycling bin, ready.
“Now what?”
But the question required no answer. Shameik rounded the corner, escorting Paula, dressed in one of her casual, trademarked all-white outfits—jeans and a breezy blouse, clutching her plastic water bottle filled with this week’s liquid diet, like I knew she would, like I’d been counting on. Their slaphappy conversation ceased when she spotted Kya and me loitering outside the meeting room.
Never one to let awkward silence be awkward on its own, I said, “Hey, Paula. Nice hat.”
She flinched and reflexively reached for her awful platinum wig. Upon realizing the punking, she said, “Always a pleasure, Fuse.” Motioning to the room where early gatherers murmured, she said, “That your group?”
Shameik nodded with the vigor of a puppy wagging its tail. “Yes, ma’am.”
Pre-vomit rose in back of my throat but settled quickly.
Paula dipped into the room. I jerked my head her way, and Kya only hesitated a moment, eyes bouncing between Shameik and me, before she followed. Leaving us alone. So.
“You’re here,” he said.
“I am.”
“To help?” He took a step closer to me. Leaned in. Spoke low. “I know things got heated when we were texting the other night. I’ve cooled down since then. Thought about this a lot. There’s no reason we can’t … try, Fuse. She’s gone.”
I shuffled backward, fast, like I was hooked to a retracting bungee cord. “That’s all the reason I need, Shameik.”
His gaze darkened, and he threw his hands up, exasperated. “I got a meeting to run.” He brushed past me, his shoulder catching mine.
Oh, no this dude didn’t!
“Hey, everybody,” his voice boomed, the room quieted. “We’re gonna get started because there’s a whole lot to do. This is Paula Klein. She was DJ ParSec’s manager, and she’s got awesome news about the memorial concert. Can you tell them about it, Ms. Klein?”
Shameik slid into an empty desk, eyed me lurking in the doorway. His eyebrows arched, like, you’re still here?
I stepped in, closed the door behind me, and had a seat. The weapon in my bag clanked as I dropped it on the floor.
I had bigger jerks than him to deal with this afternoon.
Fuse still hadn’t explained the when/what of how we’d crack Paula Klein, but she took a desk close to Paula, though she clearly despised her. Civility could be part of the investigation, I guessed.
Paula clasped her hands together. Her bloodred lipstick made her mouth a half-healed gash across her powdered face. “Such a bright, vibrant group of young people. Coming together in the face of tragedy. It gives me great hope for the future.” She sipped from some nasty-looking broth. “This initiative is close to my heart and exemplifies the PK Music Group brand. Our vision, ‘Changing lives through good tunes,’ is not just talk.”
Fuse coughed loudly, drawing death stares from Paula and Shameik. She waved away imaginary particulates. “Something foul in the air. Apologies.”
A hand popped up in the middle of the room. Florian, who’d frantically been taking notes on her laptop, said, “Ms. Klein, would you be open to an interview for my Tumblr after the meeting?”
Paula produced a business card from her back pocket and got the closest student to pass it along. “Today may not be so good. I’ve got appointments into the evening. Email me and we’ll see what we can do.”
Florian grabbed the card greedily. “Thank you.”
“As I was saying …” Most of what she expressed was a dull history of her own musical accomplishments. Her short-lived career as a drummer, signing her first act back in the ’90s, managing groups whose names she said with a showman’s emphasis, expecting gasps of recognition. No one here knew Sonic Spaceship or the West End Dolls—pop groups most representative of her roster’s sound before she found a foothold in urban music. Her droning tested the potency of my Red Bull. We should’ve all gotten credit toward partial completion of a school year by the time Shameik stepped in.
He was smiling, charming, and insistent. “Ms. Klein, I think they’d like to hear the news you shared with me in the email.”
“Yes. Of course. DJ ParSec was more than a beloved artist to me. She was”—dramatic pause—“like a daughter.”
Fuse gripped her desktop with force. That it did not shatter was a testament to its solid construction.
“Shameik made a passionate case regarding my misstep in limiting access to her memorial service. He was right. Her classmates and fans need closure. I made some phone calls. Pulled in some favors. I’m happy to announce that the First Annual DJ ParSec Memorial Jam will take place at the Ocean Shore Amphitheater.”
Excitement crackled through the room. A couple of woot-woots! We weren’t talking a cheesy talent show–level venue. The Amphitheater was where big acts performed summer shows.
“Not only will it be at the Amphitheater, but it’s going to feature performances by local artists like Olivia Merrick …”
Cheers. I knew Olivia from my singing days. She’d released some indie songs and was solid. The group was pleased.
“… Clutch Boyz …”
Skateboarding brothers with a rap-rock kind of flow. A lot of the boys in the room nodded and grunted their approval.
“… Lil’ Redu …”
The reception was lukewarm. Did anybody like that guy’s music, for real?
“… and”—another dramatic pause, this one earned—“Omar Bless!”
Insanity. The room exploded. Omar Bless wasn’t from VA, but that was okay considering he was the heir apparent to monster acts like Kendrick Lamar and Future. Partially on the strength of his DJ ParSec–produced track “Smoke Screen.” The Grammys were over half a year away, and there was already talk of him crushing the awards show next go ’round.
T
his was shaping into something that Paris would’ve been proud of. The room knew it, even if most people here didn’t know her. Making it harder to share their enthusiasm. Paula Klein’s “daughter” had fired her, so why go all out like this?
“It’s happening fast, people, a little over two weeks from now. I’ve taken the liberty of producing radio spots to get the word out, and tickets will hit online vendors Monday morning. By Monday afternoon, I expect all seats filled. With your help spreading the word, of course.”
Florian’s hand went in the air again. “How much will the tickets cost?”
“Varying prices, depending on section.”
A portion of excitement seeped from the room. Some of the people here probably got lunch assistance, so purchasing concert tickets wasn’t realistic.
Paula, reading the disappointment in the room, saved this bit of news for last. “One arrangement I made personally … first five hundred attendees showing a valid Cooke High School ID get through the door free of charge.”
Florian rushed forward and flung herself at Paula with a full embrace. Others joined. A mass of black and brown children hovering around the woman in white like she was the sun. Shameik kept his distance. Fuse and I didn’t leave our desks. Something about this just felt wrong.
Could it be that she might’ve been the one who had created the demand for a memorial concert by killing our friend?
“Everybody, chill.” Shameik forced the group to simmer down, an uncomfortable expression sagging his face. “Give her some air.”
Some remained standing, most returned to their seats. Fuse flicked disgusted looks at me, with one hand buried in the folds of her bag.
Paula continued with a few more logistical things. How we could help spread the word, how early Cooke High students should plan to arrive if they want a crack at the free seats. Her speech was faster, almost urgent. She bounced foot to foot, and Fuse grinned.
Shameik said, “Let’s thank Ms. Paula Klein for dropping in with such fantastic news, everybody.”
Paula accepted the ovation like a veteran performer, kissed Shameik’s cheek, then left. Fuse mouthed, See you in a bit. And pursued.
