Spin

by Lamar Giles

  Cupping my face in my hands, with the AC blowing full blast, I still felt too hot and flustered. Information overload.

  I tried to make sense of it. What I saw was too specific to be pure coincidence. Also too crazy to be what I thought it was.

  Kya fell into the passenger’s seat, bug-eyed. “What happened in there?”

  “I’ve seen that Fugees shirt before, Kya.”

  “What’s a Fugee?”

  Her ignorance jarred me from my panicked state momentarily. “Seriously, you know all that old R&B but not the Fugees? Lauryn Hill?”

  “If they didn’t make a song I had to sing in a talent show, why would I? Why, do you?”

  Mostly, it was from Dad’s History of Hip-Hop lessons. But I’d been reminded of the group more recently. “Winston Bell wore that exact same shirt the day of ParSec’s memorial service. The. Same. Shirt.”

  Kya opened her mouth. Closed it again. Sat with it a few seconds, and I waited for her rational explanation to counter my irrational one. All she said was “No.”

  “No what?” Tell me what I’m missing here, Kya. Tell me I’m wrong. Please.

  “It’s a T-shirt. A lot of people could have it. What if it’s one of those retro shirts they sell at Hot Topic in the mall?”

  “That specific? That obscure?”

  “Fuse—what you’re suggesting …”

  “The thing is I haven’t suggested it yet. But you’re thinking it too, aren’t you? Why would Winston fake being a reporter to get close to her? What was in it for him?”

  “I just assumed he saw a meal ticket. Like Paula.”

  “Could be. Could be more personal. Much more.”

  She finger-combed her hair, stared back at Miss Elsie’s like she’d left something there. Perhaps sanity. Sanity was definitely missing in this car, at this moment. “It can’t be,” she said, slightly above a whisper.

  It needed to be voiced, and considered. One of us had to stop dancing around it. As horrible as the possibility was.

  I said, “I think Winston might be her dad.”

  My new condo was on a high floor. Movers brought my stuff up while a maintenance man fixed my leaky showerhead. He packed up his tools and mentioned if I’d gone for a higher floor, I’d see the ocean. “There’s always more, if you can get it.”

  Missing that view—and the extra rent it would’ve cost me—wasn’t a huge loss. I wouldn’t be here much anyway. The press team at VenueShowZ planned to announce our partnership next week, and to celebrate they sent me a bunch of promotional crap as a welcome present. (I think they were probably just cleaning out a storage closet, but whatever.) After that, it’s “Hurricane ParSec.” I’ll be all over. New York, Chicago, Denver, LA. Then Europe and Asia. All while recording and working with other artists. Someone on the booking team—Megan or Michelle, I couldn’t remember her name—said a lot of people were excited. I should’ve been one of them, right?

  Inside, I cast a cold gaze over all my luxury living. I shut the balcony door behind me, stepped into my kitchen for water, and saw my reflection, fuzzy and warped, in my refrigerator door. There was only a half-full gallon jug of spring water in it, a pack of chicken (close to the expiration date), broccoli, and an orange. I drank from the jug because I didn’t have cups and sat my one skillet on the range, heating it for the meat.

  My chicken seared, and I checked my feeds. I’d dropped a new track overnight, my last chance to do so before the VenueShowZ release team began dictating when, where, and how my music got distributed. The response was … not what I wanted.

  What Are THOSE?! @SneakerHead1213

  This track feels rushed.

  #ParSecNation

  I Got Bars for Days @RhymeFam52

  It’s fire. You just need to listen a few times to absorb it. #ParSecNation

  Diva Life @TonaeBanks15

  Feels amateur. None of the layers of her usual work. #ParSecNation

  Sherry Is on Hiatus @SherBear227

  Y’all crazy. This is dope. True music fans would get it. #ParSecNation

  Wakanda’s Best Barber @CutMaster98

  IDK. Something’s changed.

  #ParSecNation

  That last comment, it lingered. Something’s changed. Look around, Paris, what hasn’t?

  There were more posts of course. Praise, harsh critiques, and straight-up trolls. More than a few DMs. One in particular stood out.

  Fuse Is Getting Her Life Together @FuseZilla14

  Love the new track. Playing on repeat right now. You haven’t blocked me on here yet, so I know you’re at least getting these messages. That being said, STOP SLACKING ON YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA POSTS! Fans like an engaged artist.

  Hope you’re doing okay, even if you’re still mad at me.

  #ParSecNation #Forever

  This chick got some nerve. She always had. Couldn’t help but laugh a little.

  I’d seen the other DMs. A strangely Fuse-appropriate mix of apologies, ALL CAPS YELLING, and unsolicited advice. She was right, I hadn’t blocked her on Twitter. Why hadn’t I blocked her?

  A scorched whiff tickled my nose. I ran to the smoky pan, flipped the chicken too late. One side was black-burnt, inedible. I deactivated my stove and dumped the whole messy overcooked chicken and its bloody pink packet in the garbage, along with the broccoli. Dinner was ruined, but I had an idea.

  A pop-up party. Unsanctioned, unannounced until the last minute. Like a good engaged artist.

  There was a warehouse Fuse had found, like, a year ago. It could work. Just my turntables, my laptop, a mic, and some speakers. Stuff I could fit in my new ride, to bring this all full circle. Closure.

  Monday I would be on an early flight to New York. Winston said VenueShowZ wanted to give me that NBA free agent treatment. Packed conference room, customized presentation on a big screen, all the important people there.

  There were still important people here too. Very little time to make things right with them. I’d felt it more than ever over the last few weeks. When the deals were coming together, and I saw dollar figures bigger than what really made sense for folks from where I’m from. There were holes—people-shaped holes—in me, in the world, that the money and corporate promises couldn’t fill.

  I missed my friends. My family.

  Fuse, in spite of our fight. She was wrong for keeping whatever happened between her and Shameik from me, but the further we got from it, the more I understood she was scared. She LET ME KNOW IN SEVERAL DMs.

  I hadn’t loved Shameik. Really, he got on my dag-gone nerves and I barely thought of him after we broke up. Why be mad over their barely-a-kiss? Even if more than a kiss happened, so what.

  Time told me I could get over Fuse messing up. It’s not like I’m above dumping all over a friend in the heat of a misunderstanding.

  Just ask Kya.

  The things I said to her. Sure, she gave as good as she got. Stealing our music had me salty for a minute. But Kya was meek. Grandma always said so. She only clapped back when cornered. I’d forced her hand because … what? She’d called me out on how I was tripping? Letting this fast life get away from me?

  I could fix things with Kya, though. With all of them. Before I go.

  Flinging myself on the couch, phone in a two-handed grip, I sent separate texts to Kya and Fuse—I didn’t even want to think about getting those two together on a group text, the phones might melt.

  Kept it simple. Told them to meet me tomorrow, an hour before my pop-up. It was time to squash the bad vibes between us. On Sunday, I’d go by Grandma’s. Do church with her. Dinner. Maybe just stay the night and have the car to the airport pick me up from there Monday.

  In the middle of my spontaneous planning, I got a text.

  WINSTON

  I hope you’re all settled. Can I swing by? Some important things to discuss before we start the new adventure. Long overdue.

  ME

  Not tonight. Pretty tired.

  White lie. As my new manager, he wouldn’t approve o
f my impromptu party. He probably wouldn’t approve of my plan to meet with my old friends either. Totally my fault. I’d only shared the bad and the ugly with him, so that’s all he knew about them.

  Besides, he’d been keeping a secret from me—one that bugged me a lot, if I was being honest—so I didn’t feel much guilt about playing this close.

  WINSTON

  Look, it won’t take long.

  ME

  We’ll be together 24/7 come Monday. Can I please get a little sleep before things get crazy?

  WINSTON

  Fine. Call me in the morning when you’re up. I’d like to have a chat before we fly. It’ll be worth it.

  ME

  K, bye.

  Sorry, Winston. You’ll be talking my ears off about business details when next week hits. I wanted one last weekend just for me. We’d get to whatever he had to say.

  We had all the time in the world.

  It was exciting to be excited, something I hadn’t felt in a minute. Anxiety. Pressure. Frustration. All of those sensations had been present and accounted for during most of the last year, but this pop-up had me amped. My going-away party.

  I’d slept little that night, so the day of the party there were plenty of nerves over Kya and Fuse, I can’t lie. Like, I made peace with it maybe not going well, but I had to try before I left. They’d both agreed to meet before the party, though—a good sign. I’d dropped the particulars of the event into the ParSec Nation forums, so even if we didn’t end in a great place, I’d be too busy spinning for my extended music family to dwell on it.

  The warehouse we’d be partying in used to store raw metal and engine parts for navy ships. Fuse explained it to me when she first scouted the place months ago. An anchor insignia was faintly visible on the wall opposite where I’d be setting up. I stared at it a long time when I got there. The only sign anything had ever filled this wide empty space.

  A chill ran through me, but I shook it off. Got my equipment arranged.

  I’d finished setup. My turntables were ready. The LCD displays glowed aqua blue. My laptop rested on its stand, playlists galore at my disposal, a fire Metro Boomin track played low through my headphones, making the EQ levels jump. Found myself staring at that anchor again when my first guest arrived way early.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Winston crossed what would become a dance floor in a little under two hours, smiling but not happy. I knew him well enough by now. “I expected to hear from you today, but I see you’re busy.”

  Busted. “I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

  “You gotta stop doing free shows,” he said. The aggravation in his voice was slight, but there.

  “This the last one. You’re still going to get your fifteen percent on everything else I do.” It came out a little slicker than I intended, and got slicker still. “Plus your finder’s fee.”

  I wanted him to know I knew.

  His neck snapped, swung his dreads like whiplash. “Who told you about a finder’s fee?”

  “Someone on the contracts team. Their name is only important if it’s not true.”

  He smirked, tried to make it a small thing. “There was a finder’s fee involved for local artists I sent their way. Once I made the acquisitions team aware that Paula Klein wasn’t serving her clients properly, there was a certain amount of in-house gratitude.”

  My heart dropped like a broken elevator in a short building. Winston getting a percentage for connecting me with VenueShowZ wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It just felt that way. More self-serving secrets, and I was about to go on the road with this man.

  He stepped onto the dais with me, grabbed my shoulders, and wouldn’t let me pull away. “I never took a finder’s fee for you. They offered, but I turned it down.”

  “You turned it down?” That was unexpected. “Why would you do that? I think you should’ve told me, but that was money you’re entitled to.” There were no favors in this business. If I’d learned nothing else over the last two years, it was that. Everyone wanted their cut, now or later.

  “Partly because I’ll make that cash back as your road manager. Mostly because some things you don’t take money for. Me finding you is one of them. I should be paying somebody.”

  He said it like I would understand. Like it was obvious. We played a waiting game, and I won.

  “This was something I’d hoped to speak with you about last night, let you get right with it before we got on the road.”

  “Get right? What you mean, Winston?”

  “That, for one. Winston ain’t the name I grew up using. See, I used to make music like you, and my given name wasn’t a sexy stage name. I was born Onell Davis, in Richmond.”

  “You’re from Virginia.”

  “Right.”

  Where was he going with this? “You were Onell, but took the stage name Winston?”

  He pushed his palm toward me, like he was shoving words back in my mouth. Irritated at my interruptions it seemed. “Not exactly, let me get to it! My stage name was Pickk, with two k’s. I played guitar. We recorded some, traveled more. Never broke through, though. You’re lucky and don’t know half of that luck you were born with.”

  I stepped back. He didn’t like my interrupting, so I didn’t. But I didn’t like how weird this felt.

  He stepped closer. “Winston Bell is new. Been going by that a little over a year.”

  As long as I’d known him. From the time he stepped in the studio, flashing his MIXX magazine covers, talking about the famous people he knew.

  “Don’t look like that,” he said. “I see you getting nervous.”

  Not nervous. Scared. “Hurry up and say what you got to say.”

  “About a year and a half ago, I was in Vegas, at the lowest I ever been. Down to my last hundred dollars in this big fancy casino. Dice in hand, a roll away from losing that too. All of a sudden this fight breaks. Craziest thing I ever seen. There were teenagers, and bikers, and someone throwing a big animal head, the kind people in mascot costumes wear. I don’t know, that’s just Vegas, I suppose. Everybody gets escorted off the casino floor when the police arrive.

  “So I cash out my hundred-dollar chip, hit a buffet, and do what I normally do—look for music on my phone. I go to SoundCloud, and guess what their algorithm spits at me? Your song. I listen because it’s catchy, and I click your profile because I’m impressed. When I saw your last name was Secord, and where you were from, it was a sign. You get what I’m saying?”

  “No, I don’t. Why don’t you just say it, then?” Though, everything in my body screamed I didn’t want to know. Not really.

  “You’re my little girl,” he confessed finally. “You’re named Paris because of me.”

  I might not have believed him if not for that last part. How many times had I heard that I was the Paris my mama got, not the one she was promised.

  I didn’t cry, never have. Instead, I got mad. “Get away from me!” Slapped him, and he stumbled off the dais, rolled his ankle, collapsed. Maybe he was telling the truth, because the anger that flared behind his eyes was like looking in a mirror.

  He massaged his cheek. “You’re right to be upset, I expected some of that. Don’t hit me again, though. That’s not proper.”

  “You’ve been gone my whole life? I’ve never been to Vegas. Where else did you go when you weren’t reminded of me by SoundCloud?”

  “Never said I was a perfect man.”

  “Perfect? You’re barely a distorted bootleg of a man, Onell.”

  He climbed back on the dais, his pointer finger poked the air shy of my nose. “Watch it. Be mad, but show some respect. Don’t matter how long I’ve been gone, I’m still your—”

  I kicked him in the thigh the way Shameik showed me when he wanted his monthlong YMCA self-defense class to seem like kung fu monk training. The connect was meaty and reverberated to my hip, throwing me off balance into my turntables. The loosely secured mic fell off its stand onto my mixer.

  He winched, curse
d, hopped backward on his good leg. Whatever patience and wishful thinking he’d stored for this confession was no longer present. Onell, my father, looked like he wanted to—

  We were alone. In a warehouse far off a main road. No one would be here anytime soon. He came closer, playing peaceful. “Paris, you’re not thinking. Take a breath and—”

  I swung the mic stand at him like a club, tried to knock him over with the weighted base. He jerked back like a bad dance move, and I missed. It was an overswing, spinning me with it, until I was off balance, and he snagged me by the waist.

  “Stop it, Paris! I’m ordering you to stop.”

  Who was he to order anything? I had no memory of this man in my life, he’d done nothing when my mother was in the hospital in so much pain she didn’t want to be hugged, or even touched. Never helped when I was sick, or hungry, or scared from bad dreams. Had Grandma comparing me to Jesus just to make me feel better. “Not even the Lord saw his father in this world.”

  His forearm grazed my chin, and I bit into his denim jacket sleeve. There were layers between my teeth and his flesh, didn’t matter. I bit down with all the force in my jaws. He howled, tried to fling me off. He succeeded.

  I twirled from his arms like a dancer, spinning, my head low. The stand my laptop sat on was made of heavy aluminum so it wouldn’t vibrate or fall in a crowded party. The corners were sharp.

  My temple connected with all the force generated from me and Onell’s combined pain.

  A solid thunk, then my legs wouldn’t work.

  I lay on my board, and one of my limp arms fell, knocking my headphone jack loose. My playlist thumped through the speakers, echoing throughout the warehouse. My face was wet. But, how?

  “Paris!” Onell yelled from far away. “It was an accident, girl. Get up!”

  Didn’t want to. This music was too good. A rest might be better.

  “Paris! Paris! Baby, I’m sorry.”

  This might be better.

  This might be

  This might

  This

  It was full dark, no stars. City lights sprinkled the view from Paris’s balcony like glitter, a sight that would’ve been pretty even a day ago. Now it was pinpricks of light in an ugly stain. Everything was.