Spin: List 1

Yet, I wanted to state, unequivocally, that I was not the murderer here.

Through my damp shirt, I clutched the oblong charm that dangled from a nylon necklace and rested against my chest.

She was as tall as the superhero cop, but gangly, too loose.

Dad’s head whipped toward Barker, who cut off his next tirade with a wait-a-minute finger.

Mama’s anger became formidable over small, private inconveniences.

An ominous static line swept over my user interface, bottom to top, some ghost in the machine trying to squeegee away my work.

Nothing happened. Except more static. More signs of an impending crash.

All that care and attention to detail gave me palpitations because she wasn’t caring for the details of my whole day’s work.

Aside from my consent on the school thing, there were other items missing from the lingering Parental Kombat match—at least the parts I remembered when I wasn’t crying hysterically:
1. Any sort of reconciliation around my best friend being brutally killed

From the time I saw the first glut of comments, to the time Dad got home with a grocery-store rotisserie chicken and sides from the deli, I scrolled and read and—despite apprehension churning in the pit of my stomach—responded.

From the time I saw the first glut of comments, to the time Dad got home with a grocery-store rotisserie chicken and sides from the deli, I scrolled and read and—despite apprehension churning in the pit of my stomach—responded.

The likes, retweets, and replies came fast and furious, a significant uptick after every painstakingly slow browser refresh.

Kya Caine didn’t appear to have a Twitter account—which was, I don’t know, quaint.

I went full thousand-yard stare during the truncated eulogy, as if the topic was the Magna Carta or frog dissections.

I went full thousand-yard stare during the truncated eulogy, as if the topic was the Magna Carta or frog dissections.

A tribute Tumblr—ParSec Love—started by a sophomore girl, typically known for her other salacious Cooke High gossip pages, who was quick enough and slick enough to become the top tribute page for the grieving, both domestic and abroad, gaining her valuable, valuable upperclassmen cred.

So I didn’t get ordering info on the airbrushed RIP tees featuring a distorted rendering of Paris’s face in soft strokes that made her look more angelic than she would’ve liked, or the black DJ ParSec armbands.

A sudden quick release had me reeling back, colliding with one of the complicit witnesses, a beefy girl rocking a DJ ParSec memorial band on her bicep.

I found the character limit silly and arbitrary.

More than a few of them wore some sort of DJ ParSec paraphernalia.

This was in stark contrast to Dad’s custom suits, hundred-dollar ties always cinched in huge knots, with gold and jeweled embellished cufflinks, tie tacks, and such.

I half expected Dad to pull a crazy disrespectful boss move and sit on the wrong side of the desk, in Corgis’s leather ergonomic chair.

“She hung with hoodlums. Some of them go here. So-called ‘rappers’”—the diamonds in his platinum wedding band glimmered as he made air quotes—“who really only write barely coherent poems about violence and debauchery. Under your roof. I’ve heard the school even encourages their activities.”

Dad’s head tilted, shrewd. “So sanctioned by you?”

Pointless arguments made with zeal were still pointless, as Mom would say.

By the time Dad and Corgis settled on the arrangements, we were well into second period, and Dad complained about how he was late too. The difference being, when he strolled into his office, it would be with zero scrutiny.

His various indentured marketing nerds would probably be scared to look away from their displays.

I somehow managed to superimpose another word in place of the catchphrase.

My analytical mind kicked in, the same way I organized to-do lists to maintain maximum efficiency day to day, the way I drew meticulous flowcharts before diving into any kind of coding or design project, the way I picked my clothes in the morning, factoring in outdoor temperature with the patterns of the school’s erratic HVAC system.

My analytical mind kicked in, the same way I organized to-do lists to maintain maximum efficiency day to day, the way I drew meticulous flowcharts before diving into any kind of coding or design project, the way I picked my clothes in the morning, factoring in outdoor temperature with the patterns of the school’s erratic HVAC system.

We were to meet after school in the empty cafeteria, at the very table where she now spent lunch periods schmoozing with the cliquiest of cliques.

She’d paired it with a denim skirt, pink heels, and a psychedelic neckerchief accenting everything.

Half of me wanted to push away from the table and run from the school. The other half remembered what this long day had been like. Stares, and whispers, and low-key threats. No invisibility, no matter how much I wanted it. Because of Fuse’s insinuations.

Kya returned to the SoundCloud window, her cursor hovered over the heart icon, which had a count of six thousand plus, then she moused through the incremental in-the-moment comments like: FIRE! and BANGER! and THEM DRUMS THOUGH!

“Don’t be thin-skinned. The music is fine. People aren’t as hype about the feature. You should keep that in mind for whatever you do next."

Nothing in my inbox was as overtly ugly as the public jabs and private messages popping hourly on all of my social media.

The worst emails, the ones I lingered on, were personal. The nastiness camouflaged in niceties and professionalism.

To be…ousted! By someone like Paula Kryptkeeper! It twisted my guts like spaghetti on a fork.

In lieu of flowers for @DJParSec’s memorial service, please consider donating to one of DJ ParSec’s favorite charities (see links in replies below).

I went online and put out discreet feelers about the memorial service in some well-known #ParSecNation subreddits.