The Truth Commission (7 page)

Winner of the Title of Biggest Disappointment Who Ever Lived

Dusk and Neil started in on me as soon as I picked them up the next day. My friends like to go to school in my truck, which, as I think I mentioned, is not one of your newer vehicles. Nancy is a 1970 Dodge Power Wagon with a paint job that demonstrates how badly red can fade in the sun. She's got some rust and a tendency to flood and to overheat. But she's also got character.

Dusk and Neil are both way wealthier than me, and they have late-model, reliable cars given to them by their parents. But a three-year-old Honda Civic (Dusk) and a brand-new Mazda something-or-other (Neil) doesn't have the cachet of a Nancy, who, after all, was formerly owned by the one and only Keira Pale.

“This truck makes me feel like Neil Young,” said Neil when he pulled himself up onto the bench seat.

“It makes me feel like Fiona Apple,” said Dusk, who actually does have a bit of an Apple-ish haunted-waif quality to her, but not as much as my sister.

“She needs some work,” I said.

“Oh, Norm. Let her be. She's getting to be a local broken-down-on-the-side-of-the-road attraction,” said Dusk.

“I have been keeping track of our breakdowns,” said Neil, shooting a cuff under his distinctly un-Neil-Youngish light blue Dacron suit. “We have broken down at every main intersection. Next, I'd like to see us stall out on every major artery.”

I pulled into the turning lane heading off Uplands Drive onto Rutherford, and as we slowed, Nancy hesitated. I revved her engine and kept my foot on the brake. Five months has made me a skilled and resourceful driver, at least according to me. I'm much better than those people who just assume their vehicles will accelerate when they hit the gas.

The engine roared, and in the rearview I saw white smoke pour out of the exhaust. The driver behind us frantically waved a hand in front of her face and leaned over to adjust her car's air intake.

“Go, go,
go
!” chanted Neil and Dusk as we crept into the intersection to make our left-hand turn.

Nancy obliged like an exhausted and overburdened cart horse in a Dickens novel.

“None of us should have kids,” said Dusk. “It's the only way to atone for the air pollution produced by this truck.”

“Fine with me,” said Neil. “I hate the way kids want all the attention. It's like I'm not even there when there's a baby in the room.”

I concentrated on my driving, but as we crawled toward the school, Nancy slowed down. I'd misjudged the gas going through the intersection. She was flooding.

“Damn,” I said as Nancy's engine coughed, and we sputtered to a halt. I eased her over to the side of the road. We were nearly at school. “Folks, we'll be here for about five minutes. Talk amongst yourselves.”

Neil and Dusk both pulled out their candy cigarette packs and removed candy smokes. Neil, who sat between us, handed me one.

“So, Norm. You ready?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, agreeable but entirely clued out.

“So who's it going to be?” asked Dusk.

I found myself wishing I had a real cigarette. Then I could blow a meditative smoke ring or contemplate one of the horrific medical warnings on the package.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought you were talking about the essay on the history of poetics. I've got mine ready to go.”

“We're not talking about schoolwork,” said Dusk. “To discuss schoolwork voluntarily would violate the agreement I have with my parents that I will be the biggest disappointment who ever lived.”

Neil nodded sagely.

Dusk's battles with her family are ongoing. She comes from what she refers to as a two-Tiger family: physician parents—Mother a Korean-Canadian neurosurgeon! Father a Jewish-Canadian emergency room specialist!; a brother in his early twenties already halfway through med school; and a younger brother at age eleven headed along the same steep and well-lighted path. Dusk says that her parents find her used- (and not by anyone with taste) clothing aesthetic baffling. They find her low-B average upsetting and her interest in things artistic disconcerting and impractical. They find her friends off-putting, but before we came along, Dusk didn't have any friends. She had only her looks and her acid remarks to keep her company. So they haven't banished us, even though we are overtly unaccomplished in their eyes. At least I have a famous sister, and Neil's dad has a lot of money.

“I believe she's referring to the Truth Commission,” said Neil. “We don't want to keep all this goodness for ourselves. Seriously, Norm. You won't believe how it feels to cut through the bullshit. To go right to the heart of the matter.”

“It's exhilarating,” said Dusk. “And I don't even
get
exhilarated.”

“I'm still thinking.” I checked my watch. In two more minutes Nancy would be ready to go, at least long enough to stall in the school parking lot where she belonged.

“You're a retiring person. We understand that. But I think”—Neil corrected himself—“
we
think that this will be good for your confidence.”

They'd been discussing my confidence? Since when was my confidence any worse than theirs? I suppose their concern might have been based on Volume 2 of the Diana Chronicles, the one that shows Flanders having tragically ill-attended eighth birthday parties in two universes. This episode was closely modeled on my own eighth birthday party, which was not, shall we say, a huge success, thanks to some kids spreading a rumor about me misusing another kid's underpants. I will say no more.
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I'm not sure whether Dusk and Neil have read the Chronicles. Out of respect for me they don't really talk about them, but occasionally they let something slip that suggests they are familiar with my other life as a semi-fictional character.

God, I hate it when people talk about me. Or look at me.

“We've even come up with the perfect person for you to ask,” said Dusk.

“Because we care,” said Neil. He flipped the candy cigarette into his mouth and began to chew.

“Tyler Jones,” said Dusk.

That was all they needed to say.

Tyler Jones is a gifted sculptor who works in stone and metal. He's tall, muscular, and has that sculptor-y bass voice and a half-asleep demeanor that makes toes tingle. He also has awesome dreads and listens to underground hip-hop mixes and electronic dance tracks that his brother sends him from Baltimore, which gives him instant credibility in Nanaimo. He's also one of only six black kids in a school that wishes it was more diverse.

Everyone at school wonders whether he is gay for the following reason: he has no girlfriend, in spite of the fact that every straight girl in school has thrown herself in front of him like an insurance scammer in a Walmart parking lot.

If Tyler Jones turns out to be a gorgeous gay sculptor, it will be a credit to the whole G. P. Academy and a disappointment to all the females (including terrifying Mrs. Dekker) who stare longingly after him when he walks languidly down the hallway. But he's not saying one way or another.

“You're not serious,” I said.

“Of course we're serious. He's probably just waiting for someone to ask.”

“He probably wants to bring his boyfriend to prom,” added Neil. “The right question at the right time will open the door.”

“Can you imagine what kind of guy Tyler goes out with?” said Dusk. “I bet he's ridiculously gorgeous.
Too
hot, even.”

“Maybe he just goes out with a regular guy who's nice and funny,” said Neil.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “That would be even cooler. Thinking about it makes me wish I was a regular-looking but smart and funny gay guy.”

“Me too,” said Neil cheerfully. Neil may the straightest, most girl-focused guy imaginable, but he's not afraid to acknowledge that dash of gay that makes life fun.

I looked at my friends. “In case you haven't noticed, Tyler Jones is the most together guy in our school and maybe on Vancouver Island. He's extremely self-possessed. He doesn't need me to ask him anything. People get to make their own schedules for things like coming out.”

“That's where you're wrong,” said Dusk. “Everyone assumes that because Tyler is so handsome and talented and quietly confident and everything, he doesn't need to be nurtured.
Everyone
needs to be nurtured and encouraged.”

“Asking people their private business isn't nurturing them.”

“I think it is,” said Dusk. “It shows you care.” She pointed her index and middle finger at her own eyes and then at mine. “‘I see you.' That's what we're saying to people with the Truth Commission.”

“He's too cool,” I said. “I can't do it. I can't even look at him.”

“Oh, Normandy. Don't be so easily intimidated,” said Dusk.

Easy for her to say. She was the only person at school in Tyler Jones's league, looks-wise.

“You're part of this thing, Norm. We just don't want you to miss what is turning out to be one of the most valuable life experiences we might ever have,” said Neil.

I turned the key. Nancy's engine whirred, coughed. She backfired a couple of times, causing a startled deer to burst out of the trees and bound across the road in two gravity-defying leaps. It narrowly avoided being hit by a car coming the other way. The north end of town is lousy with deer, thanks to all the new subdivisions.

I pulled the truck back onto the road. When I flipped on the turn signal to go right, Neil couldn't stand the suspense anymore.

“So?” he asked. “Are you going to do it?”

We rolled into the gravel parking lot, which merged beautifully with the xeriscaped grounds of Academy.
42
Art kids loitered everywhere, many of them looking vaguely French.
43

“I'm not ready,” I said, staring at three hipsters singing an a cappella version of Public Enemy's “He Got Game” near the front doors.

“Fine,” said Dusk. “We'll do it. By which I mean Neil will do it. Then I'll do another one. You'll see how important this work is and be ready to join us.”

Neil put a hand on my shoulder. He mimicked Dusk's finger-eye thing. “The truth, Norm. Powerful.”

“Set you free,” added Dusk.

Game of Benches

As we hung out in the vicinity of Tyler Jones, I felt a strong desire to disappear. Or to pull out my embroidery and go sit in a tucked-away place to work on it. My friends didn't share my reluctance to sneak around.

“I think I might have a talent for this,” said Neil.

“Lurking?” I said.

“Please. That's such a harsh word. I mean blending in. Going unnoticed while remaining extremely observant. I feel like a character from
Dune
.”

“One of those big sandworms maybe?” said Dusk.

“Please don't start speaking in convoluted riddles, the way you did when you were reading those books,” I said.

“If you would read the series, too, you would be aware that I was doing an uncannily accurate impression of a Mentat. A human supercomputer, if you will, able to think and feel in multiple dimensions. My ability to—”

“There he is,” said Dusk before Neil could go full-Mentat on us.

We turned and watched Tyler Jones walk out of Pod 3, where he was working on his Senior Year Major Project. In grade eleven, every student at G. P. does a Spring Special Project.
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In grade twelve, the Major Project runs the full school year and forms the basis of your graduating portfolio.

Tyler Jones was one of the few students who got his own studio pod. There are twelve small studios and three large spaces arranged in a sort of honeycomb in the Fine Art Hall, which is essentially a dome, because our Founding Farmer was a big fan of Buckminster Fuller, the theorist and designer who was popular with hippies and radicals and people who had a thing for domes. Most of the students—painters, sculptors, potters, etc.—share space and work on their major projects in shifts. Tyler's year-end sculpture was deemed so outstanding, so groundbreaking, that no one, including janitorial staff, was allowed into his pod.

Naturally, the rest of us would have run over Joss Whedon
45
to get a look at what Tyler was doing in there.

When Tyler emerged from Pod 3, he looked like he always does—distracted and handsome with a double helping of hot-artist sauce. At risk of sounding pervy, I will describe him. About six feet tall, broad-shouldered, loose jeans hanging just so from narrow hips, denim work shirt, hair tied back with a random piece of twine.

“Damn,” whispered Dusk.

Neil and I nodded mutely while we watched Tyler lock up his studio.

“You can't do this,” I said as the three of us sat, turned to stone by the perfection of Tyler Jones.

“That's just your fear talking,” said Neil. His voice was slightly strangled, and I could tell he no longer felt so nonchalant.

“But you hate labels,” I said.

Neil ignored me. In truth, Neil quite likes labels, as long as they are interesting to him. He has a strong preference for 1970s brands and culture, and has been known to point out the signature buttons on his vintage Halston blazer.

We were sitting on a handmade bench in the round atrium between the studios. The ceiling was made of glass panels, and the space was brilliant from the sun blazing directly overhead.

“Okay,” said Neil. He got to his feet, shot his cuffs, and straightened the permanent polyester crease in his dress pants. Then he was up and walking his light-blue-suited self toward Tyler Jones.

As Neil approached, Tyler gave him a little jerk of the chin by way of greeting. It's a gesture predicated on the notion that people are paying such close attention that even one's smallest movement will be noticed.

“Hi, Tyler,” said Neil. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

I wanted to shout “Stop!” This was completely different from Aimee, who'd obviously been dying to tell someone about her operations. This was different from Mrs. Dekker, whose issues were acute. Tyler Jones had a delicious mystery about him. He should be allowed to remain a private person.

He looked at Neil and smiled, and I felt myself sag onto the bench, which was made of concrete and had an assortment of old silverware and utensils such as spatulas and wire whisks sticking out the back and sides. The title
Game of Benches
was hand-carved into the seat. Art school humor.

Tyler Jones was DEFCON 4 on the charisma scale. Maybe the reason he didn't seem to hook up with anyone, female or male, was because his sexual magnetism was so strong, he'd kill the person. Maybe it was an artistic genius thing. My sister has never really dated, as far as I know. All her energy goes into creating the Chronicles.

Dusk, who was apparently thinking something similar, whispered, “Wow,” over and over again.

Neil pulled his sunglasses from their resting place on his head and put them on, perhaps to dim the effect of Tyler's gorgeousness. “I want to ask you a private question.”

Tyler's smile faded. I thought I saw dismay flit across his face, but that might have been projection on my part.

“Okay,” he said.

Then Neil ushered him into an unoccupied studio, and Dusk and I were left on the bench to wonder.

We were silent for at least two minutes. That's one of the great things about Dusk. She knows how to be quiet. In fact, she's one of my favorite people to be quiet with. I feel closer to her when we're not talking than when we are.

I spoke first. “I hope they're okay in there.”

“They'll be fine.”

“Yeah,” I said. As I spoke, I realized that I hoped that Tyler Jones would tell Neil to mind his own business. Then maybe all this Truth Commissioning would just go away.

But Neil and Tyler had been in the studio for too long. They were obviously talking about something.

“Do you know why people overshare online?” asked Dusk, surprising me.

“Because they're attention whores?” I said.

“Because they want people to know them. To know the truth about them.”

“Isn't it enough that we know the truth about ourselves?” I asked. But as I spoke, I realized that I
didn't
really know myself, never mind the people in my life.

“I think we learn the truth about ourselves by telling it to someone else,” said Dusk.

That observation was followed by another five minutes of silence. During that time, it came to me that I should find out more about my sister's story. She'd gotten involved with a teacher. That was bad. But was there something else going on?

Tyler Jones and Neil stayed in the empty studio for another ten minutes. In those minutes, I made a plan. I would find out more about what happened to Keira at school. Just in case . . . just in case what? I had no idea. Even if I found out her teacher was sleeping with every girl in his classes, my sister had sworn me to secrecy.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I was only half paying attention when Neil emerged from the studio.

Dusk and I stood and watched him come.

Tyler Jones followed him out, looking thoughtful. Not worried or angry. Just thoughtful. He chin-nodded us and left the atrium.

“Well?” said Dusk, rubbing her hands together, visions of dating opportunities with the possibly heterosexual Tyler Jones dancing in her head.

“He said it was a fascinating question. He appreciates us being interested. He's going to give the matter some thought.”

“That's it?” said Dusk. “Ten minutes to get three sentences?”

“I feel lucky that he didn't punch me in the face. He's a big guy. I think he works out. And the minute I asked him, I realized that the question was . . .”

“Inappropriate?” I offered.

“Brave,” said Dusk.

“He's going to get back to me.”

“It's much more satisfying when they just answer our questions,” muttered Dusk.

“He will. He just needs to think about it.”

I saw a flash of orange and red out of the corner of my eye.

“Hi!” Dusk offered Mrs. Dekker a sunny and open smile.

“You kids get to class,” rasped Mrs. Dekker in a voice that sounded like the result of a back-alley tracheotomy.

Dusk recoiled. I could see that she wanted to say something, but Neil grabbed her by the leather-patched elbow of her old tweed jacket.

Mrs. Dekker, as unfriendly and unpleasant as ever, flapped out of the atrium, and we retreated to our respective classes.

“I don't get it,” muttered Dusk. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“Maybe something happened to one of her ostriches,” I said.