The Truth Commission

by Susan Juby

  “Set you free,” added Dusk.

  Monday, September 17

  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.44 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 Whedon45 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 ou
t 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.

  Pale Investigations

  By the time I got home, I’d decided that since I was initiating a Pale Family Truth Commission comprised of me, myself, and I, the first order of business was to speak to Keira’s friends. Maybe they knew something about her teacher. Of course, first I had to figure out whether she had any friends.

  My sister has always been too consumed by her art to really nurture friendships. Still, everyone at the Art Farm paid attention to her, just like all the kids at camp had. At G. P. she mostly hung out with a girl named Constance, who went off to the Ontario College of Art and Design to study Industrial Design. Constance was one of those people who don’t mind doing most of the work in a relationship. If I ever get married, I hope my first husband is like Constance.

  I assumed things had been different at CIAD. I’d seen the website: tiny class sizes, low student-teacher ratios, acclaimed yet engaged professors. In addition to the Chronicles, Keira had submitted a superstar portfolio, and there’s no way she’d have gone unnoticed by her peers. Even if she hadn’t made any close friends, she must have had acquaintances. Someone must know something.

  Unfortunately, the school had a privacy policy.

  Enter Facebook: Slayer of all privacy policies!

  It took me about three seconds to find a Facebook group for students taking the undergraduate animation program at CIAD. The program has a reputation for being harder to get into than Harvard or Yale, and being more expensive.

  I switched my profile photo to one in which I was wearing an ironic chapeau. From what I could see in their profile pictures, the heads of CIAD students were festooned with berets, trucker hats, deerstalkers. To be honest, I briefly considered using a photo of Dusk and me together, in the hope that I’d be mistaken for her. Studies have confirmed that beautiful people get special treatment, and I needed some.

  I sent a Facebook message to one Roberta Brown Heller II because, despite the regnal number after her name, she had a friendly, freckled face.

  Hi. My name is Normandy Pale.

  I think you went to school with my sister, Keira. We are planning a surprise party for her and wanted to ask a couple of questions about her time at CIAD. On the Q.T.

  Thanks,

  Normandy

  The message would go into that “Other” message box that Facebook helpfully makes invisible, so I hoped that Roberta Brown Heller II would get it. Trying to friend her seemed too pushy. After all, we were supposedly just planning a surprise party. No need to get psycho about it.

  Less than a minute later, I got a response.

  If you’re some desperate fan, please go away. She doesn’t even go to school here anymore, and we’re all sick of getting Facebook messages about her. Same goes for Instagram, Twitter, etc.

  How to respond?

  I really am her sister. I go to Green Pastures Academy. Ask me anything about her.

  This was like a Jason Bourne moment, only not athletic and on the world’s least secure privacy platform other than skywriting.

  Get lost.

  Heller II’s friendly, approachable profile picture was misleading. She was rude and off-putting. I was starting to like her.

  I am not a stalker. Seriously. I’m Keira’s sister.

  Then you should ask her your questions. You people are really pathetic.

  That’s just it. She’s not talking much. Since she came home.

  Just go away.

  You’re very rude.

  And you’re annoying. I have a short film due in three hours. Our time is up.

  Clearly, you have something against surprise parties. So what if I told you I’m not writing because of a surprise party? Also, I can’t help but notice that you have time to check your Facebook messages.

  My Facebook habit is none of your business. (I use it to relax.) Keep talking.

  My sister hasn’t been feeling well since she came home. We thought that if we could talk to her about her friends at CIAD it might cheer her up.

  Still think you’re probably a sadfan.

  My sister never wears socks. A lot of her shirts are white and billowy. She drives a white 1987 Crown Vic. She looks very tired. Except for her hair. It looks like it’s in mid-cartwheel.

  Go on.

  I tried to think of a detail I knew about Keira that a classmate might also know but that the people who obsessively followed her career wouldn’t.

  She has this nervous habit of tapping her thumb on her chin when she thinks.

  Maybe you saw her at a signing.

  My sister doesn’t do signings. Hasn’t for a few years.

  Why don’t you just go ask her whatever it is that you want to know?

  She’s not talking.

  I had to be careful here. Keira had made me promise not to tell what happened at school. Of course, she hadn’t exactly told me what happened, either. It was all vague allusions. Looking into her story was a betrayal. But I felt compelled. She was finally talking to me again, and I had a terrible feeling that she was leaving things out. Important things.

  What if I pretended she’d never said anything and she went out one day and never came home? She was disappearing more and more often. I knew it was connected to what had happened. What was my responsibility here?

  I was about to close Facebook when another message popped up.

  No one knew your sister. She seemed cool, but she kept to herself. Sorry can’t help. It’s been pretty shitty around here since the spring.

  I hesitated. Then I typed:

  Why?

  I don’t want to get into it. I hope your sister feels better and that she comes back. She’s got serious talent. We could use someone else to look up to.

  Okay. Thanks. Good luck with your film.

  There were no more messages after that.

  Thursday, September 20

  Making the World Safe for Bad Judgment

  “Got one,” said Dusk.

  Neil and I turned to her. We were in Acrylics 1, taught by the effervescent Cynthia Choo. Ms. Choo looked like a recent graduate from grade eight. She wore her medium-length black hair in two braids and shuffled around in cheap embroidered Chinese slippers and silk coats.

  Ms. Choo had been my sister’s favorite teacher, and she always asked after Keira in a way that was nicely friendly as opposed to overly interested, which I appreciated.

  “Shouldn’t you get the last candidate to cough up the facts before you move on to a new one?” I said.

  “Don’t worry about backlog,” said Neil. “The truth is a river. We’ve got to let it flow.”

  He looked down at his cell phone. “Oops. It’s Aimee. I have to get this.”

  “Aimee. Agony Queen,” intoned Dusk.

  It was true. Aimee, though popular and in demand even before the renovations, spent her time reeling from imaginary crisis to imaginary crisis. Her boyfriend of two days had looked at another woman. The guy she dated after that looked at a guy. She’d read in the Los Angeles Times (online edition) that broadcast television networks were only hiring men o
f color. Her best friend had had a vision board party and sent her an invitation a full two days after everyone else.46 Other Aimee problems: The new sweater from that adorable store in Qualicum had been stolen out of her gym bag. Jo Malone discontinued her favorite cologne. She gained half a pound. And her perennial favorite: people were talking about her.

  Aimee was paranoid, self-centered, and fear-based. She did not share much in the way of affection or support with Neil, at least not that I could see, but she sure had a free hand with the neediness. I was going to resent it very much if she became his new muse, even though I’d pretend I wasn’t bothered.

  Neil took it all in stride and even seemed to like it.

  “No one is listening to me right now,” said Dusk. “This Truth Commission is starting to feel like home.”

  “I’m listening,” I told her.

  “Not to me you’re not,” said Ms. Choo, sliding up to us on her tiny embroidered slippers. These ones were high-noon blue with plenty of metallic embroidery. Her robe, made of some papery material, was suburban lawn green. White cranes flapped their way across the fabric. “Is any of this getting through?”

  “Ms. Choo,” said Neil. “Those clothes look wonderful on you.”

  “It’s true,” said Dusk. “They do.”

  “Allow me be the first one to say something that doesn’t rhyme. I like your ensemble,” I said.

  “But do you like the brushstroke technique I just spent twenty minutes explaining and demonstrating? That’s the big question.”

  “Love it,” I assured her. I stabbed at a blob of paint on my canvas to show how much.

  “Me too,” said Neil. “It’s so open and expansive.”