The Truth Commission

by Susan Juby

  “I don’t think I’ll be incorporating it in my next installation,” said Dusk. “But I’m glad to know how it’s done.”

  “Every person can benefit from brush skills,” said the unflappable Ms. Choo.

  “Touch!” said Dusk, who likes to mangle words because it drives her parents crazy. She held up a hand to be slapped. Ms. Choo stared at the offending appendage.

  Dusk took her hand down.

  Then Ms. Choo went to check on what the other painters were accomplishing.

  We all got to work leaving brushstrokes in heavy globs of acrylic paint. It was quite satisfying, and I’d have been happy to work in silence and cozy togetherness, but Dusk would not be prevented from telling us about the new target.

  “Zinnia McFarland,” she said.

  “That girl who puts on the Slut Walk?” I asked.

  “That’s the one.”

  “What are you going to ask her?”

  “Whether it’s true what they say.”

  “What do they say?” I found myself dreading the answer.

  “Her sister did a little web-stripping. Then she got severely online bullied.”

  “Inter-tormented,” said Neil. “That’s the worst.”

  “She tried to kill herself,” said Dusk. “Zinnia’s been trying to make the world safe for bad judgment ever since.”

  My brush had frozen a foot away from the canvas. “Dusk, that’s not funny.”

  “I don’t mean it to be funny. Everyone knows that Zinnia puts on the Slut Walk for a reason. And it’s not because she personally is sexing it up all over the place.”

  “Or sexting, presumably,” added Neil.

  “It’s not your business why she puts on the walk. It’s cool, and she’s right. Women should be able to dress how they want.”

  “Here, here!” said Eleanor St. Pierre, who was at the easel behind me, clearly eavesdropping for all she was worth.

  “Looking gorgeous, Els!” said Neil with a big smile.

  Dusk shot me a look, and I lowered my voice. “It’s one thing to ask people their private business. But this is about her sister. So it’s not Zinnia’s truth to tell.”

  Dusk added a few more brushstrokes to the small shrewish shapes on her canvas. Since she got the idea to taxidermy a shrew for her Spring Special Project, everything she makes is vaguely shrew shaped, and she’s frequently in a bad mood because taxiderming, especially tiny creatures, is very hard. Or so she reports after each failed attempt.

  “I’m just asking her about her motivation. She’s putting it out there—how we should all be able to dress how we want. Get our revealing on. But at the same time, she keeps this very personal motivation private. I think it would be both healing for her and inspiring for others if she talked about what happened.” Dusk turned to me and lowered her voice. “Norm, we all know you’re kind of sensitive about family stuff. Because of your sister and everything.”

  I was about to protest, but Neil beat me to it.

  “Everyone is sensitive about family,” he said. “Not just Norm.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s okay. Our families are often the thing that keep us stuck,” said Dusk. “If I bought into my family’s agenda, I would—”

  “Be getting better than a C in biology right now,” I said.

  “C-minus,” Dusk corrected. “Anyway, I think that if you want people to join you in a cause, you should be honest about where you’re coming from.”

  “Why?” My voice was rising again. I couldn’t help it, even if Eleanor was straining an eardrum trying to listen in. “It’s not our business. The Slut Walk is to protest all the bullshit that girls have to deal with for how we dress.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ms. Choo’s head come up and turn to us.

  “If she doesn’t want to talk about it, she won’t,” said Dusk. There was a stubborn set to her chin. “I’m allowed to ask.”

  “Let’s all just relax and enjoy our brushstrokes,” said Neil. “I think it’s good to discuss these things openly. Like Tyler Jones might turn me down. I’m still waiting for him to get back to me. No harm, no foul.”

  “Do I need to separate your easels?” asked Ms. Choo, coming over to us.

  “No, ma’am,” said Neil. “We’re just excited about the whole modern brushstrokes thing.”47

  Monday, September 24

  The Truth Is a Daisy

  Zinnia McFarland was a senior on a mission. Multiple missions, actually. Her specialty was protest art.

  Zinnia is a skilled illustrator and a gifted painter, and she uses her talents to “undermine the system.” Her words. She has been arrested multiple times for putting politically minded art—some backward thinkers call it graffiti—on public works, such as bridges, dams, and the steps of city hall. But she goes further than balloon letters rendered in dripping spray paint. She draws and paints hyperrealistic images as a commentary on political decisions, like Banksy, but in a style all her own.

  When the mayor and city council gave their approval to cull the local rabbit population, Zinnia used chalk to create a devastating battle scene on the steps of City Hall. The picture showed bunnies with the faces of the mayor and members of the city council sprawled in a hideous death tableau. Before they could get a city worker in to wash it off, an art historian from the university saw it. He took several pictures that ended up being published in a special feature in Art Tomorrow about young radicals. The editors said it was as good as anything Petr Krivonogov, the Soviet battle painter, ever did. Someone else said they saw the influence of John Singer Sargent’s Gassed. Dealers started contacting the school, asking if Zinnia had representation and whether she was interested in having a show. Rumor has it she told them all that she still needed time to develop her work. Now that’s radical. Most of us would jump at the chance for a show, ready or not.

  Anyway, quite a few other people were sure that Zinnia’s chalk drawing was the best thing that ever happened at city hall. Period. Full stop. But the cull went ahead, and the drawing washed away in the next rain. Chalk art is only so-so at effecting political change.

  When she wasn’t making public protest art, Zinnia was protesting. Last year she started a local Slut Walk, which is ironic, because pretty much everyone dresses sluttier than Zinnia, including Queen Elizabeth II. (I overheard one of the catty girls in the fashion program, also known as the “Clothes Cult,” say that Zinnia should really be organizing the Slob Walk.) Her fashion sense goes beyond can’t-be-bothered art student into blind-gal-sent-into-badly-organized-thrift-store-and-told-to-dress-herself territory. She’s a committed cyclist, never a good sign for fashion.

  At the first annual Slut Walk, she appeared to have taken her cues about provocative clothing from a children’s program made by people who’ve taken too much acid. She had on yellow tights, green felt boots with a stack heel, and some kind of shapeless red-and-brown-feathered tunic. Only a male robin would have found the outfit remotely slutty.

  Neil, in his tightest skinny jeans, his best shiny dress shirt unbuttoned to his sternum, and patent leather ankle boots, looked way more risqué than Zinnia. In fact, everyone did, including the Jehovah’s Witnesses who were handing out The Watchtower along our route.

  Anyway, in spite of her tendency to throw herself into political commentary, she wasn’t one to explain her motivations. Which made it that much more fascinating and awful when Dusk confronted her.

  Dusk convinced us to wait for Zinnia at the bike racks before school. In addition to being disheveled, Zinnia’s also chronically late. This is standard at G. P. Academy, where people think that being on time suggests that you are insufficiently creative.

  She finally shambled along about ten minutes after the first bell. It might have been an optical illusion, but her old cruiser bike gave the impression of having two flat tires and severely bent rims. I think I saw dust bunn
ies blowing out of hidden air pockets in her enormous billowing sweater as she wheeled up to the bike rack.

  She’d painted her helmet, the full-coverage kind skateboarders wear, to look like a beehive that had been split open, revealing a honeycomb inside. pleasesavethebeespleasesavethebees was written all around the bottom edge. It was possibly the greatest bike helmet in the world and, to be quite honest, I think Zinnia might have been one of my favorite people at school. I mean, I didn’t really know her, but the idea of her is part of what makes the Art Farm great.

  Dusk sauntered over, wearing a little K-pop-inspired number.

  “Zinnia,” she exclaimed. “Looking comfy as ever!”

  Zinnia smiled under her shattered beehive, and I was reminded of daisies and other flowers that are sunny and unpretentious. No one would ask a daisy the truth. A daisy is the truth. If I’d been able to cope with confrontation in any form, I would have tackled Dusk just then.

  Instead, I just muttered, “Aw, jeez,” and stared at my feet.

  “It’s okay,” whispered Neil. I heard uncertainty in his voice.

  “Hi, Dusk,” said Zinnia. “I love your jacket. When the sun hits it just the right way, that blue shades into indigo, which is an impossible color to find. Some eye shadows get close, but only near the right eyes.”

  “Yeah?” said Dusk. “Thanks. I hadn’t noticed.”

  Zinnia stared expectantly at Dusk. Like my sister, she has this way of turning her full attention on you, like you are the only person in the world and she doesn’t want to miss some excellent thing you might do or say. Part of me prayed the Dusk would notice that. Would realize that someone like Zinnia was dangerously open.

  Dusk did not. Maybe because her family was the opposite of open, and in order to be herself, she had to be walled off. If that makes any sense.

  “So, Zinnia, I was wondering. About the Slut Walk—”

  “First week of May,” said Zinnia. “And I’m getting some great speakers from the Women’s Support Society. We might have a film night first. It’s so great of you guys to take part. It’s important to raise awareness.”

  “Why?” asked Dusk.

  “What do you mean?” Zinnia seemed genuinely confused.

  “Why do you care?”

  Sarcasm was not in Zinnia’s repertoire. When she gave painted rabbits the faces of politicians, it was because she was trying to communicate, not hurt anyone’s feelings.

  “Oh, Dusk,” she said earnestly. “It’s really serious. There was that police officer who said that women shouldn’t dress like sluts if they don’t want to be victimized.48 Women all over the world are harassed, beaten, and even raped for how they dress.”

  “I get that,” said Dusk. “But is there any personal connection for you? Does the issue hit close to home for some reason?”

  Zinnia’s earnest face crumpled in on itself. She stood motionless, holding the length of chain she used to lock her bike. It was so heavy, she tilted slightly sideways.

  Finally, she said, “You probably know about my sister.”

  I could feel my eyes bulging. I wanted to scream at Dusk. Tell her to let Zinnia keep her motivations private. We had no right to them. This was not fair.

  “I heard something,” said Dusk noncommittally, like a cop interviewing a witness.

  Zinnia sighed. “She had some trouble a few years ago. You know, online.”

  Dusk waited. She was getting pretty savvy with the silence. It was no longer companionable. Now it was an interrogation technique.

  Neil and I were leaning against the gym, which is a halfhearted building, especially compared to the rest of Green Pastures’s facilities. It’s more often used for art installations and performance pieces than for sports. Other than an elite hopscotch team and a nearly unbeaten three-legged-race squad, we aren’t really known for our athletics. Oh, and we have a pretty stellar badminton team, but I think they practice in one of the hallways.

  “She got a little too . . . comfortable on a webcam. She put up a few profile pictures that were kind of revealing.” Something in Zinnia seemed to rouse as she spoke. She blinked rapidly and then leaned forward. “Would you listen to me?” she said. “This is incredible! I’m using the same language as that cop who said women have to cover up or risk getting harassed. Oh, man.”

  She turned in a circle, still holding on to the length of chain. When she was facing Dusk again, she spoke in a rush.

  “The negativity just gets in a person. The sexism. The oppression. Why don’t I talk about what happened to my sister? It was totally not her fault! She looked beautiful in those pictures. Because she is beautiful. That bra was, like, the most gorgeous color! It was mine. New. She snuck it from me and wore it for this guy she met in a chat room. She took it off when he asked. She’s beautiful. Why not? Then everyone in her school found out. The kids in her school weren’t cool about it. Oh, my God. This is unbelievable. I can’t believe my language.”

  Dusk had taken a step back, perhaps alarmed at the flood she’d released.

  “You know what else?” said Zinnia. “I had sex.”

  “Whoa!” said Neil.

  “Oh, shit,” I said.

  “I did. Unprotected. When things were going so bad with Camelia, I got with this guy and we didn’t use protection. Because I was tired of being careful. I could have gotten an STD. I could have gotten pregnant. I never talk about that at my Student Artists for Choice events.”

  “Oh,” said Dusk. “Well—”

  “You are absolutely right,” said Zinnia, turning in a circle. “It’s not enough to protest. You’ve got to stand up and be counted. It’s got to be personal. No more secrets.”

  “Well,” tried Dusk again. “You might want to keep some sec—”

  “Absolutely not. Silence makes us part of the problem. No more silence.”

  Zinnia had begun swinging the fat chain like a cowboy who wanted to lasso a steer or maybe kill one.

  Dusk took a step back.

  “You know, I felt so bad about that bra. Camelia just, you know, developed and she loved that color. I felt like that stupid bra started it all. The kids were so awful. She ended up dropping out of school and moving to live with my dad in Edmonton. And we’re hippies! Self-esteem to burn! Imagine what happens to kids with straight or mean parents.”

  She was jerking the chain back and forth so hard, I worried that she might dislocate her arm.

  “This year Slut Walk is going to be personal. And it’s going to be militant. It wasn’t my fault or the bra’s fault or Camelia’s fault. A girl can get naked if she wants. Boy, I’m really mad right now.”

  “Okay,” said Dusk. “I’d like to thank you for sharing your—”

  “Every day is going to be Slut Day in my world,” said Zinnia. She dropped the chain and it clunked to the ground. Then she began stripping off her big sweater.

  “Oh, jeepers,” said Neil.

  “Do something,” I told him.

  “Can’t,” he said. “Too scared.”

  “We’ll dress how we want or we won’t dress at all!” cried Zinnia nonsensically. This was an art school. It went without saying that we dressed how we wanted. And as anyone who spent more than twenty minutes near the Photoshoot Tree could attest, a lot of us barely dressed at all, at least when the weather was fine.

  “Well,” said Dusk.

  “Come on!” Zinnia peeled off her checked work shirt. “Who’s with me?”

  “Oh, God,” I said.

  To her credit, Dusk looked at us. Then she took off her shiny, in-certain-light-indigo K-pop bomber jacket.

  I gave her the big eyes and a nod.

  Zinnia was down to her boxer shorts and an undershirt. I reviewed my underclothes. It was like that car accident moment mothers are always warning kids about. Only it was an impromptu Slut Walk through school. I decided my bra
and underpants were adequate. In fact, my briefs actually had a cool print of a robot on the front. I gave a silent prayer of thanks and began to strip down.

  A minute later, the four of us wore only our undergarments.

  “Come on!” said Zinnia, and marched off, leaving her bike unlocked and her pile of clothing on the ground. Dusk and I clutched our clothing to our chests. Neil picked up Zinnia’s clothes and added them to the neat pile of his own. Together, we followed Zinnia past the gym and around to the side door. There was no one in the Photoshoot Tree. As we walked past the office, Mrs. Dekker rose up from behind her desk.

  There was something different about her.

  No poncho!

  Mrs. Dekker was dressed in a bright yellow sundress with spaghetti straps. The left one had slid off her massive sloping shoulder. She looked like a fridge in a dress, but the significance of the change was impossible to miss. Mrs. Dekker was opening up and we were in our best underpants and the truth was breaking out all over our school.

  “What’s going on?” asked Mrs. Dekker with only a fifth of the usual hostility in her voice.

  Administrators came out of the office. Students and teachers came out of classrooms. Seniors emerged from studio pods.

  “My sister dressed in a provocative way and she was tormented for it. I didn’t talk about it because I was embarrassed and I felt guilty. No more!” cried Zinnia.

  Our fellow students, never ones to miss an opportunity to make a statement, immediately and unquestioningly started taking off their clothes in solidarity.

  “These three finally asked me why I put on the Slut Walk,” brayed the formerly soft-spoken Zinnia McFarland in a voice like a labor riot. “And I finally told the truth. I feel great!”

  A few of the more forward-thinking teachers fell into step with us. Some removed blazers and horn-rimmed glasses. Thankfully, none took off their clothes.

  “We’re all sluts!” said Zinnia.

  “Sluts!” cried the students.

  “Whores!” someone added.