The Truth Commission (10 page)

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.

“We're taking back those words!”

“We're taking back all the words they try to put on us!”

“Fag!”

“Loser!”

“I'm totally a fag!” said Aimee. “A whore, slut, fag.”

“We all are! And we're wearing our underpants!” cried someone else.

And that's how the Truth Commission set off the first Slut Riot Parade.

An Acute Eye

The truth movement felt radical, at least until the following Sunday.
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My sister hadn't disappeared for over a week. Nor had she come into my room to talk. She'd been in the closet all weekend, which gave me plenty of time to work quietly on my embroidery.

If you aren't familiar with the stitching world, I do embroidery that lets me make detailed images in thread.
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Needlework is the perfect pastime for people who are obsessive and don't want to draw much attention to themselves. I can sit hunched over my embroidery frame for five or six hours, and people forget I'm there. As an added bonus, I don't disturb my sister by rattling around in my own room.

Almost as soon as my sister came home from college, I began a series of images I'm excited about. I often stayed late at school to stitch while Dusk worked on elements of her Spring Special Project. She was calling the piece
Taxiderming the Shrew
. I gave her plenty of space. My guess is that bad things can happen to beginning taxidermists. Dusk had posted a notice seeking shrews that died of natural causes on Craigslist Nanaimo and gotten an excellent response. She was always taking delivery of dead shrews people had found while they were out walking.

While I stitched and Dusk tried to mount shrews (so to speak), Neil made paintings of elusive beautiful women. Sometimes we all worked together in the same room in happy silence.

Still, stitching at home took the edge off, and it pleased my parents to see me busy doing things that wouldn't aggravate my sister.

The night after the Slut Riot, after I'd gone to bed, Keira came out of the closet and into my room again. Like a ghost or a bad dream.

“Norm?” she whispered. “Do you want to talk?”

My eyes snapped open.

Keira stretched and yawned, rising up on her tiptoes and reaching her thin white arms over her head.

“I get stiff from staying in one position so long. You too?”

She'd been working hard for the past several days. She even let my parents bring her some lunch in the closet. I knew because they had told me about it at least three times.

I nodded, my head half hidden by blankets.

“The needlepoint stuff you do is probably even worse for your back and neck than drawing. We should do yoga together. Go to a class.”

“Yeah,” I croaked, trying to imagine doing yoga with Keira. It would be such a normal thing to do. So unlike us. She'd done less and less socializing since the days when we'd gone to summer camp together. Now she rarely went out in public. That was part of her mystique. A couple of years ago, a few of the older comic artists and a couple of important critics had criticized her for how she used our family in the Chronicles. In response, she pulled a semi-Salinger and stopped going to Comic Cons or interacting with her fans, who accused the people who'd given her a hard time of driving her “underground.” Apparently, if you don't “get” my sister, you're an uptight censor. At least, that's what I read on the Diana Chronicles blogs and message boards before I stopped reading them.

“Let me get my sleeping bag,” said Keira. She retreated into the closet and I steeled myself for the next storytelling session. I had no idea what to do with the fact that Keira and one of her teachers had crossed the line. My Facebook exchange with Roberta Heller II hadn't cleared anything up. Also, I felt guilty about my motives. I listened to my sister because I wanted her respect. I listened because I hoped she'd realize that talking helped and that she should talk to someone better qualified than me. Those were not exactly noble reasons.

I lay frozen on my bed as the story wafted out like mustard gas.

“So we went hiking a couple of times. He had an acute eye for landscape,” she said.

I wasn't sure what that meant but I didn't interrupt to ask.

“He was worried people would think it was strange, his spending so much time alone with a student. Me.”

Long, poisonous pause.

“So he picked me up about a block away from the school. No one saw us together.”

An alarm bell was going off in my head. I didn't mention it.

“The hikes were great. It was just nice to get off campus and move, you know? School could be such a hothouse—worse than the Art Farm, even. The third time we went out, he took me on this super-steep path with cliffs and these deep canyons. And at the top, a few hundred yards off the trail, there was this abandoned hiker's cabin.”

My sheet was pulled over the lower half of my face, and my breath puffed warm against my own face.

“He asked if I wanted to check it out.”

She paused.

“Can you turn on the light? This is hard to talk about. The dark makes it worse.”

My arm felt like lead when I reached to switch on the desk light. When the light flickered on, I was surprised to see that my sister wasn't lying down anymore. She sat upright, tucked deep into her red sleeping bag, which she'd pulled up over her head like a hoodie. Her face was deep in shadows. Her eyes shone from inside the darkness.

I felt myself trapped by that gaze, which didn't seem to waver as she continued.

“That's where it happened. Between us. He . . .”

Even though her eyes were disconcertingly bright, her voice was quiet.

“I didn't mean for it to happen,” she said at last. “He was married.”

The room was absolutely silent and I struggled to unfreeze my face.

“I'm sorry,” I said inadequately.

“You can't talk about it,” she said in a faint voice teetering at the edge of tears.

“You didn't say anything?” I asked.

She shook her head, but somehow those big shining eyes seemed not to move.

“Should we tell someone? I mean, teachers can't just—”

“No!” The hesitation was gone. “I just needed to talk. You're the only one I trust. Promise me you won't tell.”

In spite of the horror of my sister's story, I once again felt a little thrill at being the only person she trusted enough to talk to.

“I won't,” I said.

“Okay. I guess I've said enough for one night.”

And my sister got up and left. Her outline was deformed by the sleeping bag. She looked like a mermaid who'd swum through a toxic spill.

“I'm sorry,” I repeated to the door as it closed behind her, though I wasn't sure exactly what I was sorry for.

I Heard It's Bad for Your Teeth

On Saturday, Dusk and Neil and I went to Tina's for lunch. Tina's is one of those retro diners with a Formica lunch counter and stools and red vinyl booths. I think the restaurant is actually old as opposed to pretend-old. Neil says Tina's serves the best eggs Benedict in the known universe. I have the Veggie Bennie and Neil has the Blackstone and we are full and happy for about two days afterward. Dusk has orange juice or coffee and sometimes, if she's in the right mood, something from the kid's menu. Dusk is one of those “eat to live” people, unlike Neil, who lives to eat. I'm sort of a let's-have-delicious-eats-until-the-gnawing-stress-of-my-home-life-makes-it-impossible-for-me-to-work-up-an-appetite person.

“What do you mean, you're not having a Benny?” said Neil to me. “That's a violation of protocol.”

There are several protocols that have to be followed when we go for Saturday brunch. We have to arrive at precisely 9:15 a.m. Neil says the breakfasts don't taste as good if we don't get a booth, and Dusk won't wait in a line for anyone or anything. Dusk would have a lot of trouble in a Soviet-style economy, where apparently up to 80 percent of life was spent waiting in line for things like bread. Then again, Dusk doesn't really eat bread, so maybe she would have been fine.

If you are later than 9:20 or so, you will miss the booths. If you get there before 9:15, then you feel like a morning person or a farmer. Organizing Saturday brunch is my job. It requires considerable skill. Normally, the food makes the effort worth it, but not today.

“My stomach's already . . . got food.”

Neil snorted. “That food is lonely.”

“I'm going for orange juice,” said Dusk. “I heard it's really bad for your teeth. My dad said that we all have ‘compromised enamel.' It's some genetic trait, and he and my mom want us to be careful. So I'm going to hit the OJ super hard, and if that doesn't work, I might start doing meth.”

“Still feeling hostile toward your parents?” asked Neil.

Dusk raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Being a disappointment is a lifelong practice, like meditation. You can't just disappoint in one or two areas. If you want to really disappoint, you need to apply yourself. Be well rounded. Take up art. Fail foundation courses. Let your teeth rot, and dress in ways that draw the wrong kind of attention.”

As if to demonstrate, she looked like an eighteenth-century chimney sweep who had a second job as a stripper, circa 1984. Neon yellow tube top, suspenders, tweed gauchos. She wore oxfords because the sole had fallen off her grandfather's old New Balance. Patched tweed coat.

The waitress, Tina's daughter, came to the table.

“The usual?” she said.

Neil put a hand over his heart. “Kiki. You have no idea how touched I am when you remember what I like.”

Kiki, slight and ever poised, smiled. “My pleasure.”

Maybe
she
would be Neil's new muse. I fought back the flutter of something I hoped wasn't jealousy.

“We've been coming here for ages,” Dusk told Neil. “And you have never changed your order.”

Neil ignored Dusk and gazed adoringly at Kiki.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome.”

“No, really. Thank you. I feel special for the first time today.”

Kiki smiled again, managing to seem friendly and just distant enough to make Neil stop talking.

“Nerd,” said Dusk, but she said it fondly.

I ordered toast and coffee, and Dusk ordered the enamel-destroying orange juice.

“So. I think it's time to review. We're in the middle of a social movement here. Maybe even a revolution. We need to take stock,” said Dusk. “You agree?” she asked me.

“Yes.”

“So far we've performed four truthcavations.”

“We're calling them truthcavations now?” said Neil.

“It's awkward,” I said. “From a language perspective, I don't love it.”

“Fine. We will come up with a suitable and specific noun soon. We need our own jargon.”

Neil and I agreed. Jargon was good.

“Of those four truthsplorations, three were unqualified successes.”

“I don't love truthsploration, either,” I said. “Not to be negative.”

“Oh, no, you could never be negative,” said Dusk.

I recognized but did not comment on her sarcasm. Neil bumped me gently with his argyle cardigan-clad shoulder. “Maybe we should define success?” I said.

“That's easy. Success is when someone tells us the truth.”

“What about when things get confusing? What about the effects of the truth? Like, if telling the truth makes a situation worse?”

Neil and Dusk stared at me.

“You're overthinking it,” said Dusk.

“Truth is the goal,” added Neil. “We can't control what comes from it.”

I shrugged and sipped my coffee.

“Aimee tells me everything now. We have no secrets,” said Neil. His phone buzzed and he looked at the screen. “See? This is the fourth text I've had from her this morning. She's worried there's a change in Number Two.”

“Number Two” was what Aimee had named her left breast. She was starting to worry that there was an capsular contracture issue
51
developing; hence the near hourly updates. Neil was starting to look pained every time his phone sounded.
52

“I can report that the truth has had lasting positive effects on Mrs. Dekker's wardrobe. I'm sure you all saw the sundress at the riot. I believe Mrs. Dekker is an unqualified success story.”

“She's still kind of moody. She was back in her poncho the next day and she was kind of a bitch when I went in to tell her I had to go to the dentist,” I said.

“Normandy, really, enough with the negative nellies,” said Dusk.

Kiki dropped off our breakfasts. A plate of toast for me and a Blackstone for Neil. We applied our preferred condiments and began to eat in silence. It was all going well until Dusk spoke up again.

“Neil? Can you stop tearing into that meal like it's a gazelle you brought down with your bare hands and give us a report on Tyler Jones?”

It was my turn to bump Neil with my shoulder.

“We've been in contact four times. He's still processing the request.”

“So not an unqualified success. Let's say that particular truth seeking is still in process.”

Neil went back to his food, but with less enthusiasm.

“And of course, the Zinnia McFarland Truth Riot was amazing.”

I wasn't sure. The day after the riot I saw Zinnia heading into the guidance office.
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She looked like she'd been crying. But I'd been called “negative” enough times that morning, and I decided not to speak up.

“I think truth is spreading,” said Dusk, swishing her orange juice around in her mouth so it could do as much enamel damage as possible.

“First, G. P. Academy. Next, the world,” said Neil.

“Before the movement can reach a full flowering, all founders of the Commission must experience the power of asking the truth,” said Dusk. “I know you're shy, Normandy, and so I've taken it upon myself to find you another target. One you'll feel more comfortable approaching.”

My head snapped up, alarms going off.

“Lisette DeVries,” said Dusk.

“Oh, shit!” said Neil. “That's genius!” He put down his knife and then put up a hand for Dusk to slap.

I put my head in my hands and stared at my untouched toast. Dusk was an evil genius. She was sending me up against the least truthy person in all of G. P. and, possibly, the world.

At this juncture, I feel it's important to point out that lying is not the same as not telling the truth. Leaving things unsaid is part of being a civilized person, at least according to me.

Lying is a different matter. It requires effort and creativity, rather than the ability to stand still and take it. There are also levels to consider.

Scenario: A girl tries on a pair of jeans that make her appear to have only one long, flat butt cheek. She asks her frenemy, who is a liar, if the jeans look good.

Level-One Liar: “You look awesome in those. But I think I liked the other ones better.”

Level-Two Liar: “You look awesome.”

Super-Lying Liar: “I once had that exact pair of jeans. In fact, they were the jeans I was wearing when a modeling scout came up to me and wanted to take my picture. They really wanted to bring me to New York City. But instead I chose to go to the tryouts for
Canada's Next Top Model
. Which I would have gotten into and probably won, except for that thing I told you about that happened with my glands. I think you should wear those jeans on your next date.”

Lisette DeVries is a Level-Three Compulsive Super-Lying Liar, minus the slight meanness given in the example. So far as I can tell, she lies because “there is no there there,” if you know what I mean.
54
She's always seizing upon stray identities and running away with them, like an animal rescuer escaping from a stranger's backyard with a neglected dog. In grade nine, she joined the Gay-Straight Alliance. A week later, she declared she was a lesbian. All the pictures of cute boys in her locker were replaced by shots of Portia de Rossi and hot chicks on motorbikes. That would have been fine if she'd actually been gay or at least curious, but she wasn't. She just thought it would be cool for a while, or at least while she was a member of the Alliance.
55
The minute she left the GSA, which she did after an incident with another member's brother at a dance, she was ruler-straight again.

Down came Portia de Rossi, up went Justin Timberlake, because she'd joined Song and Dance Club.

DeVries is such a compulsive liar that she's kind of an icon around the Art Farm. Her lies are like little Fabergé eggs: unexpected, intricately detailed, and completely and utterly pointless.

When Dusk proposed that I confront Lisette DeVries, she was essentially asking me to take a ornate little egg of a person and smash her against the ground. I said as much.

“So narrow it down,” Dusk said. “Pick one obvious lie. Right now the burning question is does she really think she's a member of the First Nations.”

“I can't do that,” I squawked. “She might be one-fortieth Aboriginal or something. What if that's the one thing about her that turns out to be true? It's not my place to ask. So what if she wants to be someone she's not.”

“You know,” said Neil, using his fork to drag a hash brown through a puddle of ketchup, “I'd like to be someone I'm not.”

“There's no one better than you,” I told him. Because it was true.

“I'm doing you a favor by giving you a subject with so many points of entry,” said Dusk.

“What?”

“She means that Lisette is constructed of eighty-five percent lies,” said Neil. “You could ask her about just about anything and if she answered honestly, you'd have uncovered a truth.”

“That reasoning is flawed.”

Dusk leaned across the table and put a hand on mine. Neil, sitting beside me, did the same.

“Ugh!” I said, flinching. “Stop touching me! Both of you.”

“Not until you promise,” said Dusk.

“You are going to love dancing with the truth. Seriously,” said Neil.

“I'm not ready.”

“So spend some time with her first. Don't just dive in there.”
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“You are both terrible people.”

“We appreciate your honesty,” said Dusk and Neil at the same time.

“Fine.”

They let go of my hands and looked very pleased with themselves.

“But I'm not doing it right away. I have to warm up.”
57

“Fine. We have other truths to discover while you conduct research and surveillance,” said Dusk.