The Truth Commission (12 page)

Thirteen Words
66

Small Format Effort

On Friday morning, when I still hadn't confronted Lisette, at least not directly, Dusk called a meeting of the Commission.

“Let's evaluate. Assess,” she said.

“Didn't we just do that at Tina's?” I said.

“I feel like we weren't thorough enough. It's time for written reports. I'd like to get a handle on this thing. Maybe do a bit of strategic planning,” she said. Dusk has more of her parents in her than she likes to admit.
67

“Shall we meet in the Boardroom?” asked Neil.

“Excellent suggestion,” said Dusk.

“I'm pretty busy. Classes. Bathroom breaks,” I said.

Dusk ignored me. “I'd like a full written report from each of you,” she said. “To that end, I've stolen one of my mother's prescription pads. I'm afraid you can't write yourself prescriptions because her office has moved to a computer printout system and voided these pads, but I think you'll both enjoy working in the small format. I know I always do.”

At the time of this conversation we were stalled in Nancy, at the end of Neil's long, winding driveway.

Dusk poked me in the side. “You especially,” she said. “Since small format kind of fits your effort.”

“Hey!” said Neil. “Hey, now. That's not the spirit of the Commission. Norm may have been truth seeking in private over the last few days. We don't know. She might be able to fill up a whole prescription pad with her discoveries.”

“Norm?” asked Dusk. “Anything to report on the Lisette DeVries front?”

Before I could answer, Neil's dad pulled up alongside us. He was on his way out. He'd recently, to Neil's profound relief, traded in his Big Bird–colored Hummer for a new Jaguar. The car was low-slung enough that I had a good view of his hair plugs when I rolled down my window and he leaned out to crane his head in order to look up at us.

“Normandy!” he boomed. Neil's dad is full-voiced and full-figured. It seemed to me that everything about him said self-indulgence. I looked at him and saw foie gras, full-fat French cheeses, and happy-ending massages. He was a little creepy, but I liked him anyway. Everyone likes him.

“How are you, gorgeous? You got my boy in that jalopy?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

That made Mr. Sutton grin. He has a great smile, just like Neil, only his teeth were covered in veneers so white, they hurt the eyes.

“How'd my boy get to have such gorgeous friends?”

Mr. Sutton has a favorite adjective. Guess what it is? Half the time he calls Neil gorgeous, too. He's actually found the exact perfect balance of skeeviness and charm.

“Dawn, honey? You in there?”

“Yes, Mr. Sutton.”

“You want me to send a tow truck? I can give you kids a ride to school. Or we can get the tow driver to haul you over there. Arrive in style!”

“That's okay. She'll be ready to go in a minute. She just flooded.”

“I've heard that before,” said Mr. Sutton, managing to make it sound incredibly smutty.

“Oh, God,” muttered Neil, hanging his head. I bumped him with my shoulder.

“We're good, Mr. Sutton,” I said.

“Nice car,” added Dusk.

“Sure you don't want a ride? It's cozy in here, girls.”

“Dad!” said Neil. “Enough.”

“Mr. Sensitive,” said Mr. Sutton. “He doesn't get it from me. It's that school, isn't it? Turning you kids sensitive. How about I pay for all of you to go get business degrees?”

“Rowan!”
said Neil, using his dad's first name.

Mr. Sutton made a big show of wincing, like he was in serious trouble.

“Okay, gorgeous,” he said, apparently addressing all of us. “But if you're still here when I get home from my appointment, I'm taking you to school. Norm, you'll sit next to me.”

Neil made another low groaning noise.

Mr. Sutton flashed me a too-white grin and the sleek, low car pulled away.

“He's going to the spa,” said Neil. “He and his buddies spend about three hours a day in that Japanese bathhouse place in Courtenay.”

“Seriously?” said Dusk. “He drives an hour to go for a steam?”

“They golf first,” said Neil. “Then they go to the bathhouse. Then they drive back here and go to the Cactus Club.”

“Oy,” said Dusk.

“I don't call him Sordid Sutton for nothing,” said Neil.

“Love you,” I said.

“Double,” said Dusk.

And we all bumped shoulders and felt better.

Too soon, the moment was gone. It faded as I looked around at the immaculately landscaped property with its concrete driveway etched to look like bricks, trimmed trees and tasteful shrubs and closely barbered grass. The single-story house was sprawling and contemporary and stayed just barely on the right side of McMansion territory—ostentatious, but without things like fake Grecian columns. It had decent proportions. The luxury detailing was obvious, but not overdone.

“As I was saying, I'd like to meet and evaluate. We've got spare periods after lunch today. Please make your reports on the pads provided.”

Dusk handed Neil and me each a pad of prescriptions from her mother's medical practice.

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

“Excellent question,” said Dusk, who is never afraid to sound condescending. “List the people whose truths we've explored. Then make note of any observations. Please remember to use codes for the names. We don't want this information falling into the wrong hands.”

“What if some of our cases are still open?” asked Neil.

“Such is to be expected. The truth can take time. Just make a note of it. Maybe we'll do a spreadsheet.”

Dusk recently took a best business practices for artists class, an elective, and she particularly enjoyed the spreadsheet unit. She thinks it might be part of her calling as an artist, though how spreadsheets fit with taxidermied shrews, I'm not sure.
68

“Where are we meeting again?” I asked.

“The Boardroom,” said Dusk. “I love the smell in there, even if it may be carcinogenic.”

The Boardroom is what G. P. students call the climate-controlled storage room off the woodworking shop. Of course, because ours is a well-funded private art school, we have more kinds of specialty wood than most custom cabinet businesses. Not for G. P. Academy the standard birdhouse project. Our students make things like stools that defy gravity, miniature replicas of Graceland, complete with a dead wooden Elvis slumped on the toilet, and a rocking horse with the full text of D. H. Lawrence's “The Rocking-Horse Winner” carved into it.

The Boardroom smells excellent, but that was small consolation. I didn't want to make a report. My report, especially if I didn't include my deleted Facebook message, wouldn't even fill one-quarter of a prescription pad.

I started up Nancy and drove to school as slowly as possible.

Pockets of Sweet Lies

Here's a weak chapter opener for you:
Things were weird at school
.

What does weird mean in the context of a fine arts high school? Let me set the scene, even though it would be easier to write the following in the form of exposition.

Neil and Dusk and I got to school and disembarked. I got a closer look at his outfit. He had on slightly too-snug warm-up pants, not-leather sandals, and a Hawaiian dress shirt of the type worn by Dustin Hoffman in the bus scene in
Midnight Cowboy
, which is a 1970s movie starring Jon Voight as Joe Buck, a not-smart male prostitute, and Dustin Hoffman as Ratso Rizzo, Joe's tubercular and ineffective pimp. It's a sad film about deluded dreamers, but the fashion is completely excellent. Neil was going through a Ratso Rizzo phase, complete with slicked-back greasy hair and five o'clock shadow. When I looked at him I could practically hear the film's depressing harmonica theme music. He'd convinced Dusk and me also to dress in
Midnight Cowboy
–wear for the day. He said it would make us feel more authentic and gritty.
69

Dusk was dressed like Joe Buck in a beat-up buckskin jacket with fringes, an undersized black cowboy hat, and a kerchief. I'd worn a white suit.

We walked inside the school and then separated to go to our classes. Before I got to English class I decided to take a tour through the halls. I was stopped in the lobby by Tomas Beidecker. In another school Tomas would be a star on the football team. At G. P. Academy, he's a stone sculptor, which is the art school equivalent. Six foot two. Magnificent forearms. The whole bit.

“Hey, Normandy,” he said.

He'd never spoken to me before, so I was taken aback. “Uh, hi, Tomas.”

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes!” I said, trying to draw my gaze away from his forearms.

“I like your white suit. Very Annie Lennox. My mom likes her.”

“It's supposed to be Ratso Rizzo. Neil likes the movie.” Then I realized Tomas probably knew as much about
Midnight Cowboy
as I did about Annie Lennox and it was best to stop talking immediately.

“So you're part of this truth thing that's going around?”

“Sort of.”
70

“I heard you asked Tyler Jones the truth.”

“Well, not me.”

“One of the other truthers?”

“I can't comment.”

“I'd like to know what you find out.”

“We don't usually . . .”

“Just curious.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Later, Ratso.”

Head reeling from the implications, I continued on my way. A few yards down the hall I was stopped by Aliya Said. She has the best hair at G. P. Academy, which is saying something. It's a veritable cloud of awesomeness, and at first I was so taken with it that I didn't hear what Aliya said (with apologies for the pun on her last name) to me. Her mouth was moving but I was just watching her hair.

“Normandy?” said Aliya.

“Yes?”

“So you're part of this truth thing?”

“I, uh,” I said.

“I need you to talk to Jared.
71
I think he has the hots for Chelsea.”

“That's not really what we—”

“The two of them are a little too socially networked, if you know what I mean. She's all over his Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and he's saying it's just online, but I don't buy it. I think it has an F2F component,” said Aliya.

“It's just that—”

“I've asked him and asked him. He won't tell me. But he'll tell you. Because we all understand that what you're doing is important.”

“Well, it's not—”

“Thanks, babe,” said Aliya, walking off and taking her amazing hair with her.

As in a nightmare, I then saw other people who had been touched by the activities of the Truth Commission.

Mrs. Dekker stomped by, poncho billowing around her, a look of student loathing engraved on her face. I raised a hand in greeting but let it fall when Mrs. Dekker, with obvious effort, tried to unstick her expression into something approximating a smile.

Zinnia McFarland hurried past, holding some kind of sign. Her face was working with some vexing emotion.

“Are you okay?” I asked, for the hundredth time wishing we hadn't pried her open like a mollusk.

Zinnia shook her head and kept going.

I walked into the area that houses the art pods. Tyler Jones stood outside his private studio, his face pensive. When he spotted me he let his gaze linger. I had no idea what he was thinking or how he was feeling. I couldn't tell whether he was gay or straight or bisexual or asexual or post-sexual.

Then I passed an alcove in which Aimee was having a tête-à-tête with Neil, who must have been summoned on his way to class. Aimee was feeling up her own left breast and talking to him. Neil's hands were shoved deep in his shell pants pockets and he stared determinedly at the floor, only glancing up to catch my eye as I passed.

Then I looked into the Shed. Lisette was inside with the other students. She had on an authentic Cowichan sweater, beaded moccasins, feathered earrings, a rawhide headband. I found myself sighing with relief and finally, I headed to class. The truth was almost everywhere, but there were still pockets of sweet lies left undisturbed.

Please Arrange Your Faces

The Boardroom, like every other supplies room at G. P., was well organized. Our teachers are actual artists, and despite their reputation for chaos, most artists keep their supplies and work spaces scrupulously tidy. It's the personal lives that get messy.

Dusk, Neil, and I sat cross-legged on the floor. Around us boards of varying types, lengths, and thicknesses were stacked neatly on shelves and clearly labeled.

“If there's an earthquake, we're in serious trouble,” said Neil, casting a glance up at the shelves high over our heads.

“At least we'll be killed by high-quality, sustainably harvested lumber products,” said Dusk. She consulted her prescription pad. “I'd like to call this meeting to order. Please arrange your faces into expressions of concentration.”

Neil looked at his pad. “I was in math before this. It was quite demanding, so my notes might be sketchy.”

“Hmmm,” said Dusk, all pre-disapproving. “Carry on.”

Neil touched the collar of his Hawaiian shirt and held the pad up to his face.

“I think prescription pads might cause doctor handwriting,” he said.

“Someone should do a study. Tell you what. I'll find out the truth about that,” I said.

“Hush,” said Dusk. “As the junior team member, it's best not to call attention to yourself.”

I was a little offended. “Junior Team Member”? Well, I never! If Dusk doesn't stay true to her rebellion and become an artist, she's probably going to be a surgeon or a general in the military. Maybe even a surgeon general. She's definitely bossy enough.

“So far, I've asked the truth of two individuals,” said Neil. “Aimee Danes and Tyler Jones. Of those two subjects, one told me the truth right away. One is still considering the question.”

“Good,” said Dusk. “Any other details you'd like to add?”

“Well,” said Neil. “I'm beginning to think that sharing truth establishes a longer-lasting bond than I might previously have thought. Once you've asked someone the truth and they tell you, you can't just walk away. You're joined by the truth, whether you like it or not.” As though to confirm this observation, Neil's cell phone buzzed. It might have been the low lighting in the Boardroom, but his face seemed to get a little paler.

Dusk didn't catch the exchange because she was flipping through her pad.

“Okay. I'll go next,” she said. “I have asked two individuals the truth and it went exceedingly well both times. Mrs. Dekker, a secretary, responded well and honestly.”

I wondered about the accuracy of that statement. Mrs.Dekker seemed like someone whose truth might change from day to day.

“Things went even better with Zinnia McFarland. She not only told me her truth, she caused a truth riot that involved much of the school.”

I thought of the expression on Zinnia's face when I'd seen her in the hallway earlier. She hadn't looked peaceful. I must have winced, because Dusk noticed.

“Do you have a comment, Normandy?”

“No. I'm good.”

“Because of those successes, I've come up with several new candidates for us. But before we proceed, I'd like to review the participation of all group members.”

Here was the peer pressure teachers were always on about. Only I thought I'd be hassled to smoke pot and drink and ride in cars with boys, not go around asking people their private business. Just my luck. Maybe if I took up smoking pot, boozing, and hooking up with random, inappropriate boys, my friends would back off.

I fanned the notes I wrote in class right before our meeting. I thought how I would like to do a series of drawings on medical prescription pads. Maybe make one of those flip stories where the character moves.

“Well, I have carefully observed the activities of the Commission.”

Dusk drummed her fingers on the floor. Neil smiled encouragingly.

“And I've undertaken an investigation of a truth candidate. You know, by observing her. That sort of thing.” I stopped. Then I jumped into the void.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if the three of us can do anything without being precious about it. I mean, just for once couldn't we use a piece of regular lined paper to write a report? Couldn't we wear hoodies and Uggs, drive Hondas, and eat Reese's Peanut Butter Cups? There are days when I have a hard time taking us seriously.”

Neil and Dusk stared at me like I'd grown a horn out of my forehead.

“What?” said Dusk.

“Is it the
Midnight Cowboy
outfits?” asked Neil. “I just wanted to say how much it means to me that you guys are willing to honor the films I love. I was thinking next we could dress like
Cool Hand Luke
. Bring a bunch of boiled eggs to school.”

Dusk fixed him with a glare. “Stop changing the subject.”

“Sorry,” said Neil.

“Normandy, continue your report,” said Dusk. I continued my freefall into rebellion.

“I've decided that I don't want to confront Lisette. Her relationship with the truth is so . . . you know. Tenuous.”

“Which is exactly why she needs us,” said Dusk, pretend-reasonable. I could tell she was furious.

“But she seems happy being quasi-delusional.”

“Our society's willingness to put up with and embrace falseness is killing us. We need to get real. Stop hiding behind false identities! Get off the Internet and into ourselves.”

“George Orwell said that, in a time of deceit, telling the truth was a revolutionary act,” added Neil, who was in the same English class as me and having his mind blown by
1984
. “What we're doing here is like thought crime in a world that encourages newspeak. It's radical.”

I thought of Mr. Thomas's words.

“It's only a spiritual practice when you ask
yourself
the truth.”

“Good p—” said Neil before Dusk cut him off.

“No one said this was a spiritual practice.” Her perfectly proportioned face was set into a mask of stubbornness.

“I'm pretty sure we did. At least we implied it,” I said.

“This is a social movement,” said Dusk. “A revolution, like Neil said. I thought you understood that.”

“I—”

“I think we should get something to eat. Come back to the Boardroom when the blood sugar is in better shape,” said Neil.

“Can you please be quiet?” snapped Dusk.

“That's rude,” I said before I even knew I intended to speak.

“
I'll
tell you what's rude. Pretending to be a part of our Commission and then shining us on. This initiative requires the full cooperation of every member for it to work.”

Once again the words barged out of my mouth before I could organize them into a more diplomatic arrangement. “You're being a bully about this,” I told her.

I heard a quick intake of breath from Neil.

“A bully?” demanded Dusk. “What are you? Some public service announcement? Also, that's doubly offensive because you know how I feel about bullies.” It's true that Dusk has never been one to stand by when someone's being picked on. Unless she's the picker. She's got a bit of a blind spot in that regard.

“I'm sorry, but this feels like bullying.”

“Well, I—” said Neil.

“How dare you!” cried Dusk.

“He never gets a word out. You're always cutting him off! It's always all about you!” I was yelling now, which came as a shock, since I haven't yelled since I was about four.

“I don't—” said Neil.

Dusk whirled on him. “Do I always interrupt you? Do you think I'm a bully?”

“I, uh—”

“I can't believe this!” she shouted. “The two of you being such assholes and ganging up on me like this!”

“Just because you don't get heard in your own house doesn't mean you can come to school and stomp all over us,” I said.

“Oh, boy,” whispered Neil, finally getting in a complete sentence.

“If I didn't talk, give a little direction, you two would just do nothing. Neil would paint pictures of women instead of having relationships with them. You'd just sit there trying to escape attention. Being as quiet as possible.”

“I do not—” spluttered Neil and I together.

“My paintings are—” started Neil, but before I heard the rest of what he had to say, I stumbled to my feet.

“I don't need the truth or this Commission. We have no idea what other people's lives are like and asking the truth of every person in this school isn't going to make us empathetic people. Or interesting people or anything except snoops.”

Neil made a low groaning noise.

I hesitated for a moment. “We need to mind our own business!”

“You need to
get
some business,” said Dusk. “Until you have some, I don't want to talk to you.”

“Come on,” said Neil. “You guys. We're—”

“Over!” shouted Dusk. She crossed her thin arms in front of her and she leaned back.

I turned and ran directly into a furniture maker who was on his way into the Boardroom. He had on big earmuff headphones and screamed in surprise. I shoved him in the chest and ran for Nancy.

Goddamned truth.