The Truth Commission (14 page)

We Don't Take Requests

The next day I was still vibrating from the thrill of my honest talk with Brian Forbes. It was intoxicating to be entirely direct with someone. Dusk and Neil were right: it felt revolutionary.

Between savoring the feeling that I'd cut through the formalities to have a meaningful interaction with a strange boy and luxuriating in the thought of all the positive things that were likely to come from it, like him getting clean and me opening up, I hardly had time to think about the tensions at home. Keira had returned from another three-day absence and, after retreating to her room for a while, had gone back to work in the closet. I was curious about how far she'd gotten with the new Chronicle. I hoped there wouldn't be too much in it about the Flounder. I also hoped Keira hadn't named the new book something humiliating like:
Diana Chronicles 4: The Less Talented Sister
. Ha. Ha. Okay, so that's not really funny. But after her last confession, she'd stopped coming into my room to talk about what had happened. Maybe our vague, one-sided chats had healed her enough that she would soon go back to CIAD. The thought made me feel light with hope.

Plus, I was officially hooked on the truth.

“Still feeling great, right?” said Dusk, the day after I spoke to Brian.

We were back in painting class. Ms. Choo was teaching us yet another advanced brushwork technique. We were paying yet again only partial attention.

“It was a rush. I'm still kind of processing.”

“Truth is power,” said Neil. “So I'm not that used to it.”

“Oh, Neil,” I said. “You have way more power than you give yourself credit for.”

He blew me a kiss and I blew one back. Dusk, who doesn't do what she calls “appalling outbursts of affection,” made a gagging noise.

“Oh,
Dusk
,” said Neil and I together. Before we could tease her any more, the sound of raised voices came from the other side of the studio.

Sarah Vanderwall was whisper-yelling at her girlfriend, Kim Yee.

“I'm sorry, but it's the truth!” said Sarah.

“Screw you!” said Kim, her voice low but reaching every corner of the room. “I
do so
have a sophisticated color sense. It's just different than yours.”

“Oh, yeah, you're a real A. Y. Jackson.”
83

“What is your problem? Why are you being such a bitch?” hissed Kim.

“Hey, you said you wanted to move past polite into truth. You said everyone at school is doing it. And of course you just
have
to be part of it because it's a trend.”

“Me?” said Kim. “Look at your tattoo! It's the worst one in this school. And this school is filled with awful tattoos.”

“Why do you have to keep bringing up Winnie? I thought we got past that. I told you Winnie and I never
did
anything. We just talked about it. Then she moved to Victoria!”

“I never even
mentioned
Winnie!” yelled Kim. “But it's clear that she's obviously on your mind pretty much constantly.”

“Girls,” said Ms. Choo. “What seems to be the problem?”

“What's
not
the problem?” huffed Sarah.

Then their voices dropped so we couldn't eavesdrop properly. As Ms. Choo led them out of the room for a cool-down chat, Dusk, Neil, and I glanced at one another and then at our brushstrokes.

Flare-ups like that had been happening with greater frequency all over G. P. Academy. Our classmates were open people, for the most part. They were ready to embrace any new movement. They liked to stir things up.

We'd had to tell people that we didn't take requests, that we never shared what we learned except with one another. Even so, people seemed to find out, partly because the subjects talked about it (in the cases of Aimee Danes and Zinnia McFarland). Tyler Jones remained in a holding pattern, truth-wise, and rarely left his studio pod, and I hadn't pursued Lisette.

Truth seeking was turning into a social movement with vague, fluctuating rules. The part of me that enjoyed a bit of control and some guidelines was made nervous by the lawless nature of what we'd started. The part of me that craved something authentic and unpredictable loved it. So did the part of me that wanted to look at magazine pictures of celebrity cellulite.

We didn't comment on Sarah and Kim, our school's power lesbian couple. They'd be fine. Everyone knew that fighting was how they kept things fresh.

“Have you seen or talked to Brian today?” asked Neil finally.

“No.”

“He probably went into rehab,” said Dusk, all breeziness. “That's what happens after people get honest with another person. You were a serious catalyst for good.”

I nodded. It had sure felt that way. His words about making changes had lifted me up, even if his other comments hadn't.

“On Monday, Prema,” said Neil. It wasn't a question.
84

“Yeah. She's next.”

“Then we'll all be even,” said Neil. “I love it when things are even.”

“You nervous?” Dusk asked me.

“No. I think it'll be okay. I mean, everyone knows about her.”

“About
them
,” said Neil.

“About them,” agreed Dusk. “But you need to be careful with her. Don't push. There's a lot at stake.”

“Of course,” I said, wondering at this, the first sign of caution Dusk had shown.

Ms. Choo came slippering back into the room. She had on little slides that seemed to be made of paper, and strange pants with a crotch that hung down to her knees and a vest with complicated folds. Ms. Choo was shaking her head. She looked at my canvas and my abbreviated brushstrokes. “You have to use momentum,” she said, and gestured fluidly to demonstrate. “Just so long as the brush doesn't get away from you and cause a mess.”

Oh, indeed.

High Drama Above the Tree Line

Prema Hardwick is G. P.'s token superstar athlete.
85

Some readers may wonder why a jock would go to Green Pastures Academy. Why attend a school where you get zero love for your outlier muscle-twitch capacities, when you could go to the Churchill or Dover and get all the special treatment and team jackets your heart could desire?
86
Surely, Prema Hardwick was smart enough to realize that the golden children at G. P. are the ones who get opinion pieces published in national news magazines and film shorts in festivals. (Our badminton team, three-legged racers, and hopscotch athletes aren't about to get a stadium built for them,
Friday Night Lights
–style. Not even an ironic one.)

The answer to why Prema attends G. P. Academy is this: she takes fabric arts seriously. I've seen some of her quilts and yarn installations. She's a real asset to our traditional arts program, and I mean that in all seriousness, even though it sounds condescending. I am an excellent stitcher, but less skilled with some of the other crafts. For instance, my weaving project was a tragic episode in my art career. Dusk confiscated what she called my “Lump 'n' Threads” wall hanging for “crimes against eyes,” and took it out to the school sustainability patch to keep weeds down and vermin fearful.

As almost everyone knows, because of all the local newspaper articles and radio announcements and whatnot, Prema and two of her BC Ski Team compadres qualified for the national cross-country ski team. People say she's destined to win an Olympic medal one day.

Flashback alert!

Dusk's family has a cabin on Mount Washington (as far as I can tell this is pretty much a requirement for a two-doctor family in the mid-Island region), and last winter her parents invited Neil and me for a weekend. During that visit Dr. and Dr. Weintraub-Lee insisted that Dusk show me how to skate ski.
87
They tried to make Neil learn, too, but he told them he was asthmatic, which he is not.

I borrowed Dusk's eleven-year-old brother's skate skis and followed her to the trails.

“Skate skiing is just like it sounds: half skating and half skiing. You know how to do both, right?” assumed Dusk.

She shoved off and demonstrated the basic technique. We ended up on a trail that led around the side of the mountain and opened up to reveal the mighty Pacific Ocean sprawling far below through broken cloud cover. At least, that's what I
should
have seen. I couldn't appreciate the view because I was dying. The vapor trail I left in my wake made it look like I was carrying a boiling kettle somewhere on my person.

I collapsed at about the three-quarter mark and lay atop the crust of snow, waiting for the end. It took a good ten minutes for my heart to stop jackhammering in a fatal-seeming way. Dusk finally noticed I was no longer behind her, and by the time she doubled back to check on me, I was past caring about small matters such as life and death.

“You may need to radio down to the lodge and get some medical support staff and a defibrillator,” I told her. I'd sweated through my tights and woolen jersey and the sweat had dried, gluing me to the snowbank. “My body may be frozen here until spring,” I added. “It will actually be a relief. Anything's better than trying to skate ski any farther.”

“Come on, get up,” said Dusk with the bedside manner of a dingo. “You're fine.”

She jammed her poles into the bank, leaned over, and helped me into a sitting position.

That's when we heard the
shooshing
noise that indicated that a good skate skier was approaching.

I watched in awe as Prema Hardwick flew by, poling and skating with the ease and grace of . . . well, an elite skate skier.

She was followed by two ultra-lean guys. All three of them wore the colorful, boldly patterned, aerodynamic unitards of the Mount Washington Ski Team.

Among the three of them, they had perhaps one-half ounce of extra fat, which would probably be used up by the time they got back to the lodge.

Prema smiled graciously at us as she passed and inclined her head. She appeared entirely unaffected by the effort of pushing herself up a mountain on a pair of Popsicle sticks.

“That's disgusting,” I said when they were gone, which took about two seconds.

Dusk laughed. “I think she's propelled along by the drama of the triangle,” she said.

“Triangle?”

“The captain of the Nordic team is Luke. He's twenty. He loves her. Tony, her other teammate, also twenty, is in love with her, too. The three of them spend every minute together. It's a sordid-yet-compelling love triangle. High drama above the tree line.” Dusk slid her hands back into the straps of her poles. “Everyone is holding their breath waiting to see which guy she's going to choose. It has the potential to destroy the team. It's a code red love situation up here at Mount Washington.”

“She's torn between two lovers,” I said. “It's like
The Hunger Games
but with Nordic skiers.”

“In other words, it's nothing like
The Hunger Games
.”

“Right,” I agreed.

The thought of Prema's hyper-athletic love triangle was enough to sustain me until we made it back to the lodge, where we found Neil enjoying a large plate of fries and gravy.

“Come on in!” he said. “The fries are fine!”

Once we were settled with hot chocolate and our own fries, we watched Prema and her suitors at the ski team table. The two boys leaned close each time she spoke. Then they caught sight of each other and quickly leaned out, like wooden pecking-hen toys. The whole lodge seemed filled with low-grade tension. Prema, for all her ferocious perfection and outdoorsiness, seemed anxious, looking from Luke to Tony and back. Part of me wondered if she was trying to tell them apart. They were
extremely
similar—high cheekbones, sandy curly hair, eyes bugged out from a bad case of love.

“You getting a load of those three?” asked Neil.

“Yeah,” I said.

“You and the rest of the world,” he said, and swiped another fry through the gravy. “What, oh what, is going to happen?”

And that's where we left it. Prema Hardwick, superstar athlete on whose talents and affections rest the dreams of so many people. End of flashback.
88

At the end of last year, she and both of her would-be lovers joined the National Ski Team. Meanwhile, her smile became less frequent and her jock-perkiness wilted.

Every time we saw her, I whispered my standard line, “Torn between two lovers,” and shook my head sadly.

Dusk said, “It's like Romeo and Juliet plus another guy.”

“That would be Paris,” I told her.

“I thought the problem in that story was the parents,” she said. “Then again, I suppose I would think that.”

Of the three of us, Dusk seemed the most genuinely worried about Prema. After all, Dusk spent a lot more time on the mountain than Neil and me. Two days after I talked to Brian and a little less than a year after I saw Prema in her natural element, I was ready to get to the bottom of her romantic tribulations. I decided to approach her during the period designated, but only occasionally used, for physical activity. I knew that Prema would be running laps. Ski season hadn't started yet, but Prema worked out about four times a day. When the weather allowed it, she did fartlek on the track. Fartlek
89
is this running technique where you run at your normal pace and then every so often, when the spirit moves you, you run as fast as you can. Then you return to your regular pace. It's pretty fun. Not as fun as saying the word
fartlek
, but what is, really?

“I'm sure she'll appreciate your interest,” said Dusk. “She's probably just waiting for an excuse to talk about it.”

“I agree,” said Neil. “Norm, I think you should tell her that the neurologists have done studies and they've discovered that secrets are hard on the body. They affect health and athletic performance.”

Only a few days before, I would have replied that was a good reason for us to stay out of other people's business. If we ended up learning a bunch of secrets, our health could be negatively affected. But the boost I'd gotten from my meeting with Brian Forbes was still clear in my mind.

As we walked outside into the cool, clear October afternoon, already scented with wood smoke, Neil massaged my shoulders like I was heading into a boxing ring, which made me feel kind of dumb and kind of great at the same time.

“Just be yourself,” he said.

When we were near the track, Dusk said, “Maybe I should do it.”

I turned to her.

“I know her, and it feels wrong to . . . outsource it.”

“You don't think I can handle it?” I said.

“I just feel responsible. If everything goes to hell, it's better if it's my fault.” Dusk wasn't usually one to admit that anything could go wrong with one of her ideas. Her reaction wasn't making sense.

“My dad is so excited about the ski team,” she continued. “He's planning to take the whole family to the nationals in Banff. He's even planning to take us to the Olympics if Prema or any of our skiers make it.”

“But then isn't it better if one of
us
messes things up? Your parents already think we're morons,” said Neil.

“They do not think you're morons. They just see you as low achievers. It's not the same. Anyway, my parents are used to me doing stupid, disappointing things. I don't want them to get mad at you guys. If anyone's going to be responsible for dashing their dreams, it should be me.”

“Would you like a shoulder massage?” Neil asked her.

“No, Neil. I do not want a shoulder massage. You and Norm can do bodywork on each other while I get this thing done.”

“We don't have to—” I started, but Dusk was already striding off.

Soon, she'd reached the area of track on which Prema, lean and dark-complected, was stretching. Dusk began to do a pale imitation of the same stretches, and when Prema began running, Dusk hustled along behind. She looked extra unathletic because she wore men's brogues, a pair of lace pantaloons, and an oversized Celine Dion T-shirt.

Prema was apparently so depressed and distracted by her romantic difficulties that she didn't notice or didn't care that she had company. Her warm-up pace was similar to that of a coursing greyhound. Dusk was able to keep her in sight, but only barely. Then Prema found her next gear and began covering ground like a barn swallow.

When Dusk reached the spot where Neil and I stood, long after Prema had sprinted by, her brogues sounded like they were filled with concrete.

She slowed, then stopped, her hands on her knees.

“Go! Go!” said Neil.

I took Dusk's place on the track and hurried after Prema, who by this time had gone around at least twice.

I ran as fast as I could, but Prema was doing something else entirely. “Looking good out there,” said Neil when I panted my way back within earshot. Dusk said she thought she needed to barf and that she'd give me encouragement later.

I realized that I was going to tear something if I didn't stop or slow down. Also, I had no idea why we were racing after Prema Hardwick.

“Can't we just wait until she finishes?” I gasped.

“It wouldn't be fair. We have to meet her in her natural environment,” said Dusk.

“Oh, God,” said Neil.

He stepped gingerly onto the track in his dark blue suit. He began to trot gingerly along the track, looking like a man chasing after his handkerchief on a windy day.

“Our boy is exercising,” she said. “In a suit.”

“I'm so proud,” I agreed.

We stood with our arms around each other as we watched Neil trot his way uncertainly around the track while Prema hurtled by him again and again as though it was one-hundredth rather than a quarter mile. His burgundy tie flapped out behind him.

“How much do you love him?” I asked Dusk.

“As much as my own breath,” she said.

“Me too,” I said.

He made it all the way around, but just barely. Dusk limped onto the track to replace him. Fortunately for our newly formed shin splints, Prema finally slowed to a human jog and then stopped and began stretching on the bleachers.

Out of respect, Neil and I backed away as Dusk walked up to her. We saw her say something. Prema turned to stare at Dusk and we could hear the fateful words: “Mind your own business.” Then Prema walked away.

“Not good,” I said.

“Definitely not worth the exercise,” said Neil.