The Truth Commission by Susan Juby

off-putting, but before we came along, Dusk didn’t have any friends. She had only her looks and her acid remarks to keep her company. So they haven’t banished us, even though we are overtly unaccomplished in their eyes. At least I have a famous sister, and Neil’s dad has a lot of money.
    â€œI believe she’s referring to the Truth Commission,” said Neil. “We don’t want to keep all this goodness for ourselves. Seriously, Norm. You won’t believe how it feels to cut through the bullshit. To go right to the heart of the matter.”
    â€œIt’s exhilarating,” said Dusk. “And I don’t even
get
exhilarated.”
    â€œI’m still thinking.” I checked my watch. In two more minutes Nancy would be ready to go, at least long enough to stall in the school parking lot where she belonged.
    â€œYou’re a retiring person. We understand that. But I think”—Neil corrected himself—“
we
think that this will be good for your confidence.”
    They’d been discussing my confidence? Since when was my confidence any worse than theirs? I suppose their concern might have been based on Volume 2 of the Diana Chronicles, the one that shows Flanders having tragically ill-attended eighth birthday parties in two universes. This episode was closely modeled on my own eighth birthday party, which was not, shall we say, a huge success, thanks to some kids spreading a rumor about me misusing another kid’s underpants. I will say no more. 41 I’m not sure whether Dusk and Neil have read the Chronicles. Out of respect for me they don’t really talk about them, but occasionally they let something slip that suggests they are familiar with my other life as a semi-fictional character.
    God, I hate it when people talk about me. Or look at me.
    â€œWe’ve even come up with the perfect person for you to ask,” said Dusk.
    â€œBecause we care,” said Neil. He flipped the candy cigarette into his mouth and began to chew.
    â€œTyler Jones,” said Dusk.
    That was all they needed to say.
    Tyler Jones is a gifted sculptor who works in stone and metal. He’s tall, muscular, and has that sculptor-y bass voice and a half-asleep demeanor that makes toes tingle. He also has awesome dreads and listens to underground hip-hop mixes and electronic dance tracks that his brother sends him from Baltimore, which gives him instant credibility in Nanaimo. He’s also one of only six black kids in a school that wishes it was more diverse.
    Everyone at school wonders whether he is gay for the following reason: he has no girlfriend, in spite of the fact that every straight girl in school has thrown herself in front of him like an insurance scammer in a Walmart parking lot.
    If Tyler Jones turns out to be a gorgeous gay sculptor, it will be a credit to the whole G. P. Academy and a disappointment to all the females (including terrifying Mrs. Dekker) who stare longingly after him when he walks languidly down the hallway. But he’s not saying one way or another.
    â€œYou’re not serious,” I said.
    â€œOf course we’re serious. He’s probably just waiting for someone to ask.”
    â€œHe probably wants to bring his boyfriend to prom,” added Neil. “The right question at the right time will open the door.”
    â€œCan you imagine what kind of guy Tyler goes out with?” said Dusk. “I bet he’s ridiculously gorgeous.
Too
hot, even.”
    â€œMaybe he just goes out with a regular guy who’s nice and funny,” said Neil.
    â€œYeah,” she agreed. “That would be even cooler. Thinking about it makes me wish I was a regular-looking but smart and funny gay guy.”
    â€œMe too,” said Neil cheerfully. Neil may the straightest, most girl-focused guy imaginable, but he’s not afraid to acknowledge that dash of gay that makes life fun.
    I looked at my friends. “In case you