The Truth Commission by Susan Juby Page B

Fine Art Hall, which is essentially a dome, because our Founding Farmer was a big fan of Buckminster Fuller, the theorist and designer who was popular with hippies and radicals and people who had a thing for domes. Most of the students—painters, sculptors, potters, etc.—share space and work on their major projects in shifts. Tyler’s year-end sculpture was deemed so outstanding, so groundbreaking, that no one, including janitorial staff, was allowed into his pod.
    Naturally, the rest of us would have run over Joss Whedon 45 to get a look at what Tyler was doing in there.
    When Tyler emerged from Pod 3, he looked like he always does—distracted and handsome with a double helping of hot-artist sauce. At risk of sounding pervy, I will describe him. About six feet tall, broad-shouldered, loose jeans hanging just so from narrow hips, denim work shirt, hair tied back with a random piece of twine.
    â€œDamn,” whispered Dusk.
    Neil and I nodded mutely while we watched Tyler lock up his studio.
    â€œYou can’t do this,” I said as the three of us sat, turned to stone by the perfection of Tyler Jones.
    â€œThat’s just your fear talking,” said Neil. His voice was slightly strangled, and I could tell he no longer felt so nonchalant.
    â€œBut you hate labels,” I said.
    Neil ignored me. In truth, Neil quite likes labels, as long as they are interesting to him. He has a strong preference for 1970s brands and culture, and has been known to point out the signature buttons on his vintage Halston blazer.
    We were sitting on a handmade bench in the round atrium between the studios. The ceiling was made of glass panels, and the space was brilliant from the sun blazing directly overhead.
    â€œOkay,” said Neil. He got to his feet, shot his cuffs, and straightened the permanent polyester crease in his dress pants. Then he was up and walking his light-blue-suited self toward Tyler Jones.
    As Neil approached, Tyler gave him a little jerk of the chin by way of greeting. It’s a gesture predicated on the notion that people are paying such close attention that even one’s smallest movement will be noticed.
    â€œHi, Tyler,” said Neil. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
    I wanted to shout “Stop!” This was completely different from Aimee, who’d obviously been dying to tell someone about her operations. This was different from Mrs. Dekker, whose issues were acute. Tyler Jones had a delicious mystery about him. He should be allowed to remain a private person.
    He looked at Neil and smiled, and I felt myself sag onto the bench, which was made of concrete and had an assortment of old silverware and utensils such as spatulas and wire whisks sticking out the back and sides. The title
Game of Benches
was hand-carved into the seat. Art school humor.
    Tyler Jones was DEFCON 4 on the charisma scale. Maybe the reason he didn’t seem to hook up with anyone, female or male, was because his sexual magnetism was so strong, he’d kill the person. Maybe it was an artistic genius thing. My sister has never really dated, as far as I know. All her energy goes into creating the Chronicles.
    Dusk, who was apparently thinking something similar, whispered, “Wow,” over and over again.
    Neil pulled his sunglasses from their resting place on his head and put them on, perhaps to dim the effect of Tyler’s gorgeousness. “I want to ask you a private question.”
    Tyler’s smile faded. I thought I saw dismay flit across his face, but that might have been projection on my part.
    â€œOkay,” he said.
    Then Neil ushered him into an unoccupied studio, and Dusk and I were left on the bench to wonder.
    We were silent for at least two minutes. That’s one of the great things about Dusk. She knows how to be quiet. In fact, she’s one of my favorite people to be quiet with. I feel closer to her when we’re not talking than when we are.
    I