The Truth Commission by Susan Juby Page B

way about him. He was a choreographer, a writer, an artist, and a musician. He was the most popular teacher at G. P., maybe because he was the embodiment of what all the administrators and teachers wanted us to become: well-rounded artists and creative people. 63 He was also funny, which was my favorite thing about him, and he was deep.
    â€œCan I help?” he asked. He stood near where I perched on the edge of the giant potted fern.
    I felt a surge of guilt and wasn’t sure why. “I’m just hanging out.”
    Randy smiled. His face was round, and when he smiled, he looked very young.
    â€œYou planning to start some more riots?” he said, settling down on the huge ceramic pot next to mine. He didn’t look like an elf beside the fern. He looked like a giant who would flatten it if he shifted his weight the wrong way.
    I gave a small, insincere laugh.
    â€œThat was interesting. You and your friends really started something, eh?”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œI just saw them leave. Where’d they go?”
    One thing I’ve noticed about our visiting artists is that they’re all very curious, and they notice everything.
    â€œThey went looking for the truth,” I said before I could stop myself.
    â€œSo that’s what you guys are doing.”
    I nodded glumly.
    â€œHow’s that working out for you?”
    I considered the question for a long moment.
    â€œMixed,” I said. “We asked Mrs. Dekker why she’s so . . . you know, grumpy.”
    â€œI hear she has ostriches,” said Mr. Thomas, folding his arms over his broad chest and leaning back. The fern seemed to cringe behind him.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œShe’s a moody one,” he said.
    â€œThat hasn’t changed. Even if she has taken to wearing sundresses from time to time.”
    â€œNot sure about that yellow color on her,” said Mr. Thomas. “But you have to appreciate the effort.”
    After a longish pause, he spoke again. “So the truth has put a yellow sundress on an ostrich farmer and created an underwear riot. Powerful stuff. You got your eye on someone in here?” He nodded in the direction of the Shed.
    I looked down at my old Chucks and felt ashamed. Dusk and Neil didn’t feel this way about what we were doing. What was wrong with me?
    â€œI’m supposed to ask Lisette something,” I said.
    â€œThat right?” said Mr. Thomas. “Says who?”
    â€œMy friends.”
    â€œWhat are you going to ask her?”
    â€œI was supposed to ask if she really thinks she’s Native.”
    â€œAh, the Indian question. That’s dangerous territory right there.”
    I chanced a look into his face. It was as nonjudgmental as his voice, and full of the same gentle interest and amusement he brought to most things.
    â€œI think I’m supposed to ask why she can’t just be who she is.”
    Mr. Thomas nodded slowly. “Yeah, lot of trouble comes from not wanting to be who we are.”
    â€œBut I’m actually pretty sick of asking the truth. I’m definitely sick of hearing it,” I said. Not that he’d asked.
    â€œYou’re pretty sick of everything.”
    Mr. Thomas and I had locked eyes.
    â€œYes, I am.”
    â€œPretty angry, too,” he said.
    â€œYeah.”
    Tears started to push their way up, but I refused to bring my hand to my face to brush them away. “Do you ever feel like you just need a break?” I asked.
    â€œHell, yeah. All the time.”
    â€œWhat do you do?”
    â€œUsed to be wine, women, and song. Now I act. I teach. I create.” He put a pompous spin on the last word to let me know he didn’t take himself too seriously.
    â€œI already know why Lisette lies,” I said.
    â€œCourse you do. You’re a smart person.” Mr. Thomas straightened his long, jean-clad legs. He wore fancy cowboy boots. There are about four people in the world who