The Truth Commission by Susan Juby Read Free Book Online Page A

there.”
    â€œ
Everyone
has to see this,” said my mother. “Talent runs deep in this family.”
    I thought of the fun-house images of us heading into the world. Our worst, ugliest, most ridiculous selves in our smallest, weakest moments. But I couldn’t say anything.
    The rest of the story is pretty much history. People loved the books. They thought my parents and I were “great sports” about the whole thing. With each new accolade my sister, once my idol, moved even further away. “Genius must be allowed to flower,” said my parents. What they didn’t say was that apparently the subjects of genius could only flop helplessly around and try not to look too stupid. And even with all that, I missed her.
    So when Keira came into my room to pick up the story where it had left off as though no time had passed, how could I refuse?
    â€œHe was the best teacher I ever had. So talented.”
    She shifted in her mummy bag and I stayed still.
    â€œCan we put on a lamp?” she asked. “This will be easier to talk about in the light.”
    I clicked on the lamp.
    In the stretched-out silences between her sentences, our breathing was loud, out of sync.
    Despite what I’ve told you, which I realize makes her seem completely cruel and insensitive, I will say again that I don’t think my sister set out to do harm with the Chronicles. Her brain just naturally used what was near at hand and turned it into art. It’s what artists do.
    And, like other extraordinary artists, she’s got the self-protection instincts of a freshly hatched robin. It sometimes pains me to think of her out in the world that way, open and exposed to every sensation, every experience.
    â€œHe was good to talk to. Really smart. Not much older than me. We started talking in the studio after class. Like, when everyone else was gone.”
    â€œOh?” I said.
    â€œThen we texted. Talked on the phone.”
    Part of what makes Keira’s stories so popular is that she tells them in such a way that you always think something important is about to happen. They feel dramatic, even when they aren’t. Her sense of timing works well on the page. In life, it’s sort of painful.
    The bed beneath me turned to quicksand.
    I waited and listened and the details dripped out as though from a dislodged IV.
    â€œHe never treated me any different in class. But we had a strong connection. Our approach to our work was really similar,” she said.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThat was it, at first. He was so open and honest. Most people don’t understand what it’s like to be consumed by the artistic process.”
    My hands were clenched into fists under the light summer duvet.
    â€œHis art wasn’t going great. I know how that feels.”
    I doubted that, but didn’t say so.
    â€œYour teacher was writing you personal messages?” I asked, hating how conventional I sounded. “Did you report him?”
    â€œOf course not,” she said. “We were just talking. But then he asked if I wanted to go hiking with him.” She sighed and shifted, and her sleeping bag rustled in the dark. “I guess I shouldn’t have said yes.”
    There was something in her voice. A vulnerability I hadn’t heard for a long time. She sounded like the old Keira. The one who used to ask me about the color green.
    Before I could figure out a response, my sister got up and took her excruciating timing back to her own room. She left the next morning and didn’t come home for three days.

Friday, September 1 4
    Winner of the Title of Biggest Disappointment Who Ever Lived
    Dusk and Neil started in on me as soon as I picked them up the next day. My friends like to go to school in my truck, which, as I think I mentioned, is not one of your newer vehicles. Nancy is a 1970 Dodge Power Wagon with a paint job that demonstrates how badly red can fade in the sun. She’s got some rust and a