Free The Truth Commission by Susan Juby Page B

made it that much more fascinating and awful when Dusk confronted her.
    Dusk convinced us to wait for Zinnia at the bike racks before school. In addition to being disheveled, Zinnia’s also chronically late. This is standard at G. P. Academy, where people think that being on time suggests that you are insufficiently creative.
    She finally shambled along about ten minutes after the first bell. It might have been an optical illusion, but her old cruiser bike gave the impression of having two flat tires and severely bent rims. I think I saw dust bunnies blowing out of hidden air pockets in her enormous billowing sweater as she wheeled up to the bike rack.
    She’d painted her helmet, the full-coverage kind skateboarders wear, to look like a beehive that had been split open, revealing a honeycomb inside.
pleasesavethebeespleasesavethebees
was written all around the bottom edge. It was possibly the greatest bike helmet in the world and, to be quite honest, I think Zinnia might have been one of my favorite people at school. I mean, I didn’t really know her, but the
idea
of her is part of what makes the Art Farm great.
    Dusk sauntered over, wearing a little K-pop-inspired number.
    â€œZinnia,” she exclaimed. “Looking comfy as ever!”
    Zinnia smiled under her shattered beehive, and I was reminded of daisies and other flowers that are sunny and unpretentious. No one would ask a daisy the truth. A daisy
is
the truth. If I’d been able to cope with confrontation in any form, I would have tackled Dusk just then.
    Instead, I just muttered, “Aw, jeez,” and stared at my feet.
    â€œIt’s okay,” whispered Neil. I heard uncertainty in his voice.
    â€œHi, Dusk,” said Zinnia. “I love your jacket. When the sun hits it just the right way, that blue shades into indigo, which is an impossible color to find. Some eye shadows get close, but only near the right eyes.”
    â€œYeah?” said Dusk. “Thanks. I hadn’t noticed.”
    Zinnia stared expectantly at Dusk. Like my sister, she has this way of turning her full attention on you, like you are the only person in the world and she doesn’t want to miss some excellent thing you might do or say. Part of me prayed the Dusk would notice that. Would realize that someone like Zinnia was dangerously open.
    Dusk did not. Maybe because her family was the opposite of open, and in order to be herself, she had to be walled off. If that makes any sense.
    â€œSo, Zinnia, I was wondering. About the Slut Walk—”
    â€œFirst week of May,” said Zinnia. “And I’m getting some great speakers from the Women’s Support Society. We might have a film night first. It’s so great of you guys to take part. It’s important to raise awareness.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Dusk.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Zinnia seemed genuinely confused.
    â€œWhy do you care?”
    Sarcasm was not in Zinnia’s repertoire. When she gave painted rabbits the faces of politicians, it was because she was trying to communicate, not hurt anyone’s feelings.
    â€œOh, Dusk,” she said earnestly. “It’s really serious. There was that police officer who said that women shouldn’t dress like sluts if they don’t want to be victimized. 48 Women all over the world are harassed, beaten, and even raped for how they dress.”
    â€œI get that,” said Dusk. “But is there any personal connection for you? Does the issue hit close to home for some reason?”
    Zinnia’s earnest face crumpled in on itself. She stood motionless, holding the length of chain she used to lock her bike. It was so heavy, she tilted slightly sideways.
    Finally, she said, “You probably know about my sister.”
    I could feel my eyes bulging. I wanted to scream at Dusk. Tell her to let Zinnia keep her motivations private. We had no right to them. This was not fair.
    â€œI heard something,” said Dusk