The Truth Commission by Susan Juby Page A

scared.”
    â€œWe’ll dress how we want or we won’t dress at all!” cried Zinnia nonsensically. This was an art school. It went without saying that we dressed how we wanted. And as anyone who spent more than twenty minutes near the Photoshoot Tree could attest, a lot of us barely dressed at all, at least when the weather was fine.
    â€œWell,” said Dusk.
    â€œCome on!” Zinnia peeled off her checked work shirt. “Who’s with me?”
    â€œOh, God,” I said.
    To her credit, Dusk looked at us. Then she took off her shiny, in-certain-light-indigo K-pop bomber jacket.
    I gave her the big eyes and a nod.
    Zinnia was down to her boxer shorts and an undershirt. I reviewed my underclothes. It was like that car accident moment mothers are always warning kids about. Only it was an impromptu Slut Walk through school. I decided my bra and underpants were adequate. In fact, my briefs actually had a cool print of a robot on the front. I gave a silent prayer of thanks and began to strip down.
    A minute later, the four of us wore only our undergarments.
    â€œCome on!” said Zinnia, and marched off, leaving her bike unlocked and her pile of clothing on the ground. Dusk and I clutched our clothing to our chests. Neil picked up Zinnia’s clothes and added them to the neat pile of his own. Together, we followed Zinnia past the gym and around to the side door. There was no one in the Photoshoot Tree. As we walked past the office, Mrs. Dekker rose up from behind her desk.
    There was something different about her.
    No poncho!
    Mrs. Dekker was dressed in a bright yellow sundress with spaghetti straps. The left one had slid off her massive sloping shoulder. She looked like a fridge in a dress, but the significance of the change was impossible to miss. Mrs. Dekker was opening up and we were in our best underpants and the truth was breaking out all over our school.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” asked Mrs. Dekker with only a fifth of the usual hostility in her voice.
    Administrators came out of the office. Students and teachers came out of classrooms. Seniors emerged from studio pods.
    â€œMy sister dressed in a provocative way and she was tormented for it. I didn’t talk about it because I was embarrassed and I felt guilty. No more!” cried Zinnia.
    Our fellow students, never ones to miss an opportunity to make a statement, immediately and unquestioningly started taking off their clothes in solidarity.
    â€œThese three finally asked me why I put on the Slut Walk,” brayed the formerly soft-spoken Zinnia McFarland in a voice like a labor riot. “And I finally told the truth. I feel
great
!”
    A few of the more forward-thinking teachers fell into step with us. Some removed blazers and horn-rimmed glasses. Thankfully, none took off their clothes.
    â€œWe’re all sluts!” said Zinnia.
    â€œSluts!” cried the students.
    â€œWhores!” someone added.
    â€œWe’re taking back those words!”
    â€œWe’re taking back all the words they try to put on us!”
    â€œFag!”
    â€œLoser!”
    â€œI’m totally a fag!” said Aimee. “A whore, slut, fag.”
    â€œWe all are! And we’re wearing our underpants!” cried someone else.
    And that’s how the Truth Commission set off the first Slut Riot Parade.

Tuesday, September 2 5
    An Acute Eye
    The truth movement felt radical, at least until the following Sunday. 49 My sister hadn’t disappeared for over a week. Nor had she come into my room to talk. She’d been in the closet all weekend, which gave me plenty of time to work quietly on my embroidery.
    If you aren’t familiar with the stitching world, I do embroidery that lets me make detailed images in thread. 50 Needlework is the perfect pastime for people who are obsessive and don’t want to draw much attention to themselves. I can sit hunched over my embroidery frame for five or six hours, and