Jesus Jackson by James Ryan Daley

community. He meant so much to us all.”
    â€œRyan.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œHis name is Ryan.”
    â€œOh yes,” she said, not missing a beat. “Ryan. Well. At any rate, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
    â€œRight now?”
    She flashed her yellowed dentures. “Yes, now. Please follow me.” And she started to walk at a brisk pace down the hall.
    I followed her to the end of the main hallway. The glare off of the beige-painted cinderblock expanse was blinding as her shoes clicked and squeaked toward the rusting metal door in the distance. She led me down a flight of stairs and into a dark basement hallway with mud-colored walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and the faint smell of onions lingering in the air. Ms. LaRochelle continued on ahead of me, unfazed by our horror-show surroundings, until we finally came to a wooden door, marked, “Sheldon Finger, B.A. School Psychologist.”
    Oh, shit , I thought.
    She opened the door, revealing a thirty-something, blonde-bearded man, sitting alone in a comically small office—five, maybe six feet square at the most—dressed head-to-toe in pastel blue, bright yellow, and khaki. “Mr. Finger,” said Ms. LaRochelle. “This is Jonathan Stiles.”
    The khaki man leaned forward in his chair. He extended his hand, the overemphasized empathy on his face so brutally effortful that I had to look away for fear of laughing or throwing up. I shook his hand weakly, staring at the motivational posters papering his wall: pictures of beaches and sunsets and puppies, espousing such philosophical gems as, “You can do it!” and “Dedication!” and “Believe in your dreams!”
    I said, “Hi.”
    â€œHi, Jonathan,” he purred. His voice was soft and slimy, and made me feel kind of gross. He turned to Ms. LaRochelle. “Thank you, Lucy.” She nodded and quickly left, closing the door behind her.
    Then there was this incredibly long pause. Just silence, as he sat there staring at me, as if I were the one that was supposed to get this thing started.
    Finally, he said, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Jonathan.”
    I nodded. “Mm-hm.”
    Another pause. “It’s tragic.”
    â€œMm-hm.”
    And another pause. “So,” he said at a last, “would you like to pray before we get started?”
    Really, at this point, after the morning I’d had…after the day and the weekend and the life…really, there was only one option left for me: I panicked. It was just too much. Having to come talk to this lunatic was bad enough, but pray with him? Fuck that.
    â€œI think I’m going to be sick,” I blurted out, only half pretending.
    â€œOh my.” He seemed shocked, and a little scared. “Well, you should…you should….”
    â€œI have to go to the nurse.”
    â€œYes. Yes, of course.”
    I didn’t wait for him to say anything more or write me a pass. I just bolted through the door, ran back through that dank, disgusting hallway, up the stairs, past the infirmary, and busted out the great big oak doors at the front of the school.

Eight
    Outside, everything was the opposite of that awful basement; it was all bright sun and cut grass and quiet breeze, and it felt good. I decided to wander a bit to calm myself down. I made my way around the perimeter of the school, over to the football field. I walked past the bleachers and up to the edge of the field, when I noticed that someone was jogging on the far side of the track. He looped around, came closer, and it wasn’t until he was about a hundred yards away that I realized who it was: Jesus Jackson, running laps in a velvety white track suit, white high-top sneakers, and a white Nike headband.
    He reached me a few moments later. “Hey, Jonathan!” he said, continuing to jog in place. “What’s shaking?”
    I was a little