Jesus Jackson by James Ryan Daley Page A

surprised to see him there, but too grateful for his presence to ask any questions. Strange as it may seem, after the insanity of my first morning at St. Soren’s, Jesus Jackson seemed like the most normal person I had encountered all day. “Not much, I guess.”
    He glanced at his watch—a flashy gold digital, covered in what appeared to be diamonds (but I suspected were really rhinestones). “Shouldn’t you still be in school?”
    â€œTechnically, I’m at the nurse right now.”
    â€œGotcha.” His feet slowed to a stop, and he bent down into a stretch. “Is everything all right?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œKids giving you a hard time?”
    â€œNo, it’s…you know that kid, the one whose face is plastering the front of the school, whose name is soaped onto every car in the parking lot?”
    â€œYour brother, right?”
    I paused. “How’d you know?”
    â€œWell, you were the only kid standing around with the police on Saturday.”
    â€œOh yeah. Right.”
    He placed both palms flat onto the grass, exhaling sharply. “School’s been tough today? You feel like everyone is staring at you?”
    â€œEveryone is staring at me. But that’s not what’s bothering me.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    My first instinct was to drop it, like I did with everyone else. Just assume that everything was innocent and easy, and go on with my life. But I couldn’t. Not with Jesus Jackson. Not after that morning.
    â€œThere’s something not right about Ryan’s death.”
    He snapped upright, pulling one foot up to the back of his leg and leaning forward. “There’s a lot not right about it. He was so young…”
    â€œWell, yeah. But I mean, there’s something strange . Something fishy.”
    â€œFishy?”
    â€œYeah, fishy.”
    Jesus arched his body, reaching his arms towards the sky. “As in, what people are saying happened isn’t really what happened? That kind of fishy?”
    â€œYeah.
    â€œInteresting. What makes you think it’s so fishy?”
    â€œWell, there’s this kid Alistair. And he got into a fight with Ryan, and there were drugs involved…it’s a long story.”
    Jesus stopped stretching. He put his hands on his hips. “I think you better tell me this ‘long story,’ Jonathan.”
    So I did. I told Jesus all about the coke and my brother, and the woods, and Henry and Alistair’s friends, and everything. Throughout the whole story, Jesus Jackson listened with what seemed to be rapt attention, having me stop often to clarify particulars, expand on assumptions, delve more deeply into details.
    After I finished, he said, “Well that is certainly suspicious. Do you have a theory about what happened after you left?”
    â€œNot really, no.”
    â€œBut you’re saying you think there was some, well…foul play involved?”
    Honestly, up until that moment I hadn’t actually let myself even consider such a thought—that Alistair really may have killed Ryan—and hearing Jesus say it, it kind of sounded a bit absurd. I mean, they were just kids, it was just an ordinary day after football practice. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think that’s what I’m saying.”
    â€œSo then what are you saying?”
    â€œJust that it’s strange,” I said, now not sure why I had brought it up at all. “I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”
    Jesus stared at me silently for few seconds. “Well, if you say so.”
    Just then, a bright red Jeep drove past us in the parking lot, with the words, “Rest with the Angels, Ryan Stiles,” painted in multicolored wax on the windows.
    I sneered. “You know what I really can’t stand: all of this God crap.”
    This seemed to intrigue Jesus. He raised an eyebrow. “God crap ?”
    â€œYeah, crap.