Free Jesus Jackson by James Ryan Daley

real.”
    â€œNo,” he agreed. “I didn’t think so either.”
    â€œSo what else did you find?
    â€œWell, the problem is that there are just so many gods out there that people believe in, and they’re all totally different.”
    I was intrigued. I don’t think I’d ever considered the fact that there were people whose idea of “god” was different than my own. “Like what else?”
    â€œWell, there’s Buddha—”
    â€œIsn’t that the gold guy with the belly at China Garden?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œHmm…”
    â€œAnd there’s also Shiva and Krishna and Allah and Mohammed—who is, like, as big as Jesus in some places—and Haile Sellassie and Vishnu and Zoroaster and Ganesh—who looks like an elephant but with four arms and a potbelly—not to mention all of the ancient gods who no one talks about anymore. There are like a million of those.”
    â€œWhoa.”
    â€œAnd people keep on making up new gods all the time. There’s even this one called Xenu that some people believe in out in California. They get real excited about him, too, but as far as I can tell, the only thing he ever did was bring a bunch of aliens to Earth and then blow them up in a volcano.”
    This was just too much, and I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. And soon as I started laughing, Ryan started too, until we were both in hysterics. Once we finally caught our breath, though, we both got real quiet, realizing that we were apparently no better off than when we started.
    â€œSo,” I said at last. “Did you find anything that actually might be true?”
    â€œNo, he said, closing his laptop with a sigh. “I guess I didn’t.”
    â€œYeah, that’s what I figured.”
    He jumped up and patted me on the back. “But don’t worry, Jon Jon. We’ve barely scratched the surface. We just have to keep on digging. We’ll find something eventually.”
    I nodded and said, “Okay.” But I had my doubts. And to be perfectly honest, I think that Ryan had even more doubts than I did.

Ten
    The thing about Jesus (Jackson, that is) is that once he’s in your head, you just can’t get him out. Every conversation we ever had would play over and over like a song blaring on repeat in my brain. His questions became deep existential dilemmas; his suggestions became obsessions. So it was no surprise that for the rest of that first day at St. Soren’s, all I could think about was our meeting on the football field. Was he really going to build me a god? Was that even possible? Was I an idiot for giving him my twelve bucks? Did I even want a god? Was it just because of Ryan? And what about Ryan? And what about Alistair? And what the fuck really happened in those woods?
    In the end, all of my questions faded but the last one, and its darkest manifestation: Did Alistair kill my brother?
    Once I allowed myself to really consider that Ryan was murdered, the thought of it consumed me. A hundred different scenarios played out in my head—all beginning with Henry and me running for our lives, and ending with Alistair pushing Ryan into the ravine. The most plausible of them went something like this:
    Once Henry and I were out of sight, the other three guys jumped in on the fight, taking Alistair’s side, of course. They all began to beat on Ryan, circling around him, kicking him in the chest and stomach and kneecaps and face, while Ryan lay nearly helpless and curled up on the ground. When they finally stopped for a second, Ryan swung back into action, kicking Alistair into one of the other guys, giving Ryan just enough time to spring to his feet and make a break for it. Within seconds, though, they were all on his trail. Ryan sprinted straight into the woods, barreling through bushes and shrubs, scrambling over boulders and fallen trees, and stopping himself inches before toppling over the