Free Jesus Jackson by James Ryan Daley Page A

edge of the ravine. Before he even had the chance to catch his breath, Alistair came bursting out behind him, and without a pause, laid one right into Ryan’s cheekbone. Ryan stumbled, swayed, and fell over the edge to his death.
    I constantly rearranged the details in my mind, but the premise stayed the same: Alistair and Ryan fought; Ryan ran; Alistair pushed Ryan into the ravine.
    The problem, though, was that I had absolutely no proof: not enough proof to bring to the police, not even enough proof to convince myself that I wasn’t imagining the whole damn thing. I couldn’t walk up to Alistair and ask him what happened, and the only other witnesses were the two dickhead friends who helped him out in the first place.
    By the time I finally made it to lunch, I’d decided to focus on just getting through the day…which was turning out to be hard enough.
    The cafeteria at St. Soren’s, like the auditorium, was presided over by an enormous bronze crucifix, displaying an emaciated, tortured, and badly beaten Jesus. It struck me, as I stood holding my tray of pasty-looking pizza and soggy French fries, just how violent of an image this was to display over a sea of impressionable young minds. It transfixed me, for a moment, as I allowed my eyes to move from the oozing wound on his chest, to his caved esophagus, to his hollow eyes….
    And then out of nowhere an image of Ryan, similarly beaten and bloodied, flashed over the one of Jesus. I could see it so clearly in my mind—the bruises on his face and arms, his eyes rolled back, a trickle of red streaking a line from his nose to his cheek.
    I had to stop myself right there—take a deep breath, swallow hard, and shiver—just keep myself composed.
    Somehow, thankfully, I managed to hold it together, and went off instantly in search of Henry. Within a few steps, though, I realized just how difficult a task this would be. Every time I approached a table to look for him, I was met with a barrage of smiling, sympathetic stares, and a general shifting of behinds to make a place for me to sit. Everyone knew who I was—everyone. Every eye at every table turned inevitably toward me as I passed, each obviously thinking the same awful thing: there goes the Dead Kid’s Brother. Poor Dead Kid’s Brother.
    I found Henry sitting all the way in the far corner of the cafeteria, reading at a table all by himself.
    â€œFinally,” I said, setting down my tray across from his. “Why’d you have to hide all the way over here?”
    Henry shrugged, placing down his book and staring thoughtfully at a tater tot. “You know,” he said. “You don’t have to sit over here.” Apparently he had seen my walk across the cafeteria.
    I turned, gazing back across the landscape of bustling tables. At almost every one a few heads were turned nonchalantly in our direction. I said, “Believe me, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
    This seemed to cheer Henry up. “So how was Biology?”
    Before I had a chance to respond, I glanced down to see what Henry was reading, and lost my train of thought. It was called Cop Hater by Ed McBain, and on the back cover was a quote: “Perhaps the single greatest detective novel of the 1950s.”
    I stared suspiciously into his eyes. “I’m going to ask you a question,” I said, “And it may seem a bit strange, but I just want you to answer it honestly, okay?”
    This seemed to make him nervous. “Okay.”
    â€œHave you ever met Jesus?”
    â€œUh…what?”
    â€œI mean, not the old Jesus. Not Jesus Christ. I’m talking about Jesus the contractor. The spiritual contractor, Jesus Jackson.”
    Henry’s expression went from one of mild anxiety to one of sincere concern, with maybe even hint of terror. “What are you talking about?”
    I decided right then and there not to mention Jesus again, at least not unless