Jesus Jackson (14 page)

Twenty-four

The obvious problem, however, was that having stayed home from school, I couldn't just go waltzing past St. Soren's front door and onto the football field. For a few minutes I considered waiting until three, but then, of course, there would be people all around, with practice until six…and this just couldn't wait an entire day.

I decided to take the stealth route. After sneaking out the back door, I skateboarded up to the school, stopping just at the edge of the far fields. The main drive up to the front steps was too obvious, so I looked around for a slightly more hidden entrance. Unfortunately, the only thing I could find was a narrow pathway between the chain-link fence and some large, prickly bushes. I'd clearly have to crawl for a long way if I took it, but from where I stood it seemed that it would lead me right to the gate of the football field unseen.

So I went for it, crawling and squeezing and scratching my way along. By the time I emerged out by the bleachers, my shirt was ripped, my jeans were muddy, my hair was a mess, and I had tiny scratches all over my forearms.

But, at last, I walked out onto that empty field to find…nothing. No Jesus. Not even Nino.

I took a moment to consider what was happening. After all, thus far, every time I'd come to the football field to look for Jesus, he'd been there, so it never occurred to me that maybe I had just been fortunate in my timing. I mean, he probably had other clients, a home, or maybe even another job to go to.

But then again, maybe not. Maybe he just waltzed into town, snagged as much deposit money as he could, and waltzed right out when he had his fill.

I walked out onto the field, staring out toward the woods and all around, but I didn't see anything. Eventually, I wound up lying down flat in the end zone, staring at the lazy autumn clouds.
Well
, I thought,
I guess this is what's become of my big plan.
I had nothing on Alistair, Henry hated me, I made a fool of myself with Cassie, and to top it all, I got ripped off by Jesus.

Oh yeah, and my brother was still dead. I didn't want to forget about that one.

I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the damp grass, feeling the wind blow right over me. And just as I was really getting comfortable with my self-pity, I heard a rustling just beyond the edge of the track. I peeked one eye open, strained my head up a bit to see, and there was Jesus Jackson, walking straight at me from the other side of the field.

I realized right away, though, that something was wrong. Jesus was limping. At first, I assumed he was just walking funny, like he was almost dancing, with a little beat in his step, but as he came closer I realized he was dragging his left foot behind him. Then when he got closer, I began to see that there were rips and scuffmarks and grass stains on his suit, and that his right hand was dangling as limply as his left foot.

I hopped to my feet and ran across the field to help him walk. And as I approached I saw that his face was haggard and beaten: his right eye swollen and black, his cheekbones bruised and puffy, and there was dried blood around the outside of his mouth and in his beard.

“Jesus,” I yelled as I ran up and put my arm around his shoulder, supporting some of his weight. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Some…,” he began, struggling for breath. “…hooligans…in the woods…I was just walking…jumped me….”

“Who were they? What did they look like? Was it Alistair?”

Jesus stopped walking, shaking his head as he bent over and put his palms on his knees. “No…they were…older, I think…definitely not high school…kids.”

“What did they want? Did they steal anything?”

“I don't…have anything.”

“Well we need to get you the emergency room. You could have internal bleeding or something.”

Jesus stood upright, or as upright as he could. “No,” he said sternly. “I'll be fine. Just…help me over to the bleachers.”

So we walked the last few yards across the football field, and up into the stands. Jesus sat down, very slowly, clutching his right knee and wincing as he lowered himself onto the bleachers. He wiped some sweat off his brow and some blood off his lip with the sleeve of his tattered suit, and he said, “So, Jonathan. What's up?”

I still wanted to hear more about this mysterious assault, but since Jesus didn't seem very open to talking, I sat down and filled him in on my own depressing circumstances, starting with Cassie in the cafeteria, and going all the way through Tristan outside the St. Claires' house. It's funny, but as I recalled it all for Jesus, it seemed so improbable (and even impressive) that I'd actually done all of that stuff. For my whole life, I'd been the guy standing on the edge of everything, never diving in with more than a sarcastic comment or joke. And now I was right in the center of the action. Hell, I was the action. Of course, my self-satisfaction only lasted until I finished telling the story…when I had to admit that, of course, I was no better off than when I started.

After I finished, Jesus looked at me, nodded sincerely, then struggled to his feet, holding on to my shoulder for support.

“Good,” he said. “So things are going well. Keep it up.” Then he began to limp back toward the field, as if he was just going to walk off and leave me there.

I jumped up and took off after him. “What are you talking about? Things are going horribly. I've made no progress, I've alienated Henry, and I've ruined my chances with Cassie!”

Jesus stopped and snapped his head around. “Chances for what?”

“For…well, you know…the investigation. To get any information.”

“Ah,” he said, clearly suppressing a smile. “Well, you have two options, the way I see it.” He wiped a fresh drop of blood from under his nose onto his soiled white sleeve. “Your first option is to give up. Consider yourself beaten, and just go on with your life. Finish high school, go to college, get married, have babies, and die without ever resolving anything, and try your best to ignore that nagging doubt that you did the wrong thing, or that persistent feeling that you'll never know the truth.”

I chuckled. “That's about what I was thinking I would do.”

“Or you could take plan B.”

“Which is?”

“Seize the opportunity.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pick yourself up and
make something happen!
Take charge of the situation, use your resources,
find the truth!
”

“And how do I do that, exactly?”

Jesus began to pace, growing excited. His injuries seemed to be fading right in front of me. “First of all, I doubt you've ruined anything with anyone. I would bet cash money that it won't take anything more than a simple apology to get Henry back on your side.”

I kicked at the grass. “I guess.”

“And what about Tristan?”

“What about her?”

“She seems to be pretty sympathetic to your plan. Why don't you put her to work? Use her as a distraction for Alistair, or something?”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe? Now is not the time for maybes. Now is the time to act!”

“Sure.” I said. “Fine. But how exactly do you propose I do all of that?”

Jesus stopped pacing. “I haven't the slightest idea. You'll have to figure out that one for yourself.”

I put my head in my hands. Figures. This Jesus was turning out to be about as much help as the other one. “Well what are you going to do, then?” I asked him.

“About what?”

“Getting all beat up. I guess you've got the same two options as I do, right?”

A sneaky little smile crept onto his face. “Oh, I'm choosing plan B.”

“And what is that?”

His smile turned into a frown—chilling, terrifying, dangerous. “Oh, I'm going back into those woods,” he said. “But don't you worry about me. You've got your own plan to worry about, young man.” And with that he turned and walked back across the field—not even the hint of a limp in his stride—until he disappeared into the trees.

Twenty-five

Surely, if there were a god, then Friday never would have come, and I never would have had to go back to that awful place. But there wasn't, there isn't, and I did.

The awkwardness and misery that descended on me from the very second I entered the front doors of St. Soren's was truly astounding: the stares, the half-nods of half-condolence, the rippling quiet that followed me like some cartoon rain cloud, dropping discomfort on everyone in my immediate vicinity, the ever-expanding array of saintly Ryan posters, each one more hokey and ridiculous than the last: “Our Guardian Angel” or “Soren's Hero” and worst of all, “Ryan Stiles: Class of '95 Valedictorian in the Sky.”

Really, I almost considered turning right around and leaving after seeing that one.

Anyway, I was rushing to my locker with my eyes firmly glued to the floor, when I felt a hand grab my backpack and pull me through an open doorway into a darkened classroom. My heart instantly started racing, my first thought being that it was Alistair, and somehow he knew that I had let Henry into his room and had thus come to kill me.

But it wasn't. It was just Tristan, squinting conspiratorially, and whispering, “Alistair asked me to go out with him tonight.”

“What?”

“He asked me to go out tonight. Alistair did.”

“Like, on a date?”

“No way,” she said, then paused. “I mean, I guess it's possible, but I don't think he would sink that low.”

I did not have nearly the faith in him that Tristan did. “Why not?”

“Well, I don't know. That would just be so…cruel.”

I shrugged. “So you said no, right?”

She looked at me like I was crazy. “Of course not. I said yes.”

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “that way I can press him for information, try to find out what really happened that day.”

“Right,” I said. “Of course.” I should have seen that this was where she was going, but I guess I was blindsided by the fact that Alistair had asked her out in the first place.

“And who knows? Maybe he'll even let something slip. Maybe after a few beers…”

“Wait,” I said, suddenly remembering Jesus Jackson's advice about using Tristan as a distraction. “Can you, maybe, keep him away from his house tonight? Like, far away?”

“Sure, I guess. But why?”

“Maybe I can get back into the house. Get back that hard drive. See if there's anything incriminating on it.”

“Oh…”

But then, of course, I remembered something else: Cassie, and how I hadn't exactly left things on solid ground with her. “Crap,” I whispered back. “But it might not be that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it might be kind of hard for me get invited back over there.”

“Why?” She looked at me suspiciously. “What happened?”

I didn't really wanted to tell Tristan about the kiss, and my subsequent freak out, but it was beginning to look like I had no other choice. “Cassie and I sort of made out.”

Tristan took a step back as a deep furrow worked its way across her brow, like she was trying to figure me out. “But why would that be a problem?”

“Well it wouldn't be, except that Alistair got home in the middle of it and I kind of ran out of the house, totally without doing any of the homework and barely even saying good-bye. And I haven't called her or anything since.”

“Oh. Well that could be bad. Maybe it would be better if I just went out with—”

“But,” I said, cutting her off, “maybe you could help me. You know, tell me how to smooth things over.”

“Hmm,” said Tristan, and then paused, thinking—working out, I assumed, whether or not I actually had a chance at success. Finally, she relented “Well, did you kiss her or did she kiss you?”

I thought back, and to be honest, it was still sort of a blur. “I think she kissed me.”

“Are you sure?”

The memory of it came back to me more clearly, making me blush. “Yeah. I'm sure.”

“Then there's no problem,” she said with a sigh.

“Really?”

“Look,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, trying to smile. “Your brother just died, you're falling behind at school, and you went over to her house for help with your homework, in no way expecting any kind of romance, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So when you ran out of there after kissing her, she's not going to think you're just some asshole who got a little action and then left. She's going to think you were uncomfortable, sad, mourning, whatever, and that she made it all worse by insensitively kissing you.”

“Okay,” I said, growing a little less skeptical. This seemed to make some sense, and Cassie had been quite apologetic, after all. “So what do I do?”

Tristan thought for a second. “Just go up to her today, tell her that you're sorry you ran out of there, that your emotions were just overwhelming you, and that you'd like to try again, but this time without the homework.”

“Hmm…And you think that will work?”

“Absolutely. Just suggest renting a movie, or something, and you're golden.”

Right at that moment the first bell rang, signaling four minutes until class. Tristan rolled her eyes and opened the door to the hallway, pausing only to whisper “Good luck” in my ear. Then she turned with a snap, and strode briskly out into the crowd.

***

My first class was Algebra, and as usual Henry was sitting right in front of me. I caught his eye as he came in the door, but he quickly turned his gaze to the floor, refusing even to look at me. When I attempted to pass him note after note about the new plan for that night, he just let them all fall, unopened, onto the floor.

I decided that I'd try to catch up with him after class, but just before the bell rang, Ms. LaRochelle—looking hideous and as hatchet-faced as ever—came slithering in the door, staring straight into my terrified eyes. She whispered something to Mr. Carnegie, who asked me to join our faithful principal in the hallway.

Once outside the classroom, she stared at me for what seemed like a decade, her cakey, wrinkled, overly made-up eyes wide with something between suspicion and sympathy. Finally, she said, “So you haven't been seeing Mr. Finger, I understand?”

She made it sound like a question, but I wasn't quite sure how to answer.

“Well,” she went on, “it's very important that you do. Not only is he your guidance counselor, he's also the only certified grief counselor we have.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And he's a very good psychologist.”

“Well, not really,” I said, before I could think better of it.

Her eyebrows rose, sending the wrinkles in her face spiraling into a pattern of menace. “Excuse me?”

“I mean…he only has a B.A. He's not even a doctor.”

“The nerve…” she huffed. “He was right to schedule this meeting. You come right along with me.”

This meeting? What meeting? What the hell was she talking about?

She marched down the hallway, and I shuffled dutifully after her, more annoyed than ever. When we finally made it down the steps and through the dark hallway to Mr. Finger's door, I could tell that whatever I was about to step into, it was going to be bad—there were clearly a few people in that tiny room with him.

As I suspected (or perhaps intuitively knew), there, squished into the fading gray, metallic chairs of Mr. Finger's tiny office, were my parents—both of them. They looked up and stared at me when the door opened. My mother seemed a bit confused, although I'm pretty sure this was just an act (
I don't understand. Mr. Finger…Jonathan seems just perfect at home….
), while my father pursed his lips, offering a halfhearted shrug.

“Oh crap,” I mumbled, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Jonathan!” said my mother, with a what's-gotten-into-kids-these-days look from Mr. Finger to Ms. LaRochelle.

Mr. Finger smiled warmly. “Take a seat, Jonathan.” Then, to Mrs. LaRochelle, “Thanks for bringing him, Lucy. I think we'll be okay now.”

Mrs. LaRochelle turned on her heels and clickety-clacked herself down the long hallway and back up the steps. I took the only available seat—a little stool, clearly meant for a third-grader, squished into a corner opposite the three adults.

“Well now,” said Mr. Finger. “Now that it's just the three of us, Jonathan, why do you think I brought you all here to my office today?”

I was in no mood for this. At all. “I don't know. To justify your paycheck?”

Mr. Finger and my mom exchanged a frustrated glance. My dad smirked, though I could tell he felt guilty just for being there. Mr. Finger said, “Really now, this is about healing, not sarcasm. Why do you think we're here?”

I decided to lay it on the line for him. “Look,” I said. “You seem like a nice guy, Mr. Finger. I don't want to waste your time. So why don't you just go ahead and tell my parents what's wrong with me, so they can blame it on each other, ignore the issue completely, and we can all get on with our day? Does that sound like a plan?”

“Jonathan!” said my mother.

“Aw, Christ,” muttered my father.

Mr. Finger shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Okay, then, Jonathan. Now I've been speaking with your mother, and we agree—and I'm sure your father does as well—that you've been having a difficult time these last few weeks—”

“Oh, no shit,” I broke in. “You must be some psychologist. Did you go to undergrad for that?”

He swallowed hard and tried to ignore me. “And, Jonathan, we think that you may be having a crisis of faith, as a result.”

“A what?” I let out an audible gasp. Had he been talking to Jesus Jackson? No, it couldn't be…

“A crisis of faith,” Mr. Finger repeated. “It's when, during a difficult or traumatic period in your life, you begin to doubt your faith in God…usually when you need it the most.”

Now this was too much. It was one thing to take this crap from Jesus Jackson (who I was, after all, paying for it); I wasn't about to listen to it from this loser. I looked to my father (who should have known better) for support, but he was studying his palms, refusing to make eye contact. “Mr. Finger, I haven't believed in your god, or any other fairy tales, since I was nine years old. So whatever kind of crisis I'm having, it's not one of faith.”

He looked questioningly at my mother, as if she had assured him the exact opposite were true. Which, in all likelihood, she had. She probably told him that I was saying grace before every goddamned bowl of Cheerios the week before Ryan died. But my dad? First the Buddhism, and now this?

“Well, whenever it began,” said Mr. Finger, shuffling through some papers on his desk, “we're going to help it come to an end. We've arranged for you to have daily prayer meetings with the school chaplain, starting tomorrow, and—”

I stared at my father. “Are you really just going to sit there?” I asked him. “Are you
really
?”

He blinked his eyes up at me, sheepishly. “Look, son…I mean, what can it possibly hurt? Believing in something? What do you have to lose?”

So that's how this was going to go. My mother deceiving the school counselor into thinking I was a good Christian; my father, the proud heretic, supporting daily prayer meetings.

I put my head in my hands, trying to work it all out. “So,” I said finally, “is there, like, any way you can physically force me to attend these meetings? I mean, will I be expelled or arrested or held in chains if I refuse to go?”

“Of course not,” said Mr. Finger. “These meetings are supposed to help you, Jonathan.”

“And what about coming here? Can I be expelled or whatever for not going to see my counselor?”

Mr. Finger looked a little hurt. “Well, no.”

“Good.” I stood up, throwing my backpack over my shoulder. “Then it was nice to know you, Mr. Finger, but our relationship is officially over. And you people?” I turned to my parents, both looking defeated, pathetic. “I just don't even know what to say to you people.” Then, to my father: “Especially you. I expected more from you.”

Then I turned, walked through the door, and went back to class.