Jesus Jackson (20 page)

Thirty-six

When I think back on it now, it amazes me that Henry, given how good he was at pointing out the technical flaws in my plan, never seemed to notice the fundamental ones. After all, it barely took him a moment of consideration before he tossed out all of my ideas, worked out his own plan, and then labored night and day with different designs until he got it right.

But I guess I can't blame Henry. The technical side, for the most part, went off without a hitch.

When Saturday night—homecoming night—finally arrived, my anticipation and anxiety had become almost too much to bear. Henry had taken care of all the preparations at school, so I hadn't set foot at St. Soren's since I left there on Wednesday. And by the time I skated up to the gym, freshly washed and wearing my best school dance clothes (once again pulled from my mother's picks of previously disregarded fashion), I had thought through my plan a thousand times, trying to predict and prepare for every possible glitch or snag.

The one thing I didn't prepare for—couldn't have, really—was Cassie. I knew I would see her. I knew, of course, that she would take my coming to the dance as an acceptance of her invitation. But I never expected that the moment I stepped into that gym she'd break away from her little gaggle of girlfriends, make a beeline across the dance floor, and grab the back of my head, pulling my face into hers, pushing her tongue into my mouth, and pressing every possible centimeter of her body into mine.

When she pulled away, I just said, “Wow. Thanks.”

She smiled. “I knew you'd come.” Then she took me by the hand and led me into the dance.

Now let me tell you: That was the only time—from the moment I thought of it to the second I passed the point of no return—that I ever doubted my plan.

And it wasn't just because Alistair was her brother—that didn't really bother me so much—it was more that I knew that as soon as I went through with it, this feeling would end. And because her last name was St. Claire, I knew that it would never come back.

But all of that was for the future…at least an hour more down the road. First, though, I just needed to act normal: dance, laugh, talk, have a good time (but not too good), and put on the perfect picture of the Dead-Kid's-Brother.

So I did. I went out there and I acted as normal as I could. I danced, I joked around, I complained about teachers and homework and uniforms and rules. And at more than one point during that hour, I really wished that it could just stay that way. That this was just how high school was working out for me: friends, a dance, a girl, a normal Saturday night.

But then the reality sank in that this was never how high school would be for me. That the only reason Cassie even knew who I was, the only reason I ever talked to her, the only reason we were there together at that dance at all, was because my brother was dead—and her brother had killed him.

So I began to get mad. At everything, everyone. At first it was just this twinge in the back of my mind, but then it started to grow, becoming more present and encompassing. I got mad at Alistair, of course, but also at Ryan (he was hanging out with Al, after all; he was snorting coke in the back of the school), and I got mad at myself and my mom and newly Buddhist dad, and I got mad as hell at Jesus Jackson for not following through on his promise of complete and total faith, because Lord knows I could've used it, in that sparkling gymnasium, with that cherry-lipped girl—maybe even to stop me from what I knew I was about to do.

I got so angry at one point that I had to leave the dance floor, take a breather in the bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and put my head in my hands. The thoughts were just going too fast:
Am I really going to go through with this and will Alistair really confess and what if he doesn't and what if I accidentally kill him or paralyze him or worse, and what if Cassie never speaks to me again, and what are you crazy of course she'll never speak to you, and is that worth it, and of course it's worth it, 'cause he killed your fucking brother he killed your fucking brother he killed your fucking brother.

And then I heard it, my cue. They were about to announce the homecoming king and queen.

I sprang into action, my body moving as if on autopilot. I'd rehearsed it all so many times in my mind that I didn't have to think at all. I stumbled zombie-like out of the bathroom and began making my way toward the front of the stage.

About halfway through the crowd, though, I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder. It startled me, and I jumped as I turned around. But it was only Cassie, smiling and perky in her black velvet dress.

“Oh,” I said. “Hey.”

She caressed down the length of my arm, finally taking hold of my hand in her own. “Let's get out of here,” she said. “We can break into the teachers' lounge, try out the couches….You now, there's a rumor that Mr. Cooper keeps a bottle of vodka stashed in the freezer.”

If I'd have let my body have its way I would have collapsed right there on the floor, or just followed her like a puppy wherever she wanted to take me. But my mind's will was strong; it had rage and anger and hatred on its side. And in the end my mind won.

“I…” But I didn't know what to say. I wanted something good, something that wasn't a lie, something that would pardon what I was about to do. Unfortunately, I don't think those words existed. “I can't. I just…can't. I have to go.”

“Okay,” she said, seeming confused, but not upset. “Well maybe later then.”

I couldn't respond. I just started to walk away but stopped after a few steps. I turned and met her big blue eyes, still filled with something like hope. “I'm sorry,” I said. Then I turned quickly and pushed myself the rest of the way to the stage.

***

Once right at the front, I stared up at Ms. LaRochelle at the podium, the heat of the lights making her thick, orange cake makeup run in rivulets down her face. Beside her was Mr. McDuff, the associate principal, holding two rhinestone-bedazzled crowns. And right behind them both sat a pair of elaborately decorated wooden chairs covered in tinsel and glitter and lights—the homecoming thrones. One for the queen, and, of course, one for the king.

She gave some kind of introduction, but I couldn't hear it over the blare of my heartbeat throbbing in my ears. It just sounded like buzzing, or like someone screaming under water.

There was applause. The crowd parted, and Tristan came walking up to the stage. She gave me a sad smile as she passed; I averted my eyes. I had hoped she wouldn't win (it would be easier without having her so close), but I wasn't surprised that she did. Who else could it have been?

What happened next was nothing I even considered, not for a second. The plan, of course, was for Alistair to win. According to Henry (who, in retrospect, was probably not the best source for such information), he was a shoo-in. But instead of Ms. LaRochelle calling out a congratulations to Alistair, she yelled up at the catwalk, “Can someone turn the projector on please?”

I noticed then that behind the podium, just to the right of the giant crucifix, was a large white projection screen, about ten feet high and twenty feet across. And a moment after I saw it, that whole great big screen was filled with Ryan's face.

A moment of hushed silence spread across the gymnasium. I knew the picture well. It was taken by the school photographer the previous year, just after the last football game of the season. Ryan was sitting cross-legged on the fifty-yard line after everyone else had left the field—exhausted, dirty, and happy. The photographer must have crouched down as well, because the perspective of the shot is looking up, just slightly, toward Ryan's face, and in the background you could just make out the glimmer of lights reflecting off the goalposts. His eyes were gazing right at the lens, right at me, and they were so easy and so forgiving and so kind, as if to say:
Don't do it, Jon; don't do it.

But I didn't listen. Instead, I understood instantly that this was my one window of opportunity—emotions were running high, Ryan was already on everyone's mind, and Alistair, if he had any soul at all, would be half-broken already.

So I summoned every last ounce of courage I had. I climbed up onto that stage, turned, and faced the jury of my peers.

The timing was, in fact, perfect. No one resisted my taking the podium at all; Ms. LaRochelle actually smiled as she shooed Mr. McDuff off the stage. After all, what more perfect climax to their homage to Ryan than for his previously silent, brooding younger brother to make his first public speech in thanks of their kind and warmhearted efforts?

This was, of course, exactly what I wanted them to think. I played into it as best I could, flashing a sad and thankful smile both to Ms. LaRochelle and Mr. McDuff. Tristan seemed nervous, but calmed a bit when I touched her hand, and whispered, “It's okay,” before stepping up to the microphone.

I took a deep breath and peeked to my right, confirming that Henry was right there in the wings, right where he was supposed to be: sweating and worried and miserable, standing right beside the pulley system for the light bars. I turned to the crowd. Though the lights were shining in my face, I could still make out most of my classmates, smiling through their sympathy, wishing me the best, grateful for my presence, and ready to witness a truly heartfelt moment. Even Alistair, standing right out in front, completely oblivious to the peril that was about to befall him, was staring at me with a look of honest hope in his eyes.

For a moment, I thought about how easy it would have been to have just given them the speech that they wanted—thanking them for their sympathy and their prayers, telling them of my heartache and sadness, offering my assurances that even though we'd never see him again, I could just tell by the depth of their love that Ryan was
right there in that gymnasium with us
.

But of course I could never give that speech…for the simple reason that I just wouldn't have believed a word of it. Jesus Jackson had clearly failed at his endeavor to instill in me a faith of any sort in anything, because as I stood up on that stage, I didn't have the slightest idea whether Ryan was in heaven or hell or purgatory or nirvana or being reincarnated or even resting peacefully in some atheistic nothingness. All I knew, for sure, was that Ryan was in the ground. That's all. And Alistair had put him there.

So began my speech:

“Hi…everybody. I'm Jonathan Stiles.” I took a breath. It was the only sound in the whole gymnasium. “And, well…this guy on the screen behind me is my brother—was my brother—Ryan. As I know you are all aware, he died about three weeks ago, on my very first day as a student here at St. Soren's. Now, I probably don't have to tell you, but starting at a new school is hard enough, but when something like this happens, well, it just really makes it almost impossible to have a normal or a positive time of it at all.” I took another deep breath to compose myself. I could feel my stomach clenching in on itself in spasm after spasm. A few girls in the first row seemed to see my anxiety as an abundance of emotion, and they began to tear up, practically in unison. “Anyway, I just, really, wanted to get up here and tell you how great you've all been in trying to make this a little bit easier for me, and how much I know Ryan would appreciate this whole night.” I glanced again over at Henry one last time before making the big leap…“But you know, there's one person who has just been so great to me, and I know he was one of Ryan's closest friends. He was one of the last people to ever see Ryan alive, and I just really want to honor him in a special way tonight…Umm, Alistair St. Claire, could you come up here, please?”

I looked right at Alistair, right in his eyes, and gave him the most sadly affectionate face I could muster. He seemed taken aback, and a bit scared. But then the crowd started to clap, and he had no choice but to smile, climb up onto the stage, and take a place beside me at the podium. “Thanks for coming up, Alistair,” I spoke into the mic, though I could no longer bring myself to look at him directly. “I asked you up here because I want to give you something. It's something that was very special to Ryan, and I know that, after everything you've done, he would really like the fact that I'm giving it to you.”

Alistair smiled nervously. I took a few steps toward the throne, and picked up the crown. “Ryan would want you to wear this. After everything you went through together, he'd want you to be the king.”

The room erupted into applause. Alistair smiled in relief as I placed the crown on his head, and motioned for him to sit down in the throne beside Tristan. It was, by all measures, a truly touching moment.

It was also, of course, a trap. While everyone else was dancing, Henry had attached one end of a light-pole wire to the back of the king's throne. The wire ran down to the stage floor and disappeared behind a curtain, where it rose to a pulley high above the stage, before ending at four hundred pounds of counterweights that Henry was about to drop from a height of about forty feet.

As soon as I gave the nod, Henry would let go of the rope, escaping out the stage door while the counterweights sent Alistair flying into the air, hanging at a height roughly similar to that from which Ryan fell to his death. I would then grab the bottom of the wire and threaten to unclip it if Alistair did not confess immediately to his crime.

“Thank you,” Alistair whispered, seeming honestly touched.

“Take your seat,” I whispered back. “You've earned it.”

“I would be honored to,” Alistair replied, stepping over to the throne and smiling at the crowd before finally sitting down.

“Hold on tight,” I whispered.

Alistair gave me a quizzical look, clearly confused. But he did as he was told, and as soon as I saw his hands grip the armrests, I gave Henry the nod.

For a half-second, the faces of the crowd went blank with confusion as a loud metallic screech rang out from sound of the counterweights tearing toward the floor. By the time I turned back, Alistair was forty feet in the air, gripping the chair with all of his might, swinging back and forth across the stage, from Ryan to the crucifix and back again, screaming.