Jesus Jackson Read Free

height.
    The second thing I noticed about the kid who’d knocked me down, other than that he was the only representative of any minority group whatsoever in the class, was that he was also, perhaps, the only person in the room who was shorter than me.
    So obviously, I liked him right away.
    As soon as the opening prayers began, I whispered, “Hey, sorry about that. You didn’t get hurt, did you?”
    He had these thin little, oval-shaped, wire-rimmed glasses, and he glared at me through them as if I’d just insulted his mother. He put his finger to his mouth, let out a sharp “Shhh,” and then closed his eyes, bowing his head in silent prayer.
    â€œOh,” I stammered. “Right. Sorry. We’re…uh…praying.”
    He glared at me, clearly attempting something like anger, but he only achieved a sort of comical frown. So I laughed (I couldn’t stop myself), but I guess I was a bit loud, because the whole row of kids in front of me gave me the same angry stare…which just made me laugh even harder, until a teacher pointed a menacing finger right at me, and I bit my lip to stop.
    After the assembly, they released us to our homerooms, and as the mob of freshmen walked through the halls, I got to take my first real look at my classmates. The only thing different about this group than the one at my old school were the uniforms—plaid skirts for the girls, khaki slacks for the boys, and SSA-emblazoned Oxford button-downs for everyone—but even these couldn’t hide their utter sameness to everyone else I’d ever met from every school everywhere.
    They all sickened me a little, so I turned up my music, pretended to be looking at something important on my phone and made a beeline for room 209, trying not to think about how I was now sure to spend the next four years of my education the same way I’d spent every other one of the past nine: alone.
    Room 209 was the homeroom for students whose last names fell between Roberts and Turkleton. It was a science room, and there were posters of Einstein and Newton beside the chalkboard, shelves filled with Bunsen burners and beakers, and a row of shiny new silver computers on a long, black table by the window. Once inside, we were all arranged alphabetically into rows, with myself sitting firmly between Wendy Spooner and, quite fatefully, my new little Asian friend.
    He seemed downright frightened to see me (or else just frightened in general), so I leaned over, extended my hand, and said, “Sorry, man. For…you know…back there. I’m Jonathan Stiles.”
    He eyed my hand cautiously. “Henry,” he said, finally taking it. “Henry Sun. And I’m not religious.”
    â€œUm…okay,” I said, unsure how to interpret this. “Well, you looked like you were praying pretty hard back there in the gym.”
    â€œI was respecting the opinions and authority of my high school,” he whispered.
    â€œAlright, alright. Whatever you want to call it.”
    â€œAll religion is unbound by empirical data and therefore inherently unscientific and therefore absurd.” He sounded like he’d been practicing this for months.
    I couldn’t help being amused by his earnestness. “If you say so, man. I just think it’s stupid.”
    He glared at me again, as if trying to work out whether I was mocking him or not. “Well, yes. But it’s only ‘stupid’ because it can’t be proven through observation and the scientific method.”
    â€œI guess,” I replied. “Did you need observation and the scientific method to prove to you that the Tooth Fairy wasn’t real either?”
    â€œWell, no.”
    â€œWhat about the Easter Bunny, or Zeus, or SpongeBob SquarePants, for that matter?”
    Henry blushed a bit, stifling his laughter. “Of course not.”
    â€œRight. Because that would be stupid.”
    He took a beat. “Essentially,