Page 11 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar

Every day, I pretend to take my meds before spitting them out in the toilet. Every day, I’m more and more suspicious of the

circumstances that made me have to go on them in the first place. Like, if the meds weren’t making me feel better, what were they doing?

Jamal’s interest in sci-fi pops into my brain, and I feel like this all being some kind of dystopian brainwashing plot isn’t

as far-fetched as I used to think. Part of me knows I’m probably being paranoid. That this fear is definitely , most likely , probably , maybe irrational.

But it’s better safe than sorry, right? Besides, sometimes not taking my meds in the morning is the only solid win I have

in a day, and I’m not about to give that up.

So I have a new routine now. One I’m fully in control of. Every morning, I stick the pill in my mouth and pretend to gulp,

then go to the bathroom as soon as my mom looks satisfied and spit it out in the toilet.

Of course it doesn’t change much. I still fall asleep at school instead of at night. I still get detention more than I should.

My mom still looks at me like I’m a kicked puppy. But at least I did something.

It’s not until several days into the new routine on Thursday when something does change. I reach for my bag to get my homework out while Coach V tries to entertain us in detention, but a thought stops me:

What’s the point?

I already know all this shit. Even if I don’t do the homework, I know I’ll ace the tests. It’s not like homework itself counts

for enough of my grade to make me lose my scholarship on its own, so does it even matter? I’m sure it’ll be fine. Instead

of working on something productive, I just stare at a stain on the wall listening to The Thoughts.

The Thoughts haven’t come during the day in a while, but I welcome them now because maybe it’ll mean tonight will be peaceful.

I decide to start doing a technique Dr. Lee taught me in our first session and respond to the voice in my head like it’s a

real person. Someone mean enough to say whatever it’s saying. Since I wouldn’t take that shit from a real person, I guess

it does kind of help to respond to it in the same way.

You’re a burden to everyone around you.

Yeah, no shit, me. You’ve really got to come up with some tougher insults if you want to actually hurt my feelings.

Everyone you love secretly resents you.

A swing and a miss. It’s not like any of them can resent me more than I do. Besides, I already knew that.

Of course they resent me. I’m the whole reason Yami has to go to Catholic school in the first place and why she and my mom

have to work their asses off every waking minute to try to pay for her tuition. I broke up with Jamal, then strung him along.

He has to be pissed at me for that. Then there’s my dad...

They’re better off without you.

Aren’t you supposed to be antagonizing me, me? I don’t think this is going to work if we agree on everything.

And finally, silence.

I can’t believe that actually worked.

Guess therapy has its perks, some times.

When seven on Friday comes around, the doorbell rings instead of my phone, and I hop out of bed to meet Jamal at the door.

I almost didn’t expect him to come. We haven’t talked much since I hung up on him a few days ago, which is really not normal

for us. I texted him sorry and lied saying I was swamped with homework this week to avoid getting into anything deeper, so

he hasn’t been calling me at the normal time. He’s not the type of person to try to talk things through over text, so I was

hoping to wait out the confrontation until it went away.

I just need to act like everything is fine. If Jamal’s mad at me for hanging up on him, he wouldn’t be here to get me for

his open mic, right? Hopefully it’s been long enough not to matter anymore. And if it hasn’t, then maybe if I pretend there’s

nothing wrong, he’ll follow along.

“Bye, Mami! Bye, Yami!” I shout before darting out and shutting the door behind me, so they don’t ask questions and make us

late. I already told Mami about the open mic, but I wouldn’t put it past her to hold us up trying to make conversation with

Jamal. Not that we’d be late; we still have awhile before the open mic starts, but Jamal wants to get there early to make

sure he can sign up and guarantee himself a spot. If it wasn’t for him coming to get me first, he’d probably get there even

earlier, considering the coffee shop is right outside his neighborhood.

“You hung up on me,” Jamal says instead of a hello. So much for brushing it under the rug. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“Oh, uh, no... ,” I say, starting the walk to his truck to make the conversation feel more casual. I don’t want it to feel

like a big deal, but I also don’t want him to feel bad for any part of this. “I was just off that day, I guess.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks when we get to his truck. He starts to reach out to open the door for me before pulling

his hand away.

“Nope, I’m good,” I say, opening my own door and climbing inside so he doesn’t push the subject.

It’s not a long drive, so we don’t have a lot of time to talk before we get there, which is probably for the best. The venue

isn’t exactly what I was expecting. It’s got that hipster-Christian vibe a lot of youth ministry volunteers tend to have.

It’s a ritzy-looking coffee shop filled with white people who look like they claim to have listened to all the popular artists

“before they were cool.” I find myself walking a little bit closer to Jamal as we enter, and I realize he’s doing the same.

We’re definitely out of our element. Still, hearing Jamal perform will make tonight worth it. When I glance over the menu,

I realize it’s full of Bible puns.

Between the extra-caffeinated white coffee called the Resurrection, the Ten Command-mint iced mocha, the red velvet cold brew

called the Red Sea, and the Virgin Bloody Mary, this place feels like the acid trip of every pothead youth pastor’s wet dreams.

I glance over at Jamal, trying to gauge if he already knew this was a Christian coffee shop. He looks a little nervous, but

that could just be a regular amount of pre-performance nerves.

“You still down to do this?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He lets out a little huff like he’s pumping himself up. “I’m about to make a bunch of people really uncomfortable,

but I might as well get some exposure therapy, right?”

“We can leave whenever if anything happens,” I offer, and he nods.

A hand slaps against my back, and I whirl around ready to start swinging until I see the body attached to the hand.

“Missed you, bro! Where the hell have you been, loca?” Hunter says as he pulls me in for a hug, then gives one to Jamal.

I resist the urge to tell him it’s loc o or react in any way to being called crazy. Even if it is just a quote from one of the Twilight movies he’s probably never

seen.

“Sorry,” Hunter says before anyone gets a chance to respond, retracting his neck like a scared turtle.

I just laugh. He may have been one of the most popular guys at Slayton, but college must have humbled Hunter enough for him

to actually feel an ounce of embarrassment at what comes out of his mouth.

“This is my friend Sasha.” Hunter clears his throat and gestures at the tall brunet guy next to him, who waves. “I thought

you might want some backup, since you’re doing a, uh, coming-out poem, and Sasha’s, well... like you.”

Hunter glances at me before continuing a little faster, like he thinks I’ll be annoyed or something, “I mean, like, he’s done this part already.

If you know what I mean.” He stumbles over his words a bit, and a little tingle of panic rushes blood to my ears.

Hunter’s not exactly being subtle, and I don’t know Sasha like that.

Did he see Hunter look at me before adding the caveat about Sasha already being out?

I push the panic down, and a small pit of jealousy swells up in its place. I wonder if Sasha feels comfortable with being

the official queer moral support of the night.

Jamal looks at Sasha apologetically and asks what I’m thinking. “Did you know what you were getting yourself into when Hunter

invited you?” He gestures at the Bible-themed drinks menu.

“Honestly, I wasn’t loving the idea at first, but he showed me your picture, so obviously I had to make an exception,” he

says with a flirty smile that makes my insides churn.

“I don’t understand,” Jamal says, the line clearly going right over his head. “Do we know each other from somewhere?”

I try not to visibly gloat at Jamal not picking up on what Sasha’s doing. Jamal rarely says he doesn’t understand me . Sasha has game, but it’s a shame there’s no spark. How sad for him.

“You’re cute.” Sasha laughs. “No, we don’t know each other. I just thought you were hot enough to try and fix that.”

I don’t want to hear Jamal’s response to that, so I quickly shake away the jealousy and go to the counter to order an iced

caramel mocha, Jamal’s favorite. Sasha may be hot, but does he know Jamal’s favorite coffee order? I think not.

God, I’m annoying myself. Why am I even jealous? I already told Jamal we can’t get back together. Who cares if Sasha likes

him? It has nothing to do with me either way.

I hurry and pay for the caramel mocha while some white dude with a guitar gets set up at the mic. As soon as Jamal’s drink is ready, I grab it and head to the table where the three of them are sitting now.

“Thanks, Cesar,” Jamal says when I hand him his coffee. “You didn’t want anything?”

“Stomach hurts,” I answer honestly. It’s the anxiety, I think. Why I’m anxious when Jamal’s the one performing is beyond me.

Still, I’m not really in the mood to drink caffeine and have yet another reason to stay awake tonight.

Jamal nods his understanding before leaving me alone with Hunter and Sasha to go find the sign-up sheet.

“So how do you all know each other?” Sasha asks.

“School,” I say flatly.