Page 12 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar

“Cesar and I went to Slayton together last year, but before that, he went to the same school as Jamal, so he introduced us,”

Hunter clarifies.

Sasha leans forward, propping his elbows on the table like he’s about to share a secret. “So, Cesar, I have to know, is Jamal

single? Hunter couldn’t tell me.”

“Yeah.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “But I don’t know if he’s looking right now,” I find myself saying. Which isn’t really

fair of me. I have no right to keep Jamal from dating whoever he wants now. Still, being his wingman isn’t exactly a skill

I was prepared to hone.

“I’m fifth in the lineup.” Thankfully, Jamal cuts the conversation short when he comes back to our table. He’s holding a couple

pieces of paper in his hands with his poems written on them. I can’t help but notice the slight tremble of the paper in the

air, which makes whatever annoyance I had completely dissipate.

“You’re gonna do great,” I say, offering Jamal a reassuring smile. He lets out a breath and sits down next to me.

Before we know it, the MC is announcing the rules of the open mic: Each performer has five minutes on stage, no disrespecting

each other, no heckling, etc. etc. etc. Just as they’re about to introduce the first performer, someone pushes their way forward,

stealing the mic from whoever was about to go first. I don’t get a good look at his face until he turns his cap backward.

My stomach drops. My fists tighten. My ears ring.

Someone’s trying to usher him off the stage, telling him there’s a set order, but he just ignores them and shouts into the

mic, holding it so close to his mouth he’s practically making out with it. “Hello, my name is Nick, and my pronouns are fuck

and you!”

I quickly scan the room for any sign of the rest of his entourage, but only see Avery. Thinking about it now, I shouldn’t

be surprised Nick’s here, considering how close we are to his and Jamal’s neighborhood. This might actually be the right kind

of crowd for his whole anti-pronouns spiel, too, if it weren’t for him breaking the rules first.

“Oh, great. It’s gonna be that kind of night,” Sasha says under his breath.

Even Nick’s little minion Avery looks embarrassed, trying to signal for him to leave from off the stage. Nick spouts some

bullshit for another few seconds before Avery joins him on stage and tries pulling him off.

“One Holy Grail for Nick!” the barista calls out, and Nick finally lets Avery lead him to the counter.

The useless MC then apologizes to everyone and introduces the actual first performer.

The musician starts singing a love song that makes me feel way too mushy.

I want to grab Jamal by the hand and take him away from this place.

Away from Nick and Avery and Sasha, and just bring him somewhere safe.

I’m about to ask if he wants to bail since Nick and Avery showed up, but before I get a chance, a hot drink spills right in my lap.

I jump to my feet and find myself face-to-face with Nick.

“Whoa, not cool, dude,” Hunter says as he grabs for some napkins across the table.

“It was an accident.” Nick sizes me up, chin raised. Like he’s challenging me. He wants me to be the one to pick the fight,

and I’m not giving him the satisfaction.

“Not now, bro, you’re drunk,” Avery mutters, looking fully exhausted. I’d be exhausted too if I had to keep Nick’s ass from

causing a scene every time I turned a corner. Avery’s always been Nick’s right hand, and the only brain cell among basically

their entire group. At least he’s smart enough to know when they’re the ones outnumbered.

Nick holds my stare for a few more seconds before finally smirking, as if he’s somehow won this encounter. He walks off, making

sure to shoulder check me on his way out.

“Assholes,” Sasha mumbles. “Thank God they left.”

“You know those guys?” Hunter asks, still wiping the table with napkins. He’s about to start dabbing at my lap, but I stop

him.

“I got it,” I say as I grab the napkins from him and wipe myself off.

“They go to Rover.” Jamal answers the question for me. I’m glad he doesn’t give them any more information than that. They

don’t need to know that they bullied me so bad my mom switched me and Yami to Catholic school.

After that, I pretend to focus on the poet on stage, so no one thinks too much about what just happened. But this girl’s poems are nowhere near on Jamal’s level. And yeah, yeah, I know this is an open mic and not a competition, but Jamal is about to crush these fools.

After a few more performances, Jamal gets introduced. He hesitates before standing up. I wish I could rub his shoulders or

back or squeeze his hand. Anything to tell him I’m here for him and not to be nervous. But the truth is, I don’t know this

crowd, and I don’t want them making any assumptions about me and Jamal. Nick might be gone, but I don’t know who else might

be just like him here.

Once he’s on stage, Jamal closes his eyes for a moment, clears his throat, and steps to the mic.

“This one isn’t really a poem, actually. I don’t really know what it is,” he starts, then takes a deep breath and reads from

his paper. “A letter from the closet to the queer.” He pauses, and I find myself mesmerized already. He looks at me nervously, and I give him a reassuring smile and a thumbs-up

before he continues. “You said you didn’t need me anymore. You said you felt trapped, but I know you better than that. Between bitter breaths,

you released a sigh of relief because you’ve always been safe with me. And no matter how scary it is being out , you know I’ll always be your safe place.

“But... you wanted to see the world. To go to Pride. To love someone out loud. To love a boy.” He glances at me at that part, but quickly looks away. Jamal’s never been able to do that part with me. Not out loud, at

least. “When you pick out your clothes every morning and look into my eyes, you make the same choice. Every day you wear the armor

I provide you, and you leave me so you can see the world. You look into my eyes, my gentle reminder of safety, and you turn

it down.

“But I’ll always be here. I was here when you came back after your first time venturing outside.” I happen to know the “first time” he’s talking about is when he told me he loved me. When we shared our first kiss. My chest

gets tight.

“I remember the next time you came back. You stood in front of me, beaten and bloody with tears tracking down swollen cheeks.

No matter what garments I offered to soak the salt water from your face, you cried still. You cried because, while you love

the outside, it didn’t love you back.” This time I know he’s talking about when he got kicked out of his mom and stepdad’s house after coming out to them.

I’ll never be as brave as Jamal. Every time I came out of the closet was a mistake, besides that fluke during anti-prom when

I came out to Yami’s friends and Hunter. Even if I can be out to Jamal, and Yami, and my mom, I could never just talk about

my queerness plainly in front of a crowd. Especially one like this.

This crowd isn’t outright heckling or anything, but most of them aren’t snapping in support like they did every other line

of the first girl’s poem. And when his piece is done, they give polite, unenthusiastic claps.

But I’m still breathless by the time Jamal walks off stage and back to our table. Not because his piece was good—I know nothing

about poetry, or what makes it good—but because of how real it was. How real it could be for me, if I ever wanted it to be.

But I don’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.

On the car ride home, Jamal can’t stop smiling.

“I’m proud of you,” I say, his smile contagiously rubbing off on me.

“Me too,” he admits. “It probably could have gone better, though.”

“What do you mean? You were perfect.”

“I mean, it was kind of weird, you know? The crowd didn’t really seem like they were feeling it. Who knows, maybe they were

homophobic or something. Maybe my letter sucked. Maybe Nick just threw off the vibes.”

“Okay, no, your letter did not suck. It was probably just the crowd. I think the only queer people there were at our table.”

“Yeah, maybe... I wish there were more open mics around here.” Jamal slumps his shoulders. “I don’t even know if I want

to go back to that one.”

“Why don’t you start your own?” I ask. “You can make it explicitly queer friendly if you want.”

Jamal lets out a small breath through his nose. “We’re in Arizona. Is there even a market for that kind of thing?”

“There has to be,” I say with more confidence than I expected. “Especially here, people are probably starving for that shit.”

Jamal pushes his glasses up his nose like he’s considering my words. “You know, that could actually be an option.”

“Why not?” I shrug. “You can do whatever you put your mind to.”

And no, I’m not saying that because I believe in mind over matter or thinking things into existence. I’m saying it because

Jamal can literally do anything he sets out to do. He’s determined like that.

“I’ll look into it,” Jamal says tentatively, but he’s still smiling.

I look down at his hand, which is resting on the center console. I want to take it in mine. Want to pull his palm to my lips and kiss it and tell him he’s amazing and that he deserves everything he wants, but I don’t.

My closet isn’t as loving toward me as Jamal’s. Mine is dark and stuffy, and I feel like I’m locked in. My dad and Father John

and God Himself have their backs against the door so I’d have to push through all of them to make it out. They all chant those

ever-familiar words on repeat from the other side.

What you’re doing is a choice. And you’re making the wrong one.

Unfortunately, I’ve never died before, so I’m no expert in how to get into heaven, but I still can’t make sense of it. How

can loving Jamal be wrong when being with him has felt nothing but so, so right?

My fingers find the necklaces dangling from my neck. The two have always felt contradictory somehow, cross and jaguar. Catholic

and indigenous symbolism. All I want is for those two pieces of myself, those two necklaces, to go together. To coexist.

But how can they?

The jaguar says to face my fears, while the cross says not to sin. For the tiniest moment, the chanting fades, and I peek

through the crack in my closet door where the light seeps in. It creaks open ever so slightly, inviting me to take an exploratory

step outside. If I could just give it a push...

Instead, I grab the handle and shut it tight.