Page 13 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar

Jamal calls me at the usual time on Saturday, but I can’t bring myself to answer. I don’t know if it’s because his closet

letter touched a nerve I don’t know how to address, or just that the open mic was too socially exhausting for the miniscule

amount of sleep I got.

All I know is I need to feel like I don’t exist for a little bit longer. So I stay in bed and close my eyes. Unsurprisingly,

sleep doesn’t come, but being conscious doesn’t make me any more capable of being a human person. It kind of feels like all

the hours of sleep I’ve been missing teamed up and personified—not to help me sleep, but to beat the living shit out of me.

It isn’t until the next day that I even consider getting out of bed. Well, consider is maybe a strong word. The thought crossed

my mind, but I can’t do it. I know I promised to make dinner for my mom on Sundays, but I’m sure the food tastes better without

my influence anyway. Besides, Yami’s probably grateful not to have to fix all my fuckups. It’s better this way for everyone

involved.

I may have successfully gotten The Thoughts to shut up the other day, but I’m having a harder time right now. The Thoughts are mean, sure, but not wrong.

Jamal calls again at the usual time tonight, too. I want to ignore him. I want to answer. I want to go into a coma, so I don’t

have to make any decisions for a while. At least then I’d have a good excuse to lie down and do nothing.

But if I ignore Jamal too much, he might realize I’m not actually worth talking to and stop calling. And I know that would

probably be for the best, but it would probably also be the actual end of the world. Worse than the animal uprising, alien

invasion, or any of the other options he gave me to choose from. So I gather all the energy that’s been accumulating from

my hibernation and answer the phone.

“Hey, you,” I say, as if I hadn’t just ignored him yesterday.

“Hey, you,” he says, and as usual, I can hear the smile on his face. “How are you, Cesar?”

“Good, what about you?” I quickly throw the question back before he has a chance to catch my deflection.

“I’m great!” he says enthusiastically. “I wanted to tell you yesterday, but I found a coffee shop that will let me host an

open mic! It’s happening in two weeks!”

“Already? That’s awesome!” I say, a genuine smile tugging at my lips.

“Thanks. Apparently, this place is queer owned, and they loved the idea of a queer-friendly open mic, so it was really easy

to plan.” He’s talking faster than usual, like he’s too excited to hold it in.

“I knew you’d make it happen.”

“So, question,” he says, sounding nervous.

“Yeah?”

“Do you... want to come?”

At first I’m not sure why he’s asking as if I wouldn’t want to come, or why he sounds so nervous. But then I realize this open mic is different. It’s a specifically queer space,

and he wants to make sure I’m ready for that.

I want to question why he even wants me there. Why he’s still putting up with me. But if he’s under some false illusion that

I’m worth keeping around, I don’t want to go shattering it. Besides, it’s not like I have to come out in order to support

a friend. “I’ll definitely be there.”

“Thanks, I appreciate you.”

For some reason, the familiar line makes my heart ache. For all the times Jamal insists he understands everything about me, I can’t get a grasp on him at all. To him, it’s like I can do no wrong, and I don’t have a single flaw.

I have no idea what he sees when he looks at me, but whatever it is, he must be kidding himself.

I’m not perfect like everyone thinks, and I’m tired of pretending to be.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t been doing my homework. Maybe that’s why I stopped bothering to hide it when I fall asleep in class.

I’m done living up to everyone’s expectations.

The days start blending together like one dull, meaningless blob. I’m almost grateful to get called out of class and into

the guidance counselor’s office on a Monday, if only because it breaks up the monotony for a bit.

The counselor’s office is full of feel-good posters that say things like Jesus Loves You and Blessed Not Stressed, which both feel hilariously off-base at the moment.

“Good morning!” I say cheerfully, doing my best to channel the Not Stessed part.

“Good morning, Cesar.” She grins and gestures for the seat in front of her desk, waiting for me to sit before speaking. “It’s

your senior year. Have you given any thought to what college you want to go to? Applied for any scholarships?”

“Can’t say that I have,” I say truthfully.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Really? If you’d asked me last year who between you and your sister would be going to college, I’d

have had my money on you.” I have to suck on my lips to keep my face from twisting at that comment. It’s not like she’s in

the minority with that assumption, but it still bothers me. Hopefully she didn’t say the same thing to Yami. Part of me wants

to ask Yami myself, since that comment kind of implies she is going to college, and she hasn’t said anything about it to me. “I’m sure you could get several scholarships if you start applying!”

“What if I just don’t go to college?” I ask the forbidden question. I haven’t had the energy or motivation to apply for any

scholarships, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. My mom probably wouldn’t care if Yami didn’t go to college, but me? I’ve been being prepped for it my whole life, basically, just because of my unusually high IQ.

Which, let’s be real, is bullshit and unfair for all parties involved.

“Well, do you know what you might do instead of college?”

I just shrug. Why do I always have to be doing something? It’s exhausting.

“Well, either way, it’s a good idea to keep your options open. Which brings me to our next conversation. Do you know the real reason I called you here?”

“Because you missed me?” I say, trying to get a grin out of her so she stops looking at me all concerned like that. Usually,

the older office-lady types are all over the banter, but she just sighs and goes on.

“I just wanted to remind you that your scholarship requires you to maintain your GPA at a certain threshold. I’m worried you

might be putting your scholarship in jeopardy if your grades keep dropping like this.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I already did the math. It shouldn’t be a problem as long as I keep acing my tests.” Logically

speaking, I know it’s bad if I lose my scholarship. I’d have to go back to Rover, and I’d be in a shit ton of trouble, but

honestly, I feel like it’s what I deserve.

“You can’t count on that, Cesar.” She folds her hands together on the table and looks at me with another one of those pitying

looks I fucking despise. “Lucky for you, I talked to your teachers, and we came up with a plan. If you can make up all the

homework you’ve missed, you can get 60 percent credit on it. That’ll be enough to bring your grades back up to a safe level.”

“Thanks,” I say, knowing I won’t be bothered to do that much work with the low amount of energy I’ve had lately. Not that

I’ll need to, if I keep acing my tests. “Can I go now?” I ask, feeling irritation starting to simmer, which isn’t a good sign.

I don’t know why, but lately any small inconvenience lights an angry fire in my chest. I try not to come across as an angry person, but the truth is, sometimes I just want to blow up on literally everyone all the time.

I know better than to do that to the school counselor, so it’s best if I leave before the annoyance turns into full-blown rage.

“Not so fast, Cesar. Let’s talk for a bit, okay?” She seems to soften up at the first hint of me not being all smiles and

rainbows, for some reason.

“Okay?” I say, knowing I don’t have much of a choice.

“How are things at home?” She asks that same question Mr. Franco is always bugging me with.

“Things are great!” I say in my best cheery voice, trying to push down the bubbling irritation.

“I hope you know that if you want to talk, or need anything, that’s what I’m here for, all right?” She finally smiles, but

it’s a sad smile, like she feels bad for me.

“Everything’s fine, seriously,” I say, voice as even as I can manage.

“All right. Well, I can’t force you to open up. But know if your grades dip any lower, we’ll be talking again very soon.”

“Got it,” I say curtly, then get up and walk away before she can ask any more questions.

Between second and third hour, David approaches me.

“Hey, did you study for the English test today, by any chance?” he asks.

I shake my head. I barely have the energy to shower these days, let alone use my brain.

“Shit,” David says. “Me either. Totally forgot it was today. Want to cram at lunch?”

“No, thanks.” I shrug. “I have to...” I trail off. God, usually I’m good at coming up with excuses, but my brain is just not working lately. Way too foggy. “I have to do my homework,” I finally say, then turn around and walk away before he can get too suspicious.

When English comes around, our tests are already on our desks. I walk in and confidently start filling out the top of the

Scantron, then get to reading the test questions. They’re way too easy. It’s so simple, it’s boring. So boring I could do

it in my sleep...

I fill it out like muscle memory, almost like I’m in a trance.

I don’t realize anything’s wrong until the bell signaling the end of class wakes me up, and I’m horrified to see an almost

completely empty Scantron in front of me.

I slept through the test.