Page 6 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar

I spend the car ride home from therapy writing out a poem for Jamal in my notes app, vaguely aware of my mom talking to me.

Something about a pop-up market in Sedona.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right this weekend?”

“Yeah, mhmm,” I respond on autopilot.

“I’ll only be a couple hours away, so if you need anything, just call me, okay?”

“Okay, yeah,” I say, still typing away. I want to show Jamal this little piece of me I’ve been keeping from the rest of the

world. He deserves a straight answer from me, for once, but I don’t want to send it over text.

So, as soon as I get home, I write the poem out in the Jamal section of my notebook, so I can give it to him in person. Once

it’s done, I tear out the page and read it over one last time. Not to make sure it’s good enough, because that never mattered

with him. He’s the only one who doesn’t expect me to be perfect. It’s almost better that this particular poem is straight

from brain to paper—or brain to notes app to paper. He’d like it best that way, I’m sure.

The first time I fell, I accidentally found that the

Answer to all the questions burning in my head were the same.

Is it possible to be seen completely and still loved? Does he really want me, out

Of all the people in the world? When we’re old and gray, and our lives have run their

Course , will he still want me? Will I want him?

Yes , obviously.

I’ve barely had time to read the full poem before Jamal calls me at our usual time. I have to resist the urge to ask him to

be my boyfriend right then and there. No, I want to do things right this time. I should ask him in person.

“What are you doing this weekend?” I say as soon as I pick up the phone. I’m already googling movie times for something he

might be into.

“Probably whatever you’re about to invite me to.” His words have a certain lightness to them that makes me think he’s smiling.

“Wanna go to the movies?” I say, trying not to sound as eager as I am. “They’re playing Battlestar Galactica at the dollar theater on Saturday.” I don’t know much about the franchise other than that Jamal used to watch it on repeat

as a kid.

“Really?” he asks, his voice a little higher pitched than usual.

“Yeah,” I say with a little laugh. With my microscopic attention span, I’ve never been big on watching movies, but Jamal loves

them. I don’t know, it seems like a nice gesture. “Is there anything I need to know going in?” I ask, knowing Jamal is probably

itching to tell me all about it.

That question is all he needs to unleash a massive info dump of all his hidden Battlestar knowledge.

It’s times like these I can put my audiographic memory to use.

I quietly file away the unfamiliar terms and names in my brain while Jamal gets progressively more and more excited.

Battlestar Galactica isn’t particularly up my alley, but I could listen to Jamal get this hyped up over something for literally any amount of

time, any day.

Or all night, apparently. I’m not sure who fell asleep first, but the call is still going when I wake up a few hours later,

Jamal’s rhythmic breath just heavy enough to tell me he’s been passed out for a while.

“Good night,” I whisper before hanging up and falling back asleep.

I spend the rest of the week brushing up on Battlestar knowledge and playing out different scenarios of how I might ask Jamal

out in my head. In Mr. Franco’s class on Friday, I’d rather daydream than fall asleep for once. I’m not even catastrophizing

this time.

In fact, I’m imagining all the ways this could possibly go right . If he says yes. If we could be even better together now than we were before. Maybe it can last this time. I’m in the middle

of running through all the ways I can phrase the big question when David and three other guys walk in.

Mr. Franco claps his hands together and stops droning on long enough to introduce them. “All right, everyone can wake up now,

the main office told me we had some free entertainment coming our way, courtesy of the drama class. What’s your skit about

today?”

“It’s an anti-drug PSA from Father John,” David says.

“A heavy topic, huh?” Mr. Franco presses his lips together like he wants to say more, but just gestures to the guys up front.

“The stage is yours.”

David takes the cue and goes to one side of the room while the other three go to the other. Then David starts walking past them.

“Hey kid, do you wanna get high? ’Cause I have free drugs,” one of the guys says as he pretends to open up an imaginary trench

coat full of said drugs. “It’s the good kind.”

“I love getting high, but I don’t need your drugs,” David says, and I can already tell he’s trying to keep from laughing.

“The only thing I need to get high on is Jesus’s love for me.”

There are a few stifled laughs at that, but David stays impressively in character. Him being an atheist makes this a hundred

times more hilarious. If only it was the norm to be offered free drugs by random students, like every adult at this school

somehow thinks it is. I bet Father John wrote the script himself and thinks it’s great.

“Only losers don’t do drugs,” one of the other actors says, and they pretend to laugh at David while they all give him a thumbs-down.

“Doing drugs is a sin, and sinning isn’t cool,” David says with his arms crossed in a challenge.

“Whatever, it makes me feel good,” one of the guys shoots back. So far, that’s the only realistic part of this skit.

“If you really want to feel good, you go to confession and repent. Forgiveness feels better than drugs,” David says with prayer

hands. Mr. Franco cuts in at that, making the time-out signal with his hands and stepping forward.

“We also have an excellent guidance counselor for anyone who’s struggling to feel good.

There are plenty of adults at this school you can trust if you need help,?” Mr. Franco says, bringing the vibe of the room down for a moment.

I almost scoff at the comment. I’ve gotten detention for chewing gum, so I doubt anyone could admit to doing drugs here and not get in trouble.

“Consider dropping by for a counseling session after confession.” He goes back to the sidelines, then gestures at David. “Go ahead.”

“Do you even know the sacraments, bro?” David jumps back in without skipping a beat, as the other actors just stare at him

like they’ve never heard the word “confession.”

“I know the sacraments!” one of the guys insists, while holding back a laugh at David’s ironic earnestness.

I know it’s all kind of a joke to them, but it does give me a twinge of guilt. Like, maybe I should talk to Father John about

Jamal again, just in case. Maybe it doesn’t have to be like last time. I can present my case like I did with Dr. Lee.

“Oh, good! Because Father John opens up the confessional before school and at lunch every Friday. Peer pressure is bad, so

peers, press your palms together and pray for forgiveness. Amen.”

“Amen,” the rest of them chime in.

They all bow, and David finally breaks character as he grins at me and waves. I give him a thumbs-up and he makes sarcastic

prayer hands at me before they shuffle out, bursting into laugher once they’re out of the room.

Mr. Franco clears his throat. “All right, speaking of forgiveness...” He doesn’t waste any time before he starts passing

our tests back from Monday. “Some of you might want to repent when your parents see these scores.”

“Tests aren’t cool, the sacraments are,” someone says, followed by a few laughs, and then everyone starts dramatically quoting

the skit to Mr. Franco when they get their marked-up tests.

“Do you even know the sacraments, bro?”

“Only losers give pop quizzes.”

“I don’t need to get high, my test score does it for me.”

“All right, all right, very funny.” Mr. Franco rolls his eyes as he hands me mine. As expected, my score of 65 percent is

crossed out in red ink and replaced with a 100 percent, meaning my test set the curve.

“We basically tied on this one,” Jeremy says when he sees my score, proudly showing me his test with an original score of

63 percent.

“I won’t go so easy on you next time,” I taunt playfully, and he laughs.

“No, please do, Mr. Franco sure as hell won’t.”

At that, Mr. Franco shushes us to start reviewing the correct answers, and I find myself dozing off a bit. I didn’t sleep

well last night, and Mr. Franco doesn’t make staying awake easy. Lucky for me, he doesn’t bother me, and I wake up to the

sound of the bell.

It’s not like I was intentionally taking David’s skit seriously, but for the rest of my morning classes, I can’t help but

feel like maybe the timing wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe there’s a reason I was supposed to get that reminder to talk to Father

John. So when lunch comes around, I find myself walking toward the chapel.

Getting advice from Father John might be a good idea before I ask Jamal out. The more I think about it, the more it makes

sense. If Dr. Lee is right, then good deeds count toward whether I go to heaven or hell just as much as sins do. That means

Father John can do some quick priest math and tell me exactly what I need to do in order to be with Jamal and still make things

right with God. It’s the perfect opportunity for me to get answers before my date tomorrow.

When I get to the chapel to meet Father John, it doesn’t really surprise me that I’m the first and probably only one to take him up on his offer.

I’m sure almost everyone else at Slayton has the chance to go to confession every weekend, so they’d have no need to go at school.

But since my mom and Yami work so much, we don’t really go to church at all.

There’s no line, so I walk right into the booth and sit across from the priest, who I can’t really see behind the screen.

“What’s up, Father John?” I say as I do a quick sign of the cross.

He sighs a little. “Hello, my son. What sins weigh on your heart today?”

I sit on my hands to keep from fidgeting too much. “I actually just came here to ask you a question.”

“Ask it.”

“Or, maybe, like, two questions. Three, tops.”

The pause is too long for comfort, so I take his lack of response as my cue to go on.

“Okay, so, hypothetically speaking...” I don’t know why I’m starting out with hypotheticals when this is obviously about

me. “If a guy falls for another guy, what exactly would he have to do to cancel out the sin?”

“Cancel out the sin...?” He repeats my last few words, as if they were in a different language.

“Right. Like, what if I go volunteer at a food bank every time I have sex—”

He clears his throat like that caught him off guard, but I keep going.

“I mean, since you can’t just stop doing certain sins... like if I like another guy, but I’m also, like, a really good person, I don’t have to go to hell, right?”

He pauses again, though not for as long this time. “Your focus is in the wrong place, my son. If good deeds cancel out sins, then what is there to save us from sin? Actually, it’s the opposite. A good deed means nothing if done with sin in one’s heart.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. This is not going according to plan. “But what if it’s not a mortal sin? It’s not a conscious

choice, I can’t really help it. What then?”

By now I’ve dropped the hypothetical act. He’s the one who told me to break up with Jamal for my penance last year, so he

knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“You always have control over yourself, my son. You only have to resist the temptation.”

“No, you’re not getting it,” I start, my voice raising more than I mean it to. “I can be a better person! I’ll be really,

really good, I promise—” I stop myself when my voice cracks. I wasn’t expecting to get so mad, but I also really wasn’t expecting

our talk to end up this way.

“A good person who refuses to rid himself of the devil’s influence will find himself again with the devil in the afterlife.”

“But I...” I stop myself before getting choked up again. I have to go back to class soon, I can’t go getting emotional.

“I have to go,” I blurt out, and bolt from the confessional before he has a chance to respond.

I thought Father John having that priestly connection with God would mean he could give me some kind of answers, but I was

wrong.

No, he’s the one who’s wrong. He must have mistranslated or something. He’s wrong . There has to be a way to prove him wrong.