Page 7 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar

I do a double take when Dona Violeta shows up to take me and Yami home from school instead of my mom. The woman is basically

our surrogate grandma, for all intents and purposes, since Yami and I haven’t seen or heard from our abuela in years. On the

rare occasion Abuela comes up in conversation, Mami either changes the subject or says something about how crazy she is. Growing

up, Dona Violeta was there instead. She helped raise Yami and me, and practically every other kid on our block.

“What’s she doing here?” I ask Yami as we walk toward her car.

“Mami’s in Sedona this weekend, remember?” Yami raises an eyebrow. “She’s been talking about it all week.”

“Oh, right,” I say, pretending I remember her bringing it up. Somehow my brain only manages to remember useless things, like

textbook glossaries and differential equations. When it comes to real life, I always come up blank.

Maybe that has something to do with The Thoughts I keep having to push down whenever my brain tries to leave robot-student mode. Those thoughts being particularly persistent after that conversation with Father John.

I pretend to pay attention to Dona Violeta’s story in the car, but all I can think about is how I have to prove Father John

wrong. There has to be some kind of loophole. If Father John can’t tell me what to do in order to be with Jamal without going

to hell, I’ll bring my case straight to the source. I may not be able to hear God’s voice in my ear like a priest, but I can

still get my message across.

As soon as we get home, I go straight to my room and pray harder than I have since my hospital stay. I know most people pray

before bed, but my usual time is after school. Since I go to bed at inconsistent times, if at all, it’s easier to make a habit

of it if I can do it at the same time every day.

I pull my cross necklace out of my shirt and close my fist around it tight. When I’m not in school, I’m usually wearing that

one and my jaguar necklace, which both feel spiritual to me in different ways. But with the dress code, I can only wear the

cross to school.

I’m not proud of it, but this particular prayer is not pretty. I find myself straight up groveling, begging for some kind

of sign that I missed something—that Father John missed something—and I don’t have to spend the rest of my life pretending

not to love Jamal.

I beg for some kind of sign, for God to just tell me what to do to make it right. To tell me it’s okay to be with him. There

has to be a way to make things work. With trembling prayer hands and faltering confidence, I end up lying in bed staring at

the ceiling all night instead of sleeping.

When Jamal picks me up for the movie the next day, I shoot up one more quick prayer before opening the door. All I need is a sign of some kind that this is okay, and I’ll know I can completely ignore what Father John said.

I cross myself and open the door to find Jamal standing on the other side, hands folded behind his back and a smile on his

face. He’s never been the type to just text me saying he’s here so I can come out to his truck. Instead, he comes to the door

every time, walking me to his truck and opening the passenger door for me.

“Thanks,” I say, unable to keep from smiling as I climb inside. It’s hard not to feel lighter around him, even with Father

John’s words weighing me down.

“Question,” Jamal says as he pulls the truck off into the road.

“Yeah?” I say, wondering if he’ll ask again about getting back together so early in the date.

“If you had to choose how the world would end, what kind of apocalypse would you pick?”

I let out a little laugh. There really is no telling what kind of question he’s got in his head at any given moment. “Um,

what are my options?”

“Like, alien invasion, zombies, animal uprising, the rapture, nuclear war... it can be anything, really.”

“Definitely not the rapture,” I find myself saying with an involuntary shudder. “Maybe animal uprising? I’ve been pretty nice

to animals, I think. Maybe they’ll spare me.”

“Yeah, that’s probably the best one for the sake of the planet, too,” Jamal says thoughtfully. “I’d pick the alien invasion.”

He doesn’t elaborate on his answer, but he doesn’t really need to. Being both a sci-fi and astronomy enthusiast, I’m sure getting abducted by aliens and taken to see space is up there on his wish list.

We pull up to the theater then. It’s a small dollar theater in the middle of the day, so we basically get the entire place

to ourselves. I planned to pay for everything, but Jamal sneaks over to the concession stand while I’m getting the tickets,

and by the time I have them, he’s balancing a large popcorn and two sodas in his arms.

I try to keep my eyes open for one of those signs from God that I either will or won’t go to hell for even being here with

him, but nothing feels out of the ordinary. I take the drinks from him, so he only has to carry the popcorn, and we take our

seats in the very back of the theater.

Most of the movie goes right over my head since I’m overthinking so hard. I have to be hypervigilant, so I don’t miss whatever

signal I’m supposed to get.

Jamal rests a hand on the armrest in between our seats, and without thinking, I find my hand instinctively going to meet his.

He turns his head, looking surprised but happy as he turns his palm upward to take my hand.

My stomach does a somersault, and I’m not sure if it’s because I missed the warmth of his hands, or because I acted without

getting my sign first.

It’s just hand-holding, though. I haven’t asked him to be my boyfriend or anything, so technically I’m still in the clear,

I think.

Part of me wonders if the feeling of his hand in mine is a signal in its own right. I can’t deny the safety of it. How this simple touch relaxes my shoulders

and tugs at the corners of my lips. That can be a sign, right?

As soon as I think it, the screen lights up with a fiery explosion, the sudden booming in my ears making me pull my hand away in a flinch.

Is that a sign?

My head pounds the rest of the movie trying to make sense of it. I do my best to weigh the two conflicting signals against

each other, but by the time the credits roll, I’m no closer to an answer. At least, not one I can be confident I’m not misunderstanding.

I try my best to listen to Jamal raving about the movie on the way home, but I have a hard time concentrating on his words,

especially since I barely absorbed any of that movie. I was supposed to ask him to be my boyfriend today in person, but the

longer I go without some kind of hint that it’s all gonna be okay, the harder it is to get any words out of my mouth.

I haven’t said anything by the time we pull up to my house, and I don’t know if I can.

“Thanks for today,” Jamal says, turning toward me with a genuine smile. At least he doesn’t seem to be freaking out as much

as I am. “I had a good time.”

“Me too,” I admit. I always have a good time with him, no matter how much my own brain tries to sabotage it. I find myself

subconsciously leaning the tiniest bit forward. I have to admit, I don’t want today to end.

He leans in too, and I glance down at his lips, wondering if the skip in my heart is enough of a hint.

Before either of us gets too close, Jamal’s phone goes off. He pulls it out of his pocket and frowns at the screen. “Sorry,

I should really answer.”

“It’s okay, I have to go anyway,” I say a bit too quickly, opening the door and hopping out of the truck in one movement.

“Bye!”

I shut the door, and he waves behind the window as he answers his phone. Like always, he doesn’t drive away until after I get the door open. The sun is still up, but he’s always making sure I get in safely before driving off.

When I get inside, I lean my back against the door and sink, running a hand down my face. The phone call wasn’t necessarily

a sign, right? It doesn’t have to mean anything just because it happened when I maybe thought about kissing Jamal... right?

It doesn’t occur to me that I forgot to take my meds until Sunday morning, when I pass by the pill counter and realize both

the Saturday and Sunday pills are still in their slots. My stomach drops as I rush to get the missed pills out of the counter.

Not because I missed them, but because I could have gotten caught missing them.

If Mami or Yami had noticed before I did, they’d never let me go a day without hovering over my every move again. This weekend

is the first time Mami’s dared to leave me relatively unsupervised since my inpatient stay, so she definitely can’t know.

I drop the Saturday and Sunday pills in my palm and go straight to the bathroom, immediately flushing the one I missed. I

pop the Sunday pill in my mouth, but I hesitate before swallowing.

Aren’t I supposed to be spiraling after missing a dose? I don’t really feel all that different today than I normally do. I

feel... fine?

I don’t really know what pushes me to do it. Maybe it’s because I’m genuinely doing better. Maybe because I’m sick of being

watched while I take my meds like some kind of prisoner. Or that I want to feel in control of one fucking thing in my life.

And if I already missed a dose and I feel fine, then what’s the harm in just... pausing?

Whatever the reason, I spit the pill out in the toilet, satisfied in the knowledge that maybe everyone is wrong about me. Maybe I don’t actually need to be babied for the rest of eternity. Maybe this is the beginning of me taking control of my own life.

I’m about to head back to my room when the door on Yami’s side of the bathroom opens and she walks in, rubbing her eyes.

“How was the movie?” she asks through a yawn.

“It was—” I start, but my phone dings mid-sentence with the email notification sound. “Good...” I trail off as I pull my

phone out and check it, but the email’s preview makes the blood in my ears pump loud enough to hear my own pulse.

Subject: Re: miss you papi

I know it’s taken me a long time to explain...

“Uh, I’m gonna go back to sleep.” I give Yami a half-hearted excuse before going straight to my room so she can’t ask any

questions.

I close and lock my door and sit at the edge of my bed, trying my best to hype myself up to open the damn email. The blood

pumping in my ears turns to slush, and I’m suddenly dizzy. I have no idea what to expect from his response. Is he going to

apologize? Will he say he misses us too? Or will he just confirm he’s disowned us?

Part of me wants to just delete the email without reading it, but I know if I do that I’ll always wonder what could have happened.

And if I wait until I’m not scared, I’ll never be able to read it at all. So, I force myself to take three deep breaths, and

open the email.

Subject: Re: miss you papi

I know it’s taken me a long time to explain my thoughts here, and I apologize for that. I thought maybe if I gave it some

time, things would work themselves out on their own, but I guess I can’t make you change. I got your email and thought, it

better be good. But you’re both still doing what you’re doing.

I can’t lie to you. I’m very disappointed.

You and your sister have been brainwashed, and I can acknowledge that my absence in the last few years has made this harder

on all of us. But I can’t pretend to support what I know in my heart is not right.

If you only take one thing I say to heart, let it be this: It doesn’t matter what anyone has tried to convince you until now.

What you’re doing is a choice. And you’re making the wrong one. I can’t just sit around and enable my kids to choose this

lifestyle over family, and over God. You’re both throwing away my legacy and your own futures.

I won’t force you, but whatever you choose, you have to live with the consequences.

I stare at my phone until the words blur. I know what I have to do now. Or, what I have to not do.

Father John was right. Maybe I can’t control my feelings, but I can control my actions. I can choose what to do about my feelings.

This was the sign. I can’t be with Jamal. Not without facing the consequences.