Page 106 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
I’m not proud to say I recognize the knock. Bianca’s been our neighbor and Yami’s best friend basically our whole lives, and her “You’re taking too long to answer the door!” knock is distinctive.
“You invited Bianca?”
Instead of answering, Yami stands in front of the door and takes a deep breath before opening it. I follow behind her, more curious than anything.
“I unblocked your number so you could text me back, not show up at my house,” Yami says as she opens the door.
Bianca just stands there, staring at Yami like she’s a ghost or something.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I don’t know... taking your advice, I guess,” she says hesitantly, then turns to Yami. “I, um, I got your text. I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” I ask, feeling completely out of the loop. Then again, I guess this is the first time they’re interacting on purpose since Yami came out.
Finally Bianca looks at me. “I’m gonna testify against Nick. I think I have some shit on him that’ll help.”
“Oh, um... thanks,” I say. No matter how bad I want to avoid thinking about Nick, it’s comforting to know there’s someone else who can vouch for me.
“So, Yami... can we talk?” Bianca asks, nervously shifting her weight between her feet. I wasn’t really trying to give Bianca advice before, but maybe she really does want to take accountability now.
Yami hesitates for a second before opening the door wider. “Okay.”
Then she goes to her room, and Bianca follows.
I’m almost too shocked to move. I can think of several ways that conversation could go sideways, but I figure I should mind my own business. I resist the urge to eavesdrop and head to my room, getting out my poetry notebook as a distraction.
Jamal’s open mic is coming up, and I think it’d be a good time for me to branch out. I wrap my fist around my jaguar necklace. I might not be good at poetry, but I want to practice being more honest. I want to share something I like doing without worrying about it being perfect. Just poetry for the sake of expression.
I write and write, not bothering to edit as I go, just getting it all out. When I’m done, I feel proud of what I’ve made. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s true.
The door to Yami’s room opens just as I’m finishing, so I head over to check on her. Bianca’s on her way out, and she gives me a little nod that feels almost like a thank you. Then she’s gone.
When I go in Yami’s room, her body language is hard to read. She doesn’t look angry or happy. Maybe just relaxed.
“How did that go?” I ask.
“Good,” she says, looking thoughtful. “I mean, I don’t think we’re ever gonna be friends again, but... I guess I don’t have to waste energy hating her anymore.”
A heavy weight lifts from my shoulders at that. Not because I particularly care about Bianca’s redemption arc, but because Yami’s not hurting about what happened anymore. Maybe that means there’s hope for everyone I’ve hurt. Maybe they’ll all be okay, even with me still in the picture.
I refuse to repeat my mistake from last time, so I make sure to invite everyone I know and their mother to Jamal’s open mic next weekend. It’s just one of many ways I plan to start making things up to him. The other plan involves me walking to the mall after school to get Jamal a gift as a peace offering. I’ll give it to him tonight for our second-to-last astronomy viewing. We still have another one to do since we didn’t exactly get a lot of work done last time.
This time, Mami actually lets me go without a chaperone. I think she trusts Jamal enough to know he’ll keep me safe, which I appreciate.
Once we get to the viewpoint, we climb into the bed of the truck together, this time with a nicer telescope. We sit closer to each other this time, our shoulders barely touching while we take turns looking at the sky and writing down our trajectories.
It only takes so long before we’re finished, but when we are, neither of us moves to go back in the truck.
Jamal looks at me intensely. “Are you in pain?” he finally asks.
“A little,” I admit, though it’s an understatement. My head stillhurts where the rock hit me, and even though the bruises are healing, my whole body is still sore. “Are you?”
“A little... ,” he says as his eyes trail tenderly across different parts of my face, probably from one bruise to the other.
I don’t know how long we’ve just been staring at each other when he breaks the silence.
“Who were you talking about earlier, when you were talking to Bianca? The guy you’re... in love with,” he asks, his eyes holding an equal amount of fear and hope.
