Page 27 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
And no, I’m not saying that because I believe in mind over matter or thinking things into existence. I’m saying it becauseJamalcan 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.
Mycloset 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 doingisa 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.
11
When You’d Rather Get a Paper Cut in Shark-Infested Waters Than Do Your Homework
Low Motivation
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 theother 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 Iwouldn’twant 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.
