Page 5 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
Could live forever if he’s
There—cons... TBD
3
When You’re Incredibly Lucky and Talented and Smart and Everything Always Goes Your Way
Compartmentalization
I go to the kitchen to start cooking around five, since I want to make sure everything’s ready and we’re done eating by seven, which is the time Jamal always calls me. Even on weekdays, we’re both usually done with all our homework by this time, and it’s after dinner for me and before for him. He likes his schedules, so even though we never officially decided on this time, he’s always been consistent with it.
Thinking about it now, that does feel like a very couple-y thing to do, even though we haven’t been together since junior year. Maybe that’ll change soon, though? Who knows.
Yami must hear me getting out the pan and ingredients because she’s in the kitchen interrogating me before I can even turn on the comal.
“What are you doing?” she asks, as if me cooking is some miracle of modern science.
“I’m making dinner tonight. And every Sunday, starting now. It’s my New Year’s resolution, to give Mami a break,” I say proudly.
“But you don’t cook?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“What are you talking about? I cook like a chef, I’m a five-star Michelin—”
“You can’t have more than three Michelin stars,” she says smart-assily. “And I don’t think you can get a star with only one menu item. Do you know how to make anything besides guisado?” She crosses her arms, all judgy.
“Fuck you, it’s a Stray Kids reference! And my guisado is fire, what do you want from me?” She hates when I copy her, so I purposely imitate her crossed arms.
“So, we’re gonna eat guisado every Sunday for all time?”
I just shrug, and she pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Ay, ay, ay, let me help. I’ll teach you how to make sopa de pan, it’s Mami’s favorite.”
Normally, I’d be annoyed at Yami inserting herself intomyact of service. But even if I’d never let her know it, cooking with her would be way more fun than doing it on my own. Besides, guisado will probably get old if it’s all I ever make.
After a while of swallowing my pride and letting Yami be better than me at something, Mami follows the spreading smell into the kitchen and practically melts, putting a hand over her heart when she sees us working together.
“My kids feeding me, what a treat!” She starts trying to serve herself a bowl, but Yami slaps her hand away.
“Let us serve you, Mami,” I say, and she holds her hands up in surrender, then goes to sit patiently at the table with a smile.
Yami ladles the soup into some bowls while I set the table. When I put the napkin and silverware in front of my mom, she beams.
“I’m so proud of you, mijo,” she says softly. “You’ve come so far since last year.”
I stiffen at the comment as it hits me why she’s so emotional over me making dinner. Why she thinks I need to be coddled and sheltered and why I can basically do no wrong. But I quickly snap into whack-a-mole mode and shoot down all the budding thoughts jumping out at me from where I buried them last year.
My last episode—BAM.
The hospital stay—BAM.
My dad disowning us—BAM.
None of that shit can touch me now. In fact, I’m so unbothered that I scarf down my food and joke my way through dinner with Yami. So unbothered that when Jamal calls afterward, I don’t even bring it up. We also don’t talk about the lingering question of whether we’re getting back together or not. I told him I’d think about it, so I know he’s not gonna ask again so soon. Instead, he invites me to an open mic right by his house the Friday after next where he wants to share a new spoken word piece.
“I’m a little nervous,” he admits, which isn’t really like him. Not when it comes to his poetry.
“Why?”
