Page 67 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
“Hi,” he says tentatively.
“Hi,” I say back.
Jamal smiles. It’s the first time we’ve talked in a while, and I feel like a baby learning to walk for the first time. But when we get to talking about which project to go with, I find myself stumbling.
“I, um, what do you, uh, want to do?” I stutter, looking from Jamal to the paper listing possible projects.
Jamal scans the paper, his finger dragging down the page as he reads each prompt.
“This one looks cool,” he says, ignoring the fact that I don’t know how to word right now. “Create a model of starlight by developing a sensor app with your smartphone to discover the key relationship between distance and brightness.”
I immediately shake my head. Creating an app together? That sounds like way too much time spent together. I want to spend the least amount of time with Jamal as possible. I can’t go back on the boundary I set. And I know he has the power to make me without even trying.
“How about this one?” I ask, pointing at prompt number five. “Calculate the orbits of near-earth asteroids. This one only requires three nights of work,” I say. Three nights spread out over the next few weeks, looking at the sky, barely having to talk, feels a lot less potentially romantic than spending every day together developing an app.
“Okay, we can do that one,” Jamal says without protest.
“Really?” I’d expected some kind of pushback, for some reason. Maybe Jamal really is over me and isn’t looking to spend a lot of extra time together. Which is a good thing.
Right?
25
When a Double Animal-Style Cheeseburger Isn’t Enough to Fill Your Empty Soul
Weight Gain
“Okay, you can do this,” I say to myself in the bathroom mirror. I pat my pockets to triple-check that I have at least two condoms in one and a mini bottle of lube in the other. I spritz myself with a few sprays of the cologne Jamal got for me. The irony is hard to ignore, both for the fact that the cologne is meant for single guys, and for the fact that it was my ex-boyfriend who got it for me, all while I’m using it to try to impress my girlfriend. I let out a slow breath. “You can do this,” I repeat.
Just as I’m about to open the door to sneak out, the door leading to Yami’s room opens. At first, she looks concerned, but only for a split second. Like she forgot she’s supposed to hate me, and she thinks I’m just having insomnia again. But then she looks me up and down, and she must realize I’m fully dressed and ready to go out.
“Where are you going?” she asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me since the day I came home from Abuela’s.
“Out,” I deflect, and it’s then that I realize she looks about ready to leave the house too, hoops on and everything. “Where areyougoing?” I throw the question back at her.
“To Bo’s.” Yami lets a small smile slip for just a moment before she glares at me again. “Where areyougoing?”
I want to laugh because Yami and I aren’t new to playing this game. We deflect and keep asking the same question until one of us caves, but I’m not caving today.
Then my phone starts buzzing from its place next to the sink, and Bianca’s name lights up the screen. Yami’s eyes dart to the phone, and I jump into action and grab it, silencing the call, but it’s too late. She saw the name.
“Are you serious?” she hisses in a loud whisper.
“You’re not gonna snitch, are you?” I ask. I’m used to Yami bending over backward to protect me from my mom, not snitching. But I’m on her bad side now. Who knows what she’ll do?
“I should,” she threatens, hands on her hips.
“I’ll tell Mom you’re sneaking out too, then,” I shoot back.
Then we have a glaring contest for what feels like ages before she finally turns and heads out the door. I wait as long as is reasonable before following her. Bianca’s call means she’s waiting for me. I thank God we’re neighbors, so she doesn’t have to pick me up. Seeing Yami and Bianca run into each other in the driveway would not be pretty.
I watch out the window until I see Yami get in Bo’s car, and they drive off. Once they’re gone, I quickly slip out the door and jog over to Bianca’s. I call her instead of knocking on the door, half thinking if I knocked her mom would answer or something. But of course she’s home alone. She answers the door instead of the phone.
She’s wearing a mesh black robe, see-through enough that the outlines of her black lace bra and underwear are visible underneath.
“Wow... ,” I say breathlessly, and she smiles like my reaction is exactly what she was going for.
“Get in here.” She grabs my hand and pulls me inside and toward the living room.
