Page 24 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
You’re a burden to everyone around you.
Yeah, no shit, me. You’ve really got to come up with some tougher insults if you want to actually hurt my feelings.
Everyone you love secretly resents you.
A swing and a miss. It’s not like any of them can resent me more than I do. Besides, I already knew that.
Of course they resent me. I’m the whole reason Yami has to go to Catholic school in the first place and why she and my mom have to work their asses off every waking minute to try to pay for her tuition. I broke up with Jamal, then strung him along. He has to be pissed at me for that. Then there’s my dad...
They’re better off without you.
Aren’t you supposed to be antagonizing me, me? I don’t think this is going to work if weagreeon everything.
And finally, silence.
I can’t believe that actually worked.
Guess therapy has its perks,sometimes.
When seven on Friday comes around, the doorbell rings instead of my phone, and I hop out of bed to meet Jamal at the door. I almost didn’t expect him to come. We haven’t talked much since I hung up on him a few days ago, which is really not normal for us. I texted him sorry and lied saying I was swamped with homework this week to avoid getting into anything deeper, so he hasn’t been calling me at the normal time. He’s not the type of person to try to talk things through over text, so I was hoping to wait out the confrontation until it went away.
I just need to act like everything is fine. If Jamal’s mad at me for hanging up on him, he wouldn’t be here to get me for his open mic, right? Hopefully it’s been long enough not to matter anymore. And if it hasn’t, then maybe if I pretend there’s nothing wrong, he’ll follow along.
“Bye, Mami! Bye, Yami!” I shout before darting out and shutting the door behind me, so they don’t ask questions and make us late. I already told Mami about the open mic, but I wouldn’t put it past her to hold us up trying to make conversation with Jamal. Not that we’d be late; we still have awhile before the open mic starts, but Jamal wants to get there early to make sure he can sign up and guarantee himself a spot. If it wasn’t for him coming to get me first, he’d probably get there even earlier, considering the coffee shop is right outside his neighborhood.
“You hung up on me,” Jamal says instead of a hello. So much for brushing it under the rug. “I thought you were mad at me.”
“Oh, uh, no... ,” I say, starting the walk to his truck to make the conversation feel more casual. I don’t want it to feel like a big deal, but I also don’t want him to feel bad for any part of this. “I was just off that day, I guess.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks when we get to his truck. He starts to reach out to open the door for me before pulling his hand away.
“Nope, I’m good,” I say, opening my own door and climbing inside so he doesn’t push the subject.
It’s not a long drive, so we don’t have a lot of time to talk before we get there, which is probably for the best. The venue isn’t exactly what I was expecting. It’s got that hipster-Christian vibe a lot of youth ministry volunteers tend to have. It’s a ritzy-looking coffee shop filled with white people who look like they claim to have listened to all the popular artists “before they were cool.” I find myself walking a little bit closer to Jamal as we enter, and I realize he’s doing the same.
We’re definitely out of our element. Still, hearing Jamal perform will make tonight worth it. When I glance over the menu, I realize it’s full of Bible puns.
Between the extra-caffeinated white coffee called the Resurrection, the Ten Command-mint iced mocha, the red velvet cold brew called the Red Sea, and the Virgin Bloody Mary, this place feels like the acid trip of every pothead youth pastor’s wet dreams.
I glance over at Jamal, trying to gauge if he already knew this was a Christian coffee shop. He looks a little nervous, but that could just be a regular amount of pre-performance nerves.
“You still down to do this?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He lets out a little huff like he’s pumping himself up. “I’m about to make a bunch of people really uncomfortable, but I might as well get some exposure therapy, right?”
“We can leave whenever if anything happens,” I offer, and he nods.
A hand slaps against my back, and I whirl around ready to start swinging until I see the body attached to the hand.
“Missed you, bro! Where the hell have you been, loca?” Hunter says as he pulls me in for a hug, then gives one to Jamal.
I resist the urge to tell him it’s locoor react in any way to being called crazy. Even if it is just a quote from one of the Twilight movies he’s probably never seen.
“Sorry,” Hunter says before anyone gets a chance to respond, retracting his neck like a scared turtle.
I just laugh. He may have been one of the most popular guys at Slayton, but college must have humbled Hunter enough for him to actually feel an ounce of embarrassment at what comes out of his mouth.
“This is my friend Sasha.” Hunter clears his throat and gestures at the tall brunet guy next to him, who waves. “I thought you might want some backup, since you’re doing a, uh, coming-out poem, and Sasha’s, well... like you.”
