Page 35 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
“So when were you planning on inviting me to that party? If you wait too long, I might have plans... ,” she says as she plops down on my bed.
“You don’t have plans.” I laugh, rolling my eyes. I wasplanningon inviting her right after Jamal invited me, but it must have slipped my mind. Jamal probably figured I’d forget and texted her himself. “So, want to come? Your nemesis won’t be there.”
“Do you really want me to go?”
“I’ll only go if you go,” I say, not realizing until then that I reallydo. If Jamal is the only one at the party I’m comfortable around, I don’t know if I trust myself not to let my feelings get the better of me. Yami would be a good buffer, but I don’t want totellher that.
“Well, youdefinitelyhave to go, so it’ll be a worthy sacrifice.”
“What do you mean?” Why would Yami care if I went to a party or not?
She raises an eyebrow like I should know. “You’ve been...” She pauses, probably choosing her words carefully. “Broody lately.”
Despite my conversation with Dr. Lee about how my support system being supportive is a good thing, an immediate pang of annoyance clangs against my temples.
“I’m fine, seriously. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Yami gives me a skeptical look. “I don’t believe you. You’regetting detention almost more than last year at this point. Even then, your grades never slipped like this. You haven’t gone anywhere but school since that open mic. You need to get out there. I miss having fun with you!”
“Is going to a party supposed to help my grades come up?” I ask, laughing. She’s really grasping at straws here if this is her idea of a solution.
“It’s not about your grades.” Yami shrugs. “Have you ever considered that getting out of the house will make you feel better, and if you feel better, maybe you’ll be more motivated.”
I roll my eyes, not buying Yami’s little speech. “Of course it always comes back to my grades.”
“Fine.” Yami rolls hers right back. “Well, youdohave a scholarship to maintain.”
“What if I don’t want to maintain my scholarship?”
That seems to push one of Yami’s buttons, because she stops with the peppy-big-sister act. “Do you realize how lucky you have it? I’m working my ass off every day just to make a dent in my tuition, and you have afull ride. That’s huge! And you’re practically throwing it away!”
“You’re the one who has it lucky!” I shoot back. “YoulikeSlayton, but you wouldn’t even be going if it wasn’t for me. I don’t even want tobehere!”
Yami looks like I just slapped her in the face, which I might as well have, but I can’t stop.
“No one asked me if I wanted a scholarship. No one asked if I wanted to go to Slayton in the first place. No one ever asks whatIwant! You all just drop your whole lives for someideaof what youthinkis best for me!”
Yami’s quiet for a while, her eyes shiny with tears. Then finally she softly asks, “What doyouwant, Cesar?”
And since it’s the first time anyone’s ever asked me that, I don’t have an answer. Do I want to go back to Rover? Do I really want to lose my scholarship to Slayton?
I do know I want to rewind this conversation. I want to stop making everyone around me miserable. Sometimes I want to just stop existing.
“I want you to come to the party,” I say, grasping at the remnants of the lighthearted conversation this started as. It’s the closest I can get to a peace offering without acknowledging everything that went wrong.
She pauses for a while, and I can only hope our sibling telepathy is enough to get my message across. Casual conversation. No tension. We’re chill.
“Fine.” She gets up and starts walking out but pauses at the door, a tiny smile on her lips. “But I’m bringing Bo.”
My shoulders relax. I think she got it.
On Saturday, our doorbell rings at exactly seven forty-five, even though the party is only five minutes away and starts at eight. Jamal is never one to be late—doesn’t matter if it’s a party where you’resupposedto be late. Yami and I share a quick look before I get the door.
“Don’t worry, we still have to wait for Bo to get here,” Yami says, reading my mind like she always does.
When I open the door, Jamal is standing in the doorway looking even nicer than usual. His button-up shirt is long-sleeved and solid white instead of his usual plaid or stripes.
“Hey, you,” he says with a small grin as I open the door.
