Page 4 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
So, do I believe being with Jamal is sinful? Yeah. I do.
But do I care? Maybe not anymore.
If I don’t sin, then Jesus died for nothing, right? Besides, I don’t even go to the public high school my old homophobic bullies go to anymore. Though with Jamal still going to Rover, it’s almost a shame I’m not there too.
I realize I’ve been leaving Jamal hanging for a while. He’s used to me getting lost in my own head and he’s always patient about it, but I do have to give him some kind of answer, even if it’s an uncertain one.
“I have to think about it,” I finally say. I’m used to acting on my impulses, but this is different. If I get back together with Jamal, I don’t want to fuck things up again.
“Okay, that’s fair,” Jamal says as he pulls the truck into the driveway to my house. “Just let me know what you end up deciding.”
“Okay.” I want to lean forward and kiss him goodbye, but I hold myself back. That would imply yes, and I want to give myself enough time to be sure. “See you later,” I say before hopping out of the truck and heading inside.
When I walk in, I’m not surprised to see my mom still up, cleaning the kitchen. Between her main job, cleaning, cooking, and her side business of making jewelry with Yami, that woman barely ever sleeps.
Ever since my dad got deported, she’s been running everything on her own—at least, until Yami started helping with her jewelry business. It’s been eight years with just the three of us, but my mom has probably aged a few decades in that time. Wrinkles crease around her mouth and eyes, and the color from her once-black hairhas been slowly syphoning into the dark circles under her eyes for years.
Today, though, seems even worse than usual. Her eyes are puffy, and her nose is red. She must have thought I’d be staying the night with Jamal, because she’s not wearing her I-was-just-crying sunglasses that she thinks keep me and Yami from being able to see her bloodshot puffy eyes.
“Everything okay, Mami?” I ask.
She smiles and ruffles my hair. “Don’t you worry about me, mijo. You have enough going on in your own life.”
“Not really,” I reassure her, ignoring the hidden meaning behind her words. Ever since I went inpatient, it’s like she thinks I’m made of glass and if she lets me carry the tiniest bit of weight from her shoulders, I’ll shatter. “Whatever it is, I can handle it, I promise.”
“My sweet boy.” She puts a tender hand on my cheek and gives me a teary smile, like me asking her what’s wrong is worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize or something. “I guess I’ve been a bit lonely lately. The party tonight was fun and everything, but I’m just too busy to make any time for friends or dating outside of holidays. Too much to do, and when it’s done there’s always more to do,” she admits.
“Maybe I can help?” I offer, knowing I’ll probably regret this in the future, but hey, it’s the new year. Perfect time to start picking up some slack.
“No, no, no.” She waves me off. “You can help by paying for my retirement when you’re the next rich and famous inventor or scientist, or whatever brilliant thing you end up doing.”
I sigh. “Who knows if I’ll even be alive when you retire?” Iblurt out, and her pained expression makes me immediately regret it. “I mean, like, anyone can die at any time. Why wait until later when I’m here now, and I can helpnow?”
She shakes her head. “You have school to focus on. I don’t want you prioritizing me over your own success.”
Sometimes I feel a little bad that she coddles me like this, when she’s always been more than happy to accept help from my sister. But I guess I’m the one with “limitless potential” or whatever, according to her. “What about on the weekends? It doesn’t take me a whole two days to do my homework. What if I just make dinner or something, like, once a week? You need a break. Like a regular, predictable break. I can start tomorrow for New Year’s. It can be our resolution.”
She smiles, eyes getting watery again. “I would love that.”
“Mami, don’t cry... ,” I say, reaching out and wiping the tear that falls with my thumb.
“It’s happy tears, mijo. Now go get some sleep, okay? School is starting again soon, and you need to get your sleep schedule back on track.”
“Fine,” I say, not bothering to argue that my sleep schedule hasneverbeen on track. She doesn’t need to worry about me any more than she already does.
I pass through what Yami used to call the Hall of Shame on the way to my room. It’s where Mami had so many crosses and pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary plastered up that you could barely see the paint on the wall. There are still Jesuses and Marys, but now some of the crosses are rainbow and there are Bible passages with uplifting quotes about loving everyone, etc., etc. Mymom kind of went a little overboard when Yami and I came out to her last year.
When I get to my room, I pull out my secret poetry notebook that literally no one knows about. Not even Jamal, who does poetry slams and open mics every chance he gets. The thing is, I don’t even know if I’m good at poetry. I might be absolute shit.
And that’s the entire point.
I’m the family’s golden boy. I’ve always gotten the best grades and picked things up easily and been really good at whatever new thing I tried. But when you’re good at everything, that becomes the standard, and then I’m not allowed to just do something because I like it. When everyone is expecting to be impressed, I can’t just be good, I have to be the best. And if no one knows I like poetry, then I’m allowed to suck at it. I’m allowed to just have something to myself that no one expects me to be good at. Someone else can be the best at poetry, I don’t care.
So, instead of writing a super-deep epic or sonnet or spoken word piece that would make an audience cry, I turn to the Jamal section of my notebook (yes, I have sections, sue me) and write a haiku with a title longer than the poem itself.
A Non-Exhaustive Pros and Cons List of Getting Back Together with Jamal
Pros: I feel like I
