Page 6 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
“This one is... uh, well, it’s gay.”
It takes me a second to register what that means. “You’re coming out? Like, publicly?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding more confident now. “But don’t worry! The piece isn’t about you or anything, I wouldn’t do that to you.”
I know he means he’d never out me in front of a crowd, but for half a second, I find myself getting a little pouty at not being thesubject matter of his gay poem. It doesn’t last, though, because I quickly realize I absolutelydon’twant Jamal to write and perform a poem about me in public.
“Thanks,” I finally say. “So, are you ready for all that? What about school? Do Nick and all them still go there?” I can’t help but worry about Jamal coming out.
When I went to Rover, Nick and a bunch of his little lackeys jumped me pretty much every chance they got. I’d written a note to Jamal back when we were dating, and Nick got ahold of it before I could give it to him. Luckily, he never found out who the note was for, but he still made me his friend group’s punching bag until I transferred to Slayton.
“I’ll be okay,” Jamal says, still sounding cool and confident. “I doubt anyone from school will be at the open mic anyway. So, you want to come?”
“Obviously,” I say with a smile.
“Thanks, Cesar. I really appreciate you.” I can hear him smiling back, and it makes me blush. Jamal’s never said he appreciates something I’m doing or offering. No, he appreciatesme. I’ll take this to my grave, but sometimes he just makes me want to kick my feet and giggle.
After we get off the phone, I lie in bed playing out scenarios in my head. This is usually what I have to do in order to fall asleep, though it’s pretty hit-or-miss. Tonight’s scenarios all involve Jamal. The first one is me telling him I’m ready to get back together. Who cares if I still don’t know if I’m ready in real life? This is my pre-sleep fantasy, fuck off.
Eventually the scenarios go from us getting back together to making out to a full-on sex dream. I’m not really sure which part is my imagination or a real dream, but I must have fallen asleep at some point because by the time I open my eyes again, I’ve somehow missed my first alarm, and my second one is going off already.
7:00 a.m. take meds
I let out a tired whine as I roll over and force myself out of bed. It seems like even when I do manage to fall asleep at night, my body doesn’t get the memo, and I’m still completely exhausted. I quickly throw on my school uniform and make a drive-by trip to the bathroom to swish some mouthwash since I’m too tired to brush my teeth properly.
I’m still swishing it around when I head to the kitchen, where my mom is waiting for me with a plate of fried egg on toast.
I know the deal: meds first, then breakfast. I spit the mouthwash in the sink, then reach for the pill counter and take out the pill for Monday. I make a show of rolling my eyes as I pop it in my mouth.
“Happy? Can I eat now?” I ask.
“Of course.” Mami smiles as she hands me the plate, but her eyes look sad. I know I shouldn’t give her attitude about taking my meds, but I can’t help it. Maybe I just don’t like being told what to do or something, but I was never a fan of all the surveillance that came after my inpatient stay. I feel like a fucking zoo animal, being monitored over everything. But since Mami getting sad feels worse than me getting smothered, I push the annoyance down and go along with it like I always do.
Even though I got ready pretty fast today, we still barely makeit to school on time, thanks to Yami trying out a new eyeliner look while still insisting on absolute perfection. By the time we get to school, the first bell’s already rung, and we have to book it to our classes.
I take my seat in astronomy just before the final bell rings. As soon as the music stops, Mr. Franco doesn’t waste a second before getting started, talking in his usual drawn-out monotone that could put even the most caffeinated student to sleep.
“I hope you’ve all done your reading over the break, because we’re having a pop quiz,” he says as he picks up a stack of papers off his desk and starts handing them out. Groans echo throughout the room from practically everyone except Jeremy, who sits right in front of me.
“I’m all caught up.” Jeremy turns around and smirks at me. “Are you?” he asks with an air of confidence. He’s always seen me as his rival in this class, since I consistently set the curve, and he consistently gets the next-highest score.
“I skimmed it,” I say honestly, and Jeremy’s grin falters, which tells me he may not be as well versed in the material as he’s trying to let on. If me just skimming it is enough to make him think I have a leg up, he’s probably not much farther ahead than the rest of the class.
Which means I have to recalculate my usual percentage of test answers to purposely get wrong in order to still set the curve without making everyone else fail.
Mr. Franco is one of those teachers who prides himself on being a hard-ass and brags about how impossible his tests are and how many students fail his class. I always make sure to keep my score undera 72 percent, but even that score sets the curve every time, with Jeremy’s being the next highest at usually around the high sixties.
When Mr. Franco sets the test down in front of me, I get to work. Setting the curve without screwing everyone else over too bad is an art form, and I’ve perfected it. Based on the intensity of the groans and Jeremy’s feigned bravado, I should probably not score higher than a 65 percent on this one.
Part of me wonders if rigging everyone else’s scores like this counts as cheating. Slayton is a zero-tolerance type of school, and people have gotten kicked out for less. If I got caught, I doubt I would get expelled inthiscase. How can it count if my “cheating” doesn’t even benefit me? Deciding that I’m probably fine, I finish up the last quiz questions.
Once I’m done, I doodle for a while in the margins to keep from turning it in too early. I know some people get real anxious when other people start turning in their tests if they’re not close to finishing yet. I wait until a few people turn theirs in before getting up and handing mine to Mr. Franco.
His eyes catch the doodles, and he gives me an amused smile. “You are something else,” he says under his breath, and for a second, I can’t tell if he’s on to me or not.
After school, Yami and I get a ride home from Bo. She usually only gives us a ride on Wednesdays since our mom works late that day, but lately she’s been offering all the time. We don’t live anywhere near Slayton, but Bo will take any excuse to spend more time with Yami, which is a development Yami is absolutely thrilled about.
“Wanna hang out at a park or something?” Bo asks once westart getting close to our side of town. I guess the forty-minute drive wasn’t enough quality time.
