Page 8 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
I definitely, definitely do.
Despite all the love-yourself-first advice out there, at least right now I don’t hate myself more than I love Jamal. That’s got to count for something, right?
Before I get a chance to say anything, something whacks the back of my head, hard. I spring to my feet and whirl around as Jamal catches the ball as it bounces from my head. I’m expecting a fight, but Nick and all of them are still on the field. Nick has a smirk on his face like he kicked the ball at me on purpose, but other than that, he doesn’t make a move.
“Avery, go get it.” He points in my direction. Avery, being Nick’s right-hand henchman, obeys without question, jogging right over to us.
I don’t know why I grab the ball out of Jamal’s hand when Avery approaches. Maybe part of me craves confrontation, or maybe I just want to feel like I have any kind of power over the guys who used to beat the shit out of me.
“He did that on purpose, right?” I ask, and Avery sighs.
“I don’t read minds.” Avery holds his hand out for the ball, but I don’t give it to him just yet.
“Ask nicely,” I say, and Avery glances behind his shoulder like he’s checking how close by his friends are. Sure, he could call them over if he wanted a fight, but they’re far enough away that Avery probably wouldn’t want to risk it.
Before I get a chance to milk it too much, Yami plucks the ball from my grip and throws it back to the field. Avery looks weirdly relieved as he runs back over to his friends.
“Do you have a death wish?” she asks me, but I just shrug.
“I don’t get what the big deal is.... ,” I mumble. It’s not like Nick would have his friends jump me with Jamal and Yami and Bo right here. He’s always been a coward; he only ever picked a fight when he had more than a two-person advantage. Usually when I was by myself.
I don’t think I’ve been truly by myself since before I went inpatient, but I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.
I know Yami was being sarcastic when she said I don’t really have to try to do well in life or get what I want, but it’s kind of true. It seems like no matter what I do, I have support from Yami, my mom, Jamal, all my friends, allYami’sfriends... the list goes on, but I’m still not really sure how I got here.
Did I earn a single thing in my life? Do I even deserve any of it?
I grab a metaphorical shovel and smack the guilty feeling over the head, then bury it as deep as I can. Sometimes people are lucky, and it’s a good thing. I’m lucky, and smart, and talented, and I can do anything I put my mind to. I deserve good things. I’m a good person.
I’m a good person.
I’m a good person.
Maybe if I repeat it enough, I’ll actually believe it.
4
When Talking About Your Feelings Gives You Hives
Emotional Unavailability
On Tuesday, I barely have enough time to change real quick when I get home from school, grab some Takis for the road, and head to therapy. I’m about to go back out to the car with my mom when there’s a knock at the door. Mami and I both ignore it, assuming Yami will answer since she’s the only one not about to head out, but she takes one look through the peephole and rushes after me.
“Cesar! Make her go away,” Yami whispers, about as loud as you can without it not being a whisper anymore.
I don’t have to ask who’s at the door. There’s only one person who gets under Yami’s skin enough to make her want to hide like that.
“I got you,” I say as I go to answer the door, and sure enough, I was right.
“Hi,” Bianca says shyly. She holds out a Tupperware box full of empanadas, but I don’t take them from her.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, making sure to block the doorway so she can’t see inside. Yami would not want to be perceived right now, at least not by her.
Bianca sighs. “My mom’s making me go around the neighborhood giving these away. She made too many, I guess.”
“Thanks, but we’re good. I’m sure Doña Violeta would take some, though.”
“Okay... ,” she says, but doesn’t move to leave. “So... is Yami home?”
