For the Love of Money (2 page)

CHAPTER
2

The Cheerleader

¤

I
n seventh grade, Ben and I made the finals for History Day
LA
, a citywide competition where small groups of students create six-foot-tall exhibits on historical subjects, and our failure to medal was both a source of intense pain and driving motivation for the next year, when our project landed us on
Oprah
. That year Ben was named a starter for the Academic Decathlon team; I was selected as an alternate. In short, we were nerds.

Whereas academics came easy, socializing was hard. It was tough to make friends but easy to make enemies. Mostly, Ben and I hung together. We never told Dad how hard things were at school. For our twelfth birthday, Dad got Ben and me our own phone line. “Soon you'll be in high school and the phone will be ringing off the hook,” he said. I hoisted a smile across my face as my stomach sank, knowing that phone would rarely ring.

Our elementary school, in North Glendale, had been mostly white and Korean kids, but Woodrow Wilson Middle School in South Glendale was mostly Armenian and Hispanic, with gangs. On the way to class I'd walk by benches full of silent gang members wearing blank faded sweatshirts and old Dickies, their eyes matching anyone who passed, lingering
until the opposing gaze was dropped. Sometimes there would be fights; Ben and I would run over to watch.

The other group I noticed was the popular kids, known as the Socs (pronounced so-shiz, short for Socials). They were minicelebrities. During breaks they'd congregate in the middle of the quad, and it was as if they were on stage. Eyes fastened on their perfect teeth and gorgeous hair as they talked and laughed, seemingly unaware of their privileged role. Sometimes the cheerleaders would perform routines at lunch, and when they were finished jumping, clapping, and thrusting their right arms straight into the air, they would make their way over to their fellow Socs.

Girls had recently emerged on my radar. Ben and I would sit at the tables to the side of the quad, shoveling ten-cent chocolate-chip cookies and twenty-five-cent slabs of chocolate cake into our mouths, watching the cheerleaders.

I fantasized about belonging to that group. But I never thought that was really possible, until I met Chrissy Hayes.

Of course, I knew who she was already, but I had never talked to her, never even thought of talking to her. But by the miracle of coincidence, or the loving guidance of a higher power, I was assigned to sit next to her in seventh-grade home ec class, and we became partners.

Chrissy Hayes was a cheerleader. A beautiful, bouncy cheerleader. She wore white Keds with white socks and her yellow, blue, and white cheerleader outfit. When she wasn't dressed as a cheerleader, she wore tight jeans and a tight tee shirt. Her smooth, dark Filipino skin would lighten around her eyes when she smiled. Her long brown hair nestled around her shoulders and sometimes, sitting next to her, I could smell it.

I treated Chrissy as I would have the Queen of England. I stared straight ahead, conscious of my hands and arms and thinking how awkward they were. Before she'd even noticed her pencil had fallen to the floor, I'd have retrieved it and would be
delicately restoring it to its proper position. From the corner of my eye I watched her doodling on the margins of her notebook. She always drew dolphins, hundreds of little dolphins.

I was nervous and stiff in her presence, but soon the home ec curriculum took over. We baked cake. I measured; she mixed. She tidied up while I wrote up the results. Chrissy seemed unaware of the social gulf that separated us. Soon she was punching me in the shoulder and making laughing eyes at me when the teacher would admonish students for not acting with “appropriate domestic behavior.”

My life
happened
in that class. Lying in bed I'd stare at the ceiling, hands behind my head, reviewing all fifty minutes. I'd envision her giggling, or the brown skin peeking out from between her sweater and skirt.

Of course, there were benefits to me. Other cheerleaders sometimes peeked their heads into class, and if the teacher was on the other side of the room, they'd sneak in to chat with Chrissy. “This brown lump is supposed to be a pineapple upside-down cake,” Chrissy said. “But Sam and I destroyed it.” The other cheerleaders peeked around Chrissy and smiled at me. Then they returned to their conversation while I scribbled on the hand-in. But I was no longer invisible.

I'd time my exit from class to coincide with Chrissy's departure, stopping midway through packing up to rummage through my backpack. I'd fall into step with her. We'd walk together. Those were my proudest moments.

Chrissy had lots of friends. I noticed her saying hi to some of the tougher-looking guys, the Mexicans. They would stare at me with cool, appraising eyes. Sometimes I saw her over with them during break. Mostly she stood in the center of the quad, talking with the other Socs.

It's funny, the things you remember. I can't tell you the name of a single teacher from junior high. I can't remember a single essay I wrote for class. But I can rattle off the names
of the six seventh-grade cheerleaders like I can rattle off my social security number.

One day in home ec, while Chrissy and I were making pound cake (“A pound of butter, pound of milk, pound of flour, and a pound of eggs—that's how it got its name!” whooped the teacher), Chrissy told me her birthday was in two weeks.

“Really?” I replied, immediately blushing at the inanity of my response.

“Yep, really,” she said, then broke into a smile and laughed. “Seriously,” she pursued, holding back a giggle. I laughed and blushed.

“Like, what day, what date?” I said, the gears in my mind starting to turn.

At home I secreted myself in my room and tore through the pages of catalogues, looking for Chrissy's birthday present. I needed a game changer.

As soon as I flipped the page, I knew I'd found it. Right there in front of me was a little, black tee shirt with three glitter dolphins exploding from the glitter ocean behind them. It was the thoughtfulness of the present that made it perfect. We'd never talked about her dolphins. I asked Mom to help me order it.

Later, Dad asked what we had been doing.

“I'm dating a cheerleader,” I replied.

“How are the tits?” he asked.

A few days later, the package arrived. The tee shirt looked small, and less shiny than in the catalogue, but great nonetheless. While I wrapped it, I imagined Chrissy opening it, smiling, and clutching it to her chest. Seeing me in class the next day, she'd give me a peck on the cheek and a squeeze of the hand to let me know that she, too, had feelings. I asked Mom to drive me by her house. I was too bashful to go to the door, so Mom left it on the doorstep.

The next day at lunch, Ben and I ate our cookies and
watched the Socs. Chrissy seemed bouncier than usual, and I was optimistic as I walked toward the home ec classroom. As I breached the doorway, two things happened simultaneously: one, I caught Chrissy Hayes's eye, and two, a thick, muscular hand grabbed my throat and squeezed, pushing me against the doorjamb. I struggled to free the hand from my throat while I attempted to twist my head to see who was choking me, both to no avail. He was stronger than me in the way ninth-grade boys are stronger than seventh-grade boys. His fingers seemed to gain strength as I struggled, tightening in a vise. My eyes whirled back, searching for Chrissy, as terror exploded inside me.
I hope she's not watching
, I thought, a split second before my eyes locked with hers.

When her expression didn't change, I knew that this was because of the shirt.

“Stay the fuck away from Chrissy, you fucking
puto
,” he hissed in my ear. Then he laughed—a twisting, vicious laugh—and I realized how gravely I'd miscalculated.

“Little fucking bitch,” he spat, and dropped me.

His name was Carlos Rodriguez, Chrissy's ninth-grade boyfriend, I learned later. A gangbanger.

I squatted against the wall, clutching my throat. I tried to act nonchalant, as if I hadn't just been choked out in front of the whole class, in front of Chrissy Hayes. I felt a roaring torrent of shame.
Don't show weakness
, I thought to myself, as the whole world looked at it. After a moment, I stood up and walked into the silent class, jaw clenched and face burning. I walked to my table and saw that Chrissy had switched with one of the other girls from the class, and I sat down and stared straight ahead, trying desperately to hold in the tears that were soaking the backs of my eyes.

CHAPTER
3

Camp Fox

¤

B
en and I were always together, but we weren't exactly friends. He seemed more of an appendage than a separate person. There were benefits to having a constant ­companion—we'd forever excel at two-man games like Ping-Pong and racquet­ball. There were also downsides. I never had my own birthday party. We shared a bedroom.

But I didn't mind, because I loved being a twin. I once made Ben memorize a series of numbers, so that when people asked us if we could read each other's mind, I'd whisper a number into their ears, and then close my eyes as if to transmit the number to Ben. When he called out, “Fifty-seven,” people would freak out.

But Ben didn't like being a twin. When people asked us who was born first, I'd see Ben grimace as I answered, “Me, by four minutes.”

There was one part of being a twin that I didn't like. Ben was smarter than me. Theoretically we had the same DNA, but on every standardized test we ever took, Ben scored higher. Not by a lot—I'd be in the ninety-seventh percentile, Ben the ninety-ninth—but enough to hurt.

By the end of seventh grade, Ben and I had crossed the line from chubby to fat, and we got picked on. A lot. When
someone would get in my face or shove me in the school halls, I always backed down, too scared to fight back. Afterward, I'd berate myself for being a coward.

School became something to survive. I couldn't wait for summer, especially the weeklong sleepaway camp Ben and I had signed up for, where we wouldn't know anyone. Maybe things would be different.

In June, Ben and I walked across the gangplank onto the ferry that would transport hundreds of campers to Camp Fox on Catalina Island.

“Where do you want to stand?” I asked Ben.

He looked around and then pointed across the room, to an empty space near a window. Ben and I stood next to each other, looking around the boat. Groups were already forming, threes and fours, newfound friends. I didn't understand how people made friends so easily. I didn't want people to see that I was lonely, so I stuck close to Ben. But inside, I knew that being with Ben was a twin's version of being alone. For shy, insecure boys, it was easier to retreat into the safety of twinness rather than to risk new conversations, new relationships.

The boat rumbled as we pulled away from the dock. As I looked around the room, I hardened my stare. If I wasn't going to make friends, then at least I could look intimidating so no one would fuck with me. A few times I caught someone's eye, but they quickly dropped their gaze.

Then, I caught an eye that didn't drop. It belonged to a large kid with a faded, oversized sweatshirt with “Jorge” on the front. We stared at each other for two seconds until I dropped my eyes. My face grew hot. I sensed him moving toward me. Then he was upon me.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he said.

His three friends formed a half circle around Ben and me. Ben stood slightly behind me. They looked older. Two
of them had chains running from their back pockets to their belts.

I'd never met Jorge, but I knew him. Guys like him were always in my face. I'd made my first enemy in less than fifteen minutes.

“I wasn't looking at anything,” I said. I squirmed under his gaze. He moved up on me real tight, his chest almost touching my burning forehead.

“Do something, man. Do something, pussy. What now?”

I just stood there, my heart pounding, paralyzed. I hated him, but I hated myself more.
Coward.
Just then, a counselor started toward us. Jorge saw him and stepped back.

“Watch your back,” he said, as he moved away, his friends in tow.

Our cabin was little more than a hut: thatched roof, no walls, and six bunk beds. By the time Ben and I got there, all the lower bunks were taken. I threw my sack on one of the remaining top bunks.

“Hey, what the fuck?” I heard, as a hand jammed my shin, nearly knocking me down.

My muddy shoe was planted on the sleeping bag of the camper below me. “Sorry,” I muttered. “But don't push me.”

“Don't put your foot on my sleeping bag, then.”

I didn't say anything. I heard the other kids laugh.

Our counselor, Okie, gathered everyone outside and explained the schedule: breakfast at seven, then assigned cabin activity, lunch at noon, then free time till dinner, and then a campfire after.

That night we marched single file up the dirt road toward the campfire, until the line halted halfway up. Ben and I stood apart, already on the outs with our cabin mates. I looked down the hill and saw Jorge and his friends about fifty people behind us. I was relieved we wouldn't be sitting close to him.

As if he felt my gaze, he whirled and looked right at me.
Fuck
.

The line started forward. As I crested the hill I saw the blazing, crackling fire in the middle of a semicircle of stadium-­style benches. The counselors were jamming the campers in like sardines. I watched the rows fill, coiling like a snake. I realized with horror that Jorge might end up behind me.

Ben and I were pushed into the far side of row four. I started frantically counting how many students there were per row, but lost count and had to start over. Our row filled, and the line snaked back, one level up. Jorge entered the row, and I prayed and prayed that some distance would separate us.
What are the chances?
I protested feebly as Jorge plopped down almost directly behind Ben. Jorge and his friends started as soon as they sat down.

“Bitch,” said Jorge.

“Pussy fat twins,” one of his friends said.

“What the fuck you looking at?” said another.

I wanted to disappear. I looked over to see if I could engage Okie's attention, but he was deep in conversation with a female counselor. I looked around desperately for someone to help. There was no one. Ben was getting it worse—he was closer—and I was glad for that.

“Fat twins. Fucking fat twins,” Jorge said.

Ben and I just stared straight ahead, not even willing to acknowledge our terror to each other. At times like this I hated Ben; our twinness seemed to make us conspicuous targets. I'd be paralyzed with fear, and tortured afterward by impotent rage, and Ben would see all of it.

The camp director walked onstage. I felt a wave of anger gathering behind me. The crowd had just started to quiet when Jorge leaned forward and slugged Ben across the cheek.

Everyone around us froze. I looked over at Ben, whose
hand had gone to his face. He was looking up at Jorge, who towered above him. Ben stared at him for a second, and I thought he might do something. But then he turned away, faced forward. Only I could see his eyes fill with tears.

“You okay?” I whispered.

“No,” he said, keeping his brimming eyes forward. I wanted to apologize for getting us into this, but I didn't. After the campfire, Ben and I walked silently back to our cabin and climbed into our bunks without a word.

Jorge and his friends haunted us the entire week. The activity in the morning with our cabin was safe; Jorge was with his own cabin. But afternoons were different. During the three hours of free time, Ben and I existed on the periphery, always on guard against Jorge and his friends, always moving. It seemed everyone was playing and laughing but us. Sometimes we'd make our way to the beach and bodysurf. There was one fat kid who bodysurfed near us, but we kept our distance from him, conspicuous enough.

Late in the afternoons we'd sit wrapped cold and damp in our towels and watch the campers waiting in line for tubing. Each cabin had been assigned one time slot for tubing, and ours was the last day. A large, inflatable tube roped to the back of a speedboat would drag the campers, one by one, into the ocean.

By the last day of camp, Ben and I were refugees, stumbling around, seeking asylum. We were sunburned, exhausted, and friendless. It was our turn for tubing, and Ben and I were near the front of the line.

“I'm a little nervous,” I said to Ben, and he nodded. The kid ahead of me squealed as he was dragged toward open water. I was next. The counselor looked down at me.

“Thumbs-up means you want to go faster,” he said. “Thumbs-down means slow it down. If you fall off, just stay where you are and let the boat circle around for you. Hold on
tight to the handles or they'll slip. And have fun. Remember to have fun.”

The boat dragged the tube into my reach. I held the dock with my right hand as I leaned out with my left to grasp the handle tightly. Straining, I lowered my body facedown onto the tube, which skimmed across the water.

The man in the boat smiled at me and gave a thumbs-up. I took a deep breath and gave one back. The boat pulled away. The line snapped taut. It felt like my arms might rip from their sockets. I suddenly understood how powerful the engine was, and I was scared.

The water sprayed up and knifed my face. I couldn't open my eyes. The tube bounced higher and higher. I wasn't giving a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down—I was holding on for dear life. My forearms were straining and my fingers started to slip but a rush of adrenaline allowed me to close my grip.

Suddenly, the collisions got harder and the bounces higher and I knew we had reached open water. Whap, whap,
WHAP
, the ocean slammed the tube.
WHAP
,
WHAP
,
WHAP
. The water felt solid, like concrete. I gasped for breath as the air crushed my lungs. I moaned through clenched teeth.

Then it happened.

I saw the boat turn; we had gone as far out as we were going to go—to the middle of the ocean—and we were turning back. The turning boat made a huge wake, frothy and raging. The rope to the boat strained from the centrifugal force. I was on a collision course with that wake. I was going to hit it dead-on.

The tube hit the wake like a freight train. My feet flew into the air as I held my desperate grip on the handles. For a moment I enjoyed a reprieve from the battering waves. Then, I felt the tube start to turn.
No
,
please God no
. As I sailed through the air, clutching my lifeline, I saw the tube move
out from below me, turning on its side. The water opened up beneath me.

With a great smack, I slammed into the ocean. The tube flipped upside down. I couldn't breathe, but still I clung to the handles. I knew I had to let go, but I was afraid. Finally my fingers loosened, and I felt the tube rip away. Then I was somersaulting underwater.

I didn't know which way was up. I jerked around, caught in my now-loosened life jacket, choking and desperate for air. I opened my mouth but instead of air I inhaled a wave. Saltwater stung my throat. I choked and gagged. My life jacket bunched up by my ears, trapping my arms, obscuring my view. It felt like I might slip out of it.

I was able to take in only a quick breath before I was hammered again by another wave. When I finally surfaced, I began to cry.

The sea seemed to calm. I looked around. The boat was nowhere to be seen. For miles, all I could see was black ocean. No land. No boats. No humans.

Each time I kicked I was afraid my leg might rub against a shark, common in those waters. The weight of my body seemed too heavy for the flimsy life jacket. The water was rising above my jawline. The feel of water entering my ears drove me to a frenzy, and I kicked furiously until I tired and sank once more. I cried and flailed. I thought I was going to die.

I was dizzy from the cold and lack of air. My breathing was jagged, gasping. The terror of the moment, the fear and humiliation from the week, from my whole life, rushed over me. My neck slipped under the water, then my mouth, then the top of my head. I was completely submerged, in the middle of the ocean.

Then something happened. Terror and humiliation collided, and it was as if an atom had been split. Where there had been fear a moment before, now there was fury. With
deep, heaving strokes I willed myself out of the water, chest high. No longer was I slipping underneath; my legs churned determinedly beneath me. I would swim back if I had to, goddamn it.

At the top of a swell, I caught sight of the boat in the distance, heading toward me. I was ready to tear apart anyone that came at me. The boat drew past me, and I glared at the driver. He was laughing. The tube arrived, and with a kick I propelled myself up on it. My fingers slipped as I tried to grasp the handles, and again I sank below the surface. Three times I tried, and three times I slipped, falling into the icy water. The fourth time, I closed my grip on the handles and held on for my life.

I signaled a thumbs-down.

When I got back to the pier, I slid from the tube and frantically dog-paddled to the ladder. The driver called after me, but I ignored him. As I pulled myself up, my limbs started shaking.

“Are you okay?” Ben asked. “What happened?”

“I fell off,” I said.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Do you want me to stay?”

I told him no, and sat on the beach, numb from the cold and the fear. As I waited for Ben, I thought about what had happened out there. Something had changed inside me.

When Ben returned, we walked back in silence to the cabin. It was the last day of camp, and we had an hour to pack up our belongings. I toweled off and put on damp and dirty clothes. Ben kept looking up at me, but I didn't speak. It seemed impossible to explain. I felt hardened, seared.

Just as I was finishing packing, I saw movement from the corner of my eye and looked up to see Jorge and his three friends approaching our cabin.

It wasn't that I didn't feel fear—I was as scared as I always had been. It just didn't matter as much anymore.
Fuck it.

“Come on, you fucking pussy twins. Let's go. Get the fuck out here.”

I saw the surprise on his face as I strode toward him.

“Fuck you,” I said.

His friends cheered but his face dropped. My face felt slack. He started to run toward me. He took two steps and then leapt into the air, a jump kick. I caught him in midair, rolled my hips, and threw him into the corner post of the cabin, moving after him. He hit it with a crunch, fell to the grass, and I was on him. In a panic-driven rage, I attacked him with fists, forearms, and knees. I never felt my hands hit him, but I saw red marks on his face and rips in his shirt.