For the Love of Money

by Sam Polk

  “Bad dog!” I yelled.

  He struggled, snorting and whining, but I held strong. I kept jamming his face into the mess, as if to say look what you did. Then I let him go. He rushed outside. I went to get paper towels and Formula 409. As I wiped up the mess, my anger cooled. I finished, then walked into the backyard and gathered OJ into my arms.

  “Good dog,” I said, pressing my face into his fur. “That’s a good dog.”

  • • •

  A few weeks later, Dad herded Mom, Ben, and me into the gray Cadillac, leaving Daniel behind with a babysitter. At the last moment he called out to OJ to come along, and reached to pet him in the backseat. Mom sat in the front, and I sat in the back with Ben and OJ. We headed to Chinatown for dim sum, a weekend tradition.

  We left OJ in the car. We sat around a circular table and I poured tons of sugar into my tea, stirring it with a spoon. Dad knew I was mad at him about our fight the night before—he’d spanked me after OJ shit next to his bed—so he kept looking at me with a silly grin on his face and doing this little dance with his head and shoulders to make me laugh. I fought to maintain an angry visage, but I loved having his full attention, and I couldn’t help but smile. Soon Dad started calling out the funny names he’d invented for the Chinese dishes. “We’ll have an order of fried paper towels,” he said, and Ben and I wriggled and giggled as if we were being tickled. When the food came, we ate fast and hard, and soon we were piling back into the car.

  My stomach was bursting and I had to pee, but otherwise I was happy. I stared out the window watching the freeway signs thump by. OJ was over by Ben. Dad was singing to the radio, and everyone was laughing. When we pulled up to the house, I bolted inside so I wouldn’t have to wait for the bathroom.

  A few hours later, Dad stood up from his chair and said he was going into the office.

  “Oh come on, Tony. It’s a Sunday,” said Mom.

  “Do you think money just makes itself?” Dad said, his voice flinty.

  I looked up from the Hardy Boys book I was reading, and watched as Dad laced his shoes. I remember thinking it was really quiet. As Dad stood up, slid his jangly keys into his pocket, and started walking toward the door, I remember thinking that something was wrong, and when Dad opened the door, I knew what it was. OJ didn’t let the door open without standing sentinel, his tail wagging.

  I sat on the couch and waited. When I heard Dad’s shout, I wasn’t surprised. I got to my feet and walked to the door, slowly, as if I were moving underwater.

  As I walked down the path to the driveway, Dad rushed by me. Without looking at me he growled, “Your dog is dead.” I heard him yell something at Mom, and I heard her shriek.

  The Cadillac was parked at the curb. The back left door stood open. I continued toward it, knowing what I would find but at the same time not able to comprehend. When I neared the car, I felt the heat coming off it. I reached the open door and looked inside.

  OJ’s body was situated perfectly in the footwell. He fit exactly, as if in a carrying case. He looked peaceful, like he was asleep. Around him, the car was ripped to shreds. The backseats were eviscerated, and yellow Styrofoam stuffing spilled out everywhere. The front seat was worse; maybe it had started there. The dashboard had rips across it, jagged nail tears. The cushions on the inside of the door had been ripped off. The fury of life fighting for its own existence. Urine splattered the front passenger seat.

  I took a step closer and gingerly touched OJ on the left hip. It was stiff. I turned and ran.

  I burst through the front door and into my parents’ room. The air seemed peaceful. Sunlight filtered through the shades. I sat on the edge of their bed. I looked at my lap.

  OJ had been left behind in the car. I had left OJ behind in the car. The door was unlocked, but that didn’t help him. The Southern California sun had heated it like an oven. I started to imagine what the last five minutes of his life must have looked like, but I couldn’t, and I shook my head as if to rid it of those thoughts. My stomach clenched, and I could barely breathe.

  My mom came in and sat next to me. I started crying. She put her hand on my back. Then my dad came in and sat on the other side. I looked up at him. He looked angry. I knew that I had done this, but that he had done this, too. I knew that somehow he was the source of my pain, but he was also the only one who could comfort me. He was the most powerful thing I’d ever known. I knew that though I hated him right now, I would soon forgive him and work again to please him. With the resignation of a lifer, I leaned on the man I loved and despised, and wept on his shoulder.

  He never had the interior of the car repaired. “Too expensive,” he said.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Cheerleader

  ¤

  In 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 sti
ff 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

  ¤

  Ben 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.