For the Love of Money by Sam Polk Read Free Book Online

stroking her legs, closer and closer to her bikini bottom. But still, I believed, nothing really untoward had happened.
    And then, something untoward happened. We didn’t sleep together, but for a few glorious nights we did everything else.
    After a few hookups, Emma stopped it. Of course, I never told Ben. A couple of months later, Ben and Emma got back together. He started to go again to her house, and sometimes she’d come over to ours. I’d greet her casually, as if nothing had happened.
    But something had happened. And though Ben didn’t know for sure, he must have sensed something. Ben and I had both started drinking that year, egged on by guys on the wrestling team, who taught us how to casually slide bottles of peach schnapps under our tee shirts and smuggle them from the grocery store. But over the past few months, I’d started to suspect that Ben wasn’t just drinking with the wrestlers, but also alone in his room.
    One night, I was in my room with Claire, a girl who’d progressed from platonic friend to shameful secret hookup to publicly acknowledged girlfriend. Ben was in his room with Emma. I went to the bathroom, and when I headed back toward my room, I passed Ben in the hall. My shoulder bumped his as we passed.
    â€œWhat the fuck?” he said.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œFuck you,” he said.
    â€œWhat are you even talking about? Fuck you .”
    He came up on me fast and put his forehead against mine. I saw a rage in his eyes that I’d never seen before.
    â€œDo something,” he sneered.
    â€œFuck off,” I said.
    He hit me in the face. My head rocked backwards. I didn’t so much feel pain as register the massive force of the impact. I stood there in the hallway, with blood running down my chin, and gaped at him.
    â€œHit me,” he said.
    â€œNo,” I said. He hit me again. His eyes were frantic. I could see he wasn’t going to stop. I couldn’t lift my arms. Not only was I now terrified of my brother; I was also thick with guilt. I deserved this. He hit me again. I took it. As he hauled back to punch me again in the face, my dad rushed out of his room and threw himself between us. I went into my room, sat on the bed, and burst into tears.

CHAPTER 6
    Fifteen Pounds
    Â¤
    B y senior year in high school, I was no longer fat—veins snaked my forearms and my shoulders. A thick layer of muscle covered my arms and back. My hair was bleached, mimicking how wrestlers from Temecula Valley and Calvary Chapel, two of the toughest programs in the state, wore their hair. The previous summer, Ben and I had gone to several wrestling camps, including a two-week intensive that was billed as the toughest camp in the nation. Every day after school Ben and I drove an hour and a half to East LA to practice with the wrestlers at Schurr High School, a regional powerhouse.
    For senior season I cut down to 152 pounds. It was ­grueling—I was cutting 8 to 9 pounds of water weight for each match—but I loved how small my opponents were, how easy to throw. Midway through the season, I started to consider dropping even lower, to 145 pounds.
    To qualify for state at a certain weight class, you had to wrestle several tournaments at that weight. The California Interscholastic Federation was concerned about the health risks of dropping excessive water weight. If I wanted to drop to 145 pounds, the match versus San Marino was my last chance.
    The day before the San Marino match, I stood alone in the cold gray locker room on a cold gray scale. I hadn’t eaten since the night before. I took a deep breath and started sliding the metal cartridge over the grooves. As I passed 155 my stomach tightened; I thought I’d dropped a few pounds that week. The metal finger didn’t drop until I hit 160. Holy shit , I thought. I have to cut 15 pounds in one day.
    I pulled on mesh shorts, a tee shirt, and then two pairs of sweatpants and sweatshirts.