For the Love of Money Read Online Free Page A

For the Love of Money
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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.
    â€œWhat 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. Twoof 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œWatch 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.
    â€œHey, 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.”
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œBitch,” said Jorge.
    â€œPussy fat twins,” one of his friends said.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œFat twins. Fucking fat twins,” Jorge said.
    Ben and I just stared
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