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

Philly cheesesteak, curly fries, a chocolate-­chip scone, and a quart of chocolate milk. There was a ticking bomb in my stomach. I played another hand.
    â€œAlright, bro, I’m tired,” I said. “Last one.”
    â€œStop,” he said. “You’re fine. Five more.” I was afraid if I pushed him, Edward would sense something amiss. I tried to appear calm while my mind broke into full-blown panic. You can’t afford this. You’ll gain two or three pounds. I couldn’t focus on the cards. Minutes flew by. We’d eaten over an hour ago. I didn’t even feel full anymore—the food was already digesting. Edward was giving me weird looks. Fuck.
    The staccato thoughts reached a crescendo; it felt like my head might short out like an overstuffed electrical socket. I tried to will Edward to leave, but he just lit another cigarette and blew out perfect smoke rings, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
    So I did the only thing I could do. I resigned myself to the situation. I decided I wasn’t going to hurl that night. It would build credibility, I told myself. I dealt another round of cards and settled in. I felt gross and resentful, but I knew I’d made the right decision. I was protecting my secret.
    When wrestling practice started, I was clearly the worst wrestler on the team. But at least I was skinny. At the first tournament of the year, the Ivy League Invitational, my first match was against a Harvard wrestler ranked third in the nation. He pinned me in forty-five seconds. In my second match, the captain of Princeton’s team ripped my right shoulder out of its socket, and I was out for the season.
    I told myself I didn’t need to throw up anymore, that my weight didn’t matter, but I couldn’t stop. I’d go to JJ ’s Place determined to order a healthy meal, but I’d find myself grabbing a box of cookies, several baked goods, and, of course, milk. I’d eat hurriedly in the dark back booth. Once the food was inside me, I’d start imagining the calories becoming love handles. I’d feel an uncontrollable urge to purge and I’d rush back to my bathroom and lock the door. Soon I was upchucking at least once a day, sometimes two or three times. I knew it wasn’t sustainable, yet I felt powerless to stop it.
    One day I was watching TV in the lounge with Edward, my neighbor Sabrina, and a vegan hippie named Jessica. Jessica and I started arguing about what channel to watch, and rather quickly it got heated. “You’re such a bitch,” I said.
    â€œAt least I don’t throw up every meal,” she retorted.
    I couldn’t speak. All my defense mechanisms—my sarcasm, my stoicism, my ability to laugh things off—were neutralized. I gaped. I was ashamed. I stood and walked into my room.
    Edward came in a few minutes later.
    â€œAre you all right, man?”
    I looked up at him with tears in my eyes.
    â€œI don’t think so,” I said. I felt diseased. For the first time, I understood that something inside me was broken.
    I was too embarrassed to stay around campus, so I called Ben and asked if I could come visit. He was having a tough freshman year, too—he’d already gotten in several fistfights—and was happy to hear I was coming up. That night Edward and I boarded the bus to Ithaca, a six-hour ride. Edward was excited to meet Ben—I’d often bragged about how smart and tough Ben was—and peppered me with questions. “Who is older? Can you read each other’s minds?” Two hours into the drive, he asked, “Have you ever hooked up with the same girl?”
    I was quiet. Edward sensed a story. “What happened?” he pressed.
    I knew I shouldn’t tell him. Emma and I had managed to keep our tryst under wraps for two years. But in truth, I was dying to tell someone. And I didn’t like the way Edward’s eyes lit up when I talked about how