Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  I fell asleep while reading, but I was woken up by really loud crunching. There was Patty in her bed with a supersize bag of chips and an open tin of cake icing, but before I could say a peep, she shrieked.

  ­“Don’t say anything! I ­won’t wake you up tonight. I promise. And I’m cleaning tomorrow. ­Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said.

  I do like Patty, but if she thinks she’s going to pull a Lisa on me, she’s got another think coming. I may be a loser with no friends, but I’m not about to become someone’s maid again.

  August 18

  Dear Diary:

  The Smoker was unbelievable! Okay, I should back up. Oh my God, I’m just so excited. The day ­didn’t start too well, but it got better and better as it went along. After breakfast I went to the RU Bookstore to buy my textbooks, and I guess I ­wasn’t looking up or something, because when I handed the list to the guy at the window, I almost screamed when I heard, “Bud Finger, at your cervix.”

  I ­couldn’t believe it—I still ­can’t. There was Bud, standing behind the counter. I ­didn’t even know he was going to RU. He’s an earth science major, and get this, he’s on Academic Scholarship. What a joke! It was nice to see a familiar face and all, but then I had to remind myself whose face it was, especially when he asked me if I wanted to be his “college bitch.” Then he laughed and laughed. Oh, I hate Bud Finger! Why does he have to be here? I hope he ­doesn’t tell anyone we went to the prom together. That would be beyond embarrassing.

  It was a little before three ­o’clock when I went to the RU park near the water tower—that’s where Shanna-Francine told me to meet her before the Smoker. A few minutes later she ran up, took one look at me, and blurted out, “Is that what ­you’re wearing?”

  God, I’m so stupid. Stupid-stupid-stupid. I ­didn’t even think to get dressed up, and there was Shanna-Francine all decked out with her frizzy red hair pulled up in a bun, and she had a ton of makeup on too. But boy, does she work fast. She opened up her purse and practically attacked me with a steel comb and hairspray, then she put a full face of makeup on me too. I swear, I ­don’t think I’ve ever worn makeup so thick, and I thought I looked a little bit like a clown when she let me look in her blush mirror, but I figured, heck, she knows what she’s doing, she’s already in Alpha Beta Delta—and I’m not. From there we walked to Alpha Beta Delta. And something strange happened. As we got closer and closer to the house, I started to get short of breath. My heart was beating so fast I thought it was going to burst out of my body. Was I going to black out? It was like I was afraid of Alpha Beta Delta, which made no sense. I chalked it up to nervousness. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I kept telling myself. Alpha Beta Delta is a good place. For God’s sake, Mom went there.

  I stepped inside—and it felt like I had stepped into a warm pool of water. I was relaxed. Instantly. It almost felt like I belonged (I was invited, so that probably helped). In the living room soft jazz was playing, and all these pretty girls were mingling and chatting. At a side table there was an assortment of spice cakes, carrot cake, finger sandwiches, and teas and coffee. Shanna-Francine gave me a nudge.

  “Mingle!” she exclaimed.

  Unfortunately, I’ve never been all that good at mingling. And I tell you, each girl was prettier than the next, and thin, too—and the outfits. Wow. It’s like they all stepped out of In Style. Then the jazz music abruptly stopped. A hush came over the room. Walking down the stairs—no, gliding, I swear she was gliding—was Meri Sugarman herself, half smiling, flipping back her thick raven hair. We all took a seat and she stepped before us, along with Shanna-Francine and Gloria Daily, Alpha Beta Delta’s vice president, a very tall and very thin girl who Shanna-Francine later told me is totally brainy (and hooked on diuretics too, which is really too bad). The silence was deafening, and it seemed to go on forever. Meri just stood there looking at us, still half smiling, like she knew something we ­didn’t (and I’m sure she does). In fact, it was so quiet I could hear the birds outside and the traffic, too, and way off in the distance, a church bell. I thought my throat was going to close up. I was so nervous I ­couldn’t even swallow. Then Meri spoke. Softly. Delicately. Like she was high on a mountain and was speaking only loud enough to be heard by those far, far beneath her. She said, “Katie Couric was a sorority sister.”

  Then she was silent again. She smiled that special half-smile of hers, letting her powerful words sink in before adding, “So was Sheryl Crow. And Christie Brinkley.”

  Then she spoke even softer than before, and in very short sentences—kind of like haiku.

  “Our symbol is the Crown.” And then: “Our flower is the White Carnation.” More silence, then: “Our motto? ‘Seek the Noblest.’”

  I noticed a couple of girls were nodding their heads in silent agreement. We were all spellbound.

  “Our purpose? To be known as the best. Pure and simple.”

  Then she flipped her hair back and giggled—actually giggled—before spinning on her heels and floating away. Poof. She was gone. That’s all we saw of Meri. But jeez, that was enough. She was so completely perfect. The jazz music kicked back in and Gloria stepped up like a drill sergeant.

  “One at a time, in the kitchen. Peek in when it’s not your turn, ­you’re outta here. Tell anyone what ­we’re doing in there, ­you’re outta here. Go upstairs and anywhere near Meri, ­you’re outta here. Get it? Good. You first.”

  She pointed to a girl named Bethany Conova Ponds—probably the prettiest girl in the whole room—and off she went to the kitchen with Gloria and Shanna-Francine. I sat in a corner chair and looked at my hands folded in my lap. I definitely need a manicure. I ­didn’t dare say a word, but I finally looked up and saw that the rest of the girls were perfectly poised and silent. An hour or so must have passed, and by that time, both Bethany and another girl, Lindsay Cunningham, had finished in the kitchen. When they left the house, they both looked a bit rattled, but maybe I was imagining things. After all, my own hands were cold and sweaty, and when Shanna-Francine stepped from the kitchen and blurted out, “Cindy Bixby,” it was all I could do to hold back a scream. I accompanied her back to the kitchen, and when I stepped in, I was blinded by a flash of light. I heard click-whirr, click-whirr. Gloria was taking my picture. Shanna-Francine closed the door behind me, then Gloria gave me an order.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “I—I’m sorry?” I stuttered.

  Gloria looked impatiently at Shanna-Francine. “I ­don’t have time for this.”

  Worried that I’d be embarrassing Shanna-Francine if I ­didn’t follow orders, I nervously took off my blouse and skirt.

  “Everything,” snapped Gloria.

  I gulped. Okay, so I’ve been naked before in front of other girls in gym class at Chesterfield High, but never in someone’s kitchen—not even a pretty kitchen like this one—but I did as I was told.

  “Step on the scale,” ordered Gloria.

  I guess I was so completely nervous, because I ­hadn’t even noticed the scale in front of me—one of those big standing scales with counterweights that you see at doctors’ offices. I was about to ask where they got it, but Gloria must have anticipated that I was about to say something else, because she suddenly spoke very fast and very impatiently.

  “Yes, this is illegal. Yes, you will be disqualified if you object or inform anyone of this or anything else that goes on in this room. And rest assured, we will find out. The consequences ­won’t be pretty. Am I clear?”

  I nodded—so hard I thought my head would fall off—and stepped on the scale. Shanna-Francine balanced the counterweights and scribbled my weight in her Alpha Beta Delta–embossed spiral pink notebook. Then I stepped off the scale and picked up my clothes.

  “Who told you to put your clothes on?” snapped Gloria.

  “No one,” I gasped.

  “That’s right. But now I am. Put them on.”

  Then she looked over at Shanna-Francine’s notebook, a
nd I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head. She looked back at me and said very calmly, “Thanks so much for coming by.”

  “Wait,” blurted Shanna-Francine, who flipped her notebook pages and pointed to something. I’m not sure what it was, but it seemed to make Gloria a little angry.

  “Right, okay,” she grumbled, slumping in her chair. “Sit down. Here’s how it goes. ­We’re going to ask you some questions. Later, Meri and I will go over all the information ­we’ve gathered from all of the girls here today and ­we’ll ‘Blackball,’ which means ­we’ll choose which girls ­we’ll invite to pledge. But being invited to pledge does not mean ­you’ve become a part of Alpha Beta Delta. Get it? It only means ­you’ve passed the first step.”

  After that, everything was okay. More than okay. It was great. Shanna-Francine asked me all sorts of fun questions—where I grew up, what my major was, my favorite movie (that was easy, Moulin Rouge, because Ewan McGregor is s-o-o-o incredibly cute!), my favorite kind of music (I admitted to liking classical, because Dad listens to it, but I do like some pop music). After a while, even Gloria seemed to be interested, or at least semirelaxed and smiling, especially when they asked me about Lisa, and I told them all about her plans to become the next superslutty Christina Aguilera.

  Then I surprised myself when Gloria asked me, “Is there anything ­you’ve been through that you regret, or that you would change?”

  “The answer is no,” I said, shocked by my own words. “Not a thing. I mean, if I’d never gone through what I have, I ­wouldn’t be me. And I like being me, or at least I’m trying to. That’s why I want to be a part of Alpha Beta Delta. High school was so hard, and I want a different kind of life for myself in college. I want to be happy.”

  Shanna-Francine sniffled. Honest, I thought she was going to cry. And Gloria just stared at me, seemingly resigned to something.

  ­“You’ll hear from us soon,” she said. “And by the way, if ­you’re chosen to pledge, everything that happened in here is confidential. If ­you’re not chosen to pledge, everything that happened in here is confidential. Understand?”

  I nodded. Then I meekly mentioned, “My mom was president of Alpha Beta Delta. I think that makes me . . .”

  “A legacy candidate?” snapped Gloria. “No, actually, it ­doesn’t. Or it does, but it ­doesn’t matter. Not anymore. One of Meri’s first acts as president of Alpha Beta Delta was to revoke the legacy provision, so ­don’t think ­you’re going to squirm in that way. Meri feels that only the best should be accepted, and I quote, ‘Bloodline considerations are boring and elitist,’ unquote. Get it? ­You’re not boring and elitist, are you? Well? Are you?”

  I nervously shook my head.

  “Fine. ­We’re done here.”

  I smiled humbly and stood up.

  “Who told you to stand?!” she shrieked.

  I yelped—literally—and Gloria chuckled and gave a wave with her hand. “Go on, get out of here.”

  Shanna-Francine led me out past the living room to the door.

  “How do you think it went?” I whispered.

  But she ­didn’t say anything. She made a zipping motion over her mouth. But I could tell she was smiling. I gave a last glance to the other girls waiting, then shook Shanna-Francine’s hand. And she was still smiling. That’s got to be a good sign.

  I flew out onto the campus. I was so happy! I felt like I had wings. It felt like the entire world was bursting with happy colors—bright yellow, coral, hot pink, Mediterranean blues and greens. Class starts in a few days, but I ­don’t know how I’ll pay attention until I find out if I’ve been invited to pledge. In fact, I was so happy that I ­didn’t even care (too much) that the dorm room was now even more filled with garbage and papers and half-empty food cartons when I came home. And it ­didn’t even faze me (or at least not too much) when Patty asked, “You went to the prom with Bud Finger?!”

  Oh, I hate Bud Finger! Patty met him in the hall a few hours ago. Guess whose dorm room he was on his way to? Randy and Nester’s. Big surprise. Okay. I’m not going to let it distract me.

  I feel good for once—really good. I’ll try and concentrate on that.

  August 18

  Dear Diary:

  No word yet from Alpha Beta Delta. I know I ­shouldn’t be depressed, but I am. Classes start tomorrow. I hate myself. Oh, please let them choose me. I wish I smoked, because then I’d have something to do. I’d eat, but I’m not hungry. I woke up at two ­o’clock in the afternoon today. I ­couldn’t believe how late it was. I have never slept that late in my entire life. I only woke up because Patty was coming back into the room. When I went to the bathroom to wash my face, I noticed that my face soap was gone.

  “Oops, sorry about that,” she said meekly. “I threw it away. I have this phobia about white soap. Or really any kind of soap or detergent that’s white. Totally makes me gag. It’s probably sexual, but I’m not sure. You can use my black tar soap if you want.”

  Maybe it’s because I was so groggy, but I surprised even myself when I bluntly asked, “If you can throw away my white soap, why ­can’t you throw away all your piles of garbage?”

  Patty started crying. Poor Patty. She told me all about her serious psychological problems. But she was quick to point out that she ­doesn’t need to go to a therapist for help because she’s already diagnosed herself with the DSM-IV. She began listing her afflictions—hypertension, borderline personality disorder, panic attacks, all sorts of things—and it actually seemed to make her feel better.

  “Awareness is key,” she said. “By labeling one’s problems, one can better overcome them. ­Isn’t it fascinating that I threw away your white soap, but I ­can’t be bothered to throw away all my garbage yet? Psychologically, I mean.”

  Honestly, it’s not that fascinating to me—I just wish she ­hadn’t thrown away my soap (it was a relatively new bar)—but she sure seemed to think it was, so I just nodded and said, “I’ll help you clean up if you want.”

  She insisted that this was unnecessary, maybe even harmful, reminding me again that I’d be enabling her. But she did give me her DSM-IV.

  “I’ve dog-eared all the pages that list my afflictions,” she said buoyantly. “Here. You should read it. I’m a fascinating case.”

  Why does Patty find her problems fascinating? I ­don’t find mine fascinating at all. I hate them. Maybe I’m the one who needs a therapist. I have so much to learn.

  Later, Patty made me an early dinner on her hot plate. “It’s a special salad,” she said. “It’s very healthy for both of us. I call it Patty’s Wilted Spinach Salad.”

  She dumped a large portion of fresh spinach leaves into a pot, then opened a Yuban coffee can.

  “Bacon grease!” she exclaimed. “It’s the secret ingredient.”

  She scooped several huge dollops of bacon grease into the pot, put the hot plate on high, stirred it all up, then fried up several bacon slices in a separate pan, chopped them up, added them to the bacon grease and the spinach, and stirred in dried purple onions, canned black beans, and black pepper.

  “It’s so good, you ­don’t even need dressing,” she said, serving me a bowl.

  I know Patty thinks this is supposed to be healthy because it’s a “salad” and “based in greens,” but it just tasted like clumps of hot, fatty grease to me. But I ­couldn’t hurt her feelings. And besides, I ­don’t know anything about food, so for all I know it is healthy. I forced myself to eat spoonful after spoonful until my bowl was empty.

  “There’s more if you want,” she said eagerly.