Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  After a quick shower, I raced outside and just made the bus. Phew. There was practically no one on it. About an hour later I arrived in Camoville, walked eight blocks to the farmer’s market, and quickly spotted the flower stands in the distance. There they were. Fresh white carnations! I was so happy. Then I saw her. Guess who was already there buying several white carnations? It was Bethany. Ugh. She was even in her Alpha Beta Delta uniform already, but I noticed that her blouse had a shawl collar, not a Peter Pan collar, and she also was wearing an opera-length pearl necklace. I ­don’t remember anything about being allowed to wear jewelry, though to be fair it’s not Pledge Week yet. Then she sashayed to the corner where her black Jaguar convertible was double-parked and zipped away. Just like that. Easy as pie. She probably rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. I suddenly felt very depressed. Life is so unfair. The nastiest people seem to have it so easy.

  Still, the farmer’s market turned out to be a total treasure trove. Here’s where I can load up on hard candies and Altoids and cigarettes and other supplies each morning, though I’ll probably have to start waking up at three a.m. instead of four in order to make the fresh facial masks. I have no idea how busy I’ll be once Pledge Week starts, or what ­they’ll have me doing, so I decided to start buying various supplies in bulk right then and there (including four cartons of Marlboro Red and a discount twelve-pack of mint Altoids). Then I hopped back on the bus, carefully timing myself to be sure I’d make it back in time for my eight o’clock class, which I did, but just barely.

  The rest of the day went by in a haze. I was so tired. I also noticed that most of the students were leaving campus. Everyone was taking off for three-day vacations, since it’s Labor Day weekend. Everyone except me, that is. I’ll be alone. As usual. Even Patty’s taking off. She’s going with a high school girlfriend to a Lobster Festival on Padre Island in Texas. I started to feel sorry for myself again. Boo-hoo. Poor me. But then I remembered that I have lots of wonderful things to do and buy and prepare in order to be ready for the start of Pledge Week on Tuesday, including purchasing my uniform (I should probably buy everything in triplicate, since I ­won’t have time to wash and iron everything each morning). By the time my last class ended at five, I was trashed. Completely. All I wanted to do was go home and sleep. Then a truly horrific thing happened—but not to me, thank goodness. I was walking past the football field when I heard strange noises underneath the bleachers. Curious, I stepped to the side. I ­couldn’t believe what I saw. There was Bethany on the ground with Nester—yes, Nester!—and he had his hand up her skirt. She was moaning and wriggling.

  “Oh, yeah. To the left. Up. Stop. Make a circle. Oh, God. That’s right, that’s . . .”

  Then she shrieked with anger—howled, actually—yanked his hand out, and held it up to his face.

  “I told you to clip it! You stupid piece of chuck. My thighs cannot be nicked.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” murmured Nester.

  She bolted up, angrily gathering her purse and jacket.

  “Like, I ask you to do one thing for me and you blow it. You lose, bucko. And if you tell anyone we had this little arrangement, ­you’re dead. You hear me? D-e-a-d. I ­don’t know you. I’ve never known you. When you see me on campus, look away. Just die. Go ahead and die.”

  She stalked off. And Nester softly cried. I sort of felt sorry for him. And in a way, as amazing as this may sound, I felt sorry for Bethany, too. I mean, is Nester the best she can do? But then again, it did sound like she enjoyed giving him orders, and I have read romance novels where glamorous women like giving orders to “dirty” or “low-class” men, and Nester certainly qualifies for the “dirty” part. It also made me weirdly happy. Bethany’s world may be privileged and picture-perfect, but apparently it has a dark side, too. At least I’m not soiling myself behind the bleachers with Nester. Eeeow. Double eeeow. I stepped away carefully—I sure as heck ­didn’t want either one of them to see me—and as I walked across the street, I was almost knocked to the ground when a small, white, floppy-eared mutt jumped right at me.

  “Rags! Bad boy. Over here.”

  Across the street was Keith Ryder, looking superdreamy in Ray-Bans, an RU tank top, and low-hanging jeans that showed off his paisley-print boxers (so cute!), standing in front of a Range Rover with a couple of guy friends (I think they were drinking beer). I’m sure they were all getting ready to go to someplace fun and exciting for the three-day weekend. Rags kept bouncing up and down in front of me, even though Keith kept calling him, so I thought I’d help out. I took hold of his collar and led him right up to Keith. There I was standing right in front of him. I just wanted to die! And I wanted to be pretty, too, and say something witty and sophisticated. This was Meri’s boyfriend, after all—or ex-boyfriend, based on what I’d seen at the pledge meeting, but who knows, maybe ­they’re tempestuous (I bet they are).

  “Thanks. ’Preciate it,” he said.

  He scooted Rags into the Range Rover.

  “Sorry about the umbrella,” I squealed, a good four octaves higher than I normally speak. Oh, I’m such a jerk.

  “The what?”

  “At the pledge meeting? My umbrella popped open. I blocked your way. I’m just saying sorry. For, um, you know, for me.”

  I am such a citizen of Loserville. I’m the mayor. But then he smiled at me—really smiled—and I swear I saw a twinkle in his eye (his left one).

  “No prob.”

  Then he took off with his friends.

  “No prob.” That’s what he said! How completely sweet. And he smiled. And he was looking right at me. He ­didn’t ignore me. Or say something nasty. And his dog was so cute. Rags. I think Rags likes me. I like Rags, too.

  September 1

  Dear Diary:

  The weekend has been long, but incredibly productive. I have everything I need for tomorrow. And even though it’s kind of depressing being on campus all by myself, I feel good about my future for the first time in a long time. After shopping on Saturday, I called Mom, but she ­wasn’t able to take my call. Still, I did talk to Lisa. Somehow she’s convinced Dad to cut a check for eight thousand dollars so she can make a demo of “Tune My Motor Up,” even though he thinks it’s a dirty song too.

  “Oh, Dad, you are s-o-o-o not the target audience,” she huffily informed him.

  But then again, maybe he is. Lisa recently created her own Web site, “lisabixby.com,” in anticipation of her growing fan base. It even has several pictures of Lisa in the slutty clothes Mom bought for her in Parkersburg (in one of them she’s posing in front of a men’s urinal, which is such a rip-off of Madonna, but Lisa says no one knows who that “ancient bitch” is anymore, so they ­won’t know). Anyway, she’s gotten several propositions from a bunch of sixty-year-old men, which is more than creepy, but she ­doesn’t care.

  “Like, once my single hits, the pedophiles will be gone. I’m being nice to them, though. They might have kids in my demographic.”

  I tried to tell her about Alpha Beta Delta, but she ­didn’t seem all that interested—except to ask if she can send me tons of copies of her CD single so the pledges can carry them in their bottom-fold portfolio briefcases (I told her about Rule #32). Pledging is only for a week, and I doubt her single will be done by then—but ­she’ll probably send them anyway.

  Today I cleaned out the dorm room. Again. Not as many garbage bags this time, but enough. When I was hurling the last bag in the Dumpster behind the dorm building, I saw Bud. He saw me, too, and he ran. Good. He should keep running. I guess Bud’s alone this weekend too. It’s too bad that he ­can’t calm down and be a normal person. We could have spent time as friends this weekend. I ­don’t think Bud’s a bad person when you get down to it, but he’s so determined to be this “playa-gangsta” these days, and he’s so not. Oh well. Maybe ­he’ll get over it when he meets a nice girl and gets married. Or maybe ­he’ll be like Mr. Bartow, this creepy married guy who lives in our neighborhood in Marietta and always tries to flirt wi
th the girls playing T-ball in the cul-de-sac. Yuck.

  I wish Mom had time to talk to me. She used to give me such good advice when I was a little girl.

  “Stop being average,” she told me once. She was very concerned at the time that I ­didn’t have as many friends as she did when she was eleven. I think she was also trying to get me used to the idea of “having fun,” since I ­didn’t even have a best girlfriend.

  “Start small,” she instructed. “Ask a girl to go with you on a shopping trip, or swimming, or coffee, or an afternoon at the movies. ­You’ll see. Then you ­won’t be so mopey and boring all the time. No one likes a Gloomy Gus. Not even mommies and daddies.”

  That’s advice I should still follow. Tomorrow is my first day as a pledge. I’m going to be friendly, and fun, and not boring. Maybe I’ll even ask Shanna-Francine or one of the pledges out for coffee or for lunch at Long John’s. Maybe I should just pretend that my acceptance into Alpha Beta Delta is a fait accompli. If I really did believe that, then I’d be confident and happy and fun to be around. I should just do it. I’ll pretend. So far the pretending thing is working.

  From: cindybixby

  Date: 1 September

  To: mom

  Subject: Pledge Week Starts Tomorrow!!

  Hi, Mom!

  I’m sure Lisa and Dad have told you by now that I was invited to pledge at your old stomping ground! Pledge Week starts tomorrow morning!!! I’m so excited!!

  Any advice on how to get through it all in one piece? I’ll check my e-mail in the morning.

  Love,

  Cindy

  xxxooo

  From: Mail Delivery Subsystem

  Date: 1 September

  To:

  Subject: re: Pledge Week Starts Tomorrow!!

  ——The following addresses had permanent fatal errors——

 

  (reason: 550 Requested action not taken)

  550 5.1.1 . . . User email blocked

  September 2

  Dear Diary:

  Steady as she goes! I looked pretty darn good in my pledge outfit today, and I woke up extra early to make the facial masks and buy my carnation (I’m so glad I did a practice run). When I arrived at my first class, everyone was so much nicer to me. In other words, they actually noticed me. Ha! A few girls even seemed jealous that I was pledging at Alpha Beta Delta and they ­weren’t. When I walked to my second class, my heart almost skipped a beat when I saw Gloria walking toward me. I gulped. I’m ready, I told myself. I’m more than ready.

  “Altoid. Cinnamon,” she barked.

  No prob. I had them.

  “Comb my hair. Use a quill brush. And it better have a wooden handle.”

  No prob again. I pulled the comb through Gloria’s hair.

  “That’s enough,” she snapped. Then she leaned in. “Meeting at the house at three.”

  “Um, I have a class then.”

  “Tough shit.”

  She whirled off.

  Okay, so I’d miss a class. Big deal. What was I thinking? Where are my priorities? I hope I ­don’t get points docked for that. After my third class, I went to the Great Lawn to eat lunch and I saw Gloria again. Oh no. Breathe. But she ­wasn’t coming up to me, she was stomping right up to Bethany, who was all smiles (she’d bought a new blouse with a Peter Pan collar). It looked like they were chatting amiably—like two old friends, which I’m sure ­they’ll be one day. Then Gloria shrieked.

  “I see pink!”

  “But it’s white,” gasped Bethany.

  “Did I ask you?”

  She violently ripped the carnation from Bethany’s blouse, threw it to the ground, and—bam—stomped on it.

  “Get a new one. I’ll give you fifteen minutes. And it better not have the teensiest bit of pink in it.”

  She whirled off. Bethany looked shell-shocked. I guess I should have felt sorry for her, but honest, she has a car, and Jaguars do go fast. If she speeds just a little she should be able to get to the market and back in time. More important, it was a wake-up call for me. If that had been me, and I was given only fifteen minutes to replace my carnation, I’d be in big trouble. I barely inspected my carnation at the market this morning. Note to self: Inspect the carnation carefully before leaving the market.

  Come three ­o’clock, I darted across the campus to Alpha Beta Delta. My heart was pounding. I ­didn’t want to be late. Gasping, I all but barreled inside. I was the first pledge there.

  “Five minutes early,” said Shanna-Francine, smiling cheerfully. “Good job, Pledge Cindy.”

  The other pledges arrived a few minutes later, including Bethany. She was wearing a new carnation (I’ll bet she inspected it real carefully before she bought it). All of the pledges said hello to me, including a nice girl named Lindsay Cunningham, who I remembered from the Smoker. She’s very pretty, and oh my God, she has the clearest skin I’ve ever seen. It’s luminously white.

  “SPF 40,” she confided. “Every day. And I use an umbrella. Auntie Christiana died from melanoma. She was a sun whore. I swear, she practically lived on Uncle Stephano’s yacht.”

  Then dead silence. Meri glided forth. After a moment she spoke. Softly.

  “Closets should be emptied four times a year. Inspect every item. Seasonal clothes should be cleaned and put into storage. Since you ­don’t know what the hemline will be in the coming months, store every dress with the hemline out.”

  Silence again. We absorbed her sage words. Her eyes swept past us. Then she pointed at Lindsay.

  “You. I’d like to watch a DVD tonight. What’s your selection, Pledge?”

  Lindsay gulped, reached into her bottom-fold portfolio briefcase, and handed six DVDs to Meri. She inspected them carefully, then casually tossed each of them to the floor after she finished.

  “8 Women. This is acceptable. It’s French. And it stars Catherine Deneuve. The Matrix Revolutions. This is borderline. The concept is tired, and Keanu is getting old, but it is fairly pleasant to look at. Never Been Kissed. This movie would be entirely unacceptable if ­it weren’t for the fact that it stars Drew Barrymore.”

  Then she held out the DVD Far from Heaven.

  “Who can tell me what they think of this movie?”

  “Oh, I can,” chirped Bethany (like the suck-up she is). “It’s completely fabulous. It’s, like, this total homage to Douglas Sirk.”

  “I see,” said Meri, her eyes narrowing. “And why would we want to watch that? Why not watch the real thing?”

  Then she addressed us all, speaking softly but pointedly.

  “This movie is the equivalent of lounge music. If you want to listen to jazz, such as Mingus or Fitzgerald or Parker, you listen to the real thing. You do not listen to a lounge music remix of jazz. Am I clear? This movie is creatively bankrupt. And it should be burned.”

  She handed the DVD to Shanna-Francine, who dutifully tossed it into the fireplace and turned on the gas. Poof. Far from Heaven. Up in flames.

  “Pledge Bethany will be docked seven points for her erroneous opinion. Pledge Lindsay will be given the benefit of the doubt and will only be docked two points.”

  Her eyes swept past us, then stopped on me. Me! Oh God, I swear it felt like time stopped, especially when she sort of raised an eyebrow. Then she shook her head several times—forcefully, like she was clearing cobwebs—turned to Gloria, and delicately murmured, “Stoli shots.”