Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  I gathered my books. I figured I might as well stay out of everyone’s hair (even though a bunch of girls had booked a town car for a “spa day”) and go to my classes. As I made my way to the door, I heard a whispery voice behind me.

  “Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.”

  I froze. It was Meri. She was standing at the top of the first-floor landing, half-smiling, looking down at me with what seemed like pity. She continued.

  “If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater or lesser persons than yourself.”

  She was quoting “Desiderata,” by Max Ehrmann, a prose-poem writer who, along with John Swinton and John Spargo, was considered the embodiment of forward-thinking socialism in the early 1900s, but who’s since been taken up by navel-gazing New Agers and people who like to cut out “happy thoughts” and paste them on their notebooks or pin them on corkboards or refrigerators. Yet in Meri’s case, it seemed like she was (maybe) communicating something different. Was she trying to tell me that she understood my lifelong struggle to change myself (but how could she really understand, since she has no reference point in her own life?)? Or was she, like Ehrmann, advising me to stop comparing myself with others (which is a nice thought in theory, but how can you not compare yourself with at least some people some of the time?)? Or was she not-so-subtly mocking me (this seemed the most likely, but with Meri, who knows?)?

  “Thank you,” I said, slightly trembling.

  What else was I going to say? I stood there like a ding-dong. Should I go? Was I waiting for orders? More poetry? Meri ­wasn’t moving either. She stood at the top of the stairs, her eyes meeting mine. Then she slowly crooked her hand into the shape of a gun and took aim at me.

  “Bang,” she said softly. “Bang-bang.” She burst into melodious giggles. Then poof. She was gone. Back upstairs.

  Move quickly, I told myself. I was out the door and walking through campus, holding my head down. Do not stir the hornet’s nest. Everything will be okay. Besides, ­didn’t Patty say she’d figure out some way for us to be in touch? How was she going to pull that off? If the poplar trees were bugged, and obviously all the streetlamps in the football stadium parking lot and all the streets within the university were bugged too, where would it be safe?

  In my literature class, Professor Scott handed out a test. I really ­wasn’t up for it, especially since I’ve been way too scared to look at any book lately, much less study, so I politely declined. My request was denied. In fact, Professor Scott took pleasure in informing me that this test would count as two-thirds of my final grade this semester since I had “declined” to take other recent tests. If I failed, then I would fail his class. I sighed anxiously. Professor Scott, as well as my other professors, had obviously been informed by Alpha Beta Delta that Cindy Bixby’s test-denial privileges were over. My eyes glazed over the questions. I perked up. I was in luck. All the questions were about Wuthering Heights. At this point in my life, I practically have that book memorized. I answered each question correctly, but I ­wasn’t happy. Was I Catherine? Was Keith my Heathcliff? Were we doomed? Was our love for each other all-consuming and destructive?

  “Time’s up,” snapped Professor Scott. He snatched the test papers from my desk, his smile tight and mincing.

  Toilet Whores, I thought. That made me feel better. It even made me smile. I was also relieved—in a larger sense. If things were now back to normal, was that so bad? I did come to Rumson U. to study and to learn. After my next class, I stepped onto the Great Lawn. Nothing was different. Couples were making out, the Abercrombie & Fitch boys were strolling past and chuckling (those guys are beginning to creep me out), people were on their way to their classes. I even saw Randy and Nester hacking (Where is Bud? I wondered, but then I realized I ­wasn’t that interested). Life would be calm now, it would be normal. Not great, nothing special, but normal. Meri had spoken, and she was finished.

  The sudden whirring of a police siren jolted through me. A crowd of gawkers quickly gathered. Were the police coming for me? Was I under arrest? Would I be going to jail? Then every fiber in my body cried out “No!” There was Keith, in handcuffs, being led to a police car. What was happening? The crowd was excitedly chattering.

  “They found everything in his football locker. Crystal meth, steroids, gay porno mags.”

  “Oh my God, that explains the anal warts!”

  “He’s, like, so off the team. Permanently.”

  I had to save him! I pushed violently through the crowd. None of it was true—I had to tell the police everything. Officer Wood can help me, I thought. I was sure of it. When I got closer, Keith saw me. His eyes widened in terror, and he shook his head. The siren blasted. He was off. He was gone. This was my fault. Oh, all my stupid-stupid hopes and dreams; this was the price. Everyone around me was still chattering, delighted by the scandal. I wanted to kill them all (and I know I’m repeating myself, but I am not a violent person, even though I’ve been having lots and lots of violent thoughts lately, and I’m not pushing them away). I started crying. Boo-hoo. Poor me. Poor, stupid, jerky me. I wiped my stupid eyes. The crowd was dispersing. “Show’s over!” I felt like screaming. Then I saw Patty across the street. She was standing with Bud Finger. Huh? What were they doing together? Still, today was Monday. Patty and I could talk. Being with Patty would make me feel better. I was even up for being diagnosed. I made to cross the street, and Patty’s eyes widened and she shook her head—just like Keith had. Then she whispered in Bud’s ear and they darted away. Was the world caving in? I guess I ­can’t be seen with anyone now. Do not stir the hornet’s nest. Pretend everything is normal. I made my way to cheer practice and apologized to Doreen for being a few minutes late.

  “Late for what?” she snorted.

  “Um, practice?” Oh, I should have seen it coming. Fuckin’ A, man. Talk about slow on the uptake.

  “Sorry,” Doreen chirped. “I really ­don’t know who the fuck you are. Or why the fuck ­you’re here. Are you some kind of fuckin’ stalker? Some kind of fuckin’ cheerleader stalker? You better get the fuck out of here. ’Cause, like, if you ­don’t go, I’m fuckin’ calling the police.”

  That night at the house, the girls and I were forced to watch Andy Warhol’s Sleep, a six-hour experimental film in which a single mounted camera watches a man sleep. Throughout, there were spurts of giggles and laughter from Meri, Gloria, Shanna-Francine, and the other girls, but that probably had less to do with the film and more to do with the Ecstasy tabs they had popped sometime after dinner. Lindsay and I were the only ones who dared to say, “No, thanks.” Thank God. We exchanged sympathetic glances whenever we were certain Meri and Gloria were distracted (I have to say, even though she recently endured her worst possible nightmare, Lindsay now looks beautifully tan).

  My anxieties have anxieties. Keith is facing serious jail time. It’s all my fault. And I keep seeing Patty’s face—her look of terror, shaking her head.

  I am Alpha Beta Delta’s Typhoid Mary. Hang with me and your life is ruined.

  September 16

  Dear Diary:

  At five this morning, I was abruptly pulled from bed by Gloria and forcefully pushed into the bathroom—right toward Meri, who was ominously snapping plastic gloves onto her hands. I was barely awake. What was happening? Fifteen minutes later, after goo was squirted into my hair and my head pushed beneath the bathtub spigot to rinse, Meri turned me around to face the mirror. My beautiful thick raven hair—gone. I was mousy brown once more, only it actually seemed a little worse (if that’s possible). Meri and Gloria exchanged a look and suppressed chuckles. Then Gloria blindfolded Meri and handed her a large pair of scissors. An errant clip here, a clip there. Voilà. It was done. My lovely Lili Mar Lili coiffure was reduced to a dreadful frizzy clump. I was beyond dowdy.

  “Woof, woof,” whispered Meri. She ran her fingers through my locks. “Now you really are my little bow-wo
w.”

  “Well?!” snapped Gloria. “What are you standing there for? ­Don’t you have classes today?”

  I meekly padded back to my room. Uh-oh. Several girls were trooping out carrying all of my clothes—all the Chanel, the St. John Sport, the Calvin Klein, the Dior, everything. I stepped inside. All of my frumpy old clothes were back. They were on the floor, and Lindsay and another girl were wearing oversize, mud-clumped boots and stomping on them. Lindsay shot me a look. “Sorry,” she mouthed, and I knew she was.

  I did my best to keep a low profile throughout the day. I ­didn’t see Patty, though I kept a furtive lookout. I also heard whispery comments about Keith. He’s out on bail. He’s also facing felony drug possession charges. He may drop out. I ­don’t care that I’m ugly again, I ­don’t care that everyone is staying away from me. Hello, loneliness. Hello, rejection. Welcome home. I embrace you. But not Keith! I’d give anything to save him—and even though he’d probably never love me or talk to me again after I did, I ­wouldn’t care, because I’d always know that there was one time in my life when a wonderful and handsome and superdreamy (and smart!) guy gently pressed his lips to mine. It happened. I ­wasn’t dreaming.

  September 17

  Dear Diary:

  When is the other shoe going to drop? Nothing happened today—and by that I mean, nothing terrible. I ­don’t like it. I know it’s not over. I can feel it in my bones.

  September 18

  Dear Diary:

  I had a terrible panic attack in class today. I knew what it was. I read about them while flipping through Patty’s DSM-IV when I lived with her. Seemingly out of nowhere, my heart started racing, I ­couldn’t breathe, I ­couldn’t swallow, it felt like I was choking. I wanted to scream, “I’m dying!” I had to walk, or run. I muttered excuses, bolted out of the classroom, and walked and walked and walked and walked. By the time I came back to the house, my feet were throbbing. I scurried to my room, closed the door, and took off my shoes. My feet were bleeding, the skin was torn loose. I curled up into a ball on the bed. I was safe.

  “Woof, woof!” snarled a voice outside my door.

  Oh God, someone help me. When will this end?

  September 19

  Dear Diary:

  Today was election day at Alpha Beta Delta. Meri won by a landslide. Big surprise. “California Dreamin’” and other songs by the Mamas and the Papas blared throughout the day and well into the night during the Alpha Beta Delta Presidential After-Party, since today is also “Mama” Cass Elliot’s birthday. Everyone came: Dean Pointer, most of the school’s professors, all the coolest students. If you ­didn’t know any better, you would have thought, “Wow, this is a real kick-ass party.”

  September 22

  Dear Diary:

  Save Keith! That’s all I’ve been able to think. Most of the girls were gone throughout the weekend, except for Lindsay and me. ­We’ve been like the walking dead, exchanging banalities—we ­don’t dare talk about what ­we’re really feeling. Sunday was nice. We went to Long John Silver’s. Was Long John Silver’s bugged too? I doubt it, but Lindsay ­didn’t want to risk it. She opened her notebook and wrote: “I will not be a victim. And I ­won’t let you be one either.”

  I wrote: “Which means what?”

  “Destroy Meri Sugarman.”

  I nearly screamed. I grabbed the pen.

  “Are you crazy?!”

  “Maybe.”

  Okay, I had to help her think straight. Her tan was starting to fade, and I ­didn’t want either of us to inadvertently cause Meri to order another torturous session under those heating lamps. I thought, What is the safest possible solution? I wrote: “We should start applying to other schools. Transfer midyear, or in the fall.”

  “Destroy Meri.”

  “We ­can’t!”

  “Haze the bitch.”

  “We ­won’t win!”

  “We’d better. Or Keith goes to jail. And God knows what else.”

  “How?”

  “I ­don’t know.”

  She trembled and closed the notebook. Then she anxiously flipped it back open, tore out the page we’d written on, ripped it into tiny little pieces, and ate them. Without saying or writing another word, we finished our Chicken Planks and Hush Puppies, and as we strolled back to the house, she sweetly put her arm around me and shielded us both from the sun beneath her umbrella.

  September 23

  Dear Diary:

  Save Keith! The thought was blaring through my head when I woke up this morning. Why should he have to pay for my sins? ­Wasn’t there some sort of middle ground that could be negotiated? Okay, he’s off the team, he’s “unpopular,” but does he have to go to jail? Lindsay’s been punished for her transgressions, and so have I, but neither of us is facing a future as bleak as Keith’s. It’s just not fair. I’ll gladly take more punishment to keep Keith out of jail. Maybe that’s the solution, I thought. At breakfast I asked Shanna-Francine if I could take Meri’s tray up. She looked to Gloria for approval.

  “Fine,” she said, clearly not interested. ­“Don’t drop the tray.”

  My hands were shaking as I walked up the three flights of stairs to Meri’s room. The air seemed thinner as I reached the top. Was I having another panic attack? I ­couldn’t swallow. Her door was open. The room looked empty. I took a gulp, walked in, and set the tray down on a piecrust table. All evidence of Meri’s temperamental rampage on the thirteenth was gone. The room looked exactly the same as it had before. She even had the same book open on her bedside table, My Way of Life: A Script for a Complete Woman, by Jacqueline Onassis. I took a quick glance and read: “In Zululand, I was presented with a small stuffed dik-dik—a fully grown deerlike animal that is specially bred for its miniature size.”

  Hold on. Jackie O. had a dik-dik? Did Meri also have a dik-dik, or was she just quoting? And if she ­wasn’t quoting, did she want all of us to believe that she did, in fact, have a dik-dik? A sudden gunshot blast nearly made me scream. Then another, and another. I glanced out the window. Several large birds tumbled from the sky. Meri breezed in from the balcony holding a shotgun.

  “Blackbirds are boring,” she airily intoned. Then she stopped. “Oh, it’s you. My little bow-wow.”

  I smiled tentatively (doing my best to look away from the shotgun), and given Meri’s adoration of Jackie O., I decided to keep the moment light by mentioning Grace Coolidge, the lovely First Lady and wife of President Calvin Coolidge, who was Jackie O.’s fashion predecessor in the mid-1920s.

  “She was America’s first ambassador of women’s sportswear,” I said with forced good cheer. “She even wore flapper outfits. In fact, she was so admired that she was given a special gold locket by the French garment industry. ­Isn’t that fascinating?”

  And then nothing. Silence fell. It fell hard. Like a huge white mountain collapse: ba-boom! Meri took two steps closer to me—deliberately, slowly—her eyes never leaving mine. Was this it? Would she shoot me? Would she bite me? A sick foamy nausea rose up inside my stomach. I ­couldn’t take it anymore. I was ready to burst.

  Then the words just tumbled from my mouth: I was the one who was deserving of more punishment—much more—I was the one who had betrayed not just her, but the whole house. Keith’s future at RU was already ruined, so what could be gained by sending him to jail? Send me to jail. Punish me more. And finally, I appealed to her vanity. She was too wise to punish Keith with jail time; after careful consideration, she would realize that it was me, Cindy Bixby, who deserved more.