Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  The next few seconds felt like an eternity. Meri ran her hands through her thick raven hair. If thoughts were racing through her mind, her face ­didn’t betray them. Finally, she spoke.

  ­“You’re right. You do need to be punished more.”

  “Yes,” I gushed. “Yes, I do.”

  She outlined a course of action. I shrieked.

  “I ­won’t do it!”

  “Of course you will,” she said softly. “Because what hurts Dean Pointer can also hurt you. Remember? Oh, and I’m not just talking about headlines, though ­they’ll be so much fun. ‘Dean Pointer Drills Coed.’ I like it. But what I really like are the little details, and how many people ­they’ll affect. Cindy Bixby’s diabolical blackmail scheme. Everyone will be shocked. She fucks the dean, takes a few pictures, and suddenly she never has to go to class, and her GPA just keeps going up and up, and so do Lindsay’s and Keith’s. Did you know Versalink owns six daily newspapers nationwide? Daddy loves a scoop—a scoop with pictures. Dirty pictures. Your family will be so embarrassed. Everyone will be.”

  I stood firm (how, I ­don’t know). I sputtered, “I ­don’t care, I ­won’t do it.”

  “So you want Keith to go to jail?”

  ­“You’re saying—”

  “I’m not saying anything. You told me you wanted more punishment. And I’m agreeing with you.”

  I had to do it. If there was a chance that this would ultimately save Keith and keep him out of jail, I ­didn’t have a choice. At lunchtime I stormed into RU’s cafeteria, walked right up to Keith, brutally slapped him across the face, and loudly accused him of date rape. Well, one look at me and no one believed it. Except, of course, for the Lesbian Feminist Clique. Within hours, they were following him from class to class, holding up signs that read: “Use Your Hand!” and “Enemy to Womyn!” and “Lesbians ­Don’t Rape!”

  “Did you give her anal warts, too?” they screamed.

  “Look! He’s got a cold sore!” shrieked another.

  Students ran screaming. Shanna-Francine skipped up to me.

  “Poor li’l Keith,” she blurted. “Guess he ­won’t have a date for the Oktoberfest Dance this year. Are you going? Guess what? It’s going to be seventies retro. ­Isn’t that a scream?”

  That afternoon I was also required to lodge a formal complaint with campus police and local authorities (to Officer Wood, no less, who was so kind and sympathetic; if I’m ever really date raped, I’ll know where to go). Keith now faces not only felony drug possession charges, but aggravated assault and rape. Meri was right. By forcing me to ruin Keith’s life more, she was punishing me more.

  When I returned to my room tonight, I was calm. I’m not sure why, only I ­can’t help but think that even Meri must have a limit. Keith has now been completely destroyed. Yes, there’s probably more punishment in store for me, but it ­won’t necessarily affect him. And maybe after it’s all over, Meri will quietly intervene and keep Keith from serving time. Am I being naive?

  Tears are rolling down my cheeks now. I’m crying for Keith. Happy tears, actually. It’s all over, my love. ­You’re safe now.

  September 24

  Dear Diary:

  Someone did a hit on Rags! All anyone knows is that the car was pink. He’s at Rumson River’s TLC Animal Hospital now. I’m not much for praying (Mom goes to church, but Dad ­doesn’t, and Lisa and I have never had to go), but I got on my knees tonight and prayed for Rags.

  September 25

  Dear Diary:

  They say that wartime criminals sometimes bond with their captors. That’s what happened to Patty Hearst, this really nice (and superrich) girl who was kidnapped by a group of schizoids. She bonded with them, and then they turned her into a scary bank robber. Will that happen to me? What’s next? Am I about to knock off Rumson River Savings & Loan? I only ask because I had a delightful morning with Meri. Honest. After most of the girls had left for the day, Gloria ordered me to handsie-kneesie the kitchen floors. Big deal, I thought. I’ve actually come to enjoy handsies-kneesies. It’s relaxing. Then I heard the clickity-clack of high heels. Meri was in the kitchen.

  “I just love honey cake,” she whispered breathily. ­“Don’t you?”

  We were off in her town car. We visited several specialty food stores to buy just the right ingredients: the freshest cinnamon, the finest almonds, the plumpest raisins. She was so relaxed, even chatty. We talked about boys.

  “It’s a good idea to take fifteen minutes or so before a guy picks you up to think of ten things to talk about,” she advised. “Especially if it’s your first date, because if conversation stops, then ­you’ll always have a handy topic.”

  Definitely a good idea, I said (and it is) (not that I would know, but still).

  “And ­don’t let the first date get too hot. ­You’re just getting to know each other. It’s boring to end up in some sort of late-night dilemma. Guys can get embarrassed so easily, and you ­don’t want to have to scold him and tell him ­you’re not that kind of quick-neck girl.”

  “Quick-neck girl?” What an antique-sounding choice of words. Was I listening to Meri? Or Jackie O.?

  Back at the house I made honey cake for Meri, and as we waited for it to bake, we did a Cosmo quiz called “Do You Have What It Takes to Be Popular?”

  There were lots of questions, like: “Can you get into a terrif mood with last year’s dress for this year’s big date?”

  We both answered yes to that.

  “When you meet a new guy, do you look for price first or personality?”

  Meri answered, “Price. What a dumb question.”

  Finally, I tallied up the scores. Oh no. Meri ­didn’t do well at all. Her Scoring Key read: “Ouch. Not too good, dear, but nothing you ­can’t fix. Work on your ability to get along with others, and try cooling that nasty temperament.”

  But of course I read her a different Scoring Key: “You go, girl. Not only are you popular, ­you’re even-tempered and take an active interest in other people’s lives. No wonder everyone wants to be with you.”

  She gleefully clapped upon hearing this. That was actually my Scoring Key I was reading (which astounded me, because I have never, ever been popular, but if Cosmo says I have it in me, then I guess it’s in me somewhere, though it’s probably long dead and buried by now). I read the Scoring Key meant for her as mine.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. She really did seem sympathetic. “It’s a big world out there, Cindy. ­You’ll be a lot happier if you try and like the people in it.”

  We had coffee with our honey cake. It was delicious (if I do say so myself). Then Gloria charged in and they “smoked a bowl,” which is drug talk for smoking marijuana from a small pipe. They smoked several bowls, in fact. The kitchen was soon filled with smoke, and it felt like I was getting high too. My head was getting lighter, I started feeling paranoid (just a bit), and I ­didn’t know what to do when Gloria thrust the “bowl” in my face.

  “Go on. It’s primo shit.”

  I ­didn’t have a choice. I took a big puff, then coughed—awful, painful, hacking coughs. They laughed at me. Then they were gone. Poof. I was alone in the kitchen. My mind was racing faster and faster: I just had a very nice morning with Meri, which could mean that it’s all over, which could mean that Keith is saved, which could mean that he ­won’t go to jail, which could mean that Meri will stop, which could mean that I am seriously kidding myself, which could mean that this is just the calm before the storm, which could mean that things are going to get even more terrible, which could mean that there’s nothing I can do about it, which could mean that I’m doomed forever. I gasped.

  “Patty.”

  I ran out of the house. I ­couldn’t wait any longer. Patty had to help. She promised she would. I ­wasn’t stupid, though. I darted behind the dorm building alleyways. I ­didn’t want to be spotted by anyone. Finally, I turned the corner to my old dorm building. I ­couldn’t believe my timing. There was Patty, turning the opposite corner a
nd carrying two large garbage bags to the Dumpster. My heart sang. Patty may still find all her problems and ailments “fascinating,” but at least she was making some sort of effort to deal with them. She was actually cleaning her dorm room. I was about to run down the alley—but I stopped in my tracks when I saw Bud turning the corner carrying a garbage bag too, and then Nester, and then Randy, and then Keith! What the heck was going on? Was everyone enabling Patty? And did they know that her room would probably be back to its old state within days? One by one they hurled their bags into the Dumpster. Get a hold of yourself, I thought. Whatever was going on in Patty’s world ­wasn’t important right now—well, it was, of course, since I want nothing but good things and happiness for Patty, but my focus was elsewhere. Patty’s garbage and her “fascinating” ailments could wait; right now, she and I had to figure out some way to keep Keith from going to jail. They saw me as I walked toward them. Practically simultaneously, they fiercely shook their heads. I held back a sob. They slammed the Dumpster shut and made a quick beeline around the corner, completely abandoning me.

  I am now truly alone. It’s three ­o’clock in the morning as I write this. I tried calling Mom, but our phone number’s been disconnected (no doubt due to Lisa’s rising celebrity). Why ­hasn’t anyone given me the new number? And even if I were able to reach Mom or Dad or Lisa, would they be able to help me? Can anyone?

  September 27

  Dear Diary:

  The morning looked harmless enough outside my bedroom window. Fluffy white clouds were pinned against a shiny blue sky, but I was wary—and heck, why ­shouldn’t I be? Fluffy white clouds mean nothing to me now. When I looked at my alarm clock, I nearly yelped. I’d overslept by a good three hours. Dressing quickly, I walked downstairs and I was surprised to see that no one was there. The house was empty. And yet, far off in the distance, I could hear laughter, I could hear music. What was going on? Had the house suddenly been transported during the night? If I stepped outside, would happy little Munchkins herald my arrival? And more important, if the house had been transported and whipped into the sky (by a helpful tornado, of course), had it thoughtfully landed on top of Meri?

  I swung open the door and strode onto the campus, and it really did seem as if I’d just walked into some sort of Technicolor dreamland. On the Great Lawn, kids were happily mingling with adults next to various food and crafts booths. A large banner proclaimed: rumson university’s annual parents’ day! Oh my God, I’d completely forgotten.

  “Yo, Cindy! Meet the old man!”

  I whirled. There was Bud standing next to his father (whom I’d never had the pleasure of meeting back in Marietta), extending his clammy hand toward mine, eyeing me up and down, his mouth crooked into a dirty smile. Eeeow. Double-eeeow. Like father, like son—like get-me-the-heck-out-of-here-now. His hand felt moist against mine as he shook it.

  “Damn, ­you’re right,” he said to Bud in an overly excited raspy voice. “She’s a real freak mommy.”

  They laughed and laughed, like two hiccuping hyenas. Did I really need this? Did I even deserve it? And would I have to knee Mr. Finger in the balls to get him to let go of my hand? I forcefully yanked it back.

  “So nice to meet you, Mr. Finger, but I’ve really got to go. It’s my car. The bivalve on my distributor is furbulating.”

  I dashed away, zigzagging past the cluster of kids and parents. From a distance, I saw Patty. She was standing mortified with her mother and father, both of whom were tall, very athletic-looking, and well dressed. Her father was staring off in another direction, with a look that said he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Her mother seemed to be tersely scolding, and her fingers were picking and plucking imaginary dirt and lint from Patty’s blouse and hair. Then she cruelly jabbed at Patty’s midsection. Twice. Patty looked up. She caught my eye. I almost burst into tears. The look she gave me said it all: This is where I come from, this is why I am the way I am, this is what I must overcome. Then she shamefully looked away and defensively batted her hands against her mother’s heartless assault. I stepped away, but I ­didn’t run. I ­didn’t want Patty to think I was repelled by what I saw, but I also wanted to give her the dignity of privacy. A gentle breeze wafted my way. My spirits lifted almost instantly. My heart sang! I’d know that Grand Torpedo Magnum Wrap cigar smell anywhere. I pushed through the crowd, I joyously gasped, “Keith!”

  And then I stopped short, nearly sputtering.

  “Dad?!”

  Warm arms enveloped me. I felt so safe. I ­couldn’t believe it. Dad came for Parents’ Day.

  “You look beautiful,” he gushed.

  Wow. If ever I have doubts that Dad loves me unconditionally, then I’ll just have to think back on this moment. There I was, with my horrible frizzy haircut, my old frumpy clothes, and all he could see was the daughter he loved. Oh my God, that’s so incredibly corny and stupid, but it’s true. He just went on and on about how proud he was of his “little girl, all grown up, standing on her own two feet.” If only I could have told him that I was terror-stricken and under siege, but I was mindful of Meri, the bugged poplars, and her terrifying ability to ruin the lives of anyone I confided in or cared about. So I just smiled.

  “College is s-o-o-o-o great,” I squealed, sounding like a major ding-dong.

  “Your mother’s here too,” he enthused.

  I gasped. Mom? Here? Dad stepped away, promised to get the three of us some cherry punch, and pointed me toward the east side of the Great Lawn, where Mom was waiting. I had a tumble of feelings. What would I say to her? Why ­didn’t she warn me about Alpha Beta Delta? And what, if anything, had she contributed to the Hoover File (and was it juicy)? Then I saw them. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I wanted to scream. There they were, standing together; Meri, Alpha Beta Delta’s reigning president, and Mom, Alpha Beta Delta’s former president, girlishly chatting and chuckling like two old friends, the early morning sun bathing them in beatific rays. I blinked several times. Could I even tell them apart? They suddenly shared a very broad laugh—were they talking about me?—and simultaneously flipped back their hair. The ground seemed to vibrate beneath me. A voice pierced through the haze.

  “There she is! There’s our girl!”

  I could barely focus. All I could see was the very tip of Meri’s French-manicured finger, looming forth like a dagger in a 3-D movie. I was abruptly engulfed. Mom hugged me tight. Looking up, I saw Meri’s face. Her smile was so docile, so gentle, with that aw-shucks-this-is-just-too-touching-for-words look, but it was swiftly dropped, for the briefest of moments, when she brought her forefinger to her lips in a venomous “shh” motion. Mom released me from her arms. Meri beamed with good cheer.

  “She was a worthy little adversary,” she cooed, no doubt referring to the election.

  “Well, now, we ­can’t all be president,” chimed Mom, giving my hand a friendly squeeze.

  Then Meri bid us good-bye and whirled off. Were her parents here? And did they, by chance, have horns?

  “Tsk. Where’s your father? I always lose him at these types of things, “ clucked Mom. We sat on a bench. The silence between us was aching. I gazed at her for a moment, strangely seeing her in two different ways. On one hand, she looked impatient and aloof, like it was a chore to sit with me; on the other hand, she seemed awkward and uncomfortable, even vulnerable. I was so confused, and I was also angry, and I guess it’s the anger that won out, because I suddenly blurted out, “I’m not dumb, you know. I finally figured it out. ‘Elaine Bixby at MSN’ blocks my e-mail.”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when I realized that tears were streaming down my face. Did I really just say that? Was I that bold? Mom looked genuinely confused. Oh, but how could she be! My fury was rising. Why ­doesn’t she just say it? I’m a disappointment, I’m the black sheep, I am not the daughter she wants. But instead she said, “MSN? I ­haven’t had that e-mail address in over a year. Remember? When we got DSL? ­We’re all Yahoo now. You, me, your sister, your father.”
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