Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  Oh my God, oh my God. I. Am. Such. A. Bunhead. But the floodgates were open; it was too late now.

  “I’m sorry I’m not like you,” I stammered. “I guess if I were, maybe then you’d like me.”

  Mom eyes welled up with tears. Stop! Rewind! I have never seen Mom cry before. Never ever ever ever ever. What had I done?

  “Maybe when you have kids someday, ­you’ll understand,” she sniffled. What did that mean? What was she telling me? She struggled to explain. She was never very smart as a girl, her grades were average at best, but she did have her charms, her popularity. Then she met Dad. And then she had me.

  “You were such a bright young baby,” she said. “Everyone thought so. And ­you’re right. You and I are different. You were completely different from how I was when I was growing up. You were so smart. And you read so much. Every day. Book after book after book. I was so proud of you. I still am. But sometimes I felt . . .”

  “Felt what?” I asked tentatively.

  Mom thought for a moment, then she took my hand and leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “Let’s put it this way. I know exactly how to prepare your sister for life.”

  We chuckled. I was starting to get it. The mom sitting next to me was, in fact, uncomfortable and vulnerable, even though I had thought she was acting impatient and aloof. She was feeling one thing, and I was seeing and feeling something else entirely. How messed up is that?

  “But you,” she continued, choking back a sob, looking down at her hands. “What could I possibly help you with? I guess I just felt so inadequate at times. Like I ­wasn’t good enough for the job, or smart enough when it came to you. Oh, I love you so much, Cindy, I know you know that—I know you do. ­You’ve always been the special one. I know you know that.”

  That was it. Major waterworks. Practically Niagara! We hugged and we cried. My mom is intimidated by me? I make her feel inadequate? What a joke. A feeling of relief washed over us both. She attempted to collect herself. She dove into her purse and frantically scribbled “elainebixby@yahoo.com” on a piece of paper, wrote down our new home phone number (which was changed, as I thought, due to Lisa’s rising fame, and which Lisa was supposed to give to me, though she forgot, no doubt since I’m not her manager, agent, lawyer, or fan club president), and even wrote down her own superprivate emergency cell phone number, which no one has (expect for Dad and Becky Randel, Mom’s Personal Shopper at Neiman Marcus). Dad took us to dinner that night. It felt like I was on vacation. I was freed from all my worries and fears about Meri and the house. After dinner they walked me back to Alpha Beta Delta, and on the way, Dad pointed out where he first saw Mom.

  “Right over there,” he said, pointing to the far end of a parking lot. “She was just walking to her car, and I thought, ‘Hey, now there’s a looker.’ I saw her two days later at my first football game. She was cheering. Well, let me tell you, I was barely able to play the game after that.”

  They chuckled and held hands. They looked young again, like two college students in love—but in a far more innocent time. I gave them a wave as they drove off from Alpha Beta Delta, then turned around and stifled a gasp. From above, I saw the silhouetted figure of Meri observing from her bedroom window. I gulped and walked into the house. My parents may have lived in more innocent times, but I was bracing myself for the far more dangerous present.

  September 29

  Dear Diary:

  “Bud Finger, at your cervix.”

  Oh, I hate Bud so much. The past few days have been relatively peaceful. (I wake up, go to classes, come home, and shut my door. That’s it.) But this morning, as I was walking down the hall to class, I heard Bud’s stupid little pronouncement behind my back. I turned right around to face him. I think I like violence now. Besides, I have been known to kick Bud in the balls, so would anyone really be surprised if I ripped his head off? But I had barely turned when he hurled a small pack of Hostess Ho Hos right at me and then ran down the hall. They tumbled off my chest to the floor. That’s disgusting, I thought—the package was already open, one of the Ho Hos was gone, and the remaining Ho Ho had a large bite out of it. I swiped it from the floor and looked for a trash can. The loose Ho Ho fell out. The mushy cardboard backing had writing on it with black Sharpie: “Moo Ratty Ven Sep.”

  Very nice, Bud. For old times’ sake, he’s telling me to “Moo?” And the rest? Bud-style gibberish? Thanks, but no thanks. I picked up the loose Ho Ho, tossed it in the trash, and I almost threw away the cardboard backing when it suddenly occurred to me. This was no gibberish—this was a message! I stood for a moment. Was anyone watching? Did anyone see him throw the Ho Ho at me? I suddenly felt like Spy Girl Barbie. Lisa and I used to love playing Spy Girl Barbie in the backyard when we were little. We had so much fun dreaming up secret missions for her. But then Lisa wanted to change her name to Mata Hari Barbie, which meant that Spy Girl Barbie was suddenly very slutty and never wore panties anymore. Think, I thought. What would Spy Girl Barbie do? She’d pretend everything was normal, that’s what she’d do, then she’d find a “secure location” where she could calmly examine the message. As nonchalantly as I knew how, I stuck the cardboard backing inside my copy of Céline’s Journey to the End of the Night (Professor Scott’s syllabus was becoming very predictable, and yet it seemed an apropos book for Spy Girl Barbie and me since, like Bardamu, we were also in the midst of a scandalous battlefield), strolled into the ladies’ room, held my head low, walked into the last stall, locked the door, and sat on the toilet. I stared at the message:

  “Moo Ratty Ven Sep.”

  It made no sense. Should I be holding it up to a mirror? Luckily, I still had my Chanel pressed powder compact and mirror from my Pledge Week supplies. I retrieved it from my purse and placed the mirror opposite the cardboard backing message. It now read:

  That made even less sense. I was beginning to get frustrated. Was this really a secret message?

  “Anagram!” I suddenly gasped.

  Oh no. Did anyone hear me? I ­didn’t see anyone when I walked in. But more important, I hate anagrams, and crossword puzzles, too. Brain teasers are for people with too much time on their hands (people like Bud). Okay, focus, I thought. How difficult can an anagram be? Especially an anagram by Bud. I pulled my official pink insignia Alpha Beta Delta notebook from my knapsack and got to work. As I arranged each letter and each word, my heart started beating faster and faster and a huge smile was spreading across my face. I would be saved. Keith would be saved. And even though, somehow, Bud was involved, I would no longer be alone. I cracked the code. The message read: “Patty’s Room Seven.”

  Oh, God. Tonight at seven, I could go to Patty’s room and everything would be all better. I was exhilarated. The rest of the day was a complete breeze, and I kept hearing Lindsay’s words, or seeing them, actually, since she had written them down: “Haze the bitch.”

  That sounded pretty damn good to me. Hazing Meri Sugarman. Bring her down hard. Make her cry. Why not? After everything she’s done? Watch out, Meri. Little bow-wow bites back. Still, as the sun started to set, I got anxious. I was at the Great Lawn sitting on a bench beneath an oak tree (bugged, I’m sure, like the poplars), wondering how I would make it to Patty’s room without anyone seeing me. Sure, I could go through the dorm building back alleys, but once I was in the building, ­wouldn’t people see me going down the hall to her room? Did I need a disguise? Where would I get one? Or did I have to somehow find a way to reach her second-story dorm room window and climb inside that way? Would I need rope? Or a ladder? ­Wouldn’t that look suspicious? What would Spy Girl Barbie do? I smiled knowingly. She’d create a diversion, that’s what. It was almost too easy. At about quarter to seven, I scurried down the back alley to Patty’s dorm building, looked both ways, darted inside the front entrance, breathed a huge sigh of relief upon seeing it was empty, then took off my mule and gave a firm whack to the fire alarm. It blared deafeningly. I scampered back out, slammed myself against the wall just around the corner, a
nd waited for the inevitable—hoping against hope that Patty would know it was me and stay in her room. Sure enough, students started pouring out of the building, and they ­didn’t seem too happy about it either (I think I broke up a beer bust), but the crowd was large enough so that I was easily able to mingle, hanging my head low; no one seemed to notice that I was walking in the opposite direction. My heart was going topsy-turvy. Eureka. I did it. I flew down the hall to Patty’s room and knocked on the door. It swung open. I nearly screamed. It was Keith.

  “Hey, sexy,” he said, grinning.

  He pulled me into his arms and planted a scorcher—right on the lips—led me in, and kicked the door closed. Oh, never let me go, I thought. I was in Keith’s strong arms. He may be facing jail time, but in this moment, in this small and tender moment, he was mine. I heard a door click. Stepping out of the bathroom was a huge figure. It was Keith’s teammate, Jesse “Pigboy” Washington. His face was dotted with lipstick kisses. And stepping out after him was Patty. Completely thrown, I disentangled from Keith, pulled Patty aside, and whispered urgently, “What’s going on? You and Pigboy?”

  “Jesse’s fantastic,” she cooed. “A little hypomanic, a few anxiety phobias, but otherwise . . . well, let’s just say, no more Mallomars for me.”

  It was too much to process. Keep the focus, I thought. I whipped out my notebook and wrote: “How do we save Keith?”

  “That’s what ­we’re here to figure out!” she exclaimed.

  I gasped, covering her mouth. She pushed it away.

  ­“We’re safe. This room’s safe.”

  So that’s why everyone was helping Patty clean her room. With Randy and Nester’s help, Patty had learned that practically every room in every dorm, sorority, and fraternity is bugged, including Jesse’s, Keith’s, Bud’s, and Randy and Nester’s. They found tiny mics implanted in couches, a few in phone receivers, still more in bathrooms. It was Bud who told them to leave everything in place. If Meri knew mics were being discovered or removed, she’d be on to them. Next, they decided to search Patty’s room, but since it was so jam-packed with garbage and newspapers and half-empty food containers, they decided to completely clean it out first. To their delight, they realized that Patty’s garbage had actually acted as an obstacle to the Alpha Beta Delta sisters who had bugged all the rooms—either that, or they had decided not to bother upon stepping knee-deep in it (who can blame them?). The room was “clean.” I suddenly exploded with anger.

  “Haze the bitch!” I bellowed. “Bring her down. Make her cry.”

  “Whoa. Slow down, gunsmoke,” said Patty. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to help Keith.”

  She was right. What was wrong with me? Keith put his arm around me and kissed my cheek. He was so understanding. He even said he was worried about me. Me. With all the trouble that he’s facing, he’s been thinking of me. The school is now considering whether or not to expel him, given all the charges against him. A hearing is scheduled for next week. We ran through the options. I could step forward and recant my date-rape charges, but given the drug possession charges against him, would anyone believe me? And besides, we ­didn’t have any way to prove that the drugs were planted. And even if I did go forward and put the kibosh on the date-rape charges, ­wouldn’t that tip off Meri and prompt her to give the photos of Dean Pointer and me to her father’s newspapers?

  “Everything’s in Meri’s room,” I said.

  That’s where the DAT tapes are, the digital camera with pictures of Dean Pointer and me, the Hoover File, which I’ve heard is quite literally a large accordion file bursting with incriminating papers, and God knows what else. But how on earth could we get everything out? And does Meri keep every single day’s recording of the entire campus, or does she tape over them with the start of each new day? If she erases everything, which seems likely, then we’d having nothing to prove our side. There were so many questions, and even though I’m the one inside the house, no one could figure out how I could go about getting everything out of the house without Meri learning about it, even if I did have help from Lindsay, who was sure to be game for anything. We were at an impasse. The future looked bleak. Especially Keith’s. Patty looked at her watch.

  ­“We’re running late, cutie,” she said to Pigboy.

  It seems Patty and Pigboy had made a date to go to RU’s Cinema Revival tonight to see the late show of Fellini’s Amarcord. I was shocked. We had problems—real problems—especially Keith, and ­they’re skipping off to a movie? But Patty assured me she was on it. She was in the process of diagnosing Meri. She was certain that a thorough examination of Meri’s psyche would reveal a solution, possibly several. Well, that sounded like a bunch of hooey to me, and besides, how we would we all meet up again? I ­can’t smash the fire alarm every night.

  “You ­won’t have to,” she said. “Starting tomorrow night, ­you’ll have a reason to be here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Tomorrow night ­you’ll be going out on your first college date with Bud.”

  The room shifted. Was I hearing right? She continued, oblivious to my rising horror.

  “It’s perfect. ­You’ll go out on a date, make a good show, and then you can come to this dorm building whenever you want—you know, to make out with Bud. ­Don’t sweat it. ­We’ve already worked out the details. Everyone’s in on it.”

  “I ­don’t like this at all!” I protested.

  “Oh, Cindy. Relax. All work and no play? Allow yourself one night of peace.”

  She walked out with Pigboy and closed the door. Behind me a lighter flicked. There was Keith, smiling, looking superdreamy as always, sitting on the couch, lighting a cigar.

  “Heard you went to the prom with Bud,” he chuckled.

  “Not funny,” I said, and it ­wasn’t.

  Who was he to make fun of me? I laid into him. I suppose he would have taken me to the prom in high school, right? Puh-lease. Would he have even noticed me in high school? Fat chance. Besides, what was our current relationship (if you could call it that) based on? ­We’ve been brought together by mutual tragedy, nothing more. And look at me now, I protested. I was ugly again, I was plain, just like before. The last thing I needed from him was pity. I told him I wanted to help him out of his fix and then move on with my life and hopefully transfer to a new school in the fall. That’s it. Then I realized that while I was in the midst of my tirade, I ­hadn’t even looked at him. I defiantly met his eye—and I melted.

  His gaze was so warm and so sympathetic (and so handsome). He responded to everything I said; gently, truthfully. No, he would not have taken me to the prom if we had known each other in high school. Why? Because he was in a trap of his own making, though he ­didn’t realize it at the time. He was the “über dude,” he dated all the hot girls (and yes, he was prom king), and yet, in the back of his head, he knew something was wrong. In his junior year he met Tracy Parham, a new girl at his school. She was apparently quite brilliant. And a loner. They were assigned to be lab partners in Science III one semester, and to Keith’s surprise, they had a ball together. Keith had never spent time with a girl like Tracy. She was witty and challenging and, no, she ­wasn’t the hottest girl in school on the surface—that was Ginger Pantelope, whom Keith was dating at the time—but he was attracted to her, and not just physically, though that was part of it too. What did he and Ginger Pantelope have to talk about, anyway? Did they even talk? Yes, the sex with Ginger was great, no question about that, but what if he were with Tracy, and they had great sex, and they had fun, too? ­Wouldn’t that be better? And ultimately, ­wouldn’t that make her even hotter than Ginger? He never found out. After he casually mentioned Tracy to his friend Dennis Roemoser, Keith dropped Tracy like a cold potato. How could he go out with a girl whom all his friends considered a “scugly ho-bitch,” if they even knew who she was. What was he thinking? Maybe he needed to beat off more.

  “But Meri was the limit,” he confessed.

  Did he
really come to college to repeat high school? Would he end up like his uncle Roger (a guy whose life peaked when he was a college linebacker, and who now had a huge potbelly, a bitter wife, and a nowhere job on a car lot)? If he really wanted to explore his options—which he had never even contemplated doing before—wouldn’t it be a good idea to start now? He could start by dropping Meri, a girl who seemed like a repeat performance of Ginger and every other girl he had ever dated, or more accurately, “just fucked,” because they certainly ­didn’t want anything else from him, and the feeling was mutual. Maybe it was time to be a lone wolf. He started slowly. He began by paying more attention in class. He made an intriguing discovery. He is not a dumbass. No, he’s not a brainiac, either, but he did come to see that if he really and truly studied, maybe harder than other people have to, his grades improved. But even more important, he enjoyed it. He liked learning cool, new things. And after he dumped Meri and bumped into me when I arrived for the Smoker, he had a flash. He could tell I was smart; I had that look about me, just like Tracy. He walked home slowly that afternoon and fantasized about what it would be like to have everything: his way-cool winning streak on the football field, a really high GPA, and a girlfriend who was smart and sexy and fun to be with and who ­wouldn’t think he was just another dim-witted dick with a six-pack.