Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  I’m so selfish. My thoughts are always about me—my pain, my troubles, my obstacles. Maybe it was time to step outside of myself and consider other people’s feelings for a change.

  “How’s Rags?” I asked softly.

  He tensed. Rags was still in recovery. Thank God his internal organs are fine, but both his hind legs are broken. He needs to stay at the animal hospital just a few more days, and then ­he’ll be released to Keith, who’s going to have to keep a round-the-clock vigil to make sure that Rags ­doesn’t try to wriggle or move too much while his legs heal in their casts. I was sitting right next to him as he told me this. He was speaking in deep tones. I watched his lips move, forming each word. Should I kiss him? Would that be too forward? Should I wait for him to kiss me? Would that be the proper thing to do? But what if he ­didn’t want to be kissed? He’s not a dim-witted dick with a six-pack. Would he push me away? Would I ruin everything? His lips are so cushiony. That’s what I was thinking: That’s what they feel like, that’s what they feel like right now, because in the midst of my thoughts, my body ignored my brain and my lips were upon his and his hands were holding my cheeks so gently and then we tumbled off the couch and we were on the floor and he was on top of me, engulfing me, his body pressed urgently to mine. I should take a moment here to say that, yes, this was fresh territory for me (of course), but P.S., I ­didn’t need any instructions or helpful hints. Before I knew what was happening, my blouse was off, his shirt was flung aside (okay, not to be too superficial, but he does have a pretty amazing six-pack), and then he suddenly picked me up off the floor, set me gently on the couch, and sweetly smiled.

  “So, uh, how about a little date rape?”

  I burst out laughing. Then I playfully bit his ear.

  “Well, you know, as long as you understand that ‘yes’ means ‘yes.’”

  I lost my virginity tonight. Keith and I made love. I’ve read and heard so many things about what “it” would be like—you know, “it hurts,” “the earth moves,” “church bells peal,” “oh, sweet mystery of life,” that sort of thing—and all of them are true. But what no one tells you is how beautifully still and motionless everything feels afterward. When I left Patty’s room (Keith gave me the sweetest kiss good night), I walked through the campus on the way to the house. I took the long way. Nothing was different except for the air. It seemed lighter, even clearer, as if the world’s entire supply of oxygen had been freshly renewed. It ­wasn’t me who had changed, it was everything around me. Suddenly everything was crystal clear. I stepped into the house, walked up the stairs to my room, and thought, The clouds have finally lifted. Now I can see where the earth meets the sky. Now I know what’s truly important.

  September 30

  Dear Diary:

  Gloria’s voice was singsongy and dripping with sarcasm. “Your date is waiting for you downstairs.”

  I had almost forgotten (conveniently). In order to help Keith (my love, my sweet, my everything!), I was required to go on a public date with Bud Finger. He was waiting for me in the living room, yukking it up with Meri, who was sitting opposite like a pensive, gently inquiring parent.

  “There’s our girl,” said Meri sweetly, spotting me as I stepped down the stairs. “You ­didn’t tell me Bud was your high school sweetheart.”

  “Cindy rocks!” exclaimed Bud stupidly. “Did she tell you we went to the prom?”

  “No, she ­didn’t,” gasped Meri. “It must have been quite a night.”

  “Can we go now?” I asked assertively. I mean, fine, this will somehow help Keith, but enough is enough. Then I saw it. Bud had a small booger dangling from his left nostril. Could things get any worse?

  “Let’s take a picture,” enthused Meri. “A picture of the high school sweethearts on their first college date.”

  “Hey, I’m down for that,” said Bud.

  He had no idea that his choice of words made Meri flinch, like she’d just been stabbed in the abdomen. I responded firmly, twisting the knife in further.

  “I am not down for that. I want to go. Bud? I am all about leaving. Right now.”

  Before we left, Meri pulled me aside, whispering gently but threateningly.

  “You seem a little headstrong tonight. Something wrong?”

  “I ­don’t like being made fun of.” I ­can’t believe I was being so blunt.

  “Is that what you think I was doing?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Oh, but I ­can’t. As president of Alpha Beta Delta, it’s my duty to make note of everything. Academic achievements, social engagements, general disposition. Your disposition is unacceptable.” She smiled, just slightly, running her hand through her thick raven hair. “Besides, ­you’re my little bow-wow. I only want what’s best for you. Understood?”

  “Yes,” I said, slowly deflating. Now was not the time to fight. No battle would be won here. Retreat.

  I climbed petulantly into Bud’s 1993 Plymouth Neon Expresso Coupe with confetti-patterned seat covers.

  “Whoa, she’s a hottie,” he said, grinning lasciviously. “Nice rack, too.”

  “Wipe that damn booger off your nose!” I snapped.

  He immediately became silent, like a cowed puppy dog, driving, furtively wiping and rewiping his nose with his sleeve. Then he gingerly asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Where people go on dates. Think you can figure that one out, big guy?”

  He gulped, silent once more. I suddenly felt so ashamed. What am I, some sort of dating expert? That’s a laugh. I sighed.

  “Do you like Long John Silver’s?”

  “Yeah. Hush Puppies rock.”

  At the restaurant I ordered Chicken Planks. Bud attempted to make conversation.

  “So, uh, you know, ­you’ve never told me. What’s your sign?”

  “My sign? I’ve got one on my back. It says ‘Moo.’”

  He gulped, looked at his plate, toyed with his Hush Puppies.

  “You look very pretty tonight.”

  “Oh, Bud, knock it off.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help, okay? A lot of people are trying to help you. Especially that Patty girl. You know, your friend? Hello? The one you blew off? Fine, blow me off, but what did she do to deserve it? Huh?”

  I was being lectured on my lax ethics by Bud Finger. And he was right. But I ­wasn’t going to completely cave.

  ­“We’re not talking about Patty right now. ­We’re talking about you. And me. And how ­you’ve always treated me. At least I learn from my mistakes and try to change. But not you. ­You’re still Bud. Same old, same old. And guess what? You ­don’t offend me anymore. You just bore me.”

  “Hey, I’m here, ­aren’t I?” he screeched, his voice catching.

  I looked up. His jaw was set, defiant, but he was trembling, too, and his eyes were stung. Is Bud Finger capable of change? Is it conceivable that he might one day become a better, or more bearable, person? The answer is no, of course, but he might try, at least on occasion. ­He’ll peddle his little tricycle up the hill, and even though ­he’ll just reach the top and then plummet backward to the bottom (and be relieved that he did), he might try again.

  “More Hush Puppies?” I quietly asked. “They’re on me.”

  “Whoa, big spender,” he chortled.

  He ordered four more servings of Hush Puppies. I could take a moment here to explain why Bud is not a very polite eater. But some things are obvious.

  I told him to take the long way home. I was in no rush to get back to the house. For a few minutes we rode silently, and then he flipped on the radio.

  Oh, baby, tune it, tune it, tune it, make me purr!

  Tune my motor up!

  Oh, baby, yeah!

  We had a good laugh. Apparently, Bud’s been getting a lot of mileage on campus by telling everyone that he and “Lissa” are tight, though he’s neglected to mention that she’s my sister (no problem). He was full of questions. Is Lisa going to be recording a full CD (if she is, I’m leaving the
country)? Why ­won’t she answer his e-mails (why should she)? Did I think she was a one-hit wonder (please, God, yes)? Did I know she had a huge gay following (Lisa will take any following)? We finally pulled up to the house. Bud thought we should make it look good (including a good night kiss, but I warned him, no tongue), and he reminded me to casually mention to the girls that ­we’ve made plans to meet at his dorm room tomorrow night.

  He pulled out all the stops. He gallantly opened the passenger-side door for me and even held my hand as we walked to the door. His hand was moist and clammy. He gazed into my eyes. It was like a parody. Still, I reminded myself, he was trying, and like he said, he was here. His meekness surprised me. He very sweetly touched my cheek, brought his lips to mine. I could smell the Hush Puppies. Then he jammed his tongue down my throat and I nearly screamed, but I knew I ­couldn’t; he was darting it in and out, in and out, like a piston-plunging earthworm (was he digging for truffles?). But then I realized, he ­can’t scream either. I grabbed his balls and squeezed them hard. Really hard. He gasped, leaping back. I brought my finger to my mouth. Shhh. He was slightly stooped over as he walked back to his car.

  The house felt empty when I walked inside. I ­didn’t trust it. Holding my head low, I scurried up the stairs and into my room, firmly closing the door. Just seconds later there was a forceful knock. Oh God. What now? I swung it open. It was Lindsay. She was smiling unnaturally.

  “How was your date with Bud?” she chirped. Then she pushed her way in, closed the door, swiped a piece of notebook paper and frantically wrote: “Keep talking about Bud.”

  Nervously, I told her about my “wonderful” date with Bud—and I gaped in horror at the notebook paper as she furiously scribbled: “I overheard Shanna-Francine telling Gloria that you keep a diary. If you do, hide it or destroy it. No one’s gone through your room yet, but they will.”

  I swiped the pen and wrote: “Can I sneak it to you in the morning? And then sneak it back at night to write in it?”

  She responded: “Risky, but we can try.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I wrote.

  She grabbed the pen. “If anyone asks, I’m going to the movies by myself tomorrow night. I’ll be in Bud’s room playing you.”

  I almost cried. Everyone really is helping me. Even Lindsay. I took the pen to write more, but then we heard the front door slam downstairs. She grabbed the paper, quickly and silently folded it, then stuffed it in her mouth and swallowed.

  “He even gave me the sweetest kiss good night,” I said, continuing my Bud monologue.

  Eeeow. Really? she silently mouthed. I nodded, my expression appropriately repulsed. Then we said our good nights. I changed into my nightgown, turned on my night-light, and was just about to settle in when I heard a fist pounding—boom-boom-boom—against my door.

  “Yes?” I gulped.

  “How was your ‘date’?” asked Gloria in a sickeningly sweet voice. Then I heard giggles and Meri softly adding, “Woof woof.”

  Then nothing. They were gone. It’s two thirty a.m. now. Another sleepless night. Is this the last night I’ll be able to write my thoughts down? I ­can’t let Meri see my diary! If I have to burn it myself, I will. I’ll hate it, but I’ll do it.

  October 1

  Dear Diary:

  I brought Meri her breakfast this morning. Be obedient, I thought. Do not arouse suspicion. Meri and Gloria were furiously snorting lines of cocaine when I stepped inside.

  “I hear coke’s making a comeback,” I said cheerfully, if lamely. “Especially in New York.”

  “Oh, really?” asked Meri, looking unusually bright-eyed. “Never went out of style here.”

  “You fuck with me, ­you’re fuckin’ with the best!” bellowed Gloria. They exploded with giggles. I set the tray down.

  “Scarface, right?” I asked subserviently, recognizing Gloria’s movie quote.

  The “coke” version of Scarface with Al Pacino is one of the few Meri-approved remakes or homages, since she admires its “mise-en-scène,” and has further noted that it’s become a powerful influence on New Black Cinema, from New Jack City to practically everything directed by Ice Cube. But they ­didn’t hear me. They were quoting away, rapid-fire, faster and faster, back and forth.

  “One more Quaalude and that bitch is mine!” shrieked Gloria.

  “I kill for fun,” fired back Meri.

  “Hey, baby, what’s your problem . . .”

  “. . . you got that look in your eye like you ­ain’t been fucked in a year.”

  “Fuck the Diaz brothers.”

  “Fuck them all.”

  “I’m gonna bury dem cockroaches.”

  More giggles. Then Gloria lost her balance, fell backward, and knocked over Meri’s breakfast tray. Splat. Eggs and juice dribbled all over the snow-white carpeting. I ­didn’t even wait for the order. I was down on my knees. Meri turned to me and spoke very quickly. I tried not to stare at the tiny dab of cocaine clumped on the very edge of her nose.

  “Listen up, little bow-wow. You ­won’t be going to class today. Gloria and I are taking the girls shopping, but ­you’ll be staying here with Lindsay. I’m assigning you both to Shanna-Francine.”

  It seems that Meri has taken an interest in the upcoming Oktoberfest Dance, or rather, she’s decided that it needs the management expertise of Alpha Beta Delta. In other words, it’s another event she wants to control. She swept out of the room with Gloria. I picked up the last clump of eggs with my hand. Uh-oh. The carpet was stained. I would need to get a brush and a mop bucket and maybe even some carpet cleaner from the kitchen. Then I froze. It dawned on me that I was only a few feet away from Meri’s armoire and her precious DAT surveillance equipment. And to my right, Meri’s walk-in closet, which is rumored to contain the Hoover File and the digital camera with pictures of Dean Pointer and me (and God knows what else). What was stopping me? All I had to do was walk in the closet, or swing open the armoire. I could bring an end to this now. I could smash everything to bits. I stood very slowly. My heart began racing. I felt dizzy. Was I going to faint? I tried my best to focus, and in that moment, I had a realization. I ­wasn’t just doing this for Keith, or for myself. By destroying Meri and everything Alpha Beta Delta stood for, I would be saving an entire generation of kids at Rumson University—and not just the ones attending this year, but the ones who’ll be here next year, and the next year, and the year after that. I suddenly felt very noble. Okay, so maybe what I was doing ­wasn’t on a par with the heroics of, say, Susan B. Anthony, who fought so bravely for the rights of women in the nineteenth century, mostly because her Quaker faith told her that everyone was equal under God’s eyes, with no distinction between male and female, which I guess says as much about the Quaker faith as it does about Susan when you think about it. (I’ve never met a Quaker, to my knowledge, and I doubt ­they’re easy to spot, since I’m assuming modern Quakers ­don’t dress like that guy on the Quaker Oats box, or at least I hope they ­don’t, since he looks so wide-eyed and kind of lobotmized.) So no, maybe I ­won’t be remembered in the history books, I thought, or by the kids at Rumson University, but then a real hero simply sees an injustice and takes decisive action, right? That’s all I had to do. And the armoire was so close—so temptingly close. I put one foot in front of the other, and finally, there I was, standing right in front of it. Open it, I screamed to myself, open it and smash everything inside, or find a lighter and torch it all. Anything. Just do it.