“What the hell are you doing?” snapped Gloria behind me. I could feel her breath on the back of my neck.
“Um, looking for a towel,” I gulped.
“I hear you keep a d-i-i-i-iary,” she sneered. “Is it true? You keep a d-i-i-i-iary?”
“I used to. In high school. And when I lived in the dorms. But who has time for stuff like that now?”
I nervously turned, forcing a self-deprecating laugh, now face-to-face with her. I don’t think cocaine agrees with Gloria. Her head seemed to be vibrating, and I could hear the snap-grind of her teeth rhythmically mashing against each other. Keep the focus, I thought. Do not arouse suspicion.
“I should finish cleaning up.”
“Forget it. Mamacita’s here today.”
Mamacita, I learned, is a lovely Mexican woman in her late seventies who personally cleans Meri’s room top to bottom once a month (Meri pays her a fortune). Lucky me, I thought. No more handsies-kneesies on the snow-white carpet. Gloria escorted me out of the room and closed the door, and I saw her carefully lock a deadbolt. I had no idea that Meri’s room had locks. Obviously, this is going to make whatever plan Patty might be coming up with that much harder—or maybe impossible. Oh, why didn’t I attack that stupid armoire when I had the chance? But now that I look back on it, I’m glad I didn’t. If there’s any evidence capable of clearing Keith’s name in the armoire (or in the closet) and bringing down Meri once and for all, I would have ruined everything by going insane and destroying it.
I heard the whirr of a helicopter as we walked down the stairs. Though Mamacita lives only two towns over, Meri apparently prefers that she be flown in to Alpha Beta Delta. Downstairs in the living room, I was greeted by Shanna-Francine and Lindsay, both of whom were surrounded by stacks and stacks of 8-track tapes and several large picture books, like Fashionable Clothing from the Sears Catalogs: Mid-1970s, and several Time-Life yearbooks, all of them from the seventies, like 1974 and 1977. But my eye was on Meri. Through the living room window, I saw her sweep out onto the front lawn and greet Mamacita, who was very cautiously stepping out of the helicopter. She is, without doubt, the tiniest woman I’ve ever seen (and very frail). They exchanged air kisses, and then Meri led her inside and pointed directly at me.
“That’s the little bow-wow who stained my carpet. I asked for cranberry juice this morning. I don’t know how you’ll get it up.”
Mamacita just nodded. Her eyes were doll-like and vacant. Did she understand a word Meri was saying?
“Mamacita’s been with the Sugarman family for two generations. Isn’t that right, Mamacita?”
Again she nodded vacantly.
“Hi, Mamacita!” exclaimed Shanna-Francine, giving a wave.
This time her eyes seemed to brighten, though she wasn’t looking directly at Shanna-Francine, but at a point seemingly beyond her. Is Mamacita blind? After leading her to the staircase, Meri, Gloria, and the rest of the sisters were off. They boarded the helicopter and poof—they were gone, off to a local airstrip. There they would board a private jet bound for Dallas, where they would spend the morning shopping and enjoying a late lunch. Then they’d spend the afternoon and early evening at a nearby ranch riding Ardennais—an ancient breed of horse from the Ardennes region on the border between France and Belgium, known for their compact size and immense, muscular legs. Their evening plans were open, though Shanna-Francine mentioned that they might go clubbing in Austin.
“Don’t you love the Captain & Tennille?” squealed Shanna-Francine.
She pushed a tape into an 8-track player (where the heck did she get that?) and forced Lindsay and me to listen to the complete Captain & Tennille songbook, including her favorite, “Muskrat Love.” It seems Shanna-Francine has come to the conclusion that a seventies theme for the Oktoberfest Dance is a bit too generic and “like, done to death,” but a Captain & Tennille–themed dance would be “so awesome.” Well, I can think of worse seventies-era groups to plan a dance around, and much better ones, too, but I wasn’t about to disagree, and neither was Lindsay, who exchanged weary glances with me whenever Shanna-Francine shrieked with delight over all the little touches and decorative ideas she was coming up with. Lindsay was more intent, thank God, on planting several seeds within earshot of Shanna-Francine, like when she asked me, “Do you and Bud have any special plans for tonight?”
“Not really. I think we’re just hanging out at his dorm room,” I answered stiffly. Oh, I’m just the worst actress. “We’ll probably order a pizza or something.”
As the morning wore on, Shanna-Francine’s party plans grew more elaborate. (Could we actually fly in the real Captain & Tennille for the dance, she wondered? Were they “gettable”?) She turned to me, cheerfully commanding, “Like, you need to take notes, don’t you think? You should get your notebook from your room. Don’t you think?”
I didn’t feel like arguing. Off I went. Still, when I reached the second-floor landing, I was shocked. Mamacita was still hobbling up the stairs, one at a time, in an effort to get to Meri’s room. At the rate she was going, she probably wouldn’t make it to Meri’s room until the late afternoon. I touched her shoulder, just to let her know that I was there, and asked her (speaking slowly) if there was anything I could do.
“Lléveme,” she said.
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but when she held her arms out, I got the general idea. The next thing I knew, I was literally carrying Mamacita in my arms like a small infant. I was terrified. True, she was light as a feather, but what if I dropped her?
“Usted es una muchacha dulce,” she said sweetly, and it must have been a compliment, because she smiled when she said it.
We finally reached Meri’s door, and it occurred to me—how would Mamacita get inside? Then she pulled out a truly gargantuan key chain with color-coded keys and very slowly began to finger through each one, presumably looking for the right key. Honest, I just wanted to be helpful, but when I reached for the key chain, she viciously slapped my hand back and screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Si usted toca las llaves, usted es una mujer muerta!”
I stood traumatized. What was she saying? Luckily, Mamacita could be heard all the way downstairs, and Shanna-Francine helpfully screamed back up.
“If you touch her keys, you’re a dead woman!”
“Si. Comprende,” I said, nervously backing away from her.
It was nearly seven o’clock when I told Shanna-Francine that I was off to see Bud. Mamacita was gone. (She kept calling me “puta disimulada,” or “sneaky whore,” when I carried her down the stairs and into the arriving helicopter; if I were a vindictive person, I would have dropped her, but I didn’t.) Lindsay was gone too. She said she was off to see Amacord at RU’s Cinema Revival, and it took some doing to convince Shanna-Francine that she had to see it by herself.
“I need to be alone when I commune with Fellini,” she explained. “It’s like going to church.”
Shanna-Francine understood. Apparently, she “communes” at least once a year with The Sound of Music and pretends to be little Liesl. She also told me that I was “like, so lucky” to find a special someone like Bud. My stomach did backflips. Even if I am able to help Keith and make everything turn out right, will I ever be able to live this down? Leaving the house, I almost darted behind the dorm building alleyways in order to make my way to Patty’s, but then I remembered, I have nothing to hide. My affair with Bud is common knowledge. Still, old habits die hard, and as I got closer to her building, I detoured down an alley and saw Lindsay hiding. She was standing just behind the Dumpster—obviously waiting until I had entered the building before stepping inside and going to Bud’s room. The setting sun was shining bright, and her umbrella was closed by her side. I almost cried with gratitude. In order not to be spotted, Lindsay was enduring the sun’s punishing rays. As quick as a mouse, she fell into step behind me, holding her head low. We didn’t say a word to each other as we made our way inside t
he building and walked down the hall. Behind me, I heard a knock and a door opening.
“Yo, Cindy,” said Bud, a bit too stiffly. I guess I’m not the only lousy actor around.
I turned my head. Lindsay gave me a thumbs-up as she stepped into his room and closed the door. I don’t care what anyone says, that’s friendship. Going into Bud Finger’s room, alone and unprotected, goes way beyond the call of duty. Okay, so I knew they weren’t going to be doing anything—they’ll just be making noises and stuff to sound convincing on the surveillance tapes—but groaning with sexual ecstasy in the presence of Bud Finger, oh my God, that’s harsh. Poor Lindsay!
Keep the focus, I told myself. I strode down another hallway and stepped up to Patty’s door. Did I need a secret knock? We hadn’t planned on one. I gave a quick knock, hoping they would somehow recognize it was me. Pigboy swung the door open and all but yanked me inside. Music was blaring. Patty was giggling—and she was dancing, too, shaking it to the left, shaking it to the right. Pigboy joined her, and they both cheerfully sang along:
Has your girlfriend got the butt?
Tell ’em to shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it!
Shake that healthy butt!
Baby got back!
“Isn’t this a great song?” exclaimed Patty.
I was about to say that Sir Mix-A-Lot’s a bit passé, but then I realized what a complete killjoy I’d be if I did; Patty and Pigboy were having such fun shaking their respective big butts. And besides, when I heard a quick staccato knock, I knew in an instant who it was. I swung open the door and there he was. Keith (my love, my sweet, my everything!). But he moved so fast that I couldn’t get a word out. He swept me into a sweet embrace, kicked the door closed, and grabbed my butt, shaking us both to Sir Mix-A-Lot.
Shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it!
Shake that healthy butt!
Okay, I admit it. I don’t care if he’s “over.” I like Sir Mix-A-Lot. A lot. Then I heard another knock. Was there another couple waiting outside to shake their butts? As it turned out, it was a pizza delivery boy, and for the next hour or so, Patty, Pigboy, Keith, and I had such fun sharing pizza and laughing. It almost felt like this was a normal double date (not that I would know what a “normal” one was), but it wasn’t. When Patty served coffee, the mood turned grim. We knew what we were here for. As it turned out, Patty, Pigboy, and Keith had already met for several strategy meetings about Meri, and a very complete plan was already worked out, but for reasons of security, they didn’t want to tell me everything. I didn’t like that. I’m so tired of secrets and clandestine maneuvers behind my back, but they assured me it was for my own safety. Besides, they insisted, I was about to be informed of the first maneuver—because it involved me.
“Our first step is to cause Meri ‘Induced Anxiety Syndrome,’” announced Patty intently. “We’ll cause her fantastic stress. Hit her where she lives. Then she’ll be weak and vulnerable. Then we can really strike.”
Pigboy handed me a small laboratory vial filled with creamy-looking black liquid, which had been given to him by Randy and Nester, who had gotten it from Bud, who had gotten it from Wolfgang Rimmer, one of his earth science lab buddies. It was Keith who advised me to make a practice run with it tomorrow, then strike the next morning, and everyone thought this was a good idea. I was foolish enough to ask what the creamy-looking black liquid would do. I’m still shuddering. I’m back at Alpha Beta Delta now, in my room, and I’m afraid to write anything more. What if my diary is discovered before I make my practice run? True, getting my diary from Lindsay at night and handing it off in the morning is working, but I can’t be too careful. “Operation Hazing Meri Sugarman” has begun.
October 2
Dear Diary:
The practice run went well. Thank God. In fact, this plan is going to be a whole lot easier than I thought. After all, Shanna-Francine doesn’t seem to mind anymore when I ask to take Meri her breakfast in the morning. Is this too easy? Am I tempting the gods?
“Who knew you were such a hooch?” chuckled Gloria when I returned from my afternoon class.
I froze. Think fast, Cindy. Gloria knows what she knows from listening to Bud’s room surveillance, which means that Bud and Lindsay must have put on quite a show last night—at least verbally. I nearly burst into tears at the thought of poor Lindsay caught in such sordid circumstances, but I offered a weak smile instead.
“Well, we did go to the prom together,” I said, and that seemed to suffice.
Tomorrow morning I strike. I’m so nervous. I know everything will work out perfectly, but what if it doesn’t? What if I’m caught? What if everything turns to complete disaster? Okay, I’ve got to stop writing about this. I think it’s scaring me more.
October 3
Dear Diary:
No one blinked when I asked to take Meri her breakfast this morning. Holding the tray, I simply put one foot in front of the other, and as I climbed the stairs, I couldn’t help but ponder all my weaknesses, and how they’ve brought me to such a dangerous place. Yes, I’ve been rejected my entire life, I’ve been a loner, I’ve been an outsider—boo-hoo for me—but that’s also allowed me to be an observer, hasn’t it? Am I so blind? Why have I always wanted to be just like the girls who’ve always been so mean to me? Maybe I’ve only allowed myself to see the good things about them, or all the things I’ve wanted for myself. They were popular, they had friends (and they had cute boyfriends, too). I had all of that (for a brief moment); I was part of Meri’s circle, I was “in.” And the sick thing is, if I had run across a girl who was a loser like I was before, and I had been given only the slightest bit of encouragement, I bet I would have been really mean to her. Do I have to completely despise what I was in order to become something different? Before I left Patty’s the other night, she told me, “We’ll always be fighting the Meri Sugarmans of the world,” but I don’t think that’s true, at least in my case. I think I’ll be fighting myself. I really don’t want to go back to being lonely and depressed all the time. Done that, been there. True, I guess I can console myself with the fact that I do have a small circle of friends now with Lindsay and Patty (and okay, maybe Bud, too), and you might even say that I have a real boyfriend with Keith, but once we’ve succeeded in destroying our shared enemy, what then? Won’t everything return to normal? Normal for me is misery.
Oh, baby, tune it, tune it, tune it!
Make me purr!
Tune my motor up!
I cringed as I climbed the second flight of stairs. One of the girls in the house bought Lisa’s CD single. For a second or so, I thought of Madonna. What if Lisa becomes as big as Madonna? Madonna is, after all, a real person, and she does have several brothers and sisters. One of them is gay and designs her clothes (or something like that), and another is supposedly a bitter, raging alcoholic. These are my options? Barring any lesbian tendencies, which I don’t think I have, I guess that means I can look forward to a future just as lonely and depressed as always—with the added bonus of alcoholism. Thanks, Lisa.
By the time I started climbing the third set of stairs to Meri’s room, my hands were shaking. The salt and pepper smiley face that Shanna-Francine sprinkles on Meri’s eggs every morning was now jolted into an angry and deranged expression. My heart was thumping out of my chest, my throat was parched. Would I faint? Would I collapse? Could I really go through with this? I honestly don’t know how I did it.
Meri’s room was stone-still when I walked inside. The porch door was slightly ajar. I could hear the Jacuzzi gurgling. I would have only a few minutes, if that. I set the breakfast tray down and silently crept into Meri’s bathroom, gently pulled aside her shower curtain, and spotted her medium-size bottle of Aveda Black Malva shampoo. I was quick. I screwed the top off the bottle, retrieved the laboratory vial from my pocket, and dumped its gooey liquid inside. Then I screwed the cap back on, gave a good shake to mix it all up, stuffed the vial in my pocket, tiptoed back into
the room, picked up the breakfast tray, and made to set it down on one of Meri’s piecrust tables as if I’d just stepped in from the hallway—and that’s just when Meri breezed in from the porch in her white fluffy robe and turban towel.
Hazing Meri Sugarman Page 18
