Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  October 10

  Dear Diary:

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! The day began horrendously. I was awakened violently by Bud, who shook my shoulders and even slapped my face (I’ll bet he enjoyed that part).

  “Do you know what time it is?!” he wailed. “You ­don’t want to be late for your first class today, do you?”

  He said that last part for the benefit of whoever might be listening, but honest, I was so disoriented, I ­didn’t know what was going on. I guess I took too much Xanax last night, because when I looked at my alarm clock, I was astounded to see that it was eleven o’clock. If Meri and the girls were already back from Vegas, I thought, then everything’s ruined! I hurled the covers aside and tried to pull myself together quickly. Luckily, I ­don’t have to bother with my hair these days, so I just tossed off my nightgown and changed into my regular clothes—realizing, as I raced to the door, that Bud had just seen me completely naked. This was not a good omen, and as I walked/ran down the dorm hall to the stairway (I ­didn’t want to attract attention by full-out running), I ­couldn’t get Bud’s leering face out of my head; it was big, like the moon, and his mouth was luridly gaping. Eeeow! Focus, I told myself as I darted inconspicuously across campus toward Alpha Beta Delta. Then I panicked for a sec. Did I have everything? I reached surreptitiously into my pocket. Phew. I had Mamacita’s key. What I ­didn’t have, and what I was supposed to have, was a large gym bag. How else was I supposed to transport the stacks and stacks of DAT tapes out of Meri’s closet? And what about the Hoover File? Yes, it’s supposedly just a single accordion file, but given that it was started in 1919, I kind of doubted that it was all in one neat little file. That just seemed too easy.

  I ­didn’t bother looking at my watch as I turned the corner to Alpha Beta Delta. I ­didn’t want to know how late it was, or even think about any obstacles that I might encounter while trying to complete my mission. I did pause for a moment, though, and kind of “centered” myself (as they say on Oprah). I thought, No one will be suspicious if they see a bald girl strolling into Alpha Beta Delta, since all the girls who live there are bald. That’s why Patty and the gang assigned me this mission. I’ll walk in, get what I need, and finally save Keith! I ­couldn’t believe how easy it was. The street in front was fairly empty—there were only a few students strolling past. I glanced at the driveway: There were no cars and certainly no helicopters. Relax, I thought, this will be a cinch. Smooth as pie, I walked up to Alpha Beta Delta’s front door, casually swung it open, stepped inside, and closed it behind me.

  I’ve only seen Raiders of the Lost Ark once (on cable when I was little), but it kind of felt like I was walking into some strange cave that any minute might send a huge boulder my way, or shoot tiny little arrow-type things from the wall. I felt even more apprehensive as I climbed the stairs, even though I kept thinking, Calm down. No one is here. No one will hurt you. But because this was a place where I had endured so much pain and anguish, it felt like it was filled with ghosts and whispery voices. There was Meri-Ghost, screaming “Handsies-kneesies!” Gloria-Ghost was barking at me, “Woof, woof.” Even Shanna-Francine-Ghost unnerved me, because she kept smiling toothsomely, as if everything were normal, when clearly it was not. As I arrived on the second-floor landing, I imagined Lindsay’s room suddenly filling with bright, scalding lights, and I heard her voice, too, futilely proclaiming, “I think Far from Heaven is original. And deep!”

  I was sweating as I climbed the staircase to Meri’s room. Meri-Ghost whispered in my ear. “Katie Couric was a sorority sister.”

  And then she hissed, “The demands I make on myself are absolutely fantastic!”

  I finally reached the third-floor landing. I was shaking, and dizzy, too. Meri’s door was only a few steps away. Like a zombie, I put one foot in front of the other while slowly pulling Mamacita’s key from my pocket. Then in one quick move, I thrust the key forward, turned the lock, swung open the door, and stepped inside.

  Poof. All my fear suddenly evaporated. It was like a big balloon had been pricked, just slightly, and its air was sputtering out. Everything looked the same. The same white carpeting, the same piecrust tables, everything. Only now everything looked small. I remember going back to my elementary school playground once when I was in junior high, and I was surprised to see that it looked puny, even though it loomed large in my memory; so many wedgies, so many losing games of four square. That’s kind of how it felt in Meri’s room. Her room had shrunk, and everything horrific that had happened there now seemed very far away. This would be easy. I buoyantly strode up to Meri’s closet door, inserted Mamacita’s key, and swung it open.

  Things ­weren’t exactly how I thought they’d be (it’s certainly not as big as Mamacita’s). There was the digital camera, and next to it a small stack of photos, a scanner, and a large paper shredder, and farther in, a computer with several unused CD-RW discs. What I ­didn’t see was any kind of file folder, or any loose papers, and there ­wasn’t a single DAT tape to be found anywhere. Finally I spotted something: a small black CD case. I unzipped it. Inside were about ten CDs, each carefully marked “HF, 1919–1930,” “HF, 1930–1955,” and on to the present. I finally figured it out. All the incriminating papers collected for the Hoover File over the years must have been scanned onto disc and then shredded. In my hands was the entire Hoover File for Alpha Beta Delta! I thanked my lucky stars for technology. Thanks to the computer age, I ­didn’t need to bring a big gym bag with me after all. Still, I was concerned about what might be on the computer. As I’ve said, I’m no computer whiz, and I had a fleeting thought that I might be running out of time, so I just scrolled with the mouse to the “Special” pull-down menu until it hit “Erase Disc,” then I double-clicked it. A message popped up: “Are you sure you want to erase the entire contents of your hard drive?”

  I ­didn’t hesitate. I clicked yes, then gathered the CD case, darted out of the closet, and swung open the armoire, revealing DAT surveillance central. A red light was flashing. It was recording, but there were only a few whirring tapes inside. This did not bode well at all. It meant that there was no big collection of archived DAT tapes, it meant that Meri does, in fact, erase each day’s recordings, which means that there is no surveillance or evidence to clear Keith’s name. I was furious! My arms madly flung out before me; it felt like I was ripping Meri’s insides out as I yanked the DAT tapes out of the machine. One by one I flung them to the floor and stomped on them, then I remembered the digital camera. I charged into the closet, threw it on the floor, and whacked it repeatedly with a large stapler until it was a mangled pile of metal and plastic and glass shards. I was really working up a good steam, and in my anger I saw a silver lining. I had the Hoover File. Now that I could prove the far-reaching blackmailing activities of Alpha Beta Delta, would it really be much of a stretch for the police to believe that Meri had framed Keith with drugs? I was about to leave the closet when something caught my eye: a stack of printed digital photos. I swiped them—and recoiled when I flipped through them. Either Dean Pointer and I ­weren’t worthy of the Hoover File, or no one had bothered to scan these into the computer or onto a CD yet. Or maybe they had. It ­didn’t really matter. I now had the entire Hoover File in my hand, along with the photos, and the computer’s hard disc was completely erased. Ha! And yet I was troubled for the briefest of moments. Once again I saw Meri-Ghost standing before me, ominously whispering, “Closets should be emptied four times a year. Inspect every item. Seasonal clothes should be cleaned and put into storage.”

  Oh God. It was starting up again (maybe I should have taken a teensy-weensy bit of Xanax before I came to the house) (then again, I suppose I should watch it with that). I quickly stepped out of the closet. There was Shanna-Francine-Ghost standing in the doorway.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, willing myself to become less anxious, muttering out loud.

  “No one can hurt me anymore. I
have the Hoover File. I ­don’t have the tapes, but somehow I’ll save Keith.”

  I opened my eyes, calmer, but Shanna-Francine-Ghost was still there.

  “Oh my God, ­you’ve just committed suicide!” she wailed.

  Behind me I heard a thunderous whipping sound. I whirled around. A helicopter was diving toward the house. Then I heard a scream—from Shanna-Francine-Ghost, only she ­wasn’t a ghost. This was really happening! I screamed in horror and ran, violently body-checking Shanna-Francine. I flew down the stairs, out of the house, and onto the front lawn, suddenly falling flat on my face. I could hear Shanna-Francine’s cries from above.

  “She’s got the Hoover File! She’s got pictures!”

  Before me was the first of the landing helicopters—and the stunned face of Gloria, who was just stepping out. My heart was exploding. I ran and ran, and I had no idea where I was going and my legs were moving so fast that it felt like the wind was thrashing my face and tears were streaking from my eyes, but not down my cheeks, they were streaking horizontally to my ears. Then I heard screams and hollering threats. I glanced over my shoulder. Gloria, Meri, and Shanna-Francine were running after me! Where to now? I ran across the Great Lawn, completely oblivious to the gaping stares. Where to now? I darted down an alleyway, whipped around the corner. They were still on me. I could hear them. They were gaining. They were closer. Where to now? I ran around another corner and pushed myself through a building front entrance, roughly knocked past a crowd of students. Where to now? I ran up a stairwell, faster and faster, and I could hear the echoey cries of Meri, Gloria, and Shanna-Francine below. Oh my God, where was I going, what was I doing? Would anyone come to my funeral? Will I be buried bald? Even if I’m dead, is there any way to stop Lisa from singing at my burial (­she’ll do it, I know she will, and ­she’ll get lots of publicity and maybe even write me a tribute song)? I blindly ran down a hallway and into an empty classroom. Oh my God, what a mistake!

  The door slammed behind me. I was in some sort of RU shop room. I know this because I suddenly heard the whirring of a chainsaw—a chainsaw being wielded by Gloria! Meri delicately whispered, ­“Don’t fuck with us, little bow-wow. You might not mind missing a leg, but missing your head will be such a trial.”

  Gloria lunged forward. I yelped, leaping back. Meri hissed.

  “Drop the CD case. Drop the pictures.”

  “Do what she says, Cindy. Like, this is so not worth losing your head over,” wailed Shanna-Francine, who looked genuinely concerned for the first time ever. (Is this what it takes for Shanna-Francine to pay attention? A beheading?)

  Where did I get the nerve? I screamed, “Drop the charges against Keith!”

  “I ­don’t think ­you’re in a position to negotiate, little bow-wow.”

  She moved closer, her voice becoming newly acid and singsongy.

  “Oh, it was awful. She broke into the house, she took some drugs. Everyone saw her running like a maniac across the Great Lawn. Then she came in here and we tried to pull the chainsaw from her hands, but she ­wouldn’t let go, and it suddenly flipped back up and—oh God. An open casket is definitely out of the question. The Alpha Beta Delta Drug Rehabilitation Fund will surge with new donations. You ­won’t die in vain.”

  “Go to hell,” I roared.

  But Meri ­wasn’t going anywhere—and neither was Gloria. My life passed before me (that really does happen), and she lifted the chainsaw in a wide arc before me, ready to strike. Then I heard a sudden mechanical coughing—or burping, really—and in a flash, everyone knew what it meant. The chainsaw was out of gas. This was my moment. I leaped forth, knocking down Shanna-Francine, determined to race out the door to freedom. I had escaped death. I would not be beheaded. But maybe I would be fried. A blinding flash stopped me cold. Meri had lit a butane torch and she was running right toward me, screaming like a psycho (okay, not “like”; I’ll go out on a limb here and just call her plain old psycho). I was trapped, there was nowhere to go, I was cornered. The torch swung right at my face and I screamed, holding up the CD case to protect myself—only to realize suddenly that I was now holding a large, fiery blob of melting plastic, and Meri’s screams were more piercing than ever when she forcefully slammed into me. My body fell back, my arms went flying, and the fiery blob and pictures flew from my hands. I heard a crash behind me. Gloria screamed, “No fucking way!”

  I was later told that it was quite a sight to see a large blob of burning plastic as it soared out of a sixth-story window. Students quickly dispersed. No one had any idea what it was. By the time the blob hit the ground, the fire was out, and it flattened like a pancake. Everything from the Hoover File, from 1919 to the present, was now reduced to a large, hot, bubbling plastic pancake. And tumbling from the sky after it, a bit slower, were a few eight-by-ten pictures of Dean Pointer and me. They fluttered down, finally landing on the ground before a demure pair of patent leather heels. Delicate, feminine hands picked them up. Oh my God, it was Louella Pointer, Dean Pointer’s wife. She looked at the photos carefully, and seemed to have a small moment of shocked comprehension, but it ­didn’t last very long. Seemingly out of nowhere, she was beamed by a football—ka-pow, right in the head—a football thrown by Keith Ryder! Talk about great aim! She tottered for a moment, then fell backward to the ground. She was out cold. Patty ran up to her and called for an ambulance on her cell phone, while Bud, of all people, quickly retrieved the photos, ripped them into shreds, and later burned them in a trash can.

  But like I said, I ­didn’t learn about all this till later. The crash from the window and Gloria’s earsplitting scream gave me my moment. I ducked my head and ran, and if I’m not mistaken, even though she was standing near the doorway and could have blocked me, Shanna-Francine ­didn’t move (what’s that all about?). I flew down the stairs and ran outside and felt strong arms and hands as they engulfed my trembling body and stroked my bald head, which was thankfully still connected to my shoulders. I also saw Dean Pointer escorting a very rattled Louella to a waiting ambulance. She was babbling, “I saw a picture. I saw a dirty picture.”

  Everyone was in a grim mood back at the safe house. Yes, the Hoover File was now a thing of the past, but without the DAT tapes, proving Keith’s innocence was looking next to impossible. Still, I did suggest that maybe I could finally move out of Bud’s room, but Patty warned against it. I ­hadn’t destroyed the DAT recording equipment, and even though I ­wasn’t supposed to do that (I was just supposed to get all the tapes), the fact that Meri’s surveillance was still active meant that we needed to keep our respective covers in place.

  “You guys are screwed,” chuckled Mamacita, who was smoking the last of Keith’s cigars and wanted more.

  Even worse, Meri still had a firm hold on the campus. Lindsay had gotten word to Patty. Meri does, in fact, keep DAT tapes of each day’s surveillance (but where?), and she’s put the word out to Dean Pointer, the board, and most of the professors: Alpha Beta Delta still has plenty of ammunition.

  “She’s bluffing,” scoffed Pigboy.

  He may be right, but everyone agreed that it was best to assume she ­wasn’t.

  “So now what?” I wailed.

  I was so angry and exhausted. Everything we had done was for nothing. Keith gave me a kiss on the cheek and insisted I return to Bud’s room to sleep while he and Patty and the rest of the group continued. Poor Keith. Valiant Keith. Even though his future is so bleak, he was thinking of me.

  I’m in Bud’s bed now. I ­can’t think straight anymore. I did, however, get an e-mail from Lisa. She told me that Dad had tried to call me more than once at Alpha Beta Delta, but every time, someone laughed and hung up. I ­don’t have the energy to respond to her right now.

  October 11

  Dear Diary:

  It was a day of ups and downs. Mostly downs. I had a test in one of my classes, and after I completed it, Professor Macinhouser quietly told me that he’d be grading it “normally,” which means that he ­won’t automatically fail
me. To my relief, it seemed like most of the professors were unimpressed with Meri’s claim that she was still in power. Still, if they doubted it this morning, they were convinced this afternoon.

  After lunch I was strolling past the Great Lawn when I saw Professor Hollingsworth being handcuffed and led into a squad car. He was later booked on a felony for selling cocaine. It took me a moment, but then I remembered that it was Bethany and Shanna-Francine who had gotten the goods on Professor Hollingsworth during Pledge Week—but not on paper, on tape, when they wore wires and posed as customers. Meri had sent the tape anonymously to the RRPD, and like a well-oiled PR machine, her words spread throughout the campus: The Hoover File had contained items of mostly historical interest, and while she was deeply saddened to see them go (and was especially dismayed to lose the first entry from Miss Anita Woolrich, Alpha Beta Delta’s first president, who had started the file at the height of Prohibition), current information, on tape, was still very active and very useable.