One by one, we were joined by more couples, including Patty and Pigboy, and a large group of giggling Abercrombie & Fitch boys too—you know, the clean-cut guys with really short haircuts (okay, I finally “get” them now; boy, am I slow or what)? Soon everyone was dancing, but this was no ordinary college dance. It was a freedom dance! Now I have everything I’ve ever wanted—a supergreat boyfriend, great friends—but I have something else, too. I have me. And the best part is, I don’t have to “pretend” to be something that I’m not anymore. I’ll probably always have moments of loneliness, along with times when I feel like a complete loser, but at least I’ll know that’s not the whole picture.
When the song was over, I allowed Keith to lead me outside. The fresh air was intoxicating. Everything was twinkling; the stars, the lights, and of course, Keith’s eyes.
“It’s all over,” he sweetly enthused, kissing my cheek. “She’s gone.”
That’s when Patty stepped outside with Pigboy. She was screaming and laughing, and I was laughing too, but the laughter kind of got stuck in the back of my throat. “It’s all over.” That’s what Keith just said. But was it? Everyone around me was ready to celebrate, and yet I felt strangely unsatisfied. Yes, Meri was gone, and the nightmare was over for Alpha Beta Delta and Rumson U., but was that enough?
“What’s up?” asked Keith, who could tell that I was distressed (he’s so sensitive that way!).
I stood silently for a moment, formulating my thoughts, and then I stated my case as plainly as I knew how to Keith, Patty, and Pigboy, and Lindsay and Shanna-Francine, too, who had just stepped outside to join us. Was it really enough, I asked, that Meri was gone? That she’d been driven away? Shouldn’t she be held accountable? Shouldn’t she be punished? Weren’t we being selfish by thinking only of ourselves? Sure, we were safe, but was the world safe from Meri?
“She’s probably halfway to Bosnia by now,” chuckled Lindsay. “It’s the only place that’ll have her.”
Everyone joined in, laughing and giggling. They were all so exhausted and so giddy and relieved, and given all their hard work, it probably wasn’t fair to expect them to immediately take the long view. But it was different for me. All my anxieties that had lessened only moments before due to Meri’s momentous downfall were almost immediately replaced with a newly goosey apprehension. Meri was free, she was out there, ready to strike whenever and however she wanted. Trembling, I took Keith’s hand and told him I needed to take a walk—alone, just for a bit.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, leaning in close. “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Should I follow behind you in my Range Rover?”
Oh my God, he’s so amazing! But no, this was one walk I needed to take alone. Leaving Keith to explain my quick departure to the rest of the group, I strolled silently through the campus. It’s not over, it’s not over. That’s what I kept telling myself. It was time to nail Meri—once and for all, permanently—and somehow I felt only I could do it. A simple plan began formulating in my mind. Was it too simple? Would it work? Still, I knew I would need some help, but did I dare ask for it? I had her number. Her superprivate cell phone number. My body leaped into action before my mind did. I pulled my cell phone from my purse and took a big breath. Then I dialed Mom.
October 13
Dear Diary:
Chicago’s O’Hare Airport is a complete nightmare (some hotshot urban planner really needs to be slapped, and how!). It was two o’clock in the morning, and there I was, overwhelmed, overtired, yet overjoyed that Mom took my call and my plea for help seriously. In fact, I’d barely finished explaining my plan of action when she said, very tersely, “Hang up, dear. Wait ten minutes. Then call me back.”
Click, and she was gone. When I called back, she coolly rattled off our itinerary.
“You’re booked on a flight to Chicago in one hour. I’ll meet you at the Skycap Lounge. Our connecting flight leaves Chicago thirty minutes after, so don’t dawdle, go directly to the lounge.”
“Mom, do you think it’ll work?” I nervously asked. “Do you think . . .”
“Cindy, listen to me. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing, don’t tell anyone where you’re going. You’re right. It’s not over. And whether your plan will work or not is irrelevant until it’s relevant, so until that time, just relax. Have a cocktail on the flight. And remember, as the former president of Alpha Beta Delta, Mommy knows exactly how to help.”
Then she giggled—I swear, it was high-pitched and everything—and hung up. I took Mom’s advice. I had a lovely Brandy Alexander on the plane and even managed to close my eyes, only to bolt up with a gasp of panic when I saw a vision of Meri, her face looming like a full moon behind a stack of fast-moving clouds, abruptly screaming, “Handsies-kneesies!”
The plane landed hard. In the airport I found the Skycap Lounge, a semi-annoyingly designed faux Art Deco diner that charged me three fifty for a syrupy glass of Diet Coke. But Mom was nowhere to be found. Was her flight late? Did she miss it? Then I heard breathy giggles in the distance. I nearly shrieked. Meri was coming! She was here! But looking out, I saw that it was Mom, several feet away, smiling and tittering, dressed impeccably (as always), accompanied by two women. One of them was tall and rail-thin, dressed just as nicely as Mom, with flawlessly coiffed auburn hair. The other was short and plumpish, dressed in frumpy, layered, slightly mannish clothes that were probably all the rage in their Diane Keaton/Annie Hall day. Mom gave a wave and they strode up to me. The short, plump one leaned in close. She seemed stunned, awestruck even.
“So you’re the one,” she blurted ecstatically. “Can I shake your hand?”
“Oh, Debi, dial it back,” scolded Mom playfully. Then she proceeded with introductions, gesturing first to the tall, thin woman. “Cindy, this is Julianna Slipovitch, former vice president of Alpha Beta Delta.”
“I’m honored,” said Julianna, firmly shaking my hand.
“And this,” continued Mom, gesturing to the plump woman. “This is Deborah Pinga, who was, well . . .”
“Oh, I was the all-around get-it-done gal for the house,” she whimsically exclaimed, shaking my hand. “And please, won’t you call me Debi?”
I was enthralled. There’s no other word for it. I guess traditions hold fast at Alpha Beta Delta. Mom was president of Alpha Beta Delta, and she certainly has the assurance of Meri; Julianna, Mom’s second in command, was a dead ringer for Gloria Daily; and I guess every year has its Shanna-Francine, whose future may be brighter than I thought, given the life of Debi Pinga. Though Debi was known during her college years as “Deborah-the-Dilettante,” I’m happy to report that she subsequently spent a decade with the Peace Corps in Vietnam and Thailand and is now a much-beloved high school drama teacher and guidance counselor, as well as the happy single mother of three boys (via artificial insemination, she cheerfully told me, from carefully screened donors with PhDs). She whipped out a picture, which told more then a thousand words. It was a formal portrait, with Debi smiling, eyes twinkling, hair askew, her chubby cheeks flush with pride, surrounded by three handsome teenage boys who towered over her like giant oaks and gazed down on her not just lovingly, but protectively, as if to say, yes, their mom is total wacko-city (of course), but also very precious.
“Rhea Nichols will be joining us when we land,” Mom informed me, getting down to business. She glanced at her watch and tsked. “We’d better get to the gate. Lead the way, Cindy. You’re in charge.”
I had to laugh. Mom and her friends were ready and willing to take orders from me. From me! As we boarded the plane and took our seats, I explained my plan of action to Julianna and Debi. It was simple, really. Upon landing, we’d meet up with Rhea—yet another alumna of Alpha Beta Delta, and crucial to my strategy—locate Meri, and finally put a stop to her. I leaned back in my seat. This must have cost Mom a pretty penny. On both flights I was traveling first class.
“I’ll pay you back,” I assured her. “I swear.”
&nbs
p; “Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Our air travel comes courtesy of my management fees deducted from Lisa’s trust, which has been fattening quite a bit lately due to that disgusting little song. I told her she doesn’t have to be dirty, but does she listen to me? I don’t know what it is with you girls. You’re both so stubbornly independent. God forbid anyone should ever listen to their mother. Do you honestly believe I came into this world fully formed just like I am? Don’t either of you believe I was ever your age?”
I was trying not to smile. Behind her Debi was impishly mouthing, “Blah blah blah.”
“I may not be as smart as you, or as plugged into pop culture like Lisa, but I do know a few things. So remember, Mommy’s here for you. She knows things, and she’s made of very high moral fiber.”
“Yeah, one hundred percent nylon,” cracked Julianna.
Debi and Julianna chuckled, ribbing Mom, who finally broke, laughing along with them. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her laugh in quite that way—so openly, so freely—and for the first time ever, it was actually possible to imagine that she was once my age. Oh my God, Mom is a real person! I know that sounds like I’m stating the obvious, but jeez, there she was being ribbed and deflated for her pretensions by friends who not only knew how to do it, they were used to it. She turned back to me, composing herself, attempting to finish her thought.
“All I’m trying to say . . .”
Julianna cut her off.
“She’s trying to say she loves you, Cindy, even though she has no idea what she’s doing. Okay?”
“Oh, but does anyone?” blurted Debi. “My boys—they’re such sweet boys, all three of them—and, well, anyway, the oldest, Timmy, he has such pretty brown hair, and he told me the other day that he’s interested in studying diachronic linguistics and comparative philology, and I said, ‘Oh, Timmy, sweetheart, that’s just wonderful.’ Now I ask you, what the heck do I know from diachronic linguistics and comparative philology?”
“Nothing!” exclaimed Mom and Julianna simultaneously. Then Julianna ordered everyone a round of Chambord martinis and toasted to our mission and to my plan. I couldn’t believe it. There I was, having girlfriend-cocktails with Mom and her friends! Still, one thought was nagging at me.
“Why didn’t you warn me about Alpha Beta Delta?” I asked her.
“I didn’t think I’d have to,” she said. “I thought you’d go through one day of pledging and realize, ‘I’m above this,’ because you are. And remember, Alpha Beta Delta wasn’t quite as bad in our day.”
Julianna and Debi snorted, but Mom protested. Yes, their pledging rituals were harsh, and yes, they did have the Hoover File, that’s tradition, but no one ever did anything with the information; there was no grade manipulation, for instance, and all the house outings were social and mostly involved shopping excursions or dances. But, as Mom pointed out, her tone darkening, things changed a few years ago when Meri Sugarman was elected president of Alpha Beta Delta at the beginning of her freshman year. Suddenly, the Hoover File was being used in a variety of ways, and not just against people about whom incoming pledges had gathered information. Selected Alpha Beta Delta alumni began receiving cryptic notices from the house, which informed them that “certain embarrassing details” about their past contained in the Hoover File would be immediately and publicly disseminated unless a “nominal” fee of one hundred and fifty dollars was sent to the house on a bimonthly basis.
“I thought it was a joke,” said Julianna.
“So did I,” added Mom, her eyes narrowing.
But then they received copies of their Hoover File entries. It was no joke. My mind was reeling. There was dirt on Mom?!
“See? You really are a hero,” Debi squealed. “More than you knew. You’re a hero to me, and to Julianna.”
“And to me,” said Mom, gazing at me, her eyes momentarily welling with tears. Then she quickly looked away, composed herself, and cleared her throat.
“Your mom detests cheap sentiment,” Debi merrily pointed out.
The plane landed. We had arrived. My mission was about to unfold. From the airport, we took a cab into town and arrived at the main strip. The sun had already risen, but the city was far from sleepy. We were in Las Vegas, where Alpha Beta Delta presidents traditionally maintain a year-round retreat. I was betting that Meri was here right now, and Mom, Julianna, and Debi agreed.
“You’re right. Whatever her next move is, she’ll make it from here,” observed Julianna.
All I had to do was direct everyone to the right hotel and we could begin. Uh-oh. I suddenly realized that there was a little chink in my plan. Okay, a major chink. I had never actually accompanied Meri to Las Vegas (even though I’d been invited once), a fact that left everyone a bit stunned.
“We’re fucked,” blurted Debi.
But we weren’t. We all had cell phones. Quickly retreating to the Tiki Stardust Lounge at the Lady Luck Casino and Hotel, we called every single hotel in Vegas and asked to be connected to both Meri Sugarman and Gloria Daily. No luck.
“She’s under a false name,” said Mom, gritting her teeth.
“Like I said. We’re fucked,” observed Debi.
It kind of seemed like we were, but then I remembered Jackie O., Meri’s idol. Surely Meri wouldn’t be silly enough to register under the name of Jackie or Jacqueline Onassis or Kennedy, though this might be the key to the name she was using. But where to start? I’d only glanced at a few of Meri’s many Jackie O. tomes, and while I was fairly confident that I knew a few facts about “America’s Queen,” would they be enough?
“So we’re looking for something similar to a code,” said Debi intently, her brow creasing. “Something easy to remember. Like a password. Like all those dumb passwords and reminders I have to remember for all those stupid Internet sites and my e-mail.”
“That’s it!” I shrieked.
I was ecstatic. This had to be it. We called each and every hotel in Vegas once more, but this time we used a different name. It wasn’t a site code we needed to prompt us, but the reminder, like the reminders that Internet sites use when they want you to prove that it’s you if you’ve forgotten your password—specifically, “What is the name of your first pet?” It might be obscure, but I happen to remember from one of Meri’s books that Jackie O.’s first and most cherished pet was a little Scottie dog named Hootchie. Score! Mom practically shot to the ceiling. “Hootchie Bouvier” was staying at the Venetian Resort Hotel and Casino. We leaped into a cab. Mom dialed frantically on her cell phone and contacted Rhea Nichols, who agreed to meet us at the Venezia, the new “exclusive” Venetian Hotel Tower, which apparently offers unparalleled amenities and where “Hootchie Bouvier” was currently registered as a guest. The back of my throat was drying up. Would this really be the end of Meri? And did I really have the nerve to go through with this? Mom’s hand gently curved into mine and gave a reassuring squeeze. I squeezed back. Meri might be a formidable foe, but I wasn’t alone. I had Mom!
At the Venezia, we scrambled from the cab and raced into the elevator, which whisked us up to the “exclusive” fifth-floor registration lobby. Everything, I noted, was “exclusive” at the Venezia, and good lord, “gaudy” is a word that can’t even begin to describe the wildly overwrought rococo design scheme; it was like a schoolboy’s idea of Old World opulence. The lobby itself was this totally witless riot of gold-leaf paint and baroque nude statuary, but so scrubby clean and sterilized that you couldn’t even enjoy the sheer tackiness of it. Julianna snorted.
“Now this is class, with a capital K.”
The elevator pinged. Out stepped Rhea Nichols, formerly of Alpha Beta Delta, but jeez, she could have been a movie star. I’m not normally daunted or impressed by beauty—since everyone knows that all the beautiful girls in People and Vogue are created by PhotoShop. (It’s true. The worst offender has got to be TV Guide, which had the nerve to put Oprah’s head on to
p of Courtney Cox’s body.) But this was the real thing. With her dark olive skin, piercing green eyes, and shiny-shiny shoulder-length black hair, along with a curvy figure that seemed to be setting off cymbal crashes, Rhea instantaneously caused every man, woman, and child within eyeshot to crane their necks. But she didn’t seem to notice. She strode right up to Mom, gave her a kiss on each cheek (so European!), lit a Benson & Hedges Ultra Light, and throatily intoned, “Okee-doke. Let’s bag the bitch.”
Hazing Meri Sugarman Page 24
