Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  Gloria stepped away, and when she returned, she set a single shot glass in front of me and filled it with Stoli vodka.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” she barked.

  I’d never done a shot of anything before in my life, but I have seen how they do it on TV. Bracing myself for the worst, I knocked it back and swallowed. Ugh. It stung pretty badly and it ­didn’t taste good at all, but I figured what the heck, it ­didn’t kill me.

  “Again,” whispered Meri.

  Okay, I did it once, I thought. I can do it again. Gloria poured another shot; I knocked it back and swallowed. Yuck again.

  “Again,” said Meri.

  Oh boy. Gloria poured a third shot. Then a fourth. A funny thing happened after the sixth shot or so. It ­didn’t taste so bad anymore. But it did seem like the room was starting to tilt (just slightly), and I thought I heard laughing and giggling, but when I looked up, no one was talking, or at least it ­didn’t seem that way. And when Meri once more whispered, “Again,” it almost seemed like she was out of sync—as if she was one of those Japanese actors in a Godzilla movie. Then I heard more giggling, more laughing, and it still ­didn’t look like anyone was moving their mouths. It suddenly dawned on me. I was the one laughing. I was giggling. I suddenly felt levitated. Whoa. Shanna-Francine was picking me up. The room tilted even more. My legs were wobbly. For some reason it struck me as wildly funny. Meri whispered to Shanna-Francine. It ­didn’t quite dawn on me what she was saying, and I’m sort of glad about that.

  “Undergarments only,” she said. “To the Great Lawn and back.”

  I exploded with giggles when Shanna-Francine unbuttoned and removed my blouse. Gloria had to hold me up. Before I knew what was happening, I was standing in my bra and panties. I should have been embarrassed, or felt shame, or something, but I ­didn’t. It was the most incredible feeling. I blinked once and I was outside—way far away from the house (how did that happen?) with Shanna-Francine holding me steady (I think). The sun was setting. I heard a few horse whistles and hubba-hubbas. Then we arrived at the Great Lawn. Everyone was there playing Frisbee, holding hands, having so much fun. Me too, I squealed inside, I want to have fun too! Then I gleefully screamed and ran up to Bud, Nester, and Randy. They were horrified. I swiped that stupid little Hacky Sack and bounced it up and down, not letting it fall once, calling out:

  “This is the platter serve! This is the pooper-shooter! And this . . .”

  Bam. I hit Bud square in the face.

  “That’s the money shot!”

  I heard a burst of applause from the Abercrombie & Fitch boys. It looked like Bud’s jaw dropped clear down to his knees. Whoosh. A Frisbee flew right over me. I leaped in the air, caught it. Wow. I’ve never done that before. Then I threw it out. Leaping in the air and catching it a few yards away was Rags. Oh, you cute little Rags, I thought. I ran after him all over the Great Lawn. I guess I ran beyond the Great Lawn, because a few seconds later I heard the screech of tires before me and I fell face forward. Ouch. Cement. The street. And the strange smell of Dad’s cigar. And then strong arms picked me up. I could barely focus. I was sputtering with laughter. Then I was laid gently on the ground. Shanna-Francine’s face loomed before me. She looked awfully concerned. I turned my head. A guy was walking away from us. There was something about those low-hanging jeans and those cute paisley boxers. It hit me like a bolt of lightning. It was Keith Ryder! I thought, Does he have more than one pair of paisley boxers, or has he neglected to change them? Rags bounced up to him, holding the Frisbee. Oh, you bad little Rags, I thought. I love Rags. The setting sun was shining brighter. Auntie Christiana died from melanoma. Bethany plays stinky-pinky with Nester Damon. I laughed and laughed, rolling in the grass. Then I stood up. Whoa. How did I get here? I was back at Alpha Beta Delta. All the pledges looked deeply troubled. Gloria refused to give me another shot. Party pooper. Every party has a pooper. Brr. Cold. I was in a shower. Shanna-Francine grinned as she shut the curtain. There were so many nice bath products. I had to try them all. Would anyone know? I thought. Would they mind? Who cares? I ­didn’t care.

  Meri, Gloria, and all the other pledges were gone when I stepped back into the living room. Shanna-Francine was still grinning. She handed me my clothes. The room ­wasn’t tilting quite so much.

  “Meeting tomorrow morning at three a.m.,” she blurted.

  Did I hear that right? I sailed out the door. It was dark.

  “I bet you could use a coffee.”

  I turned around. There was Lindsay, holding an open umbrella above her head. I hiccupped.

  “Um-umbrella? The sun’s set, Lindsay.”

  “I know, but the moon’s especially bright tonight.”

  I think Lindsay and I are going to become best girlfriends. She drove me to this really cool café (in her Porsche Boxster S—ha! take that, Bethany), and it seemed like we talked about everything. Lindsay’s from a very wealthy family. It turns out that Auntie Christiana was actually Princess Christiana of Northumberland. Can you imagine? Lindsay’s royalty. Wow! And get this. She was interested in hearing about my upbringing and my life too. Honest. When I told her I was from a small town called Marietta, she was fascinated. And when I told her how nervous I was to be a pledge, given that I’m so ugly and such a loser, she laughed, but not at me.

  “Pretty is as pretty does,” she said. “That’s what Auntie Christiana always said. And she ­wasn’t pretty at all. And she had lots of handsome boyfriends.”

  I almost pinched myself. Here I was having a nice coffee with a real girlfriend. When I told her I had to go, because I ­didn’t know where I was going to find a fresh white carnation at two in the morning since the market ­doesn’t open until six, Lindsay offered to pick me up at two thirty in her Porsche. There’s another market she knows about that’s open twenty-four hours. In fact, it looks like no more bus riding for me. Lindsay thinks we should go together every day during Pledge Week. How lucky am I?

  September 4

  Dear Diary:

  Pledging is hard work. Take yesterday. Most of us were only half-awake when we arrived at the house for our three a.m. meeting, and we had to clean the entire house and scrub all the floors on our hands and knees with wet rags. No mops allowed.

  “Handsies-kneesies,” instructed Meri. “It’s the only way to really clean a floor.”

  After that, we had to jog two miles carrying huge wooden bowls of pink Jell-O and hope against hope that it ­didn’t jiggle too much.

  “Your Jell-O bowls have been inspected,” barked Gloria. ­“They’re all smooth. If there’s even the smallest crack in the Jell-O surface when you come back, ­you’ll be doing it again. No walking, girls. Jog. ­We’ll be watching.”

  Later, we were all summoned back to the house for more activi­ties: Whoever could get the most credit reports for students on campus within sixty minutes would be able to skip house cleaning the next morning (I ­didn’t win that one, since I ­don’t really know how to break into computer sites, much less create them, like Lisa); more jogging with Jell-O bowls; and later, we all had to stand in the backyard of the house with apples on our heads while Meri and Gloria took aim with bows and rubber-tipped arrows. I was so nervous. We were each given seven apples. I ­didn’t know what to do, so I just tried to send my mind somewhere else and closed my eyes. Each time—ka-pow—the apple went sailing off my head, punctured by the arrow. Meri and Gloria were obviously good archers. Poor Pledge Tina (a horsey girl who seems like a trophy wife in the making) started crying and sniffling, and I ­don’t think it was a mistake when Gloria took aim and nailed her right in the mouth. She fell to the ground, writhing in pain.

  “Tsk. Poor li’l pledge,” whispered Meri.

  “I have to go to the ER!” wailed Tina, who was nearly gagging as she pulled the arrow from her mouth.

  “No hospital,” barked Gloria, who examined her and saw that the inside of her mouth was only slightly bruised and bleeding. Then she froze, gaping open-mouthed at Tina, and s
creamed, “I see pink!”

  She tore off the offending carnation, hurled it to the ground, stomped on it, and then gazed at Tina’s blouse.

  “There’s blood. ­You’ll have to get a new blouse. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

  She ripped open Tina’s blouse, yanked it off her body, and tore it in half.

  “There’s blood on your bra, too. Take it off. Walk topless to your room, pick up a clean bra and blouse, walk topless back to the house, and put everything on here. No driving. Wait. ­We’ll give you a Jell-O bowl. ­You’ll jog. Which means you have five minutes.”

  I think Tina had some sort of mental breakdown at that point. She burst into tears and wailed.

  “This is bullshit! I’m not doing it.”

  Within minutes she was gone. She had to turn over her pledge book too, and Meri made her sign a fourteen-page legal document indemnifying the house and making Tina liable should she ever breathe a word about what happened. She was happy to do it.

  ­“You’re all a bunch of sicko bitches,” she wailed, and she was off.

  None of us dared say a word. Meri calmly stepped forward, flipped back her thick raven hair, and after a moment whispered, “All my nostalgia is for tomorrow. Never for yesterday.”

  We stood there, letting her powerful words sink in. A moment passed, then Meri stepped up to Lindsay and quietly asked, “It’s cloudy, Pledge Lindsay. Why are you holding an open umbrella above your head?”

  Lindsay quivered.

  “Auntie Christiana died of melanoma.”

  Meri gazed at her quizzically, and almost seemed to smile. Almost, but not quite. “That’s good. I like it.”

  Before we left the house, we were all instructed by Gloria to purchase large pink umbrellas and hold them open above our heads day and night, indoors and outdoors, throughout the rest of Pledge Week—in solidarity with Lindsay and her sadly departed Auntie Christiana. Okay, that’s a little strange, but it was nothing compared to what Meri instructed us to do this morning.

  ­“You’ll have several nights to complete this next assignment. Pose as prostitutes on the Grand Concourse, meet three tricks, get their mothers’ maiden names and the home phone numbers of each trick and his mother. ­We’ll be verifying the numbers. That’s all. No one’s asking you to do anything illegal. Come back to the house dressed appropriately tonight at eight o’clock. ­You’ll be judged on your outfits. Then ­you’ll begin.”

  Lindsay and I went shopping together after classes (Professor Scott was so perturbed when I refused to close my pink umbrella). Luckily, I knew just the type of clothes to get. I pretended I was Lisa. Would Lisa buy flirty plastic short-shorts with zipper sides? Of course she would. Would Lisa buy an apple-red blouse with a plunging V-neck? She ­wouldn’t think twice. Lindsay’s outfit ­wasn’t as hookerlike as I thought it should be, but I ­didn’t want to criticize her. Maybe she’s never seen NYPD Blue. Personally, I’ve never known a hooker to wear such a lovely tunic dress. And in beige.

  That night back at the house, Lindsay, Bethany, the rest of the pledges, and I were carefully scrutinized by Meri and Gloria. Bethany’s outfit was beyond hookerish. I mean, she may as well have been naked. There was a shivery breeze out too, which meant that her legs were bound to get cold, since she was wearing only a garter belt, a bikini, and hose. But Meri gave her extra points, since she brought along an oversize lollipop. Nice touch, I guess. Meri seemed to like what I was wearing, but Bethany ­didn’t.

  “Very Pretty Woman,” she sneered. “S-o-o-o 1980s.”

  Twenty minutes later we were all standing along the Grand Concourse, having been driven there together in a large van by Shanna-Francine, who promised to be back in three hours. We must have looked a bit freaky, since all of us were holding up pink umbrellas. A lot of cars slowed down to gape, but no one was stopping. Finally, one car pulled up and Bethany practically body-checked me and lunged forward, leaning into the man’s open passenger window.

  “Hey, guy, lookin’ for fun?” she cooed.

  Within seconds she was gone. I started to get nervous. Really nervous. I told Lindsay I ­didn’t know if I could actually get in a car like that with a strange man—especially since we ­weren’t really hookers and we ­weren’t actually going to do anything. ­Wouldn’t they be angry? Then she came up with a brilliant idea. We’d work as a team and keep going until we had six maiden names and six sets of numbers that we could divvy up between us. Unfortunately, cars ­didn’t stop for us. Maybe it was because of Lindsay’s beige tunic dress, or maybe because it looked like I was shivering (and I ­wasn’t cold). A couple of other pledges got into cars, and three hours later, Shanna-Francine picked us up.

  “Got one,” smirked Bethany as we rode back to the campus. “This is easy.”

  Only one other pledge was successful. Another was crying. Her name’s Alma, and she was practically inconsolable and ­wouldn’t tell any of us what happened. When we got back to the campus, she handed her pledge book to Shanna-Francine. She was out. I guess that started a domino effect, or at least a domino-of-one effect. Another girl handed over her pledge book too. This is going to be a difficult assignment—and we only have three more nights. When Lindsay drove me home, I decided to risk hurting her feelings and mentioned that maybe, just maybe, her outfit was a little too “proper.” Well, it turns out she was afraid of exposing too much skin, given the fate of her beloved Auntie Christiana, so I promised to coat her in the absolute highest SPF cream tomorrow night if she wears something just a little racier. She thanked me for my understanding and my strength, which she said was inspiring. I was shocked. Do I have strength? True, I ­haven’t dropped out like other pledges, and I guess I did make a spectacle of myself the other day when I had all those Stoli shots, but honest, I ­don’t think there’s anything that Meri and Gloria could dream up for me that would make me feel any more humiliated about myself than I normally do. Maybe that means I’m some sort of doormat, or maybe it means I have a very high threshold for embarrassment. I should probably thank Bud for that. I consoled myself (and Lindsay) with the fact that Gloria had to pledge once, and so did Shanna-Francine, and Meri, too. Yes, even Meri. She was a pledge once. And look at her now.

  When I returned to my dorm room, I was disappointed, but not surprised, to see that it was nearly as filled with garbage, half-empty food containers, and newspapers as before. Patty was asleep. It was three in the morning. I had to be back at the house at five. I’m so tired, and yet I’m wide awake. I’m also taking stock. True, I’m not done pledging, I’m not a sister at Alpha Beta Delta, but I already have two nice girlfriends—Shanna-Francine and Lindsay. And even though I probably ­won’t make the final cut and ­they’ll ignore me after that, at least I know that I have the capacity to make friends and be social. That’s something, ­isn’t it?

  September 5

  Dear Diary:

  Bethany’s gone! Vanished! She got in a car tonight and she never came back. Everyone’s concerned, especially since all day there were rumors that, in her determination to win, she had already given three hand jobs, one dance party, and a really good spanking. I’m a bit creeped out, to tell you the truth. When we gathered at the house this morning, Bethany did seem a bit on edge, especially when Gloria criticized her “handsie-kneesie” scrubbing skills.

  “Oh please, it’s clean enough,” snapped Bethany.

  “Excuse me?” barked Gloria. “Did you say something? I think you need to redo the bathrooms.”

  After cleaning and scrubbing the house, we gathered in the living room, where Meri informed us of our greatest and most important challenge yet.

  “Contribute to Alpha Beta Delta’s Hoover File,” she announced.

  Now I know why Alpha Beta Delta has always been so powerful. Information. The Hoover File was started in 1919 at the height of Prohibition by Miss Anita Woolrich, Alpha Beta Delta’s first president. It was Anita who learned that RU’s Home Ec instructor, Miss Enid Louise, was a secret bootlegger for the school’s trustees
. The Hoover File has since grown to include any and all indiscretions over the years. Dean Pointer, the current dean, has long been in the pocket of Alpha Beta Delta, and so have all the board trustees and many professors. Lucky for all of us pledges, though, there are always new professors coming in each year, along with several who ­haven’t yet been investigated. The Hoover File has been an Alpha Beta Delta secret for more than eighty years.