“Say a word about it to anyone and you’re out,” warned Gloria. “Two years ago a pledge tried to talk about it to her therapist. She’s going to community college now.”
All of us gasped in shock.
“That’s right. Commuting from home. I think I’ve made my point.”
Given that it’s such an important assignment, we only have to get the dirt on one teacher, or one board member, but it has to be good. In other words, I’ll probably have to learn things about several teachers over the next day or so, and pick the one that I think is most worthy of the file. But how on earth am I supposed to do that? With the exception of Professor Scott, none of my professors even know I exist. Lindsay was worried too. She admires her professors, and so she doesn’t necessarily like the idea of digging up dirt on them. Still, we were both heartened by the fact that neither of us has had that many points deducted yet, so if we’re not able to contribute anything worthwhile to the Hoover File, hopefully it won’t hurt us too much. Meri’s right. This is going to be a big challenge. And yet, before the meeting even broke up, Bethany smugly proclaimed, “Oh please, I’ve nailed this assignment already. Professor Hollingsworth is a cokehead. And he deals. And I should know.”
There was stunned silence. Meri leaned in.
“Explain, Pledge Bethany.”
“What’s to explain? I do lines with him every now and then. Big whoop. Get this. He blew a hole in his nose cartilage three years ago. What a jerk. Still won’t give it up. Says it reminds him of his Studio days, whatever the fuck that means. I’ve brought him a lot of customers, too. Anyone want to be hooked up? He’s got Grade-A shit.”
“You’re not quite done,” said Meri, though she was obviously pleased.
Bethany will have to visit Professor Hollingsworth—with Shanna-Francine posing as a new customer, only she’ll be wired. Once they have the goods on tape, Meri will inform Professor Hollingsworth that evidence against him is now the sole property of Alpha Beta Delta, to be used or not used depending on his level of continued cooperation with the needs and requirements of the house. Still, Bethany was basically done with her Hoover File assignment. Lucky her, I suppose—or not, depending on how you look at it, especially given what happened tonight on the Grand Concourse.
Lindsay and I didn’t have any luck tonight, even though she was wearing a more revealing outfit. And within seconds after our arrival, Bethany hopped into a car and she was gone. Really gone. When Shanna-Francine drove up in her van to pick us up, Bethany still hadn’t returned. Shanna-Francine didn’t seem too worried. She dropped all the pledges off, but Lindsay and I begged her to drive back to the Grand Concourse once more before dropping us off, just in case Bethany had returned and was still waiting. We waited and waited. Nothing. Lindsay started crying. Shanna-Francine shrugged.
“Them’s the breaks,” she cheerfully blurted. “We need to go. I gotta make Jell-O bowls for tomorrow.”
“More jogging with Jell-O bowls?” asked Lindsay.
“Uh-huh. There’s an obstacle course this time.”
We were all silent on the drive back to campus. Was Bethany in any real danger? Maybe we should have called the police. True, I don’t like Bethany very much, but I don’t wish her harm.
When I got back to my dorm room, I called her dormitory number off the Pledge List Call Sheet and talked to her roommate. Bethany had not come home. She hadn’t even called. I asked for her cell phone number and called that. There was no answer, but I left a message, telling her that everyone was really concerned about her welfare, which was a total lie, but maybe it would get her to call Meri or Gloria and let them know that she was okay. I’m still worried. Whatever happened to Bethany could have happened to any of us.
September 6
Dear Diary:
Bethany’s okay! Meri and Gloria got a package this morning with Bethany’s pledge book and a Hello Kitty postcard. By now, Bethany’s off on a plane to some obscure, strange-sounding Arab country. Her “P.S.” read:
“Hey, anyone need a great summer job? Contact me!”
September 7
Dear Diary:
Tonight was the last day of pledging. I’m so nervous. I’ll find out tomorrow morning if I make the cut. And get this. Thanks to Lisa, of all people, I was able to contribute to the Hoover File. Lindsay made a contribution too. She’s so resourceful. With her disposable Kodak Insta, she caught Belinda Faith, RU’s married drama coach, in a touchy-feely embrace with Sissy Carrington, a senior RU drama major and the girl everyone thinks is destined to become the next Meryl Streep. But unlike Meryl, she’s now part of the Hoover File, along with Professor Faith. As for me, I called Mom yesterday to ask if she had any helpful hints regarding the Hoover File, but I ended up talking with Lisa instead, who’s thrilled with the way her demo has turned out. She hired a junior high school garage band to write and perform the music but told them she couldn’t give them credit since it would ruin her “mystique.” But she did pay them twenty dollars and gave them free access for life to her Web site. I don’t know how I managed to get a word in edgewise, but I told her about a “class assignment” I had, and how I needed to learn everything I could about my teachers, like if there was anything unusual about their past or present activities. She giggled.
“Gimme their names.”
I didn’t think anything of it, and besides, I was still zero-for-zero in terms of fulfilling my assignment on the Grand Concourse. Lindsay and I were a team again last night. And since we decided to wear even less clothing than the night before in hopes of convincing cars to stop, we were cold. To our surprise, a red Honda Civic screeched to a halt next to us.
“You girls work as a team?” asked the man inside.
We told him yes, and we climbed into the backseat together. Off we went. There was silence at first, and Lindsay nervously took hold of my hand.
“How much do you girls charge?” growled the man.
“Oh, there’s no charge, sir,” babbled Lindsay nervously.
That seemed to pique the man’s interest. He pulled down a dark alley, stopped the car, and turned around to face us. He looked old, maybe thirty or so, and he was sort of handsome. He sure didn’t seem like the type of guy who needed to “procure,” as they say on NYPD Blue.
“I’ll ask you girls again. How much do you charge?”
“She’s telling the truth, sir,” I anxiously responded. “We don’t charge.”
“Uh-huh.” He was obviously thinking it over. “So what do you girls do? For free?”
“Nothing!” gasped Lindsay.
For some reason, that really seemed to make the man angry.
“I can still bring you girls in. You won’t make entrapment just ’cause you’re saying you don’t charge.”
Then he flipped out his badge. Oh my God, he was a cop. Officer Kyle Hanson, RRPD. That’s it, I thought, we’re going to jail, I’ll have to call Dad to bail me out. How on earth was I going to explain this? Fortunately for me, Lindsay explained everything. Even though we’re sworn to secrecy, she broke like a dam. She told Officer Hanson all about our secret Alpha Beta Delta assignment and promised that we would both stay away from the Grand Concourse forever if he would just drive us back to the campus. Then she turned to me. Her eyes were misty.
“That’s it. We’re finished. But I won’t go to Women’s Prison, and I won’t let you. It’s not worth it.”
I knew she was right, and I pleaded with Officer Hanson too. Please just drive us back. Lindsay and I would have to turn over our pledge books. It would all be over. Officer Hanson’s brow furrowed.
“Maybe I can help you girls out.”
Oh, I love Officer Hanson! He didn’t drive us back to campus, and he didn’t drive us back to the Grand Concourse, either. Instead, he took us to an even seedier area just near the farmer’s market and asked if we would “play-act” for a little while longer. It was perfect. Boy, this area was just crawling with johns, and in
the next hour, we helped Officer Hanson bust six in a row. His partner, Officer Roberta Wood, who was following us close behind the whole time, was the one who slapped on the cuffs while Officer Hanson read them their rights and sternly asked:
“Mother’s maiden name?”
“You—what?” sputtered one of the johns.
“Mother’s maiden name. And phone number. Part of RU’s Community Clean-up Initiative. Give it up now or give it to a judge with your mother present. It’s up to you.”
One of the johns was Professor Alan Heim from RU. I figured, heck, that’s pretty good—he can be my contribution to the Hoover File. Once we were finished, Officer Hanson gave each of us a big bear hug, along with a strict warning to stay out of trouble or else. Officer Wood said she’d drive us back to the campus, but before that, she treated Lindsay and me to coffee and doughnuts at a genuine diner where real officers hang out. She was so nice. She’s close to retirement—she’s been on the force for nearly thirty years. One of her daughters graduated from RU eight years ago, and now she’s an assistant district attorney in Miami. That’s where Officer Wood’s planning to go once she retires from the force. She said we’d certainly given her something new and different to tell her daughter when she calls tomorrow (they speak every morning), though she swore she wouldn’t say a word about Alpha Beta Delta. Phew. Then she addressed us both very firmly.
“As a mother, I should call your mothers. I know Officer Hanson was trying to be nice, but I’m not happy we helped you girls out. Now that I think about it, it makes me sick. So here’s the deal. Every quarter, you bring your report cards to me. You dip below a 3.0, I call your mothers and tell ’em everything. Okay? We got a deal?”
“Deal,” we said.
Officer Wood’s the best. She drove us back to RU, but instead of having her drop us back at our dorm rooms, we asked her to drop us at Alpha Beta Delta, since Lindsay noticed the lights were on. She wanted to hand over her maiden names and phone numbers right away, and thought I should too.
“They’ll be impressed by our initiative,” she said.
Also, that’s where her Porsche was parked, and she didn’t want to get a ticket. Officer Wood chuckled at that one and gave us each a hug good night. We dashed up to the house and knocked. Gloria answered. No, we could not come in, and no, Meri was not available. That’s when Lindsay proudly handed over our maiden names and phone numbers—all six of them. Now, Gloria may be what some people call a “hard nut,” and I’m sure she has to be, given that she’s second in command at Alpha Beta Delta and has to work so hard to shield Meri from unnecessary distractions, but she seemed genuinely surprised that both Lindsay and I had completed our Grand Concourse assignment. I was giddy with pride.
“And guess what?” I added. “One of the johns was Professor Heim. From RU. That should take care of my Hoover File assignment, too, right?”
“Huh. Don’t see why not,” concurred Gloria. “Hold on.”
She instructed us to wait and closed the door. Lindsay and I bobbed up and down giggling. We did it. A minute later Gloria swung open the door.
“Meri is devastated,” she snapped.
“I don’t understand,” I said. I was completely thrown.
“Professor Heim doesn’t count. In fact, Meri is deeply saddened by your attempt to cut corners and combine two assignments.”
“I’m—I didn’t mean to—”
“Excuse me, Pledge. Did I ask you to talk? Unfortunately for you, Meri’s now seriously considering whether or not to ask for your pledge book back. At the very least, she’ll be docking you points. This is bad. This is real bad.”
She slammed the door and flipped off the porch light, plunging us into darkness. I was silent as Lindsay drove me back to my dorm, even though she did her best to cheer me up. It would all blow over by morning, she promised, but I wasn’t so sure. And deep inside, I knew Meri was right. Using Professor Heim was cutting corners. Why didn’t I see that? That’s it—one stupid, lazy mistake and it’s all over. I climbed into bed and pushed aside my diary. I couldn’t even face writing about it. When I woke up this morning, I listlessly made my fresh facial masks and prepared my uniform, knowing full well that it was all useless. To make matters worse, today was the last day of pledging. How pathetic to be asked to return my pledge book on the last day. I decided to write an e-mail to Mom and tell her everything. It’ll be better for her to hear about this from me instead of learning about it though the Alpha Beta Delta alumni grapevine. Given that she was president, I’m sure she’ll find it especially shameful. I logged on to my account. There were two new e-mails in my in-box, both of them from Lisa. I clicked open the first one.
From:
Date: 7 September
To:
Subject: Get a Load of This!
Hey Sis:
Don’t say I’ve never done anything nice for you. Ha! Double-click this:
www.twinc.org
Your better,
Lisa
Curious, I double-clicked the link. My browser popped open—and suddenly on my screen was a large red animated title: “Toilet Whores!” Then it whipped aside and revealed several small boxes, each with a hidden-camera picture of girls in public ladies’ room stalls. I thought, Has Lisa finally gone off the deep end? Is she managing a porn site now? And is she starring in it? That would be so incredibly wrong. I clicked open one of the pictures. It took me a moment. Hold on. I know that bathroom. I know that stall. It’s an RU stall. Who the heck is running this site? I scrolled to the bottom, which read: “All Contents © Denisovich and Associates.” That didn’t mean anything to me, so I clicked off and opened Lisa’s second e-mail.
From:
Date: 7 September
To:
Subject: They Can Hide, But Not from Me!
Hey Sis:
Just in case you don’t, like, “get it,” double-click below.
www.twinc-cert.com
Envy me,
Lisa
I double-clicked it. It was a confidential copyright certification and Visa CheckCard access routing site for “Toilet Whores” and Denisovich & Associates, along with its many domestic and foreign subsidiaries, all of them owned and operated by Mr. Charles Scott. I reread that last part twice. Mr. Charles Scott. Mr. Charles Scott. Ergo, Professor Scott. Professor Charles Scott. “Toilet Whores.” Quickly, but zombielike—since I was beyond shock—I printed the site document, along with pages from the original “Toilet Whores” site. Twenty-two pages in all. I stuffed them in my bottom-fold portfolio briefcase.
Later, I didn’t breathe a word about it when Lindsay drove us to the market for our fresh carnations. She held my hand part of the way. She probably thought I was still smarting from the night before, along with the prospect of being dropped as a pledge on the last day. But that wasn’t it. I was numbed by the fact that I had done it. Somehow—and with Lisa’s help, of course—I was now on my way to becoming an Alpha Beta Delta sister. I mean, unless there was some sort of huge, impossible hurdle today, I was in. It’s strange. I always thought there would be a big fanfare when I turned this particular corner in my life, when I crossed the threshold from loneliness and Loserville to freedom and happiness and friends and fun. But instead it was unnerving. Sure, I was turning the corner, but was I ready? Here was real opportunity, a chance to become a part of everything I’d ever hoped for, but was I worthy? Was I a fake? Was I a phony? Would I be found out?
At the house, it was the same as any other pledge day—lots of handsies-kneesies and, just as Shanna-Francine had promised, an excruciating obstacle course with our wooden Jell-O bowls (miraculously, nobody cracked their molds). I was still functioning on autopilot when we were told to gather in the kitchen for a morning coffee break. Without saying a word, I handed my printout pages to Meri. While everyone drank coffee, chatted, and supplied Xanax to a few demanding sisters (“Like, mo
rning is the perfect time to speedball,” chuckled a sister, who downed six pills and three cups of coffee), Meri very calmly flipped through my printout pages, one by one, never once looking up at me, never once altering her stony expression. Then she cleared her throat, pushed back her hair, and softly announced, “Last year at Christmas, I traveled to Zululand in Africa, where I was presented with a small stuffed dik-dik—a fully grown deerlike animal that is specially bred for its miniature size.”
Hazing Meri Sugarman Page 8