Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  Complete silence. We all absorbed her words, a few of the pledges nodding their heads knowingly—though for the life of me, I ­couldn’t figure out what the heck she was getting at. Then Gloria barked orders.

  “Everyone downstairs. To the basement. Now.”

  We silently filed out of the kitchen to the stairs. My heart was racing. What on earth was down in the basement? I looked up, hoping to catch a reassuring glance from Shanna-Francine. She looked away fast. A hand abruptly gripped my arm. Gloria leaned in.

  “Meri is considering your contribution to the Hoover File. But she’s still stung by last night’s fiasco. ­You’re not out of the doghouse yet, Pledge. Go on. Get downstairs.”

  The next eight hours were hands down among the worst of my life. Lindsay and I, along with the two other remaining pledges, were instructed to sit upright on cold metal chairs. Gloria and Shanna-Francine bound our hands, then our feet, and then we were blindfolded. I was so scared. What would happen next? Then out of nowhere, music was playing. It was Mariah Carey’s “Butterfly.” At first, I was soothed. True, it was being played loud, but it is a very nice ballad.

  Spread your wings and prepare to fly!

  If you should return to me, ­we truly were meant to be!

  So spread your wings and fly, butterfly!

  The song played again. Then again. And again! It was louder each time.

  Spread your wings and prepare to fly!

  How much longer could I take this? Then it played again. And again. Louder. Louder.

  Spread your wings and fly, butterfly!

  After the fourteenth or fifteenth time, I had trouble breathing. Would I lose consciousness? The song started again. I heard a sudden, high-pitched wail. Was it Lindsay? Another pledge was softly crying.

  Spread your wings and fly, butterfly!

  Sudden silence. No more Mariah. Would she start singing again? More silence. Did I want Mariah to sing again? Was I going crazy? What if I needed to go to the bathroom? I was thirsty. My throat was parched. Suddenly blasting:

  Spread your wings and prepare to fly!

  I gasped for air. I could feel sweat dripping from my body. Then the song cut off midway—and another song blared. It was bouncy and upbeat.

  It sounded familiar. But was it?

  Oh my God, this was crossing a line. It was Hanson’s “Mmmbop.” I honestly ­don’t remember how old I was when I first heard “Mmmbop,” but even as a little girl, I was sophisticated enough to realize that this was definitely one annoying pop song, and it took me forever to get it out of my head.

  Even Lisa loathed Hanson. I remember we were riding in the car with Mom one afternoon—she was taking Lisa to get a French manicure—when “Mmmbop” suddenly come on the radio. Lisa just snickered, then she studiously informed me:

  “Hanson was way before N’ Sync and 98 Degrees. Back then, boy bands were allowed to be ugly.”

  I honestly don’t remember if the Hanson boys were ugly or not, but I definitely felt ugly when “Mmmbop” played again. I’m not sure when I started crying, but I could feel tears stinging my eyes and cheeks and my blindfold was damp. It ­couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  Spread your wings and fly, butterfly!

  Oh no. Mariah. Again. Apparently, this was one time too many for one of the pledges. I heard a metal chair crash violently to the floor, along with a shrieking, excruciating scream.

  “I want out, I want out! I’ll give you my pledge book. Please!”

  Then a quick rustling, a cruel slap. Another wail. Then the clump-clump-clump of someone racing in horror up the basement stairs to freedom. Freedom. Freedom from Mariah. Oh, please, no more.

  Spread your wings and prepare to fly!

  I’m not sure how many times this second round of Mariah lasted—I decided after the twenty-fourth spin that it was making things worse to keep count. It seemed unstoppable and ominous, as if I’d been dropped into a bottomless pit, only to land in a suffocating heap of pure Mariah-ness. There was no escape. Mariah was consuming me. Butterflies were everywhere.

  Silence again. Complete silence. I braced myself. Something would be playing next, I was sure, and whether it was Mariah or Hanson, I was ready. Then my hands were unbound, then my feet. My blindfold was gently pulled from my face. Shanna-Francine’s cheerful, bubbly face came into focus.

  “That’s it!” she blurted.

  Lindsay, the other pledge (a nice girl named Maureen, whom I ­haven’t gotten to know well yet), and I sat there completely overwhelmed. Were we really free to go? No more Mariah?

  “You guys are done pledging,” chirped Shanna-Francine. “That ­wasn’t so bad, was it? Tomorrow morning, if you ­don’t get a call from us by eight o’clock, you ­didn’t make it. Sorry. But if you do get a call, ­we’ll be welcoming you to Alpha Beta Delta. ­Isn’t that cool?”

  “Can you give us a hint?” pleaded an exhausted Lindsay.

  Shanna-Francine erupted into giggles. Apparently, the very idea of giving us even the slightest advance clue was hilarious. Lindsay and I stepped out of the house together. We were both shaking. I almost told her she ­didn’t have to keep her pink umbrella open since we were all done pledging, but then I remembered her Aunt Christiana. She offered to give me a ride back to my dorm room.

  “Can you wait a sec?” I asked.

  I raced back into the house looking for Shanna-Francine, finally finding her in the kitchen making screwdrivers for herself and Gloria, who was upstairs.

  “Did you forget something?” she asked cheerfully. “I’d offer you a screwdriver, but I ­don’t think ­you’re supposed to be here.”

  I cleared my throat. Okay, this would have to be fast. I knew what the answer to my question would be, but I still wanted to ask. I still believe in the goodness of virtually everyone around me, and that includes Shanna-Francine. Especially Shanna-Francine.

  “I was just wondering. I mean, it was so nice of you to invite me to the Smoker, and I’m really glad I got to pledge. I know you took a big risk choosing me.”

  “Oh please,” she said.

  “No, let me finish,” I insisted. “I know I probably ­won’t get a phone call tomorrow morning, but I was wondering, even if I’m not an Alpha Beta Delta sister, can we still be friends?”

  She stared at me open-jawed for a moment. Then she stepped forward and took my hand.

  “That’s a really stupid question. Of course we can.”

  I’ll admit it. I got a little teary-eyed.

  “Someone took a risk on me, too, you know,” she continued. “A girl named Tonya Hickerson. She graduated last year. She changed everything for me. I mean, I know everyone thinks I’m, like, kinda goonie and I talk funny—blah-blah-blah. But you should have seen me before. Total spazz-case. That’s why I played ‘Butterfly’ for the Pledge Song Blast.”

  “You chose ‘Butterfly’?!” I asked, trying my best to tamp the outrage in my voice.

  “Think about it,” she explained. “It’s, like, a very deep song. It describes exactly what happened to me once I joined the house.”

  After Lindsay dropped me off, I stepped into my dorm room and started filling garbage bags, and not just with Patty’s garbage, but with mine, too. Time to throw away my facial mask supplies, the cigarettes, all the pledge items I ­wouldn’t need anymore. It was over. Tying off the bags, I carried them downstairs to the Dumpster and heaved each one inside. Then I just stood there for a moment—amidst all the garbage and the flies and the horrible smells. I could hear it playing softly in my head.

  Spread your wings and prepare to fly!

  I smiled, trembling. Tomorrow morning I’ll know for sure. And if I’m lucky, I’ll be free—I’ll be breaking out of my cocoon too.

  Spread your wings and fly, butterfly!

  Shanna-Francine is right. It is a meaningful song. I wish I had a copy of the CD now. I’d listen to it.

  September 8

  Dear Diary:

  The phone rang at six a.m.!

 
“Meri prefers the least amount of disturbance possible, so you need to move your stuff in before eight o’clock.”

  I was thunderstruck. Who was this? Was this a gag?

  “Hello? You there?” the voice barked.

  “Is this Alpha Beta Delta?” I yelped. “Am I in? Is this Meri Sugarman?”

  The voice on the other end snorted.

  “No. This is Mary. Queen of Scots. It’s me, you little bow-wow. It’s Gloria. ­You’re in, kiddo. By the hair of your chinny-chin-chin. Pack it up. And ­don’t be late.”

  Then a click and a dial tone. The room was dark, but sunbursts were exploding; a supernova soared inside me; butterflies were everywhere. I screamed. Patty bolted up, her hair on end.

  “Huh? Wha?”

  “I’m in!” I screamed, leaping from the bed. “I’m moving to Alpha Beta Delta!”

  I ­don’t remember clearly what happened next, but I think I grabbed the phone, dialed Lindsay, and got a busy signal. When I replaced the receiver, it rang. It was Lindsay. She was screaming with joy. I screamed with her, jumping up and down. We were chanting, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

  How did I pack so fast? Who knows. I was a tornado. I vaguely heard the protesting voice of Patty, but I tried to ignore it.

  “Cindy, stop!” she shrieked. “This is insanity. Look at yourself. De-realization, excessive hysteria, a worsening of your Separation Axis.”

  Maybe she was right—maybe I was a being bit too giddy, but I ­didn’t care. Lindsay would be here any minute with her Porsche, so I had to be ready. I ­didn’t even realize that I was singing:

  Spread your wings and fly, butterfly!

  Wow. I was done in a flash. I snapped my trunk closed. Patty was standing before me, her arms folded, brow furrowed. It kind of made me angry.

  “Oh, be happy for me. This is a big day for me.”

  “She’s insane. You know that, ­don’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Meri Sugarman. Insane and dangerous.”

  “Oh, stop it,” I cried. ­“You’re not a psychotherapist yet.”

  Then it dawned on me. She was jealous. Absolutely green with envy. And I was leaving. She would be all alone.

  ­“We’ll still be friends, Patty,” I insisted. “This ­doesn’t change anything.”

  “Insane and dangerous. I want you to hear that. I want you to take that in.”

  I was losing my patience.

  “What? You think I should join a fraternity instead?”

  I heard a honk outside from Lindsay’s Porsche. It was time to go. I asked Patty if she would help me carry my trunk and suitcase downstairs, but she refused. I ­couldn’t believe it.

  “I cannot in good conscience . . .”

  “Okay, fine, so ­don’t help me,” I bellowed.

  I ­couldn’t believe how weird she was being, but I thought, I carried my trunk and suitcase by myself when I first moved in here, I can sure as heck carry them out. I grasped the trunk handle and the suitcase and put one foot in front of the other. I would never know dorm life again. I would never again be cleaning up Patty’s garbage. I could even start using white soap again.

  “A real friend would be happy for me,” I said softly. “A real friend would help me.”

  But she ­didn’t respond at first. Her eyes were fixed on me.

  “Insane and dangerous.”

  I angrily slammed the door. And I practically flew out of the dorm building and into Lindsay’s waiting Porsche. We laughed and cried as we drove to Alpha Beta Delta. The sun was rising. I could see the house at the end of the block. We pulled up, popped the trunk, and gathered our belongings. Gloria suddenly appeared behind us and barked, “What the hell do you think ­you’re doing?”

  Then she snapped her fingers and two meek little sophomore girls squirmed past us and began hefting our luggage and trunks inside. It seems the house grants them “favors” for services rendered.

  “What kind of favors?” I asked.

  “They get to keep their scholarships,” chuckled Gloria.

  Then we were whisked inside for a wonderful buffet-style breakfast with Gloria, Shanna-Francine, and the rest of the sisters. All except for Meri. Shanna-Francine was preparing a tray to be taken up to her room. She was so delighted that Lindsay and I had made it. In fact, we were the only two chosen to join the house this year—a record low, and a sad commentary, too, according to Gloria, on the pool of Smoker applicants.

  “So why was I chosen?” I asked.

  “Shanna-Francine’s graduating this year,” said Gloria. “Alpha Beta Delta can always use another Shanna-Francine.”

  I’m not quite sure what that meant, but then Shanna-Francine turned to me and merrily blurted, “Would you like to take Meri’s breakfast up this morning?”

  Would I? What an honor! Meri’s room was on the third floor, and as I carried the tray up the stairs, I was careful not to spill her orange juice or jiggle her scrambled eggs, which were very nicely displayed on the plate by Shanna-Francine, who used a light dusting of freshly ground pepper and salt to make a smiley face on them. I finally reached the third-floor landing. There was only one room. The door was closed. What was I supposed to do? Should I just leave the tray at the door? I ­wasn’t sure. I set it down and knocked—and it swung right open from the force of my knock. I gasped. The room was immense. Obviously, there used to be two rooms, or maybe three, but the walls had been knocked down, creating a gargantuan space. I ­didn’t see Meri anywhere, so I figured I might as well bring the tray in and set it on a table. I stepped gingerly inside.

  The room was fantastic. The snow-white carpets made a beautiful background for the lovely piecrust tables and the antique armoire and a large corner cabinet, hand-carved and painted pink, which housed a collection of Wedgwood and Chinese things. The walls were painted soft blue. The bookcase was overflowing, and when I looked closer, I was intrigued to see that they were all on the same subject: Jackie: The Clothes of Camelot; Jackie: Mother, Maiden, Myth; A Woman Called Jackie; Jackie Under My Skin: Interpreting an Icon; Jackie’s Halcyon Days. I set the tray down on one of the tables and gazed at the frilly four-poster canopied bed. On the bedside table sat an ashtray with a few butts and a book: My Way of Life: A Script for a Complete Woman, by Jacqueline Onassis. Then I heard a whispery voice.

  “Is that you, Shanna-Francine? I hope you remembered to butter my scones.”