Hazing Meri Sugarman

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Hazing Meri Sugarman Page 12

by M. Apostolina


  “What happened?”

  “Huh?”

  “You colored your hair.”

  I almost lost my footing. If he knew what my hair looked like before, that means he actually noticed me before—which makes absolutely no sense at all. I tried to respond in a supercasual way, but as usual, I ended up sounding so jerky.

  “Just felt like a change. Why? ­Don’t you like it? Is it ugly? Should I change it back?”

  “Well, Rags thinks you look good no matter what your hair color is.”

  Ah. Compliments from a dog. I was in safe territory now. I could relax. He was still holding my hand. Then he said, “Want to go out?”

  Okay, that threw me. Big time. Don’t be a ding-dong, I thought. Do not fall into a trap.

  “Sorry, no can do. Tell Rags I would, ’cause I think he’s s-o-o-o handsome, but I promised my parents no more interspecies dating.”

  He laughed. That made me happy. We can joke, I thought. We can have this kind of a fun, jokey friendship. Like brother and sister. Like homely sister and hot-hot brother. But it ­won’t be mean, and I ­won’t feel bad. He kissed me on the cheek.

  “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

  A trillion thoughts boomeranged through my head as I rode with him in his Range Rover. Did “Let’s get out of here” mean, “Let’s get out of here and I’ll give you a lift home?” or did it mean, “Let’s get out of here and go back to my place and, like, suck face ’cause I’m bored and then I’ll kick you to the curb like the skank that you are and forget your name?” He flipped on the radio, KCCA, RU’s alterna-dance station. He gazed at me, moving his head to the beat. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right? I moved my head to the beat too, only I’m such a fuddy-duddy I must have looked like some sort of freaky bobbing-head RU dashboard thingie. In the backseat, Rags let out a slight moan. Great. Criticism from Rags on my head bobbing. Thanks, Rags.

  “You like dancing?”

  “Oh, I love dancing!” I exclaimed.

  What I should have said was, I loved dancing with my oversize teddy bear when I was eight years old in front of my family on Christmas Day, and I loved slow-dancing ineptly with Mr. Sherman at my high school prom (but I did go to the prom, points for me). That was the extent of my public “dance” experience. But obviously he took it to mean something else. He whipped the wheel. We screeched into the parking lot at Swingles, Rumson River’s hottest dance club. Oh no, I thought, now ­you’re in for it. In a flash we were on the dance floor, and I totally panicked—but then I remembered, wait a sec, I have been able to learn my cheer routines, I’m not completely uncoordinated, and I also remembered watching A Charlie Brown Christmas with Lisa once, and imitating the way Shermy and Pigpen danced—with their arms held out straight, their heads hanging loose, kind of twitching this way and that way to the music—and I thought, maybe I could sort of combine some cheer moves with a modified Charlie Brown Christmas dance and I’d be okay. So that’s what I did. My arms flew this way, my head jerked that way, and I guess I made a real spectacle of myself or something, because Keith started laughing, and then he imitated me, and a lightbulb must have gone off in his head or something because he cried out, “Charlie Brown!”

  We laughed. He has such a nice laugh. Phew. I pulled that off. After we finished dancing, we went for a drink, and he told me all about himself, and how he came to RU on a football scholarship and never really studied or anything in high school. But now he likes classes and he likes reading, and he sort of feels like he wasted his high school years because he was so busy being “the cool guy.”

  “I ­don’t give a shit about being cool anymore,” he said.

  Hey, I thought, hang with me. ­You’ll be desperate to be cool again in no time. But then I figured, this is probably a typical thing—like when movie stars complain about being famous and wealthy and having everything come to them too easily in People or In Style. I guess being cool can be a burden, especially when ­you’re cool and superhot like Keith is and maybe wonder what it would be like to actually be uncool, since it’s something ­you’ve never been before.

  “Everyone assumes I’m stupid, you know? Like Meri. ’Cause I play football.”

  Ah-ha. So that’s what this was about. Keith wants help getting back together with Meri. Would homely sister help hot-hot brother get back together with his ex-girlfriend? Of course. I’d be honored.

  “Meri’s so nice,” I enthused, trying to smooth the way for him to ask me to pass a message on to her or tell him what she’s been up to lately. I wanted him to trust me. He gazed into my eyes.

  “I ­don’t want to talk about Meri.”

  Then he leaned in and kissed me. On the lips. Just like that. His lips were warm. Mine were chapped (they still are). He ­didn’t seem to mind. When he kissed me again and he held me in his arms and I closed my eyes, I could still see the strobe lights flashing and feel the thump-thump-thump of the bass, and I suddenly realized (duh!) that Keith ­didn’t want my help reuniting with Meri at all. Why? Because Keith Ryder likes me! It was true. I could feel it. It was the lightest, purest, loveliest feeling I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. Then the bass kicked in louder—much louder. A new song was blasting, and just as Keith’s lips moved to the nape of my neck, I heard a high-pitched voice singing clear as a bell.

  Tune my motor up!

  Oh, baby, tune it, tune it, tune it, make me purr!

  Tune my motor up!

  Oh, baby, yeah!

  I shrieked, jerking back.

  “Sorry,” Keith said. “I ­wasn’t going to give you a hickey, I swear.”

  Oh, baby, tune it, tune it, tune it, make me purr!

  “What the hell is this song?!” I screeched.

  “‘Tune My Motor Up.’ ­Haven’t you heard it? It’s on KCCA all the time now. Her name’s Lissa, with two s’s. Something like that.”

  “There’s a whole CD of songs like this? That’s impossible!” I must have sounded like a complete idiot.

  “No, it’s just a single. Some indie dance label. What? You ­don’t like it?”

  I decided it was best not to offer an opinion. And I really ­didn’t want to reveal that my little sister, Lisa, with one s, is also Lissa, with two s’s—the singer who everyone was shaking their booty to on the dance floor. I suddenly felt so violated. I was silent as we rode away from the club. Did Keith really embrace me? What was happening? And was Rags really happy hanging out in back all this time? Does Rags go everywhere with Keith?

  “I had a nice time tonight,” he said gently.

  I turned to look at him. Oh my God, the nicest smile ever in the entire world. I apologized profusely for freaking out at Swingles—I was so tired, I said, I just needed to get some sleep.

  “You want to hang out sometime?”

  Do I want to hang out sometime? As Doreen Buchnar would say, “Fuckin’ A, man, you bet I do!” But I played it cool.

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh. You have a boyfriend?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  Then he pulled over, cut the engine. We were a block away from the house.

  “I’d pull up, but, you know . . .”

  I knew. Meri. Oh boy. What was I doing? I had just gone dancing and made out big-time with Meri’s ex-boyfriend, and now he wants to go out with me. Nice move, Cindy. I sighed heavily.

  “Maybe this ­isn’t such a good idea.”

  “Or maybe we ­shouldn’t tell Meri. To hell with Meri.”

  He grinned. Oh God, how was I supposed to say no to a grin like that? Then he touched my cheek.

  “Or, you know, maybe I should just forget about going out with a girl who’s smart and pretty—’stead of just pretty. Guess I’m outta my league, huh?”

  Then he leaned over and kissed me. Really kissed me. After I floated out of his Range Rover, down the block, into the house, and upstairs to my room, I was ready to open the window and float outside, up to the moon, and into the stars. Keith R
yder thinks I’m smart. And pretty. And he likes the way I dance. And he wants me to come “hang out” at his place tomorrow night and maybe “grab some dinner,” then maybe rent a movie or go for a walk or “whatever we feel like doing.” I almost feel like crying. Everything in my life is perfect now.

  September 13

  Dear Diary:

  Today was the 13th. I woke up past noon. It almost felt like I was still asleep. I stepped clumsily into the shower, pulled the curtain shut, turned on the water—and stopped cold. I could hear it faintly in the background.

  Spread your wings and prepare to fly!

  Something was wrong. I suddenly felt very tiny and very vulnerable. Then the curtain whipped open and Meri yanked me by the hair, mashed a chemical-soaked handkerchief to my face, and that was it. I was out. Everything was black.

  I ­didn’t learn everything until I came back later this afternoon and crawled beneath the covers. By dinnertime I was still in bed, shivering in horror, my teeth rattling. I’ve never been so frightened in my life. Shanna-Francine brought me tea. That’s when I found out how it all started.

  “Oh, God, I really ­shouldn’t be telling you this,” she blurted. “But everyone else knows, so what does it matter?”

  It began last night. Lindsay, Shanna-Francine, and a few other girls were watching a late-night DVD—Meri-approved I Am Curious (Yellow); foreign, of course. They suddenly heard an abrupt screech of a tape rewinding, then a voice, then a screech, then a voice. Shanna-Francine gestured to Lindsay to turn down the movie. Now they could hear it: a male voice on tape.

  “Or maybe we ­shouldn’t tell Meri. To hell with Meri.”

  The tape screeched back.

  “To hell with Meri.”

  It screeched back again and again.

  “To hell with Meri. To hell with Meri. To hell with Meri. To hell with Meri.”

  Then it screeched again, farther back this time.

  “Want to go out?”

  Screech.

  “Want to go out?”

  Screech.

  “Want to go out?”

  A sudden violent crash. Then several more. It sounded like Meri was hurling all her Wedgwood and Chinese things against the wall. Gloria bellowed.

  “Jesus, calm down, ­we’ll take care of it!”

  Silence, then stomping from above. Gloria called out from the stairs on the third floor, “Shanna-Francine. Now.”

  Shanna-Francine ran like the dickens up to Meri’s room. When she stepped in, she saw that every single breakable object was shattered, dotting the snow-white carpeting with spiky shards; the armoire doors were ripped loose, exposing the DAT surveillance equipment; a long, tapered bedpost was gouged into the wall. At the far end, Meri was silently standing, her back to the room. Gloria was retrieving a pink Alpha Beta Delta insignia pad, pen at the ready. She barked, “Get in here.”

  Shanna-Francine cautiously stepped in—crunch-crunch-crunch across the shards. Meri whispered, still facing the wall, “Two problems, two solutions.”

  Silence, and then, “Shanna-Francine? Break into Building Sixty-six. Tonight. I’ll need Keith Ryder’s folder. Gloria? I need a roofie, a small bottle of chloroform, and a digital camera. ­We’ll reconvene in an hour and make our plans. ­We’ll commence with our duties at seven a.m. tomorrow.”

  “Anything else?” asked Gloria.

  Meri turned around. Shanna-Francine nearly yelped. Meri’s hair was disheveled—a sight she had never seen before. But even more unsettling were her eyes: blacker than black and intensely focused. She calmly turned on her espresso frother, allowing its concentrated hiss to mask her voice.

  “No, that’s it for now. And remember, girls, as president-elect of Alpha Beta Delta, I never asked you to do anything illegal.”

  The front door slammed downstairs. Meri stiffened. Then she gestured to Gloria, who turned up the volume on the DAT. They could hear me walking in and being greeted by Lindsay. Pleasantries were exchanged, along with my dreamy little pronouncement.

  “Tonight was the most romantic night I’ve ever had.”

  I do remember saying that, and I also remember assuring Lindsay I would tell her more tomorrow. I was tired, I told her. I was going to bed.

  “Stupid little bow-wow,” chuckled Gloria.

  Meri smiled—just slightly—and added, “Woof, woof.”

  Shanna-Francine was off. She had a mission. It was the dead of night when she tried to jiggle open the door to Building 66 at the far end of the campus. No go. It was locked. A few moments later there was a loud kerplunk. She had just pushed herself through a window and hit the floor. Hard. Staggering a bit as she stood, she took stock of her surroundings—and all the file cabinets. It took her nearly an hour, since she’d forgotten Keith’s last name and spent almost all of her time simply looking for a senior with the name “Keith” before she suddenly remembered “Ryder.” Then she pulled it out. Keith Ryder’s complete medical file.

  Back at Meri’s room, Shanna-Francine listened nervously as Meri dictated her plan.

  ­“You’re sure she’s out of town?” asked Gloria.

  “Positive,” said Meri. “I reviewed his room surveillance. She’s gone for a week.”

  “Who were they talking about?” I asked.

  Shanna-Francine scrunched up her face.

  “Oh, God, I really ­shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  But of course she continued. I almost wish she ­hadn’t. The next morning, Shanna-Francine was given a key to the house of Dean Pointer. With Gloria standing imperiously behind her, she quietly turned the lock and stepped inside. They made their way to the liquor cabinet. After completing their duties, they retreated to a large walk-in closet and closed the door. Gloria checked and rechecked her digital camera. Everything was ready. It was eleven a.m. Right on schedule. A few moments later the front door opened. They could hear Dean Pointer’s phlegmatic laugh and Meri’s soft chuckle, as if they’d just shared a really good joke. Shanna-Francine peeked through the closet door slats.

  “Like, I’ve never seen Meri dressed that way before,” she told me. “Her skirt was slit up to here, you know? Blouse slit w-a-a-a-y down to there. She was practically falling out.”

  And Dean Pointer was all eyes. Meri made herself comfortable on the couch.

  “Wife out of town?”

  “The whole week,” he said, his eyes locked on Meri’s décolletage.

  “Mmm, goody.” She stretched, languidly repositioning herself, then sighed heavily. “I ­don’t know what’s with me. All day I’ve been feeling it. A tiny little tingle. Right down there. Know what I mean?”

  It looked to Shanna-Francine like the dean was about to have heart failure right then and there. But he was quick to respond. He loosened his tie, took off his jacket. He was shaking. He ­couldn’t believe his luck. He may have even growled. Meri petulantly protested.

  “Let’s have a drink first. A Harvey Wallbanger. Think you can do that for me, Dean?”

  Shanna-Francine had never seen someone mix drinks so fast. One-two-three—the Galliano, the orange juice, and, of course, the vodka, which had just been enriched with a dissolving tab of Rohypnol by Gloria and Shanna-Francine.

 

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