Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  “He has the cutest Tom Collins glasses,” she blurted to me cheerfully. “I think ­they’re, like, antique.”

  “Keep going,” I insisted, my horror rising.

  Dean Pointer handed Meri her drink. They clinked. She cooed, “Bet you ­can’t down it all in one gulp. I can. I can do that, you know. I open wide. And take one big gulp.”

  The Dean grinned rakishly, gripped his glass, and knocked it back—chug-a-lugging till it was empty. Meri smiled seductively, then she stood up and gently rubbed against him, leading him backward, whispering, “You know why it’s called a Harvey Wallbanger? True story. There was this guy named Harvey who lived in Newport Beach. He just loved to spike his screwdrivers with Galliano. But one night, after a really hard day at work, he had one drink too many. One after another after another. Then he fell right back against the . . .”

  Bang. She ­didn’t even have to push him. He tumbled with a thud to the wall and slowly sank to the floor, his eyes rolling back. Meri looked at her watch. She sighed impatiently.

  ­“We’re running two minutes and forty-two seconds behind schedule.”

  Shanna-Francine and Gloria stepped out of the closet.

  “Oh my God, is he dead?” blurted Shanna-Francine.

  “Mmm. He may wish he was,” said Meri.

  But she decided on a change of plan. Shanna-Francine would have to take care of Dean Pointer on her own.

  “She wanted to take care of you personally,” Shanna-Francine told me.

  I ­didn’t need Shanna-Francine to tell me the rest. I lived it. After Meri attacked me in the shower, I woke up. I was dazed, my head was throbbing. I was completely naked. What was I doing in this strange bed? I could feel dry, prickly skin. Naked skin. An older man was slumped on top of me. He was nude. I screamed.

  Click-whirr. Click-whirr.

  Before me, Gloria was taking pictures with her digital camera. Behind her, Shanna-Francine was covering her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide with disbelief. And standing in the doorframe, Meri, half-smiling, running her hands through her thick raven hair. I tried to scream again—but my head was pounding, the room was spinning, I ­couldn’t move. Then Meri plucked a large needle from a knitting basket and gave a firm stick to the dean’s ass. He yelped awake, jerking his body from on top of me, his mouth in a perfect O.

  Click-whirr. Click-whirr.

  The dean bellowed, “What the hell is going on here?”

  Meri leaned in and smiled. “I’ve got a picture. I’ve got a dirty picture.”

  Minutes later the dean and I were dressed, and Meri was leading me out of the house. She ordered Shanna-Francine and Gloria to walk. Meri and I would be taking the town car together. We rode in silence. I looked out the window. The world was speeding past—faster, faster still. I ­didn’t know what to think. I ­didn’t know what to say. But finally I ­couldn’t hold back.

  “You ­can’t do this to him,” I said. “It’s going too far. You ­can’t do this to me.”

  Meri looked at me. She spoke very softly, but her words thundered through me.

  “Why not? It’s just more for the Hoover File. And the beauty of it is, what screws Dean Pointer can also screw you. Get it? Oh, and Keith Ryder is off-limits. Period. End of sentence. And your little ambition to be house president? Please. ­You’ll always be my little bow-wow. Woof, woof.”

  Then she pressed a button, the passenger door flew open, and her legs violently kicked. I was suddenly flying through the air—or so it seemed—and then I hit the pavement hard, tumbling violently. I screamed. A car horn blasted. I was in the middle of oncoming traffic. I flung myself forward, finally squashed against a grassy knoll, my limbs sprawled out. I heard voices.

  What screws Dean Pointer can also screw you. Get it? Get it? Get it?

  I heard more voices. Louder. More insistent.

  She’s insane. You know that, ­don’t you? Insane and dangerous. Dangerous. Dangerous. Dangerous.

  I stood up. I felt so stupid. Would she even talk to me? After I so cruelly rejected her? I ­wouldn’t have blamed her if she ­didn’t. I walked four miles back to campus, stumbling to the hard cement several times, and by the time I reached the Great Lawn, I was sweating profusely, my hair was in wild disarray, my clothes were scuffed and torn, my arms and face were bruised. I could hear whispers. Everyone was shocked. Who was this walking train wreck? But I ignored them. I kept going—one foot in front of the other. I finally reached the door and tried to push it open. It ­wouldn’t budge. With all my might I slammed against it, forcing it to open against all the piled garbage and the empty food containers and the crumpled newspapers.

  “Cindy?”

  I whipped around. Patty was racing down the hall. The next thing I knew, I was engulfed in her arms. I sobbed—great big messy sobs. I told her everything. And I wailed.

  “Why ­don’t you hate me?”

  “Because I understand,” she said plaintively.

  I ­don’t deserve Patty. Still, I felt weakened, and I screamed, or more accurately, croaked, “Please ­don’t diagnose me! I ­don’t think I can take that right now. What am I going to do?”

  Patty’s eyes narrowed. She was thinking.

  “For you? Nada. Nothing we can do. Not right now, at least. But we better give this Keith Ryder guy a big heads-up.”

  We ran. I knew exactly where Keith would be. Today was the annual Red Cross Blood Drive at RU, and all of the sports teams and cheerleaders were required to participate to set a good example. We barreled into the cafeteria. There was a long line of students, cheerleaders, and football players, and taking a seat right next to Nurse Gertie, an aging member of RU’s nursing staff, was Keith, happily rolling his sleeve up, completely unaware. Poor Keith. With Shanna-Francine’s unwitting help, Meri had doctored his medical records, which now revealed that Keith has several STDs, including gonorrhea, chlamydia, genital herpes, and anal warts.

  “Anal warts?!”

  That’s what Nurse Gertie yelped. Loudly. Within seconds, everyone in the cafeteria knew that Keith Ryder, RU’s star quarterback, has gonorrhea, chlamydia, genital herpes, and anal warts. He bolted up out of his chair and swiped his folder—only to have it plucked by a teammate. After that, sheer bedlam.

  “Whoa! He’s a walking transmission!” shrieked a student.

  Everyone was laughing, jeering. He angrily knocked his way past, trying to grab the folder as it was gleefully hurled from one student to the next—then he saw me standing with my mouth agape. He charged toward me, then very suddenly stepped backward. Patty gasped.

  “Uh-oh.”

  I whirled. Standing right behind me was Meri. She reached out and gently ran the back of her hand against my cheek.

  “Aw. See? Keith has learned. ­Don’t fuck with Alpha Beta Delta. ’Cause we ­don’t just fuck with the past, we fuck with the future.”

  Then she was gone, and when I turned back around, I saw that Keith had already left. Patty grabbed my arm.

  “C’mon, let’s go.”

  We went back to her dorm room. For obvious reasons, the university had not required her to have a new roommate after I left. I pushed aside a clump of garbage and sat on the filthy bed. It flashed in my head, Yes, Patty may have problems, but ­they’re solvable problems—and they ­won’t be helped by my criticisms. My problems, on the other hand, looked like they were just beginning. I sniffled. “What now?”

  ­“Don’t stir the hornet’s nest,” she advised. “Until we can figure out what to do, go back to the house, act as if everything is normal, and pray that she’s satisfied. Remember, she’s HPD.”

  “Huh?”

  “Histrionic Personality Disorder, along with Rapid Cycling, maybe Perceptual Disturbances. Allow her to think she’s in complete control. The sun rises and sets at Meri’s command.”

  “I’m beginning to think it does.”

  “Good. Then you ­won’t have to fake it. Tomorrow’s Sunday. Go through the motions. Stay far away from Keith. And now that she�
�s seen us together, ­don’t come near me. By Monday I’ll have figured out some way for us to get in touch.”

  “Monday?” I wailed. “That’s so far away.”

  “Exactly. Meri’s won. Let her believe that.”

  Everything did seem normal when I stepped back into the house. But there was something in the air. When I entered the kitchen, a few girls quickly looked away from me, then darted out like frightened little mice. No need to be seen with me, I guess.

  “Handsies-kneesies,” barked Gloria.

  I leaped out of my skin. Gloria thrust a scrub brush into my hands.

  “The kitchen floor. It’s disgusting. Meri wants all of us to eat off it tonight.”

  For the next few hours I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed—extra hard, just in case Gloria’s remark about “eating off the floor” was not a figure of speech. Finally, I was finished. I put the brush in the mop bucket—and a foot kicked it over, sending dirty water splattering everywhere. Gloria stood before me. She winked.

  “Life sucks, ­doesn’t it?”

  I wanted to rip her limb from limb (and I swear that I am not a violent person), (again), but I contained myself, barely, remembering Patty’s words: Do not stir the hornet’s nest. For the next hour or so, I handsied-kneesied until the floor was positively sparkling. Then I grabbed the bucket and dumped it into the sink. Phew. I stood for a moment. I ­didn’t know what to do next. Should I stay here and wait for more orders? Did I dare go back to my room? I took a gulp and walked out, passing the living room on my way to the stairs. Meri, Gloria, and a few of the girls were sipping martinis and watching a movie (Eisenstein’s Alexander Nevsky; very old, black and white, silent, obviously torturous to watch). I ­didn’t miss a beat. I walked up the stairs, and it suddenly occurred to me that Lindsay was not among the girls gathered with Meri. Lindsay, I thought. I have to see her. The house might be bugged, but at least I could give her a hug and somehow let her know that I finally understood, even if it was too late. On the second floor I strode gingerly to the end of the hall and swung Lindsay’s door open. I shielded my eyes. It was so bright. I ­didn’t know what I was seeing at first. Lindsay was in bra and panties, tied to her bed, her skin abnormally red. Shining above her were five immense megawatt heating lamps. I nearly screamed, and I swept in to help, but the intensity of her whispers halted me.

  “Go away,” she pleaded. “Please. Go away.”

  I backed up in horror—right into Shanna-Francine.

  “Uh-oh. I ­don’t think you should be in here,” she blurted.

  Then she merrily led me to my room (if it’s possible to seem like ­you’re always happily skipping along even when ­you’re not, then she does it). She told me everything about the night before. After she finished, I asked her a question—but I was really directing the question at Meri, hoping that she’d be reviewing my room surveillance either tonight or tomorrow morning.

  “Do you think Meri will forgive me?”

  Shanna-Francine tittered, then threw her arms up.

  “How the heck should I know? C’mon down for dinner!”

  She smiled toothsomely, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Was she really this stupid? I told her I ­wasn’t hungry. I ­haven’t moved an inch since. It’s past midnight now. No one has come into my room, but around nine thirty, I did hear Gloria in the hallway. She laughed.

  “You have enough color. For now. I’d stick a meat thermometer in you, but what’s the point?”

  Then a series of clicks. I was relieved. The heating lamps were being turned off. Afterward, I could hear intermittent moans from Lindsay’s room. I ­don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Or ever.

  September 14

  Dear Diary:

  I ­haven’t left my bed all day. Around three ­o’clock, Shanna-Francine popped in.

  “Sleepyhead. ­Isn’t it fun to sleep in on Sunday?”

  I ­couldn’t help it. I had to know, even if it was a risk; I had to know about Lindsay.

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  “Aw, she’s doing great.” Then, like an excited cook, she gave me the rundown. “First, Gloria used lavender oil to soothe the burn, then she used apple cider vinegar to keep the blisters from popping, then she slathered her whole body in aloe vera. ­Isn’t that cool? It was, like, an all-natural treatment. Except for the Tylenol 4, but that’s codeine, so that’s okay. Want some? There’s extra. I just took three.”

  I politely declined. She walked off, and I shivered involuntarily. I had to do something to distract myself. I was going nuts. I decided to write an e-mail—but I was careful. Who knew if my hard drive was being scanned?

  From:

  Date: 14 September

  To:

  Subject: Hi

  Hi, Lisa.

  Guess what? I was at a nightclub near RU and I heard your song!! I ­couldn’t believe it. My little sister! I hope the single’s doing well. How good does it have to do before a record company decides to hire you to do a whole CD?

  Everything’s going great for me at school—and at Alpha Beta Delta. I love it so much here! All the girls are so nice, especially the house president, Meri Sugarman. Next week we cast votes for the new president, and everyone’s voting for Meri. And they should!

  Please write me back as soon as you can (please please please). I’m dying to know how things are at home—and, of course, I want to hear all about how the single has changed your life.

  I love you so much and I’m so proud of you and I hope you write me back immediately.

  xxxooo

  Cindy

  A minute later I almost cried with joy. She had already sent something back.

  From:

  Date: 14 September

  To:

  Subject: Re: Hi

  * * * THIS IS AN AUTOMATED RESPONSE * * *

  Dear Fan:

  There is s-o-o-o-o no way I can read all my e-mails. And no way I can answer them (forget that). But I totally appreciate that you took the time to tell me how much you love my first CD single, “Tune My Motor Up”! I love it too. And I love you. (But of course, if you ripped it off the Net for free, I hate you, and will prosecute you to the fullest extent allowed by law. Sowwy! My lawyer told me to say that.)

  Oh, and if ­you’re wondering, yes, this is Lissa. I ­haven’t had time to change my site name, but you know it’s me.

  By the way, I’m told my single is really collectible and will be worth lots of money in the very near future, so buy tons of copies, and tell your friends to do that too.

  Worship me,

  Lissa

  My blood sugar must be low. I feel woozy. I ­can’t write any more. I think I’m going to crawl back under the covers. It’s safe there . . . I think.

  September 15

  Dear Diary:

  The day began innocently enough. I showered, had breakfast with the girls downstairs (no one would look at me), and Shanna-Francine happily brought eggs, scones, orange juice, and coffee up to Meri’s room. I ­didn’t dare go to Lindsay’s room, but I overheard one girl mention that she was “rapidly improving.” Maybe it was all over. Meri had made her point—and that was that. I had certainly learned my lesson; From now on, I thought, keep your head low, do whatever Meri says, and do not go near Keith. That last part stung. True, Keith and I had spent only a few hours together, and it’s not like I came to know him real well, but he was so sweet, and in a lot of ways it felt like we were similar in a “mirror-opposite” kind of way. He was tired of being cool and hanging with cool people who thought he was stupid; I was tired of being uncool and hanging with people who thought I was ugly. And yet, it ­didn’t feel like either of us was “trying” to be anything when we were together. We were both relaxed. We were ourselves.