Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  “You look sick,” she observed cheerfully. “Is my little bow-wow sick?”

  “Let’s stick a thermometer up her ass and find out,” snickered Gloria, who had just walked in.

  “I’m okay,” I offered meekly. “I ­didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Fine, whatever,” said Meri, waving me away.

  I returned to the kitchen. Shanna-Francine and Lindsay were already going over more plans for the Captain & Tennille–themed Oktoberfest Dance. I am now learning much more about the Captain & Tennille than I ever thought possible. Did I know that both the Captain and Toni Tennille originally toured with the Beach Boys (no, but I’m not surprised)? Did I know that Toni Tennille was a featured singer on Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” (no, but that’s more than weird)? To Shanna-Francine’s delight, Lindsay has tracked down a mail-order house that sells official “Captain” hats, each with a different Captain & Tennille song title stitched on the back. We decided to order four hundred of them. The decorations and the music were beginning to firm up, but we were also at an impasse, at least as far as Shanna-Francine was concerned. Lindsay had learned that Toni Tennille is, in fact, available for public appearances (and she comes fairly cheap, too, which I guess is no big surprise), but even though she and the Captain are still married and live a quiet life in Nevada, they no longer make public appearances together as the Captain & Tennille.

  I was suddenly stunned by a wailing, bloodcurdling scream—and I thought, Oh, come now, Shanna-Francine, an appearance by the real Captain & Tennille will not make or break the dance. But then I realized that Shanna-Francine was not screaming, and neither was Lindsay. The screams were coming from upstairs. From the third floor.

  We flew up the stairs and raced into Meri’s room, along with a bunch of other girls. We were flat-out shocked by the sight before us. It was pure horror. I have never before witnessed anything like it, at least not in real life. Remember that scene in the original Psycho when Anthony Perkins is finally grabbed by the police and he drops the knife and his wig falls off and he seems to wail and disintegrate before your eyes? Here it was, playing out before us. Meri was standing just outside the bathroom in a towel, and her mouth was abnormally wide, and she was howling loudly, almost like a banshee, and she was pulling at large, ratty clumps of matted hair. All of her thick raven hair—it was gone! Then she sank to her knees and rocked violently back and forth, howling and howling. No one knew what to do. Even Gloria was completely astounded. Meri’s howls grew louder and more high-pitched, and her back was arching and contorting. What would happen next? Would she melt? Can I keep her broom? I wanted to jump up and down and scream “Yes! Induced Anxiety Syndrome! She’s weak, she’s vulnerable, it worked!” But I ­wasn’t about to give myself away.

  Unfortunately, one of the girls did something awful. It ­couldn’t have lasted more than a second, but that’s all it took. She laughed—then immediately sucked it back, though futilely. Meri froze. Her screams died. She was still bent over on her knees, but she was absolutely motionless, like some sort of psycho alien fetus about to be reborn after being burned to a crisp by a blowtorch. She stood, slowly but regally, using both of her hands to wipe the few remaining tufts of hair from her bald head. Her eyes glistened like two opaque cough drops—just like a shark’s. She stepped before her full-length mirror.

  “Okay, ­we’ll find out who did this,” she whispered. “In the meantime, ­we’ll tell everyone I’ve had chemo. I’ll get tons of sympathy. In fact, I feel the need for lots of sympathy. Right now. From everyone in this house.”

  The house of Alpha Beta Delta turned into a House of Horrors that night. One by one, Lindsay, Shanna-Francine, and the rest of the girls (including Gloria), were ordered into Meri’s room for our new “chemo cut,” a new bald do that we were ordered to inform all within earshot was done voluntarily out of love and unity for Meri, our president, who had only recently endured painful chemo and hair loss while fighting her cancerous affliction.

  This is Induced Anxiety Syndrome? Patty underestimated Meri, to put it mildly. I ­didn’t cause increased anxiety; I had thrown a rock at a hornet’s nest—and now stood directly in the path of the swarm. After we were all shaved, we were ordered to sit in the living room and wait for Meri to descend from her room. Gloria had taken off in the town car. She returned forty minutes later, carrying what looked like a large hatbox, and charged up the stairs. None of us said a word. We were all terrified—and bald. Then Gloria raced down the stairs and stood ramrod straight at the living room entryway.

  “She’s coming,” she barked.

  Meri walked majestically down the stairs. Several girls gasped. Meri was wearing a large black bouffant wig, made by hand from actual human hair, we were told, by the good Sisters at the Abbey of Crewe, who create them exclusively for female parishioners who endure unsightly hair loss from chemo. The point was clear. The wig ­wasn’t just big and black. It was blessed.

  “One of you has betrayed me,” said Meri softly, her eyes newly lambent. “But I ­won’t accuse anyone. Yet. Not without proof.”

  I tried not to shake, or to cry. Oh my God, ­wasn’t it obvious? I had brought Meri her breakfast this morning. True, lots of girls meet with Meri during the day in her room, and go into her bathroom, too, but I was the last one in her room before she took the shower that left her bald. The empty laboratory vial was practically burning a hole in my pocket. I still ­hadn’t disposed of it. There ­hadn’t been time. It took all my strength to remain absolutely still and not give myself away. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Meri shrieked at the top of her lungs, “Handsies-kneesies!”

  If you ­weren’t aware of what was going on at Alpha Beta Delta, or who was in charge, or what we were all enduring, you’d probably be taken aback by the sight of several bald girls on their hands and knees scrubbing every wall, floor, and surface within reach, while one girl, in a large black bouffant wig, serenely kept watch and airily offered helpful hints and maxims.

  “Make sure your clothing choices are as versatile as an actress’s wardrobe. Be ready for any role,” and “Only wear hot pink if you have an absolutely flawless complexion,” and “It’s always best to sit on hard chairs. Soft ones spread your hips.”

  Still, all the scrubbing and the cleaning gave me a good opportunity. And I took it. I was alone in the kitchen on my hands and knees when I realized it was now or never. I placed the laboratory vial on the floor, quickly covered it with my scrubbing cloth, and jammed my hand down repeatedly until I was sure the vial was reduced to tiny little pieces. Then I scooped it all up and dumped it into the trash. Even better, Lindsay and I were ordered to empty all the garbage bags in the house in the back Dumpster. Talk about a lucky break. Now there was nothing to link me to Meri’s Aveda Black Malva shampoo, which Gloria and Meri had already identified as the likely source of the poison (they sent it off to Professor Joseph Adelson, the chair of the Science Department, who promised a full inventory of its contents by morning, and who ­wasn’t about to cross Meri given the information regarding his past petty embezzlement from the university that has long been a part of the Hoover File).

  I’m sitting in my bed now. It’s already past three a.m. It’s strange being bald, though it’s not as upsetting to me as it is to the other girls, since my hair was already a motley wreck thanks to Meri’s blindfolded haircut. I ­don’t know when I’ll get the chance to tell Patty what’s happened. I was supposed to meet up with everyone tonight in her room—with the cover of seeing Bud in his room for another “date,” of course. I should have tried to call Bud, but I ­didn’t have a chance. Who knows what Meri’s got prepared for us tomorrow? Or the next day. Or the day after that. I ­don’t think I’ve ever been with a group of girls so completely demoralized. All of their individuality and free will seems to have been shorn off right along with their hair. Meri has us in her grip. Will she be serving us little Dixie cups with poisoned Kool-Aid next? No, she ­wouldn’t do that. She ­won’t kill us. That I’m fair
ly certain of.

  October 4

  Dear Diary:

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! I’m in big trouble! The day began normally, which should have been my first tip-off that things were about to go wrong. More than wrong. Disastrous! Breakfast was the same as always (except that ­we’re now all bald) (of course), and I even took Meri up her breakfast tray. She seemed in good spirits, and I ­wasn’t nervous at all when she told me to bend my head toward her. It seems she needed to adjust her lipstick, and my shiny dome was a handy reflective surface (or so she said). Then she chuckled and waved me away. That was it. No one was giving us any special orders—the day would be unfolding like any other. I went to my classes, and I was careful to tell everyone who asked that I had shaved my head voluntarily out of sympathy for Meri, who had just undergone chemo. I could detect a hopeful glint in some of my professors’ eyes, but I was quick to point out that she was making a speedy and very full recovery. Still, my focus was elsewhere. Where was Patty? Or Keith? Or Pigboy? They needed to be informed that their Induced Anxiety Syndrome plan was a complete bust.

  Between my third and fourth classes, I darted into the cafeteria, bought a package of Hostess Ho Hos, stuffed them into my purse, and then walked calmly into the last stall in the ladies’ room. I worked fast, and a few minutes later I darted inconspicuously to the Great Lawn. There was Bud, as always, hacking with Nester and Randy.

  “Yo, Cyn, babe!” he called out.

  I wanted so desperately to scream, “No!” but I had no choice. I endured it. Bud ran up to me, his “girlfriend,” and gave me a big, sloppy, tongue-plunging kiss—in and out, in and out, it just ­didn’t seem to stop—along with a firm slap on my ass. I heard a few snickers and derisive laughs.

  “You can let go of my ass now,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “’Sup with your hair? It’s kind of hot.”

  I smiled broadly, hoping that anyone who happened to be watching would assume that we were two ordinary college sweethearts. Eeeow.

  “I just wanted to say hello between classes,” I said feebly, then tossed the pack of Hostess Ho Hos at him and took off.

  Would he get it? Would he just eat the Ho Hos and leave it at that? On the cardboard backing, I had desperately written “Grim Stres Roni Re!” which, if he was as good at deciphering anagrams as he was at creating them, would read “Meri is stronger!”

  Unfortunately, I was too late. It was lunchtime when I turned the corner to the house, and I could see Gloria and several of the girls on the front lawn. They were ritualistically ripping clothes apart and hurling them haphazardly to the ground. As I stepped closer, I stopped breathing. They were my clothes, and on the ground with them were all of my personal belongings and papers. Everything was ripped apart or completely mangled. I thought about running in the opposite direction—and finding a handy bridge I could jump off of—but I kept going straight ahead, because I ­couldn’t help but think that they had nothing on me. I had destroyed the vial, and the Dumpster was emptied this morning. This had to be about something else. It was Gloria who spotted me first.

  “Dead girl walking!” she cried, pointing at me. “Rimmer ratted you out.”

  Gloria took pleasure in telling me the details. It seems Meri had a meeting this morning with Professor Adelson, the chair of the Science Department, who confirmed that her Aveda Black Malva shampoo had, in fact, been contaminated with several compound chemicals, including polypropylene glycol, disaccharides, and dithiothreitol—all of which had been requested for an unspecified experiment only two days previously by one Wolfgang Rimmer, a German-born science student who cracked under the pressure and revealed that he had created the concoction at the request of Alpha Beta Delta’s Cindy Bixby, though he claimed to have no idea what she would do with it.

  “I’ve never met anyone named Wolfgang,” I yelped, and there was at least some truth to that.

  Why Wolfgang had covered for Patty and Nester and Randy and Bud and not for me was beyond my comprehension at the moment. Still, it ­didn’t do him much good. Meri had arranged for his student visa to be revoked. It’s back to Deutschland for little Wolfgang. And straight to hell for me.

  ­“We’re done here,” said Gloria with a snort, who ordered the girls inside and turned to me. “You never existed at Alpha Beta Delta. Get it? ­You’re DOA.”

  “It—it’s not true,” I stuttered.

  “Aw. Nice try.”

  Ka-chink. I leaped out of my skin when I heard a rifle cock. Meri stepped outside in her black bouffant wig, holding a shotgun, aiming it right at me, absolutely red with rage. She roared, “I wish upon you a thirty-year yeast infection. But since I ­can’t do that, I’ll kill you. But not with this gun. That would be too simple. This gun is symbolic. Your death will be slow. For starters, I’m lowering your GPA to 1.6. If it stays that low beyond the semester, ­you’ll be asked to leave RU. Think of it, Cindy. Community college. Commuting from home. Classes with Inbred Pig People. Beyond that, let’s just say I have a few other tricks up my sleeve.”

  “It’s not true,” I whimpered in vain.

  Tears were running down my cheeks. What other “tricks” was she talking about?

  “It’s always the quiet ones,” mused Gloria.

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Meri. “The quiet little bow-wows.” Then she stepped up very close to me and patted my cheek. “One has watched life badly if one has not also seen the hand that considerately kills.”

  She was quoting Nietzsche. She ­couldn’t have read him. She must have seen it on a refrigerator magnet. But I ­wasn’t any less terrified. Then they walked back into the house and left me standing there. I must have a hearty constitution of some kind because I ­didn’t crumple to the ground or run into traffic. Instead, I worked fast, gathering everything that was salvageable and stuffing it into my newly mangled suitcase. Then I heard the front door click open. I shuddered, bracing myself.

  “Let me help you,” said Lindsay, stepping out onto the lawn. Then she smiled very oddly. “I guess ­you’ll be moving in with your boyfriend now, right?”

  “What?”

  “Your boyfriend. Bud. ­You’re moving in with him, right?”

  Oh, I love Lindsay. She’s always thinking.

  “Yes,” I said a bit too theatrically, hoping that the mic in the poplar tree would pick me up. “At least Bud still loves me.”

  “Do not help her!” bellowed Gloria, who appeared suddenly at the door.

  Lindsay quickly dropped the pile in her hands and scurried back into the house. Gloria slammed the door shut behind them. I picked up the clump Lindsay had left—and my diary slipped out. Oh, Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay! What a quick thinker.

  I made my way to Bud’s dorm room. Boy, was he glad to see me—especially when I pushed myself in, clamped my hand over his mouth, and made like I was kissing him. Then I told him how “happy” I was that we were going to be living together, but at the same time, I was writing on a piece of notepaper: “Does Patty know what happened?”

  He wrote back: “Everyone knows. No meeting tonight. Too risky. Patty says to stand by.”

  “If you touch me inappropriately tonight, I’ll kill you.”

  “Chill out!”

  “I’m serious. Did you give Patty my message?”

  “What message?”

  “Grim Stres Roni Re!”

  “What?”

  I sighed heavily. I ­couldn’t even continue my phony monologue. Obviously, Bud had just eaten the Ho Hos.

  It’s nighttime now. Bud is sleeping on the floor (he insisted; I ­didn’t argue). A thought keeps popping into my head: I am not breakable. I’m not exactly sure what that means, except that I’m not ready to give up yet, and obviously Lindsay ­isn’t either. And neither are Patty and Keith and Pigboy. Hazing Meri Sugarman. It still has a nice ring to it. It might not be possible, but it’s a worthy goal.