Hazing Meri Sugarman

by M. Apostolina

  October 5

  Dear Diary:

  I’ve been feeling very angry today. There’s been no meeting, it’s still too “risky.” In Western Lit, Professor Scott handed out a test, but mine was pregraded. On the top sheet, he had already written a large F in red Sharpie. You want to play that way, Professor Scott? Fine. I’m not afraid of anyone anymore. I’m way too far gone for that. I’m filled with hate. It’s probably not very healthy (I read somewhere that maintaining a constant ill temperament can lead to heart failure, high blood pressure, and constipation), but it is making me feel newly refreshed and very focused. I kind of like it.

  October 6

  Dear Diary:

  Ahhh! Still no meeting yet. At lunch today in the cafeteria, my prepaid semester lunch card was mysteriously invalidated. I ­didn’t care. I paid for my lunch and sat by myself at a table, cheered by the thought that, unlike the sisters at Alpha Beta Delta, I did not have to keep shaving my head. My hair is actually starting to grow back. True, there’s only a light fuzz now, but it’s a start. I toyed with my peach cobbler (at least that’s what they call it) and was considering throwing it away and leaving the cafeteria when I glanced up and saw Keith. There he was (my love, my sweet, my everything!), gazing at me from afar, sitting alone at a table at the other end of the cafeteria. My heart swelled, I smiled back, and I thought of that scene in West Side Story when Natalie Wood saw this handsome guy, Tony, across a crowded dance floor—and then suddenly there was lots of weird smoke and strange red strobe lights and they were dancing together. I’ve always loved that movie (even though Lisa made fun of it because she thought the dancing gang members were, “like, so flaming”), but there was no weird smoke or strange red strobe lights to bring Keith and me together. It ­didn’t matter. Well, that’s not exactly true. I would have appreciated a bit of swirling smoke, at the very least to obscure my peach-fuzz head, but we were still able to gaze silently at each other, and he even took a big risk by quickly blowing me a kiss. No one was watching us, but I figured I’d better get the heck out of there in case he blew me another. The last thing either of us needs is for Meri to learn that our love is still strong.

  As I walked outside to my next class, I thought of poor Natalie Wood, who lost her boyfriend in a fight because she was Puerto Rican (even though she ­wasn’t in real life). I also thought about Meri. I ­can’t get her out of my head. There she is, completely unstoppable and serene. I remember her once telling me that her favorite fruits are quinces, which I had never heard of, so I looked them up on the Internet and learned that quinces are pear-shaped and very hard and have a strong acid taste. Frankly, I’d like to grab a few quinces and mash them right in her face, and thinking about that sort of makes me smile, but it also makes me sad. Meri was my idol, she was everything that I’ve always wanted to be, and now all I can think about is doing terrible things to her, which probably ­doesn’t say much for my state of mind. I also thought about Bud, who told me this morning that we should go out on a date tonight to keep things “looking real.” But I think it’s real enough that ­we’re living together in the same dorm room. Too real.

  It’s two in the morning right now, and Bud is, of course, snoring on the floor (in fits and starts, like a carburetor), and I ­can’t sleep. Everything is way too strangely calm. My entire life has been Ziplocked and put into the back of the freezer and forgotten about. I want my life back. And I ­don’t care if it’s lonely and miserable like before, because at least I’d be alive. What if Patty and Pigboy and Keith ­can’t come up with a plan? What if everything stays the same and Keith goes to jail and I’m stuck living with Bud? Every time I try to go to sleep, thoughts like that keep waking me up.

  October 7

  Dear Diary:

  I ­didn’t fall asleep until four this morning, but when I woke up at seven, I panicked. Something was wrong. Bud was gone—he ­wasn’t snoring on the floor, which is really strange and slightly ominous when you consider that Bud never wakes up more than ten minutes before his first class of the day (he ­doesn’t bother with a shower or shave until well after lunchtime; the fact that I know things like this pains me). I was barely awake when I saw a piece of paper on the door, and large letters that said: “Destroy This After You Read It!” Oh my God. I flung the covers aside and raced up to the door, reading the note:

  “Meeting tonight in P’s room at eight. Important: Do not come earlier or later. Check hallway carefully before going to door. Confirmation will come by phone. At seven thirty, phone in B’s room will ring three times to indicate that everything is a go. If no rings at seven thirty, meeting cancelled. Destroy note now!”

  I grabbed the note to pull it off the door and it ­wouldn’t budge. Bud ­didn’t tape it or tack it. In his infinite wisdom, he had used four pieces of gum to stick it into place, which meant that it took several minutes for me to rip it off in sections, and even then, I had to use Bud’s tiny Swiss Army knife to scrape off the rest. I had destroyed the note, but I had also left a series of deep scratches and gouges in the door. But who cares about Bud’s door? I ­didn’t. I was levitating with happiness. There would be a meeting. There was hope.

  The rest of the day was uneventful, though I did see a bald-headed Shanna-Francine leading a group of bald-headed Alpha Beta Delta girls to the school’s auditorium. Her plans for the Oktoberfest Dance are obviously well under way. Posters are up all over campus announcing it (“Love Will Keep Us Together!” they blare), along with the scheduled appearance of “special guest star” Toni Tennille (I guess even Alpha Beta Delta ­can’t rouse the Captain from retirement). ­They’re also charging a heart-stopping sixty-five dollars a person, with proceeds slated to go to the Alpha Beta Delta Charitable Trust, which means that Meri must need a new bauble or two. I looked closely at the small crowd of bald-headed girls, but I ­didn’t see Lindsay, and no one was obscured by an open umbrella. That made me nervous. Still, I was heartened in one way. I was still standing. Maybe now that I’m out of the house and out of Meri’s sight, she’s forgotten about me (I know, I know, but I can dream). Beyond canceling my lunch card and telling all of my professors to fail me, nothing else has happened.

  I practically flew back to Bud’s room at six. Time quickened as I waited for the three rings. My mind was fritzing out, leap­frogging from one negligible thought to the next: Will Clay Aiken ever come out of the closet? Has Patty ordered a pizza (I hope so, because I’m hungry)? How will I explain this semester’s grades to Dad? In years to come, will Lisa be as “gettable” as Toni Tennille? I was barely breathing at 7:29. My eyes were glued to my Timex. I counted the seconds. Finally, at seven thirty on the dot, three astounding rings! I wanted to jump up and down and scream for joy, but I knew I ­couldn’t risk alerting anyone (namely Gloria or Meri) who might be monitoring Bud’s room surveillance. The next half hour was painful, but I calmed myself by organizing Bud’s CD collection. All of his music is stolen off the Internet except for his Kylie Minogue CD, which he actually paid for because he thinks Kylie’s “doable.” Honestly, she’s pretty and everything, but it is kind of weird watching a thirty-seven-year-old woman prance around half-naked in videos like she’s a teenager or something, and ­“Can’t Get You Out of My Head” is definitely up there with “Mmmbop” in terms of highly annoying pop songs, but then what do I know? “Tune My Motor Up” has climbed to number thirty-seven on KCCA’s all-request playlist.

  I was unusually calm right before eight p.m. I was Spy Girl Barbie. I was once more on a mission. I opened the door just a crack and peeked out into the hallway. The coast was clear. Quick as a rabbit, I darted down the hall, slammed myself against the wall as I neared the corner, took a peek, then turned the corner and stepped right up to Patty’s door. I knocked quickly but firmly. The door swung open and I nearly screamed with delight at the sight of a bald-headed Lindsay, who pulled me inside and shut the door. We jumped up and down, holding each other, giggling and laughing.

  “Shh. There’s mics in the hallway,”
exclaimed Patty.

  I calmed myself. I ­couldn’t believe it. The room was jammed. There were Patty and Pigboy (holding hands, so sweet), and Randy was writing furiously in his notebook, and Nester was taking pictures, and Bud was just sitting there (looking stupid), and Lindsay was opening up several to-go bags, revealing a Long John Silver’s dinner for everyone. I almost started to cry, but then I realized that someone was missing. Then there was a knock and I swung open the door and there was Keith and I ­couldn’t help it, I was all over him (and he ­didn’t seem to mind). I could only vaguely hear Randy and Nester chiming in behind me.

  “Those two are doing it.”

  “Doin’ it and doin’ it and doin’ it, yeah!”

  “Have you missed me as much as I’ve missed you?” whispered Keith in my ear.

  “Impossible,” I squealed, sounding superdumb and way too girly, but I ­couldn’t help it.

  “Hush Puppies are getting cold,” said Patty cheerfully.

  Keith and I extricated ourselves from each other long enough to eat dinner. And to listen intently to “The Plan,” though frustratingly, most of it’s being kept from me for reasons of security. Everyone in the room is involved. The target date for bringing down Meri is the twelfth, this coming Sunday, at Alpha Beta Delta’s Captain & Tennille Oktoberfest Dance, though a number of maneuvers will be going into play well before then. Everyone was talking at once, but I ­couldn’t understand a thing. Why did Nester need to round up more than thirty-seven cameras? And what did that have to do with The Matrix? And why was it so important for Pigboy to become “friendly” with Walter McCall, a Trinidad student who’s also known as “DJ Mo Ghee” (he thinks “Lissa” is “wack,” so I’m inclined to like him no matter what ­he’ll be doing). My involvement is apparently crucial on Friday the tenth, and for that I’ll need to shave my head on a regular basis so no one will suspect anything (not that there’s all that much to shave).

  “The entire house is going to Vegas the night before,” said Lindsay urgently. ­“We’re scheduled to fly back on the tenth at around noon, so ­you’ll have to make sure ­you’re done before then.”

  Then she handed me a copy of Alpha Beta Delta’s front door key. But the plan made no sense. I’m supposed to scurry into the house on the tenth before noon, preferably before eight a.m. so no one’s around, and then steal the Hoover File, the digital camera with pictures of Dean Pointer and me, and a mound of DAT surveillance tapes, which Lindsay has confirmed from a loose-lipped sister are all neatly arranged and catalogued in Meri’s walk-in closet.

  “That’s impossible,” I said, explaining the obvious obstacle.

  For a moment everyone was stumped—but it was Keith who came up with the solution. I shudder to write it down. I ­don’t think I can.

  The meeting was too short. After we were done with dinner, Patty told us we all had to leave since she was concerned that Meri or Gloria or their spies might become suspicious that ­they’re not picking up me or Keith or anybody else on any room surveillance.

  “We ­can’t compromise our safe house,” she explained, and she was right.

  Still, I had to ask, “Why am I still standing?”

  And by that I meant, why ­hasn’t Meri reduced me to roadkill? After all, as I pointed out, Induced Anxiety Syndrome had hardly been a success, so what was stopping her from completely destroying me?

  ­“You’re the mouse and she’s the cat,” shrugged Lindsay, and Patty agreed wholeheartedly.

  It makes sense, I guess. Why kill me when I’m such an easy and enjoyable thing to toy with? But there was no time for reflection. It was time to go. I ­didn’t care that other people were watching. I kissed Keith right on the lips. Then I shrieked. Oh my God, he lifted me up in his arms, carried me into Patty’s bathroom, slammed the door, and we totally made out and I thought, Holy moly, are we going to have sex in the bathroom and ­isn’t that a little tacky and ­don’t his shoulders feel strong and am I a freak or does it kind of feel nice with his hands brushing against the peach fuzz on my head and was it my imagination or does this bathroom look spotless and does Pigboy’s true love inspire Patty to clean and can I please keep kissing Keith forever and ever and ever? There was a gentle knock at the door.

  “Time’s up, sweet lovers,” said Patty sensitively.

  Keith left first, looking both ways before he darted out into the hall.

  “He’s into you big-time,” said Pigboy jauntily.

  He was also casually dumping all of the empty Long John Silver’s trays and cups into a garbage bag while Patty gazed at him adoringly. Is Pigboy enabling Patty by cleaning up for her? And who threw away all the Mallomars and corn chips and cookies and beef jerky? Is Patty now any less “fascinated” with all of her psychological ailments? Will she now go to a psychologist instead of telling everything to her friends (a thought: Do people see psychologists so they ­don’t have to bore their friends)? Or is the love of Pigboy a cure-all? Probably not. I ­don’t think Keith has “cured” me of anything—I still feel semi-lousy and confused about myself—but he does make me happier and give me hope. For the first time in my life, I can see a light at the end of the tunnel, and even if I ­don’t make it to the light, or whatever that light’s supposed to be, I now know that it’s there. Maybe that’s love’s greatest gift. Hope. That and Keith’s amazing six-pack. Ha!

  The hallway ­wasn’t empty when I turned the corner to Bud’s room, but it ­didn’t matter—no one saw me step out of Patty’s. Unfortunately, Bud was ready for me when I closed the door behind me. He flipped a switch, and this huge, oversize electric shaver was vibrating in his hand. He made a shushing sound, then pointed to my head. I knew what he meant. It was time to shave my head. I slumped into a chair, and I was glad that he ­wasn’t a complete klutz about it. In fact, he was very gentle. But Bud is Bud, and for the benefit of whoever might be listening to the room surveillance, he announced, “Ooo, baby, I like it when you shave me down there. Makes it look bigger, huh? ­Doesn’t it? Huh?”

  He nudged me.

  “No, it still looks tiny,” I said—and loudly enough to be heard over the razor. “Like a golf pencil.”

  He grimaced. He was finished with the left side of my head. He turned off the razor, situated himself to my right, then flipped it back on, adding, “Mmm, that’s hot. Just a nice little landing strip for you, babe. S-o-o-o-o hot.”

  Okay, that was enough of that. I punched him in the balls. Hard. He yelped, dropping the razor. I snatched it back up. I could finish the front part myself. He was crumpled in pain, so he ­couldn’t object when I kept talking, and loudly.

  “Oh, Bud, I’m so glad ­you’re doing this for me. Once we finish with your arms, let’s do your legs. Then you can wear my pantyhose.”

  I was done. I clicked off the razor. Bud was still writhing in pain, so I made some microwave popcorn and cracked open a Dr Pepper for him, which seemed to make him feel a lot better.

  It’s late at night again. I really should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow morning Lindsay will somehow get me the address, and then Keith and I will be off in his Range Rover. I ­can’t get into Meri’s room or her closet on the tenth without Meri knowing unless I have a key. And the only one who has a copy of it is Mamacita.

  October 8

  Dear Diary:

  Mamacita lives large. It was barely four in the morning in Oakville, a wealthy suburb two towns over from RU, when Keith and I saw what seemed to be a fantastic modified Greek temple at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac.

  “Sure you got the right address?” he asked.

  I looked down at the scribbled address Lindsay had passed off to Randy, who passed it on to Bud, who had given it to me. It took me a moment to focus. I was sitting shotgun next to Keith in his Range Rover, and thrilled to be with him, but I ­wasn’t really awake, and I certainly ­wasn’t looking forward to what I had to do.

  “Yeah, that’s what it says,” I responded, again looking at the address.

  “Maybe she w
orks for the family there.”

  “Uh-uh. Lindsay says she lives here. This is her home.”