Hazing Meri Sugarman Read online

  Hazing Meri Sugarman

  by M. Apostolina

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006-2009 by Cafegogo, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Library of Congress Control Number 2004118416

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-0610-0

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-0610-X

  For Helen & James

  With thanks and gratitude to David Carlos Martinez, who read the first rough chapter and told me to keep going; Anjali Ryan, whose encouragement continues to inspire me; Lori Grapes, who selflessly taught me how to persevere against impossible odds; and Jennifer DeChiara, whose faith in the outcome sustained me.

  And, of course, to the real “Meri.” Everybody I know hates you, and now the world will know why!

  April 15

  Dear Diary:

  I had a nightmare last night. It was after midnight in Marietta, Ohio, my hometown, and it felt like I was much younger than I really am—maybe twelve or thirteen. Walking through the town square, I noticed there was a long line of women waiting to get inside The Big Bang, a local male strip joint (you know, the type of place where women go for birthday celebrations or bachelorette parties and things), and I really wanted to go in, but not for any dirty reason. I mean, I’ve never had a boyfriend before, even though I’m close to graduating high school, and yet I felt strangely compelled to go inside.

  So I snuck in. I scurried through the back alley, found an open window, pushed myself through, and landed with a painful thud on the ladies’ room floor. It was strange. None of the women there seemed to notice me. I was invisible. Still, I held my head low, and when I stepped into the club, I was assaulted with loud music and a crush of jostling women (and a lot of really handsome cocktail waiters, too) and still no one noticed me. What was I doing here? All the women were beautiful. All the men were beautiful. And me? Okay, I’ll be honest. I’m fully aware of the mirror and its cruel reflection of my pudgy face, my bulbous nose, and my upper lip, for which there is only one word: wax. In elementary school I was cast as Nana, the dog in Peter Pan. And Miss Tucci, the drama teacher, ­didn’t think I needed all that much makeup when she cast me as the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. Hardy har. I know, poor me. Play the tiny violin. I try not to get down about things like that. I try to be optimistic. I try to believe in the goodness of virtually everyone around me, even if ­they’re making fun of me. It ­doesn’t make the teasing any easier, or make me feel less ugly, or any less of a loser, but it gets me through the day.

  But back to my dream. Suddenly the music seemed louder, much louder, the lights brighter, and ponying onto the stage was a stripper in a modified cowboy outfit with a ten-gallon hat that cast a long shadow over his face. Well, I may not be the prettiest girl around, but I have a pulse. This guy was really cute. He started dancing and gyrating and taking off practically all of his clothes, until he was wearing nothing but a jock strap, cowboy boots, and that big ten-gallon hat. By this time I was getting nervous, not because of the guy dancing, but because everyone in the club started melting away, literally, till there was no one left but me and the stripper. Then the music stopped cold. The stripper lit a big, fat cigar, pointed his finger directly at me, and whipped off his hat. My jaw dropped. I ­couldn’t believe it. The stripper was my dad!

  Then I woke up and there was Dad coming right at me, along with Mom and my sister, Lisa, all of them singing “Happy Birthday.” I gasped and yanked the covers up, and tumbling to the floor was my dog-eared copy of Come Slowly, My Darling, with a really handsome matador embracing a peasant girl on the cover.

  “Eeeow,” chuckled Lisa. “Cindy’s reading dirty books again.”

  Mom shushed her, but you could tell she was holding back a laugh too. See, Lisa may be three years younger than me, but she’s very pretty (just like Mom). I’ll be blunt about Mom. I’m a disappointment to her. I was her firstborn—and look how I turned out. In a way, I’m glad Lisa’s around. The less attention I get, the better. My dad’s another story. He’s so nice to me. Once he even took me shopping for my sixteenth birthday in Parkersburg, West Virginia (that’s the closest big town nearby), and bought me a genuine gold necklace. It sparkles. And, yes, he’s handsome, I admit it. He treats me like a real person, too. Not that he ­shouldn’t—he is my dad, after all—but in my life, that’s kind of a novelty. He also gave me the sweetest gift for my birthday this year: this diary.

  “For all your happy thoughts,” he said, and I could see Lisa making a gagging motion behind him.

  I’m not sure how many happy thoughts I have, but I do have a potentially good academic future. I was recently accepted to Rumson River University in North Carolina, just like Dad. That’s where Mom and Dad met, in fact. He was the star quarterback, she was head cheerleader. I know, I know, but it’s true. Mom has a framed picture of herself from her college days doing a high kick on the football field. It hangs right above her scale in the bathroom. Even I have to admit she looks pretty similar; she ­hasn’t changed at all. Lisa’s a cheerleader too, but I kind of doubt ­she’ll get into Rumson U. Her grades suck. But enough about Lisa and my mom. This diary is supposed to be about me. Only I ­don’t know what to say. I’m sitting up in my bed right now writing this—my seventeenth birthday is coming to an end. I should be happy, but I’m not. Sometimes I ­can’t stand myself or anything around me, including my bedroom. A few months ago Lisa and Mom discovered decoupage. They decoupaged all my walls: pink pussycats and rainbows. Yuck. They even decoupaged my phone.

  Maybe I’ll have a nice dream tonight. I wish you could will yourself to dream about nice things. Maybe I’ll dream about Rumson U. I have a feeling things will be different there. It is an institution of higher learning, after all, and I’m majoring in literature. People will be serious there, and I’ll meet all kinds of like-minded friends—people who are happy to learn and who ­don’t care about what I look like. Maybe I’ll even have a boyfriend. Okay, that’s probably stretching it, or tempting the gods, or something like that. I’m such a loser. I think I’d like to dream about nothing tonight. Absolutely nothing. That sounds safe.

  April 16

  Dear Diary:

  I ­don’t think I can do this diary thing anymore. Why should I? What am I supposed to write about? All the terrible things that happen to me every day? Take today, for example. Bud Finger, this really immature, jerky guy, snuck up behind me at my locker after third period and whispered, “Bud Finger, at your cervix.”

  I pushed him away and he laughed—with that sputtering, snot-filled laugh he has.

  ­“You’re a moo-cow,” he added, then he darted down the hall.

  Well, that ­wasn’t so bad, I guess, but I had no idea he had stuck a piece of paper on my back that said in big, black Sharpie letters: if you want my attention, moo. It took me almost two whole periods to realize why everyone was going, “M-o-o-o-o-o-o,” when they saw me. My chemistry teacher, Mrs. Felton, was the one who told me about it. It ­didn’t help that she was stifling a laugh.

  At the end of the day I went to my locker, minding my own business (I swear), and I heard soft moaning. I looked over, and two lockers down Julie Murmelstone was making out with Jeff Leigh.

  “Jeff. God. ­You’re standing at attention,” she cooed.

  He grinned. “You know what they say. To fully inflate, blow into the tube.”

  She coyly squealed and blew a little puff of air at him. Then she
turned and saw me. I guess I was gaping. I ­couldn’t move. I was frozen to the spot.

  “Aw, lookit. It’s little Cindy Bixby. You like to watch? Is that it? Is that what gets you off? Little Miss Priss likes to watch?”

  They laughed at me. I ­don’t care what anyone says to me—really, no matter how awful or nasty it is. But being laughed at hurts.

  Is that what this diary is going to be? A list of how people make fun of me every day? No, thank you, ma’am. I ­don’t need to look back at this thing years later and relive all the misery. Living it’s enough. I’m a good person and I want a good future for myself. If I remain positive, positive things will happen, and people like Bud Finger and Julie Murmelstone ­won’t bug me anymore. I mean, maybe they will, but it ­won’t faze me.

  I saw Carrie on cable the other night. I ­didn’t identify with that girl. I ­don’t want to hurt anyone. Maybe the trick is to stop thinking about it. And stop writing about it too. I’m sorry, Diary, but I think it’s time to put you away. For good. My life is depressing enough.

  August 14

  Dear Diary:

  I’m so glad I found you! My room is a complete wreck. I’m packing up for college. There you were under my bed next to my rumpled culottes and my old recorder from third grade. So much has changed. So many good things. I glanced over what I wrote before, and boy, I sure was “down in the dumpity-doo” (Mom always uses that phrase) (in reference to me) (of course). But things turned around as my senior year drew to a close. Good-bye, Chesterfield High.

  And guess what? I even went to the prom. Okay, so I went with Bud Finger, but ­don’t draw quick conclusions. See, no one would go with Bud. He asked practically every girl in school, even a couple of the mentally challenged girls from the Special Education program.

  “Some of them bitches are tasty,” he said, but I guess even mentally challenged girls know better.

  Anyway, I was riding the bus home one day and he hit me in the back of the head with a paperback copy of Forced Heretic 2: Star Wars, The New Jedi Order, Book 16. (Now you know who reads that junk.) He said it was an accident, and he ­didn’t laugh, so I knew he wanted something. Then he just flat out asked me:

  “Wanna go to the prom?”

  It took me a moment, but actually not that long. In what seemed like half a second, I went over all the pros and cons. On the pro side, I ­hadn’t even thought of going to the prom (I ­didn’t even think it was a possibility), so the idea of actually buying a dress and getting a corsage and dancing with all my other classmates was pretty tempting. On the con side, there was the issue of Bud. I said, “Yes.” He grinned stupidly.

  “Uh-huh. I figured you’d say that.”

  Why did I say yes? Well, because even if I’d be going with Bud, I’d still be going. And now I ­won’t be some bitter old lady in a rocking chair in my eighties too embarrassed to tell my grandchildren that I never went to my prom. That’s too sad. I’m trying so hard not to be sad these days. Usually, I look at every new situ­ation in my life as if disaster is inevitable. It makes me very tense. I guess I lack the confidence of someone like Lisa, for instance. In fact, I ­don’t have any confidence at all. But I’m trying a new trick these days: I’m pretending that I do.

  The prom was fun. Bud forgot to bring a corsage, of course, but that was okay. I had a plan. Once we arrived at the school gym, I ditched him. Completely. I spent time with a few girls when they ­weren’t dancing with their boyfriends, and I had a nice chat about my future with Mr. Sherman, my Honors English teacher. Bud kept asking me to dance, and I kept saying no. This was going to be my prom on my terms, and those terms did not include dancing and being groped by Bud. I did dance, though, once. Mr. Sherman very nicely took me to the dance floor when the band played a slightly off-key rendition of “Top of the World” by the Dixie Chicks. In my head, I was mentally crossing items off a list: I went to the prom, I talked with friends, I danced. These are all good things. And even though Bud tried to stick his tongue down my throat when he dropped me off (I bit it really hard), I felt triumphant. Woo hoo! Who would have thought that I, Cindy Bixby, would have gone to her high school prom?

  Things only got better once I graduated. Dad paid for LASIK surgery for my eyes. Wow! I ­can’t tell you how nice it is not to wear glasses (my eyes ­couldn’t take contacts). I feel so much happier. Even prettier.

  ­“You’re plain now,” observed Lisa. “That’s better than before.”

  Even Mom is treating me nicer, though Lisa thinks it’s because I’m leaving, which means ­she’ll have one less “thing” to worry about. But I ­don’t think that’s it. Mom made jasmine tea for me the other night and told me all about her days at Rumson U. And get this: Mom was a sorority girl. She was even president of her sorority, Alpha Beta Delta.

  “If you want to be popular and meet nice boys, it’s important to join a good sorority.”

  “Then I’ll join one!” I enthused.

  There was this weird sort of concave pause after I said that, and Mom cupped her mug and stared down at it and seemed to smile a bit.

  ­“Don’t you think I should?” I asked.

  “My tea is cold,” she intoned, then she stepped away to freshen her cup.

  If I join a sorority and I become popular, then who knows, maybe I’ll meet a handsome football player just like Mom did. I have to laugh. If I’d written down things like this a few months ago (or even thought about them), I’d probably have started to feel sad and imagine all the terrible things that would happen to me if I even tried. But not anymore. This “pretending” thing is working out well. I’m still scared, I still feel ugly (not scary-ugly, but plain, I guess, like Lisa says), and to tell you the truth, I ­don’t know why my attitude has changed. Maybe it’s because high school is finally over and I’m packing up. I’m leaving Marietta.

  I’m also looking forward to all the hard work at Rumson U. And, yes, I’m looking forward to dating. I think I’m a late bloomer. I think that fits me. Everything good and happy and wonderful that’s going to happen to me will happen in college. How’s that sound, Diary? See? I can be positive. And if that’s stretching it, or tempting the gods, so be it. Cindy Bixby’s raring to go!

  August 15

  Dear Diary:

  These Greyhound buses sure are cramped. But what a morning I had. Mom, Dad, and Lisa brought me to the bus station in Parkersburg, and I actually thought Dad was going to cry.

  “Be careful,” he said. “It’s a tough world out there.”

  Mom, on the other hand, was overjoyed. I think she knows I’m a late bloomer too. She seemed so happy to see me off on my big, new adventure.

  “I’ll e-mail you,” I promised.

  “No, ­don’t do that,” she said, no doubt realizing how busy I’ll probably be.

  Lisa ­didn’t have anything to say. In fact, she ­didn’t even think it was necessary to see me off at all.

  “It’s not like ­you’re doing a moon shot,” she told me at breakfast.

  She also told me that she’s reached a decision about her future. Unlike me, she is not going to college after she graduates from high school. Instead, she’s going to become a big star like Christina Aguilera. Starting ASAP.

  “I’m just as pretty,” she said.

  I tried to tell her (gently) that maybe she should rethink this. After all, Christina’s been at this pop star thing for a very long time, even as far back as The New Mickey Mouse Club.

  “Same with Britney,” she said huffily. “Only Britney’s tired. Christina’s in it for the long haul. Like me.”

  Still, I expressed my qualms. Yes, Lisa’s just as pretty as Christina, but Christina does sing pretty well.

  “Please, it’s all computers. That bitch ­can’t sing a note. You watch. In a year or less, I’ll be right where she is. Mom’s taking me shopping after we drop you off. I’ll get the right outfits, I’ll cut a demo. Done.”

  It was hard to argue with her. She seemed so certain. There’s a lesson to be learned fr
om Lisa—several, in fact. I wish I had her confidence, but maybe that’ll come in time. I remember observing once, in fifth grade, how all the boys and the girls started asking each other out, even going steady; there was no hesitation, no qualms, it was just the natural course of things. So when Peter Gilberti, this really cute guy who wore a retro puka necklace, came up to me on the playground and asked me if I’d like to go out with him, I ­didn’t blink an eye.