Hazing Meri Sugarman Read online

  “Why, yes, I’d love to, Peter.”

  He suddenly burst out laughing, and his friends Kate Manning and Jordi Kane leaped out, laughing, slapping five.

  “Why, yes, I’d love to, Peter,” they chanted in a singsongy tone.

  Okay, so that was embarrassing, but it taught me a lesson. See, I’m into this new “pretending” thing now—pretending that I’m confident, that I’m not plain or ugly—and I think I was taking baby steps toward that back in fifth grade, but I just ­didn’t have it down right. One word: practice. In the past few months, I’ve been rehearsing my pretend confidence around Lisa. At first she was really put off by it, even angry, especially when I told her I’d find the boy of my dreams in college. She ­couldn’t stop laughing. But she sure shut up when she came home from cheerleading practice the next day and saw that I had painted over all the decoupage in my bedroom.

  “Me and Mom worked so hard!” she whined.

  “Toughie-wuffy,” I said, standing firm. “It’s my bedroom. And I hate pussycats and rainbows.”

  Then I slammed the door in her face. True, she ­wasn’t any nicer to me after that—her new nickname for me is “Psycho Bitch”—but she keeps her distance, and she ­doesn’t pick on me anymore (at least not as regularly), and all I had to do was pretend. In my mind I told myself, “Lisa is irrelevant.” I ­don’t really believe that, but I’ve rehearsed it so much that Lisa believes it. That’s what counts.

  I’m getting sleepy. Only six more hours on this bus and I’ll be at Rumson U. I’ll write more soon. I think all the packing and all the excitement have finally caught up with me. But I will send Mom an e-mail tonight. I know ­she’ll want to hear that I’ve arrived okay.

  From: cindybixby

  Date: 15 August

  To: mom

  Subject: I Made It!

  Hi, Mom!

  I finally made it to Rumson!! Unfortunately, my bus was late coming in, so I missed the college shuttle. I had to drag my suitcase and my trunk eight whole blocks just to get to my dorm room, but it gave me time to see the campus a bit, even though it was pretty dark outside.

  My roommate ­doesn’t arrive till tomorrow, so I guess I’ll wait to unpack until then, just in case she has any preference about which bed or dresser she wants. Either way is fine with me!!

  Phew, it’s almost midnight and I’m tired!! I’d call to let you know that I’m here, but I know how you hate to hear the phone ringing after ten p.m. Ha!

  I’ll check my e-mail in a few minutes, though, just to see if ­you’re still up and have written back.

  Please give my love to Dad (and Lisa, too). I’m so excited to be here!!!!

  Love,

  Cindy

  xxoo

  From: Mail Delivery Subsystem

  Date: 15 August

  To:

  Subject: re: I Made It!

  ——The following addresses had permanent fatal errors——

 

  (reason: 550 Requested action not taken)

  550 5.1.1 . . . User e-mail blocked

  For some reason Mom’s e-mail seems to be on the fritz. What’s up with that? Maybe I’ll try e-mailing her again tomorrow morning, or better yet, I’ll call her. I still ­can’t believe I’m here. My room is kind of cramped, and I’ll be sharing it with a roommate, but the curtains are nice (­they’re white, with pinched pleats) and the small wooden desk has an official “Rumson U.” desk blotter. I’m sitting at it right now. I feel so adult! 50 Cent’s “What Up Gangsta” is blasting from the next room. The walls must be thin. I really would appreciate it if whoever’s playing it would turn it down, but as the old saying goes, “Every party has a pooper,” and that pooper is not going to be me. Uh-uh. No way. I am not going to establish my reputation on my very first night by being a bore. First impressions count. They can blast 50 Cent all night long if they want. Really. I honestly ­don’t care.

  August 17

  Dear Diary:

  Classes ­haven’t even started, and already my head is spinning. My roommate arrived yesterday. Her name’s Patty Camp, and she’s from Corpus Christi, Texas, and though I’d describe her as “big,” or maybe “heavyset,” she was quick to point out that she’s fat.

  “Just plain fat,” she said with a cheery smile. “Why sugarcoat?”

  She’s a very lively girl, and she’s ready to bust a gut—two guts, in fact—in order to find a nice boyfriend and eventually earn her doctorate in psychology. She’s already memorized the entire DSM-IV, a clinical handbook of psychological disorders, and when I told her that I ­didn’t care which bed or dresser she wanted to take, she was quick to point out that I was being “indecisive” and might be suffering from a mild depressive disorder.

  “Too soon to tell, though. I’ll keep an eye out if you want.”

  Luckily, Patty has already visited RU many times (her older brother went here), so she gave me a tour of the entire campus and helpfully pointed out places of interest, including the library, the sports stadium, even Alpha Beta Delta, my mom’s sorority house.

  “I think I’m going to try and join them,” I said hopefully, and gosh, you should have seen the look on Patty’s face—as if I’d just stepped real hard on her toes or something.

  “You ­can’t be serious. ­They’re self-important drones, ­they’re Stepford Wives. Please tell me ­you’re not going to join a sorority. Oh my God, please.”

  She seemed so desperate, and so sincere, so I said, “Okay,” but if I want to meet a nice guy and have lots of friends, and maybe be at least semipopular, why ­shouldn’t I give it a shot? It worked for Mom. And that’s how she met Dad. I am trying to put forth a “new me,” a more confident me, even if it is just pretend.

  Later, I gave Mom a call (just to let her know that I’m okay), but Lisa said she was busy. She also told me about all the “fierce” new outfits Mom bought for her in Parkersburg, but Dad told her she ­couldn’t wear any of them out of the house. Ha-ha for her. Then she read aloud a few song lyrics she’s been writing for her first hit single. It’s called “Tune My Motor Up.” I’d write down the lyrics here, but frankly, I think ­they’re dirty (but not creative-dirty), and I am so not a prude. I really ­don’t think anyone will want to listen to something like that, especially coming from a girl Lisa’s age.

  “Are you kidding?” she snapped. “The skankier the better. I know what I’m doing.”

  I did get to talk to Dad (thank God). He was so encouraging. He thinks I should try and join Alpha Beta Delta too. He also reminded me that Mom was president of Alpha Beta Delta, which makes me a “legacy” candidate, which means that ­they’ll have to at least consider me as a pledge, which means that I’ll have this huge, major leg-up over all the other candidates. It’s like it’s meant to be! I always feel better when I talk to Dad. And more hopeful, too.

  I’m still unpacking, but it’s hard to find places to put things, since Patty’s practically turned the entire room into a kitchen pantry. We have Hostess Ho Hos and Mallomars and corn chips and double-butter microwave popcorn and beef jerky and all kinds of cookies and candies, too (basically anything that ­won’t spoil). It was very hard to get to sleep last night because of all the loud crunching sounds. I’d just start to fall asleep, and then I’d hear a plastic package being ripped open—violently—or loud potato chip chewing. At four a.m., I was starting to get a little put out, so I asked her if she could try crunching a little softer, and tomorrow, maybe preopen some of the louder packages before going to bed.

  “Sorry.” She grinned. “Party in my mouth. But ­don’t worry. I’m, like, so aware of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Awareness is the first step.”

  When I woke up this morning, I was a little surprised by all the garbage on the floor—heaps of empty candy wrappers and chip bags.

  “You want help cleaning up?” I asked.

  ­�
��Don’t do that!” she protested. “That’s enabling me!”

  I’m not quite sure what that means, but I do know that she ­didn’t bother picking any of it up.

  I got my class schedule today, and when I was standing in line, I met two guys who live in a dorm room two floors down from Patty and me. Randy O. Templeton introduced himself first (he pointed out that his initials spell ROT, which he thought was really funny). I only talked to him because I felt a little sorry for him. He has an awful lot of pimples all across his face and forehead, a few of which looked like they were ready to pop right then and there (all on their own). He’s a journalism major, and his friend and roommate, Nester Damon, who’s short and has greasy-looking, corkscrew hair, is majoring in photography. Once they get out of college, ­they’re planning on becoming a news team, which sounds like a fun idea, I guess (for them). Still, I ­don’t think I’ll be hanging out too much with these two. Nester kept pestering me with really embarrassing personal questions, like: “Have you ever had a boyfriend?” and “How wide does your mouth open?” and “Is your hymen busted?” Then he chuckled and walked off to go to the bathroom, and Randy elbowed me (kind of hard).

  “He likes you. Do you like him?”

  I ­didn’t know how to answer that question without offending either him or Nester, so I just shrugged and looked down at the floor, which I noticed was a very pleasant-looking industrial peach.

  “Fair warning, though, stay away from his computer. Sticky keyboard. Know what I mean? Get it? Get it?”

  Eeeow. ­Isn’t there anyone normal around here? After I left the administrative building, I discovered that I was standing right across the street from Alpha Beta Delta. Well, not directly across, sort of at an angle. It’s definitely the prettiest house on campus. In fact, it almost looks like it’s been transported from some magic fairy kingdom, but it’s right here, right at RU. Wanting a closer look, I stepped from the curb and I was almost mowed down by a pink Volkswagen convertible when it screeched around the corner and swerved into the Alpha Beta Delta driveway. Stepping out of it, I saw this really beautiful girl in a canary yellow Chanel outfit. She was so stylish-looking, so self-possessed—with really long, wavy black hair that she kept running her hands through and flipping back. Then she did something strange. She stepped over to a large poplar tree in front and started talking to it. I ­couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I figured that maybe she was communing with nature, since a lot of movie stars and other glamorous people do that (or for all I know, since the house looked so enchanted, the tree was talking back).

  But then another girl fell out of the tree. Literally. She looked kind of pudgy—but not fat—with a wild bush of red hair and freckles, and she was tangled up in all these wires that snaked back up into the tree. The beautiful girl ­didn’t seem too happy about this, and she waved her arms about, screaming, but I still ­couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then she stormed inside and slammed the door. It looked like the pudgy girl was crying, so I figured, what the heck, I should at least go and see if she’s okay. I walked across the street, but I looked both ways (just in case).

  “Are you all right?” I asked. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  The pudgy girl laughed.

  “Naw, I’m okay.”

  “What are all these wires for?”

  Uh-oh. She suddenly got this total panicky look on her face and muttered, kind of stuttering, “C-c-cable modem. DSL.”

  I ­didn’t want to push it (sometimes people get funny or angry about DSL, because it ­doesn’t always work and they pay a lot of money for it), so I just introduced myself. She did too. Her name’s Shanna-Francine, and she’s a senior. She’s also a sister at Alpha Beta Delta, and I ­couldn’t help it, I had to ask: What’s it really like to be a sorority girl and have so many friends and a real social life (and boyfriends, too)? I’m sure I sounded like a complete idiot, but Shanna-Francine just listened. Then she told me about Alpha Beta Delta’s upcoming “Smoker,” a once-a-year gathering at the house where girls who want to join can come and learn all about Alpha Beta Delta and why it’s the best sorority on campus (maybe even in the whole world). She was very excited when she told me this—though even when she’s not excited she tends to be very loud, like she’s trying to be heard by a deaf person (her eyes are a bit crossed too). I ­don’t think she’s terribly bright, but she seems awfully sweet. And get this. Out of nowhere, she offered to be my sponsor, since you ­can’t go to the Smoker meeting unless a sponsor invites you. I ­couldn’t believe my luck. I still ­can’t. Was she teasing me?

  The Smoker meeting is tomorrow afternoon—and I have a Sponsor! Oh my God, I was so completely happy, and so naturally, I was certain that something horrible was about to happen to me (but it was too cloudy for lightning, I realized, and I’d already managed to avoid being run over, so maybe something horrible would happen to me later). And guess who the pretty-looking girl was who I saw getting out of the pink Volkswagen? That was Meri Sugarman, the president of Alpha Beta Delta. I should have figured. Meri’s a senior, and she’s been president every year she’s been at Alpha Beta Delta, and everyone knows she’s a shoo-in to be president this year too, or at least that’s what Shanna-Francine says, and I believe her. I only saw Meri for a few seconds, but there was something so confident about her—but calmly confident, like she ­doesn’t even have to try. She’s definitely not pretending (like I am), and maybe if I’m lucky enough to get into Alpha Beta Delta, she can be my mentor, in the sense that I can learn from her. Maybe ­she’ll even be my friend.

  When I left Shanna-Francine and walked to Long John Silver’s for dinner (there are lots of good restaurants like Long John’s real close to the campus), I started crying. But they ­weren’t sad tears, they were happy tears. What if I really get into Alpha Beta Delta? Everyone knows you have friends for life if you join a sorority—and they help you study, and they plan social events together, and all sorts of things. I guess the happy tears were a little sad, too. It’s been so long since I’ve even thought about having friends. I remember in sixth grade once, on the weekend, I was sitting on the stair landing in my house in the late afternoon. No one was home and I just flat-out burst into tears because I ­couldn’t think of a single person to call or do something with. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been rejected my entire life. It’s worse. I ­haven’t even been on anyone’s radar. But now I have a once-in-a-lifetime chance. If I make it into Alpha Beta Delta, my life will change forever!

  By the way, I have to take a sec here to say how much I love-love-love Long John Silver’s Chicken Planks. Talk about comfort food (though the Hush Puppies at this particular Long John’s are a little greasy). As I finished my dinner, I thought about how nice it was to meet Shanna-Francine, and how fortunate, too. Then I walked back to my dorm and I saw lots of kids going out for the night, all dressed up in cool clothes, gathering in groups. There were some pretty girls who were giggling and talking about boys and blow jobs and Jägermeister, another group of really handsome guys with awesome short haircuts who all seemed to be wearing clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch, and a lot of couples, too, who were holding hands and smiling and even kissing (a few near the park were making out big-time). It made me happy. Soon, I’ll be going out at night just like them, maybe with them.

  Back at my dorm room, I noticed that Patty ­hadn’t cleaned up her mess from the night before. In fact, it was worse. I was only three steps in when I stepped on a half-empty carton of moo shu pork on the floor (that’s just gross). I ­didn’t know where Patty was, but I ­wasn’t about to clean it all up for her. Lisa hoodwinked me into cleaning her room for her on a regular basis when I was in fourth grade—she said she wanted to “learn from my technique.” Puh-lease. I’m not going down that road again. Instead, I went over the list of books I have to buy for my classes at the RU bookstore tomorrow and read the opening chapters of Wuthering Heights, a book I’ve read a million zillion times. Maybe I’ll buy a small TV for the room, but deep down inside,
I’m hoping I ­won’t have to. I’m hoping I’ll be living at Alpha Beta Delta soon. Oh my God, that would be so completely amazing if it happens! I better stop thinking about it (and writing about it too) or I’ll jinx it.