Product Description

Poor, dear Cindy Bixby is a total loser. Has been all her life. But now as she enters college, Cindy hopes to shed her loser ways -- get some friends and maybe even (dare she think it?) get a boyfriend. Her first move out of loserdom: pledge Alpha Beta Delta.

There Cindy meets Meri Sugarman. Meri is not only beautiful, she controls the sorority, a position that gives Meri more power than...well, maybe not God, but certainly any person within a one-hundred-mile radius. (How, you ask? Think of today's technology and what you could do with it if you were so (illegally) inclined. Get the picture? ;-) )

Meri teaches Cindy that she, too, can be perfect. She can be beautiful, sexy, and popular, influence teachers and politicians, and even have a boyfriend!

But when the new Cindy crosses into Meri-only territory (hint: where there's trouble, look for boy), new -- very scary -- Meri emerges. And Cindy realizes that behind all that beauty is an evil beast that must be stopped.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #1751015 in Books
• Published on: 2005-12-20
• Original language: English
• Binding: Paperback
• 272 pages

From School Library Journal
Grade 9 Up–College freshman Cindy Bixby equates popularity with belonging to a sorority. She pledges Alpha Beta Delta and idolizes her sisters. Their president, Meri Sugarman, is the most revered and powerful student on campus. These girls get all A's without going to class, have the best parties, and are flown by helicopter to Vegas whenever they desire. Cindy overlooks the fact that they call her Bow Wow (she thinks it's a term of endearment) and give her horribly humiliating tasks. When Meri's former boyfriend shows an interest in Cindy, however, she is kicked out of the sorority and learns that Meri will hurt anyone to get what she wants. Cindy and her friends then set out to eliminate the evil coed's power over the school. Alpha Beta Delta is more like the mafia than a sorority; the girls routinely use wiretapping, blackmail, and torture. Some readers may find the story darkly humorous, but most will find it too ridiculous to believe.–Stephanie L. Petruso, Anne Arundel County Public Library, Odenton, MD
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From Booklist
Gr. 10-12. Apostolina is a former creative director of Miramax, so it's no surprise that his first novel for youth seems to borrow from film--campy teen horror films, that is. Written in a diary format, the novel follows awkward college freshman Cindy Bixby through her descent into sorority hell. Cindy is desperate to belong to Alpha Beta Delta, where her gorgeous mother was once a sister, but as she endures increasingly sadistic hazing rituals (and falls for hot football player Keith), she gradually realizes that Meri Sugarman, the glimmering, Chanel-clad house president, is actually a dangerous psychopath. Vulgar language and some sexual references would rate this at least a PG-13, if not an R, in theaters, and Apostolina doesn't seem to be trying for anything close to reality in the cliched dialogue, two-dimensional characters, and over-the-top scenarios. But the almost gleefully depicted extremes of misery, torture, and retribution are reminiscent of teen movies such as Heathers, and readers who like ink-black satire might enjoy this. Gillian Engberg
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
From Hazing Meri Sugarman

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...