The Mary Shelley Club

by Goldy Moldavsky

  “It’s like a warped version of the parents who let their kids drink at home instead of drinking outside the home. Here, the party is confined to the study,” Freddie said. “And it’s a lot more than just drinking.”

  Well, that sounded ominous. “Have you been to his after-party?”

  “Once. A long time ago. It was ridiculous.”

  Vague. Guess I was just going to have to see it for myself. “Can’t wait.”

  “What?”

  “Bram invited me.” The surprise on Freddie’s face rubbed me the wrong way. Was it that hard to believe that Bram could invite me to his after-party? Or maybe Freddie suspected, as I did, that Bram’s invitation wasn’t extended in the spirit of friendship.

  “Look, I came here to find something on Bram,” I continued. “If he’s going to be acting drunk and stupid at this party, then his guard will be down and I’ll have a better shot at nailing him.”

  Freddie’s eyebrows dropped and I realized I probably could’ve chosen a better phrase. “Bram’s after-party is not your scene,” Freddie said. “Trust me, Rachel.”

  I wasn’t there to party. I was there for Saundra. And I was getting really tired of boys telling me which other boys I should or should not be hanging out with.

  “I’m going,” I said.

  This time, Freddie didn’t try to argue.

  * * *

  The Mary Shelley Club’s regular meeting space had been transformed. The study, which usually felt so cozy with its dark walls and leather surfaces, felt stuffy now, crammed with bodies and booming music, the air oppressively hazy with a mix of vape and cigar smoke. The kids who I only knew as background actors at the central cafeteria tables wafted through the room, the girls’ perfectly contoured faces shiny with highlighter and the glow of overheated abandon, the boys’ mouths cracked open too wide, showing too many gleaming white teeth. When I saw them every day, under the fluorescence of school light bulbs, of course I noticed the glimmer of privilege. But now it was like they were on fire.

  The after-party was where all the tensions of the night’s earlier stuffy conversations and constricting blazers and ties seemed to boil over. Here kids foamed at the mouth like rabid drunkards, bubbly liquids dribbling down chins and Adam’s apples, seeping into the buttoned crevices of the chesterfield sofa I’d sat on every movie night. It obviously wasn’t just drinks, though. Little baggies and vials were passed around like party favors, and there was no way Bram’s parents could’ve been okay with this. Or maybe they were. I realized that I really didn’t know how Bram’s world worked.

  Everyone laughed, wild and shrill like hyenas. It was maniacal, almost, and definitely powered by something other than pure delight. They tossed handfuls of canapés at each other—the same ones Mrs. Martinez had so painstakingly constructed and that Freddie had carefully laid out in neat rows on slate trays. And the only thing I could think about was how someone was going to have to clean this all up. A faceless servant that none of these people would have to think about or see.

  They drank money. Not literally, but a few them huddled together to have a chugging contest with a Dalmore 64. I only knew what it was called because people would point it out at every opportunity, an edge of crazy awe in their voices. I finally broke my loner streak and asked the person beside me what a Dalmore 64 was. The girl only looked at me, standing there in my waiter uniform, like I was an idiot, and said, “A one-hundred-and-sixty-thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey.”

  I felt simultaneously sick and thirsty.

  “More drinks now!” a boy shouted in my ear. This boy, TJ Epps, was in art class with me. The only things he drew, painted, or sculpted were boobs.

  “I’ll give you one hundred dollars if you go get me a drink right now.” He choked on his own chuckle. “Okay, five hundred dollars.” He didn’t even give me the opportunity to turn him down or accept. A part of me hated myself for wanting to skip to it and fetch him a bottle. “Okay, fine,” he continued. “I’ll give you one thousand dollars if you get me a drink and let me lick it off your—”

  I didn’t let him finish, just ground my heel into his foot and moved to another corner of the party, where it was only a matter of time before someone else propositioned me for a drink.

  Despite all the monsters I’d seen in horror movies, nothing compared to this. Freddie had been right. This was ridiculous. I didn’t belong here. I probably should have left, but I was transfixed. It felt like I was watching a movie. It felt like The Purge.

  Was Bram as disgusted by all of this as I was? He couldn’t be—this was his own party. These were his rules. He was easy enough to spot—whichever corner of the party he visited livened up. People clinked their glasses against his, boys pounded him on the back, girls squeaked and got on their tippy-toes to drunkenly wrap their arms around his neck.

  The tie Bram’s mother had laid out for him was no longer around his neck. His top two buttons were undone, collar up, shirttails out. His hair stood up in clumps and his cheeks were beet red. Like a gentleman, he sauntered over to the girls who had cigars and offered to light them with his golden Zippo. He chatted, flirted, threw back his head and laughed with everyone, pulling them in for hugs.

  But it was just another mask.

  No one else could see it because this was the only Bram they knew, but it was so clear to me. The Bram that I’d gotten to know would rather listen than talk. He was a neat freak who picked up every last piece of popcorn that fell on this floor. Even now, when he saw a boy drunkenly reaching for a girl, Bram would distract him and pull him into his orbit without the guy even knowing that Bram had interfered. And when he thought no one was looking, Bram would glance at his wristwatch. I’d seen him do that before. It always meant he wanted to leave.

  But apparently not before the night’s main event got underway.

  There was a couple making out on the big desk in front of the balcony doors, but Bram swept them off in one clean motion, which was met with a chorus of laughter, even from the two girls he’d just ousted. He climbed on top of the desk.

  “I want to express my deepest thanks.” Bram placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head. “It is an honor to spend my birthday with my closest friends. Even if you are all a bunch of assholes.”

  The truest thing he’d ever said. And while he’d just insulted his “closest friends,” they ate it up. This was Charismatic Bram. Charming, Top Dog Bram. King of Manchester Bram. He radiated it. And it was, admittedly, difficult not to buy into it.

  “Seventeen,” he continued. “Soon we’ll officially be adults.” A mix of boos and woos. “And we’ll have responsibilities and expectations and the weight of the entire fucking world on our shoulders. Who am I kidding—we already have all that. So live it up tonight!” Cheers. “Let’s get off our fucking faces!” More cheers. “And give me my fucking birthday presents or get the fuck out!”

  Bram hopped off and sat in his throne-like armchair, having practically been carried there by the cheers. Around me everyone held their glasses up high and chanted one word over and over.

  “Presents! Presents! Presents!”

  Had Bram actually been serious? Were people going to line up and give him big gift-wrapped boxes? Was this another party ritual?

  “All right, people, who’s up first?” Trevor Driggs said. His eyes roamed the room, searching for volunteers. Plenty of people squealed or raised their hands, but then someone pointed at me and shouted, “The waitress!”

  “The waitress!” Trevor said excitedly, coming over to clap a hand over my shoulder. This would be the third time we’d ever talked face-to-face and he still didn’t have any idea who I was.

  “I didn’t bring anything,” I began, but somehow I ended up standing in front of Bram in his chair. This was stupid. But I could feel everyone’s gazes burning holes into me, including Bram’s. I refused to let them see me sweat.

  I patted down my clothes. All I had on me were my keys, my phone, and a MetroCard. I took out my keys, attac
hed to my favorite key chain. It was a red key fob for Room 237 at the Overlook Hotel. I worked the keys off the ring and handed the keychain to Bram. “Happy birthday.”

  Bram looked it over, and when our eyes met, I thought he was going to speak, but the only noise came from something shattering in the back of the room. I flinched. Bram didn’t.

  Trevor swooped in and snatched the key fob out of Bram’s hand. “What the fuck is this?” He pinched it between his fingers. “Why do you think Bram would want this?”

  Because Bram loved Stanley Kubrick. And he knew every word of The Shining. And he’d once gotten into an argument with Felicity about it, saying it was one of the only movies that improved upon the book. And he actually did killer Jack Nicholson and Shelley Duvall impressions.

  But Trevor didn’t know any of that. “Wait.” He squinted. “Did the waitress just give Bram the key to her hotel room? Holy shit!”

  Trevor laughed and threw the key fob back at Bram and the room rang out in whistles and hollers. I slunk back, trying to get lost in the crowd to hide my burning face, and the party continued as it had before.

  Bram remained in his seat, receiving his gifts. I watched as Sebastian Santamaria pulled Bram’s chin down and plunked a yellow tablet on his tongue. Seth Gebahard shoved a wad of hundred-dollar bills into Bram’s hands. Lucia Trujillo and Emily Vilford came up to Bram as a package deal and began to make out in front of him.

  Yeah, I’d definitely given Bram the wrong gift. It was time for me to get out of here.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” A boy stepped in front of me, Pete Something or Other. I took a step to the side and he did the same, blocking me. He was slow—definitely high on something—and he had his shirt off. “You’re the only girl in here not wearing a dress, you know that?”

  “As riveting as this conversation is, I’m leaving, so if you could—”

  “A challenge,” Pete said. “But we can work around it.” He cupped my breast. I reacted without thinking. Reckless. I grabbed his hand and bent it back and I wasn’t going to stop until I heard a snap.

  Pete was on his knees in an instant, then on his stomach as I held his arm behind his back while he screamed. “Stop! Stop! Get off me!” he yelled.

  His words shook me from my blind rage, and the realization of what I was doing—what I had been about to do—made me stumble back. Three girls in gowns who had watched the entire thing unfold before them put their cigars in their mouths long enough to nod their heads approvingly and golf-clap in my direction.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “But you shouldn’t have—”

  “You nearly broke my arm!” Pete yelled. Every feature on his face was contorted, his eyes wide, his teeth bared. He was a savage animal about to bite, his hand reaching for my ankle.

  “Are you fighting a girl?” Trevor Driggs said gleefully, suddenly hovering over us. Pete laughed too, an ugly sound. Then he scrambled to his feet and lunged for me.

  “Hey!” Suddenly Bram was there, and he tackled Pete back to the floor. Trevor kept laughing, practically wheezing, even as Bram and Pete wrestled at his feet. Pete pushed Bram into the bookshelves so hard that a couple of books fell onto their heads. And all around me people were chanting for the fight to keep escalating like it was a birthday song.

  I watched the fight, watched the people all around me, and my stomach turned. Their stupid little party—so elitist and exclusive—was a nightmarescape of base impulses and worst instincts. I didn’t want to be a part of their rituals and games. I was over it.

  I was over all rituals and games. Mary Shelley Club included.

  I left the study. I had been temporarily blinded by the glitz, but now my focus was clear. I had a mission. Instead of going downstairs and out the front door, I headed for the third floor. Bram’s bedroom was there, and I was determined to find what I had come for.

  46

  BRAM’S BEDROOM DIDN’T look like a typical teen boy’s. The walls were a deep hunter green, illuminated with warm light from sconces and library lamps. The walnut furniture looked straight out of a Restoration Hardware catalog, topped with graceful touches that seemed more to a designer’s liking than to Bram’s. The carpet practically looked freshly mowed. Everything was tidy and not a single thing was out of place, like a cleaning lady lived in the closet.

  But there was something that screamed Bram. A collection of gigantic horror movie posters from the 1920s and ’30s, all professionally framed, lining the walls. The Wolf Man, Dracula, and of course Frankenstein stared back at me menacingly from radioactive-green backgrounds, their names big and sharp-edged. I stopped to admire them, but only briefly. I had work to do.

  My first stop was the closet. Movies and TV told me that was where people generally hid their secrets. The rest of Bram’s bedroom might have been pristine, but his closet proved he was a typical red-blooded teen. It spilled over with clothing and sports equipment, his lacrosse stick thingy nearly hitting me in the face before I dodged it. There were three boxes on the top shelf. Perfectly sized to hide a mask. I brought down the first box. It was full of cables and old electronics. The second box had an assortment of caps and hats that I’d never seen him wear. The third box was the messiest, with notebooks and loose pieces of paper. I rummaged through it all, but still no mask.

  I searched the rest of the room, peeking under the bed (nothing) and inside his desk (papers and pens). All that was left was Bram’s laptop, placed at the center of his desk as if waiting for me. It wasn’t the mask, but maybe there’d be something on there that I could use. But when I tickled the keyboard, the screen came to life, requiring a password.

  In desperation, I typed out anything that came to mind. “Password” didn’t work. Neither did “123abc.” I typed in today’s date—his birthday—but nothing. “Lux” didn’t work either. No, Bram would pick something personal to him. A favorite movie, maybe. But “FunnyGames” was a bust. I glanced around the room, searching for a clue, muttering his name under my breath like an incantation. What did Bram like? What did Bram hold more dear than anything else?

  My eyes caught on the vintage Dracula poster and it hit me. He cared mostly about himself. My fingers punched in Stoker. And just like that I had access.

  His documents folder. I remembered how Bram had buried his movie collection seven folders deep. Maybe he buried other things. I searched the names of the files, looking for something that was innocuous yet telling. It didn’t take me long to find a folder named MSC.

  Mary Shelley Club.

  It had to be. Inside the folder was another folder, labeled Chaps.

  There was a noise in the hall; someone was coming. I closed the file and quickly ducked into the closet. Through the small crack, I watched Bram walk into the room and nearly gasped. There was blood spilling from his eyebrow, down his cheek, his jaw, onto his clothes. His features were pained, angry, and he tore off his shirt, bunching it up in his hands to wipe his face.

  I watched as he stood there, holding his bloody shirt, breathing hard enough to make his bare chest heave. I wanted so badly to know what he was thinking. Was he upset that he’d been in a fight? Was he upset by his own party?

  For the longest time I’d wanted to see Bram just like this. I’d seen glimpses of him before, as the caring older brother, the popular jock, the horror geek, the messed-up boyfriend, but I’d always wondered who he was when he was alone. Was he a killer?

  I waited for him to show himself. To let out a guttural scream and knock over all his bookshelves and act out in a violent rage. But all he did was sink onto the edge of his bed and slump forward, his head bent. He emptied his pants pockets, tossing cash and pills on the bed behind him, until he was left holding my key fob.

  He looked at it for a long minute, and he might have kept looking for even longer, but I accidentally nudged the closet door. I froze, but Bram’s head snapped up. His eyes zeroed in on the crack in the doorframe, and if he thought there was a monster in here, he wasn’t afraid.
He stood and approached me, but I swung the door open before he could get to it.

  He didn’t seem all that surprised to see me, but maybe he was keeping his emotions in check.

  “I should be mad that you’re in here.”

  Yeah, I thought. You just found me snooping in your room. Get mad. Show me who you really are. But all he did was go to one of his dressers and pull out a plain white T-shirt, slipping it over his head.

  “But I get it,” Bram continued. “Your friend just died. You’re distraught. You want answers. What I don’t understand is why you’re so attached to the idea that I’m the bad guy.”

  Was he serious? From the beginning Bram had been cold to me. He had never wanted me in the club—he’d told me as much. Saundra had ended up dead in his Fear Test. Bram could say he wasn’t a bad guy, but he’d barely shown me a sliver of good.

  “The Upper Lower School trip.”

  “What?”

  “Fifth grade. You went to the Empire State Building. Saundra was scared, but you calmed her down. You held her hand until it was time to leave.”

  Bram looked at me blankly. “Saundra was afraid of heights,” I said. I could feel my voice starting to quiver, but I had to go on. “The only way she ever would have gotten on that roof was if you were there with her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I swiped at a tear. “She told me that herself. Don’t you even remember?”

  “Rachel.” Bram said my name like he felt sorry for me.

  “Freddie was with me when Saundra died,” I said. “But I have no idea where you were or what you were doing. I’m trying to find out what happened. That’s why I’m at your party, that’s why I’m in your room—I need to know.”

  It was my voice that betrayed me. The sound of it ragged, desperate. It was all I could do not to break down in front of this boy who didn’t care about anything or anyone except himself. And the worst part was that his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. Even in this moment, when I felt scraped bare.