The Mary Shelley Club, Goldy Moldavsky [e ink ebook reader txt] 📗

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