The Mary Shelley Club by Goldy Moldavsky (ebook reader for manga TXT) 📕

he continued. “Really. You wanted to step into my world tonight. You haven’t seen anything until you’ve been to the after-party.”

It felt more like a threat than an invitation. But there was no way I was going to turn it down.

 45

IT WAS WEIRD, how smoothly the transition went. Bram’s adult-approved birthday party finished at a respectable and firm eleven P.M. People left as if on a schedule, ushered out gently by smiling members of the waitstaff. But the young people lingered. All of the kids from the popular tables at school said goodbye to their parents and began slinking away upstairs, faint laughter trailing them like rising champagne bubbles.

“Bram’s parents are leaving, too?” I asked Freddie. He and I were in the foyer, handing back coats to the last remaining guests and watching Mr. and Mrs. Wilding leave with Millie in tow.

“His parents aren’t going to stick around for the after-party.” Freddie said it like it should’ve been obvious, which, yes. But Bram’s own parents having to leave their own house?

“Why are rich people so weird?”

Freddie shrugged. “Letting Bram have his little after-party is their tradition. They let them go wild and act out, but the Wildings are only going two blocks away, to Bram’s grandparents’ house. They’re letting Bram have fun on a very tight leash.”

“So Bram’s and everyone else’s parents are okay with a houseful of teenagers drinking?”

“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