The Mary Shelley Club

by Goldy Moldavsky

  It wasn’t the masked figure, though.

  The person steadying me was Jason.

  As in Voorhees, the killer from Friday the 13th. I gulped in air, letting his mask consume my whole line of sight. The steadiness brought me back down, and when I looked around I didn’t see the masked figure anywhere. Now that I’d stopped spinning, all the masks around me began to look like cheap plastic again. My breathing slowed, coming back to normal. Had there even been anyone chasing me in the first place?

  The real Jason Voorhees didn’t talk, but this one did. “Dance?”

  It was the last thing I wanted to do. But it meant I wouldn’t have to be alone, at least for this moment. I pulled him toward the center of the dance floor.

  It was just as DJ Freshman decided to play the first slow song of the night. Well, as slow as an autotuned Miley Cyrus song could get. Jason and I challenged it, swaying even slower than the beat. He rested his hands on my hips and I let myself rest my head against his chest. I took in deep breaths, allowed myself to be engulfed by him, and by the weird song, the randomness of this moment. The fear was subsiding and I was getting my bearings again. I already knew that as soon as the song was over, I would go.

  But I was so lost in the moment that I didn’t even realize we had stopped swaying until Jason bent his head low. “Leave the club.”

  I pulled my head back. Did he mean this club—this warehouse? No, of course not.

  I reached up and brushed the mask up over his face. I should’ve recognized his voice. Low, like the rumble from subway tracks.

  Bram’s eyes were unwavering. I used both palms to push him away from me. This time when I looked for the signs for the exit, I found them. I left without looking back.

  29

  IT WAS MOVIE night the next evening. When I walked into Bram’s study he acted like he always did. Like I was a barely registering blip on his radar. Like what had happened at the Halloween party hadn’t happened at all.

  But I knew that no matter how he acted I was very much still on his mind based on the movie he chose for us to watch.

  “Tonight is one of my favorites,” he announced. “Funny Games.”

  He didn’t look at me as he said it, which meant he missed seeing the color drain from my face. Funny Games was a movie about a family who are at their lake house when two young guys, as clean-cut as any of the boys at Manchester, show up at their door asking to borrow some eggs. When they enter, they hold the family hostage and torture them.

  A home invasion movie. He picked the English-language version for my benefit, surely. This way there were no subtitles for me to ignore. Bram, who apparently still wanted me out of the club, was going to force me to watch and listen to this. And I would. I would be like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, my eyelids forcibly pulled back as I watched the horror unfold before me. I told myself I would do it to prove my standing in the club. For my sick, twisted exposure therapy. And for my own pettiness, so that Bram wouldn’t intimidate me with this dick move.

  I sat motionless, not letting any trembling fingers or nervous lip-biting betray me, but inside I was an earthquake. Freddie, sitting next to me on the sofa, must’ve felt the tremors because he slipped his hand into mine and made our fingers interlock.

  Your breathing’s different when you’re conscious of it. When you have to remind yourself to do it. So you count your breaths, make sure you don’t forget them, but they remain shallow. You breathe deep, trying to reel in a good one, but no matter how much you gulp it’s never enough.

  I made it as far as the scene where one of the home invaders uses a TV remote to disturbing effect before I flinched and turned away. As if on cue, Bram turned to look at me, his eyes daring me to say something. And I realized in that moment that all the intensity I was feeling wasn’t just due to the movie. A lot of it—the nausea, the revulsion—was due to him.

  I didn’t let my eyes waver. This dance of ours that started at the Halloween party continued here. As I watched Bram, I pictured the clamps from A Clockwork Orange on his own eyes, piercing beyond his eyelids, into his eyes themselves, making them bleed.

  “Pause it.” I said it in a low voice, like I was testing it out. But Bram, who had been watching me and clearly waiting for me to buckle, heard it. It was only when the screen froze that the rest of the club realized what had happened. “Are you scared?” Felicity asked, her grin spread so far back I could practically see her molars. “You know what happens when one of us gets scared.”

  Thayer looked at me with excitement, only to soften when he saw my expression. “This is obviously triggering for her,” he whispered.

  “I’m not scared,” I said, standing up. I didn’t want them to see the lie on my face. Even Freddie, who tilted his head, trying to catch my gaze. But I avoided looking at any of them. The movie had shaken me. “I’m just realizing the time. I have a test to prep for, and not just of the fear variety.”

  “You’re scared,” Felicity teased.

  The words were Felicity’s but Bram might as well have been the one who’d spoken. I couldn’t stomach the idea that he’d gotten to me. That his mind games were working. I grabbed my book bag and coat.

  “Hey, you’re not going anywhere,” Felicity continued. “We follow rules here. You can’t just duck out because you don’t like the movie.”

  Was she serious right now? “You ran out of Urban Legend.”

  Felicity dwelled on this for a moment. “That was justified.”

  I was this close to going full Linda Blair on her.

  “Lay off, Felicity,” Freddie said, then got up as if to follow me, but I left the study quickly and then jogged down the stairs and out the front door without stopping. When I was on the street I heard Freddie shout my name. He chased me for nearly an entire block before I spun around to face him. We almost knocked into each other.

  “What’s going on?” he panted, catching his breath. “Why’d you take off like that?”

  “Do you guys talk about the Mary Shelley Club outside of the club?” I asked.

  “What? No. You know the rules.”

  “Bram does,” I said. “Bram talks to Lux about it.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  I breathed in. Getting air was still hard, but the swift shot of cold felt good. “Why would he choose that movie?”

  Freddie exhaled in a puff of white and readjusted his glasses. “Bram likes art-house horror. But I don’t think he picked Funny Games thinking it would get to you.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “It’s just a movie, Rachel.”

  Freddie’s words felt like a slap. No, like a pat on the head. Like I didn’t understand the difference between fiction and reality; between monsters and boys. Like my feelings didn’t matter. “I don’t need you patronizing me—”

  “I wasn’t!” Freddie cut in, eyes wide.

  “I’m not a toddler.”

  Freddie stepped back and dug his fingers beneath his glasses, rubbing his eyes. I already felt ostracized by Bram—by Thayer and Felicity, who never related to a horror movie. Freddie had come after me, but it seemed like every word we uttered was another brick thrown on the wall forming between us. Freddie didn’t understand either.

  But then he put down his hands. His eyes were filled with sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he said. He closed the gap between us, and when he put his arms around me, I let him. “I’ll talk to Bram if you want.”

  I shook my head against Freddie’s chest. I wanted to put this night behind me. I didn’t want to spend any more time thinking about Bram. I didn’t want to think about Funny Games. And I especially didn’t want to think about the fact that my fears weren’t as gone as I’d thought they were.

  30

  THE NEXT TIME I saw anyone from the club was at the Shustrine when Thayer and I worked our weekend shift. Both screens at the theater were well into their showings, which meant I could leave my post at the door and join Thayer at the concession stand. Immediately he brought up the
last club meeting.

  “The Mary Shelley Club is fun,” Thayer said. “But it isn’t a perfect little oasis. Now you know that.”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it.” A part of me felt like I shouldn’t have run out like I did. I’d let my emotions get to me. But the main reason I didn’t want to revisit that night was because I didn’t want to think about Bram. I went to the popcorn station and half-filled one of the small popcorn bags, keeping my hand on the butter pump for an unhealthy length of time.

  Thayer was slumped over the candy counter staring at his phone. He’d designed his phone case himself. It had one of those Evolution of Man–type charts, but instead of sketches of a caveman and Homo erectus, it was called “The Evolution of Jason” and depicted the Friday the 13th killer in all his incarnations. There was Mutant Lake Child Jason, Pitchfork-Wielding Pillowhead Jason, and ultimately it evolved into Jason in Space with a fishbowl astronaut’s helmet over the hockey mask.

  Thayer was watching Sleepaway Camp, a remake of the movie that held the distinction of being both the worst ’80s movie and the worst horror movie of all time. So of course, it’d been rebooted. Now it starred America’s teen sweetheart, Ashley Woodstone.

  “I heard she got a dialect coach to nail the Brooklyn accent,” I said, hopping onto the stool next to Thayer and wiping butter off my chin.

  “Real dedication, considering she barely has any speaking lines.”

  “Truly the Meryl Streep of our generation.”

  As far as weekend jobs went, this was a pretty sweet gig. All the movie-smell popcorn I could want and Thayer for company. Once the films got started and all the moviegoers had their fill of refreshments, we had the lobby to ourselves. (Rob, the Shustrine’s manager, was manning the box office. He locked himself in there pretending to do work, but really he was gambling on his phone.)

  “If there was a movie made about your life, who would you want to play you?” Thayer asked.

  “Ashley Woodstone, obviously.”

  “Yeah, she’d probably grow some freckles just to look like you.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  “I want her to play me, too,” Thayer said. He turned the movie off, which was a good thing because Sleepaway Camp was trudging toward its finale—one of the most mind-boggling endings of all time, and not in an Inception sort of way.

  “So, any closer to finalizing your Fear Test, New Girl?”

  I gave him the usual answer: “I don’t know when I’m doing my Fear Test, I haven’t chosen my target yet, and when are you going to stop calling me New Girl?”

  “When are you going to realize that nicknames are a sign of endearment and intimate friendship?” He got back on topic. “Choosing your target is truly a sacred experience. Don’t waste it like Felicity. She just goes after her latest loser ex. Next year it’ll be whatever masochist dares to date her. But I’ve known Trevor would be my target since I joined the club. The only reason I didn’t pick him last year was because I was a newbie. I needed to stretch my Fear Test muscles first, get the hang of things. Maybe you do, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Or you could just go after her already.”

  “I haven’t picked anyone yet,” I said innocently, popping a piece of popcorn into my mouth.

  “Sure you haven’t,” Thayer said. “You haven’t almost killed her with a pair of scissors either, and her name doesn’t rhyme with Sucks.”

  I’d known he would come to this conclusion. Anyone would. But I told him the same thing I’d been telling myself since the moment I learned about the Fear Tests. “I can’t go after Bram’s girlfriend.”

  “That’s nowhere in the rule book, but it sure is sweet.” Thayer’s voice lost its sarcasm but was still coated in something that pointed a big neon arrow at my naivete. It implied that I shouldn’t extend a kindness to Bram that he would never reciprocate for me. And here I was, back to thinking about him. “Why’s Bram such a dick?”

  “Bram’s not a dick, he’s broody.” Thayer’s eyes narrowed and smoldered all at once, trying to make the word come alive. “That’s his MO. Everything he does is to live up to it.”

  “He’s broody and he’s a dick. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “He’s weird. I mean, none of us are totally aces up here,” Thayer said, pointing to his temple. “If we were normal, we wouldn’t be playing this game.”

  “Ahem.”

  Thayer and I both turned at the sound of a pointed cough. A guy stood across the counter, tapping the edge of his credit card on the glass surface in slow, annoying clicks.

  “Can you not see we’re talking here?” Thayer said. “What do you want?”

  “Uh, some Twizzlers?”

  Thayer rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.”

  He hopped off his stool and bent to get the rubbery vines. I brought up the text app on my phone. Thayer was right. I’d known who my target would be all along. And if Bram wanted to mess with me, then I could mess with him back. I sent out the message quick, before I could change my mind.

  My turn to play.

  31

  I SAT STILL on a swing in a dark, quiet playground. My Fear Test was about to begin, and sitting on the swing beside mine was my target’s boyfriend.

  Suffice to say that it was awkward. Well, more awkward than my usual laugh-a-minute experiences with Bram. But since I’d sent out the text, I’d planned my Fear Test meticulously, worked out every possible angle, and this was the way it had to be.

  After a gabfest with Saundra where I’d subtly inched toward the topic of Lux and what she did with her free time, I discovered that Lux had a regular weekly babysitting gig in the Ditmas Park neighborhood in Brooklyn. I was surprised she’d come this far out on the Q line, but Saundra informed me that lots of interesting people (the list began and ended with a couple of actors and a rock band) lived in Ditmas Park. Looking around at the grand manors here, I understood why. The neighborhood was famous for its old Victorian houses, enormous and beautiful with their roof turrets and wraparound porches that didn’t seem to belong in New York City. TV shows filmed here whenever they needed to pretend they were out in the suburbs. Some people had chicken coops in their backyards. The place was a surreal oasis plunked in a gritty city, and that was exactly the vibe I was going for.

  The fact that Lux had a regular babysitting gig was almost too perfect. I drew from my favorite kind of horror: psychological. The kind that made you feel dread and unease even though nothing graphic or violent was happening. The kind that messed with your head, the way Lux liked to mess with mine.

  We would wait until the kid was asleep and then we would start. Thayer’s role was that of Ambience Manipulator (a title he’d chosen for himself.) He’d subtly change things around the house, just a tiny bit, to get Lux to doubt everything she was seeing. Turn over pictures, manipulate dolls and action figures. Make the inanimate unsettling.

  To get Lux on edge, I also put Felicity on door and window duty. She was tasked with tapping windows and turning doorknobs, creating phantom sounds to make Lux think she wasn’t alone.

  The whole while, Freddie would be upstairs, where all he had to do was identify the squeakiest parts of the floors and make heavy, slow footsteps.

  If Lux still wasn’t freaked out by then, Freddie would get louder. He’d run and stomp and slam the back door on his way out. But that was our backup plan. If Lux could get scared at the mere sound of buzzing flies, then I was pretty sure I could get her to at least scream at the sound of an abruptly slammed door.

  Then, Thayer, Felicity, and Freddie would rendezvous at the outdoor benches of the Top of the Muffin café three blocks away.

  Which left Bram and me.

  We were staked out at the playground across the street, an optimal vantage point for us to watch the house, and for me to watch Bram watch his girlfriend get scared.

  It was twisted and wrong, what I was doing—what I was forcing Bram to do—but it was the nature of this game.
My Fear Test made this mean streak in me acceptable—expected, even—and I was going to embrace it.

  But sitting together in silence wasn’t making this easy. I knew, though, that a part of me must’ve craved this tension, where the only sound between us was the straining squeal of the swing chains. I wanted to force this moment between Bram and me. We needed to have some words. I decided they were going to be on my terms.

  Except neither of us said anything. Our silence was accentuated by the sounds around us. The distant patter of boots on pavement from beyond the playground gates, a car stopping at a traffic light, the swing chains with their piercing rhythmic screeches.

  Bram sat cozy in the chunkiest cable-knit sweater I’d ever seen. With the sleeves pooling over his knuckles and his hair flopping over his eyes, he looked like a kid. An intimidating one. The longer we went without speaking, the stronger the sheet of ice between us became. I needed to crack it.

  “Why do you want me out of the club?”

  Bram had been expecting the question. He planted his feet in the ground and pushed off, swinging just slightly more than he had been before. “Is this why you assigned me this role? So we could chat?”

  “You want me out of the club because you knew I’d go after Lux. Right?”

  Bram’s legs quit pumping and he eventually slowed to a full stop. When he looked at me he leaned his cheek against the swing’s chain, which tugged down his skin, revealing the pink under his eyelid. His face morphed into something ugly. “I want you out of the club because you don’t belong.”

  The bluntness of his statement, said without irony or shame, struck me hard. Did I not belong because I was a freak? Because we weren’t of the same class? If I’d had any doubt before that Bram hated me, I was clear on it now. “You’re a prick.”