The Mary Shelley Club Goldy Moldavsky (android based ebook reader txt) 📖

just a teenager, and written Frankenstein when she was a teenager, too.

“Are you going to mention her marriage to Percy Bysshe Shelley?” I asked.

“He’s a footnote,” Bram said.

“He was an important part of her life. We have to at least mention him.”

“We can mention him, but there’s no reason for him to take up so much space in our paper. He’s not the focus here.”

“He rounds out her story.”

“Not the focus.”

“I don’t get why you’re dismissing him so much.”

“I don’t get why you’re defending him so much.” There was a slight narrowing of Bram’s eyes. He managed to deliver the statement with so much judgment even without raising his voice a single octave. It was a talent.

“I’m not defending him,” I said, “but he was present for Mary’s formative years. She wrote Frankenstein while she was with him—”

“You’re giving him too much credit.”

“And you’re trying to erase him from her story.”

“Maybe he should be erased. He was an asshole.”

I’d never seen Bram this combative. I mean, he kind of always was, beneath the surface, but while everything about his body language was as cool as ever—the way he slouched against the antique dining chair, the way he barely bothered to look at me as he spoke—he was more riled up than I’d ever seen him. I watched as he took a golden Zippo lighter out of his pocket and repeatedly flicked it open, the movement small but fiercely methodical.

“I had no idea you had such strong feelings about a Romantic poet.”

Bram actually rolled his eyes. “Romantic. He repeatedly threatened to kill himself if Mary didn’t love him back. He manipulated her into liking hi—”

“Now who’s giving him too much credit?”

Bram let out a bitter laugh. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you like Percy.”

I sat back, mouth slack. It sounded like an insult—it definitely had to be. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it.” He pushed his chair back and stood, heading directly for the bar cart that seemed to be in every room of his house.

“Isn’t it too early to drink?” I muttered as Bram grabbed a bottle.

“It’s club soda, if that’s okay with you.”

I looked down at my paper, which was filled mostly with useless notes and a whole bunch of nothing. We weren’t getting anywhere, and to top it all off this was just as uncomfortable as I’d been dreading. But the worst part—the part that I hated—was that I knew Bram was right about Percy. The guy didn’t sound that great, but at this point I was in too deep. We were at an impasse, and I wasn’t about to be the first one to lay my sword down.

So basically we were going to fail this assignment.

Damn Percy Shelley and damn Bram.

I grabbed my phone off the table and typed out a quick message to Freddie. This study session is a disaster.

Sounds about right, he wrote back.

Is Bram even human? I typed.

“I’m half vampire,” Bram said, suddenly peering over my shoulder. I dropped my phone and it bounced on my thigh before clattering to the floor. By the time I sat back up, face bright red, Bram was back in his seat. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by my text.

“You and Freddie seem … close.”

Of all the things that could’ve come out of Bram’s mouth right then.

“We’re not…” I wasn’t sure what to say. “We’re not—”

But it didn’t matter what I said—or tried to say—because Bram kept talking. “You sure that’s a good idea?” he asked.

“I said we’re not…” I trailed off, becoming less concerned with forming a complete sentence than with the fact that Bram was trying to dictate how I should live my life. “Why is it any of your business?”

Bram shrugged vaguely, and my annoyance grew exponentially. Were club members not allowed to be close? Was this another version of the unspoken no-fraternization rule or one of Bram’s personal hang-ups?

“Freddie’s been nothing but nice to me since I met him,” I said. “You, on the other hand, have been kind of a dick.”

His expression soured and I was glad I’d finally drawn a stronger reaction than a furrowed brow or a smirk.

“I’m just saying,” Bram began, “it’s not healthy. All your downtime, all your friendships, all your relationships shouldn’t revolve around the Mary Shelley Club.”

“I have a life outside the club,” I said, indignant but also a bit humiliated at even having to point that out. “I have other friends.”

“Who?”

“Saundra Clairmont.” He seemed to consider the name, as though he hadn’t been in school with my lone friend since kindergarten, which incensed me further.

“Look, I don’t need your advice on how to live my life. Or your warnings about getting too close to people. I’ve been through enough stuff in my life. I know how to take care of myself.”

“Your attack.”

The words hit me like cold water on my face, and I felt the fresh prick of tears in my eyes. I didn’t understand why he’d bring up that awful part of my past. The one I’d told him about—been forced to tell him about—in confidence.

If he’d been trying to shock me, give me some sort of jolt to throw me off-balance, it had worked. But I didn’t have to stick around for this. I flipped my notebook closed and started gathering my pens into my book bag.

“Rachel.”

“Why would you—” I took in a shaky breath, surprised to find I was winded. I stood and swung my book bag strap over my shoulder. “You don’t—you don’t know how you’d react if two people broke into your house. And you were alone. And—” I stopped talking. I didn’t like the way my voice sounded, didn’t like that I was still standing there, in front of him. My face felt hot and unshed tears blurred my vision. At least I wouldn’t have to look at Bram as I shoved past him.

I made it to the foyer and the foot of the grand staircase before Bram caught up to me. His fingers closed around my