Page 60 of Gilt

“Where did you even find out about this?” I try a different tactic to get the information out of her.

“The account followed me,” she says. She pauses as if struggling with whether or not to tell me the next bit. “They’re following Monroe, Hugo, and Jameson, too.”

“Jameson,” I repeat. My heart sinks into my stomach. What photos of him might be on display?

“Are you talking to him yet?” Josie asks.

I shake my head, relieved that there’s something more pressing to focus on. “So they’re following all of you, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Emma,” Josie interrupts me. “They’re following your account, too.”

I put my phone on the desk, uncertain I want to unearth my own incriminating moments captured with someone else’s camera. “Why would someone do this?”

“To ruin my life,” Josie informs me immediately. She’s put some thought into this, obviously.

“It’s only a photo—” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Josie shrieks. “If my mom sees these pictures, I’ll be enrolled in the Bellevue Girls Academy for the summer session with no parole in sight.”

“This isn’t Hamlet,” I stop her, wishing I had a few hundred Xanax on hand. Josie is clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown while I’ve been avoiding reality in Palm Springs. “Your mom’s not going to send you to a nunnery.”

Josie falls backward, disappearing from sight momentarily. The screen goes black, and I squash the panic that rises in my chest. Then she blurs back into focus. I spot her familiar polka dot comforter and a pillow clutched to her chest. When she finally speaks, her voice is small. “You only see the nice side of my mother.”

“At least your mother has a nice side,” I grumble. “My mom went nuclear when I told her I was thinking about leaving Palm Springs. It’s going to take some serious ego massaging to calm her down if I go.” I leave out that she wants me to stay in California permanently. Right now isn’t the time to deliver more bad news.

“Look,” Josie continues, drawing my attention back to her problem. “My mom is cool, but she obsesses over making sure I have a better life than she had.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s all parents,” I point out. Even though my own have a warped sense of what that actually means, I know their hearts are generally in the right place.

“Let me translate that a little bit better. She’s obsessed with me not getting pregnant.”

“Can you blame her?” I ask.

She shakes her head, and for a moment, the screen is filled with her wild, uncontrollable curls. “No, I can’t, and that’s the problem. I mean, she was only nineteen when I was born, and it seriously set back her dancing career.”

“Does she know that you’re…” I trail away, glancing out the window to the placid surface of the pool outside. There’s no easy way to ask this because, in truth, even I don’t know the answer. When Josie started targeting older guys, I tried to let it roll off my back until she slept with one of our teachers. After that, I asked her to keep the pornographic details to herself. It’s easier to take a calculus test if you don’t have your best friend’s impression of Mr. Barrett’s O-face stuck in your head.

“Does she what?” Josie prompts.

“Does she know you’ve had sex?” The question rushes out of my mouth.

“The list of topics that are off-limits between my mother and I is long and exhaustive, but sex is at the very top of it.” Josie presses her fuchsia lips into a thin line, grimacing at the thought. “I’d already be in a nunnery, as you put it, if she knew. I mean, I hide my pills in an Altoids tin.”

“I guess that answers that question.” A million questions tumble through my head. How many men has she had sex with? Why? Is she using condoms? Getting tested? Somehow I manage to swallow them all.

“Does your mom know about you?” Josie asks, even though she knows that my sexual rap sheet only has one entry. I was completely honest with her about my first—and only—time. Not that there was much to tell.

“I didn’t feel the need to clue her in on my lackluster first time, especially since I pretty much pretend it never happened,” I remind her. Sleeping with Hugo Roth had been a knee-jerk reaction to a terrible situation. I mean, what better way to get back at your cheating boyfriend for having sex in front of half your freshman class than to screw his best friend? I won’t be putting that proud achievement on any college applications.

“I don’t think my mom would welcome any of the men I’ve been with inside this house.”

“Probably not, since they’re as old as her boyfriend,” I remind her.

Josie smacks her forehead. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. They broke up last week. Men suck.”

“How’s your mom?” I ask, genuinely concerned.

“She cried for a day. Then she put on some lipstick and met someone new.” Josie shrugs, but her words are tinged with cynicism. Like mother, like daughter. The Deckards employ a nonchalant attitude toward the “love ‘em and leave ‘em” philosophy followed by most men in Vegas. The ones who live there full time generally aren’t prime cuts of male. Not the single ones, anyway. And the rest of them are tourists whose presence is as fleeting as their luck.