Page 2 of Gilt

Mr. Hunter has apparently read Dickens because he presses his lips together in disbelief. He probably watched the movie, too, but he doesn’t push my tardiness. I slump in my seat as he starts a discussion on whether or not Pip’s benefactor did him a favor. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo that it is the last day of school. Since I thought the story was stupid—a poor kid trying to impress a rich girl—I stare at the wood paneling some board member sprung for during the academy’s renovation. The result is all Vegas. Oak paneling, bookcases full of dusty leather-bound volumes—a show meant to trick over-qualified teachers and elite college recruiters into thinking that the students here are as competitive as east coast prep students.

Growing up in Belle Mère, I know the truth. All that glitters isn’t gold.

“Miss West?” Mr. Hunter calls across the room to a blonde with her back turned to him, catching my attention.

Monroe West glances over her shoulder and stares at him like she’s waiting for him to answer. Her Jimmy Choo’s probably cost a week of his pay, and she knows it. Who said our priorities aren’t in place at Belle Mère Prep? But when you’re a West, doors open for you. Just not Southerly doors. After Monroe put a pink streak in her hair, Clark County ran out of dye for two months. Girls drove to Los Angeles to get theirs done, and by the time they had their appointments, she’d moved on. Her latest look is more Miami than pop star, with bright citrus hues. She’s a step ahead of the game. With her daddy’s money and her latest stint on reality TV, wannabe designers are falling all over themselves to send her clothes. It’s more proof that life isn’t fair. The girl could buy anything she wants, and she doesn’t even have to. But it’s not class warfare that has her on my blacklist. No, she’s earned her spot and then some.

“Do you have thoughts on the question?” he prompts her when she doesn’t respond.

“Of course, he did him a favor. Everyone wants money. I’d rather be dead than poor.” She flicks her bleached locks over her shoulder and returns to her previous conversation.

A snort escapes me, and they both turn to stare. Acknowledging Monroe said something is akin to drawing a line in the sand. Generally, I stick to cold war tactics like pretending she doesn’t exist. It’s better for my sanity, but maybe the fact that I won’t have to see her for three months is encouraging a little confrontation.

Mr. Hunter crosses his arms over his tweed jacket like a nerdy referee. “It seems Emma has some thoughts on the subject.”

“Yes.” Actual thoughts. “There are so many worse things than being poor like being sick or smug or conceited. I think he knows that. Money doesn’t equal happiness.” At least Ethan Hawke didn’t seem very happy in the movie, I add silently.

Monroe flips her tan middle finger at me behind Hunter’s back.

“Or class,” I add dryly.

She smirks, showcasing how well her coral lipstick matches her manicure. But all evidence of her addition to our debate disappears as soon as Mr. Hunter looks at her. I don’t bother to listen as he tries to engage more students in the discussion. It might be Belle Mère policy to educate us until the last possible moment, but we took finals last week. Reading Dickens was the English Department’s idea of an end-of-the-year treat. Old Charles would be disappointed to know that we’ve all checked out, counting the hours until today’s final bell heralds the start of summer vacation. Or in my case, summer servitude haggling with gambling addicts over baseball cards and old records. Despite that, this is our version of New Year’s Eve as we watch the clock and wait for liberation from one more year.

“If anyone hasn’t finished reading, please take your copy with you this summer. The school can afford the loss,” Mr. Hunter informs us as the bell rings.

Everyone abandons their unwanted Dickens novels on their desks as they stampede out of the classroom.

“Emma,” Hunter calls before I get to the door. “You’re signed up for AP Lit next year, right?”

I nod, chewing on my lip as the hallway fills with students. Contrary to today’s tardiness, I hate being late. There’s not much I can control in my life but my punctuality.

“I’ll send you the reading list over email. I look forward to having you in class again next fall. Take the book with you.”

Translation: he’s thrilled that the whole class won’t be filled with Housers. Kids who are set to inherit casinos and clubs don’t have much interest in literature. “Me too.”

I dash into the hallway before he can continue the conversation. Hunter is fine but I’ll tackle the reading when I visit Mom in Palm Springs next month. Right now, I want to get to class and finish out this day, so I can leave the worst year of my life behind.

The texts start just after lunch. I sneak a few replies but there’s nothing I can do while I’m in class. Dad didn’t show to the shop, which is a surprise to no one except his manager Jerry, who is possibly more sheep than man. He needs someone to follow, so without Dad he’s lost. By three, Dad is still MIA. I guess it wasn’t coffee in his cup this morning. If I’m lucky our next month’s mortgage isn’t currently riding on number fourteen.

Jerry: Can you come in?

Emma: Nope. Plans.

With a half dozen unfinished television seasons.

Jerry: At least you’ll be here on Monday.

And for the rest of my life. Families stick together in Vegas no matter what cards are dealt to them. I’m not stupid enough to believe I’ll get out. Here the House always wins and puts you right back in your place.

Another text arrives, this one from mom. Apparently, I’m expected at brunch in the morning. My one weekend off before the drudgery of a summer job is quickly being taken over by everyone else. I stuff my phone into my bag and allow myself to enjoy exiting Belle Mère Prep. It’s a short-lived pleasure, but then again, most are. Outside the parking lot is a sea of convertibles with their tops down. Apparently, it was drive mommy’s mid-life crisis to school day. Funny, I don’t remember that being on the school announcements.

“We are seniors!” Josie shrieks, lunging toward me as soon as I’m down the front steps. I accept the hug because Josie is a hugger, and if, after seventeen years, she hasn’t figured out that I’m not, it’s a lost cause.

Over her wild mop of hair, a familiar set of brown eyes flickers my way. I pull back in time to spot Jonas taking Monroe’s hand. Between his lanky form and dark hair and her platinum locks and petite, swimsuit model body, they’re a perfect contrast to one another.

Belle Mère’s power couple.

Everyone who is anyone wants to be them. Me? I’ll admit it. I just want to be her. Maybe since I used to be the one holding his hand.