Page 121 of Prince of the Palisades

We both frown.

I hate that word:outsider. Another way of saying someone doesn’t belong. Who gets to decide whether this wasn’t someone else’s place all along? Why should anyone gatekeep someone else’s joy or peace?

“When Anni and you came along,” Mom says, her voice turning fond, “I did my best. I wasn’t Long Beach’s Ava Gilbert. Or USC’s Ava Gilbert. I was someone else.”

Her eyes turn to the palace.

“I know you tried to protect me from the prime minister.” She sucks air through her teeth, a move some might consider unroyal. Not queenlike. But it makes me think of Nana’s photos. The fearless Ava Gilbert I want to know. “But I’ve dealt with his type before. His words don’t hurt me. I’m strong. It’s my job to protectyou. So you never feel…different.”

Another word that screws up her face, like a bad taste in her mouth.

“Mom,” I say on a long breath, “I’ve always felt different.”

She frowns again.

“Not because of you,” I clarify. “I never felt Réverian enough. I’m not the kind of prince they’re used to. It was the same in America. I wasn’t the right kind of person. I didn’t belong.”

“Canelé.”

“I’m too angry. Or I don’t smile enough. Too stubborn. Too gay—”

When I freeze, Mom squints. “There’s no such thing. But we’ll circle back to that later.”

My shoulders sag. “Everyone thinks I act like—”

“A teenager?” she volunteers. “That’s what you are. That’s what I saw when you spoke to me and Papa yesterday. A boy.”

I try to hide my embarrassed face behind my hands. Mom pulls them down to look into my eyes.

“Canelé, you’re supposed to be messy. Sometimes difficult. Imperfect.” Sadness pours over her face. “This world treats you like a man instead of allowing you to be a boy. They treatall Black children that way. Expecting excellence. Perfection. To grow up before you should.”

Her eyes close, a tear clinging to her eyelashes. “We failed you,” she says, voice breaking. “Ifailed you.”

When she blinks, I stare at her, lost.

“It wasn’t Papa who suggested you stay in America,” she sighs. “It was me.”

I let out a choked, surprised noise. “You?”

For months, I blamed Papa. His stiff tone. Unbending attitude toward everything. I used any excuse to direct my anger at him. But it was Mom’s idea to keep me away from home.

“Why?” I ask.

“I wanted you to figure yourself out,” she explains. “To have the freedom to discover yourself. Like I did at your age. And after high school. All through college.”

This time, her laugh is wet, but her smile is big.

“Jadon, I fucked up so many times, your nana started making bets with the church ladies on when I’d call her for bail money.”

“Mom!”

She snorts. “But my parents were there for me. Every single time. That’s where me and Papa failed. We shouldn’t have abandoned you.” She squeezes my hand. “We should’ve loved you even when you were difficult.”

I let out a tight, shaky breath. She gives me space to process.

“It helped,” I confess. “I needed to be away. To—how’d you put it? Fuck up?”

Wind sweeps curls across her cheek. She tucks thembehind her ear, smirking like she’s not going to scold me, but also not to test her patience.

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