Page 29 of Prince of the Palisades

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I nod once.

Instead of squeezing by Reiss—and risking that awkward moment where either my ass or crotch will be eye-level with his face—to ask the girls at the end to let me out, I mimic Karan’s earlier exit. But I’m not as coordinated. My foot gets caught between two seats. I pretend not to hear choked laughter as I stumble free. Is Reissgrinningat me almost faceplanting in front of everyone?

“Relax those ass cheeks,” Karan instructs. “Melanin dominance, remember?”

I collect myself, then nod again.

When I’m onstage, Dr. Garza Villa asks what part I’m reading for, making a note before telling me to start. The auditorium is cast in heavy shadows. But I know Reiss is watching.

I smile.

For all four minutes my audition takes, I think about whatAnnika suggested. About not being prince of Îles de la Réverie. The boy all over the news. The problem his parents are tired of fixing. I’m just a semi-normal boy going after something that won’t define or destroy him.

And it’s…nice.

A feeling I want more of.

6

THE FALL OF JALE

Ever since Réverie’s Prince Jadon and model/political son Léon Barnard split, fans of #JALE have been in mourning. Speculation behind the cause of their sudden breakup has been rampant. Here & Queer sat down with three prominent gossip bloggers to discuss their theories, the prince’s viral meltdown, and why his trip to America is a cry for help.

“My prince,” Ajani says, her tone just barely even, “are you sure this is the way?”

I bite a corner of my lip, looking down. My phone’s GPS claims we’re close. The place I’m searching for is two minutes away. But we’ve been walking for almost thirty. I can read the annoyed edge in Ajani’s eyes.

“Yup.” I nod. “Just around that corner.”

And another block. Maybe. I don’t usually travel by foot.

On cue, Ajani says, “Remind me again why we’re hiking instead of taking a car? Or ahelicopter?”

“I don’t want to draw any attention,” I reply. Ajani lifts an eyebrow as I turn around in a circle, trying to follow the uncooperative arrow on my screen. My face wrinkles. “Anyextraattention. If we show up in a bulletproof Rolls-Royce, what will people think?”

Ajani waves toward the hot pink Porsche zipping by us. “That we have class?”

“I don’t want to be noticed, okay?”

“Fine.” Ajani exhales. “Next time I’ll wear proper shoes.”

I grimace at her boots. “Sorry.”

It’s a nice day in Santa Monica. Buildings reflect golden arcs of sunlight onto the streets. Thick trees sprout through the sidewalks, providing ample shade. Most of the people are flooding in one direction: Third Street Promenade, a three-block shopping district nearby. We fight the tide the opposite way.

Since Annika wasn’tcompletelywrong about the play audition, I’ve decided to follow another one of her suggestions: exploring places Mom loved when she lived here. First stop is Pacific Harmony, a vintage music store. At least five of Nana’s photos featured Mom sitting on the shop’s floor, big headphones on, browsing through vinyls.

“Turn left,” the GPS instructs.

The area is semi-busy. Tourists wandering around, locals stopping at their favorite restaurants and cafés. We pass a shirtless guy with a guitar. Someone dressed in Sailor Moon cosplay. A pack of all-black-wearing goth kids, their faces painted like skulls.

LA is full of overachievers desperate to be noticed. I don’t want to be one of them.

In a shop’s window, I see my reflection. Face shiny with sweat, flat curls, my expression somewhere between annoyed and murderous. I’m the actual poop emoji minus the smile.

The crosswalk’s electronic voice repeats, “Walk! Walk!”

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