Page 30 of Prince of the Palisades

“Almost there,” I tell Ajani.

“I’m so excited,” she deadpans.

I’m unbothered. There’s this anticipation vibrating through my bones. At seeing the record store. Being in a place my mom loved so much.

But the air is sucked from my lungs when I stand in front of Pacific Harmony.

Correction: theformerPacific Harmony.

The storefront is still there, but the inside is dark. The guts ripped out. Construction equipment is scattered all over the floor where Mom used to sit. On the door, a bubblegum-pink sign with blue lettering reads:

COMING SOON…YOGA & YOGURT!

“I don’t understand,” I say, throat tight. I recheck the address I found online. “It’s supposed to be right here.”

“The music shop?” An older Black woman in a cowboy hat pauses next to me. “Closed a month ago. Probably haven’t updated their business profile. The owners retired. Lovely couple. This neighborhood’s gonna miss ’em.”

Then she drifts away with the crowd.

I close my eyes, thumping my head against the glass door. “Ow. Fuck.”

While I sulk, Ajani stays silent. It’s one of my favorite thingsabout her. When I need to pout or scream or break things, she never intervenes. Even though she could. Papa probably thinks sheshould.

She knows I need to get whatever out of my system first.

After a moment, she says, “Would you like to go somewhere else?”

No, I want to say. I planned my entire Sunday around this. A day without Samuel advising new ways to improve my “likability stats.” Without Annika being everyone’s favorite for doing nothing but being photographed sipping boba. A day without overthinking what next week at Willow Wood is going to be like.

And now, when I look out at Santa Monica, all I see is a city where I still can’t escape this Shiny New Prince Jadon I’m expected to be.

All I see is…

A pair of bunny ears painted on a coffee bean. A green-and-peach awning. The shop from my first morning before school.

“My prince,” Ajani says, weary, “I don’t trust that face you’re making.”

I turn to her, grinning. “Caffeine break?”

The Hopper’s interior doesn’t disappoint. It’s like picking up your favorite book: the worn pages soft under your fingertips, the scent something no one can ever properly replicate.

Small circular tables frame the perimeter. Cozy armchairs fill out the center. All-white walls except for the one behind the espresso bar. It’s pastel pink withWelcome Homepainted inlarge black letters. Other than the soft strains of music playing overhead, the café is quiet and mostly empty.

Perfect. Caffeine and anonymity.

“New customer!”

At the front counter, a boy who can’t be older than ten grins broadly. His sponge-twisted curls are almost as tall as he is. Up close, I spot the mini-step stool he’s standing on to reach the digital register. There’s something familiar about his dark eyes, his light brown skin. Pinned to his black apron is a name tag:Dominic!

“Wow,” he gasps, blinking at Ajani. “Are you from a comic book?”

Ajani’s lips quirk the tiniest amount. I lean forward, whispering, “It’s a secret. Promise not to tell?”

Dominic nods eagerly. “Do you wanna order?”

“What do you recommend?”

His face brightens like the fairy lights strung around the letterboard menus. “The Dominic Special. Caramel iced coffee. Lots of cream. More caramel. Whipped cream and—”

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