Page 37 of Prince of the Palisades

“Costume shopping after school?” Grace prompts.

I avoid looking in Reiss’s direction. Instead, I tug my buzzing phone from my pocket. A reminder pops up.

My face wrinkles. “Can’t. I have a meeting with Headmaster Parker.”

She shrugs, hooking arms with Morgan. “Your loss.”

But it’s not.

Don’t get me wrong, Headmaster Parker’s proposition to spend my afternoon recording an advertisement for Willow Wood sounds tedious. The kind of publicity stunt deeply beneath an heir to the throne. But I go along with it because she’s so earnest about the potential.

“Imagine how many kids will want to come here,” she says, eyes glittery, “when they see a prince likeyouin our promotional video.”

I go along with it because of what Grace said earlier:

She’s been good for this school. Even if people disagree.

I go along with it because the moment I walk into the hallway where we’re shooting the advertisement, my pulse quickens at who is behind the camera.

Crooked grin. Crinkled dark eyes. Sunrise-pink hair.

“Oh.” Headmaster Parker starts. “You two already know each other?”

Did my helpless smile give it away?

“Yup,” Reiss answers, stepping closer. “I’m a big fan.”

I snort, then clear my throat. “Nice to see you again.”

“So formal,” Reiss whispers. “Thanks for doing this. It’ll earn me extra credit in my Video Art I class.”

“Anything for y—for the arts.”

Headmaster Parker claps, satisfied. “Wonderful! Reiss is one of our brightest rising film students. I trust him. You’re in great hands.”

My gaze drifts downward. Long fingers, soft knuckles. Absently, I lick my lips. Reiss’s cheeks pinken. Headmaster Parker is oblivious to the exchange.

“I’ll leave you two to it.” Then, she’s gone.

Reiss swallows. “Shall we?”

Other than the Canon and tripod, I don’t know the names of the equipment being used. Reiss spends a few minutes testing each one. Adjusting the lighting. Using headphones to check the audio. From behind the camera, he tries to direct me into position near a row of lockers, but I’m either too far to the right or too left or out of focus.

Sighing, he steps over and around equipment until we’re face-to-face. His hands raise, fingers gripping my shoulders.

“Move…right…here.”

“Is this just an excuse for you to touch me?”

He pauses abruptly. “What? N-no. You weren’t following my directions.”

“They weren’t clear.”

His hands fall away. I force myself not to sulk. His grip was firm, confident, tingles-up-my-spine inducing.

“How about this?” He backs away, exasperated. “Don’t move. Stand here, smile big, and look pretty until we’re done.”

As he stomps away, I say, “So you think I’m pretty?”

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