Page 57 of Prince of the Palisades

Léon was never like this—so open. Vulnerable. We’re sons of powerful figures. Our walls are built so high, sometimes we couldn’t see the sun. Or each other.

He’d let me talk for hours about the things I hated, what I wished was different, but he rarely shared his own struggles.He was great at deflecting. Maybe he was better at being a royal than me too.

Our waitress refills our water glasses, head tilted as she looks at me, then Reiss. Wordlessly, she slips back inside.

“Anyway.” Reiss sighs. “Lo helped me dye my hair green. Then bright red. Now pink. I gave everyone at school another reason to stare. Other than my skin color.” He smirks. “Also, fuck them. I look amazing.”

“Now who’s the confident one?”

“Can’t help facts.” He leans in. “Or maybe you’re just rubbing off on me.”

Silence again. I see the moment he realizes what he said. The big eyes, drooping mouth. I burst into laughter. Even Ajani chokes on her water.

“That’s it.” I snatch his Mexican Coke away from him. “No more. You’re cut off.”

Under the table, his ankle crosses over mine. He presses firmly. “What if I’m not ready to go home?”

That instant charge from the photo booth returns.

I clear my throat. “Then don’t.”

I don’t know if I’m talking to him. Or myself.

Do I want to stay?

I never answer that question. Night creeps over the pier. Our time is winding down. Reiss’s parents don’t have a strict curfew, but they still want him home at a reasonable hour. We climb back toward Ocean Avenue with the same reluctant energy.

My phone pings. A message from Samuel. I ignore it, but my eyes catch on the date:

October 12. Tomorrow is Reiss’s birthday.

“Shit,” I hiss, reality sinking in. We stutter to a stop. My eyes scan around, Ajani shifting into position as if I’ve spotted a threat, ready to use her stuffed Pokémon as a weapon. But that’s not it. I say to Reiss, “Can you wait right here? I forgot something.”

He frowns.

“It’ll be only a minute,” I promise.

“Sure” is barely across his lips before I signal Ajani to follow me. We hastily move through the crowd. Back to the pier. There are even more bodies than earlier. I almost trip over a group taking selfies in front of theRoute 66sign.

I don’t know where I’m headed until I see a yellow shop with a blue and white awning and a neon sign:Funnel Cakes.

If Papa saw me here, buying a plate of greasy fried dough instead ofbaking something, he’d exile me to a place far worse than California. It’s a poor substitute for a real cake. But I’m working with very little resources.

“Cake,” I announce, breathless, when I reach Reiss again. “Kind of.”

A beat. Reiss blinks at the golden dough buried under powdered sugar. Eventually, his lips tip into an intrigued smile.

“Is this for…my birthday?”

I nod. “A valid interpretation, right?”

He laughs. “It’s the thought that counts.”

We share the chewy lump. It’s not as mouthwatering as anything Reiss has treated me to, so far. The weird mix of too much oil and even more sugar leaves my throat dry. But hedoesn’t complain. He beams, and I do too, absorbed in his world.

InhisSanta Monica.

Nearby, outside Palisades Park, an amateur rapper/singer duo mashes up Nas’s classic “If I Ruled the World” with that “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” song I hear everywhere. There’s powdered sugar on Reiss’s nose. On my hands too. I dust them off, then step forward.

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