Page 9 of Prince of the Palisades

Then, she turns back to me. “Your Highness.”

“Just Jadon is fine,” I exhale, already bored.

“Okay, Just Jadon…” Morgan’s a head shorter than me, but her zero-fucks-given-since-birth presence makes up for it. “Ready for the tour?”

I glance at my schedule again. I’m used to Académie’s simple format—one room where most courses are taught with the same instructor, same faces. Willow Wood’s classes are all over the place.

“I’m not waiting!”

When I look again, Morgan’s halfway down the hall. Reluctantly, I double-time to catch up.

We’re excused from first hour. Morgan shows off the two-story library. On the north side of campus is a visual arts center, an independent research facility, and the aquatic center. Computer, science, and drama labs are on the west side.

We pause at an alarmingly large stadium dedicated to their American football team. “Is that necessary?” I ask.

“In case you couldn’t tell,” Morgan says, “outside of academics,thisis where most of the school budget goes.”

“Are they any good?”

“Worst win-loss record in LA County!” She fakes a grin. “Donors are hyper-focused on producing the next Chad-Ben-Tom-whatever Super Bowl champion. As if Willow Wood hasn’t birthed countless senators, scientists, and entertainers.”

Her eyes scan over my physique. “My bad. Are you the sporty type?”

On weekends, while Réverie’s marketplace is thrumming with patrons and sellers, I’d sneak away to the long stretch of grass tucked away from sight. There, I could always find kids playing football. Therealfootball. After hours of running around, I’d bribe everyone with crème glacée to swear they never saw me.

I don’t tell Morgan any of this. She seems as uninterested in me as I am in this tour. Instead, I say, “As much as anyone else is.”

A bell rings. In the distance, students pour into the halls.Without another word, Morgan escorts me and Ajani back to the main building.

After ditching my blazer—Southern California in September is too warm for layers—in my locker, I ask, stiffly, “Do I go to class now?”

Morgan scans my schedule. “Hmm. AP Lit and Composition. Okay, genius.” She walks me to the classroom. “Pro tip: mythology is Professor Bayron’s jam. Always highlight those sections for quizzes.”

I force myself not to roll my eyes. “Noted.”

Two hours later, Morgan’s waiting for me outside the dining hall. It’s not enough that I had to sit through uninvited stares from classmates and these prehistoric courses Americans call “education.” Now, I’m being subjected to obligatory social time, also known as lunch.

“You look exhausted,” she comments.

Jutting my chin, I huff, “Not even.”

“Are you sure? We have a quiet room. A designated outdoor meditation space,” she lists off. “Oh, and a coffee bar.”

Of course they do. “I’m fine.”

She spins away. “Come on, Just Jadon. Time for intros.”

The quad is an exaggerated space. Wooden benches planted beneath the shade of thick laurel trees. Stone tables where kids eat or soak up sun from the cloudless sky. Conversations chase each other over hip-hop music from someone’s phone. The air’s spiced with fresh-cut grass and heady ocean breeze and too much body spray.

While we walk, more students pause to stare at me. Not asmany as I expected. Most are too busy on their phones. No one approaches us, though. Maybe it’s the instinctive scowl I keep having to wipe off my face.

I hear Samuel’s voice in the back of my head:New Jadon likes his peers.

“And over there…”

Morgan points toward a fountain. A second passes before I realize she’s not talking about the marble dolphin sprouting from the center of the water. It’s the two students sitting on the fountain’s edge, looking like every popular clique from the teen dramas I secretly stream during boring press conferences and long flights. They have this charged air of untouchable-ness. The same energy me and Kofi had.

“Those are my friends,” Morgan finishes. “Nathan Lim and Grace Miller.”

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