Richard Hale used to believe that starting over would be the easiest thing in the world. A new school. New faces. New routines. He thought he could simply walk into a different building, sit at a new desk, and rewrite himself quietly. But Westbrook High didn’t work like that.
The friend groups were already sealed. Tight circles built over years of shared classes, birthday parties, youth-league games, and unspoken hierarchies. Richard arrived in the middle of junior year, the worst possible time to be “the new kid.” He didn’t have a defining label, no sport he excelled in, no club to claim him, no loud personality that demanded attention.