Her hair was pinned in a glossy twist, and she carried herself with the quiet authority of someone used to attention, not the desperate, dramatic kind, but the natural, polished presence of a person who belonged in magazines, not high-school gyms. “Who is that?” a student whispered. “Is she famous?” another asked, eyes wide.
“She looks like she walked off a runway,” someone murmured near the punch bowl. Every head turned. Even the DJ lowered the volume by accident. Then Richard Hale walked in beside her. And the whispers changed instantly. “That’s… Richard?” a boy muttered, incredulous. “No way—that can’t be him,” a girl said, leaning forward for a better look.