“I’m sorry?”
He stepped closer.
“You’re Carla.”
She straightened.
“Yes. And I think this is inappropriate.”
He ignored her.
“I knew their mother,” he said.
He looked at me. Then at Noah.
“She volunteered here. Raised money here. And she talked constantly about the savings she left for her children. She wanted those kids protected.”
Carla’s face drained of color.
“This isn’t your business,” she snapped.
“It became my business,” the principal said calmly, “when I heard one of our students almost skipped prom because she was told there was no money for a dress.”
A ripple moved through the crowd.
He gestured toward me.
“Then I heard her younger brother made one by hand from their late mother’s jeans.”
Now everyone was staring.
Carla tried to laugh it off.
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