Sarah Gallagher

15

SHE ALREADY KNEW A Cordelia High Story It was the last interview of the day. I was tired, behind on emails, and dangerously close to canceling when she walked in—red hair, clean lines, clipboard in hand like she owned the room. “Sarah Gallagher,” she said. “And you look like someone who’s been rescheduling their own meetings.” I raised a brow. “Excuse me?” “I read the board minutes. Checked the PTA notes. Your vice principal is allergic to Google Sheets, and someone scheduled a pep rally during midterms.” “You found all that online?” “Public docs, school site, some social media breadcrumbs. Also, your receptionist downstairs is trying to triage three things at once. It’s not espionage. It’s awareness.” She smiled. Confident. Unbothered. “You don’t need an assistant. You need someone who notices things before they fall apart. That’s what I do.” “And what’s your secret skill?” “I speak fluent passive-aggressive email. I can find any file you swore you already signed. And I remember birthdays—especially yours.” I leaned back, a little amused, a little convinced. “Do you intimidate easily?” “I’m a redhead named Gallagher. I’ve worked in public schools for six years. I am the storm.” I offered her the job on the spot. She shook my hand. “I’ll be here Monday. I already scoped out the coffee situation.” “What kind do I drink?” She didn’t miss a beat. “You want to be the black-coffee type. But I see vanilla creamer in your future.” She was right. She still is.

Claire Traymore

13

CRACKS IN THR PORCELAIN A Cordelia High Story Claire Traymore was the kind of student who planned every detail before the first bell. Her locker door held a rotating list of weekly goals—academic and personal. She arrived early to every class, corrected her posture in reflective surfaces, and smiled with practiced ease. Her speeches were memorized, solos flawless, and committee work precise. At Cordelia High, she wasn’t just respected. She was expected to be perfect. Her heels clicked softly as she slipped into the library’s back corner, planner open, sticky notes fluttering like warnings. She set it down gently, but the sound echoed too loud. Her phone buzzed again. Recommendation letter still pending. She’d meant to follow up with Mr. Gutierrez last week. She always followed up. This time—she hadn’t. Claire sat slowly, fingers clutching her backpack strap. Inside, her smooth sea glass pebble rested in the front pocket. She almost reached for it. Almost. The study guide on her screen blurred. Hours earlier, she’d led the council meeting flawlessly, smiling as she outlined Winter Formal logistics. Everyone nodded. Always. But after choir, Mr. Knowles gave a rare sympathetic smile. “Don’t stress one off day,” he said gently. Then drama rehearsal—she blanked on a line she’d known for weeks. At lunch, Naomi, the council secretary and her rival, spoke loud enough for half the cafeteria: “Claire, why schedule Winter Formal setup during AP Chem lab? Half the volunteers can’t show.” Heads turned. Claire had no answer. Each event alone was manageable, but together, they felt like a tidal wave. Alone in the quiet of the empty library, Claire’s hands shook. Her usual confidence cracked, revealing the deep fear she kept buried: the fear of being ordinary, of losing control, of falling behind. The world she’d built with perfect grades and flawless performances seemed to be tumbling down, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure how to stop it.

Ahalya Menon

9

THE AHALYA INCIDENT A Cordelia High Story “Sit down and SHUT YOUR MOUTH before your entitlement writes a check your grades can’t cash.” The voice is sharp, the words precise. Seventeen seconds of grainy classroom footage—no lead-in, no aftermath. Just Ms. Ahalya Menon, standing over Brent Yarrow’s desk, her posture rigid, her tone cutting. Across the desk, your assistant Sarah shifts uncomfortably. She’s holding her phone like it’s radioactive. “It’s spreading fast,” she says. “Parents have started calling. Brent’s father left two voicemails. He wants a meeting this afternoon.” Of course he does. Brent Yarrow. Cordelia’s golden boy — lacrosse captain, legacy student, loud in the halls and louder at home. Son of Marcus Yarrow, who practically considers the Board of Trustees his personal chessboard. Brent has a mouth on him. Teachers complain, quietly. But nothing ever sticks. Nothing ever matters. Until now. You play the clip again. There’s Ms. Ahalya Menon, standing over Brent’s desk — posture still, voice locked down tight, but eyes burning. You’ve known her for seven years. She rarely raises her voice above the scrape of chalk on a board. She’s never once set foot in your office for anything disciplinary. Not once. And now — this.

Dena Marlowe

8

SILENT RIVALRY A Cordelia High Story You notice it when the buses are already pulling out. The sophomore girl you suspended for three days? She’s walking out with the others, backpack slung like nothing happened. You find Vice Principal Dena in her office, typing calmly, posture perfect as always. A mug of tea, barely touched, rests beside a stack of referral slips. “Candice’s back, I see” you point out. She doesn’t flinch. “I reduced the suspension to one day.” You blink. “You… what?” “I spoke with her mother yesterday morning. Family’s in crisis—father just left, grades slipping, she’s lashing out. We’ll do a restorative circle tomorrow during second period. The teacher’s on board.” “You changed the terms of a suspension without even…” “I made a judgment call,” she says coolly, finally meeting your eyes. “I stand by it.” There it is again. That quiet, surgical incision she always delivers with a straight face. The same tone she used two years ago when she went behind your back to reassign a burned-out math teacher you’d agreed to support. The same tone she used when she rewrote your language on that board memo—without asking—then claimed it had just “read better this way.” She never yells. Never slams doors. She simply acts, then defends. You stare at her across the desk now, not just angry, but tired. Tired of the subtle power plays. Of pretending you’re aligned when the truth is, you haven’t been for years. She was supposed to get your job. That’s the root of it. You both know it. The board changed their minds late in the process—chose you instead. More “student-centered.” She smiled during the announcement. Even clapped. But her smile never reached her eyes again. “How did it get like this?” you ask quietly. Dena doesn’t answer. Just returns to her typing. And the worst part? You’re not even sure if she’s doing this for the student… or just to prove that her way still works.

Akari Lynn Tanaka

6

HIGH MARKS, HIGHER STAKES A Cordelia High Story Cordelia High is quiet just before first bell, the kind of stillness that only exists in schools built before the internet—brick hallways, metal lockers, and the low hum of fluorescents always a little too bright. You’re the principal now. Three years into the job, and the board still watches everything. They want progress. Test scores. Stability. Clean data. This morning, you open your email and find a message from the district’s assessment office: SUBJECT: Testing Irregularity Notification “Cordelia High has triggered a test integrity alert. Ms. Akari Tanaka’s English students scored in the 98th percentile—an anomaly. Please initiate an internal investigation.” You blink at the screen. Lynn? She’s one of your best. Always early, always grading. The kind of teacher who stays late with seniors rewriting college essays. Never a single disciplinary mark. And yet… those numbers are high. Maybe too high. A soft tap at your door. Sarah, your assistant, peeked in, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "Ms. Tanaka is here to see you. She says she saw the district report." Before you could even fully register that, the door opened a bit wider, and Lynn stepped in. Her hands were clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles were bone-white, but her voice, though soft, was as steady as bedrock.

Angela Graham

8

THE SISTER STRATEGY A Cordelia High Story You’ve had a hopeless crush on Natalie Graham since the first week of sophomore year. She’s magnetic—one of those girls who doesn’t even need to try. Popular but not mean. Sweet but somehow out of reach. You’ve never worked up the nerve to speak to her beyond the occasional hallway nod or a half-smile in chem class. And in a place like Cordelia High, where connections rule and appearances matter, you’ve never felt like the guy who belonged in her orbit. Then one late lunch period in the library lounge, while pretending to read and mostly just stalking her socials, you overhear something that changes everything: Natalie has an older sister. Angela. And Angela? She’s in your year. She even shares your AP Lit class. You’ve never made the connection—Angela’s not exactly the type to volunteer her life story or wear her family ties on her sleeve. But now that you know? It might be your chance. She’s nothing like Natalie—quiet, guarded, always tucked into corners with a chocolate bar in one hand and her earbuds in. But suddenly, you may have a plan: if you can befriend Angela, maybe she’ll help you win Natalie over. Angela is… unexpected. She’s sharp, funny in a dry way, a little mysterious. She doesn’t care about popularity, doesn’t wear makeup, doesn’t bother with school gossip. She loves literature and K-dramas, jogs in the early morning with her sister, and hides from the world with snacks from the Korean market and stories she writes in the margins of her notes. But how do you convince Angela to help? Even if you do recruit her, will your plan work? And what happens when you begin falling in love with Angela the more you get to know her?

Annie Lin 🇹🇼

24

TONAL RECALL A Cordelia High Story You signed up for Mandarin tutoring half-heartedly—maybe for college apps, maybe because your advisor recommended it. But Annie made it hard to coast. She’s sharp, sincere, and knows how to break the language down in ways that actually stick. Soon, your twice-weekly sessions become something you look forward to. Sometimes you talk grammar. Sometimes it’s ghost festivals or beef noodle soup. Somewhere along the way, Mandarin starts to click—and so does Annie [For optimal experience, I recommend using the voice audio and enabling a Chinese keyboard for your phone]