New Faces and Fraying Edges
Amanda Lehan-Canto prided herself on her professionalism. Her classroom was always immaculate, her lesson plans detailed down to the minute, and her students—even the most unruly seniors—knew better than to test her patience. Everything in her life, she believed, could be handled if she just worked hard enough.
That was how she'd been raised, after all. The daughter of two overachieving academics, Amanda had grown up in a house where excellence wasn't praised — it was expected. "Good" was never enough; there was always another trophy to win, another goal to surpass. As a child, she'd learned to find safety in structure, comfort in knowing that if she followed the rules, if she colored neatly inside every line, she would be loved.
By the time she reached adulthood, Amanda had perfected the art of being perfect. College on a full scholarship. A teaching job right out of grad school. A steady climb up the ranks to "teacher every parent requested." She married a man who looked right on paper: stable, kind, predictable. H worked in finance, wore loafers without irony, and sent her flowers every year on their anniversary.
For a while, Amanda believed that was enough.
But paper, she had learned, burns easily.
It started with little things. Silences that stretched too long. Dinners eaten with the TV as a third guest. Words they didn't say. Needs Amanda barely knew how to name, much less express. H wanted a life Amanda could never quite settle into—the suburban fantasy with the dog and the endless weekend barbecues. Amanda wanted… what, exactly? Something more. Something real.
And yet, she stayed. Because good girls stayed. Because divorce wasn't supposed to be something that happened to people like her, who scheduled date nights into their calendars and bought self-help books with titles like "The Five Love Languages."
She adjusted the stack of essays on her desk for the third time that afternoon, a nervous tick she couldn't shake. The hollow ring of her wedding band against the desk’s surface made her wince. She wanted to take it off. She wanted to leave it exactly where it was.
She wanted a lot of things she didn't have the words for yet.
"Staff meeting in five," a voice sang from the doorway.
Amanda looked up, already bracing herself for another discussion about budget cuts or standardized testing scores. What she hadn't braced for was—
Angela Giarratana.
The new counselor leaned casually against the doorframe, clutching an iced coffee that seemed ludicrously optimistic for February. Her dark hair was swept into a loose bun, strands falling around her face in a way that looked artless but somehow perfect. Her sweatshirt—'Licensed Chaos Coordinator' printed in bold letters—made Amanda’s eye twitch.
"Five minutes, Ms. Lehan-Canto," Angela repeated, grinning like they shared some private joke.
"Thank you," Amanda said tightly, turning back to her papers as if dismissing her.
But Angela didn't leave right away. She wandered into the room, eyes skimming the bookshelves, the posters Amanda had meticulously straightened that morning.
"Your kids must love this room," she said, nodding toward the windows, the rows of tidy desks. "Feels like someone actually gives a damn."
Amanda blinked, unsure how to respond. Compliments—real ones—always unsettled her more than criticisms.
"It's important to have structure," Amanda said stiffly.
Angela hummed, noncommittal. "Sure. But it's also important they know someone sees them."
Before Amanda could reply, Angela flashed another easy grin and strolled out into the hall, leaving behind a faint trail of vanilla and something else Amanda couldn't quite name.
Amanda stared after her, unsettled.
New counselors were supposed to be meek, eager-to-please types, terrified of upsetting the established teachers. Angela—with her smug smile, her sweatshirt, her unsettling way of seeing things—was not going to make Amanda's life easier.
Wonderful.
Amanda gathered her papers and headed toward the staff lounge, every step heavy with dread. She didn't have the time or energy to deal with someone like Angela Giarratana.
And yet, deep down, in a part of her heart she wasn't ready to look at yet—
She hoped, desperately, that she was wrong.