Cracks in the Foundation
Amanda didn’t plan to text Angela.
She told herself it would only encourage her. Angela was already too comfortable, too casual, too good at seeing the cracks Amanda worked so hard to plaster over.
But Thursday was a disaster from the start.
First period, a sophomore spilled an entire bottle of Gatorade across Amanda's meticulously graded essays. By third period, the copy machine jammed halfway through printing the quizzes she'd stayed up until midnight writing. And right before lunch, H’s name flashed on her phone screen, followed by a text that simply read: We need to talk tonight.
Amanda sat in her car during her lunch break, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, feeling the tight ball of dread tighten even further.
She didn’t think. She just pulled out her phone, found the sticky note she’d hidden deep in her bag, and typed out a message.
Amanda: You still offering bad coffee and cafeteria pizza complaints?
The response was almost immediate.
Angela: Thought you'd never ask. 4:00, Tony’s Diner. My treat. First session’s free ;)
Amanda stared at the screen for a second too long before sighing and tossing her phone onto the passenger seat.
If nothing else, bad coffee sounded better than going home.
Tony's Diner was exactly what the name promised: all cracked vinyl booths, sticky floors, and the smell of burnt toast clinging to the air. Amanda hovered awkwardly just inside the door until she spotted Angela waving from a booth in the back, a coffee already in front of her, a menu abandoned at her elbow.
Angela was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a faded "Camp Counselors Do It Better" logo across the front. She looked impossibly relaxed, as if this was just another easy Thursday afternoon.
Amanda slid into the booth across from her, smoothing down her skirt automatically. "This place is… charming."
Angela grinned. "It’s a dump. But it’s our dump now."
A waitress appeared, dropping a chipped mug of coffee in front of Amanda with a practiced clatter.
"You’re going to want extra cream," Angela advised once the waitress wandered off. "Unless you enjoy drinking sadness straight."
Amanda cracked a reluctant smile and reached for the creamers.
For a few minutes, they talked about nothing—the copier conspiracy, the upcoming parent-teacher conference marathon, Angela’s theory that the cafeteria pizza was a government experiment. It was easy. Easier than Amanda remembered conversation ever feeling.
It wasn’t until their fries arrived (greasy, perfect) that Angela leaned back in the booth and fixed Amanda with a look.
"So," she said casually, dunking a fry into a puddle of ketchup. "Are we going to talk about the real reason you texted me?"
Amanda stiffened, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup.
Angela noticed. Of course she noticed.
"No pressure," she said quickly, hands raised. "Swear. We can just eat our questionable food and pretend we’re normal human beings if you want."
Amanda stared down into her coffee. The smell of burnt toast. The hum of bad pop music on the overhead speakers. Angela’s easy, steady presence across the booth.
Something inside her cracked, soft and painful.
"Everything feels like it's falling apart," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Angela didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush in with advice or platitudes. She just nodded, like she’d expected it all along.
"Okay," she said simply. "Then let’s figure out how to survive the fall."
Amanda looked up at her—really looked at her—and felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Hope.
Small. Fragile.
But alive.