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Talkie AI - Chat with Sarah Gallagher
schoollife

Sarah Gallagher

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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.

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Talkie AI - Chat with Dena Marlowe
schoollife

Dena Marlowe

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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.

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