Leads to new conclusions

Back in her office, Principal Flowners was staring at her phone on an open page to create a profile on Hablo. She filled it in honestly, but before she could create an actual account, a WARNING popped up.

‘Please scan face to confirm age’

“Scan my face?” she said to herself. “This is ridiculous.” She tried to exit out, tried leaving the app and coming back in, but the only thing that would work is a picture. At least it wouldn’t be her profile picture; it was just to be used for age verification according to the warnings. Reluctantly she found a spot by her window and took a scowling picture at the camera. It nearly instantly gave her a warning:

‘NO ONE OVER 30 IS CURRENTLY ALLOWED ON THE APP’

No wonder it was so hip and cool, but oh well, she figured. Not worth the effort. I’ll find another way.

And she truly thought she would as she began her research on Hablo, but there was no research done on the strange app. No reports. Except one on a message board: “Hi, I’m a Principal in Southern California and recently my school was selected to beta test a new app and over the course of a year we lost a large portion of graduates as well as getting lower and lower scores. I’m out of options, can anyone help?”

The message was from last year and no one had replied.

Could my school be next?

She looked at the pill bottle again and grabbed it. Then she looked at the bar graph on her table. This would be for her students. She opened the bottle. No more than one pill, but one pill would make her slightly younger. She needed more than that. She could show Mrs. King that she would do anything to understand her students.

Without any more hesitation, she popped three pills and drank as much water as she could.

* * *

The drive home felt longer than usual. Principal Flowners kept both hands on the wheel and tried to focus on the familiar streets of her quiet neighborhood, the trimmed hedges and the empty driveway that always waited for her. By the time she pulled into the garage and stepped out of the car the first wave hit her a sudden lightness behind the eyes, a soft buzzing that made the edges of the world seem a little less sharp. She locked the door behind her, set her bag on the kitchen counter, and walked, dizzy, up through her living room and up to her bedroom. She was nauseous.

She moved through the house on autopilot, kicking off her shoes in the hallway, hanging her work jacket on the hook by the door. The silk sheets on her bed called to her already, but she forced herself to stay upright. In the bathroom she washed her face and looked at her reflection under the bright lights. Same blonde hair, same familiar lines around the mouth. Nothing had changed yet. She walked back into the living room and sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded in her lap the way she always did when she was about to address a faculty meeting. She didn’t want to go to bed, just in case she needed to drive somewhere. Her thoughts were busy no dreamlike as if she was trying to sleep with a fever except the visions here were memories of the past but they all blended together. She was a principal and she should act like it!

“Good afternoon, staff,” she said aloud to the empty room. Her voice sounded steady, professional, the voice of Principal Flowners of Fairmont High. “We have a situation with the new application known as Hablo. I expect every department head to submit a written report by Friday detailing classroom observations. Attendance, participation, any unusual phone activity during instructional time. We will not panic, but we will act.” She nodded to the silent television as if it were a row of attentive teachers. The buzzing behind her eyes grew warmer. She stood and paced the length of the rug the way she paced her office when decisions needed clarifying.

Wait. I’m no principal. I’m a teacher. That’s right! Stick to that, Abigail.

She was no longer addressing staff. She was standing in front of an imaginary classroom, an Amazon Fire Stick taking the place of her dry erase marker as she waved it around her empty house. “All right, seniors, eyes up here. The theme of isolation in modern literature is not just about physical distance. It’s about the choices we make that close doors we never meant to close.” She gestured at the blank wall where she imagined a white board. “Write me a paragraph connecting the protagonist’s decision to remain behind with the long-term consequences of that decision. Ten minutes. And no phones.” Her voice had taken on the slightly brighter cadence she used years ago when she still taught English before the administrative climb. The warmth in her head spread down into her shoulders. She felt younger for a moment, or at least lighter, as if the years of principal meetings had lifted off her spine. Even her blouse felt lighter.

She sat down hard on the couch again, heart beating a little faster. The house was too quiet. She tried to ground herself by listing the rooms: living room, kitchen, three empty bedrooms, the backyard pool with no leaves. The list helped for thirty seconds. Then the next wave arrived, stronger. Her skin prickled along her arms. She stood again and this time her posture changed completely, chin lifted, shoulders back, the bounce of someone who once led a squad onto a football field under Friday night lights. “Okay, ladies, positions! We hit the pyramid on the second eight-count and we stick it. No wobbling. The stands are full and the quarterbacks are watching. Let’s show them what Fairmont cheer looks like.” She clapped her hands twice, sharp and bright, the exact rhythm from 1990s practice. Her body wanted to jump. She actually rose onto the balls of her feet before catching herself against the arm of the couch. The room tilted for a second. She laughed, a short startled sound that belonged more to a teenage girl than to a fifty-year-old woman.

“Principal Flowners does not cheer,” she said firmly to the empty house, trying to reclaim the first role. “Principal Flowners runs a school of over one thousand students and maintains some of the highest scores in the state.” The words came out clear, but her legs felt unsteady. She walked to the kitchen for a glass of water, drank it in long gulps, and pressed the cool glass against her forehead. The feverish heat was rising now, not a full fever yet but the beginning of one, the kind that makes the skin feel too tight and the air too thick. She set the glass down and returned to the living room, determined to stay in control. On the way there, the larger blonde woman did a full cartwheel and landed it with her hands up.

Back on the couch the teacher voice took over her body once more, and the disorientation was growing. “Cody, eyes on your own paper. Leah, excellent thesis statement, now expand the analysis. Zayn, put the phone away or it’s mine until the end of the period.” She pressed her palms against her knees to stop the slight tremor that had started. The heat climbed higher into her neck and face. Sweat gathered at her hairline.

Another shift. She was the principal again, standing at an invisible podium. “Mrs. King, Mr. Johnson, I appreciate the urgency. The regressers remain locked in my drawer. I will not be experimenting further without proper oversight. Our students deserve stability, not impulsive decisions from their leadership.” She delivered the lines with the same measured tone she used in difficult parent conferences. Then the cheer captain voice cut through without warning. “One more time from the top! Smile bigger, girls. The whole school is counting on us to bring the energy. Five, six, seven, eight,” She moved her arms through the old motions, incomplete and shaky, and nearly lost her balance, but recovered by bending over and sticking her ass in the air, even shaking it for the first time since she left college. It felt surprisingly good.

The room felt warmer still. She sat down quickly, breathing harder.

I should go to bed. Sleep it off.

In the bedroom she sat on the edge of the mattress, still fighting the shifts. “I am Principal Abigail Flowners,” she said aloud, voice thinner now. “I am a teacher who cares about every student who walks through those doors. I am—” the cheer cadence slipped in, “the captain who never left a teammate behind.” The words tangled. Heat rolled through her in waves. She pulled the silk sheets back, laid down fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling. The alternating identities continued in softer fragments: a faculty memo she needed to draft, a lesson plan, a count of eight for the next stunt. Her eyes grew heavy. The feverish flush stayed, skin hot against the cool pillow, but the voices gradually slowed. She turned onto her side, still murmuring pieces of each role, until the last clear thought was simply that she had done this for the students, and then sleep took her.