Simone cut through every yellow light, threading her way back through the Caldecott Tunnel, back to the sunshine and her home in safe Talaveras, fifteen miles east of Oakland. She stabbed the lock to her condo and felt the relief of the paroled prisoner when she slammed the door shut behind her. Then she hurled her purse against the wall. No way she belonged at Oakhell. She would call Kathleen, her principal, and demand she be allowed to return to her classroom where she belonged. Her students were twenty-first century kids; they understood stress. It was 10:13. The students would be changing classes for two more minutes, Kathleen patrolling the halls. In five minutes she’d call.

She paced the one room that, with the bathroom, constituted her home. Breathing hard, she realized the place smelled like rotten broccoli. The reason sat on the stove. The plants in the kitchen windows drooped, begging for water. Dirty dishes tottered in the sink, and trash erupted from the wastebaskets. She’d been a neat person ever since she was old enough to demand her diaper be changed. How had she let her place get so filthy? Even the ceramic mask collection on one wall looked dirty. She would clean that very day. Everything. Even if it took all night. It was not like, at age forty, she had other evening plans.

If only Michael hadn’t moved out, hadn’t moved to Los Angeles to become a rich and famous screenwriter. She would have gone with him, even though it would have meant giving up her teaching job, not to mention this freshly bought condo, but he hadn’t wanted her. She had watched herself turn thirty-eight, then thirty-nine with him, convinced that if she just loved Michael a little harder he would happily marry her.

She needed a plan. She would spend at least four nights a week researching potential suitors on Match.com or meeting up with them for drinks. And she would throw herself into her students, who liked and needed her. If she didn’t have children of her own, at least she had that. When Carl, one of her best students, had cried over his first low grade on Monday, he had somehow triggered her own hysterical tears. One minute she was in the hallway comforting him, assuring him he was bright and talented and didn’t have to be perfect, and the next she was collapsed at her desk sobbing. She didn’t understand that, but it didn’t really matter because all that mattered now was what she did from here on.

She grabbed the phone to call her principal, Kathleen, who sounded as if she was speaking from the distant end of a long pipe. Though she seemed reluctant, when Simone mentioned filing a grievance against her, Kathleen agreed to see her that afternoon. Simone then put in a call for the benefits counselor to get a referral for a therapist in order to satisfy Kathleen’s demand she get help. Unfortunately the benefits counselor, who had referred her to Oakhill, was out for the day, but she wouldn’t need to tell Kathleen that. If only her skirt hadn’t slid up when Meghan had had to guide her to the office. If only Meghan and Kathleen hadn’t seen all the lines she’d cut on her thighs.

After several hours of triumphant cleaning, Simone redid her fingernails, choosing polish to go with the powder blue dress, which would brighten her eyes and make her look like the accomplished professional she was. In the bathroom she reapplied eyeliner with a surgeon’s care. She made herself look frankly at the razor blade she’d last used to cut herself two days before. It rested in a small pool of water in the seashell-shaped soap holder.

Cutting was something else she had to change. Gingerly she rubbed her finger across the cold blade and considered using it, one last good cut. No. She slid the blade into the discard slot of the small blue ten-pack she’d bought the previous week and took it with her to her car. She hefted the lid of a rusting trash bin and tossed in the box of blades. As the lid dropped, she felt her chest expand. Oakhill was a phenomenally effective program: she’d been there less than an hour and she was practically cured.

Simone stopped as she entered Kathleen’s office. Meghan was there, too. Meghan seemed to shrink away from her, Simone thought, stunned to realize her best friend seemed afraid of her.

“Sit down,” Kathleen said. The principal wore a yellow dress that clung like it had been sewn from whipped butter. “I asked Meghan to join us as the school’s union rep.”

Simone glanced at Meghan, who took the seat beside her in front of Kathleen’s desk. Meghan’s eyes were half-hidden behind the wavy blond hair that framed her slim face. Simone tried to read her expression, then addressed Kathleen, professional to professional. “I apologize again for my behavior the other day.” This was Wednesday. Was it really only Monday she’d lost control in front of her students? “It was unacceptable. But I’m lining up a therapist. I want to come back.”

Kathleen folded her hands beside a picture of her family of four—irksomely gauzy and perfect—like one of those photos displayed in photography studio windows. Simone had trouble imagining Kathleen taking the time to have children. Maybe she leased them.

“I’m prepared to file a grievance if necessary.”

“It’s symptomatic of a bigger problem,” Kathleen said. “I told you before about the concern expressed in recent weeks by your colleagues, students, and their parents, a concern I’ve shared.” Kathleen leaned toward her. “It goes beyond that. You skipped yard duty Monday morning, before the…incident. Again. That’s the fourth time in two weeks.”

Yard duty was a contractual responsibility. Given teenagers’ propensity to think themselves immortal and act accordingly, it was essential. Simone’s mind reeled. How had she let herself forget four times?

“I sent you a reprimand. You failed to respond. Furthermore, you skipped the last two mandatory faculty meetings, with no explanation, and you haven’t posted your grades on our website. Not to mention your breakdown in front of your students. You’re welcome to file a grievance, but…”

Shame flushed Simone’s cheeks. She clinched her hands, hidden from Kathleen’s view by the desk, and clawed her skin, trying to slow her downward spiral. The union would back her. It had to. She looked at her friend, who gave a single shake of her head that made Simone’s stomach drop.

“As I told you before, you need to take a voluntary leave of absence for the last seven weeks of the year,” Kathleen said. “That way you'll have time to get yourself together.”

Yes, Kathleen had previously insisted she seek help, but had she really spaced the part about seven weeks? This couldn't be happening. She had no sick leave; she’d donated it to needy colleagues, her buddy Meghan among them. So much for good karma on that good deed. If she wasn’t teaching, she wouldn’t get paid. The benefits counselor had said it could take two months before disability kicked in. And if she couldn’t make the stiff payments, she’d lose her home. “I can't afford to take a leave of absence.”

“You can't afford not to.” Kathleen surveyed her with eyes that could be measuring distances. “You need to get help. Summer school starts June twenty-fifth. If you’re better by then, you can come back.”

“You don’t understand.” Simone gripped the edge of Kathleen’s desk. “I went to the hospital. I can’t go there. I can’t.” She heard her voice break.

Kathleen stood up, as did Meghan. “I have a meeting at the district office.”

Simone stood, too, her legs trembling. “What if I refuse to take a leave?”

“If you refuse, I’ll institute dismissal proceedings.” Kathleen’s voice was straightforward, cold.

Simone willed her legs not to buckle.

“The two of you can use my office. I have to go.” Kathleen left. Steadying herself against the desk, Simone tried to collect her thoughts, but her brain was on a merry-go-round. She turned to Meghan. “Why didn’t you defend me? Isn’t that what a union rep does?”

“You broke the contract in several ways.” Meghan’s eyes fell toward Simone’s thighs, then rose, but not far enough to meet Simone’s stare. “Besides, are you saying you don’t need help?”

“But at the only place I can afford to go, the people are crazy!”

“There must be other options. You’ve got insurance.”

Simone covered her face.

“Simone?” Meghan said.

She made herself meet Meghan’s gaze. “I chose to take the money rather than insurance. It’s the only way I could afford the condo.”

“You dropped your insurance?”

Meghan was wide-eyed, aghast. Her husband was a corporate attorney. She would never have to choose between insurance and a mortgage. “Look,” Simone said, “I’m just strung out from not sleeping. I’ll see a doctor and get something for sleep. I’m getting a therapist. I’m a good teacher. You know that, Meghan!”

“You’re a terrific teacher. The students love you. Kathleen said they get tons of requests to be in your classes. But a person doesn’t hurt herself just because she’s tired.”

Meghan was a math teacher. In her world, things added up or they didn't. Simone didn't compute. “I’ll find a therapist. But if I’m going to pay for one I’ve got to be working.” She projected her voice a little to keep a quiver out of it. “Help me get my job back.”

Meghan raised her eyes to Simone’s. “Kathleen already put through the papers for your leave.”

“With your approval?”

Her friend blushed and looked away.