”Medicine,” she grinds out, not quite politely; it’s a lot harder to care about those sorts of things when all she wants to do is die. She balls her hands into fists, hunched over and glaring, trying to make herself straighten up and not anywhere close to being able to do it. She might be so past giving a shit about putting on the dopey stupid popular girl face, but she’s not ready to play all her cards yet, and so she forces herself to say, “It’s all unfair. I want to go home.”

She does, to be fair, want to go home.