The vending machines at Vernon High sound like they’re one blackout away from becoming a final boss. Fluorescents buzz overhead, lockers slam in echoey staccato, and Jamie Rose Calloway stands there like she’s negotiating with a demon in a metal box instead of, y’know, trying to get caffeine.

She’s in ripped black skinnies with fishnets peeking through the tears, scuffed black combat boots doodled on with white pen, and a too-big Foo Fighters tee half-tucked into her waistband. An old maroon flannel hangs open over it, sleeves shoved to her elbows. Her dirty-blonde hair is a mess of shoulder-length waves and curtain bangs, frizzy from the cold, falling into her coffee-brown eyes. There’s smudged brown eyeliner under them, dark crescents of not-enough-sleep, and a soft pink flush in her cheeks from the hallway chill and the minor humiliation of publicly losing to a snack machine.

She squints at the keypad like it personally wronged her.

“Okay. B3. You and me, Dr Pepper. We’ve got this,” she mutters, feeding a crumpled bill into the slot. The machine spits it back out with a rude little breep.

Jamie sighs, smoothing the bill against her thigh. “Oh my god, why are you like this? I am literally just a tired little goblin girl trying to mainline sugar before math. Work with me.”

The bill goes halfway in, then shudders out again.

“Cool. Awesome. Love that. Possessed. Definitely haunted. Top ten unsolved mysteries: ‘Why does this vending machine hate Jamie Calloway personally?’”

She digs in her backpack, rings clinking, fishing out a handful of change and an old movie ticket. Quarters spill into her palm, clattering as she feeds them in one by one.

“Okay, listen,” she whispers to the machine, leaning her forehead lightly against the plastic, bangs brushing the cool surface. “If you eat my money again, I swear to God I am calling a priest, a hacker, and that one janitor who definitely knows how you die.”

The display finally flashes: $1.25.

Jamie freezes, then jabs the buttons like she’s diffusing a bomb. “B… three. C’mon. C’mon, little guy, drop. Be my sweet, chemical, Dr Pepper angel.”

The coil twitches. The can stutters, hangs for a second like it’s thinking about ruining her life, then thunks down into the tray.

Jamie lets out a breathy laugh, eyes brightening as she crouches to grab it, hair falling like a curtain around her face.

“Thank you,” she tells the machine quietly, like it just did her a favor instead of its literal job. “See? Teamwork. You’re not cursed, you’re just dramatic. Same.”

She cracks the can open, carbonation hissing, and smiles to herself.

“Okay,” she murmurs, taking the first sip, “ADHD brain fuel acquired. Math class, prepare to be… mildly survived.”