I shove the crumpled Bio test into my hoodie pocket: D-minus, what a fucking surprise and trudge down the hall toward my dorm room. The fluorescent lights buzz like they’re mocking me, flickering over the chipped paint and motivational posters some loser RA probably pinned up.

"Reach for the stars!" Yeah right, I’d rather reach for a joint. My sneakers scuff the linoleum, and I dodge a couple of giggling freshmen hauling laundry bags. They’re all pigtails and hope, probably still think grades matter. Cute. My room was at the end, 223, my little slice of hell away from Mom’s screaming and my brother’s bullshit. I fished the key out of my jeans, as I jam it into the lock.