Right now, I’m rocking a Nirvana shirt that I’m convinced someone wore to one of the band’s concerts decades ago. I also have on a pair of cut-off shorts, knee-high tights, and clunky, scuffed boots that lace up all the way over my knees. I topped off the look with a plaid overshirt and a leather jacket that used to belong to my mother. It’s one of the few items I have left of hers. I like to occasionally breathe in the scent, pretending I can still smell her perfume.

I miss her so, so much.

As tears begin to well in my eyes, I suck them back and focus on finishing getting ready, putting on a velvet choker then adding leather bands to my wrists. I always wear them to cover up the scars marking my flesh.

Like always, my dark hair is swept to the side in a wild mess of waves, and I keep my makeup minimal, consisting of kohl eyeliner and some lip gloss—I’m not really a makeup sort of girl.

“Raven! You have one more minute to get your butt down here, and then we’re leaving you!” Aunt Beth shouts, a warning ringing in her tone. “It’s not like it’s going to matter anyway. I’m sure I’ll probably get a call from the school halfway through the day, informing me that, once again, you got yourself suspended.”

She might be right. I do have a reputation for getting suspended. Most of the time, it’s because I get into a fight, either from someone else starting it or I take the first swing after someone repeatedly called me names. I’ve had to go to anger management classes a couple times that, honestly, I’m not sure they helped.

It’s not like I’m angry all the time. Most of the time, I can pull off indifference pretty damn well. But there’s a particular name that really gets under my skin and, annoyingly, it’s one of the words scarring my flesh beneath my clothes.

As my chest pressurizes at the memories of how the scars got there, I tear my gaze off the mirror, collect my bag, and then stick my hand underneath the mattress to grab a joint from my stash.

I have quite the collection under there. Most of it comes from my uncle. Remember how I said he does a lot of sketchy stuff? Well, bringing drugs home after he’s done a bust is one of those things. He’s been doing it for years, stealing a bit here and there then reporting that a less amount was found during a raid. How do I know this? Because I overheard a phone conversation once between him and one of his buddies. He didn’t know I was home. I wasn’t supposed to be, but I’d decided to ditch after a group of guys and girls jumped me and kicked my ass. I fought back, of course—my dad taught me how to protect myself at a young age—and I even got in a few good swings, but I was completely outnumbered. In the end, I gave someone a black eye and someone else a fat lip, while my face looked like a freakin’ lumpy blueberry.