Then I slammed the container down on a stone post. The crack split the air.
"Eighteen years." My voice was ice. "You couldn't buy one decent bottle of vitamins? You had to feed me this unregulated garbage?"
The crowd went silent. Rachel's camera snapped toward me.
Mom looked around, panicked, hands twisting in her apron. "What's wrong with them? You've taken these since you were little. You always loved the orange flavor—"
"Because I didn't know any better!" I cut her off, staring straight at her. "These are made in some illegal basement workshop. Stop buying this junk. Give me the money—I'll get real supplements from a hospital."
Naomi shoved her way between us. "Don't listen to her!" she told Rachel. "Her mother scrimped and saved to buy those! All to keep this girl healthy!"
"Do you know how many streets she has to sweep for one box of these?"
"She doesn't need to save money like this!" I turned to face the camera directly.
"My classmates take high-end, imported vitamins. And I get this garbage?"
I pointed at the soup. "And this chicken? From the back corner of the wet market—probably diseased. But sure, let's make soup out of it."
The parents crowding around began to murmur: