ONE
CARMEN
Some stories are meant to be told. Others are meant to stay buried. Mine sits in between, sealed and paused for two years.
Looking back, I lost everything. I lost part of myself with it.
When you become a forgotten character in someone else’s story, no one believes you. Or worse, they choose not to believe. The version they tell has a better beginning and a cleaner ending, just not for me. I’m collateral damage in a tragic case that they locked away and labeled as solved.
I breathe slowly.
The only sounds are the sharp click of the caseworker’s heels and my own shallow breaths as we walk down the corridor of Juvenile Hall. My heart beats faster than it did just a moment before she came. My hands hang stiff at my sides, fingers tapping against the navy blue sweatpants as we approach the front door.
“Carmen, are you ready?” Simona asks.
She says it like she knows me. Like a month of paperwork makes her familiar with my whole life.
The question burning in my throat is far simpler and uglier.
Who would adopt a problematic teenager from a juvenile center?
I bite it back. I nod instead.
The door opens.
The square window catches my reflection as I pass. Long dark brown hair falls in soft locks down my back, brushing against the white T-shirt. I look like a ghost. My skin is paler than I remember. My cheeks hold a faint pink color, and my blue eyes stare back at me, as if I am watching a stranger walk out of my body.
Simona walks two steps ahead, files slipping in her arms as she tries to carry too much with just her two hands. The door closes behind us. I glance back anyway.
Two years passed inside those beige concrete walls, two years of being behind the locked doors, and still, saying goodbye feels strange.
“Carmen.”
Her voice calls from behind me, followed by the sound of keys skidding across the ground.
I turn. She stands in front of a blue sedan, frozen mid-step. One brow lifts as she straightens her posture, like she remembers she is supposed to look in control before bending down to pick them up.
“Coming?”
“Yes,” I say, already moving.
I run down the steps toward her, sneakers slapping too loudly as I approach. She points at the front passenger seat. I circle the car as she opens the back door, shoving files and her bag onto the seat before slamming it shut.
I slide inside. The seat feels cold. I can sense it through my sweatpants as I lean against the leather. She gets in, closes thedoor, and the space fills with silence and the faint smell of stale coffee.
“The Harringtons are a good family,” she says, starting the engine of the car. “They adopted a boy back in 2006. They felt ready to adopt again.”
My head snaps toward her.
“Harrington. As in Judge Harrington. The one who put me in here?”
I blink twice, just to make sure my brain is not playing tricks on me. Her jaw tightens. The words spill out before I can stop them.
“Oh, hell no.”
I grab the door handle—her hand clamps firm around my arm, strong enough to stop me.
“Carmen.” She inhales slowly. “Do you know how rare it is for someone to adopt a sixteen-year-old from Juvenile Hall?”
