CHAPTER 1
Violetta
Days in detention: 22
Right in front of me is a TV with my crying face on it. In the here and now, I’m pretty sure I’m all out of tears. I’m over my eyes itching and having a chapped nose after constantly wiping it with paper towels from the detention center bathroom. (Holding a tissue, I’m reminded how soft something can be.) I’m dried out, but the me on-screen isn’t. That Violetta’s covered in snot, salty tears, and guilt. I don’t turn away or move. I watch myself on the monitor because my family’s watching me too.
My counselor, Susan, grabs another tissue from the table on her side of the couch. She offers it to me and says under her breath, “If you need a break, I can turn this off for a moment.”
“I wish it were me!” screeches from the video. I force myself to keep my chin up. In the video, I make wishes out loud while more echo in my head: I wish I’d listened. I wish I’d stopped myself. I wish I hadn’t invited Pascal over that night. I wish . . . a lot.
I stop fiddling with the top of the jumpsuit Corrections gave me. The sports bra underneath pinches, and the pants irritate my skin from the starch. They don’t fold much when I move. I’m hoping I look better now. But for a second, I wonder if I should look like the messy Violetta.
Three weeks earlier, my mom and dad stared at me as the ER doctor revealed that their number of kids had gone from three to two. I was okay. Scratches, a sore chest, and a mild concussion were my only injuries from the impact of the steering wheel before the airbag inflated. But my little sister was dead. Because of me.
On the TV, Violetta rubs her sleeve across her eyes, swelling the skin around them even more. My own brown eyes bore into me. She’s sincere. Violetta on-screen clutches her hands together. She, me, asks to be forgiven for everything, not just the night of the accident, but the months before it. I regret my entire freshman year of high school, including the evening I woke up in the hospital. The Violetta in front of me apologizes for all of it.
In a way, this video is me fighting for my place in my family. Do I get to be forgiven and go home without a criminal record? Or do I serve time in confinement or . . . the other option?
Every night that I’ve been at the facility, I’ve practiced how to explain to my family what had happened. Two weeks ago, a guard sat me down and Counselor Susan explained that this was my last chance to make my case before sentencing. Just me in a room—really, a gray box—begging for forgiveness from the victims of my crime: my family. They would get to see my video, then “bestow judgment”—Counselor Susan’s words, not mine. After explaining, she set up a camera as little as a matchbook and said, “You may begin your plea.”
I was going to be calm in the video. It was time for a plan, not a meltdown. There wasn’t much else to do in detention, so why not mull over and over how to ask your family to forgive you for being a horrible daughter. A couple other detained girls gave me advice during meals: Don’t be too serious, one said. Be super serious, someone else said. Bring up stories to remind your family how much they love you. Show you learned your lesson, that you don’t need to be taught one. Be funny. Be remorseful. No matter what: Don’t lose it!
But as soon as the camera beeped and the blinking light turned solid to record my plea, I dissolved into the screaming girl on display right now.
I can’t take my eyes off the Violetta on-screen. How different she is from me now: She had hope.
“I’m sorry—sorry for everything. And I swear I’ll listen and make better decisions. I promise.” On the TV, I finish my plea. “Please let me come home” is the last thing I say, through sniffles and more snot.
The screen darkens as the fluorescents come back to life. I blink to adjust to the light. The sentencing room is stifling. One wall has a window with black glass while the others are painted indigo. A light bulb
is above the TV. And the door next to the screen makes a horrible ca-chink when the bar to unlock it opens. My reflection reveals nothing once my face fades from the screen. My eyes look shrunken and dim, as if there’s nothing behind them. Who could forgive me?
Because of the lights and the itchiness of my clothes, it’s tough to keep my shoulders back or my head lifted. All I want to do is curl into a ball and rest.
Beside me on the couch, Counselor Susan looks like a professional in a blazer and heels, her hair in a bun, her super-thin legs crossed. She smiles at me, with ruby lips and blushed cheeks, as if there may be good news on the way. She didn’t see my parents after my sister’s death three weeks ago, the disgust that clouded their faces, how quickly they turned away from me. I shiver and mumble how cold it is, even though it’s not with the lights beaming down on me.
I jump at her hand on my shoulder.
“Violetta,” my counselor says, “I asked if you were ready.”
I stare at her for a moment before it hits me. My trimmed nails dig into my skin. I think I nod.
“Okay.” She smiles again, but it’s strained. “Would you like me to explain things once more? About what will happen next?”
I think I shake my head no. I think I blink. I think I breathe. But I have no idea, because all of this feels unreal, like I’m watching myself again. My little sister is dead. I’m here waiting to know if I’ll be forgiven or not, under juvenile law. I’m one of those kids. The type who needs to face justice before they can rejoin society.
I’ve heard about juvenile offenders. My parents tsk-tsked whenever news about them came on. “Don’t be like them. Be better,” Mom or Dad said before changing the channel from the news to a cooking show or a sitcom. A click of the remote erased someone else’s reality in favor of something with a happier ending. Always “be better,” they encouraged. Be better than the terrified teen who didn’t want their parents to find out they were pregnant, so they hid their growing belly, then threw the newborn out like trash. The ones who got in fights that went wrong way too fast, resulting in casualties. The ones who carried weapons that accidentally went off in school or in someone’s hands at home—or, worse, those who used them purposely on others. Supposedly, those teens were a whole other group. Not me. Not my family. Yet here I am. One of “those kids” who screwed up so badly I need to be made an example of.
I must have given her
some kind of signal, because Counselor Susan says, “If the light is blue, you’re forgiven and you can go back to your family. If it’s red . . .” She lowers her head to indicate what I should and do already know.
My chest swells, and my heart beats faster. I grip the armrest because I can almost see a flicker of blue in the bulb. I could be forgiven. We could start over. I can be better, because I’m their daughter. I could be pardoned. I—
Red.
My hand flies to my mouth. I suck in air, needing to cough it out at the same time.
The screen crackles, and a new face blinks into view. I expect to see my parents, hear them say I’ll be sent away and locked up forever, that I can go to hell, for all they care. Instead, it’s my older brother, Vin, who has the same eyes as me, Mom, and my sister. His tawny skin is shiny, and he bites the corner of his lip, a gesture he makes before he says something I don’t want to hear. He did the same when I asked him if he liked my boyfriend, Pascal, or if he’d please take me to one of his junior hangouts. He’d chew the corner of his lip, and right away I knew I wouldn’t like his answer.
“Letta,” my brother begins, “I’m sure you saw the red light.” His words come in quick bursts, all jumbled, like he wants to toss them out as fast as he can. “You know what that means. However, while we as a family don’t yet forgive you . . .” He hesitates. “While as a family we don’t yet forgive you, we want to give you the opportunity to learn from this incident. We don’t want Viv’s death to be for nothing. We need you to”—he clears his throat—“repent.”
These aren’t his words. He’d never say repent.
“So . . .” He stops. My brother swallows hard. When he opens his mouth, he doesn’t speak.
Just say it, Vin. Say it!
“We think it best that you participate in the Trials so that you may understand the severity of this matter. But you know you don’t have to take this option.”
Of course I don’t have to, but the other option for no forgiveness—confinement at an upstate juvenile facility—isn’t any better. Is it, Vin?
“Should you take this option, your first Trial will occur in the next week.” Vin leans in, his face large and imposing. His eyes reflect as much pain as I feel right now. All kinds of rumbling moves through me as he speaks. “We do love you. You know that, right?”
The video cuts off, and my brother disappears.
I push my palms into my eyelids. I want to undo everything that’s happened. But there’s no going back.
We do love you. You know that, right? is the only part of the message that sounded like Vin. The only part where I could feel him pull me into a side
hug after a fight, after I’d stomped away from his questions about why I was acting differently now that I was in high school. Why did I laugh at everything Pascal and his friends said, even when it wasn’t funny? (Because my brother knew what made me laugh, and making fun of other people wasn’t it.) He’d say this after catching me stumbling into my room after a night with Pascal. After I had my first, then second, then third tastes of hard lemonades or beer. After splashing water on my face and putting me to bed, Vin would say, “You know I still love you, right? Even though you’re acting like an idiot.”
It would’ve been a little better if he hadn’t been the one on the video. If he hadn’t had that disappointed look I can’t erase, reminding me of my parents’ faces after the accident.
My counselor is speaking. Her words seep in slowly as she asks the question I dread: “Violetta Chen-Samuels, do you accept participation in the Trials?”
My hands are wet. Guess I wasn’t done crying after all.
CHAPTER 2
Vince
Days since the decision: 22
Since the accident, our home has been a revolving door of people working for the city or the state. The morning after the crash, two officers stopped by asking all types of questions: How exactly did my fifteen-year-old sister procure alcohol? Why did my parents leave the car keys where a non-licensed driver could get them? Was Violetta prone to this type of behavior? Every question was a judgment of “How did you let this happen?” All that led to the decision for Violetta to go to detention. About a week ago, the rep from Detention Services became a constant presence in our home. Our assigned judicator prodded them, encouraged them that the next steps had to happen sooner than later. Last week was also when we watched Letta’s plea, and it wasn’t pretty. (It isn’t pretty to rewatch either, if I’m being honest.)
Letta was a hot mess on-screen. Her face was greasy and wet. She screeched apologies and regret. Watching her breakdown was the longest five minutes of my life. Didn’t help when the judicator arrived right after, saying we had to make a choice about sentencing.
“You have three choices,” the judicator said, all monotone. “You can forgive the offender so she can come home. You can not forgive her so we can formally confine her in an Albany facility and determine the length of sentence based on her crimes. Or you can assign her rehabilitation through the Trials; this way she’ll remain detained in the city.”
The judicator tugged at his striped necktie and smiled. His grin did not put anyone at ease, even if it seemed like he was trying to. “There’s no sense in delaying the inevitable. You have to inform your daughter of your latest decision,” he said.
Mom couldn’t keep still. She went from rubbing an ear against her shoulder to rolling or unrolling the sleeves of her robe. Dad tried to hold her, but she didn’t want to be held. The judicator glanced at me and said, “Why not have Vincent record your decree?”
Every day since the accident brought up the question of whether Letta should come home or not. How this would be handled. And Detention Services wanted an answer, preferably right then and there.
“Would you prefer she go upstate?” the judicator asked.
“We don’t want to send her upstate or away, we just . . .” Mom couldn’t finish and Dad didn’t take up the end of her sentence like he usually did. Mom concluded with, “We want her to be okay.”
The judicator had a tablet in his hand, prepped and ready. “If you choose rehabilitation, which has shown excellent results”—he held up the screen to back up his statement—“then she can potentially return home sooner. It may be the best option for a case of underage drinking. You do want your daughter to get better, don’t you?”
And that was that. In the end, I just couldn’t say no to the video.
So several days ago, I sat in front of a camera on a tripod, with a slate backdrop behind me
and my parents in front of me. I read the words my family was encouraged by our judicator to recite. The camera zoomed in on my face, so no one else saw how much my right and left legs jiggled.
Today is sentencing day. And right now we’re watching my sister watch me on-screen. In the video, I glisten from sweat, but it doesn’t seem like there are other signs of nerves. My parents are in the corner seated at a metal table, farthest away from the glass separating our viewing room from Violetta’s judgment location. By our door stands a guard dressed in a navy uniform. Where we are is slightly larger and just as sparse as the room my sister sits in.
I’m standing at the two-way mirror with folded arms. My breath makes clouds on the surface of the glass. Violetta resembles a mannequin, the way she stares at the TV, at me telling her what’s what. She doesn’t seem to be breathing or blinking, or awake at all. I press against the glass, waiting for any movement.
There’s another reason I agreed to the video:
A week after the accident, literally the day before Viv’s funeral, I passed Viv’s empty room and peeked inside. Everything was how she left it, but Viv wasn’t there. I stepped into her bedroom, and I swear I almost saw Viv tumbling past, asking if I wanted to play. But she was never, ever gonna be there again.
That realization brought me to my knees. The urge to grab my jacket and head out to get lit one more time was so strong. I mean, I could just start fresh the next day, right? Could’ve called my teammate Byron and asked him to hook me up like usual instead of going to his source.
Pain pricked my chest so bad it made me realize I’d be no better than Letta if I started clean later. It didn’t matter how many times Mom and Dad asked to meet Pascal but Letta refused. Didn’t matter that I could smell the sour alcohol on Letta’s breath some weekends and warned her this could get worse, quick. Didn’t matter that Letta was grounded the night of the accident because earlier that week she’d come home close to midnight and mouthed off to Mom and Dad that she wanted to be left alone—more of Pascal’s influence, I’m sure. Since September, Letta said things with Pascal weren’t out of control, that she was having fun letting loose. I’d said the same thing about the pills I’d swallowed, insisting they were only for when I needed it—finals, big games, anytime I need to be on—nothing more than that.
A week after my sister died, I took in everything of hers. A typical seven-year-old’s room, with cartoon posters covering teal walls. The half-open drawers under her bed that oozed clothes, puzzle pieces, and toy food stations. A hanging corkboard, with the red envelopes Viv saved after every Chinese New Year and some pictures of our family tacked up.
I sat back on my heels and took a deep breath. That moment in Viv’s room was when I knew the sister that remained needed my help.
When my video started, I squinted to see Violetta sitting on her hands in the darkened room. Now she has the couch in a death grip and no emotion on her face. Is she about to cry? Is she thinking about Viv? Is she hating us, hating me?
“We think it best that you participate in the Trials so that you may understand the severity of this matter. But you know you don’t have to take this option,” I hear myself say. My nails dig deep enough into my biceps to draw blood.
The video ends. I fade away from sight. In our room, my parents hold each other. My mom’s eyes gleam in the subtle lights above us. Violetta looks like both of them: Dad’s brown skin and wide brow with Mom’s lidded eyes and round nose.
The counselor asks Letta if she accepts the Trials. That’s when one tear, then another, drops down my sister’s face.
My mother grabs Dad’s wrist and starts rambling off questions. “Do you think this is a good idea, Albert? Maybe we should’ve waited? She looks too skinny. I don’t—”
“Annie, our daughter needs help,” Dad says gently. “We have to believe this will be what helps her see things have gone too far.”
In the hospital, I held Violetta’s hand while she took ragged breaths. Viv was dead. Thrown against the windshield when Letta braked too hard and swerved off the road. The passenger airbag deployed too late. I was so goddamn mad. I’d had the urge to shake Letta and yell, What the hell were you doing driving? Thankfully, I didn’t do that. I sat back in the chair next to Letta’s hospital bed, wondering what we’d do. Wondering if I’d be found out for my wrongs like Violetta had been for hers.
Right now, I expect Letta to try and escape. To curse or scream or apologize some more. The glass is an unwanted barrier, but it’s there, and I kick the wall under it, hard, feeling the sting through my sneaker into my big toe. I haven’t felt much besides the withdrawal. This is good, this basic jab of pain.
“Hey!” the guard warns. He takes a few steps toward me.
I kick it again, hoping Violetta can hear me.
The jolt to my shoulders confirms he’s not kidding. “What did I say?” The guard’s spit trickles inside my ear as he twists my arms behind my back. The stale scent of the coffee he had earlier wafts to my nose.
“Get off my son!” my dad roars.
“Vincent!” my mother yells.
I don’t look away from my sister. I don’t shout at her not to accept, and I don’t tell her to accept. I can’t take my eyes off Letta, even as the scrape of the table and chairs thunders behind me.
My sister wipes her face and says, “I’ll do whatever it takes.” That’s when I go limp in the guard’s grip. His hold loosens, and I’m on the ground. The throb in my limbs pounds through my bones, all the way to my temples.
Mom and Dad don’t move to help me. They’re watching Letta too.
We know that “whatever it takes” is gonna be hell.
CHAPTER 3
Violetta
Days in detention: 22
The air feels heavier right after sentencing. It makes me drag my feet on the rocky path from the sentencing building to the girls’ main facility. The girls’ and boys’ detention centers are like a row of broken teeth. Spirals of wire glint on top of the gates sealing us in. On the left is the girls’ center. Past these gates and security mounts sits the boys’ facility—larger and just as dreadful. Both facilities have athletic fields and sheds where inmates can garden year-round. The visitors’ parking lot is practically two city blocks away from the girls’ detention center, but it’s visible from our athletic field. The staff parking lot is closer to the boys’ field. I can already see guards arriving in pairs for their shifts. With their uniforms draped over their shoulders, they walk by inmates without a word or glance. Must be nice to know you can clock out of a place like this.
We barely ever see or hear anyone on the boys’ side. Not until days like today, when the boys are also in lines, waiting for judgment. We all exit sentencing after learning if we’re forgiven, doing time upstate, or doing Trials, then we split up to deal with whatever else is scheduled for us that day.
Piedmont Facility is in a part of Queens I’d never been to before. Someone said we could be an island, a forgotten one. That’s exactly how it feels. Endless roads and patchy fields, oak and maple trees; the Little Neck Bay divides us from the residential neighborhoods. From my cell, the trees are so far away I can only dream of touching them.
Outdoors, some of the sounds are familiar: The police sirens. The squeak of buses parking, and the beep beep when they lower to let off visitors. Even the shouts of inmates on the concrete basketball court is something I cling to, thinking about the times my brother, sister, and I visited the Westbridge playground or went to one of my brother’s lacrosse games. Then there are the other sounds specific to this place: The clank of every door, the static and buzz from electrified fences. The clomping of guards’ boots. The jingle of keys chained to their belts, and the click of their security cards on the same chain.
The frost and weight of the air is nothing compared to how it feels being sentenced to the Trials. I’m in a loose line with six other girls and guards in front and behind us. We’re led out of one building and toward another. I’m nudged from behind.
“It’s too cold for daydreaming,” Eve says. Dried tears are two chalky lines down her dark-brown skin. A knit hat covers her ears and her pixie cut. Apparently, none of us are ever going to stop crying.
Serena gives Eve a quick pat on the back before stuffing her hands into her assigned coat. Serena’s neon-pink dreadlocks are tied back into two pigtails on either side of her head. With her coat collar pulled up, I can’t see the lilac tattoo on Serena’s neck. Its colors usually stand out on her beige and freckled skin.
When we came out of our sentencing rooms, Eve shrugged at me. “Nothing yet,” she mumbled once we got back in line. “The victims”—she didn’t hide her dislike for the word—“requested more time deciding if they forgive me or not.”
I didn’t know what to say. What is there to say?
But Serena was able to figure my news out. “It’s written all over your face,” she said. “Trials?”
A wipe of my nose was all it took to confirm it for her. ...
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