"Have You Seen Sofia?" by Nela Parker (Kennebec County)
Content note: The following fictional story depicts loss of a friend due to deportation.
Two doors sat side by side on the row of houses, pale and sun-stained, with curved arches and little balconies of black iron that made them look almost like they belonged somewhere far away. Not in this noisy America.
One door was blue, one was green. Charlotte lived behind the blue, Sofia behind the green, and the girls used to joke that the colors matched their favorite popsicles. Charlotte thought of them as twin doors, even though the houses were different inside. They belonged together, just like the girls who rushed out of them every afternoon.
Charlotte and Sofia were so alike that it sometimes startled people. They liked the same songs, carrying Charlotte's parents' old Walkman to the playground and playing the same tune over and over until the batteries ran out. They cut their sandwiches the same way, triangles instead of squares, always with peanut butter and grape jelly smeared a little too far to the edges. They giggled at the same jokes in cartoons, scribbled the same doodles in the margins of their notebooks, and even chewed the same brand of gum until it lost its flavor. The only thing different, at least that anyone ever seemed to notice, was that Charlotte was white and Sofia was Mexican. It was the difference grown-ups talked about when they lowered their voices, but to Charlotte, it was nothing. To her, they were two birds of a feather.
Every afternoon, they spilled into the street, their laughter carried by the city’s constant noise: dogs barking from yards, cars rushing past so fast they shook the air, horns blaring, brakes screeching. To them, it was background music. Across the street, the playground leaned tiredly, with peeling red paint on the slide and swings that squeaked as though begging for oil. But to Charlotte and Sofia, it was their kingdom, their ship, their whole world. They swung until their stomachs flipped, raced along the jungle gym like climbers on a mountain, and sprawled on the warm pavement with sticky popsicle hands. They invented stories about strangers who hurried past and cars that must surely be on secret missions. They were just two girls, and they thought it would always be that way.
One evening, Charlotte flew out of her blue door, her sneakers scuffing the steps as she darted for the playground. She lunged for the swing and pumped her legs hard, flying higher and higher. Charlotte guarded the other swing with her life, waiting. She kept glancing at Sofia’s door, waiting for it to burst open. But the sun sagged low, the streetlights hummed as they flicked on, and Sofia never came.
Charlotte tried not to worry. Maybe Sofia had chores. Maybe she was helping her mom with dinner. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow.
But tomorrow arrived, and it was the same.
“Momma, have you seen Sofia?” Charlotte asked, tugging at her mother’s shirt while she scraped leftovers into the trash.
Her mother shook her head. “I don’t know, honey. Why don’t you go knock on her door?”
Charlotte darted out of her house, running up the steps, rat-tap-tapping her knuckles against the green door. The sound echoed strangely, like the house was empty inside. “Hello? Sofia?” she called. “Sofia’s mom?”
Silence.
She grabbed the doorknob, twisting hard, but it stayed locked. Her stomach knotted. She slipped into the alley, dragging a trash bin closer, its metal scraping loudly. She scrambled onto it, then onto the dumpster, its lid sticky and dented. Her knee banged the edge, and she winced but kept climbing. The higher she got, the tighter her throat felt, but she told herself it was just another secret mission, like the ones she and Sofia used to play.
The fire escape rattled as she walked on the platform. At the window, her hands shook as she pushed at the glass. It groaned, then gave way with a screech. A breath of stale, dusty air hit her face. Charlotte gulped, squeezed her eyes shut, and climbed inside.
The house was wrecked. Not messy, not like when she forgot to pick up her toys. It looked ripped apart.
The living room was the first thing she saw. The couch cushions were scattered across the floor. An old wicker chair lay on its side, one leg snapped. Books and magazines were scattered in piles, pages bent and torn. The TV was missing from the wall. On the rug, a bowl had shattered, pieces glinting like tiny knives.
Charlotte bent to pick up a paper near her shoe. It had a dark stamp at the top, some seal that looked important. The letters were long and sharp. She mouthed the first line slowly, “Warrant of Removal,” not knowing what it meant but feeling a twist in her chest.
She crept farther inside. The hallway felt strange, bare. The pictures that had once hung there were gone, leaving empty rectangles on the walls. She trailed her fingers along one, the paint brighter inside the square.
In Sofia’s room, the bed was tangled, blankets half on the floor. Drawers gaped open, clothes spilling out like they’d been yanked by hurried hands. A half-filled backpack sat on the floor, unzipped, one strap torn. Charlotte bent down and picked up Sofia’s favorite stuffed cat from the center of her floor. It looked sad, all alone. She frowned, clutching it; she took it with her as she progressed down the hall.
Charlotte padded into the bathroom. Towels were in a heap, the mirror spotted, the medicine cabinet wide open. Bottles and boxes had spilled into the sink.
The kitchen was worse still. Chairs pushed back, one tipped over. Drawers pulled out, silverware scattered like pick-up sticks. A carton of milk lay on its side, dried into a sour puddle on the tile. On the counter sat more papers, some stamped in Spanish, others with bold English words. Proceedings. Deportation. Immediate. Charlotte couldn’t read them all, but the letters felt heavy, like they could crush something small.
She forced herself into the parents’ bedroom. The closet door was open wide, clothes dangling, hangers bent, and the mattress was tipped. Shoes lay scattered, none of them in pairs. The little safe she’d once seen Sofia’s dad use was tipped on its side, its door hanging open, nothing left inside.
Charlotte stood frozen, her heart pounding. She didn’t know the word for what she was seeing, but she knew it wasn’t normal. The house hadn’t been left. It had been taken. She backed out, retracing her steps slowly, afraid the floor itself might break under her. Outside, on the porch across the street, neighbors stood in small knots, whispering. Their voices were low, heavy. Charlotte caught words she’d heard before, words Sofia’s mom had said when police cars circled too close, “la migra” or “se los llevaron”.
Charlotte didn’t understand, not completely. But she understood enough to know Sofia hadn’t just gone away.
That night, Charlotte sat at her bedroom window, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the playground beyond the road. The swings shifted gently in the breeze, squeaking like they were crying out for someone to come back. She imagined Sofia there, laughing, hair flying, swinging higher and higher, daring her to catch up. But the picture slipped away as quickly as it came.
Charlotte whispered to herself that Sofia would come back tomorrow. Or the next day. Or maybe she would just be away for a week, visiting family. She repeated it like a prayer, rocking slightly, holding on to it because the truth that she might never see Sofia again was too big, too unfair.
Down below, the green door stayed shut. Its paint looked darker than before, like it had swallowed all the light. Charlotte kept waiting for it to open, for Sofia to burst out with her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, ready to race to the swings. But the door never moved.
The playground felt smaller without Sofia, like it wasn’t really theirs anymore. Like their ship lost its captain. The swings still squeaked, the cars still roared past, the dogs still barked, but the noise no longer sounded like music. It sounded lonely.
Charlotte pressed her forehead against the glass until it hurt, and whispered again, “Tomorrow.”
But deep down, she already knew. Sofia’s green door would never be opened again.
NELA PARKER, an eighteen year old from Augusta, Maine, wrote “Where Is Sofia?”, which follows a young girl who learns that some disappearances aren’t accidents—they’re ordered, silent, and irreversible. She has a strong passion for writing and film, which she plans to study in college. She believes that being loud and spreading awareness about important issues is far more powerful than remaining silent. She enjoys history and the historical fiction genre. She is also passionate about civil rights and topics that inspire her writing and her worldview.