I met Carmen Schentrup for the first period in our freshman year at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. We industrialized a bond nearly immediately due to our shared name, and from then on, we mentioned to ourselves as “Carmen Squared.” We would make jokes about being twins distribution one soul, merely residing in two dissimilar bodies. Our friendship developed rapidly, founded on inquisitiveness, laughter, and a mutual aspiration to improve the world. She signified the sun, while I was Carmen Lunar, the moon. We perfected each other, her vivacity brightening the space as my serenity echoed her radiance.
We could discuss anything for hours on end. No matter if it was our aspirations for the future, beloved books, or cosmic paradoxes, we were united by a fervor for exploration and education. Carmen was among those excellent individuals who motivated everyone in her vicinity. Her conviction was that knowledge had the power to change the world and that compassion could heal it.
Then inwards Valentine’s Day—a day that now feels concurrently sacred and painful. That morning, our AP English Literature class gathered to showcase sonnets we had composed for our mothers
Carmen was among those brilliant individuals who motivated everyone in her vicinity. Her conviction was that knowledge had the power to change the world and that kindness could heal it.
Then inwards Valentine’s Day a day that now feels simultaneously sacred and painful. Our AP English Literature class convened that a.m to present sonnets we had composed for our mothers. Carmen, who was always so thoughtful, shared hers with a gentle smile. She noted that she had already shown it to her mom, which felt oddly representative, as if she somehow knew it might be her last countenance of love.
As we often did, we strolled together after class. Before parting ways, I walked with her for half the distance to her next class. We smiled, waved, and said “See you later,” unaware that these would be the last words we ever exchanged. The hallway, which I nonchalantly escorted her to, turned into the site of her beautiful life being taken later that day.
Ten minutes prior to the arranged end of the school day, the fire alarm went off for the second time. Everyone surveyed their environs, looking calm but confused, as they assumed it was just another tool. Once we stepped outside, the confusion transformed into pandemonium as shots rang out.
The disturbance was so loud that it echoed throughout the campus. We were hassled back indoors, trembling and confused about the situation. For the next two and a half hours, my classmates and I gathered closely together, demanding for our safety as well as that of our friends. They were smothered by terror.
It was hypothetical that Carmen had been shot and was still in the building. I disallowed the idea of believing it. We certain ourselves that she had to have been taken to the hospital, that she was alive somewhere, waiting to wake up. However, with the transitory of the hours, hope started to reduce.
Finally, at 2 a.m. on February 15, 2018, the validation came: Carmen was gone. Although it was still Valentine’s Day, it would everlastingly be recalled as the day that love and innocence were broken apart. Carmen Squared had ceased to exist.
Although Carmen was just sixteen, her brilliance made her appear much older. She was already in her final year, a National Merit Finalist, and a girl whose aspirations were larger than life itself. In an ironic twist, her letter of cheers arrived the day after her death. There was never an chance for her to open it. She aspired to study biochemistry and aim for the cure of diseases that currently have no cure. She was just a week shy of her seventeenth birthday, just a week from rejoicing another year of life full with so much to offer.
