Dear Brandon High School Music Department,

I would like to tell you a story. It begins, as many stories do, with a girl looking to find herself in a new, exciting place. It was her first day of high school and she was understandably terrified. Moving to a larger environment where the unfamiliar faces outnumbered the ones she knew - some of them even old enough to be considered adults by law - was the first real bought of culture shock she had ever experienced. The only thing keeping the caterpillars in her stomach from forming into rambunctious butterflies was the fact that she had a secret.

As the girl walked down the pavement that connected the student drop-off point with the school's main entrance, she made polite conversation with the neighbor boy she had spent the last ten minutes sharing a back seat with in her mother's Chevrolet. He was nervous about not being able to find his first class, confessing that he wasn't sure if he would be able to tell if it was upstairs or down. The girl nodded along, clutching her freshly printed schedule in her clammy fist.

He turned to her, asking if she shared his fears, hoping that he was not alone. She gave him a small smile and agreed, telling the first lie of her high school career. Something she hoped would not happen often, if at all.

The girl was a bite naïve.

Together, the two 14-year-olds looked ahead to a set of four doors that separated them from the newest chapter of their lives. The girl couldn't very well tell him her secret, she rationalized in her head. It would take away the subtle wave of relief that colored his rosy cheeks. The same awe, in fact, that continued to wash over him as he as he craned his head and squinted at the painted sigil of a Blackhawk in mid-flight; a symbol that let them know that let them know that, at least for now, they were in the right place. Who was she to take that small sign of victory away on a day like today?

They entered together, looking for the locker numbers scribbled onto their timesheets, and found them nestled in a long hallway adjacent to the gym. Twisting the unfamiliar padlock, it took the girl a few times to get it right. She looked over at the boy, his locker a few yards away, and saw a similar struggle. Turning back, her eyes flickered above her locker for just a moment. The simple glance was enough to make her stomach clench as she met a pair of unfamiliar eyes. A photograph of a young woman smiled against a dull grey backdrop. The image was attached to a plaque and the girl had to squint to read it, the edges of her chubby cheeks meeting the cool metal of her wire-rimed glasses.

All-State Tennis, 1998.

The girl raised her eyebrows. How talented this person must have been to have received such high recognition, nailed to the walls for nearly a decade. The plaque was not alone, surrounded by dozens of others. What an inspiration they must be to all the athletes who walked this hallway every day. And indeed, the girl felt a little inspired herself, though she was far from an athlete. But the boy was and she looked over to him as she shut her locker, only to see him staring at one of the many adjacent trophy cases. He had been drawn to the basketball display, filled to the brim with golden statuettes and framed clusters of various teams old and new.

The boy made his way back over to say goodbye before they parted ways. The girl turned, the hallway seeming smaller now that she had already walked its length, and let out a breath that had been bundled up inside her chest. Her backpack lighter now that she had dropped off some of her books, she walked the familiar path and ended up outside an equally familiar set of metal double doors. Her secret, her safe haven, was finally in front of her.

You see, the girl was one step ahead of her classmates, who were no doubt skittering about in search of their homerooms. Instead of joining their skirmish, she took pride in the fact that she already knew where she was meant to be. In a way, she had known for most of her life.

Hidden away in a nook far from the everyday hustle and bustle of jocks and nerds was a room the girl had visited many times before. Visited, but never belonged. It was always a special occasion that led her to this room - a celebration or something even more spectacular. And as she opened the rightmost door, knowing that the other wouldn't budge because of a faulty hinge, she was met with a musk of old black dresses. An invisible cloud of hairspray. The echo of heels clicking further and further down the luminescent white hall, decorated only with old homemade collages of performances past and the talent that had made them possible.

The girl let out another breath, pocketed her schedule, and made way to the choir room at the end of the music hallway.

The door squeaked and slammed at exactly the right moment. Months before, she had walked this path as she performed her last show as a middle school singer, dressed in a gaudy blue polo and long back slacks. The space had been filled with familiar faces then, mostly girls putting on their first attempts at stage makeup, making sure the stage lights didn't wash out their perfectly pinched cheeks on their parents' recordings.

The girl braced herself, knowing she would be met with a much different sight. Still, she clung to her secret for it was the only thing keeping her from tripping over the hem of her jeans.

The door was secured at the end of the hallway, the space next to it already filled with posters for music camps and scholarships the girl could never dream of pursuing. Fiddling with the strap of her backpack one last time, she opened the door. It was still early, the first bell was still ten minutes shy of chiming, but already people were gathered. Backpacks were slung on the backs of chairs. Laughter bounced off the acoustic panels that lined the walls. Girls were lined up at the full-length mirror at the far end of the room, checking their makeup and hair. Perhaps some things hadn't changed.

As predicted, the girl was met with a masquerade of unfamiliar faces. People who were taller, older, prettier, and far more talented than she would ever be. Still hovering in the doorway, she darted her eyes around, searching for something familiar. Someone. Her gaze fell upon a bushel of brown hair, paired with a knit pencil skirt and wool zip-up sweater that somehow managed to compliment each other. The figure turned and gave her a kind smile, gesturing to a nearby chair in the front row. Pressing her lips in a fine line, the girl bowed her head and followed her director's orders.

Her secret now discovered, fully manifested around her, the girl felt her protective wall begin to waver - transforming from brick to straw. She tried to stay calm, reminding herself that her friends would be here soon.

Her eyes wandered as she twiddled her thumbs, trying to find something - anything - to focus on. For the second time that morning, she was met with a picturesque stare. Another smiling young woman atop a shining plaque. Her name was also written, except instead of tennis, her achievement read:

2003 State Honors Choir

The girl had seen these plaques before when she visited, of course, but never paid them much mind. They were always of people much older than she - people from another world. Now, she would see these faces every day and sit in their seats. Faces she didn't know, faces from the past, smiling down at her. Judging her. Questioning what she was doing there. She could fool herself, but could she really fool them?

The bell rang, followed swiftly by the director managing to bring order to the room by tickling a few chords on the piano. A cacophony of voices unrehearsed from months of vacation filled the room and the woman let out an almost invisible wince.

A few more chords in, and the girl's fists began to unclench. Her lungs began to stretch. Singing had always relaxed her, ever since she was little. True, it was also when she was at her most vulnerable, open to the judgement of others. But here, in this room, there was no judgement. At least, not this early in the year. The girl knew she could sing to her hearts content, unleash her very essence, and have it come back to her in once piece, untarnished by bullies or teachers with silver tongues.

The plaques continued to smile, though she could have sworn a few pairs of still eyes twinkled as the group harmonized together for the first time. Though her feelings of doubt would never really go away, the girl still wanted this feeling to last forever. She wanted to be among the eyes on the wall and watch as others felt what she was feeling.

The girl was not an athlete, nor did she have any interest in being one. But still she admired the faces on the wall, feeling like she was in the presence of a greatness she could never attain. But here, now, surrounded by other smiling faces real and framed, she felt as if greatness was in her grasp. No matter how ridiculous it seemed, she knew that she belonged here. She knew that she was safe.

The girl kept that feeling close to her until it eventually stuck on her chest. Through hardships, triumphs, and everything in-between, it never wavered. Not even when she watched as her own photo was placed on a special space above the door. She still felt safe. She still felt like she belonged. But greatness... that was up for debate. She did, however, manage to leave high school with a lightness in her step, a fact that many who have survived its trials cannot boast.

She left, but was never truly gone. The girl remained among the eyes on the wall and hoped that she would do her part to make other feels safe and maybe even inspired to achieve greatness of their own. Whether that greatness be preserved in a photograph or in the company of lifelong friends, it didn't matter, as long as those who felt its touch were where they belonged. The same could also be said of those eyes across the building; the ones who looked upon the trophies of their athletic teammates forevermore and left similar impressions to the twinkling eyes of aspiring Beckhams' and Williams'. Both sets served as testaments to the coaches who greeted them with a smile on their first day. They passed on that welcome long after their mentors were gone, and beyond when they inevitably followed.

Eight years, two graduations, and one retired choir director later, only one set of plaques remain impressed on the walls. The girl hears about it from a friend, whose mother had managed to save her picture before it was thrown into the trash.

Perhaps she should have been an athlete after all.