Her name was Annika. She was two years older, which in high school meant we were worlds apart; her year breezed through hallways with the easy confidence of experience. But I think she must have recognized her younger self in my nervous attempts to make myself smaller, because in that crowded music room her eyes always found mine (one shrinking girl among eleven boys) and restored my strength with an easy smile that said, there's nothing to worry about. You belong here.

That first day, she picked up the biggest drum and she strapped it onto me and told me to play loud, and I have carried that enormous drum and those words in my heart with me ever since.