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Imagine! You're 12 years old, stumbling after Mrs. Parker, your new teacher into a classroom full of screaming kids.

You shift uncomfortably at the front of the room.

You're at the height of your awkward pre-pubescence.

It's not a good time to be the new kid.

Settle everyone.

You can feel everyone's eyes on you, creeping down from your mess of black brillo pad hair to your thick lensed glasses.

All the way down to where your pudgy stomach bulges over your two tight school-issued pants.

You hold your violin case tight against your chest, as if it could protect you.

All right, boys and girls. This is...

I'm sorry. How do you say your name?

She looks to you for help, as you burn alive with embarrassment.

You look at your shoes and say your name, as quietly as possible.

You're very foreign name.

You try to tune out the snickering that travels from desk to desk.

Okay, okay. I'd like someone to take care of...

The new boy. To show him around.

Who wants to volunteer?

Silence.

Every face in the room stares at you.

You stare at the back wall.

Then a hand shoots up.

...