I was sure everyone in my junior-high drama class saw the paper in my hands shaking when I stood up to audition for a lead role in the annual Christmas play. I was there, not by choice, but because teacher Alice wanted each of us to try out for a part.

As a “good” student, I did what I was asked, even if it was scary. I was small for my age, wore secondhand clothes and cried easily. At school, I was often the object of jokes and laughter and had few friends. I wanted desperately to shrink back into my seat and be invisible. But there I was, on stage. Reading was, at least, something I loved. So, I read.

I finished reading and rushed back to my seat. The spell was broken. I wanted to curl up and disappear. When the teacher read the cast list and called my name, I wasn’t paying attention. No one ever chose me for anything.

“Patty,” she repeated, “you are Star. Come and get your script.”

This is impossible! How can it be? With a pounding heart and cold, sweaty hands, I felt nearly dizzy, but incredibly happy. I walked up unsteadily to get the papers. On returning to my desk, I felt regretful. I should have refused. I felt as if everyone else were looking at and laughing at me. I buried my head in my arms. Gently patting my shoulder, teacher Alice said, “Be confident, Patty. You can do this. I know you can. I’ll help you.” With tears in my eyes, I raised my head and nodded firmly.

So, I practiced every day — while walking to school, at lunchtime, before bedtime, even on weekends. At first, I was worried about forgetting parts of a long monologue that took place in one scene, but I managed to memorize it. I felt more confident after that. At last, it was the day for the show.

Everything went smoothly until it was my turn to give the long monologue.

Fighting back tears, I continued my performance.

My blue shirt matched perfectly with the color of the wall I leaned against. As my hands lightly brushed the surface, I considered staying in that spot forever. I thought about the past few days, and I started to cry. I felt lonely as I watched the other students laughing and talking.

As the clock’s hands slowly turned, the end of the day approached, and I stood in my hiding place. I could hear the school buses arriving to take all the kids home. There were already students on the buses, and I longed to join them. They all looked the same in their navy blue skirts and white shirts.

Stepping into the doors of a public school meant I had to part with my old friends. Weeks passed by as I sank deeper and deeper into depression. Like my shirt and the concrete, I blended into the background of every situation, halfway wanting someone to notice me but at the same time longing to remain part of the masses. Then one day it all changed.

Every morning I dutifully filled the empty bus seat in the third row on the left side, and every morning I stared out the window and let my mind wander. There, I would imagine clouds and tons of friends and . . .

“Hey you.” My thoughts were interrupted. “Yeah, you with the yellow shirt.” I looked down at my yellow sleeve and slowly turned around. “Why do you always sit so close to the front?” I couldn’t speak. Someone was talking to me. He stood at a height pretty average for his age and looked reasonably normal, so I quickly understood he was really interested in me. The next day I sat in a seat farther back, the day after that one more, and another, and another. Finally, about a week later, I slowly made my way down the aisle of the bus, sat in the second seat to the back, turned around and said, “Hi.” From that point on I had a friend.

At first I didn’t say much, just sat back and listened, satisfied to be included.

Now I look forward to going to school, and gradually I am letting other people into my life.