My heart flutters when the door creaks open—the stage is dimly lit, empty. I grip my crinkled note card too hard, and my palms smudge the ink. I step out onto the stage. The clapping slows, my feet wander ahead despite hesitation.
My family moved to Maine the summer before I started high school. I had spent most of life among the skyscrapers of Chicago, where anonymity was expected in the bustle of city crowds. Yet I felt very connected to my city.