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After I mastered my first concerto (Э×àÇú) at the age of 14, my parents decided to get me a nice violin. I tried out dozens of instruments before I found my match: a German violin. It was beautiful, but what I liked best about it was its voice. Confident and strong, it was everything I longed to be.

I’m not sure how much that violin cost, but my parents made me promise never to let it out of my sight. They didn’t understand that pulling a large violin case ran counter to my daily middle school task of not being noticed. I was a strange, absent-minded kid. When I spoke up in class, my ments brought confused silence from teachers and wild laughter from students. Like a deer in a wolf pack, I tried to be quiet and still.

However, my new violin was almost shockingly loud. Together, we were much louder than the rest of my middle school orchestra — which was encouraged, since the other kids made sounds like cats’ crying. For one wonderful hour every day, I was showered with attention. Everyone wanted to hear what I had to say.

Between classes, I bent under the bined weight of my violin case and a backpack filled with books. My body suffered, but my confidence grew. With my violin by my side, I found my voice. More and more, I contributed to class discussions and even made a couple of friends.

Today, I’m just an excellent violinist with a regular day job. As I sit in my munity orchestra, sometimes I feel jealous (¼µ¶ÊµÄ) of my fellow musicians’ instruments with their elegant voices. I may not be the best violinist around, but at least I’m still the loudest.