Every Friday, Miss Wolflin would let students in our 8 th grade music class bring in their favorite record album to play. Slim with short, black hair and a cheerful smile, our young teacher was enthusiastic and friendly. Her class was a place I loved to be, even if I couldn’t exactly sing on key as we belted out hippie-era songs like “Time in a Bottle” and “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” I loved music. The daughter of a piano player, I had played keyboard since I was 8-years-old and had recently learned to play the flute. I could sing, although my voice was basically monotone, and had even joined Miss Wolflin’s choir. Music was a safe haven in the train wreck of my junior high life. Smart, shy, and painfully skinny, I was a misfit. I tried so hard to fit in, but even my new Gloria Vanderbilt designer jeans and black t-shirt somehow looked out of place on my angular figure. I was not only shy, but decidedly less worldly wise than my peers. My classmates were gen...