The tired yellow wooden door glides open on ancient hinges with a great pull from one side. The room is preceded by its smell. Old sweat and mustiness faintly wafts into my nose. The light stench is foul to new comers, but an old timer like me recognizes it as a mere sign that I am at home with people who don’t care what I look like or how old I am. The air is slightly thicker in here. I’m not sure why the atmosphere changes so drastically - perhaps from the sheer volume of people in what once seemed a cavernous and frightening room, or maybe because all the memories that weigh the room down with experience have eaten away the smell of new paint and freshly cleaned carpet the room was meant to receive over summer. It has seen a fast paced twelve years, yet the air hangs with sophistication. If you open your ears enough, one can hear the stories and adventures of all the room’s previous occupants.

Waves of nostalgia wash over me whenever I walk in here. This room has witnessed as my class and I evolved from hide and seek playing, joksters to weary and stressed juniors. In a sense, the room has become similar to how I feel inside. In the corners are hints of childhood and glitter, but the central focal point of the room is consistently an erratic conglomeration of insistently changing ideas. There are the black stands that crowd the corner of the room and are seen escaped from the confines of their racks whenever we are too lazy to put them back, creating a winding maze that one has to solve in order to cross. When these are not out, the space is exploding with sound as percussionists clash, bang, smack, and shake any instruments they can get in their twitching and excited hands. If they aren’t rehearsing, then the room is full of every instrument you can imagine while the woman with the stilettos conducts with nervous hands. A muted version of the sound of escapes through the door and extends to the ears of innocent passers by.

My heartstrings are tugged as I contemplate the time I have left of calling this room my second home. It seems like this place has always existed inside of me, representing all the phases of emotion I go through. It reflects all the complex thoughts in my mind back as clearly as looking through the glass that allows the sun to penetrate through the heavy air. My class has already reached its halfway point with this room, and the years seem to be reeling by exponentially faster than the year before while the daunting thought of the future years loom over us. My head spins with this thought and I have to hold it to stop the spinning. I briefly consider the seniors who are experiencing even more fear of graduation-or perhaps longing for it- either way, they all will miss this room. This room has been the theatre of the drama of many high school lives. Thousands of high school musicals have been staged here. Romances, dramas, and comedies have been played out in this room. Mine are included in this myriad of shows. My tears have been shed in here, fits of uncontrolled laughter spilled, and kisses have been had in here.

I shove my shoulder into the bland and unreflective metal door to the right of the entrance to this room. By applying all the weight of my short frame, I am able to make the door unclick and reveal one extension of the classroom. Like a small blood clot protruding off the main artery, it is an extension of the musical talent that transpires in the band room. The locker room has rows upon rows of white and cheaply made lockers, all concealing black cases of differing sizes behind fading white prison-like bars. Some are locked, but for those who can never seem to remember the code, the tiny silver padlocks remain eternally hung in the hook and are never snapped shut. This locker room has seen many aspiring students, similar to me. It has heard more than its share of incorrect notes and heinous squeaks escape from my clarinet. I sigh, drawing in the refreshing scent of this room. For some reason, the air isn’t as thick in here, and I can breathe without feeling as though I’m choking. Yanking on the white metal bars of the locker I share with my best friend, the door strains against the hinges it depends on, and a faint squeal of defiance escapes from it.
Music from many bent and torn folders spread across the base of this locker, with water stains from the hundreds of different bottles that have been half drunk and tossed in here. A miniature perfume store is shoved into the back, and black shoes that once proudly shone with innocence are now lined with gray a few inches behind the tip of the toes and the heels are all worn from the many grass fields and dirt paths they have trodden across. Love notes and friendship letters alike are shoved inside the scarred cases next to these shoes. They are filled with silly inside jokes, and serious confessions, and beautiful memories that I desperately cling to in fear of their chances of fluttering away as easily as the lined paper they are written on.

A few more of my friends come streaming in, and I pick up conversations occurring between younger students who don’t know how lucky they are to have so many more years before them. Then I hear some of the seniors, going through the motions again, and trying to defy the rules of time by ignoring it. As they leave and others enter, I am rooted to the grimy white tile floor that has been danced, walked, slept, and sat on by thousands of students just like me. I hear the voices of my friends echo through the back of my mind, calling for me to walk with them. I shake the fuzz from my mind and tears from my eyes, not wanting anybody to guess my thoughts. I grab my case that is covered with scratches, and bows, and a neon yellow tag marking it as an instrument that traveled to Florida last spring with hundreds of other instruments. I shove the fading shoes onto my feet and swallow half a bottle of water before throwing the remnants of the water bottle back into the locker and turn on my heel. This time, I pull with as much force as my arms can muster and the door again unclicks, giving way to the band room. Then I am gone, and I glance back as the woman with the sparkly flats turns the key in the lock and smacks the sticky light switch off, cloaking the room in a blanket of gray that is only broken apart by the beams of light refracting through the high windows. Then I turn away and join my friends as we pretend to laugh our worries away and walk to another place that is like home.