Not long ago, even her own sister refused to be seen with her.  Now, singer Toby Lightman proves that high school outcasts can finish first.

You know that girl in the front of the school bus?  The really skinny one with the thick glasses?  Most days, she sits alone.  She wouldn't dare sit near the back with the cool kids; she won't even look at any of them.  She's so awkward, it's almost painful, right?  That was me.

I grew up in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, just outside of Philadelphia.  I started playing the violin when I was six years old.  My teachers told my mom that I had perfect pitch and rhythm, but when you're six, all you want to do after school is go home and watch Sesame Street.  And later, like when you're sixteen, all you want to do after school is hang out with your friends.  I rarely did either.

I spent much of high school insecure and depressed.  I was called names for wearing glasses and was picked on for being a "music geek," even though I played tennis and lacrosse.  I didn't have dates for the dances.  I was convinced that I was never going to be popular; no one would ever be my friend, especially because I played the violin.  It wasn't exactly the cool thing to do when you were already struggling with insecurities.  Every time I started to connect with anyone, a situation would arise in which I couldn't go to a a football game, or a party, because of orchestra.  People thought that was so lame.  I hated it.  I hated that everyone would look at me, and I hated that I was missing out on things.  It was as if I stuck out and was invisible at the same time.

I tried to quit the violin on at least 20 occasions.  I thought it would undo everything.  But my mom wouldn't let me; she said I'd regret it later.  When you're thirteen, though, you don't care about the long run, you just want to be cool tomorrow.  After school, I'd cry to her: "When will I have friends?  I'll never have a boyfriend.  I hate this stupid violin, no one thinks it's cool; what's the point?"  Her insistence might have been, as she claimed, "for my own good," but at the time, it sure didn't seem like it was.  It seemed like she was specifically trying to make me a loser.

And so I didn't quit, but I did my best to hide it -- on the bus, for example, I'd put the violin case between my legs and my book bag over it -- although that didn't always work.  I had to play at school assemblies and my classmates would all snicker.  My own sister -- who was a senior when I was a freshman -- wouldn't sit with me on the bus.  She was a "cool kid" and I was her dorky little violin-playing sister.  She never came to any of my concerts.  She'd talk on the phone all night long with her hundreds of friends, which of course made it more obvious to me that I had none.  Even adults made fun of me.  My lacrosse coach once told me that orchestra was stupid after I said that I couldn't make a game because of a show.

When I was a freshman, I started singing.  But I hid that, too.  I didn't want anyone to see me perform.  I'd even wait until my parents left the house before I'd practice.  I actually did have a boyfriend near the end of high school (maybe because I finally got ontact lenses?), but I don't think that he even knew that I played the violin or performed with the chorus.  He was a new kid, and really cute, and I had no idea why he was dating me.  I was scared that if he found out about my singing and playing, he would see me as the dork I was.

The first time I sang for anyone was at my high school graduation, solo, in front of 2,500 people.  My teachers asked me to do it.  That's my only explanation; it was totally out of character.  But afterward, when everyone applauded, I realized that maybe I didn't have to hide it; maybe people were ready to accept me.  And maybe I was ready to accept myself.

When I went away to college -- the University of Wisconsin-Madison -- I told myself that this was my new beginning.  I sought out the orchestra and the chorus and started learning guitar, too.  College forced me to go after things.  It was easy to join the orchestra in high school -- it was a class.  But at UW, I had to earn my spot.  I needed to approach people and say, "This is what I do."  It built up my confidence, especially once I saw that the thing that had made me sort of special.  I began to meet kids who had the same interests.  I was no longer the outcast.

Now I can see that the people who teased me in high school were as insecure as I was, if not more.  They just turned their insecurities against other people (namely me).  I'm thankful that I continued with the violin, not least of all because I was able to play it on my album (which is out this month on Lava Records).

There were a few months growing up when I stopped being able to sleep.  I just had so many pressures: to fit in, to make friends, to be cool.  My parents took me to a therapist.  He told me to put up a poster in my room that said SO WHAT? "And when you're lying there awake," he said, "look over and read, 'SO WHAT'."  I never did it, but I should have.  Because you know something?  He was right.

-- As told to Alyssa Giacobbe