There are countless stories to tell about SCS, and they all collide in my memory as flashes of brilliant happinesses punctuated by typical heartaches.  I came to SCS in 4th grade when my mother took a teaching position there.  We'd only moved to Seattle a year before from Phoenix, and the wet weather, abundance of slugs, and constant gloom hadn't exactly warmed me up to feeling like Seattle was home.  I wanted desperately to go back to the desert, to the light and the heat and the things that were familiar to me.

In fourth grade, I was an awkward kid who wore my brother's hand-me-downs as often as my sister's.  My concept of fashion was matching socks and a threadbare bandana wrapped around my head to keep my long, tangled hair out of my face.  I was scared and ugly and I missed home.  

I don't know how long I was there before I was adopted by two friends in particular: Lorena Soto (a fellow teacher's kid, like me), and Kirsten Landis, who wore honest-to-God button-down business shirts.  Her style mesmerized me, and I remember being aware of my own appearance, perhaps for the first time, and being somewhat ashamed of my corduroy overalls and ratty tennis shoes.  Lorena had the (mis)fortune of hitting puberty several years earlier than the rest of us, and the three of us spent many a recess contemplating the mysteries of boys and make up and planning our first kisses.  

In the mornings, I would arrive well before the other students since my 10th-grade brother, Nathan, had zero-period classes, and my mom wanted to prepare her lesson plans.  I would hang out in the high school hallways, since the elementary was locked until 8am.  I wrote my initials on the underside of the junior hall bench in Sharpie and made small talk with the awe-inspiring high schoolers.  At the time, Miss Pedersen had the corner classroom downstairs, and I would go down there and sit in her velvety lounge chair while she French-braided my hair.  

I grew up, I grew older, and the campus became my second home.  I spent my early mornings there, then the regular school day, and would often stay there hours after school because of my brother's basketball practices, or because my mom had papers to grade, or meetings.  When she started directing the school plays, I would hang out in the library munching on popcorn during rehearsals (my ability to "legally" sneak into the teacher's lounge to use the microwave is still a matter of secret pride to me).  When we moved to the church basement a few blocks away, I would help with make up or props.  When they did Godspell, two of the high school girls got in trouble for plucking my eyebrows (which were massive, I inherited them from my father) without my mom's permission.  I actually cried, at ten years old, when Alec Bye died as Jesus.

After school, Lorena and I, stuck on campus waiting for our moms, would explore.  We especially loved the storage cubby in the hallway ceiling outside the music room.  The walls were narrow enough that we could crawl up them, if our shoes were grippy enough.  

The story of my time at SCS is the story of acquiring a family.  The teachers, who spent their hours teaching me during the day, transformed into favorite aunts and uncles after the 2:45 bell rang.  I can't count how many hours I spent in Mrs. Van Ornum's rooms, tinkering with my own little art projects with scrap supplies.  Mr. Wold and I would talk science fiction while he sipped on coffee from a silver travel mug. Mr. Hoogerhyde would put on a drum track so I could improve jazz melodies on my trumpet without feeling embarrassed by the presence of other students.  When Mrs. Madison gave me a 21 out of 20 on a badly-handwritten short story, I promised myself then and there I would dedicate the first novel I sold to her.  I still intend to honor that promise.  I wrote an epic poem in one of Mr. Bratt's classes and recently dug it out, polished it up, and published it on Amazon.  I wouldn't have ever even thought to write something like that without his class.  That one was dedicated to him.

The story of my time at SCS is one of debt.  The good kind of debt, the kind you wish and pray to be able to repay tenfold.  It is the story of a little girl who grew up in the loving care of educators who made it their priority to see her prepared for the world.  They taught her to be compassionate, inquisitive, determined.  They taught her to crave beauty, rather than perfection.  And when that little girl's family fell apart, they stepped in.  When my parents divorced, I don't think there was a single teacher who didn't pull me aside to give me a hug and tell me they loved me, and they were there to support me.  I was angry, and while I can't pretend it was a good time, my self-destruction would have been so much worse if they had not been there, if they had not understood my need to grieve the loss.

When I graduated from SCS, I made another promise: that I would give the tithe of the sales from my first major project back to the school that had nurtured me for nine years.  I have not been able to fulfill that promise yet, but I have faith that my debt of gratitude can and will be repaid, though never in full.  My gratitude will never be able to match any financial contribution I make to this school, to these teachers and staff, to the aunts and uncles I adopted, and to the ones that adopted me.  It is my firm belief that SCS is a fountain of goodness, a well from which young people drink and draw strength and gain character and integrity.  There is no doubt in my mind that I would be a different person had I not attended SCS, and not one for the better.  I hope to be able to continue to support this institution financially so that future generations of students can experience the same loving education I was given.