Nonfiction by Courtney Fitzgerald
The plastic was blue, the small oval picture of Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens faded, but the microphone felt so real in my hands. Real enough that when I pressed the button and the song echoed back to me—tinny, slightly delayed, and crunchy through the small speakers—I could sing along and feel like a real pop star. I believed it too. I was a pop star living out my High School Musical dreams.
I’d stand in the middle of my bedroom, door closed, the world reduced to four walls and whichever character I decided I was going to be that day. Most days, that meant Sharpay Evans—the kind of girl who had everyone wrapped around her finger. My life was nothing like that beyond those four walls. If I spoke up, I was talked over. Always competing with my four older sisters, who were louder, funnier, better.
But in my room, I was Sharpay. The center of attention. I would put on sparkly clothes and the biggest sunglasses I had and sneak my sisters’ heels so I could be taller. They would hear me now. I would no longer be just their younger sister. I’d be their equal. Nothing would tear me down, and no one could get under my skin. I’d be heard.
Then the door would barge open. One of my sisters would come rushing in with something more important, or better to take over.
“Mikaela and Brian…” she’d say into her phone, not even notice me—walking in, walking out, like I wasn’t even there in the first place.
Reality would hit and the imaginary spotlight would disappear. The music would fade, I’d shed my costume, and I’d step into my rightful role as the supporting character. I’d only be heard if I was echoing what my sisters had already said, and I’d get by unnoticed.
I don’t remember the exact day I stopped using the microphone. Maybe it was when the batteries died from overuse. Or the day my sister caught me singing with it and told me I sounded like a dying pig. Or when my mom took my sisters’ side over mine for the thousandth time. Or the day I wasn’t invited to go with my sister to the park with friends. One day it became something that I stepped around instead of picking up.
The microphone ended up on the floor, then in a bin, in a basement, forgotten.
Sans microphone, I still like to pretend I’m Sharpay—loud, unapologetic, impossible to ignore. She shows up when I’m tired of hiding, when being overlooked has started to feel permanent. When the cloak of invisibility has become too much and all I want to do is be heard.
But being a supporting character does have its own kind of strength. It’s the role I’ve learned in a house where being louder didn’t always mean being heard. It may not come with shiny clothes or the loudest voice, but it has made me the person I am today. Fighting with my sisters for attention has given me a voice that sometimes goes unnoticed but is powerful when needed. It’s a confidence that comes from knowing I found my voice through theirs.
I doubt it’s still in that basement. I don’t have to press the button to know it wouldn’t work or see it to know that the picture of Zac and Vanessa is long gone. I just know that I no longer need it. My voice carries on its own, and when I need her, Sharpay is always there. But I need her less as I grow older and closer to my sisters.
Courtney Fitzgerald is a Senior at Bridgewater State University studying English with a concentration in writing and writing studies. She plans to graduate Spring 2027 and hasn’t quite figured out what she wants to do yet.
