“I’m sorry,' [Marty] said unexpectedly.

“Huh?”

“That we never got to perform that duet together. Don’t you remember? For the Spring Concert?”

“Oh, yeah. What was that song we were going to sing?” I asked.

She placed her right hand on her hip and mock-pouted at me. “James Garraty, don’t tell me you forgot.”

I gave her an impish who, me look. When she smiled, I said in a more serious tone: “‘Somewhere,’ from West Side Story.” I hummed the song’s first measure; it sounded a half-octave off key.

Marty frowned. “You haven’t practiced lately,” she said disapprovingly.

“No, I haven’t,” I said, and as I said it waves of melancholy washed over me like a cold dark tide. Marty saw my expression change; she walked up to me and placed her arm around my shoulder comfortingly.

“I know,” she said softly, “how much you were looking forward to it, Jim. I was looking forward to singing that duet with you, too.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Really. You’re a terrific singer. Who wouldn’t want to sing a duet with you?”

“I bet,” I said, “you say that to all the boys.”

She laughed. My heart jumped as it usually did when she laughed. A thought clicked in my brain: What was it I’d written just a while ago? You are the one person who has the ability to brighten up a sour day. You have always managed to make me return a smile to someone else.”