What is your leading man’s most treasured memory?
Jim:
“Hello, Jimmy,” said an all-too familiar voice from somewhere behind me. It was Marty. No one else at South Miami had that delightful, almost exotic English accent.
I turned around slowly until I faced her. “Hi, Marty,” I said.
She got up from one of the few chairs that had not been placed in storage and gave me a shy half-smile. “So, come to say goodbye, then?” Marty asked.
I gazed at her, committing every detail of her appearance to memory. She wore faded Levi’s blue jeans, a white and orange SOUTH MIAMI CHORUS T-shirt, white socks and an old pair of Keds sneakers. Her chestnut hair was tied into a ponytail. She wore very little makeup; a touch of mascara here, a hint of blush there, a bit of lip-gloss to make things a bit interesting. She was shockingly, heartrendingly beautiful.
My heart skipped a beat. “I couldn’t go without seeing you, you know,” I said.
She smiled. “Oh, come on; I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“It’s true,” I said. “And no, I don’t say that to all the girls.”
She smiled again. “I see,” she said. “How did you do on your final?”
“Okay, I guess. How about you?”
She shrugged. “All right, I suppose. Biology is not my cup of tea. I’ll be happy if I pass with a 75.”
I essayed a small smile. “I’m sure you did better than that,” I said.
Another shrug. “We’ll see.” She sighed. “What?” I asked.
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” she asked wistfully.
“What?”
“That this,” she said with a sweeping gesture, “part of our lives is over, Jimmy. Three years sure went fast, didn’t they?”
“Yes – yes, they did,” I said, feeling suddenly as if the stars and the planets had been placed on my shoulders. I felt my smile vanish. I slouched forward and let out a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” she 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.
The letter! I had almost forgotten it was still in my jacket pocket. A horrible idea occurred to me at that moment – I thought maybe it had slipped out of my pocket as I’d made my way here. I patted my left side with my free hand – Martina’s arm was still draped around my other shoulder – until I felt its weight and shape. I carefully reached inside the pocket and pulled out the now slightly creased envelope.
“What’s that?” asked Marty.
I turned slightly to my right so that I was facing her. I looked into her lovely hazel eyes. At that instant, I became aware that if I leaned forward just a bit, I could kiss her. Her arm was still resting on my shoulder. Suddenly the only thing I wanted to do was to hold her gently and kiss those lovely lips.
I shook my head. “This,” I said, “is for you.”
She reached for the envelope, but I moved it out of the way before she could take it. She looked at me with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “It is for me, isn’t it?” she asked peevishly.
“Yes, yes, it is,” I said. “But I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
I gathered my steadily dissolving reserves of courage. I gazed into her eyes again. “Promise me,” I said haltingly, “that you won’t open this until after the ceremony on Friday.”
Marty’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Why?”
I pulled the envelope a bit farther away. “Promise me,” I said imploringly.
She sighed. Closed her eyes. Nodded. “All right,” she said softly, “I promise.”
I pressed the envelope into her free hand. She accepted it wordlessly.
The school bell rang just then, breaking the silence that had come between us with a jarring insistent dinging sound. Startled, Marty removed her arm from my shoulder. I took a small backward step, feeling a mixture of relief and regret as the physical contact was broken.
“Well,” I said in my best Harrison Ford voice, “this is it, sweetheart.” I picked up my backpack, turned toward the door and started to make my exit. As I did, I felt Marty tug at my hand. I stopped dead in my tracks.
“Hey,” she said gently as I turned around to face her, “you’re just going to leave without –” She hesitated, then looked directly into my eyes. “Without a kiss goodbye?”
“Well, I….”
Before I could finish my reply, the most beautiful girl in South Miami High wrapped her arms around me in a tight embrace, and, softly, tenderly, placed her lips on mine. Gently, tentatively, I returned the kiss. I closed my eyes. A million sensations hit me all at once – the scent of her perfume, the slight taste of strawberries from her lips, the clean minty taste of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest as she slowly breathed, the palpable beating of her heart, the welcome warmth of her presence – and I remembered the lyrics of the song I’d heard in my dream:
Where time’s winds blow
That’s where you’ll be.
Where love’s fires glow
Your smile I’ll see.
Across the stars
Across the sea
Where time’s winds blow
Our hearts will be.
The wall clock ticked loudly. Almost reluctantly (or so I thought), Marty broke off the kiss. I opened my eyes and looked shyly at her. She gave me a sad little smile. She reached out with her right hand and gave my cheek a gentle caress.
“I’m going to miss you,” she said.
I nodded. “I’m – I’m going to miss you, Marty.”
Outside, hundreds of cheering students ran down the halls and out the nearest exits. Summer had arrived. Another school year was now, at long last, over. – from Reunion: A Story
I gazed at her, committing every detail of her appearance to memory. She wore faded Levi’s blue jeans, a white and orange SOUTH MIAMI CHORUS T-shirt, white socks and an old pair of Keds sneakers. Her chestnut hair was tied into a ponytail. She wore very little makeup; a touch of mascara here, a hint of blush there, a bit of lip-gloss to make things a bit interesting. She was shockingly, heartrendingly beautiful.
Reunion: A Story
My heart skipped a beat. “I couldn’t go without seeing you, you know,” I said.
She smiled. “Oh, come on; I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“It’s true,” I said. “And no, I don’t say that to all the girls.”
What about your leading woman’s?
Maddie:
I haven’t finished Reunion: Coda, so I can’t say what her most cherished memory is. The novel mentions her paternal grandfather, a diplomat turned businessman involved in wartime conferences like Yalta during WWII, and her close relationship with her late sister “Libby,” whom she addresses in her diary entries.
I will update this post in the future if I manage to figure this out.
A Certain Point of View, Too 
You must be logged in to post a comment.