The Duet That Never Was: Revisiting Jim and Marty’s Unfinished Song

Wednesday, June 10, 2026, Orlando, Florida

When I wrote Reunion: A Story in the fall of 1998, I wanted to give my protagonist, Jim Garraty, a connection with Martina Elizabeth “Marty” Reynaud that reached beyond the unspoken love he feels for her in the novella. It could not, of course, be openly romantic; otherwise, Jim’s inner conflict—and, by extension, the story itself—would lose much of its tension. So, in the farewell scene I wrote nearly twenty-eight years ago, I included a small but meaningful piece of backstory: Jim’s one attempt to express his feelings for Marty covertly while also spending precious time with her, by singing Bernstein and Sondheim’s “Somewhere” from West Side Story with her at South Miami High’s 1983 Spring Concert.

In Reunion: A Story—as in real life—that concert never happened. South Miami’s choral teacher left the school for greener pastures in March of 1983, and with that departure, the Spring Concert vanished from the calendar. To Jim and Marty—and to the real Singing Cobras, of which I was one—the cancellation was a heavy emotional blow. It was not merely that the various ensembles were denied their final moment in the spotlight. It was also the sudden absence of a beloved teacher and mentor, the abrupt end of a shared musical home, and the quiet grief that comes when something anticipated with hope is simply taken away.

For the fictional Jim Garraty, the loss cuts even deeper. The canceled concert means that a shy, sensitive, lovestruck boy loses his one carefully prepared chance to stand beside the girl he loves and tell her, through music rather than confession, what he has never found the courage to say aloud. What might seem like a small missed performance becomes, in memory, one of those fragile turning points that youth rarely recognizes until years later.

When I began working on Reunion: Coda three years ago, I wanted to revisit Jim and Marty’s story and flesh out some of the backstory elements from the original novella—a piece that began as a standalone story, never intended for publication, much less to become the cornerstone of a larger literary universe.

For your consideration, here is a vignette from Reunion: Coda that reintroduces—and, I hope, deepens—Jim’s one brave effort to step out of his shadow and indirectly tell Marty how he truly feels about her. It is a moment built on teenage longing, artistic hope, and the ache of possibilities that are beautiful precisely because they remain uncertain.

Third Period/Room 136 – The Chorus Practice Room

I walked into the chorus room carrying a tangle of emotions. On the one hand, I was happy to be back at school after winter break and to see my friends again. On the other, I could not ignore the fact that this would be my last semester at South Miami High. I was a senior, and in a few months, I would graduate and leave behind almost everything that had become familiar to me.

The chorus room felt like a second home. It was where I was most comfortable, away from the stress of my other classes. I was taking four Advanced Placement courses that year—English Lit, Advanced Mathematics/Trigonometry, Economics, and Journalism—and they were killing me. Especially math. I hated math with a passion, but I had to take it if I wanted to get into a good college. My mom had high expectations for me, and so did I. Still, sometimes I wished I could just sing all day and forget about everything else.

I had been a Singing Cobra for two and a half years, long enough to feel that I was part of something larger than a class schedule. We were a team, a band of musically inclined brothers and sisters, if you will. And since some of the other singers—Gordon Scott and Bruce Holtzman, for instance—had joined in 10th grade, one semester before I signed up, and had stayed with the choral department ever since, we felt like part of South Miami High School’s musical family and tradition.

The most important detail, though, was that Marty was still in the class. She was the girl I had had a crush on since 10th grade, though I had never dared to tell her. She used to date Kenny Garcia, the football player who tried out for quarterback but did not make it because he lacked leadership skills. Kenny transferred to Southridge High after that, but I still felt as if his friends at South Miami High glared at me whenever I talked to Marty—or at least I thought they did.

Marty was sweet and friendly, with a lovely alto voice. She sang in the alto/soprano section of the chorus, while I sang bass, though I was—and still am, sort of—more of a baritone. Sometimes our eyes met during rehearsals, and I would feel a sudden warmth in my chest. Sometimes, in my more optimistic moods, I wondered if she might feel something for me, too.

On that first day back, after class, I decided to take a chance and ask her if she would sing a duet with me in the Spring Concert. I had been thinking about it over Christmas break, and I had two songs in mind: “Some Enchanted Evening” from South Pacific and “Somewhere” from West Side Story. Both were songs about love and longing, and both suited my feelings for Marty almost too well. But I worried that “Some Enchanted Evening” might be too obvious and reveal my secret. “Somewhere” felt subtler, more hopeful. It was also one of my favorite songs, and I knew Marty liked it, too.

I approached her as she was packing her backpack. She smiled when she saw me, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Hi, Jim,” she said in her lilting British accent. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Marty,” I said, trying not to sound nervous. “I was wondering if you had a minute. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Well, you know how we have the Spring Concert coming up in four months, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And Mrs. Quincy usually lets us choose some of the songs we want to sing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was thinking that maybe we could sing a duet together. You know, just for fun.”

“A duet?” Marty repeated, sounding surprised.

“Yeah, a duet.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I thought it might be fun to sing with you. You have such a beautiful voice, and I think we sound good together.”

She blushed and looked away. “Thank you, Jim. That’s very kind of you to say.”

“So, what do you think? Would you like to sing a duet with me?”

Marty looked at me again and smiled. “Sure, why not? I think it would be fun, too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s great!” I said, more surprised than I wanted to show. “Thank you, Marty. You just made my day.”

She laughed and gave me a friendly hug. “You’re welcome, Jim. You’re a good friend.”

I hugged her back and felt that familiar pang of happiness and disappointment arriving together. I was thrilled that she had agreed to sing with me, but I wished—more than I wanted to admit—that she could see me as more than a friend. Maybe someday she will, I mused.

“So, what song do you have in mind?” she asked.

I pulled away from the hug and cleared my throat. “Well, I was thinking of ‘Somewhere’ from West Side Story. Do you like that song?”

“I love that song. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Mine too.”

“Then it’s settled,” Marty said. “We’ll sing ‘Somewhere’ in the Spring Concert.”

I nodded and smiled. “We’ll sing ‘Somewhere’ in the Spring Concert,” I echoed.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll find our own somewhere someday, I thought, but didn’t say.