* * *

  Marti was right. I never lived life to the fullest. I’d always been the audience to Marti’s expeditions. My inhaler and I would sit on the sidelines while she climbed to the highest limb of a tree or took flying lessons or sang a solo in the school play. I didn’t really mind, mostly because Marti didn’t think of me as her shadow. Oh sure, she’d tease me and prod me to be more brave. But somehow when Marti teased, I could always tell that she didn’t do it to make fun of me; she did it because she wanted me with her---because I was her best friend. Marti was never conscious that she was the one that people noticed. She always called me “Professor” and never missed the chance to brag about my 800 on the SAT or whine to me to help her with her algebra two. The time I won first place in a poetry contest against five hundred other students, Marti must have told the whole school. And that day in third grade when she finally convinced me to ride the big Ferris Wheel at the State Fair and I chickened out at the last minute, Marti didn’t say anything but, “That’s ok. You can always try it next year. It is kind of scary after all.” Then she feigned a shiver and walked right by the roller coaster she’d been looking forward to all year. Instead we went and got spun sugar and looked at the rabbits.

  Marti was the best friend I had. No high school party was awkward once she got there. She could talk. And talk. And talk. But she knew how to listen too, and some nights we would stay up until faint sunlight could be seen in the east, pouring out secret thoughts and dreams.

  She was the only one I told my numerous ideas for novels. I had hundreds, but she always listened, with fascinated eyes, no matter how obscure the plot, or cliché the characters.

 

  The only things I wished Marti wouldn’t do were the things she loved doing best: daring things.

 

I worried about her. I was afraid that someday she would go just a little too far out onto the edge of a cliff, and then I’d lose her.