"Doesn't she ever stop?" asked the boy.

"I don't know," I replied. I hadn't heard Susan play anything but classical music up until now (her mother said it was her favorite) and all classical music seems long to me.

"Okay," said the boy. "Okay. Hey, Susan, play 'Monster Mash.' " "Monster Mash"? That was a silly old rock-and-roll song. Susan would never kn - But she did know it. She switched from "Swanee River" to "Monster Mash" without missing a beat.

"Wow," said the boy, awed.

"Listen, what's your name?" I asked the boy. "I mean, what is it really? Are you Bob or are you Craig? If you're going to be Susan's friend I should know, so I can tell her your name, and talk to her about you." "Oh," said the boy, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Well . . . well, the truth is I'm Mel Tucker." "Mel," 1 repeated, smiling. "I'm Kristy Thomas, Susan's baby-sitter." Mel just nodded. Then a grin lit up his face as he regarded Susan at the piano again. "I know!" he exclaimed. "1 just saw The Music Man. That was a good movie. We rented it and I watched it three times before we had to return it. Hey, Susan, play that song about Marian, the librarian." Again, Susan began the new song, only this time Mel's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets when Susan began to sing, too. She knew every word of the entire song. When she finished it, she began again. 1 had a funny feeling Susan knew every song from the movie.

"She has a pretty voice," said Mel, which was probably the highest compliment he could muster.

"She does, doesn't she?" I replied, and wondered why Susan couldn't use that voice to talk with people instead of just to sing songs she'd memorized and to give dates.

"I guess," Mel went on, "that Susan knows lots and lots of songs." "Just about any one you can think of," I bragged.

"And I guess she can sing to all of them?" This was a question, not a statement.

"No," I replied.