Sharon Creech - Walk Two Moons

I think that Betty [he changed the name, you could tell, because there was no Betty in our school] will go to hell because she always takes the Lord’s name in vain. She says “God!” every five seconds.

Mary Lou Finney was turning purple. “Who wrote that?” she said. “Did you, Christy? I’ll bet you did.”

Christy stared down at her desk.

“I do not say ‘God!’ every five seconds. I do not. And I am not going to hell. Omnipotent—that’s what I say now. I say, Omnipotent ! And Alpha and Omega! ”

Mr. Birkway was desperately trying to explain what he had enjoyed about that passage. He said that most of us are not aware that we might be using words—such as God!—that offend other people. Mary Lou leaned over to me and said, “Is he serious ? Does he actually, really and truly believe that beef-brained Christy is troubled by my saying God?—which I do not, by the way, say anymore anyway.”

Christy wore a pious look, as if God Himself had just come down from heaven to sit on her desk.

Mr. Birkway quickly selected another journal. He read:

Linda [there was no Linda in our class either] is my best friend. I tell her just about everything and she tells me EVERYTHING, even things I do not want to know. Like what she ate for breakfast and what her father wears to bed and how much her new sweater cost. Sometimes things like that are just not interesting.

Mr. Birkway liked this passage because it showed that even though someone might be our best friend, he or she could still drive us crazy. Beth Ann turned all the way around in her seat and sent wicked eyebrow-messages to Mary Lou.

Mr. Birkway flipped ahead in the same journal to another passage. He read:

I think Jeremiah is pig-headed. His skin is always pink and his hair is always clean and shiny…but he is really a jerk.

I thought Mary Lou Finney was going to fall out of her chair. Alex was bright, bright pink. He looked at Mary Lou as if she had recently plunged a red hot stake into his heart. Mary Lou said, “No—I—no, it isn’t what you think—I—”

Mr. Birkway liked this passage because it showed conflicting feelings about someone.

“I’ll say it does,” Alex said.

The bell rang. First, you could hear sighs of relief from the people whose journals had not been read, and then people started talking a mile a minute. “Hey, Mary Lou, look at Alex’s pink skin,” and “Hey Mary Lou, what does Beth Ann’s father wear to bed?”

Beth Ann was standing one inch away from Mary Lou’s face. “I do not talk on and on,” Beth Ann said, “and that wasn’t very nice of you to mention that, and I do not tell you everything, and the only reason I ever mentioned what my father wore to bed was because we were talking, if you will recall, about men’s bathing suits being more comfortable than women’s and—” On and on she went.

Mary Lou was trying to get across the room to Alex, who was standing there as pink as can be. “Alex!” she called. “Wait! I wrote that before —wait—”

It was a jing-bang of a mess. I was glad I had to get out of there. Phoebe and I were going to the police again.

We got in to see Sergeant Bickle right away. Phoebe slapped the newest message about the water in the well onto his desk, dumped the hairs which she had collected at Mrs. Cadaver’s house on top of the message, and then placed her list of “Further Items to Investigate” on top of that.

Sergeant Bickle frowned. “I don’t think you girls understand.”

Phoebe went into a rage. “You idiot,” she said. She scooped up the message, the hairs, and her list and stormed out of the office.

Sergeant Bickle followed her while I waited, thinking he would bring Phoebe back and calm her down. I looked at the photographs on his desk, the ones I had not been able to see the day before. In one was Sergeant Bickle and a friendly-looking woman—his wife, I supposed. The second picture was of a shiny black car. The third picture was of Sergeant Bickle, the woman, and a young man—their son, I figured. I looked closer.

I recognized the son. It was the lunatic.

Gramps barreled through Wyoming like a house afire. We snaked through winding roads where the trees leaned close, rustling rush, rush, rush, rush, rush. The road curved alongside rivers that rolled and gabbled hurry, hurry, hurry.

It was late when we arrived at Yellowstone. All we got to see that evening was a hot spring. We walked on boardwalks placed across the bubbling mud (“Huzza, huzza!” Gram said), and we stayed at the Old Faithful Inn in a Frontier Cabin. I’d never seen Gram so excited. She could not wait for the next morning. “We’re gonna see Old Faithful,” she said, over and over.

“It won’t take too very long, will it?” I said, and I felt like a mule saying it, because Gram was so looking forward to it.

“Don’t you worry, Salamanca,” Gram said. “We’ll just watch that old geyser blow and then we’ll hit the road.”

I prayed all night long to the elm tree outside. I prayed that we would not get in an accident, that we would get to Lewiston, Idaho, in time for my mother’s birthday, and that we would bring her home. Later I would realize that I had prayed for the wrong things.

That night, Gram was so excited that she could not sleep. She rambled on about all sorts of things. She said to Gramps, “Remember that letter from the egg man that you found under the mattress?”

“Of course I remember. We had a wing-ding of an argument over it. You told me you had no dang idea how it got there. You said the egg man must’ve slipped into the bedroom and put it there.”

“Well, I want you to know that I put it there.”

“I know that,” Gramps said. “I’m not a complete noodle.”

“It’s the only love letter anybody ever wrote me,” Gram said. “You never wrote me any love letters.”

“You never told me you wanted one.”

To me, Gram said, “Your grandfather nearly killed the egg man over that letter.”

“Hell’s bells,” Gramps said. “He wasn’t worth killing.”

“Maybe not, but Gloria was.”

“Ah yes,” Gramps said, placing his hand on his heart and pretending to swoon, “Gloria!”

“Cut that out,” Gram said, rolling over on her side. “Tell me about Peeby. Tell me that story, but don’t make it too awfully sad.” She folded her hands on her chest. “Tell me what happened with the lunatic.”

When I saw the picture of the lunatic on Sergeant Bickle’s desk, I tore out of that office faster than lightning. I ran past Sergeant Bickle standing in the parking lot. No sign of Phoebe. I ran all the way to her house. As I passed Mrs. Cadaver’s house, Mrs. Partridge called to me from her porch.

“You’re all dressed up,” I said. “Going somewhere?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I’m redible.” She tottered down the steps, swinging her cobra cane in front of her.

“Are you walking?” I asked.

She reached down and touched her legs. “Isn’t that what you call it when you move your legs like I’m doing?”

“No, I meant are you walking to wherever you’re going?”

“Oh no, it’s much too far for these legs. Jimmy’s coming. He’ll be here any minute.” A car pulled up in front of the house. “There he is,” she said. She called out to the driver, “I’m redible. I said I would be, and here I am.”

The driver leaped out of the car. “Sal?” he said. “I had no idea you two were neighbors.” It was Mr. Birkway.

“We’re not,” I said. “It’s Phoebe who is the neighbor—”

“Is that right?” he said, opening the car door for Mrs. Partridge. “Come on, Mom. Let’s get a move on.”