Sharon Creech - Walk Two Moons

“Mom?” I said. I looked at Mrs. Partridge. “This is your son?”

“Why, of course,” Mrs. Partridge said. “This is my little Jimmy.”

“But he’s a Birkway—?”

Mrs. Partridge said, “I was a Birkway once. Then I was a Partridge. I’m still a Partridge.”

“Then who is Mrs. Cadaver?” I said.

“My little Margie,” she said. “She was a Birkway too. Now she’s a Cadaver.”

I said to Mr. Birkway, “Mrs. Cadaver is your sister?”

“We’re twins,” Mr. Birkway said.

When they had driven away, I knocked at Phoebe’s door, but there was no answer. At home, I dialed Phoebe’s number over and over. No answer.

The next day at school, I was relieved to see Phoebe. “Where were you?” I said. “I have something to tell you—”

She turned away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I do not wish to discuss it.”

I couldn’t figure out what was the matter with her. It was a terrible day. We had tests in math and science. At lunch, Phoebe ignored me. Then came English.

Mr. Birkway skipped into the room. People were gnawing on their fingers and tapping their feet and wriggling around and generally getting ulcers, wondering if Mr. Birkway was going to read from the journals. I stared at him. He and Margaret Cadaver were twins? Was that possible? The most disappointing part of that piece of knowledge was that he was not going to fall in love with Mrs. Cadaver and marry her and take her away.

Mr. Birkway opened a cupboard, pulled out the journals, slipped the yellow paper over the cover of one and read:

This is what I like about Jane. She is smart, but doesn’t act like she knows everything. She is cute. She smells good. She is cute. She makes me laugh. She is cute.

I got a prickly feeling up and down my arms. I wondered if Ben had written this about me, but then I realized that Ben didn’t even know me when he wrote his journal. A little buzz was going around the room as people shifted in their seats. Christy was smiling, Megan was smiling, Beth Ann was smiling, Mary Lou was smiling. Every girl in the room was smiling. Each girl thought that this had been written about her.

I looked carefully at each of the boys. Alex was gazing nonchalantly at Mr. Birkway. Then I saw Ben. He was sitting with his hands over his ears, staring down at his desk. The prickly feeling traveled all the way up to my neck and then went skipping down my spine. He did write that, but he did not write it about me.

Mr. Birkway exclaimed, “Ah love, ah life!” Sighing, he pulled out another journal and read:

Jane doesn’t know the first thing about boys. She once asked me what kisses taste like, so you could tell she hadn’t ever kissed anyone. I told her that they taste like chicken, and she believed me. She is so dumb sometimes.

Mary Lou Finney jumped out of her chair. “You cabbage-head,” she said to Beth Ann. “You beef brain.” Beth Ann wound a strand of hair around her finger. Mary Lou said, “I did not believe you, and I do know what they taste like, and it isn’t chicken.”

Ben drew a cartoon of two stick-figures kissing. In the air over their heads was a cartoon bubble with a chicken saying, “Bawk, bawwwk, bawwwk.”

Mr. Birkway turned a few pages in the same journal and read:

I hate doing this. I hate to write. I hate to read. I hate journals. I especially hate English where teachers only talk about idiot symbols. I hate that idiot poem about the snowy woods, and I hate it when people say the woods symbolize death or beauty or sex or any old thing you want. I hate that. Maybe the woods are just woods.

Beth Ann stood up. “Mr. Birkway,” she said, “I do hate school, I do hate books, I do hate English, I do hate symbols, and I most especially hate these idiot journals.”

There was a hush in the room. Mr. Birkway stared at Beth Ann for a minute, and in that minute, I was reminded of Mrs. Cadaver. For that brief time, his eyes looked just like hers. I was afraid he was going to strangle Beth Ann, but then he smiled and his eyes became friendly enormous cow eyes once again. I think he hypnotized her, because Beth Ann sat down slowly. Mr. Birkway said, “Beth Ann, I know exactly how you feel. Exactly. I love this passage.”

“You do?” she said.

“It’s so honest.”

I had to admit, you couldn’t get more honest than Beth Ann telling her English teacher that she hated symbols and English and idiot journals.

Mr. Birkway said, “I used to feel exactly like this. I could not understand what all the fuss was about symbols.” He rummaged around in his desk. “I want to show you something.” He was pulling papers out and flinging them around. Finally, he held up a picture. “Ah, here it is. Dynamite! What is this?” he asked Ben.

Ben said, “It’s a vase. Obviously.”

Mr. Birkway held the drawing in front of Beth Ann, who looked as if she might cry. Mr. Birkway said, “Beth Ann, what do you see?” A little tear dropped down on her cheek. “It’s okay, Beth Ann, what do you see?”

“I don’t see any idiot vase,” she said. “I see two people. They’re looking at each other.”

“Right,” Mr. Birkway said. “Bravo!”

“I’m right? Bravo?”

Ben said, “Huh? Two people?” I was thinking the same thing myself. What two people?

Mr. Birkway said to Ben, “And you were right too. Bravo!” He asked everyone else, “How many see a vase?” About half the class raised their hands. “And how many see two faces?” The rest of the class raised their hands.

Then Mr. Birkway pointed out how you could see both. If you looked only at the white part in the center, you could clearly see the vase. If you looked only at the dark parts on the side, you could see two profiles. The curvy sides of the vase became the outline of the two heads facing each other.

Mr. Birkway said that the drawing was a bit like symbols. Maybe the artist only intended to draw a vase, and maybe some people look at this picture and see only that vase. That is fine, but if some people look at it and see faces, what is wrong with that? It is faces to that person who is looking at it. And, what is even more magnificent, you might see both .

Beth Ann said, “Two for your money?”

“Isn’t it interesting,” Mr. Birkway said, “to find both? Isn’t it interesting to discover that snowy woods could be death and beauty and even, I suppose, sex ? Wow! Literature!”

“Did he say sex ?” Ben said, copying the drawing.

I thought Mr. Birkway was finished with the journals for that day, but he made a great show of closing his eyes and pulling something from near the bottom of the stack.

She popped the blackberries into her mouth. Then she looked all around—

It was mine. I could hardly bear it.

She took two steps up to the maple tree and threw her arms around it, and kissed it.

People were giggling.

…I thought I could detect a small dark stain, as from a blackberry kiss.

Ben looked at me from across the room. After Mr. Birkway read about my mother’s blackberry kiss, he read about how I kissed the tree and how I have kissed all different kinds of trees since then and how each tree has a special taste all its own, and mixed in with that taste is the taste of blackberries.

By now, because both Ben and Phoebe were staring at me, everyone else stared too. “She kisses trees ?” Megan said. I might have died right then and there, if Mr. Birkway had not immediately picked up another journal. He stabbed his finger into the middle of the page and read:

I am very concerned about Mrs.—

Mr. Birkway stared down at the page. It looked as if he couldn’t read the handwriting. He started again.