Sharon Creech - Walk Two Moons

The crowd became quiet a few minutes before Old Faithful was due to go off. Everyone stared at the hole. Everyone was listening.

“Is it time?” Gram said.

There was a faint noise and a little spit shot out of the hole. The man next to me said, “Aww, is that all—” Another noise, this time a little louder, a grating and crunching sound like walking on gravel. Two fitful spits. “Aww—” the man said.

Then it was like the radiator boiling over or the tea kettle blowing its top. Old Faithful hissed and steamed. A sudden spout of water shot out, maybe three feet high.

“Aww—” the man said. “Is that all—”

More steam, boiling and hissing, and a huge jing-bang spray of water surged out, climbing and climbing, and then more and more, until it looked like a whole river of water was shooting straight up into the air. “It looks like an upsidey-down waterfall!” Gram said. All the while there was a walloping hissing, and I could have sworn the ground rumbled and trembled underneath us. The warm mist blew toward us and people started backing away.

All except Gram. She stood there grinning, tilting her face up to the mist, and staring at that fountain of water. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, huzza, huzza!” She shouted it into the air and noise.

Gramps wasn’t watching Old Faithful. He was watching Gram. He put his arms around her and hugged her. “You like this old geyser, don’t you?” he said.

“Oh!” Gram said. “Oh yes, I do.”

The man next to me was staring open-mouthed at Old Faithful. “Lordy,” he said. “Lordy, that’s amazing.”

Gradually, Old Faithful slowed down. We watched it undo itself and retreat into its hole. We stood there even after everyone else had drifted away. At last Gram sighed and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

We were inside the car and about to leave when Gram started to cry. “Gol-dang—” Gramps said. “What’s the matter?”

Gram sniffled. “Oh nothing. I’m so happy I got to see Old Faithful.”

“You old gooseberry,” Gramps said, and on we went. “We’re gonna eat up Montana,” Gramps said. “We’re gonna get to the I-dee-ho border tonight. You watch me. I’m putting this pedal to the metal—” He stepped on the gas and peeled out of the parking lot. “I-dee-ho, here we come.”

All day long we ate up the road through Montana. It hadn’t looked so far on the map, but it was all mountains. We started in the foothills of the Rockies as we left Yellowstone, and all day we climbed up and down. Sometimes the road snaked along the side of a cliff, and the only thing between us and the sharp drop was a piddly railing. Often, as we sailed around a bend, we came face to face with a camping trailer swinging its wide body around the curve.

“These roads are a dinger,” Gramps said, but he was like a little kid riding a hobby horse. “Gid-yap, let’s get a move on,” he said, encouraging the car up a hill. “Hee-ya,” he said as we swept down the other side.

I felt as if I was torn in two pieces. Half of me was ogling the scenery. I had to admit that it was as pretty as—maybe even prettier than—Bybanks. Trees and rocks and mountains. Rivers and flowers. Deer and moose and rabbits. It was an amazing country, an enormous country.

But the other half of me was a quivering pile of jelly. I could see our car bursting through the railing and plunging down the cliff. As we approached each curve, I could see us smashing straight on into a truck or a camper. Every time I saw a bus, I watched it sway. I watched its tires spin dangerously close to the gravel at the road’s edge. I watched it plunge on, eating up the road, defying those curves.

Gram sat quietly, with her hands folded on her lap. I thought she might sleep, especially after staying awake all night, but she didn’t. She wanted to hear about Peeby. So all day long, as I took in the scenery, and as I imagined us in a thousand accidents, and as I prayed underneath it all to any tree whizzing by, I talked about Peeby. I wanted to tell it all today. I wanted to finish it.

On the day after Mr. Birkway appeared at Phoebe’s house and told us about Mr. Cadaver, Phoebe and I put our plan in motion. We were going to track down Sergeant Bickle’s son and, according to Phoebe, discover the whereabouts of Phoebe’s mother. I wasn’t positive that Sergeant Bickle’s son was a lunatic, and I wasn’t convinced he would lead us to Phoebe’s mother, but enough of Phoebe’s tales had been transplanted into my brain so that I was caught up in the plan. Like Phoebe, I was ready to take some action.

We could hardly sit still all day at school. Phoebe, especially, was fired up. She was worried, too. She was afraid we might not discover her mother alive, and I was beginning to share that fear.

At school, everyone was still buzzing about the journal readings. Everyone wanted to know who had written about the murder. Alex avoided Mary Lou because of what she had said about his being a pink jerk, and Mary Lou avoided Beth Ann because of what Beth Ann had written about the chicken kisses. Megan and Christy taunted Beth Ann with, “Did you really tell Mary Lou that kisses taste like chicken? Did she really believe you?” and they taunted me with, “Do you really kiss trees ? Didn’t you know you’re supposed to kiss boys ?”

In English class, everyone badgered Mr. Birkway to finish reading the journal entry that he had begun yesterday, the one about Mrs. Corpse and the body, but Mr. Birkway did not read any more journals. Instead, he apologized for hurting people’s feelings by reading their private thoughts aloud, and he sent us to the library.

There, Ben trailed me. If I looked at the fiction section, he was right beside me. If I moved over to examine the magazines, there he was flipping through one as well. Once, his face made contact with my shoulder. He was definitely trying to plant a kiss on me, I knew he was, but there was nothing I could do about it. I could not help it that whenever he aimed his mouth in my direction, my body was already moving away. I needed a little warning.

I tried remaining completely still for several consecutive minutes, and during those minutes, I detected Ben leaning slightly toward me several times. Each time, however, he drew back, as if someone were controlling him by an invisible thread.

Across the library, Beth Ann called, “Sal, there’s a spider—oh, Sal, kill it!”

When the final bell rang, Phoebe and I were out of school like a shot. At Phoebe’s house, we examined the telephone directory. “We’ve got to hurry,” Phoebe said, “before Prudence or my father comes home.” There were six Bickles listed in the directory. We took turns calling. Each time, we asked for Sergeant Bickle. The first two people said we must have the wrong number. The third number we dialed was busy. The fourth, no answer. The fifth was answered by a crotchety woman who said, “I don’t know any sergeants!”

The sixth number was answered by an elderly man who must have been lonely because he talked on and on about once knowing a Sergeant Freeman in the war, but that was back in 1944, and he also knew a Sergeant Bones and a Sergeant Dowdy, but he did not know a Sergeant Bickle.

“What are we going to do?” Phoebe wailed. “Prudence will be home any minute, and we still don’t know which is the right Bickle.”

The busy number was still busy. The previously unanswered one rang and rang, and just as Phoebe was about to hang up, she heard a voice. “Hello?” she said. “May I speak with Sergeant Bickle, please?” There was a pause as she listened. “He’s still at work?” Phoebe was jumping up and down. “Thank you,” she said, trying to make her voice serious. “I’ll call later. No, no message. Thank you.”