Coast to Coast by Betsy Byars Page B

were born. His dancing was—well, some people would call it jumping up and down—but it was in time to the music. The music was ‘Celebrations.’”
    “I only saw the weather.”
    “Well, he had a lot of rhythm for a goat.”
    Birch looked out the window. The early morning air was calm and the J-3 rode smoothly.
    She was taking more interest in the landscape now that she understood her map. There was real satisfaction in seeing that every curve in the road was on the map, every river. She could find each town and call it by name. Her thumb, like Pop’s, was on the exact spot on the map where they were right now.
    She noticed on the map that the railroad tracks moved away from the interstate. She looked ahead, and the real railroad tracks slanted away from the highway too.
    Birch watched a slow-moving freight train coming toward them. It seemed so toylike, so appealingly slow, that she understood how people got the idea of jumping on board. It was the kind of spur-of-the-moment thing she and Pop might have done if they’d lived near the tracks instead of the airport. He would go, “All my life, I’ve dreamed of hopping a train to California,” and she’d go, “What’s stopping us?”
    “See that fire over there?” Pop pointed to some columns of smoke on the horizon.
    Birch nodded.
    “You can tell by the direction of the smoke that the wind’s out of the west.”
    “It looks like a forest fire.”
    “Brush fire, probably.”
    There were ugly stripped forests here too, but a row of tall trees had been left by the interstate so travelers would have a good impression of Mississippi.
    “Oh, there’s another plane, Pop, and—I ain’t believing this—it’s lower than we are.”
    Pop said, “Crop duster.”
    Birch watched the red and white plane skimming the trees below.
    “You want to fly some?” Pop asked.
    “Sure.”
    Birch took the control stick in her right hand. She looked at the altimeter. “You want me to stay at three?”
    “That’ll be fine.”
    “Pop, I’m really catching on to this. Did you notice how cool that sounded. Shall I stay at three?”
    Pop reached around and took Ace from the luggage rack. He put him on his lap. “Good dog,” he said, “you didn’t know you were going to California, did—”
    “Pop, watch me now.”
    “I am.”
    “Don’t play with the dog.”
    “I thought you were so cool.”
    “Pop, I just put my hand on the stick! I haven’t had a chance to mess up!”
    “I’m watching.”
    Birch glanced out the window to make sure she hadn’t gotten too far from the interstate, then back at the altimeter. “Oh.” She pushed forward gently on the stick. When the needle pointed just below three thousand feet, she leveled off. “It went up by itself.”
    Pop said, “My flight instructor used to say, ‘Head up and out, son.’”
    “Up and out?”
    “What he meant was not to stare at the instruments. Give a quick glance at the instruments, then at the attitude of the plane’s nose, the wingtip position, then a three hundred sixty-degree check for traffic. Then back at the—oh, there’s Vicksburg and the Mississippi!”
    Birch leaned forward and looked over the cowling. “That is the Mississippi River?”
    “Yes.”
    “Pop, I’m disappointed. I expected it to be this great wide, rolling river. It looks gray. And when I think of all the songs that have been written about it.”
    “If you think the Mississippi’s a disappointment,” Pop said, “wait till you see the Rio Grande. This time of year you can step across it.”
    Birch felt a sharp move of the stick, and the J-3 turned left. Startled, she said, “Pop, did you do that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, tell me when you’re going to take over. Don’t just grab the stick. It makes me think something’s wrong when the stick jerks like—”
    “I want to get a picture of you with the river in the background. Look over your shoulder, Birch.”
    Birch glanced over her shoulder and Pop took a picture