The Great Gilly Hopkins

W.E. squinched his little nearsighted eyes together, wrinkled up his stubby nose, drew his arm way back, and pitched the airplane with all his might. “Pow,” he whispered. The plane swooped down off the porch, then suddenly caught an updraft and climbed higher than their heads, looped and glided smoothly to the grass.

He turned shining eyes on her. “See that?” he asked softly. “See that?”

“OK, OK.” Gilly ran out and picked up the plane. It was the best one she’d ever made. She clambered up on the concrete post that held the porch railing in place and raised her arm. Then she thought better of it. “You do it, William Ernest, OK?”

She climbed down and gave him a boost up. He seemed a little unsteady from the height of the post, glancing down, apparently afraid to move his feet.

“Look, I’m not going to let you fall, man.” She put her hands loosely around his ankles. She could feel him relaxing under her fingers. He reared back and shot. “Pow,” he said a little louder than before, sending the white craft with its pale blue lines as high—well, almost as high—as the house, looping, climbing, gliding, resting at last in the azalea bush in Mr. Randolph’s yard.

William Ernest scrambled off the post and down the steps. He was slowed by the fence, but not stopped. You could tell he’d never climbed a fence in his life, and it would have been faster by far to go through the gate and around, but he had chosen the most direct route to his precious plane.

He fell in Mr. Randolph’s yard in such a way that one arm and leg seemed to arrive before the other pair, but he picked himself up at once and delicately plucked his prize from the bush. He turned around to grin shyly at Gilly and then, as though carrying the crown of England, came down Mr. Randolph’s walk, the sidewalk, and into Trotter’s gate.

About halfway up the walk, he said something.

“What you say?” Gilly asked.

“I say”—the veins on his neck stuck out with the effort of raising his voice to an audible level—“I say, It sure fly good.”

He wasn’t as dumb as he looked now, was he? thought Gilly smiling, without taking time to calculate which of her smiles to put on. “You throw good, too, William E.”

“I do?”

“Sure. I was just admiring your style. I guess you’ve had lessons.”

He cocked his head in puzzlement.

“No? You just taught yourself?”

He nodded his head solemnly.

“Gee, man, you’re a natural. I’ve never seen such a natural.”

He straightened his thin shoulders and marched up the stairs as though he were the President of the United States.

They were still flying the plane, or rather W.E. was flying it with Gilly looking on and making admiring remarks from time to time, when Trotter and Mr. Randolph came out on the porch.

“You gotta see this, Trotter. William Ernest can do this really good.”

W.E. climbed unassisted to the top of the concrete post. He didn’t need Gilly’s hands or help now. “Watch,” he said softly. “Watch here.”

Mr. Randolph lifted his sightless face upward. “What is it, son?”

“Gilly made him a paper airplane, looks like,” interpreted Trotter.

“Oh, I see, I see.”

“Watch now.”

“We’re watching, William Ernest, honey.” W.E. leaned back and let fly—“pow”—for another swooping, soaring, slowly spiraling, skimming superflight.

Trotter sighed as the plane gracefully landed by the curb. William Ernest rushed to retrieve it.

“How was it?” Mr. Randolph asked.

“I ’clare, Mr. Randolph, sometimes it’s a pity you gotta miss seeing things. I never thought paper airplanes was for anything but to drive teachers crazy before.” She turned to Gilly. “That was really something,” she said.

Gilly could feel herself blushing, but W.E. came up the steps and saved her. “It’s ’cause I fly it so good,” he said.