The Great Gilly Hopkins

She took out the finger and studied his stubby-nailed hand for a minute. “Nothing wrong with this, I can see. Ever think of smacking them back?”

He shook his head wide-eyed.

“You going to go through life letting people pick on you?”

He hung his head. The finger went back in.

“Look, William Ernest”—she bent over close to his ear and whispered hoarsely into it—“I’m going to teach you how to fight. No charge or anything. Then when some big punk comes up to you and tries to start something, you can just let them have it.”

His finger dropped from his mouth as he stared at her, unbelieving.

“You hear how I fought six boys one day—all by myself?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Before I get through with you, you’re going to do the same thing. Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!” She landed six imaginary punches sending six imaginary bullies flying.

“Pow,” he echoed softly, tentatively doubling up his fist and giving a feeble swing.

“First thing, when somebody yells at you, don’t throw your hands up”—she imitated him—“and act like you think they’re going to kill you.”

“Pow?” He swung his little fist in a kind of question mark.

“Naw, not first thing. See, they may not be even meaning to hit you. First thing is, you take a deep breath—” She filled her diaphragm and waited while he tried to imitate her, his ribs poking through his shirt. “Then you yell like this: Get the hell outa my way!”

Before the sentence was out, Trotter was filling the doorway like the wrath of God Almighty.

“OK, OK,” Gilly said. “Leave out the hell part. The main thing—”

“What are you kids doing? I thought I was paying you to help William Ernest with his reading?”

“Naw. This is on my own time. No charge.”

Trotter looked anxiously at W.E. He was standing on tiptoe, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut in his red face, sucking in a huge breath.

“Get the hell out my way!” He turned to Gilly, smiling. “Was that good, Gilly?”

“Better leave the hell part out in front of Trotter. But that was pretty good for a start. Really not bad.”

“Gilly,” said Trotter.

“Look, Trotter. He’s got to learn to take care of himself, and I’m the best damn—the best teacher around.”

Trotter just went on standing in the doorway as though she couldn’t think what to do next, when the little guy marched over to her, put his fists up in front of her huge bosom, took in a breath, and said squeakily, “Get out my way.”

Tears started in the woman’s eyes. She threw her arms around W.E. and bear-hugged him.

“I was just practicing, Trotter. I didn’t mean you.”

“I know, William Ernest, honey,” she said. “I know.”

“He’s got to learn to take care of himself in the world, Trotter.”

The big woman wiped her face with her apron and sniffed. “Don’t I know that, baby?” She patted the boy and straightened up. “How ’bout you finishing this lesson outside? I don’t b’lieve it’s something I want to listen to.”

“C’mon, Gilly.” William Ernest slid around Trotter and started for the back door. “Pow! Pow!” they could hear him exploding softly down the hall.

“I’m not going to teach him to pick on people,” Gilly said, “just how to take care of himself. He can’t come hiding behind your skirt every time someone looks at him cross-eyed.”