The Great Gilly Hopkins

Suddenly Miss Ellis began to speak, her voice bright and fake like a laxative commercial: “Well, I’ve got some rather astounding news for you, Gilly.” Gilly hugged herself tighter. The announcement of “news” had never meant anything in her li

fe except a new move. “Your mother…”

“My mother’s coming?” She was sorry immediately for the outburst. Miss Ellis’s eyebrows launched into the twitchy dance they always seemed to at the mention of the words, “my mother.”

“No.” Twitch, twitch. “Your mother is still in California. But your grandmother…”

What have I to do with her?

“…your mother’s mother called the office this morning, and then drove up all the way from Virginia to see me.”

Gilly stole a look at Trotter, who was sitting bolt upright at the far end of the couch, rubbing W.E.’s back, her hand up under his jacket and her eyes like those of a bear on a totem pole.

“She and your mother”—twitch—“want you to go with her.”

“With who?”

“With your grandmother. Permanently.” The social worker seemed to be dangling that last word before Gilly’s nose, as if expecting her to jump up on her hind legs and dance for it.

Gilly leaned back. What did they take her for? “I don’t want to live with her,” she said.

“Gilly, you’ve been saying ever since you were old enough to talk…”

“I never said I wanted to live with her! I said I wanted to live with my mother. She’s not my mother. I don’t even know her!”

“You don’t know your mother, either.”

“I do, too! I remember her! Don’t tell me what I remember and what I don’t!”

Miss Ellis suddenly looked tired. “God help the children of the flower children,” she said.

“I remember her.”

“Yes.” The pretty face grew sharp with tension, as the social worker leaned forward. “Your mother wants you to go to your grandmother’s. I talked to her long distance.”

“Didn’t she tell you she wanted me to come to California like she wrote me?”

“No, she said she wanted you to go to your grandmother’s house.”

“They can’t make me go there.”

Gently, “Yes, Gilly, they can.”

She felt as though the walls were squeezing in on her; she looked around wildly for some way to escape. She fixed on Trotter.

“Trotter won’t let them take me, will you Trotter?”

Trotter flinched but kept on looking wooden-faced at Miss Ellis and rubbing W.E.’s back.

“Trotter! Look at me! You said you’d never let me go. I heard you.” She was yelling at the totem pole now. “Never! Never! Never! That’s what you said!” She was on her feet stamping and screaming. The two women watched her, but numbly as though she were behind glass and there was no way that they could reach in to her.

It was William Ernest who broke through. He slid from under Trotter’s big hand and ran to Gilly, snatched the band of her jacket, and pulled on it until she stopped screaming and stood still. She looked down into his little near-sighted eyes, full of tears behind the thick lenses.

“Don’t cry, Gilly.”

“I’m not crying”—she jerked her jacket out of his hands—“I’m yelling!” He froze, his hands up as though the jacket were still between his fingers.

“Oh, hell, kid.” She grabbed his two fists. “It’s gonna be OK.” She sighed and sat down. He sat down next to her, so close that she could feel the warmth of him from her arm through her thigh. It gave her the strength to look up again defiantly.