Call Me Hope Read online

  Readers are already raving about Call Me Hope, a powerful story about a young girl dealing with a verbally abusive mother:

  “This beautiful, inspiring story should be read by mothers and daughters together. This captivating, healing novel brings extraordinary insight into the destructive emotional impact of verbal abuse on both mother and child. Together, with a promise and a pledge to one another, the gift of love is given.”

  —Ann S. Kelly, founder/executive director of Hands&Words Are Not For Hurting Project®

  “As an adult living in a verbally abusive relationship, I wish I’d known the subtleties of this insidious behavior years ago. Call Me Hope is a gift of insight and strength for children of all ages. Readers will now be able to identify the signs of verbal abuse and either survive in its midst or leave its grasp.”

  —Anonymous verbal abuse victim

  “Call Me Hope is a beautiful story that captures how devastating verbal abuse is to a child’s heart, mind, and soul. It is also an inspirational story of empowerment in which young readers learn the importance of reaching out to others when faced with difficult issues, which helps them cope, survive, and thrive. I highly recommend it!”

  —Trudy Ludwig, children’s advocate and bestselling author of My SecretBully, Just Kidding, and Sorry!

  “Call Me Hope introduces young readers to an amazing girl named Hope. Children who do not live in abusive homes may find her clever and creative. Those who DO live with the constant threat of abuse will surely find her inspirational.”

  —Pat Stanislaski, executive director of the New Jersey Task force on Child Abuse and Neglect, former executive director of the National Center for Assault Prevention

  “A sensitive, heartrending book about parental verbal abuse and Hope’s way of coping. Compassionately shared insight ending with promise for those involved. This book will be rewarding when shared with classroom discussion groups.”

  —Neva Huff, former educator

  “Gretchen does a wonderful job of writing a hard story. I read this book aloud to twenty-five female inmates in jail, and they were captivated, as was I.”

  —Karen Rogers, Yamhill County Correctional Facility administrator

  “A bittersweet must-read for every adolescent child and a powerful ‘read-aloud’ for those even younger. Gretchen has hit on a topic that is often very hidden from the world… verbal abuse. A remarkable story... As an educator for more than 30 years, I’m thrilled to see this issue faced head-on.”

  —Chris Morris, kindergarten teacher

  Also by Gretchen Olson:

  Joyride

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2007 by Gretchen Olson

  Reader’s Guide © 2008 by Gretchen Olson

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Little, Brown and Company

  www.twitter.com/littlebrown

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: October 2009

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text from Life Is Beautiful courtesy of Miramax Film Corp.

  Hands&Words Are Not For Hurting Project Copyright © 1997.

  Hands&Words Are Not For Hurting Project Registered Trademark ® 2002.

  Purple Hand/Red Heart Logo ® 2002. Hands&Words Are Not For Hurting ® 2002.

  “I Will Not Use My Hands Or My Words For Hurting Myself Or Others” ®2002.

  Text from Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, by Anne Frank, translated by B.M. Mooyaart-Doubleday, copyright 1952 by Otto H. Frank. Used by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.

  Song lyrics on page 219-220 are from “Broken One,” written by Katy Schnitker, copyright © 2005.

  Goodnight Moon © 1947 by Harper&Row. Text renewed 1975 by Roberta Brown Rauch.

  Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers. This selection may not he re-illustrated without written permission of HarperCollins.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-08545-8

  Contents

  Also by Gretchen Olson:

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1: Role Models

  CHAPTER 2: What’s in a Name?

  CHAPTER 3: Angels and Stars

  CHAPTER 4: Stupid

  CHAPTER 5: Life Is Crazy

  CHAPTER 6: Next to New

  CHAPTER 7: A Secret Place

  CHAPTER 8: Number the Stars

  CHAPTER 9: Plans into Action

  CHAPTER 10: #8726

  CHAPTER 11: 50-50 Club

  CHAPTER 12: Surviving Should

  CHAPTER 13: Tangled Memories

  CHAPTER 14: New Friends

  CHAPTER 15: Climbing Mountains

  CHAPTER 16: Mountain Ranges

  CHAPTER 17: Rain or Shine?

  CHAPTER 18: Name It and Tame It

  CHAPTER 19: Birthday Wishes

  CHAPTER 20: Next to New Me

  CHAPTER 21: The Prize

  CHAPTER 22: Preparation & Permission

  CHAPTER 23: The Real Me

  CHAPTER 24: Grounded

  CHAPTER 25: The Pledge

  CHAPTER 26: “I” Statements

  CHAPTER 27: Choices

  CHAPTER 28: The Last Link

  CHAPTER 29: Saving Hope

  CHAPTER 30: Hug a Tree

  CHAPTER 31: What Is the Tie That Binds Us?

  CHAPTER 32: A New Beginning

  Hope Notes

  Acknowledgments

  Call Me Hope

  For my Mother,

  An Angel Mom

  1923–1982

  For children everywhere

  suffering from verbal abuse,

  I wish you courage.

  “I will not use my hands or my words

  for hurting myself or others.”® *

  Ann S. Kelly

  CHAPTER 1

  Role Models

  The way I figure, good numbers are a good sign. Take the first day of 6th grade. Not only was it September 6, but I woke at exactly 6:06, which is lucky because it’s perfectly balanced. Besides that, 6 is my favorite number. I kissed my fingers, touched the wall, and wished that 6th grade would be a great year.

  Mr. Hudson looked over our class like he was figuring what kind of year he was going to have. Maybe he was looking for a good number, a lucky sign. He turned and wrote role models on the board, his bald spot bobbing along with his arm.

  “What’s the job of a role model?” he asked, turning back, wiping his hand on his pants.

  My eyes shot down. I sucked in a deep breath. Don’t call on me. Please. Don’t let sixth grade start with kids watching, waiting for an answer, remembering all the times I haven’t paid attention. I stared at my page of All-School Rules, the numbers and letters blurring. Rruulee ## 1: BBeeSaafe.

  “You have to be good for the little kids to see,” answered Annette Stuckey.

  Thank you, Annette.

  “That’s right.” Mr. Hudson walked to the back of the room and took a sip of water from the fountain. “As sixth graders, you are now the oldest students at Eola Hills Grade School. You set examples for the rest of the school. Please take this responsibility seriously.”

  I slumped down in my chair. You have to be good. You have to set examples. And — while you’re at it — you have to be safe. Seriously. HA! I crammed my pencil against the paper. Snap!
The point flipped onto the desk, leaving flecks of black dust across Rule #2: Include Everyone.

  Mr. Hudson cleared his throat. “I can’t stress how important you are this year.”

  IMPORTANT. The pencil dust glowed and I brushed my rules clean. Important. I sat up tall and circled Rule #3: Be Respectful. Something fluttered in my chest. Important. My ears burned hot and my lips whispered a smile. I wrote across the top of my paper: 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6

  (In case you’re wondering why 6 is my favorite number, take a look at the circle part. It’s like you’re going round and round, which is okay if you’re a clock, but if you’re a person you’ll get dizzy and sick and you gotta get out. That’s what the curvy top is for — escape — and you fly away from all the bad stuff to something perfectly wonderful.)

  “So what’s the best thing about sixth grade?” Mr. Hudson was wandering between our desks.

  “OUTDOOR SCHOOL!” we shouted.

  “You got it!” He gave us two thumbs-up. “That means ‘Boom Chicka Boom.’”

  “And rappelling,” said Brody Brinkman.

  “Creek walks!” someone shouted.

  “Tie-dyeing.” “Campfires.” “Ooga Booga.”

  “And,” said Mr. Hudson, bending to eye level, getting all mysterious, “rattlesnakes,” he hissed.

  A few kids squealed and protested, but mostly we tried to act cool. “Tastes like chicken,” said Peter Monroe.

  “So,” said Mr. Hudson, standing and crossing his arms, “this is the year that’s finally come, after all those jogathons and candy bar and magazine sales. The year you’ve been waiting for. The week you’ve been waiting for. Nights sleeping beneath the moon and stars, listening to the crickets and coyotes, and coming home with unforgettable memories.” He smiled like he had those memories himself. “This is also the year to be on your best behavior and try your hardest. Come next spring,” he said, tapping the wall calendar, “if we decide a sixth grader hasn’t been a good role model, he or she might not attend Outdoor School.”

  My ears rang: role model, role model. My heart pounded: I’m going. I’m going. I outlined Rule #4: Have Fun. I checked my watch — 8:44. YES. A double number. I kissed my fingers and touched the table. Please, God, let me be good — and have fun.

  Then I glanced at our last rule, #5: Problem Solve. My skipping heart screeched to a halt. There was no way the problems in my life would ever get solved.

  CHAPTER 2

  What’s in a Name?

  Here’s a problem to solve: Names that rhyme. Like mine — Hope — which rhymes with dope and mope. My official name is Hope Marie Elliot. My mother picked Hope because it’s a soap opera star’s name and Marie for some singer, but Mom says I can’t carry a tune to save my life. Sometimes Mom calls me Hopeless, which seems really weird. Does that mean I’m less than myself? Or not here at all?

  My older brother, Tyler, calls me Hop, and if he wants my attention, it’s HeyHop.

  My father’s name is Ryan Michael Elliot, but I don’t know what he calls me. He never calls. Mom says he left us because I cried all the time when I was a baby. I had colic: around-the-clock, 24-7 stomachache. Cry, cry, cry.

  My mom’s name is Darlene Delilah Elliot. Her big $$$ was to be an actress, but she had Tyler, then me (which she calls an accident), and then my dad left, so she couldn’t go after her dream.

  I’d rather be Hopeless than an accident, but that’s another problem to solve.

  Even though Mom didn’t become an actress, she still thinks she’s going to be discovered, so she wears lots of makeup and crazy clothes. For example: high-heeled boots with jeans and a sweater that’s too small. She keeps her hair long, partway down her back, and colors it blond, plus she wears these huge gold earrings, which you’d think would pull her ears off. She tells everyone to call her “D.D.”

  Mom probably could be a great actress because she’s always rehearsing, especially at school things like the annual carnival. Last year she volunteered to call out bingo. “B 8,” she breathed into the microphone. “B as in ‘bathing beauty.’” She gazed across the lunch tables, flipped her hair back, and smiled into an invisible camera.

  Everyone thinks she’s amazing to work full time and do decorations for the ‘50s Sock Hop and plan the Spring Fling Talent Show and raise two kids all by herself. A good actress name for her would be: “The Amazing D.D.”

  I’ll tell you the worst name in all the world: STUPID. That word gives me one stinkin’ stomachache, especially when Mom says it right in front of someone. For example: “Hope’s been driving me nuts. She doesn’t do anything I tell her. She’s so STUPID.”

  By the time first grade arrived, Stupid Me was convinced I couldn’t learn to read. But Mrs. Atkins was magical. She made sense out of all those alphabet letters and she made reading fun. Her book corner was piled with big pillows and stuffed animals and picture books with words I could figure out. And guess what? She read to her own kids every night. An Angel Mom.

  I’ll tell you my favorite name: Gabriela Feliciano. She’s this amazing basketball player at Eola Hills High and her name’s in the paper all the time. Doesn’t it look pretty? All the high letters mixed with the low ones and the dots on all the iii’s looking like candles? It sounds pretty, too. Sometimes I say it out loud: Gabriela Feliciano. And, she’s as beautiful as her name, with shiny, black, wavy hair pulled back from her face, plus thick, black eyebrows. The best part is she’s always so happy. She has this big, glowy smile on her face. Even her dark eyes are happy. She probably doesn’t have problems to solve. I bet no one calls her STUPID.

  CHAPTER 3

  Angels and Stars

  “All those with blue eyes please stand.” The please didn’t soften Mr. Hudson’s stone face. Chairs knocked and clanged as a bunch of Blue Eyes got up and glanced around at each other.

  “This is just an experiment, but I want you to take it seriously and to focus on your reactions.” Mr. Hudson took a piece of paper from his desk. “There are to be no comments as I read an announcement from the Yamhill County Commission on Youth Safety.”

  He cleared his throat. “From this day forward, no one with blue eyes may attend movies on the weekends, stay out past seven in the evening, shop at gas station convenience stores, or use skateboards on any public property.”

  Blue Eyes raised their brows, frowned, opened their mouths, and swallowed their words. Brody Brinkman rolled his very pale blue eyes and crossed his arms; Jessica Dobie bent to tie her shoe, muttering something about insane.

  Mr. Hudson addressed the Seated Ones. “How do you feel about the Commission’s announcement?”

  “Why only kids with blue eyes?” asked Annette Stuckey. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yeah, like Brody is some gangster,” said Justin Thayer. “You go, Bro.”

  Complaints flew: “Not fair.” “Rip-off.” “It stinks.”

  “This isn’t for real, is it, Mr. H?” said Noelle Laslett.

  My chest tightened and my skin tingled hot. But I should be okay. I had brown eyes.

  “Blue Eyes, you may sit down.” Mr. Hudson kept his serious voice.

  Another round of restless chairs and grumbles.

  “Okay. How do you feel, Blue Eyes?” Mr. Hudson went to the whiteboard.

  “Are we allowed to talk now?” Peter Monroe shot back.

  “Be my guest,” said Mr. Hudson, marker in hand.

  “You can’t make someone do this stuff just ‘cause they have blue eyes. It’s totally ridiculous. Who is this experimental Commission, anyway? What are they trying to do?”

  Mr. Hudson wrote confused on the board.

  “Yeah, a lot more than confused,” said Peter, his voice rising, “but I can’t say it in school except it starts with a p and rhymes with missed.”

  We choked back uneasy laughs as Mr. Hudson wrote missed. “More feelings,” he said.

  Annette raised her hand. “It’s scary. Kids won’t do it and there’ll be fights and
people getting hurt.”

  Scared went on the board. “Maybe there will be policemen watching,” said Mr. Hudson, “guarding, checking IDs, arresting disobedient Blue Eyes.”

  “No way!” Justin practically jumped out of his seat. “Come on, Mr. H, what’s going on? This kind of thing doesn’t happen here in Oregon, in the United States of America.”

  Mr. Hudson wrote disbelief and trusting. “I appreciate your heartfelt responses. To reassure those who didn’t listen carefully, this is an experiment in this classroom — not in Yamhill County.” He walked over to his desk and picked up a book. “This, however, was not a fictitious experiment.” He turned a few pages, then began reading:

  After May 1940 good times rapidly fled: first the war, then the capitulation, followed by the arrival of the Germans, which is when the sufferings of us Jews really began. Anti-Jewish decrees followed each other in quick succession. Jews must wear a yellow star, Jews must hand in their bicycles, Jews are banned from trams and are forbidden to drive. Jews are only allowed to do their shopping between three and five o’clock and then only in shops which bear the placard ‘Jewish shop.’ Jews must be indoors by eight o’clock and cannot even sit in their own gardens after that hour. Jews are forbidden to visit theaters, cinemas, and other places of entertainment. Jews may not take part in public sports. Swimming baths, tennis courts, hockey fields, and other sports grounds are all prohibited to them. Jews may not visit Christians. Jews must go to Jewish schools….

  Mr. Hudson closed the book and looked out the window as if the red and yellow maple leaves could tell him what to say next. When he returned to the room, to us, it was with the heavy face of someone about to deliver bad news. He held up the book so we could see the cover. A black-and-white photograph showed a girl with dark hair, deep-set eyes (were they blue?), and a sweet smile looking at our class. Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl.