by Jessie Haas
“Let’s sing ‘The Lone Prairie,’” suggested Tessa. She sang it pretty, her voice soft and pure. I started to sing it like one of Dad’s faves, but as we passed under a streetlight, I saw Tessa frowning. Better to play it straight, I thought as I joined in. “These words came low and mournfully—”
Abruptly Tessa stopped singing. I faltered. Should I keep going?
“Let’s not sing,” she said.
“Oh, come on—” I urged her.
“You’re off-key, Saige!” she finally blurted. “I can’t stand it. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. I don’t know much about singing. I mean, the last time we had music class was in second grade. But this wasn’t a concert. It was just us having fun, the way we always used to.
Suddenly my chest felt as if it were full of cotton. I couldn’t say a word—I was afraid I was going to cry. Tessa glanced over at me. She seemed worried, like she knew she’d hurt my feelings, but she didn’t say anything either. We rode home in absolute silence.
Back home, I got into my pajamas and crawled into bed. Sam jumped up on the bed beside me. He isn’t supposed to, but I let him sometimes, and right now I really needed him. I hugged his shaggy neck, and then the tears came.
Mimi was right when she’d said Tessa had grown a lot at music camp, but where did that leave me? Did Tessa think I was a baby now? Was I? I felt like one, huddled in bed with Sam licking hot tears off my cheeks.
One thing was for sure: I was never going to sing another note in front of Tessa. Maybe I was off-key. But did she have to say so?
Now I had a whole weekend to think about what had happened with Tessa—and what, if anything, I should do about it. Luckily the weather was great for ballooning, a perfect Albuquerque Box. That’s when the lower winds blow north and the upper winds blow south. A pilot steers a balloon by changing how high he flies: blasting the burners to rise and go south or letting air out to sink down and go north.
The Box starts around dawn, so we were all up long before that on Saturday morning. We drove to the launch field and met the people Dad was taking up, a couple celebrating their anniversary.
I helped Dad get the balloon out of the pickup and spread the enormous envelope on the ground. The “envelope” is the balloon part, made out of super-strong nylon and polyester. The part that carries you is called the “basket.”
After Dad filled the envelope with air using a big fan, we walked inside it, checking for holes and making sure the vents were sealed. If you need a dose of color—and wind—try walking inside a balloon envelope.
Then Dad blasted the propane burners, heating the air inside the balloon. The balloon rose, lifting the basket upright. Dad climbed in with his passengers. Mom released the tether, and we waited.
Sometimes we have to chase Dad’s balloon in the truck, but with a perfect Box prevailing, Dad would be able to land where he started. We could just sit and watch.
I was still upset about what had happened with Tessa yesterday, but I didn’t feel like talking about it with Mom. Luckily, there was no danger of that. She’s so not a morning person. She should get a medal for having married a balloonist. She just clung to her coffee mug, listening to the news on the radio.
When Dad finally landed and his customers left the launch field, Dad asked if I wanted to go up with him, just us two. I worried about that, because Dad is the bright-eyed early bird who catches the worm. He was bound to notice that something was bothering me.
But up in a balloon, you get taken over by a special kind of quiet. People don’t talk much up there. As we drifted over the neighborhoods and ranchitas, that quiet got inside me. I stopped even thinking about Tessa. I just floated, looking down at houses and treetops, little cars and little people.
I did make a few decisions, though. I’d get going on that letter to the PTA, and I’d stop trying to get Tessa to help me. She clearly didn’t want to, and I knew someone who did, someone who cared about art as much as I did.
Gabi and I walked to school together Monday morning, which was the new normal. She was quiet. Maybe she hadn’t had the best weekend, either. “Do you still want to help me with that letter?” I asked, hoping to cheer us both up.
Gabi’s pale face brightened. “Yes!” she said. “I thought you and Tessa had done it already.”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to get into that. “So, how do we start the letter?” I asked. “‘ Dear PTA’? That sounds weird.”
“‘To whom it may concern,’” Gabi said confidently. “That’s how my mom starts letters like this. What do we say next?”
By the time we reached school, we had a few ideas. We sat at our table before class started and scribbled them all down.
I saw Tessa looking at me a little nervously. She probably wondered if I was mad at her about Friday night, but all I said to her was “Hi.” As I’d hoped, there wasn’t time to say much more.
At lunch, Gabi and I worked on the letter again. I wanted to say that it was stupid to not have art every year and that if the school system really cared about kids, they would change that.
“But we’re not writing to the school board,” Gabi said. “We’re writing to the PTA. And anyway, the school system is probably doing the best it can. It’s hard to get money, Saige. My mom says that art is being cut in schools all over the country.”
“You’re too nice,” I grumped.
“Sorry,” Gabi said, laughing.
A part of me still wanted to write something angry, maybe because I was looking at Dylan and Tessa making their stupid rubber-jaw faces. But what Gabi said made sense. We scribbled out a final draft, and I put it in my backpack to type up and print at home.
After school I rode the bus to Mimi’s, without saying more than hi and bye to Tessa all day. I should have felt good about that. It was just what I’d planned. But I felt empty. Nothing felt right until I walked through Mimi’s door and she said, “Good!”
“Today I’ll teach you how to ride in a parade,” she announced over lemonade.
I was startled. “What do you mean?” I asked. “I know how to ride.”
“Parade riding is different,” Mimi said. “Picasso needs to be impressive, thrilling, slow, and safe, all at the same time. Drink up, and I’ll show you what I mean.”
Out in the corral, Mimi got on Picasso and demonstrated. “This is a normal Western jog,” she said, signaling Picasso to trot slowly with his head low. “He can keep this up for hours.”
Then Mimi sat straighter and taller, deeper in the saddle. She held the reins high. Her free hand hung straight down at her side.
Picasso seemed to get taller, too. He arched his neck, high and proud, and quickened his step. His trot became high-stepping, slow, and majestic. I could imagine a conquistador on his back, in glittering armor.
Mimi circled the ring and then brought Picasso to the fence. They were both breathing hard. “Your turn,” Mimi said with a smile.
I felt a little nervous getting on that Picasso. That Picasso was royalty. But as I strapped on my helmet and walked over to him, he turned his head to look at me with his usual kind expression. I got on and asked him to jog, and Mimi coached me.
“Sit straighter,” she called from the edge of the corral. “Sit deeper…lower your heels. Good. Now lift your rein hand higher.”
Picasso kept jogging, low and slow. Only his ears changed, swiveling like Mimi’s old rabbit-ears TV antenna, as if to say, What are you up to, girl?
“He’s not getting it,” Mimi said, holding up her hand for us to stop. “It’s not your fault, Saige. He and I are such old partners that we have a private language. Let me think for a minute.”
I let Picasso stand still, patting his sweaty shoulder. He tossed his head, making the reins slap against his neck.
“That’s it!” Mimi announced.
She jogged to the barn and came back with her fancy reins. They’re heavy with silver ornaments and fasten to the bi
t with big decorated buckles—made by Luis, of course. Mimi put them on Picasso.
“Now jog him around the ring,” she instructed. “Sit straight and deep, and lift your hand.”
As we started to jog, the silver buckles clinked. Picasso’s ears swiveled, listening.
I sank deeper in the saddle and tried to let my spine grow like a tree. I lifted my rein hand level to my chest. My free hand hung at my side, the way Mimi’s had.
Suddenly it happened. Picasso seemed to grow taller. His head came up. His ears slanted proudly. The buckles made a bold cling-cling-cling. Picasso was doing his parade gait, and it felt amazing. What a powerful, incredible horse!
Parade riding was a lot harder than regular riding, though. I was panting when Mimi said, “Let him walk now.”
“Wow!” I gasped, slowing Picasso down to a walk.
“Yeah,” Mimi said, smiling. “You two looked like wow!”
“Why did changing the reins help?” I asked.
“I use those for parades, so they remind him of his parade gait,” explained Mimi.
Picasso shook his head as she spoke, making the buckles ring. The sound reminded me of something, too. What was it? Just the tiniest jingle when she moved her head—
Tessa! Tessa’s gorgeous bead earrings. I love those earrings, and they’d be perfect to wear to the fiesta. Picasso and I would both jingle. Would Tessa let me borrow them?
Until last Friday, I would have known the answer. I would have called or texted her the minute I got home. Now, I wasn’t sure—and I was afraid to ask.
On Tuesday Gabi and I passed around the PTA letter in our classroom and at lunchtime for kids to sign. Gabi and I found out that everybody missed art. We asked kids to put a star beside their name if they were willing to help sell cookies and raffle tickets at the fiesta, and we got lots of stars.
Tessa and Dylan signed the letter, but without stars. Dylan said they were too busy for bake sales.
By the end of the school day, we had forty-four names. I couldn’t believe it! A week ago, fund-raising at the fiesta had seemed like a chore. But now that more people were getting involved, it seemed like fun. I couldn’t wait to see how much money we would raise!
I told Mimi all about the letter as we set up our work in the studio that afternoon. “I had a hard time getting going on it,” I admitted, “but Gabi really helped.”
“You and I are alike that way,” Mimi said. “We both get more done when we have company.”
We grinned across the studio at each other. “You train horses alone, though,” I said.
“No,” Mimi said. “I always have the horse for company.”
Just then the gray kitten raced through the studio, with Rembrandt in hot pursuit. His flying paws bunched up the rug.
“Kids!” Mimi warned. “Calm down.” She bent over to straighten out the rug and then took the opportunity to stretch, extending her fingertips toward her toes. She flexed one knee and then the other. After a moment, Mimi stood back up and asked, “How’s the painting coming? Will you finish it in time?”
The fiesta was about two and a half weeks away. I glanced down at my portrait of Picasso, which was looking a bit more like him every day. “It’s almost ready,” I said.
“Good! The difference between an artist and somebody who’s artistic is that an artist finishes things. No pressure, of course!” said Mimi with a laugh.
Friday afternoon, Mrs. Applegate told us that our music teacher was out sick, so our class would have an unscheduled study break. Dylan and Gabi both headed to the computer lab at the back of the room, but Tessa asked for a library pass and then looked at me uncertainly. We used to love getting away to the library together.
“Want to come?” she asked.
“Sure!” I said, thrilled that she’d asked. Things had been weird between us ever since the singing incident.
We went to our favorite table, off in a corner of the library where we could study but also talk. We did our English homework first, and things seemed so normal between us that I felt okay asking, “May I borrow your dangly earrings—those ones that jingle—to wear in the parade?”
“Of course!” she said, seeming happy that I had asked.
“Thanks,” I said. “They’ll match Picasso’s fancy reins.” I told her about Picasso’s parade gait, Mimi’s trick riding, and our paintings.
“Our singing group—” Tessa started to say.
“We’re raffling tickets to ride up with Dad during one of the balloon ascensions,” I said quickly. “He’s making a ticket booth shaped like a hot-air balloon. It should be really cool, and we can use it again if we do another fiesta next year.”
I was going on and on and on. I tried to stop, but my mouth just kept gabbing. “We should do this every year, don’t you think? Because every year we’re missing out on—”
“Saige!” Tessa interrupted, her cheeks flushing bright pink. “Do you realize that all you talk about is that fiesta?”
I could feel my mouth hanging open. Her comment was so unfair! I hadn’t talked to Tessa about anything for at least a week. “Well, all you talk about is music,” I snapped.
Tessa looked shocked and hurt. “Music is my life,” she said.
“Well, art is mine,” I said, trying to hold my voice steady, “and this fiesta is going to help us get at least a little bit of art in school.”
“But what about music?” Tessa asked, her voice trembling. “Next year we won’t have music. You aren’t trying to do anything about that!”
I hesitated. “But…but I would help you,” I stammered, “if you were trying to get more music at school. You haven’t helped me at all!”
Tessa snapped her dictionary shut. “I didn’t help you because you don’t need me,” she said. “You have Gabi.”
I was stunned. Was Tessa jealous of Gabi? How could she be when she spent all of her free time with Dylan? I opened my mouth to say that, but the librarian approached our table, raising her finger to her lips.
Tessa didn’t say another word. She gathered her things, pushed back her chair, and stormed out of the library. I sat staring after her. That was Tessa, my best friend, walking out on me.
Tessa had been my friend since second grade. But we weren’t best friends anymore, were we? Could we be best friends when we didn’t like the same things or do the same things?
After school, I rode the bus to Mimi’s, leaning my forehead against the window to hide my tears. I wasn’t mad anymore, but my heart ached. Tessa and I had never fought like that before.
“Are you crying?” a first-grader behind me asked, sounding very sweet and concerned.
I shook my head, swallowing hard.
A siren shrieked behind us. The bus pulled to the side of the road, and an ambulance passed, going fast. As the bus pulled onto the road again, I sat up straighter. We were almost at Mimi’s now, and I couldn’t wait to pour out everything to her and ask for her advice.
When we got to my stop, the driver leaned forward, staring out his side window at Mimi’s driveway. He said something as I got out, but I didn’t catch it. I crossed in front of the bus and stopped at the edge of the road, confused.
The ambulance was in Mimi’s yard, red lights flashing, doors wide open. Carmen, Luis’s wife, stood next to it, talking on a cell phone.
For a second I just stood there. I couldn’t move. It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of my lungs. I couldn’t call to Carmen. I couldn’t even breathe.
My feet finally took off, and I sprinted up the driveway, but my brain still couldn’t process what was going on. “What happened? Carmen, what happened?” I asked, almost screaming the words.
Carmen reached out and pulled me into a warm hug.
“Is Professor Marina Copeland available?” she spoke into the phone. “Yes, it’s important. There’s been an accident—her mother-in-law has fallen.”
Carmen glanced down at me while waiting. “She’s going to be okay, Saige,” she said soothingly. “Mim
i will be okay. She’s—”
Back to the phone. “Hello? Yes, she fell in her studio. Luis found her. The ambulance is here now…I’ll tell her. Yes, Saige is right here. She just got off the bus.” Carmen handed me the phone.
“Saige, I’ll be there in half an hour!” Mom said before I could even say hello. I could tell that she was walking as she spoke, probably scattering university students out of her path. “Is your grandmother conscious?”
“I…don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t seen her.”
“Tell her we’ll be with her soon,” Mom said firmly. “Find out which hospital they’re taking her to, and wait with Carmen. I’ll get ahold of Dad.”
Luis came out of the house then, and I pressed the phone back into Carmen’s hand and rushed to him. “How is she?” I asked breathlessly. “Can I see her now?”
Luis took my arms in his strong grip and looked straight into my eyes. He looked so serious that it scared me, but he spoke in a calm, steady voice. “She’s probably broken some bones, Saige,” he said. “She doesn’t feel too good.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Something about the cat and dog—she tripped over one of them,” said Luis. “You know how fast she’s always moving. I think she’s hurt her arm and her hip.”
In the doorway behind him, men appeared carrying a stretcher—carrying Mimi. She looked small lying there, her hair messed up and her face yellow-white. Her right arm lay strapped across her stomach. Her breath came in short, quick gasps.
When she saw me, her eyes focused a little. “Good!” she whispered. “Luis and Carmen will…take care of you.”
I rushed to Mimi’s side, but I was afraid to touch her. “Oh, Mimi,” was all I could say.
I heard Carmen asking the men which hospital they were taking Mimi to, and then I remembered Mom’s instructions. “We’ll be with you soon,” I promised Mimi.