by Jessie Haas
“Everyone loved the drawings!” I said. “And they’re really excited about the after-school art class. When is the PTA going to get that going?”
“It’s not that simple, Saige,” Mom said. “We still need to find a few art teachers and other volunteers to help supervise the kids—and this may come as news to you, darling, but teachers have lives, too!”
Of course that wasn’t news to me. Mom’s a teacher—well, a college math professor, but it’s the same thing. I knew that teachers had kids of their own to go home to, horses to ride, ranches to run, and homework to correct…our homework! Hey, that was an idea.
“If they gave us less homework, they’d have more free time,” I suggested.
Mom ignored that.
I spoke up again—I couldn’t help it. “We just want an art class. One art class! Is that too much to ask?”
Mom sighed. “It depends on how you ask,” she said. “We’re feeling our way forward, Saige, and it’s going to take time.”
I could tell by the tone of her voice that the PTA really was trying, and that meant it really would take time. I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t help saying, “It’s taken a lot of time already.”
“I know,” Mom said, reaching over to squeeze my knee. “But in the meantime, you can paint at Mimi’s.” My grandmother is a professional painter, and until she got hurt, I spent every afternoon at her ranchita, riding horses or painting in her studio. Mimi would be out of rehab soon, and at least the painting part of our afternoons would start again.
But what about Gabi? I wondered. What about the other kids at school? Nobody else got to paint every day after school like I did. I was grateful for what I had, but I felt a little guilty, too.
We found Mimi in the commons room, with a group of people all laughing and talking at once. Most of the patients were Mimi’s age or older, but the scene reminded me of the school cafeteria at lunchtime—friendly and fun.
Mimi caught sight of us. “Good!” she said, getting slowly to her feet and reaching for her walker. She was using a specially built walker so that she could put weight on her elbow, not her broken wrist. It made her seem clumsy—Mimi, who trained and rode horses and had even been dusting off her trick-riding skills just a month ago.
Mom and I walked with Mimi back to her room—that is, Mom walked with her. I kept zooming ahead every few steps and having to stop myself and wait. Mimi was so slow!
I wondered how long it would take for her to get better. Would she really get better? Back to the way she had been?
As she walked, Mimi kept greeting people along the hall with her flashing smile. I love Mimi’s smile, the one that used to greet me when I got off the bus after school. But looking at that bright face now, I just wanted to say, Come on, Mimi! You’re supposed to hate being in a place like this. So start hating it, and get better, and come home!
I was happier when we got to Mimi’s room, which was decorated with reminders of the ranchita. There was a big bouquet of yellow sunflowers from Mimi’s garden. Her bright red serape was draped over a chair. One of her horse paintings hung on the wall, and taped up all around it were the wild, swirly ink drawings that Mimi had started to make with her left hand.
Mimi is right-handed, but after breaking her right wrist, she had started drawing with her left hand. Her new drawings were loose and free, full of mistakes yet so alive that they almost leaped off the wall.
New since yesterday was a drawing of Rembrandt, Mimi’s black and white Border collie, who is currently living at my house with his brother Sam. Rembrandt’s fur was made up of quick black squiggles. His eyes were inky blurs, but with that full-of-energy look that Border collies often get.
There were drawings of people, too—one of a nurse, drawn from the knees down, with thick calves and sensible shoes. Is this lady thrilled to have her legs up there on the wall? I wondered. Artists like Mimi don’t tend to ask questions like that.
Mom, Mimi, and I sat and talked—well, Mom talked, giving the same news she’d told Mimi yesterday. There isn’t much new to tell somebody when you’re visiting every day. Mimi just said “Mm-hmm” once in a while. She held her sketchpad in her right hand and scribbled with her left, looking up at me every few seconds. Her blue eyes were bright. She was having a fabulous time.
Me? Not so much. I do things with Mimi. We paint together, or we go for a ride. We talk about what’s happening with the horses or on the canvas. I didn’t know what to say to her right now, and she was too busy sketching to say much to me.
“Darn!” Mom said suddenly. “I left your mail in the car. I’ll go get it.”
As Mom left the room, Mimi turned the sketchpad so that I could see myself on the paper. My mouth turned down at the corners. My eyes were dark and shadowed.
“You don’t look the happiest I’ve ever seen you,” Mimi said gently.
I felt myself flush. “I just miss you,” I said.
What a stupid thing to say! Mimi was sitting right there in front of me. How could I miss her?
But Mimi understood. “You miss our afternoons together,” she said.
I waited for her to say, “Me too.” That’s what she was supposed to say. But she didn’t. She sat there thinking for a minute.
“I’m learning a lot here,” Mimi said finally. “I wouldn’t recommend breaking two limbs just to get this opportunity, believe me! But it’s jolted me out of my normal way of doing things, and in a way, that’s exciting. Can you understand that?”
I could, actually. Mimi’s left-handed drawings were cool, and nothing feels better than learning a new art technique or skill. Plus, Mimi was making friends here at the rehab center. I’d made a new friend myself recently in Gabi. I knew how fun that was. But it didn’t make me feel any better right now. I’d been right: Mimi was having too good a time here. Where did that leave me?
“You were doing things differently already,” I said. “Remember your pink horses?” That was the unfinished painting on Mimi’s easel at the ranchita. She had drawn her herd of horses grouped close together. Their ears, necks, backs, and rumps made one continuous line. But the horses weren’t painted with normal horse colors. They were watermelon pink, the color of the Sandia Mountains at sunset.
Mimi had never done anything like that painting before. And she’d forgotten all about it, I could tell. When I mentioned the painting, Mimi’s face got all faraway and excited looking.
“You’re right!” she said. “I’d love to get back to that painting.” She looked down at the cast on her arm. “But for that, I need my right hand!” She sounded frustrated. Hurray! That was how I wanted her—frustrated and determined, determined to get back home. I gave her an encouraging thumbs-up.
“I will be back, Saige,” Mimi said. “I promise you that. Meantime, do some new things yourself! You don’t need to come here every day. Go paint. Have something to show me when I get back. And ride Picasso. You got him in shape for the parade at the fiesta. It’s not fair to just quit riding him now.”
I felt a flutter of pride at the mention of the parade, which I had led on majestic Picasso, Mimi’s oldest horse. Gabi and I had taught him to do some tricks for the art fiesta, too, an act that we called the Professor Picasso Show.
“Gabi has been coming to the ranchita with me lately,” I reminded Mimi. “I can’t just ride off on Picasso and leave her behind.”
And if I paint, she’ll want to paint, too, I thought but didn’t say. I was afraid to invite Gabi into Mimi’s studio. It was my special place, a place I’d shared only with Mimi—and sometimes Tessa, my best friend since kindergarten. I’d need to set up a canvas for Gabi, which would mean moving Mimi’s half-finished painting aside—and I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. I didn’t want to change anything in the studio, at least not until Mimi could walk back into it with me.
“Hmm,” Mimi said thoughtfully. “Maybe you two can ride together. Gabi can take Picasso, and you can start r
iding Georgia.”
“Georgia?” I said in disbelief. Georgia was young, still in training. “Is she ready?”
“You’re both ready,” Mimi said. “I’ve watched you on Picasso. You’ve got a good seat and light hands, and you pay attention. And Georgia was getting to be steady and responsible—the last I saw of her, that is! I’ll ask Luis to put you on a lunge line first. He’ll be able to tell if this is a good idea. If you all feel comfortable, he can ride with you.”
“Are you sure he has time?” I asked. Luis is Mimi’s neighbor and good friend, but he’s also a busy artist.
“Luis loves riding,“ Mimi said. “He used to be a cowboy, did you know that? He always says he spends too much time in his studio, and he’s right. He’ll ride with you. Just ask him.”
I smiled at Mimi’s certainty. What could any of us say? One thing had not changed: Mimi gave the orders, and we obeyed.
And this was an order I wanted to obey. Go riding with my friend—what was there not to like about that?
© 2013 American Girl. All rights reserved. All American Girl marks, Saige™, and Girl of the Year™ are trademarks of American Girl. Used under license by Scholastic Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by American Girl or Scholastic Inc.
Illustrations by Sarah Davis
Photo credits from Real Girl, Real Story: Barry Bland, Kitson Jazynka, and James Youells.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
First printing 2013
e-ISBN 978-1-338-19722-8
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