by Jessie Haas
“I still think we should go on strike,” Dylan said.
Tessa said, “I couldn’t come up with anything. I didn’t even have a dream last night.”
“Well, how about this?” I said. “Day of Beige! It’s kind of like a strike, Dylan—a color strike. We’ll pick a day and get everybody who wants art in school to wear beige or tan—any color that blends in with the walls. It’s like a statement. We’ll remind teachers and the principal how not having art makes us feel—and how without art and color, we’re kind of invisible.”
“Will people notice?” Tessa asked thoughtfully.
“I would,” I said.
“You’re an artist!” Gabi said.
But Dylan’s face lit up. “I know!” she said excitedly. “We’ll get my mom to do a story on Day of Beige in the paper. We’ll make sure people notice!”
“You want to do a story in the newspaper?” I asked, my stomach flip-flopping.
“How else are people going to find out about it?” Dylan asked. “If all we do is wear beige and show our teachers how not having art makes us feel, nothing will happen. We need to tell the rest of the city. That’s what reporters do. Then maybe lots of people will read the story and want to help. Maybe we’ll even find art teachers that way!”
The whole newspaper thing made my stomach feel crawly. I looked around the table, hoping someone else felt nervous about it, too. But Tessa was nodding, and even Gabi seemed excited about a story in the paper. Before I could say anything else, Dylan had her phone out and was texting her mom.
“When should we do the Day of Beige?” I asked, trying to sound confident and take back control of the situation.
Dylan knew the answer to that, too. “The week before Balloon Fiesta starts,” she announced.
“But that’s next week!” I said. “That’s too soon.”
“Why?” Tessa asked. “It’s not like a bake sale. All we have to do is put on different clothes—and tell everyone else to do the same thing.”
I was suddenly annoyed with Tessa. Why did she have to keep taking Dylan’s side? I looked to Gabi for support, but she just shrugged. The Dylan train had left the station, and there was no stopping it now.
Dylan opened her phone and pulled up a calendar. “Fiesta starts the first Saturday in October,” she said. “That’s the fifth this year—”
“So Monday, September thirtieth? Or Tuesday, October first?” Tessa asked.
“Tuesday,” Dylan said. “Because we have to remind people. That would be a lot easier to do on Monday than over the weekend. I’ll tell my mom.” Dylan started texting again.
“But that’s only”—I counted on my fingers—“five days from now,” I said. “There’s no way!”
Gabi finally found her voice, too. “Maybe we should slow down for a minute and make a solid plan,” she said.
Dylan glanced up from her phone. “What’s wrong with you guys?” she said. “You’ve both been complaining for weeks that we don’t have an after-school arts program yet. Here’s our chance to do something about it. What are you waiting for?”
I was speechless. I couldn’t argue with Dylan’s point, much as I wanted to.
Just then Dylan got a text from her mother: Day of Beige on October 1. Luv it! I’ll do the story.
My stomach dropped.
Between classes, I did my part, telling other students, “Wear beige next Tuesday to support after-school art. Pass it on!” But secretly, I couldn’t wait for school to end so that I could talk to Mimi. If we were making a mistake by rushing into this, Mimi would tell me so, hopefully before it was too late.
That didn’t happen. We were outdoors together, taking a short walk up and down the sidewalk in front of the rehab center. When she heard the words “Day of Beige,” Mimi stopped walking and laughed out loud—a bigger and happier laugh than any I’d heard since her accident.
“That’s perfect!” she said.
I was proud that Mimi liked my idea, but the newspaper thing was still making me nervous. “But do you think we need Dylan’s mom to do a newspaper story?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Mimi said. “This is too good to keep to yourself. Besides, Saige, you do want to change things, don’t you? That usually means going outside your comfort zone.”
I looked at her, still pale from being indoors for weeks. A simple fall over a dog had taken Mimi way outside her comfort zone. Out of that, she’d learned a new drawing method and met a lot of new friends—yet she was still Mimi.
“Okay,” I said. “Anyway, I think Dylan’s the one who should be interviewed for the newspaper story. It’s her mom who’s the reporter.”
Mimi raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think so, Saige,” she said gently. “You’re the leader here. You came up with the idea, and you’re probably the one who cares the most.”
I stared back at Mimi. True, I thought. I did care the most. But…man! I guess I was stuck with this newspaper story thing—and it was all Dylan’s fault!
Later, when I told Mom and Dad about Day of Beige, they loved the idea, too. “Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself,” Dad said. “And what I like about this is, it’s not a fight. It’s a statement. It will make people laugh, and it will make them think. It doesn’t get better than that.”
Mom called Dylan’s mom to learn more about the newspaper story. I listened to Mom’s end of the conversation, which was mostly a lot of “mmm-hmms.” It sounded as if Dylan’s mom was just like Dylan. Mom couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
After Mom finally hung up, she said that Dylan’s mom was recommending a press conference. “Don’t look so scared, Saige,” she added reassuringly. “It’s just a couple of local reporters asking a few questions, and luckily, you’ve planned this for a day when I have a light class schedule, so I’ll be there to support you.”
Mom explained how press conferences work. We needed to send an e-mail to all the local news organizations. That was called a press release, and Dylan’s mother thought we should send it out first thing Tuesday morning, setting the press conference for noon at the school that day. I should prepare a statement to read and be ready to answer questions. That made my heart thunder. What questions would the reporters ask? Would I know the answers? And what would the teachers at school say about all this? Would they get mad?
“I’ll review your statement if you want,” Mom offered. “We could even do a mock press conference right here in the living room so that you can practice.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t want to practice. One press conference was going to be enough!
Worry gnawed at me all the next day, and I gnawed at my fingernails—but just a little, because of the looks I got at our table. Gabi looked worried for me, and Dylan said out loud just what she was thinking: “You’re not freaking out, are you? Because this is not a big deal for you. Look at what you did with the Professor Picasso Show! You’re a pro!”
“Not a big deal?” I practically squealed it, and I got a warning look from Mrs. Applegate. It was true that I’d done the Professor Picasso Show in front of a crowd of people, but I’d had Gabi and Picasso by my side. For some reason, this felt different—more scary and lonely, somehow. I thought about Mimi’s words: Change usually means going outside your comfort zone. I was definitely stepping outside my comfort zone for the Day of Beige press conference, and right now all I wanted to do was jump back inside.
Saturday Gabi and I went to the neighborhood thrift shop to look for beige clothes. We scored big at the two-dollar rack, where Gabi found a shirt and I got a corduroy skirt. In the checkout line, I found a bandanna, too. You can find anything at that shop.
Afterward, Gabi, Luis, and I rode out into the Bosque. I knew I should stop worrying about the press conference, or Georgia would pick up on it. Horses can be very sensitive that way.
But Georgia pricked her ears at the trail ahead, less concerned about what was going on with me than with what wa
s coming down the trail ahead. Someone was riding toward us on a bicycle. No big deal—except that Georgia had probably never seen a bicycle before. She’d gone rigid, and I was pretty sure she was holding her breath.
Here we go again, I thought, tensing my own body and flashing back to the mule deer incident.
But the biker—a woman in bright spandex and a helmet—seemed to understand what was going on. She turned around and biked a short distance in the other direction. The moment the bike was moving away from us, Georgia’s body softened.
The woman veered off the path and parked her bike beneath a tree. Then she took a few steps toward the trail, as if waiting for us. “Hello,” the woman called as we slowly approached. “Are these Mimi Copeland’s Spanish Barbs?”
Luis groaned under his breath. “Oh boy!” he said to me, his voice low. “She found us. She called me last night, this lady—I don’t know how she knew I’m a friend of Mimi’s. She wants to buy one of the horses.”
My heart sank like a stone thrown into the river. This woman wanted to buy Georgia—my Georgia.
I wanted to turn around and race back to Mimi’s, but Georgia was fascinated by the bike. She took a deep breath and stepped toward it.
Picasso and Frida paid absolutely no attention to the bike. Picasso has been a parade horse and has seen hundreds of bikes. And Frida? An alien spaceship could land beside her, and she would just give it one of her sighs. But Georgia carried me helplessly up to the bicycle and the woman standing near it.
She was a tanned, middle-aged woman with short hair, and her eyes lit up as she looked at Georgia. “Beautiful!” she said, holding out the flat of her hand. Georgia sniffed it politely and then moved past it to look more closely at the bicycle.
The woman was excited, but she knew enough to use a soft voice. “This is my lucky day after all,” she said to Luis. “I was so disappointed when I didn’t find you out at the ranchita, but I remembered you saying you sometimes rode in the Bosque, and I thought it was worth a try. I finally have a place with enough land for horses, and I’m ready to buy my first Barb.” Her eyes roamed over the three horses and settled on Georgia. “What a beautiful young mare! How old is she?”
I tried to remember. “Four, I think,” I said in a near whisper.
“And steady enough to put a child on her?” the woman asked, looking impressed. My heart turned into a cold, sinking lump.
“Saige is an excellent rider,” Luis said quietly. “And Georgia is becoming a fine riding horse.”
“I can see that,” the woman said. “Is she for sale?”
Gabi and I looked at each other in horror. It was supposed to be hard to sell horses these days! I’d been hoping it would take a long time for Mimi to find Georgia the perfect new owner—but this buyer had found us, right out here in the Bosque.
Luis answered the woman. He didn’t exactly say that Georgia was for sale, and he didn’t exactly say that she wasn’t. That didn’t reassure me. I’ve seen Mimi horse-trading, and that’s how it’s done. You pretend you aren’t really interested in selling. You’re vague, but pleasant. You let the other person make the first move.
The woman asked for Mimi’s phone number at the rehab facility. Luis said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable giving you that.”
“Then I’ll give you my contact information,” she said excitedly. “She can get in touch with me when she gets out.”
Georgia ducked her head, asking for more rein, and started pawing the ground. I remembered Mimi saying, “Standing still is the hardest thing for a young horse to do.” I should have made Georgia stop pawing, but I wasn’t sure how. I glanced at the Bike Lady, wondering if she had noticed the pawing. See? I thought. She’s being bad. You don’t want her.
Luis noticed. “Why don’t you girls ride on ahead?” he said. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” He turned politely back to the woman, who was hunting for a pen in her fanny pack.
I nudged Georgia with my heels. She broke into a canter. I wasn’t sure I’d meant for her to do that, but it felt great to get away from Bike Lady and all her questions. Before we reached the bend in the trail, I reined Georgia in, and Gabi came up beside me on Picasso. We just looked at each other. Gabi’s eyes were wide and dark and worried.
I looked back up the trail. The lady was leaning over, scribbling something on a tiny piece of paper. “I wish we hadn’t come riding today,” I said.
“She would have found us at the ranchita, then,” Gabi said. “She seems nice, doesn’t she?” Gabi said that like it was a bad thing, which it kind of was. “I mean—she really understands horses. The way she turned that bike around…”
I couldn’t answer Gabi. If I said a word, I might start crying.
We went on around the bend in the trail. After a few minutes, Georgia paused and turned her head, and Luis and Frida came into sight. We waited for them.
Luis flashed me a sympathetic smile. “Don’t look so miserable, Saige,” he said. “Mimi doesn’t let go of her horses easily, and never to anything less than the perfect home. I’m not sure she’s going to like this lady. And even if she does, Mimi won’t decide anything until she’s home and back on her feet.”
But Mimi was getting better every day. I had never imagined I could possibly feel bad about that.
Monday at school, Gabi, Tessa, Dylan, and I had a scary job to do. Miss Fane was in on our secret, and she thought we should tell the principal, Mrs. Laird, about the press conference. “School rules,” Miss Fane said. “If you don’t tell the principal, the press conference won’t happen.”
So Monday at lunchtime, the four of us walked together in one brave line, taking up the whole hallway, to the principal’s office. “We have something important to tell Mrs. Laird,” I told the secretary, and a few minutes later we were in the inner office, and Mrs. Laird was looking at us curiously.
I glanced at my friends, wondering what to say. But they were all looking at me. “You’re the leader,” Mimi had said. I guess my friends felt the same way. I took a deep breath.
“Tomorrow we’re doing a…a protest,” I said. “A Day of Beige. We…we want to remind everyone how boring life is without color and art, and how much we really need our afternoon art class.”
Mrs. Laird looked startled. “The after-school arts program?” she said. “But I’m moving forward on that!”
“When?” Dylan burst out. “It’s October already.” She sounded angry, and I could tell she wanted to say more. Leaning forward in her chair, Dylan suddenly reminded me of Georgia that day in the pasture, tugging at the reins, eager to chase that mule deer.
Had Dylan said too much already? Mrs. Laird looked sharply at her and started to respond, but then pressed her lips together and said nothing.
I was getting scared. I shot a glance at Gabi. She’d been right. Being negative and making people feel bad didn’t work.
Gabi cleared her throat. “The reporters will probably want to talk with you about the after-school class,” she said calmly.
“Reporters?” Mrs. Laird asked sharply.
I gulped. “Tomorrow we’ll all wear beige to school, and…at lunchtime, we’re having a press conference. D-Dylan’s mom is helping us.”
Mrs. Laird frowned thoughtfully at Dylan, and then at the rest of us. She didn’t say anything right away, and the silence made me squirm.
Then she nodded. “All right, girls,” she said. “I can see that you’re serious about this, and I respect that. I’ll let the administrators know, and we’ll set up an area for the press conference and a process for registering reporters at the office. But will you allow me to say a few words tomorrow?”
How could we say no? I nodded, and Mrs. Laird stood up from behind her desk, her signal that we were dismissed.
“Thank you,” Gabi said earnestly, and we echoed her. “Thanks.” “Thank you.”
“Whew!” I said, when we were a long way down the hall. “Gabi, you’re not just a d
og trainer. You’re a lion tamer!”
“She was a little annoyed,” Gabi agreed. “But at least she agreed to it.”
“She was kind of cool about it, actually,” said Tessa.
Only Dylan was silent. I wondered if she felt guilty about getting Mrs. Laird all riled up.
All afternoon we reminded everyone: Tuesday is Day of Beige. The kids we told told other kids. The whole school was whispering, “Beige.” “Tomorrow.” “Wear beige.”
I got ready for bed that night feeling sure that I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Other kids were just making a wardrobe choice. I would have to talk to reporters, and I didn’t think my prepared statement was all that brilliant. It didn’t help that every time I closed my eyes, I saw the face of that woman on the bike, looking excitedly at my Georgia.
So I tried to keep my eyes open, and I was wide awake when the phone rang. I was surprised when Mom came to my door. “It’s Tessa,” she said. “It’s very late for a phone call, but just this once, it’s okay.” I sat up in bed as she handed me the phone.
“Saige?” Tessa asked, sounding excited. I was surprised by how good it felt to hear her voice on the other end of the line.
“I found the perfect quote for you to read tomorrow!” Tessa went on without waiting for me to respond. “It was in one of my music books—I found it by accident.” I heard a page rustle, and then Tessa read, “ ‘Life without music can only be seen in black and white. It takes music to add the color.’ That’s by Artie Shaw.”
“But we’re not doing black and white,” I said. “We’re doing beige.”
“So change the quote,” Tessa said. “Say ‘art and music.’ Say ‘beige.’ Tell them that you’ve changed the quote.”
“I could do that,” I said slowly. “ ’Cause you’re right—it’s perfect, and it’s what we really needed. Hey, thanks!”
“You’re welcome,” Tessa said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
