by Jessie Haas
As I set down the phone, I smiled to myself—in the dark, but not so alone anymore. Tessa will be there with me tomorrow, I reminded myself. And she had just made my prepared statement a whole lot better.
The next morning I met Gabi at our front door. She wore khaki pants, her “new” sand-colored shirt, and a huge grin. “Wow!” she said, checking out my outfit. “If you stand next to the school walls, nobody will even see you!”
She was right. I had on Mom’s tan shirt and the beige corduroy skirt I’d found at the thrift shop. Even my shoes were tan. I’d braided my hair, wrapped it around my head, and covered it with my tan bandanna. My face would blend into the wall, too. I was pale with nervousness this morning. But seeing Gabi in “uniform,” too, made me feel a little better.
We walked Sam and Rembrandt, as usual. But this morning, the dogs’ black and white coats looked brilliant compared to us, and the sky above seemed especially blue. A gorgeous balloon drifted overhead, a yellow one with an orange Zia symbol—the sun symbol that’s on the New Mexico flag. We noticed sunflowers, bright red tomatoes, and orange gourds in people’s front gardens. The whole world was showing off this morning and helping us make our point.
Later, as we got to school, I saw the buses unloading a stream of kids in all shades of dullness—beige, tan, khaki, and desert camouflage. I felt a spike of excitement. Day of Beige was working! The first part, anyway. There was hardly anyone who hadn’t gotten the message or who had forgotten. Just one or two bright shirts stood out in the flood of sandy-colored kids.
In the classroom, we all laughed at one another. Between the beige clothes and the bland walls, the room looked like a desert landscape.
Mrs. Applegate, working at her desk, looked up once and frowned, as if she was trying to figure something out. A few minutes later she looked up again and did a double take. “What’s with the color scheme?” she asked Gabi, who sat nearest to her.
Gabi looked at me, startled. We hadn’t figured out what to say if a teacher asked about our outfits. I answered for Gabi. “It’s…a surprise!” I said. “Just wait—you’ll see.”
“A surprise? Hmm,” said Mrs. Applegate, looking us over thoughtfully. “Teachers don’t always like surprises.”
My stomach flip-flopped. Clearly Mrs. Laird hadn’t said anything yet to the teachers. Was Mrs. Applegate going to be mad at us?
I worried about that as the clock ticked overhead. Had the press release gone out this morning as planned? When would the reporters start gathering? The words kept repeating in my head: Press conference. Press conference. When the lunch bell finally rang, I jumped, like Georgia shying.
“You’ll do fine,” Tessa whispered. She, Gabi, and Dylan walked with me, all of us arm in arm, out into the sun. Several vans stood outside the school, with satellite dishes on top and the logos of TV and radio stations on the sides. A group of people, bristling with microphones, stood watching the school door.
I was relieved to see Dylan’s mother in the group, and even more relieved when Mom’s car pulled up. She was alone. Mimi was with another group of people, off to one side. No wheelchair anymore. She stood with her left hand resting lightly on her walker, looking around and enjoying the fresh air. When she spotted me, she waved and poked Celeste, from her oil painting group. I could lip-read what Mimi was saying: “There’s Saige.” She looked really proud.
Miss Fane was with them, too. She crossed the pavement and handed me a sheet of paper. “Some ammunition, if you need it,” she said. “Good luck!” The paper was filled with facts on how art helps students. This would definitely come in handy! I gripped the paper tightly in my hands.
Now Dylan’s mother came forward. She showed me where to stand and how to turn on my microphone. Then she gave me an encouraging smile and stepped back. I pulled my prepared statement out of the pocket of my skirt and unfolded it carefully.
“Than—” I cleared my throat. “Thank you for coming. My name is Saige Copeland, and I’m in fourth grade. I have something to read, and then I’ll take some questions.” I cleared my throat again. “Okay.”
I started reading. I was so glad for Tessa’s quote. It was an important person saying the same thing we were trying to say today.
“ ‘Life without art or music is beige,’ ” I read. “ ‘It takes art, and music, to add the color.’ That’s a quote from the musician Artie Shaw. I changed it a little, but it really says what we’re trying to say here.”
I looked up at the microphone booms and the reporters scribbling in their notebooks. “This protest is called Day of Beige,” I went on. Everybody laughed, which was encouraging. “We all wore beige today to show what school is like for us when we don’t have art class. We know it’s hard to get a program like this started, but it’s important.”
I looked down at my paper and took a deep breath. This was the hardest part. “A few weeks ago we raised a lot of money for an after-school art class, but it’s taking a lot of time to organize,” I said. “We’re just saying please, please, hurry.”
That was my whole statement. I looked out at the reporters. They raised their hands, as if I were a teacher and they were the students, and shouted out my name. I called on Dylan’s mom first.
She smiled encouragingly. “Day of Beige is such a great name for an arts protest,” she said. “Where did you get the idea?”
“Out riding, actually,” I answered. “My horse and I were surprised by a mule deer that blended in with the brown grass, and Day of Beige just popped into my head.” That got a laugh, and all the reporters scribbled in their notebooks.
“Why is it so important to you to have art classes at school?” a reporter asked.
I looked down at the paper in my hands. “Ammunition,” Miss Fane had called it. I read, “Kids who have art do better in academic subjects and score higher on tests. We don’t drop out of school as much. We concentrate better, so we do better in all of our classes.”
“Can you tell us more about the after-school art class?” another reporter asked.
“Well, we haven’t had it yet,” I said, “so I don’t know…”
“Maybe I can answer that,” Mrs. Laird said. She came to the microphone and talked about how an after-school class could be structured, with a professional art teacher or two, volunteer helpers, and a regular teacher to stay after school to help supervise.
Then Mrs. Laird was asked about her response to the demonstration. She answered carefully. “The kids were very respectful, I have to say that,” she said. “And I agree with Saige about time. It’s taken longer than I had hoped to pull this program together. But we’ve all heard what the kids are saying, and I hope to get this program off the ground by November at the latest.”
A TV camera swiveled toward me as she said “November.” I’m sure it caught a very disappointed expression. But right away, the reporters had more questions for me.
Why did I like art? one reporter asked.
Why did I like art? I didn’t even know where to begin. I thought of Mimi’s studio, my favorite place in the whole world, and of how it felt to sit beside her, bringing something from my imagination to life on canvas. I thought of the paintings Mimi and I had created there, and of the horses we’d watched through the window—wise Picasso and beautiful young Georgia. At the thought of her, I felt my chest swell. I couldn’t speak.
Luckily, someone else could. “Art is like music,” I heard someone say, and I glanced over to see Dylan, bold Dylan, stepping up to the microphone to help me out. “It helps us express what we feel inside.”
Gabi was there, too, and Tessa, and when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw a solid beige wall of classmates standing behind me. There were so many of them, way more than I’d ever expected. They all thought art was worth fighting for, just as I did. I couldn’t believe what we had done—together.
“Art brings us together,” I said, finding my voice. “When I create art, especially with my friends, I feel like…anything i
s possible.”
There was a moment of silence. Then someone started clapping, which led to more applause, so I said, “Thank you. Thank you for coming!” I stepped back from the microphone, and that ended the Day of Beige press conference.
It was strange seeing myself on TV. I looked young and small in front of the microphone, and my voice was shaky sometimes. But we had gotten on TV! The news anchors loved saying “Day of Beige,” and they mentioned all the stuff I’d said about how art helps kids. And the next morning we were in the newspaper, with “Day of Beige” as the headline.
We didn’t plan it, but that day everyone wore something bright to school. Our classroom looked like a Mass Ascension at Balloon Fiesta.
“Look at Mrs. Applegate,” Gabi whispered.
She was colorful, too, today in a green short-sleeved sweater that glittered when she moved.
“All the teachers are wearing something sparkly,” Gabi said. “Come on, let’s get a drink of water before the bell rings. I’ll show you.”
Tessa and Dylan came, too. Something felt different among us today, as if the four of us were a true team. As annoyed as I’d been with Dylan last week, I had to admit that her bold ideas had made the protest a lot more powerful.
We hurried down the hall, peeking into each classroom we passed. Every teacher was wearing something sparkly, even the men. Mr. Jimenez had on a broad silver and turquoise belt buckle. Mr. Alvarez wore his Christmas tie with flashing LED lights.
When the bell rang, we rushed back to class—past Mrs. Laird, standing outside her office. She sparkled, too, in a green silky scarf that gleamed with silver threads, and I’m pretty sure she smiled at me.
After calling the class to attention, Mrs. Applegate made a little speech. “You may have noticed something about the teachers this morning,” she said. “The sparkly clothes we’re wearing are our sign to you. We heard you yesterday. You’ve re-ignited a spark in us, our own passion for the arts, and we’re going to do something about it.”
“Yay!” I whispered, clapping my hands once before I could stop myself. Mrs. Applegate smiled.
“We’re meeting with Mrs. Laird and the district administration this afternoon about the after-school arts program,” she continued. “I have heard that after yesterday’s protest, several people came forward to volunteer to teach and help out with the program. But it may still take time to create, and not every student will be able to stay after school to take part. So we’ll also try to bring more art into our regular classes. In math, for instance, we’ll explore geometric shapes through quilt design.”
“Yes!” somebody said across the room.
“In history,” Mrs. Applegate said, “I’m assigning you each a research project. You’ll choose some aspect of New Mexico history and do an illustrated report, or—yes, Saige—an art project, or—yes, Tessa!—a music project.” Sometimes it’s scary how well Mrs. Applegate knows us.
Mrs. Applegate had us write lists of everything we’d learned about the history of New Mexico so that we could pick a topic. She walked around the room, making suggestions. “Interesting,” she said when we were done. “Given the chance to do a fun project, you remember more about New Mexico’s history than your quiz results suggest. I can’t wait to see what you all do!”
Me neither. I looked around the room and thought, I like school! That’s not how I’d felt back in August, but school was different now. We were different. We’d done something big, all of us together. And I was the one who’d gotten the ball rolling, with an idea that had come to me while out riding Georgia.
Then it hit me—the best idea ever for a history-art project, and it was all about Georgia.
I couldn’t wait to tell Mimi, but when we got to the rehab center that afternoon, she had news of her own. She held up a bare, white, skinny arm. “Look! No cast!” she exclaimed, flashing her brilliant Mimi smile. “They tell me I can go home Friday.”
“Friday?” I almost shrieked. Just in time for Balloon Fiesta!
Mom smiled. Mimi must have given her a heads-up about this.
“I’m so looking forward to being in my own home and my own bed,” Mimi said. She glanced out at the busy hallway, full of people who were all so familiar by now. “I wonder if I’ll feel lonely at first.”
“What about Rembrandt?” I asked.
Mimi sighed. “Could he stay with you for the first week or two?” she asked Mom.
“Good idea,” Mom said firmly. “The last thing you need is to trip over him again!”
Mimi had everything else under control. A cousin of Carmen’s who did home-health work would look in on her once a day for the first week or two. A physical therapist would come to the ranchita three times a week. Luis would visit Mimi first thing every morning, and we would look in on her in the evenings.
So this was one of the last afternoons I’d spend at the rehab center. I felt a tiny bit sad as I collected our paintings and smocks from the art room and carried a few of Mimi’s personal things out of her room. I was getting Mimi back, but I was losing something, too—doing art with this group and seeing Miss Fane. I hoped the rehab center would figure out how to keep its art program going. But they would have to work on that themselves. I had an after-school arts program to keep moving in the right direction.
What would it be like, having Mimi back at the ranchita? And with Mimi getting on with her regular life, would I lose Georgia soon? I couldn’t think about that right now. Mimi was coming home. Mimi was coming home. Finally!
On Friday, I rode the bus to the ranchita, just like in the old days. Mimi didn’t come to the door, but I heard her voice when I pushed open the latch. “Good!”
A huge lump rose in my throat. I’d waited so long for this—Mimi home again. Life getting back to normal.
Mimi sat on the couch in the studio. She had the kitten in her lap. I could hear the purring all the way across the room.
“I’ve decided to name her Stella,” Mimi told me. “After Frank Stella, the abstract artist.”
“But he’s a man!” I protested.
“Stella’s a nice name,” Mimi said. “And she’s a nice little cat. We’ve enjoyed spending some time together today. Luis and Carmen were here earlier, but I sent them home.”
Mimi pushed the kitten gently off her lap and stood up, pretty slowly and with support from the arm of the couch. She reached for her cane and walked stiffly to the easels, where my purple impasto painting and her pink horses still waited.
“We’ve both been through quite a bit since we last worked on these,” Mimi said. “I’ve been looking and thinking, do I still want to do this picture?”
I felt uneasy. Mimi was back, but things weren’t the same. She hadn’t just come in from working a horse, for one thing. Looking at her walk, I wasn’t sure when that would happen. And Mimi hardly ever second-guesses a painting. She believes that artists finish things.
Still, I knew what she meant. These pictures felt like a long time ago.
“I still want you to finish yours,” I said.
“And I want you to finish yours,” Mimi said. “I don’t know why you thought you were in a rut, Saige. That looks unlike anything I’ve ever seen you paint before.”
I flushed a little and looked at the painting again. Yes, I could feel it calling to me, telling me what to do next.
But I had something else in mind: my history project for Mrs. Applegate. I had decided to paint Georgia posed against a New Mexico sky, carrying a conquistador.
I dug out a fresh canvas and started sketching it all out. The Georgia part was easy. I had been looking at her, grooming her, riding her, and thinking about her for weeks now. The rider was harder. I kept making him too small—my size. And I didn’t know enough about the armor that conquistadores wore.
Mimi pointed me toward some of her big art books. I dragged them out and we huddled over them, sketching and scribbling notes. I was way into my project, but every once in a while, I’d
hear a chicken outside or one of the horses moving, and I’d realize—Mimi’s here! We’re here together!
Mom and Dad both came to Mimi’s that afternoon. They brought groceries and cooked supper, and we celebrated. It seemed perfectly normal, except when Mimi got up to do something simple like use the bathroom. She was so slow, so careful, and her cane tapped along the floor, a completely new sound in the house. Were we really going to leave her all by herself?
“Do you want me to stay overnight?” I asked Mimi while we were eating dessert.
“No,” she said quickly. “You’ll want to get to Balloon Fiesta first thing in the morning.”
Mimi was right. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the fiesta, not if I was worrying that Mimi had fallen again. “We can watch the Mass Ascension from here in the morning,” I said. “And I can go over to the park later.”
Mimi looked hard at me. Then she looked across the table at Mom and Dad, who nodded their approval. “All right,” she said abruptly. “I’ll admit, I was just a little nervous at the idea of being alone tonight. Yes, please do stay, Saige!”
After supper, Dad and Mimi washed dishes. Mom and I put fresh sheets on Mimi’s bed and made up the guest room bed for me. It was nice to be with Mom, making a bed. It made me feel grown up.
“So what about your birthday?” Mom asked out of the blue. “Are you and Tessa going to do your usual balloon flight?”
I started to say yes, but the image of our classroom table popped into my mind: Tessa, Gabi, and Dylan. All my friends were at that table—except Mimi, my best friend of all. Then the ideal birthday celebration popped into my head, just as Day of Beige had.
“I want to do something different this year,” I said. “Could I have a party? A real party, with more than one friend, at Fiesta? There’s plenty of space to set up tables there. And there are already balloons—we won’t need party balloons! Just a cake, maybe.”
“I think we could manage that,” Mom said with a smile. “What about your balloon ride?”
