Saige Paints the Sky Read online

  For Tiff, Kristina, and Julianna—Jo's precious girls

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Ready and Waiting

  Chapter 2: Riding Georgia

  Chapter 3: The Discovery

  Chapter 4: Painting the Sky

  Chapter 5: Twisting Silver

  Chapter 6: A Solo Ride

  Chapter 7: The Runaway Idea

  Chapter 8: Day of Beige

  Chapter 9: Homecoming

  Chapter 10: Birthday Balloons

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Letter from American Girl

  Real Girls, Real Stories

  Preview of The Real Z

  Copyright

  “So, how’d it go? Did everyone like the pictures you put up?” asked Mom as I hopped into the car beside her.

  It was Monday afternoon, and we were heading over to the rehab center to see my grandma Mimi, who’d broken her leg and wrist a few weeks earlier.

  Just this morning, my friend Gabi and I had gone to school early to decorate the hallways with drawings that kids had made during our fund-raising fiesta for the arts. We were trying to raise money for an after-school arts program, since my school couldn’t afford to offer art this year.

  “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 riding 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?

  The next morning, Gabi and I walked the dogs before breakfast. It was mid-September now and cooler. The cottonwood trees in the backyards were turning yellow, and the scent of piñon smoke drifted out of someone’s chimney and perfumed the air.

  Overhead, two hot-air balloons—one yellow and one striped red, white, and blue—punctuated the clear blue sky. The neighborhood dogs barked at them. Not Sam and Rembrandt, though. Dad has a balloon, and both dogs have seen it launch a million times.

  I explained Mimi’s horseback-riding plan to Gabi. “I still don’t know if it will happen,” I added. “It depends on if Luis has time today.”

  “I bet he will,” Gabi said.

  “So can you come out with me this afternoon?” I asked. “Wear jeans and boots to school, just in case!”

  “And if we don’t ride, maybe we can paint in the studio,” Gabi suggested hesitantly.

  I felt my face turn red with shame. How could I not let Gabi paint with me in Mimi’s studio? We so needed that after-school arts program! Then Gabi would have art again, and I wouldn’t have to invite her into my special place—the place I shared with Mimi.

  I bent to pat Sam, hiding my face and avoiding a direct answer. “I bet you’re right,” I said to Gabi. “Luis will ride with us.”

  Half an hour later I met Gabi on the sidewalk. We both wore jeans and cowboy boots. I love my boots. You wouldn’t think so to look at them, but they’re actually really comfortable, and wearing them reminds me of being on Mimi’s ranchita.

  At school, we met Tessa and Dylan, who were already sitting at our table in Mrs. Applegate’s fourth-grade classroom. Dylan glanced from Gabi’s boots to mine and said, “Is it Dress Like a Cowboy Day? You should have called us!”

  The back of my neck prickled, the way it sometimes does when I’m angry. Tessa went to music camp with Dylan this past summer, and since then, Dylan has been hanging out with us—a lot. I try to be nice to Dylan, but sometimes she really bugs me.

  Luckily, Tessa’s still Tessa, the friend who knows me best. While she and I were standing by the pencil sharpener, I told Tessa about my plan to go riding with Gabi today. “I hope Luis can ride with us,” I said, “because if not, Gabi wants to paint in Mimi’s studio, and I don’t want that.”

  Suddenly Tessa looked a lot more interested—almost too interested. “Why not?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  I tried to explain. “It was different having you there,” I said. “You’re you. You always used to come. But I don’t want to change things in the studio. I’d have to take Mimi’s painting off her easel, and…” My voice went husky. Was I going to cry? I pushed myself to say, “I—I want to try painting by myself. You got me through my painter’s block, and I want to see what happens next.”

  Tessa nodded. “You’re an artist,” she said, her voice low and serious. “You have to pay attention to those things.”

  It felt good to be understood. Tessa’s an artist, too—a singer and a musician. She knows what it’s like to work at your art. And she believes that to get good at something, you have to practice for ten thousand hours. I was falling way, way behind on that.

  “You should tell Gabi how you feel,” Tessa said. “She’ll understand, won’t she?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t sure Gabi would understand. I didn’t want to bring the whole thing up, not if I didn’t have to. “Maybe Luis will ride with us and none of this will matter,” I said.

  “No, you have to tell her,” Tessa insisted. “Artists have to be serious about these things. You need to keep some time for yourself, and your friends need to understand that.”

  I nodded, but I knew I couldn’t say something like that to Gabi. Tessa had hurt my feelings earlier this fall when she’d started spending less time with me and more with her music. I knew how that felt. Why should I hurt Gabi’s feelings if I didn’t have to?

  Luis and Carmen were both at the ranchita when Gabi and I got off the bus. They’re Mimi’s closest neighbors and good friends to our whole family. They keep an eye on me and Gabi now that we spend time at the ranchita without Mimi.

  Luis is a silversmith and a blacksmith, and he also does Spanish tinwork, an art form that dates back to the early Spanish settlers. Luis is descended from them, and Carmen is part Navajo. She’s a quilter, a weaver, and an incredible baker. I love spending time with Luis and Carmen, and I especially love Carmen’s biscochitos, which she was just pulling out of the oven when we arrived. Yum!

  I sat down next to Gabi at Mimi’s kitchen table and reached for a warm cookie. Mimi’s kitten was thrilled to have us there. Luis and Carmen had been looking in on her every day, but she was probably still missing Mimi—and even Rembrandt. She walked from my lap to Gabi’s, purring loudly, her fluffy tail raised like a flag above the edge of the table.

  We washed down our biscochitos with cold lemonade, and then—while Gabi and Carmen washed the glasses—I peeked through the studio doorway. The pink horses waited on Mimi’s easel, fresh and full of promise. My easel stood empty. I was dying to take out a canvas and get started on something, but when Gabi stepped into the hallway, I turned away, as if I wasn’t interested.

  “Time to saddle up,” Luis said. He, Gabi, and I filed through the front door and started for the barn. Carmen headed for Mimi’s garden. She’s been harvesting the tomatoes, peppers, squash, and gourds for Mimi. A part of me felt as if I should go help her, but I didn’t—I’d b
een ordered to go for a ride, after all!

  Mimi’s horses are Spanish Barbs, a very old strain of horse that came over from Spain with the conquistadores more than four hundred years ago. In America, the Barbs helped the Indians hunt buffalo and the cowboys herd cattle. But Mimi told me that over time, the number of Spanish Barbs dropped, and they almost went extinct before some ranchers started to breed them again.

  There still aren’t many Spanish Barbs in this country—fewer than a thousand. That’s why Mimi had five horses right now. She wants to do all she can to preserve the breed.

  Gabi was excited about getting to ride Picasso. “I’ve never ridden a Barb before!” she told me. “Only quarter horses.”

  Gabi and I groomed Picasso together, and he seemed to love every minute of it. When Gabi’s brush passed over one of his itchy spots, he nodded his head, the way we’d taught him to do for the Professor Picasso Show.

  “He’s clicking me!” Gabi said delightedly. “I just did something he likes, so he’s doing something I like, to say thank you.”

  “Picasso, you’re so smart!” I said, hugging his neck.

  We saddled Picasso, and Luis led him out to the ring, where Gabi mounted him. We watched her ride around the ring a few times at a walk, jog, and lope.

  “You ride like a cowboy!” Luis said, giving Gabi a thumbs-up. That made sense—I knew Gabi had learned to ride at her aunt and uncle’s ranch. Watching her now, I felt a pinch of jealousy that she was riding my favorite horse. He was so beautiful! But then I thought of Georgia.

  Georgia is a slender young mare, a rich red-brown with a black mane and tail. As I approached her in the barn, she looked surprised to see me. She arched her neck and sniffed me thoughtfully, her breath fluttering my hair. As I groomed her, she kept turning to look at me, shifting away from the brush. It made me a little uneasy about riding her.

  “She’s sensitive,” Luis said from over my shoulder. It was as if he’d read my mind. “You just have to be very gentle.”

  Luis brought out a saddle and cinched it carefully beneath Georgia’s belly. “See how I do this with her?” he said. “I barely tighten the girth at first. I let her take a few breaths to get used to it. Then I tighten it another notch and put on her bridle. Now I tighten the girth one more time and give her a nice scratch on the shoulder for being such a good girl.”