Ann Martin - Claudia And The Genius On Elm St.

"The thing is," I said, "she really loves art. You should see her face light up!" (I almost compared it to the glum look she wore while doing everything else, but that would have been going too far.)

"Isn't that something," Mrs. Wilder said.

An idea hit me — a fun way to involve Rosie

"You'll manage, Rosie," I said. "I have faith in you. But there's one thing I want you to promise me."

"What?"

"Sometime soon you should have a talk with your parents. Let them know exactly what kinds of things you want to do and don't want to do. Okay?"

Rosie smiled and nodded. "Okay."

I gave her a big hug, and then we scooted down the stairs.

Chapter 14.

Saturday was the debut of "Claudia Lynn Kishi's 'Disposable Comestibles,' a Pop-Art Multi-Media Extravaganza."

Yes, I changed the name. Comestibles is another word for food. Actually, it was Janine's idea, in a way. She passed my room one night while I was arranging a bunch of junk food, and said, "Are you painting your disposable comestibles?" Well, I thought that was hilarious. I adopted the name immediately. Janine, of course, didn't quite see the humor in it.

Neither did Dawn. She thought it sounded like I was trying too hard to sound smart. But they were both missing the point. Here was this huge, complicated name that would give people the idea that they were seeing something really serious, and then the subject of the show would turn out to be junk food.

The way I saw it, one of the main things

in her drawing. "You know, I'm having an art show on Saturday," I said. "Just in my garage, that's all, for friends and neighbors and family. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask Rosie to show some of her drawings at the opening."

I didn't mention the theme was junk food. Somehow I didn't think the Wilders would like that idea.

"Sounds fine to me," Mr. Wilder said, "in theory. The problem is, she has a go-see for that department store in Stamford Saturday afternoon."

"Go-see?" I repeated.

"That's what you call an audition for a modeling job."

"But that's okay," I said. "Rosie can come to the show in the morning. She doesn't have to be there the whole time. I just figured it would be a fun way for her work to get some exposure."

I think I had said exactly the right thing. Mr. Wilder nodded thoughtfully and said, "Okay by me." He looked at his wife. "Ginger?"

"Well, I suppose," she said. "As long as it doesn't interfere with her" other activities."

"Great!" I exclaimed. "I'll go ask Rosie."

I took the stairs two at a time, then knocked on her door. "Rosie?"

"Come in," Rosie muttered.

I pushed the door open. Rosie was at her desk, drawing quietly.

She looked up and said, "They told you never to come back, right?"

I sat down on her bed. "Nope. As a matter of fact, I talked them into letting you show your drawings at my opening. If you want to, that is."

Rosie stared at me, dumbfounded.

"Well?" I asked.

"You're not joking, are you?" she said.

I shook my head. "No joke. Do you want to?"

Rosie's frown faded. A smile crept across her face. Then she jumped out of her chair and screamed. "Do I? Yes!"

"Great!" I said. "You better get to work polishing up those sketches."

"I will!" Rosie said excitedly. "Oh, I can't wait. Thank you, Claudia!"

Just then the doorbell rang. Rosie's smile melted away. "That's Ms. Van Cott," she said, plopping back into her chair.

"Well, it's time for me to go, anyway," I said. "I'll call you tomorrow."

Rosie let out a big sigh. "Ohhh . . . how am I going to have time to prepare for the show, Claudia? I have all these stupid lessons and clubs, and the audition and the go-see . . ."

about pop art was humor. Well, anyway, I liked the idea. I also liked the fact that we were going to have a refreshment table, serving . . . junk food! (That was my idea, too.)

The garage looked great. My friends and I had worked hard to clean it out, even scrubbing the cement floor. My dad was thrilled, to say the least. His first comment was, "You know, I have enough room for a little wood shop out here!"

Of course, my first thought was how many shows I could have in there. I could put one on annually, or one each season.

As my fellow BSC members scrambled about, doing last-minute things, Rosie adjusted and readjusted her sketches. Then she studied them and adjusted them again.

"They look perfect, Rosie," I said.

Rosie put her hand on her chin and squinted at the drawings. "Yeah? You think so?"

"If you move them one more time, t]ie nails will come out of the wall!"

"Okay, Claudia," she said with a smile. "I'll leave them alone."

I checked the little price stickers on my paintings. I had decided not only to show them, but to try to sell them. After all, that's what artists are supposed to do in art galleries.

I figured I might as well get used to selling my work, since that's what I'll be doing for a living someday.

Besides, I could use the money to buy really good supplies. Or, of course, donate some of it to the Baby-sitters Club treasury.

But just some.

I walked outside, where Kristy and Mary Anne were tying a big sign around one of our trees:

rtose

H/ <

/o:oo Am. - $:

"How are we doing?" I asked.

"We're right on schedule," Kristy said, looking at her watch. "It's nine-fifty. People will be showing up any minute."

It shouldn't surprise you to know that the Wilders were the first to arrive. They even took three photos of the sign, because Rosie's name was on it!

Everyone greeted the Wilders in the garage.

Stacey sold them each a bag of chips. Rosie was glowing with excitement.

It turned out I didn't need to worry about the Wilders not liking the junk-food concept. They seemed fascinated, looking closely at every painting. At one point, as Rosie and I were following her dad around, he said, "You know, this really is quite good, Rosie."

The problem was, he was pointing at the lollipop painting I had done. "Uh, thank you, Mr. Wilder," I said. "I painted that."

He laughed. "Oh! Well, I guess you've influenced my daughter's style so much I can't tell the drawings apart," he said. "She's catching up to you, you know, Claudia," he added with a wink.

Rosie and I gave each other a Look, then started giggling. I had figured her dad would say something competitive, but we didn't mind.

Before too long, the Papadakises showed up, and then the Barretts. Most people liked the paintings, especially the parents. Some of the kids couldn't see the point.

Things went smoothly until about twelve-thirty. That was when Alan Gray, the goon of Stoneybrook Middle School, decided to show up. He looked like (a) he had just woken up and (b) he had forgotten to take his human-

being pills that morning. He couldn't stop laughing at the paintings.

"Hey, Claudia/' he called out, "I see a lot of ads, but where's the art?"

"Oh, Alan, you are so funny I forgot to laugh," I said. (What a dumb expression, but Alan's the kind of guy you say things like that to.)

1 Fortunately my attention was taken away from Alan by a guy in a tweed coat who tapped me on my shoulder and said, "Are you Ms. Kishi?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Well, I was wandering by and saw your sign, and I must say your work has an indescribable simplicity and taste. Truly an example of form following function, rather in the style spawned from the era that brought us the Bau-haus and the dadaists."

"Uh, right," I said. Suddenly I wished I hadn't changed the name to "Disposable Comestibles." It was attracting people who really talked like that. "Thank you," I said, trying to remember what he said so I could ask Janine to translate later. "I've got to go now."

(I later found out that what he said made no sense anyway. Oh, well, at least he liked the paintings.)