Ann Martin: Claudia And The Genius On Elm St.

Maybe it was the fact that I couldn't picture Rosie. Most of the time when a new client calls, I automatically imagine what the children will be like.

But when I tried to think of Rosie, I came up with a great big blank.

I picked up the ringing phone. "Hello, Babysitters Club."

Oh, well, I'd have to wait for Tuesday to find out what I was in for.

Chapter 4.

Tuesday, came. I walked to the Wilders' house feeling nervous. I told myself that was normal for meeting a new client.

The Wilders' house was a Cape Cod-style house, off-white with green shutters. A dogwood tree stood to the left of it and neatly cut hedges lined the porch. A maroon station wagon was in the driveway.

Totally normal.

I was soooo relieved.

Relieved? What was I expecting? Well, even though I couldn't picture Rosie, I had an image of the Wilder house. It was a mansion with servants. A butler would answer the door and say, "May I escort you to the mistress Rosie's changing room?" And Ginger Wilder would sweep down the staircase with a flowing gown, announcing "I'm off, dear. Ta-ta. Just tell the cook what you'd like for dinner — lobster or steak."

No such luck. I stood before the aluminum screen door and rang a white plastic bell. I could hear a classical piano recording inside. It was pretty loud, and no one was answering the door, so I figured the music had drowned out the bell. I decided to knock.

"Just a minute!" came Mrs. Wilder's voice.

When the door opened, I felt relieved again.

Mrs. Wilder had a pretty, friendly face. Her hair was a beautiful deep brown, pulled straight back with a comb. She was wearing a string of pearls and a blue Laura Ashley dress. Her smile put me at ease. "Welcome, Clau-dia," she said, shaking my hand. "How nice to meet you. Come in."

"Hi," I said.

I glanced around. I noticed a framed Chagall print on one wall, a Matisse on another. That meant the Wilders probably had an interest in art. Definitely a good sign.

The music grew louder, and the sound was fantastic. You know how it is when you're in a new house. You take everything in and quickly try to figure out what to say first. You find something in the house you can compliment or talk about. I was going to mention the artwork, then say what a great sound system they had, then —

That's when I noticed that the sound system wasn't a sound system.

It was live.

A person was playing the piano in the living room. A girl whose feet barely reached the pedals.

"Rosie!" Mrs. Wilder said.

The girl kept playing. And I mean playing. Her fingers were flying over the keys.

Mrs. Wilder walked closer to her daughter. "Rosie?" she repeated.

The girl didn't look up. She was concentrating hard, with this grim expression on her face.

"Mary Rose, I'm talking to you!" Mrs. Wilder said in an annoyed voice.

Finally the girl stopped. She let her hands fall off the piano. "What?"

"Claudia is here," Mrs. Wilder said with a big smile.

"Hi," I said, waving and looking as friendly as I could.

No reaction.

"Claudia's your sitter," Mrs. Wilder said. I wondered if that was the first Rosie had heard about me.

"I know," Rosie said.

Mrs. Wilder7s smile was beginning to look forced. "Well, aren't you going to come say hello?"

Rosie slipped off her seat, crossed the room, and shook my hand. She had flaming, thick

red hair, a scattering of freckles, and hazel eyes. "Hi," she said. She sounded about as excited as a kid in detention.

"That was really . . . nice," I said.

"It's Mozart," Rosie replied. "Those last few chords weren't supposed to be rolled like that, but my hands aren't quite large enough."

"Uh-huh," I said. I had no idea what she was talking about.

Mrs. Wilder broke into the silence. "Now," she said, "Mrs. Wood usually comes at four o'clock to give a piano lesson, but she has the flu today so Rosie is using this time to practice. Wednesday is her ballet class and her violin lesson — which naturally won't concern you, Claudia — but on Thursday, her voice teacher and tap instructor both come at five-fifteen. Normally it's just her voice teacher, but Rosie has an important dinner-theater audition coming up. Her agent says she needs a solid song-and-dance number under her belt, so we decided both teachers should be present. And, let's see . . . Friday is science club, which meets after school, so you don't have to be here until a quarter to five."

"Wow!" I said. "What a lot of talents."

Ah-ha! A smile! It was faint, but Rosie's lips were turning up slightly.

Mrs. Wilder laughed. "Oh, that's not the half. There's also math club on Mondays and

the advanced readers' group at the library every other Saturday. Not to mention our trips to New York for commercial auditions and tap-ings, modeling calls, agent meetings . . ." She rolled her eyes and wiped her brow. "Whew! It's a full-time job. Right, honey?"

"Yeah," Rosie said, grinning.

Mrs. Wilder looked at her watch. "Oh, dear! Come, Claudia, let me show you around the house. Then I've got to go."

I felt numb as I followed her. Math, science, tap dance, ballet, voice, violin — was there anything this girl didn't do? Was there anything we'd even be able to talk about? I wouldn't know Mozart if I fell over him in the street.

Somehow, I didn't think I'd be needing the Kid-Kit I'd brought along.

Mrs. Wilder gave me all the usual instructions. Being a trained baby-sitter, I made sure to ask about emergency phone numbers, spare keys, and a bunch of other things.

Then she left in a hurry, waving good-bye and blowing kisses to her daughter. And there I was, alone with Rosie Wilder, the genius of Elm Street.

"Well," I said cheerfully, "I didn't mean to interrupt your practicing, so — "

"I practice till four-fifteen," Rosie said, looking at a clock on the living room mantel. "Then

I have a snack, and I then do my homework."

"Okay, great," I said. "I'll just hang out. If you need me, give a holler!"

Rosie stared at me. "Why would I need you?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I meant, you know, if you — "

"Do you know the piece I was playing?"

"Piece?" It took me a minute to figure out what she meant. "Oh, the music! No, I don't. I don't play the piano."

"Then why would I need you?" Rosie asked again.

I took a deep breath. Keep smiling, Claudia, I said to myself. "You — you won't, I guess. I meant, I'll just go into the den and start my homework. Maybe we can, like, get to know each other when you have your snack."

That really excited Rosie. She turned her back, walked to the piano, and said, "Okay," so softly I could hardly hear her.

I retreated into the den and sat on the couch. I saw a TV, surrounded by bookshelves. I couldn't help noticing some of the book titles: Preparing Your Preschooler for Success; Gifted Children: A Parents' Guide; That's My Kid! An Approach to Show-Biz Careers from One Month to Eighteen Years.

Now I was getting the creeps. No way could I do my homework and not feel like a moron

in a house like this. I reached into my bag and pulled out a box of Milk Duds. I popped one into my mouth, but as I put the box down on the coffee table, some of them spilled out.

I reached to pick them up, but suddenly I pulled my hand back. I stared at the coffee table. The composition was great — the open box, a lumpy pile of Milk Duds near the flap . . .

It was perfect for "Junk Food Fantasy." I pulled out my sketch pad and started drawing.

I became so involved in the project that I didn't notice when the piano playing stopped. I was sketching the edges of the table when I heard, "I thought you were doing homework."

"Huh?" I spun around to see Rosie staring over my shoulder. "Oh, I didn't hear you come in."