Ann Martin: Claudia And The Genius On Elm St.

"Did you spill those?" Rosie asked.

"Uh, yes."

"And you're drawing them instead of picking them up?"

"Yeah," I said, closing up my pad. "I like to draw. I thought this would be ... interesting."

Rosie gave me a blank look that I couldn't figure out. Then she scrunched up her brow and turned to leave. "I'm going to have my snack now."

"Okay, I'll be with you in a second," I said. I scooped up the Milk Duds and put them back in the box.

When I reached the kitchen, Rosie was taking a bowl of green grapes out of the refrigerator. "Want some?" she asked.

"Sure," I said.

We sat across from each other at the table, eating grapes. Rosie didn't say a word. "Would you like some Milk Duds?" I asked.

"I don't think they go with grapes," Rosie replied.

I tried to laugh, but it was hard. I hadn't even known Rosie an hour, and she was already getting on my nerves.

Getting on my nerves? I wanted to grab her by the collar and shake her.

But a good baby-sitter has patience, patience, patience. It's the secret to keeping your sanity — and your clients. "You sounded great," I said.

Rosie's face brightened a little. "I'm level four-plus in the district competition. Mrs. Wood says I'm double-A material." She looked at my blank expression, then added, "That's the highest grade," as if she were talking to the dumbest human being on Earth.

"Wow," I said, trying to look impressed. I spent the next few seconds trying to figure out something to say, then remembered her au-

dition. "What are you auditioning for?"

"Meet Me in St. Louis/' Rosie answered. "At the Hamlin Dinner Theater. It's for the role of Tootie — you know, the role Margaret O'Brien played in the movie. Do you want to see the song I'm preparing?"

"Okay," I said.

Before I could even finish the word, Rosie hopped out of her seat. "Come into the basement."

I followed her downstairs. The basement was set up like a dance studio — a bane along each wall, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, bright lights, and a cassette player on a table.

Rosie sat in a corner and changed into a pair of tap shoes. Then she stood up, flicked on the tape player, and ran to the center of the room. "Don't get too close," she said.

Some old-fashioned music started, and Rosie's face suddenly changed. It was as if someone had pasted a smile on her face. It was huge but fake.

The strangest thing was, there was something familiar about that smile. I couldn't figure out what.

Rosie began to sing a song I vaguely remember from an old Fred Astaire movie or something. Her voice was pretty good. Then she started tapping, and I was amazed. She was talented. I would have hired her in a min-

ute if I were putting on that dinner-theater show.

Except for her smile. It bugged me.

After she finished I applauded. "That was fantastic!" I said.

Rosie turned off the tape. "Thanks. I can do ballet, too. Watch."

I sat down. She changed into ballet shoes and danced to a recording of Swan Lake.

Then I had to go upstairs and hear her play the violin.

I was expecting her to take out a tuba when she finally said, "Oh, well, I have to do my math homework now."

Intermission! I was thrilled. It's tough to look interested when someone half your age is showing off with things you could never do.

Rosie went into her room and I plopped myself on the couch in the den. I was going to start my own homework, but I heard Rosie call out, "Claudia?"

"Yes?" I answered, running down the hall to her room.

She was sitting at her desk, writing in a workbook. When I came in, she looked up and asked, "Do foxes hibernate?"

"Um . . . well, uh . . . I'm not sure," I said.

She squinted at me, as if she thought I was fooling her. "Didn't you take third-grade science?" she asked.

"Yes, but — "

"Did you pass it?"

"Yes!" I tried not to shout. "I just don't remember."

Rosie snorted a laugh through her nose. "I never forget the things I learn."

"Sorry," I said with a shrug. I wanted to kill her.

That afternoon was one of the longest in my life. I tried and tried to be nice and to get to know Rosie. We even went for a walk. I took the house keys and left a note for Mrs. Wilder — and Rosie corrected my spelling.

Corrected my spelling! Seven years old!

By the time Mrs. Wilder got back, I felt about three inches tall. I smiled. I said thank you. I said good-bye to Rosie.

But all the way home, I had only one thought.

Never again. Never in a million years.

Chapter 5.

A million years took two days. On Thursday I went back to the Wilders' house as planned. And you know what? I felt good. At our Wednesday BSC meeting, I had told everyone about Rosie. Practical Kristy had made a great suggestion. She thought I should treat the job as a project. Each day I could try to set a few simple goals to make things go easier.

So Thursday was Day One of Operation Rosie. These were my simple goals:

1. To keep myself in a good mood, no matter what.

2. To finish two sketches while Rosie was practicing for her audition.

3. To call Janine if Rosie really needed help with her homework. (I had asked Janine about it, and she said it would be fine.)

Thursday was a perfect spring day, warm and breezy. I arrived at the Wilders' house just as a blue minivan pulled into the drive-

way. Mrs. Arnold, a BSC client, was driving Rosie home from school. Her twin daughters, Marilyn and Carolyn, were in the backseat with Buddy Barrett. Rosie was sitting in the front passenger seat.

"Hi, Claudia!" Mrs. Arnold called.

"Hi, Claudia!" Marilyn, Carolyn, and Buddy chimed in.

"Hi!" I yelled back, waving.

I guess Rosie figured there had been enough "Hi's" said already. She stepped out of the van and began walking silently toward the house.

As the van drove away, I said, "I got here just in time, huh?"

Rosie pulled a set of keys out of her backpack. "I'm early. I told Mrs. Arnold to drop me off first because I have so much to do."

"I know," I said. "With your audition practice and all ..."

"Rehearsal," Rosie said, pushing the front door open.

"What?" I asked.

"It's called a rehearsal, not an audition practice. You practice for lessons. You rehearse for an audition or a performance."

I nodded politely and said to myself: Smile, Claudia, smile.

We walked inside, and Rosie plopped her backpack on the kitchen floor. In the center of

the table was a note on yellow legal paper, which said:

"Your morn says there's tuna salad," I said, heading for the refrigerator.

"I can read," Rosie replied.

I let that comment go. I kept my cool.

The tuna salad was in a covered glass bowl next to a container of washed lettuce. I found the plates and made two helpings. "Looks great," I said, putting the plates on the table.

"Actually I like chicken salad better," Rosie said, "but eating fish helps prevent blood cholesterol."

Cholesterol? She was worried about cholesterol at age seven? I didn't even know what

the word meant at that age. I still don't!

We ate a few bites, and I was all set to ask Rosie about her school day, when she reached into her backpack and pulled out what looked like a big pamphlet. On the cover were a man and a woman in top hat and tails.

"What's that?" I asked.

Rosie rolled her eyes, giving me that I-can't-believe-she-doesn't-know look. "Sheet music," she said. She held it up to me.

"Oh," I said. "Is that your audition song?"

"Mm-hm." She pressed it open on the table. Then she took a bite of tuna salad and began humming. Soon her body was moving in rhythm, as if she were practicing.

I waited awhile, then said, "I thought you knew it just great the other day." With a big, complimentary smile, I added, "I can't even imagine why you'd need to practice — I mean, rehearse."