Ann Martin: Claudia And The Genius On Elm St.

Rosie swallowed her tuna salad and said, "You don't know, Claudia. When you go to an audition, you're up against dozens of other kids with just as much talent as you. Not only do you have to be perfect, but you have to bring a special something to it. Something that sets you apart. And the only way you can do that is by rehearsing."

Rosie said that speech as if she had memorized it. She probably had, too. I was sure

some agent or director had told her that. Maybe even Ginger Wilder.

"It's the same way with art," I said. Then I thought of a joke Stacey's father once told us in New York City. "Hey, Rosie, how do you get to Carnegie Hall?" I asked.

Rosie scrunched up her brow. "Well, you take the train to — "

"Practice!" I said.

"Huh?"

"Practice," I repeated. "That's how you get to Carnegie Hall. You practice." (For a moment I thought I might be using the wrong punch line. Was I supposed to say "rehearse"?)

Rosie gave me her famous stare. Then she put on this huge, fake smile and said, "Ha, ha, ha. Very funny."

And that was when I figured out why her smile looked familiar. In my mind I could see that same smile, but on a slightly younger girl, with one tooth missing. The girl had spilled a glass of chocolate milk, and her mom was going crazy over the stain on their rug.

"Rosie," I said, "were you in a TV commercial for a carpet cleaner?"

"Up 'n' Out Cleaner," Rosie said with a nod. "My dad says if s my college tuition."

I tried to figure that one out. "I don't get it."

"Residuals," Rosie whined. "You know . . . you get a check for every time the commercial airs, and it gets put in a trust fund. Then, when it's time to go to college, you have tons of money."

"Oh," I said.

Suddenly I wasn't hungry. Rosie was the girl on that dumb commercial! Not only did she have talent and brains, but she was rich . . . and famous. For spilling chocolate milk and smiling!

Rosie had already done more in her life than I probably ever would. She had even set aside money for college.

With a sigh, Rosie closed the music and got up. "I have to do science homework before my rehearsal." She took her plate to the sink. "Can you help me? It's a lot of work."

Maybe I could have helped her. But I didn't even want to try. The first words out of my mouth were, "I'll call my sister, Janine. She's a ge— she's really smart in science."

Rosie shrugged. "If you want. I think I'll do it on the front steps. It's stuffy in here."

As she walked toward the front door, I called home.

Fortunately Janine answered. "Kishi residence."

"Hi, Janine, ifs me," I said.

"Hi, me," answered Janine. That's her idea of humor.

"Remember that favor we talked about yesterday?" I asked.

"Yup," Janine replied. "What's the address, 477 Elm?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be right over."

Thank goodness for Janine. Sometimes it really pays to have a brain for a sister.

I took my backpack and headed for the porch slo-o-o-o-wty (I hoped Janine would arrive soon and I wouldn't be stuck answering questions).

Rosie was sitting on the stoop, hunched over a textbook. She had put on a pair of tortoise-shell glasses that made her look even smarter than usual.

An old wicker chair was off to one side. I sat in it, pulled out my sketch pad, and began drawing.

Rosie didn't even look at me. Obviously she had given up thinking I knew anything.

Janine showed up around four-fifteen. I hopped out of the chair and said, "Rosie, this is my sister, Janine."

"I know," said Rosie. (I knew she'd say that.)

"Hi," Janine said shyly.

"Hi," replied Rosie. "You're good in science?"

"Pretty good," said Janine.

That was an understatement! "She's won all kinds of awards," I blurted out.

"Yeah?" said Rosie.

Janine sat down next to her. "Sort of. What do you need help in?"

For the next forty minutes or so, I felt as if I were in a foreign country. Finally I returned to my chair. I couldn't understand half of what was being said. Janine, in her glasses, was explaining things about animal migration and habitats. Rosie, in her glasses, was nodding and asking intelligent-sounding questions.

And Claudia Kishi, with no glasses, was drawing half a Twinkie. I felt about as useful as an oar on a speedboat.

You'd think even geniuses would get tired of talking about homework after awhile. Not those two. No joking around, no chatting, no fun at all.

A little before five o'clock, I heard Rosie say, "That's the last question."

I looked up from my Twinkie. Janine was still sitting up straight, with her hands folded in her lap. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked.

"Uh-uh," said Rosie, shaking her head no. She closed her book, looked at her watch, and said, "I have to start getting ready for my rehearsal now."

Janine stood up stiffly. "Okay."

"You guys work everything out?" I asked cheerfully.

"Yeah," Rosie said. She turned to go inside, then called over her shoulder, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," said Janine. " 'Bye."

" 'Bye/' answered Rosie as she disappeared inside.

I looked at Janine. She looked at me. "She's bright," said Janine.

"I know," I replied. "Thanks for helping me out."

Janine smiled. "It's okay. See you later."

"See you," I said as she walked away.

Oh, well, so they didn't become best buddies. At least I got a break from Rosie. And I think Janine really helped her.

When I went inside, Rosie was already clattering around in the basement with her tap shoes.

Pretty soon her teachers arrived. First came Mr. Bryan, her tap teacher. He was at least as old as my dad, but he had a body like a teenager's — not an ounce of fat. Then came Ms. Van Cott, the voice teacher. She had long blonde hair and a huge voice that echoed in the room when she spoke.

I was thrilled to let the two of them have full charge of Rosie for the next hour.

I went straight to the den with my sketch

pad. For awhile, though, I was distracted by the sounds downstairs. Ms. Van Cott began honking and bellowing, and Rosie would imitate her — some kind of voice exercises, I guess. Then the tape recording started. I could hear the click-clacking of tap dancing. Rosie's steps sounded something like this:

Tip-tip-ti-tap-tap-sssscrape-tip-tip!

Then Mr. Bryan would stop her, shouting, "Okay, okay, not quite! Give it more of a lift, like this ..." His dancing sounded like clackety-dack-click . . . stomp-stomp!

It was pretty obnoxious. But after awhile I was able to tune it out. I returned to work on the Twinkie and managed to give it a kind of personality. I began feeling better. After: twenty minutes or so I switched over to the Milk Duds drawing.

By that time the sounds from downstairs had grown awfully loud. Rosie was singing at the top of her lungs, not at all as nicely as she had sung the day before.

"Rosie dear, get it up into the mask!" Ms. Van Cott was shouting. "The soft palate! Lift the soft palate!"

"It's shuffle-shuffle-/flZflp-step!" Mr. Bryan added.

"More head, less chest!" said Ms. Van Cott.

"You're getting behind on that double time step!" said Mr. Bryan.

Whoa. Poor Rosie! I never thought I'd feel sorry for her, but I did. The two teachers were getting carried away.

Fortunately (for Rosie), the lesson seemed to end soon afterward. I could tell because the music stopped and the teachers' voices grew quieter. Ms. Van Cott was telling Rosie to "warm down" (whatever that means), and Mr. Bryan kept saying, "And stretch . . . and stretch!" (Even with my small brainpower, I figured that meant he was leading her in stretching exercises.)

Before long the teachers bounced happily out of the house, calling good-bye to me.

I listened for Rosie, but I didn't hear her. For a moment I thought she might have collapsed with exhaustion.