Claudia and the Genius of Elm Street

  “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 tapings, 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 Parent’s 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.”

  “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 audition. “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 barre 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 minute 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.

  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 driveway. 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 mom 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 bow! 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.”

  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 it’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, it’s 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-wly (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.