"Martin, Ann M - BSC049 - Claudia And The Genius On Elm St." - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin Ann M)

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 Ч 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 Ч "
"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 Ч "
"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 Ч 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 Ч 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 Ч 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 Ч 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 Ч 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.