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

"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 Ч 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 Ч 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.
Finally I heard her footsteps on the basement stairs. "Rosie?" I called. "How did it go?"
"Fine," she answered.
Her voice sounded hoarse, and that made me feel even worse for her. When she entered the den, she was drenched in sweat and her face was red.
"What a workout!" I said.
"Yeah," answered Rosie. Her eyes went from me to my sketch pad, which I had put on the coffee table. "Can I see?" she asked.
I was shocked. Rosie the Great, showing an
interest in ray drawings? I held up my pad. "Sure."
Rosie stared at the Milk Duds for a long time without saying anything. Then she flipped to the Twinkie. "I hate these," she said.
"The drawings?" I asked.
"No, Twinkies." She flipped through some more drawings. "You erase a lot."
"Well, they're only sketches," I said. "I'm going to make paintings of them."
"Of candy?" she said with a little sneer.
I shrugged. "Why not? It's fun."
Rosie didn't answer. She kept flipping the pages, staring at each drawing.
"The Ring Ding is better than the others," she said.
"Thanks." It wasn't a rave review, but I had to take what I could get.
Rosie looked at all the sketches, then handed the pad back to me. "I like to draw sometimes," she said.
"Really?" I asked. I supposed she was going to say her art was appearing in a New York gallery.
"Yeah," she said. "A little. Well, I'm going to change and start working on a project before my mother comes home."
"You're done with homework?"
"Yup. When Janine was here."
"Okay." I decided to be daring. "Hey, if