Claudia and the Genius on Elm Street (7 page)

"The date and time, the name of the exhibit, the name of the gallery," Kristy said.

Mal began to write.

"We can say, 'Come one, come all —' " Kristy began.

Stacey interrupted her. "No, that sounds like the circus. For an art exhibit you have to say something more sophisticated."

"Something sophisticated about junk food?"

Dawn said. "It should be fun, like the paintings."

"Okay, what?" Kristy asked.

Silence.

"Maybe we should put a miniature version of one of the paintings on each invitation/' Jessi said.

"Oh, no!" I piped up. "1 have enough work to do."

"Oooh, I know!" Dawn blurted out. "We could take actual candy wrappers and, like, glue them to the invitations."

Kristy shook her head. "Not practical. They'd get crushed in the mail, and it would look like we put trash in the envelopes by mistake. And what if there were still little bits of chocolate inside the wrappers — "

"Let's just say something simple," Mary Anne suggested. " 'You are invited to the opening of Junk Food Fantasy, a series of paintings by Claudia Kishi, in the Kishi garage,' and so on."

"Did you write that down, Mal?" Jessi asked.

"Wait," Mal said, scribbling furiously. '" . . . a series of . . .' what?"

Well, now you know the secret of the Babysitters Club. We may be excellent baby-sitters, but that doesn't mean we're good at everything. Like making invitations.

After about an hour, my friends had finally sketched a decent-looking invitation. It didn't include any cute pictures of junk food, or even a title (we thought it would be fun to surprise people with the subject when they arrived) — just a simple message in elegant handwriting. We decided to make copies on card stock (thick paper).

Then we had to decide who to send them to.

First we were going to send them only to regular clients, but that seemed too selective. Then we were going to post an invitation in the local supermarket, but we thought too many strangers would come.

Finally we made up a list of about forty names of friends, clients, relatives.

That left even more questions. Who was going to go to the copy shop? Who was going to buy the stamps and envelopes? Who was going to address the invitations?

A half hour later, everyone was tired and cranky. I had set aside Gummi Worms to take part in the discussion (okay, argument). Finally Kristy brought up something we'd been putting off. "Claud, how long will it take to clean your garage?"

I pictured it in my mind: the mounds of old newspapers, the old tools that had been

thrown into comers, the spare tires Dad hadn't thrown out . . .

"Uh, if we start today," I said, scratching my chin, "about five or six years."

It was supposed to be a joke, but hardly anyone even smiled. "I have to leave in an hour," Jessi said.

"I have to be home by three o'clock," Stacey said.

Kristy stood up. "I guess we'd better get started."

We went outside. Sure enough, the garage was a major disaster area. We started our work by bundling up the newspapers, and I promised to ask my parents to take the piles to the recycling center. Then we collected the useless-looking stuff, like a snow shovel with a broken handle and all those tires. We put them against the wall so I could ask Dad about them.

Needless to say, this was not one of the most fun Saturday afternoons in BSC history. And soon the complaints started.

One of the tires left a black mark on Stacey's new jeans. "Ucchh," she said. "I just washed these."

"I don't know where you intend to put all the stuff that's hanging on the hooks," Dawn said.

"I think the lighting is too dim/' Mal remarked.

Mary Anne let out a sigh. "It looks so ... grungy in here."

"It'll be fine," Kristy said impatiently. "Let's just get it done so we can enjoy at least part of the day."

That did it. This project was important to me, and everyone was acting as if we were in prison. I had to say something. "You know, if you don't like doing this, then why are you doing it?"

I must have seemed angry, because everyone gave me a concerned look. "We have to, Claud," said Mary Anne. "You need us to."

"But everyone's in such a bad mood," I said. "All I hear is complaining. If it's not going to be fun — "

"Oh, Claud, don't take it personally," said Mary Anne gently.

"Every fun project begins with some dirty work," Stacey added. "But you do it because it has to get done. There's no law that says you have to like every single thing you do, right?"

Everyone nodded.

"I guess," I mumbled.

Stacey's words were tumbling around in my head. They made a lot of sense, but for some reason, I was thinking of Rosie.

I pictured her sitting glumly over her crossword books, plastering a smile on her face while she tap-danced, reciting her list of achievements.

There's no law that says you have to like everything you do, Stacey had said.

What an interesting choice of words.

Maybe Rosie did her activities because she felt she had to. And just maybe none of us knew Rosie — really knew her — at all.

Chapter 10.

What's 'A Tennessee Williams classic: A Streetcar Named Blank,' a six-letter word ending with E?"

It was the third question Rosie had asked me. And it was the third question that made absolutely no sense to me.

Rosie had decided to study in the kitchen that evening, which was a Tuesday. At first I was very patient. Jessi had told me what Rosie had said about me, so I figured this was Rosie's way of getting closer.

But the minute I arrived at the Wilders', Rosie began tormenting me.

"Charlie?" I suggested.

Rosie shook her head. "That's seven letters."

"I don't know . . . how about Bobby?" I tried.

Rosie rolled her eyes. "That doesn't end in

E. Okay, how about this one ... 'A four-sided figure with only two sides parallel'? Nine letters, the first two are T, R, and the seventh is O."

"Let me see," I said. I looked closely at the puzzle (as if that would help). After a moment I said, "I'm not that great in geometry."

"Tmpezoid!" Rosie announced. "That's what it is!" She began scribbling madly.

"Rosie, if you already knew the answer, why did you ask me?"

"I didn't know it right away," she insisted. "It just came to me!"

I let out a sigh. My plan had been to work on a full-color sketch at the kitchen table. Now it looked like the kitchen was going to be a torture chamber the rest of the evening.

"Ten Across, 'A bi-valve mollusk,' seven letters, the second letter is Y," Rosie said.

I just shrugged.

"Hmmm, Ten Down is 'A Norse god/ four letters, ending in I, N," Rosie barged on. "I know that! Odin, and that makes the other word begin with O, Y . . . it's a mollusk . . . I think that's like a dam . . . oooh! Oyster! That's got to be it!"

"Great, Rosie," I said.

"Now, how about Twenty Across, 'A — ' "

That was all I could take. "The opposite of

yes," I said. "Two letters, beginning with N!"

"Huh?"

"N, O. No," I said. "I'm not going to answer any more questions. I never get them right, and I don't know why you keep asking me. Besides, you're much better at this than I am, and I have things of my own to do!"

Whew. That was the first time I'd ever talked to Rosie like that. For all I knew, it was the first time anyone ever did.

But you know what? I didn't care. For three weeks my friends and I had been bending over backward to please her. And all she did was antagonize us. It was time someone stood up to the great Rosie Wilder.

I expected Rosie either to stomp out of the kitchen furiously or cry. She did neither. She just nodded meekly and looked back at her book.

Then I felt guilty. For a minute I thought about apologizing to her.

But only for a minute.

Instead I reached into my backpack, which was beside my chair. I pulled out a couple of sketch pads, some pencils, and a bag of junk food.

I was working on four different sketches — a lollipop, a marshmallow, a bag of Dori-

tos, and a Mounds bar. I opened one of my pads and turned to the lollipop sketch.

This one was going to burst with colors. With big, circular strokes, I drew broad swirls in the lollipop.

"A Streetcar Named Detour . . . Design . . . Derail . . ." Rosie muttered. Pages shuffled loudly as she leafed through her dictionary every few seconds.

The lollipop finally looked right. I tried out color combinations with my pencils. The background would be white, to make the colors really stand out.

Soon I had completely tuned Rosie out. I moved on to the Doritos sketch. First I had to get the model just right. I crunched and bunched the bag to give it the right angles. I discovered I could make it into a shape that was almost human. That's what I would draw.

As I was sketching, I noticed that Rosie had stopped working. Not only that, she was staring at me.

I figured she was stuck on a ten-letter word for some obscure European writer or something. And I wasn't going to give her the opportunity to ask me, so I pretended not to see her.

Next thing I knew, she was reaching across

the table. She took one of my sketch pads and ripped a page off the top.

She's testing me, I thought. Taking one of my pieces of paper just to get a rise out of me. I kept on working.

Not until about ten minutes later did I notice that Rosie was acting a little unusual. She would pause, look straight ahead, scribble something. Pause, look, scribble. Pause, look, scribble.

Then I saw her adjust the Mounds bar.

Finally I glanced at her. To my surprise, I realized she wasn't working on her puzzle at all.

She was drawing.

An outline of a Mounds bar was on her paper. Her lines were delicate and very accurate. The letters of the word MOUNDS were wrinkled along with the wrinkles in the wrapper.

My jaw practically dropped open. Rosie was good!

I shouldn't have been surprised. Rosie was talented at everything else. Why shouldn't she be good at drawing?

But I'll tell you what really interested me. Her face was relaxed, concentrated, and happy. She wasn't grim and scowling, the way she looked when she played the piano or the

violin, or super smily, the way she looked when she tap-danced. She actually seemed to be enjoying herself.

"That's great, Rosie," I said. "You have a real flair for this!"

"Thanks," Rosie replied with a shy smile. "This is what I really like to do."

I couldn't believe it. Rosie looked like a modest little . . . seven-year-old girl!

Suddenly I understood why she only wanted me to baby-sit for her. She wanted to watch me draw. But why didn't she ever say so? Why did she always run up to her room and —

"Rosie," I said, "all those times you've gone up to your room to work on a project . . . have you really been practicing your drawing?"

Rosie's eyes lit up. But before she could say a word, the front door slammed.

"I'm home!" called a deep, cheerful male voice.

I rose from the table and began to answer, but Rosie waved her hand and said, "Ssshhhh!"

I turned back around. Rosie was shoving her Mounds drawing across the table, burying it under my pile. Her eyes were wide with panic.

Frantically she opened her crossword book and her dictionary. She grabbed a pencil, hunched herself over the book, and called out softly, "Hi, Daddy."

Hmmmm, I thought. Something is going on here . . .

Chapter 11.

"Bye, Mom! 'Bye, Janine!" I called over my shoulder.

" 'Bye!" I heard them answer.

The Wilders' station wagon was parked in front of my house. Rosie was waving from the backseat. It was four-thirty on a Thursday, and they were picking me up to take me to ...

Uncle Dandy's Star Machine!

Rosie was going to be on the show!

I know, I know. Uncle Dandy isn't exactly big-time. Still, I was really happy for Rosie. And I was excited to be going to a TV station.

You know what else? I was the only guest Rosie had invited, and it felt nice to be asked. As impossible as it seemed, Rosie and I were becoming friends. Since I had found out about her hidden artistic talent, she had really loosened up.

But one thing bothered me. I couldn't understand why in the world she had to keep

her talent a secret. Obviously her parents had encouraged her other abilities. Why did she have to hide the one thing she liked best?

I tried not to think about that as I got in the car. Rosie and her parents seemed excited. Mrs. Wilder had asked her sister to stay with their mother for the evening, and Mr. Wilder had left work early.

"Hartford, here we come!" Mr. Wilder said. He looked back and winked at us with his dark, dark eyes. I wondered if he had ever wanted to be a performer.

"Now Rosie, before we get to the highway, are you sure you have everything?" Mrs. Wilder asked. "Your music? Your pitch pipe? Your tap shoes?"

"Mom," Rosie said. "I'm not dancing. Just singing and playing, remember?"

"Well, you never know when you might be asked to," Mrs. Wilder said. "It's always good to be prepared."

"Ginger, you're such a stage mother," Mr. Wilder said with a smile.

Mrs. Wilder laughed. "Sorry, I'm just being swept away with excitement!" Then she turned to her husband with a mischievous grin and said, "You should talk, George!"

"Mea culpa," Mr. Wilder replied, and Rosie smiled, as if she knew what that meant.

Qanine told me later that it means I'm guilty in Latin.)

The ride was fun. We played Guess the License Plate and a bunch of other car games. But when the Wilders started singing songs (in harmony), they sounded so good I just listened.

The TV station was actually outside of Hartford. It was in a pretty dull area, with squat brick buildings and parking lots full of trucks and buses. The TV station looked like every other building, except for the huge antenna on top.

We stepped into a small waiting room with a worn linoleum floor and a water cooler. Not exactly glamorous.

A woman with a beehive hairdo and a telephone headset said, "You here for the Dandy show?"