Claudia and the Genius of Elm Street Read online

  I thought about slipping out the back door, but then realized I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  I took a deep, deep breath. The Wilders looked at me. For a second I thought they were going to throw me out of the house. But they didn’t say a word, which just made things worse. So I decided to break the silence.

  “Auungh …”

  Great beginning, Claudia.

  My mouth was so dry I couldn’t even say “Uh …” I swallowed and tried again. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilder, I’ve done a lot of baby-sitting, and I’ve never met anyone as gifted as your daughter. She’s in a class by herself.”

  I looked from one to the other. I hoped that flattering Rosie would soften them a little, but it didn’t seem to. I was just telling them what they already knew.

  I had to tell them what they didn’t know.

  “I know how close you are to Rosie, and what an active part you take in her interests,” I said. “But, believe it or not, I think I’ve found another incredible talent in your daughter. And she’s hiding it.”

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Wilder asked.

  “Well, I think Rosie is a really gifted artist,” I said.

  Mrs. Wilder sighed. “She doodles. That’s all. She’s never shown any serious interest in art.”

  “You haven’t seen the projects she works on in her room.” I spread out the sketches she had brought down. “Do you think many seven-year-olds can draw like this?”

  Mr. Wilder squinted and bent down. “These are good?”

  “Look at this.” I showed him the Life Saver drawing. “Most kids Rosie’s age would draw two circles, one inside the other. But she already knows how to use shadowing and create perspective. It looks three-dimensional. Those are things you usually have to learn from teachers. I know. I’ve taken tons of lessons myself.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Wilder said. She looked a little suspicious.

  “I’ve studied in school and at the Stoneybrook Arts Center; I’ve also studied in New York City with a great teacher named McKenzie Clarke. I’m not saying that to brag, but —”

  “No, that’s fine,” Mr. Wilder said. “I’ve heard of McKenzie Clarke. Go on.”

  “Well, I know plenty of kids, even kids my own age in the class in New York, who don’t have Rosie’s potential. I know this may seem silly, but look at the proportions of the Doritos bag she drew. I mean, they’re not perfect, but do you know how hard it is to get them right? And take a look at this peppermint stick …”

  The Wilders looked closely at the drawings. I could tell they were interested. But I could also see that old light bulb switching on over their heads.

  “Maybe we should contact McKenzie Clarke,” Mrs. Wilder said. “On our trips to New York we could pop up to his studio.”

  “Or maybe he holds a Saturday afternoon class,” Mr. Wilder went on.

  Ugh. Just what I was afraid of. Now the Wilders saw yet another career path for their daughter. They were going to squeeze Rosie’s love for art out of her, just like they had done with dance and music and singing.

  Suddenly everything became clear to me. That was why Rosie kept her art a secret. She knew her parents would push her too hard. Art was something she could enjoy on her own.

  “The thing is,” I said, “she really loves art. You should see her face light up!” (I almost compared it to the glum look she wore while doing everything else, but that would have been going too far.)

  “Isn’t that something,” Mrs. Wilder said.

  An idea hit me — a fun way to involve Rosie in her drawing. “You know, I’m having an art show on Saturday,” I said. “Just in my garage, that’s all, for friends and neighbors and family. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask Rosie to show some of her drawings at the opening.”

  I didn’t mention the theme was junk food. Somehow I didn’t think the Wilders would like that idea.

  “Sounds fine to me,” Mr. Wilder said, “in theory. The problem is, she has a go-see for that department store in Stamford Saturday afternoon.”

  “Go-see?” I repeated.

  “That’s what you call an audition for a modeling job.”

  “But that’s okay,” I said. “Rosie can come to the show in the morning. She doesn’t have to be there the whole time. I just figured it would be a fun way for her work to get some exposure.”

  I think I had said exactly the right thing. Mr. Wilder nodded thoughtfully and said, “Okay by me.” He looked at his wife. “Ginger?”

  “Well, I suppose,” she said. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with her other activities.”

  “Great!” I exclaimed. “I’ll go ask Rosie.”

  I took the stairs two at a time, then knocked on her door. “Rosie?”

  “Come in,” Rosie muttered.

  I pushed the door open. Rosie was at her desk, drawing quietly.

  She looked up and said, “They told you never to come back, right?”

  I sat down on her bed. “Nope. As a matter of fact, I talked them into letting you show your drawings at my opening. If you want to, that is.”

  Rosie stared at me, dumbfounded.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “You’re not joking, are you?” she said.

  I shook my head. “No joke. Do you want to?”

  Rosie’s frown faded. A smile crept across her face. Then she jumped out of her chair and screamed. “Do I? Yes!”

  “Great!” I said. “You better get to work polishing up those sketches.”

  “I will!” Rosie said excitedly. “Oh, I can’t wait. Thank you, Claudia!”

  Just then the doorbell rang. Rosie’s smile melted away. “That’s Ms. Van Cott,” she said, plopping back into her chair.

  “Well, it’s time for me to go, anyway,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Rosie let out a big sigh. “Ohhh … how am I going to have time to prepare for the show, Claudia? I have all these stupid lessons and clubs, and the audition and the go-see …”

  “You’ll manage, Rosie,” I said. “I have faith in you. But there’s one thing I want you to promise me.”

  “What?”

  “Sometime soon you should have a talk with your parents. Let them know exactly what kinds of things you want to do and don’t want to do. Okay?”

  Rosie smiled and nodded. “Okay.”

  I gave her a big hug, and then we scooted down the stairs.

  Saturday was the debut of “Claudia Lynn Kishi’s ‘Disposable Comestibles,’ a Pop-Art Multi-Media Extravaganza.”

  Yes, I changed the name. Comestibles is another word for food. Actually, it was Janine’s idea, in a way. She passed my room one night while I was arranging a bunch of junk food, and said, “Are you painting your disposable comestibles?” Well, I thought that was hilarious. I adopted the name immediately. Janine, of course, didn’t quite see the humor in it.

  Neither did Dawn. She thought it sounded like I was trying too hard to sound smart. But they were both missing the point. Here was this huge, complicated name that would give people the idea that they were seeing something really serious, and then the subject of the show would turn out to be junk food.

  The way I saw it, one of the main things about pop art was humor. Well, anyway, I liked the idea. I also liked the fact that we were going to have a refreshment table, serving … junk food! (That was my idea, too.)

  The garage looked great. My friends and I had worked hard to clean it out, even scrubbing the cement floor. My dad was thrilled, to say the least. His first comment was, “You know, I have enough room for a little wood shop out here!”

  Of course, my first thought was how many shows I could have in there. I could put one on annually, or one each season.

  As my fellow BSC members scrambled about, doing last-minute things, Rosie adjusted and readjusted her sketches. Then she studied them and adjusted them again.

  “They look perfect, Rosie,” I said.

  Rosie put her hand on her chin and squinted at the drawings. “Yeah? You think so?”

/>   “If you move them one more time, the nails will come out of the wall!”

  “Okay, Claudia,” she said with a smile. “I’ll leave them alone.”

  I checked the little price stickers on my paintings. I had decided not only to show them, but to try to sell them. After all, that’s what artists are supposed to do in art galleries. I figured I might as well get used to selling my work, since that’s what I’ll be doing for a living someday.

  Besides, I could use the money to buy really good supplies. Or, of course, donate some of it to the Baby-sitters Club treasury.

  But just some.

  I walked outside, where Kristy and Mary Anne were tying a big sign around one of our trees:

  “How are we doing?” I asked.

  “We’re right on schedule,” Kristy said, looking at her watch. “It’s nine-fifty. People will be showing up any minute.”

  It shouldn’t surprise you to know that the Wilders were the first to arrive. They even took three photos of the sign, because Rosie’s name was on it!

  Everyone greeted the Wilders in the garage. Stacey sold them each a bag of chips. Rosie was glowing with excitement.

  It turned out I didn’t need to worry about the Wilders not liking the junk-food concept. They seemed fascinated, looking closely at every painting. At one point, as Rosie and I were following her dad around, he said, “You know, this really is quite good, Rosie.”

  The problem was, he was pointing at the lollipop painting I had done. “Uh, thank you, Mr. Wilder,” I said. “I painted that.”

  He laughed. “Oh! Well, I guess you’ve influenced my daughter’s style so much I can’t tell the drawings apart,” he said. “She’s catching up to you, you know, Claudia,” he added with a wink.

  Rosie and I gave each other a Look, then started giggling. I had figured her dad would say something competitive, but we didn’t mind.

  Before too long, the Papadakises showed up, and then the Barretts. Most people liked the paintings, especially the parents. Some of the kids couldn’t see the point.

  Things went smoothly until about twelve-thirty. That was when Alan Gray, the goon of Stoneybrook Middle School, decided to show up. He looked like (a) he had just woken up and (b) he had forgotten to take his human-being pills that morning. He couldn’t stop laughing at the paintings.

  “Hey, Claudia,” he called out, “I see a lot of ads, but where’s the art?”

  “Oh, Alan, you are so funny I forgot to laugh,” I said. (What a dumb expression, but Alan’s the kind of guy you say things like that to.)

  Fortunately my attention was taken away from Alan by a guy in a tweed coat who tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Are you Ms. Kishi?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Well, I was wandering by and saw your sign, and I must say your work has an indescribable simplicity and taste. Truly an example of form following function, rather in the style spawned from the era that brought us the Bauhaus and the Dadaists.”

  “Uh, right,” I said. Suddenly I wished I hadn’t changed the name to “Disposable Comestibles.” It was attracting people who really talked like that. “Thank you,” I said, trying to remember what he said so I could ask Janine to translate later. “I’ve got to go now.”

  (I later found out that what he said made no sense anyway. Oh, well, at least he liked the paintings.)

  I stood by the door for awhile, greeting the Pikes when they came in (which really made the garage feel crowded), and then Kristy’s family.

  That was when I heard Suzi Barrett call out, “Yucchh! I don’t like that one!”

  I thought she saw a painting of some candy she didn’t like. But when I turned around, I saw she was staring at a crude drawing of a dead cat next to a candy wrapper.

  “What is that?” I said.

  I walked toward it, and saw another wrinkled sheet of paper tacked up nearby. That one showed a terrible drawing of a grungy-looking toothless man eating a candy bar. He was smiling happily and saying “Mmm!” while the candy was flaking down his chin.

  I quickly tore down the disgusting drawings. Who could have —

  Then I saw Alan Gray squatting in a corner with a pad of paper and a pencil. “Hey! Cut that out!” I yelled.

  Alan sprang to his feet, giving me his dumbest grin. “Go home, Alan, okay?” I said. “Don’t ruin my show.”

  “Sure, Claudia,” he said. “No problem. See you.”

  That was easy — too easy. A few minutes later, I found out why.

  I saw the man in the tweed suit limping toward the garage door. He was holding one of his penny loafers and mumbling angrily. When he saw me he held up his shoe and said, “Really! Is this considered environmental art? I don’t find it amusing or appropriate.”

  A wad of gum was stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  “Ew!” cried Hannie Papadakis. “Gum!”

  I saw her lifting her foot — which was attached to the floor by a long, pink string of chewing gum.

  The same thing happened to Mrs. Barrett and Jessi. Pieces of gum were all over the floor, like little land mines.

  I put the BSC members on “Alan Gray Alert,” and we went around picking up the remaining pieces. Kristy whispered to me, “On Monday our first item of business will be plotting revenge!”

  We weathered that crisis. The rest of the day passed uneventfully. A lot of people came to the show, and I had fun answering questions about the work. But here’s the really exciting part:

  By one o’clock, two people had actually bought paintings! One of those people was Ms. Besser, a teacher at SES who once helped us set up a huge sleepover at the school. The other person was Watson Brewer.

  It was right around then that Rosie said to me, “We have to go to Stamford now.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, I think everything’s under control,” I replied. “People are really enjoying your work.”

  “Yeah,” Rosie said with a smile. “Thanks, Claudia. This was fun.”

  She turned to leave, but I gently took her arm. “Just a second,” I said. I pulled her into a secluded corner. “Rosie, have you spoken to your parents yet — about what we discussed?”

  “No,” Rosie said, looking away from me. “But I will, soon.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  We said good-bye, and she left. I had Rosie’s promise, and I wanted to be patient with her. But I knew the talk would be difficult for her.

  I wasn’t totally convinced she would find the courage to stand up to her parents.

  The following Friday was my last regular sitting job for Rosie Wilder. Mrs. Wilder’s mom was recovering nicely and wasn’t going to need daily care anymore.

  A couple of weeks earlier I had been looking forward to this day more than my birthday and Christmas combined. But now that it had arrived, I felt sad.

  The day was cloudy and drizzly. I walked Rosie home from school after her science club meeting. I could tell she felt sad, too.

  We didn’t say much at first. Then Rosie perked up. “Oh!” she blurted out. “The dinner theater called my mom yesterday.”

  From the brightness in her eyes, I knew what she was going to say — she had gotten the part.

  “I was rejected,” she said.

  At first I thought she was joking. I smiled. “Yeah, sure.”

  “No, I mean it,” Rosie insisted. “It wasn’t because of my audition, they said. It was because they wanted a girl with darker features to look like the actress playing the mother.”

  “Oh, Rosie,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not,” Rosie replied with a shrug. “Well, maybe just a little, but not much.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. The part was sort of dumb, and it would have meant going to the theater every night, and weekends. And when would I have had time to draw?” She looked up and gave me this humongous grin.

  “Now you’re talking!” I said.

  “Claudia
, can we do fun stuff when we get home? I hardly have any homework, and it’s your last day.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I thought of a perfect project, but I wouldn’t tell Rosie the details right away. Instead, I made her do some errands with me. First we raided the Wilders’ basement for old magazines and brought them up to the kitchen. Then we cut out cartoon figures, and pictures of people and animals. They had to be upright, not lying down or on all fours. They also had to be approximately the same size, and the more unusual-looking the better.

  When we had found about twenty pictures, Rosie said, “Okay, now what?”

  “Now we need glue,” I answered.

  Rosie ran and got some. “Claudia, tell me what we’re doing!”

  “Now we have to cut each of these figures into three pieces — the head, the body, and the legs. Okay?”

  Rosie’s eyes lit up. “And then mix and match them, right?”

  “Right!”

  We got to work. I made a creature with the feet of a penguin, the belly of a grizzly bear, and the head of Fred Flintstone.

  Rosie’s first try was the head of a horse, the body of a man in a suit, and the legs of a baby from a diaper ad.

  When we got tired of the cutouts we began drawing our own strange creatures. Soon we were howling with laughter.

  Then we played hangman for awhile. We used a dictionary and found the biggest words possible. That way we could draw the most complicated hangmen you ever saw — toes, fingers, warts, glasses, backpacks, you name it. They were masterpieces!

  It was a great afternoon.

  Around six-thirty the weather cleared, and an amazing sunset was beginning. “Let’s take a walk,” I suggested.

  We strolled along Elm Street, breathing the cool air deeply. When we turned up Locust Avenue, Rosie said, “You know, Claudia, I finally did it.”

  “Did what?” I asked.

  “Had the talk with my parents.”

  “Really?” I hadn’t wanted to ask, because I didn’t feel like pushing her. But boy, was I relieved. “Well, what happened?”

  “First I told them I liked some of my activities,” answered Rosie, “but not all of them. Also, I told them I was doing too many things. ‘And you know,’ I said, ‘when you do too much, you start to hate everything.’ ”