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.

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.