We walked inside, and Rosie plopped her backpack on the kitchen floor. In the center of

the table was a note on yellow legal paper, which said:

"Your morn says there's tuna salad," I said, heading for the refrigerator.

"I can read," Rosie replied.

I let that comment go. I kept my cool.

The tuna salad was in a covered glass bowl next to a container of washed lettuce. I found the plates and made two helpings. "Looks great," I said, putting the plates on the table.

"Actually I like chicken salad better," Rosie said, "but eating fish helps prevent blood cholesterol."

Cholesterol? She was worried about cholesterol at age seven? I didn't even know what

the word meant at that age. I still don't!

We ate a few bites, and I was all set to ask Rosie about her school day, when she reached into her backpack and pulled out what looked like a big pamphlet. On the cover were a man and a woman in top hat and tails.

"What's that?" I asked.

Rosie rolled her eyes, giving me that I-can't-believe-she-doesn't-know look. "Sheet music," she said. She held it up to me.

"Oh," I said. "Is that your audition song?"

"Mm-hm." She pressed it open on the table. Then she took a bite of tuna salad and began humming. Soon her body was moving in rhythm, as if she were practicing.

I waited awhile, then said, "I thought you knew it just great the other day." With a big, complimentary smile, I added, "I can't even imagine why you'd need to practice — I mean, rehearse."

Rosie swallowed her tuna salad and said, "You don't know, Claudia. When you go to an audition, you're up against dozens of other kids with just as much talent as you. Not only do you have to be perfect, but you have to bring a special something to it. Something that sets you apart. And the only way you can do that is by rehearsing."

Rosie said that speech as if she had memorized it. She probably had, too. I was sure