some agent or director had told her that. Maybe even Ginger Wilder.

"It's the same way with art," I said. Then I thought of a joke Stacey's father once told us in New York City. "Hey, Rosie, how do you get to Carnegie Hall?" I asked.

Rosie scrunched up her brow. "Well, you take the train to — "

"Practice!" I said.

"Huh?"

"Practice," I repeated. "That's how you get to Carnegie Hall. You practice." (For a moment I thought I might be using the wrong punch line. Was I supposed to say "rehearse"?)

Rosie gave me her famous stare. Then she put on this huge, fake smile and said, "Ha, ha, ha. Very funny."

And that was when I figured out why her smile looked familiar. In my mind I could see that same smile, but on a slightly younger girl, with one tooth missing. The girl had spilled a glass of chocolate milk, and her mom was going crazy over the stain on their rug.

"Rosie," I said, "were you in a TV commercial for a carpet cleaner?"

"Up 'n' Out Cleaner," Rosie said with a nod. "My dad says if s my college tuition."

I tried to figure that one out. "I don't get it."

"Residuals," Rosie whined. "You know . . . you get a check for every time the commercial airs, and it gets put in a trust fund. Then, when it's time to go to college, you have tons of money."

"Oh," I said.

Suddenly I wasn't hungry. Rosie was the girl on that dumb commercial! Not only did she have talent and brains, but she was rich . . . and famous. For spilling chocolate milk and smiling!

Rosie had already done more in her life than I probably ever would. She had even set aside money for college.

With a sigh, Rosie closed the music and got up. "I have to do science homework before my rehearsal." She took her plate to the sink. "Can you help me? It's a lot of work."

Maybe I could have helped her. But I didn't even want to try. The first words out of my mouth were, "I'll call my sister, Janine. She's a ge— she's really smart in science."