The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I burrow my head into my pillow with a sullen groan.

He sighs and I hear him get up and pad over to where my phone sits plugged into its charger, ringing its head off, and probably showing one million missed calls.

I don’t care.

“Hello?” Eastlin says. “Uh-huh. No, this is his roommate.”

A pause.

“What? Oh, okay.”

A pause.

“Uh-huh.”

Another pause.

“Hang on a sec. I’ll see if he’s back yet.” Eastlin muffles the phone against his shirt. “Wesley. It’s your dad. Again.”

Oh. Great. My dad.

“Tell him I’ll call him back,” I groan.

“Mr. Auckerman? Yeah, he’s right here. Hang on.”

Then the phone is in my hands and Eastlin is laughing at me from his twin bed on the other side of the room.

Asshole.

“Hi, Dad,” I say into the phone, struggling into a seated position with my hair sticking up.

“Hey, Sport,” Dad says, causing me to flinch. There never was a guy less sporty than me. “How’s tricks?”

“Um. Okay, I guess.” My gaze floats up to the ceiling. I wonder how many divots I’ll count before I can end this conversation. I definitely don’t want it to go on longer than twenty divots.

“That your roommate? He sounds like a good guy.”

“Yeah.” I eye said roommate, who somehow, despite the fact that it’s the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, looks ready to shoot an aftershave commercial. “He’s all right.”

Eastlin hears this and makes a flex face, Hulk Hogan style. I roll my eyes and try not to audibly laugh.

“Your mother was telling me that you’ve made some nice friends there,” Dad continues. “I hope we’ll get to meet some of them tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

There’s a pause, I guess while Dad waits to see if I’m going to elaborate on this.

I’m not.

“Well . . . ,” he falters. “She said you’d met a girl? That true?”

I flop onto my back on the dorm bed with a fresh groan. Dad, you have no idea.

Hearing my groan, my father chuckles. “I ever tell you about the waitress I crashed with, back when I was in New York in ’75?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“I met her waiting on line at CBGB for tickets to see Television. Oh my God. She was hot.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Let me crash at her pad in the East Village,” he continues. “She used to love it when I . . .”

“Dad.” I blanch. “God! Her pad? Give me a break.”

“Touchy, touchy” he says. “Sorry. So, listen.” He’s going to ask me what time documentary workshop is tomorrow. And he’s going to pretend like there isn’t a bunch of paperwork that I wanted him to sign. He’s either going to pretend he didn’t get it and we’re never going to talk about it again, or he’s calling so he can disappoint me now instead of face-to-face. It’s a classic Steve Auckerman move.

“What?” I say, unable to keep the challenge out of my voice.

“Your mother and I are all settled in here at the hotel,” he says. “Not too bad. We used miles.”

“Great,” I say.

“What time you say the screening started? Two?”

I’ve only said that about one million times since he hinted that they were thinking of flying in. So yes, Dad. It’s at two. Still. “Yeah,” I say, editing out all the first part.

I’m up to fifty-one divots.

“Terrific. We want to take you and your friends out for a steak after it’s all over. You think maybe you could pick a place? And not a cast of thousands, you know. I work for a living. Just, you know. Two. Three, max.”

“Sure, Dad,” I say. Seventy-eight divots.

“Great.” There’s a pause while my father clears his throat, and I hear my mother’s voice say something in the background. “Oh,” Dad says, as if he’s only just remembered something, and Mom didn’t totally just prod him. “And some forms came for you. To the house.”

Well. Score one for Wes. Dad opened the envelope.

“And?” I say, daring him to tell it to me straight.