The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“Aw,” I say, waiting to feel myself blush, but not feeling it. “Thanks.”


“Seriously,” the other girl says. “I was at the screening, ’cause my girlfriend was in your class? And it was awesome. I mean, I loved all the people you talked to, but I kinda felt like the voids were the best part, you know? In the park, and in the pizzeria. They gave it a really terrific pace, you know? Like a meditative break, to give us time to reflect on desire?”

“Aw,” I say. There’s the blush. I knew it was in there somewhere. The pizza of embarrassment. “That’s really cool of you to say.”

“What did Krauss think?” the first girl asks.

“It was epic,” the second girl says to the first. “She totally freaked-out-loved it. Like, I didn’t know she ever gave A’s for anything. Seriously.” To me, she goes on, “So are you taking advanced documentary workshop in the fall? I’m going to be in that one. I think you and I should form a study group.”

“That would be awesome,” I say. “Yeah. I’m definitely taking that class. Study group, totally. That would be amazing.” I’m nodding while I’m talking, and I’m grinning, and while I give the documentary girl—whose name proves to be Jordan—my cell number so we can get in touch in September, which is only four weeks away, I feel myself growing taller and lighter. Yeah, I am going to be in that class.

Because Krauss just told me my transfer went through.

I shove my hands in my pockets and lope to the elevators.

Where R U? I text Maddie while I wait. The elevators here take forever, I’m not even kidding. She told me she and Janeanna were scoping a new squat, about ten minutes from the film department. But I haven’t seen it yet.

My parents, the phone vibrates back. Come pick me up?

My eyebrows shoot up.

OK, I respond. But the thought of facing those sepulchers on Park Avenue fills me with a sick sort of dread.

You remember the address? the phone trills.

Park Ave, right? What number? By now I’m inside the elevator, and it’s creaking its way to the lobby.

LOL!!!! Maddie texts back. U so funny. I’ll show you the new squat after.

The elevator doors groan open.

How am I funny? I text her as I head out to the street to hail a cab. Going to the Upper East Side is like taking a trek to the Himalayas, practically.

A cab pulls up just as her response vibrates in my hand. Duh. It’s Jane Street. 341. Hurry up!

“What?” I say aloud, staring down at my phone in bafflement. Is the star of cracks in my phone screen making me unable to read? Jane Street? But that’s in the West Village.

“In or out!” the cab driver shouts at me. A black car behind him lays on the horn.

“Sorry,” I say, getting flustered. “Never mind. It’s okay. I’ll walk.”

“Asshole!” The cab driver flips me off. But I’m too busy staring at my phone to get upset about it.

I cross Washington Square Park, heading west. Is she messing with me? Maybe she’s kidding.

You’re sure it’s not Park Ave? I text as I pass Waverly Place and cut north.

Um. Yeah? she texts back, followed by a bunch of emojis with their tongues sticking out and their eyes crossed. I laugh and stuff the phone in my pocket.

I pass a bodega and remember the rules of Maddie’s Luddite fregan collective. I pick up some potato chips, a tray of barbecue tofu and broccoli, a thing of bananas, and a six-pack of Colt 45.

The sun’s dropped lower by the time I get to Jane Street, and my arms are tired from carrying groceries. The building number she gave me proves to belong to a modest brownstone with a nail place downstairs. I’m pulling out my phone to text her that I’m there when the door opens and she’s there, biting a lip.

“Your hair,” I say without thinking.