The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“What?” she says, reaching a finger up to touch it.

Maddie looks amazing. Amazing, and . . . nervous? She smiles down at me from the doorway, fingering the folds of her dress. She’s still punked out, but with a slightly softer edge. Maybe a little more grunge than punk. She’s in a soft floral dress with her combat boots today, and her hair is down, instead of in the beehive.

Her hair is blue. Blue as ashes.

“You changed it,” I say.

She smiles at me uncertainly. “Um. No. I didn’t?”

“Um,” I say, staring at her. The stare goes on just a little too long, and then I remember that my arms are tired because I’ve been carrying this grocery bag, so I say, “Hey, listen, so I brought some groceries. For the collective. All vegan. I think.”

Her eyes brighten. “Oh! Really? That’s nice of you.”

But she doesn’t make a move to, like, come take the bag from me, or invite me in, or anything.

“Yeah,” I say, unsure. “There’s, um. Some tofu, and some bananas, and—”

“Maloulou? Is that him?” a resonant male voice calls, and then a middle-aged guy appears in the doorway behind her. He’s in a painter smock and his graying hair is in a ponytail.

“I thought your dad was a banker?” It spills out of me, while Maddie and her father exchange an amused glance.

“He’s as smooth as you said,” Maddie’s dad remarks.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Mr. Van Sinderen, I’m just sort of . . .” I don’t know what I’m trying to explain, because nothing about this seems familiar. Or rather, it does, but I can’t shake this feeling that something is off. Something’s changed.

“You guys dropping stuff off at the collective?” he asks Maddie. “If you see Janeanna, tell her her dad’s almost done with the plans for the community garden.”

“Sure, Dad,” Maddie says with a roll of her eyes.

“Um—” I start to add, but I don’t know where I’m going with it.

“Do you want to leave?” Maddie interrupts before I can embarrass myself further.

“Leave?” I’m confused.

Her dad laughs, says, “You kids have fun,” and disappears back upstairs.

“Well,” Maddie says, looking up at the sky. “It’s nice out. I thought maybe we could go to the park.”

She’s right. The sky has this soft, lovely grayness to it, cloudless, but pale bluish white. Like a moonstone.

“All right,” I say, and Maddie smiles a huge grin and comes tripping down the stairs like a kid, landing next to me with a stomp of her boots.

By the time we get back to Washington Square, my arms are really killing me. We settle on one of the benches in the park, not far from where I filmed that guy for Most. The one who was obsessed with flying on the Concorde, even though it doesn’t exist anymore.

Wordlessly Maddie fitzes open two bottles of Colt, handing one to me in a brown paper bag. We sit in silence, sipping our terrible malt liquor, watching the life of the park pass us by. Moms in yoga pants with babies in strollers, teenage girls about to start high school, an old Korean man holding his wife by the arm, both bent nearly in half with age. Dogs tussle in the dog run, and a young guy breaks it up. In the distance, someone turns on a radio. Vintage Beastie Boys. “Intergalactic.” It’s all as it should be. And yet, different.

“So, guess what?” I say, leaning on the bench with an arm along the seatback, behind Maddie’s shoulders, but in a casual way.

“What?” she asks. She settles herself into my arm, and I feel a brush of the flesh of her shoulder against the crook of my elbow. Where our skin meets, the patch of my skin starts to tingle.

“I’m transferring,” I say. I’m keeping it light. I’m not looking at her. That way, if she doesn’t react, it’s okay.

“Oh yeah?” she says, just as lightly. “To Tisch?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” I say. I take a swig of my malt liquor and have to stop myself from spitting it out. Damn, that stuff is nasty.

“Huh,” she says. “So it went through?”

I allow myself a sidelong glance in her direction.