The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

Okay. I have to give him that one. That was, like, the defining moment of sixth grade. I’m basically scarred for life now.

“Come on. That was digital,” I point out.

He stops the film with an irritated punch of a button and then scrolls it forward in slow motion. I peer over his shoulder into the viewfinder.

The frame looks grubby from smoke and low light, just as I remember the room. I see my own shape in the background, fiddling with the microphone. I can pretty much make out most of the people I remember being there—the guy in the Rangers jersey, the banker dude, the teenage girl with her baby. The focus hazes in and out as Tyler adjusts the lens. The camera zeroes in on the tabletop, with its hunks of crystal and its plastic Ouija pointer thing. Then the frame vibrates, and I see Tyler’s shoulder move into the frame, gesticulating to me.

I narrow my eyes, watching. Me-on-film rolls his eyes, leans the boom mike in the velvet curtains, and climbs around the edge of the room. This is all how I remember it. The camera stays on the tabletop, where not much is happening. All at once an eye looms into view, and Tyler stops the film.

“See?” he says, as if the source of his irritation should be obvious.

The eye—Tyler’s, I can tell by the almond shape, short lashes, and the heavy liner—hovers in an angry blur, staring at us.

“I don’t see what the problem is.” I yawn and check my watch.

“Wait,” Tyler says.

He starts the film again. The eye disappears. The camera moves a little, as though someone is fiddling with the tripod under it. In the edge of the frame, the medium—Blavatsky—winds a scarf around her head, and people start finding their seats. I notice Maddie, wedged at the table between two khaki moms. She gives a knowing smile to the camera, and then she looks away. A finger twirls in her hair.

“Listen,” I say, my mind on my own workshop film, and also on a seven-layer burrito from Taco Hell. “It’s getting late.”

“Here,” Tyler says, not listening. He stops the film again. “Look.”

It’s me, moving back around the table. There are so many people gathered around that it’s hard to see me through the crowd of bodies. I come to a stop, leaning forward. So far, I’m not seeing anything weird. Then, the medium dims the lights, throwing the room into candlelight.

“See?”

“Tyler.” I’m getting sick of this. My stomach growls in agreement. “I’m gonna go.”

“Hang on.” He fumbles with the Steenbeck, and the film starts spooling again through the reels.

“The film is fine. Everything looks fine. You just have to decide what you’re going to use. I can’t keep sitting here waiting for you to make a decision.”

Tyler glowers at me. I don’t think he’s used to me not going along with his vision.

“But I can’t use any of it,” he insists.

I stand up, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. Outside the editing room, someone snaps off the light in the hallway. The building has that dead feeling that buildings get when they’re emptying of people. Distant voices, and footsteps receding.

“What are you talking about?” I ask him, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“The forms, man.” He punches stop again, and the frame freezes.

“You have all the forms.”

“I don’t have hers,” he says, lifting his chin at the image on the screen.

When I see it, my scalp tightens, the hair on my arms stands up, and I drop my backpack on my foot with a thud. I realize, too late, that my video camera is in there.