The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“Oh!” Dammit. I pull down the tail of my T-shirt and cross my arms over my chest. Hopefully that will keep the worst of the funk under control. “Morning, Professor Limoncelli.”


The head of the film department flares her nostrils at me. I’m not sure if she can tell I slept in my clothes.

“You ready for documentary workshop next week?” she asks lightly.

God, it’s already Wednesday. I am so screwed.

“Um,” I stammer. She intimidates the hell out of me. “Yeah, I think so. Just about.”

“What’s yours called again?” She gazes up at the elevator the way people do when they think they can hurry it along by mental telepathy.

“Most,” I tell her. “It’s kind of a documentary meditation on desire? Where I, you know. Talk to people? And they tell me what they want the most.”

I think she’s suppressing a smile, but I can’t tell if that’s really happening or if I’m just being paranoid.

Could the elevator be taking any longer? I thought getting here by eight I’d avoid everyone. But the elevators here are famous for being slow. Already some grad students have come shuffling in with their huge Starbucks cups and a few other professors are milling around looking at their watches and Professor Limoncelli is smiling at me like she can tell I was up editing all night.

“Sounds interesting,” she says, turning back to gaze up at the elevator numbers as they fall one at a time. All at once I realize that I’ll have to stand next to her all the way up to our floor if I get on the elevator. That is completely impossible. That will make me completely freak out.

“Thanks!” I chirp. “Me, too. I, um. Actually, I realize I forgot something, so . . . yeah.”

I start edging away. The elevator arrives with a ping and everyone starts loading on.

“Okay.” She smiles. “See you Friday.”

“Yeah! Yeah. See you.”

The second the doors ding closed I turn on my heel and run for the stairs. I catch the security guard laughing behind his newspaper.

I’m winded when I get to the hall outside the editing room, where the student lockers are, and it takes me a second to remember the combination to Tyler’s locker. After some yanking and fumbling I get the lock open and then his 16 millimeter film is in my hands.

I don’t have a lot of experience with actual film. I shoot all my stuff digitally, since it’s so much cheaper. But Tyler thinks it’s a “more authentic encounter with memory and consciousness,” or so he said on our first day in class. Pretentious ass. He probably got that out of a back issue of Film Comment. But God, Gavin Brown. Damn. A part of me feels envious. A large part, if I’m honest. I mean, it’s not like I came to New York thinking I’d bust my way into the art scene. Then again. Can it hurt, if you’re a documentary filmmaker, to have a friend big in the New York art scene?

Assuming Tyler is my friend.

I load the film into the Steenbeck and spool it forward, slowly, rewatching all the footage that Tyler showed me last night.

Just before the end, I freeze frame the film and sit back in my chair, staring.

There she is. I can just see her in the background, drawing the curtain away from her face. Looking off to the side, like she’s trying to get someone’s attention.

I wonder what she’s looking at.

I nudge the film forward another frame or two, trying to get the angle of her face just right. It takes a minute of tinkering back and forth.

There. After the séance is over and someone turns the lights on in the parlor, I can see her best. That pale skin. The little mole on her upper lip. The curls over her ears are glossy and thick. Her face is turned partway toward the camera, and her mouth is open like she’s calling out to someone.

I pull my phone out of my shorts pocket, hold it as steady as I can, and snap a picture. A film still.

“Okay, hipster girl.” I say to myself in a fake Bond-villain accent. “Let’s see who you really are.”