The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“I mean. It’s not a big deal or anything,” I rush to reassure her.

I go to pull out Tyler’s release form from my bag. She watches me rummage in my backpack with interest. I finally find it, smooth it out on my leg because of course it got all crumpled up while I was carrying it around, and then pass it to her.

“I just need you to sign this. I’m sorry. I should have done it when I was here before.” I’m feeling foolish now. Like she’ll think that I’m just flirting because I want something from her. When actually, I want . . . I want . . .

She looks the release form over, a baffled expression on her face. Then she glances up at me, questions in her eyes.

“I mean . . . ,” I fumble. “I’m just as glad I didn’t. Remember to get you to sign it, I mean. Before. Because then I had to . . .”

I trail off, staring at her. A long moment falls between us. She’s watching me. I can’t tell what she’s waiting for.

“Anyway,” I say, looking back into my backpack as a flush reddens my face. “Here.” I hand her a pen.

She takes it gingerly, weighing it in her hand.

“Sign?” she says at length. “But what is it?”

I don’t know why she looks so worried and confused. In a flash I wonder if maybe she’s famous. What if she’s some cable-show teen sensation and I don’t know? What if I’ve been so into my video games and documentaries that she’s someone everybody’s heard of except me, and people bother her to sign stuff all the time, and I’m being a complete jerk? It would explain the funky hair. And the expensive, high-concept dress. But as soon as the thought blooms into being, I discard it. She would have shown up on my image search, if that were true. Even if the funky hair is new, Google would have found that face. That perfect mole.

God, that mole.

Then I wonder if maybe she’s in trouble. Maybe she’s run away from home and doesn’t want to let on where she is. She certainly wouldn’t want to be in some art film on the internet, in that case. That must be it. Maybe I should offer to help her? I could protect her. She’s younger than me. Someone as young as her shouldn’t be on her own. I bet she has nowhere else to go. That’s probably it. She’s in trouble. She needs help.

“Seriously. Is everything okay?” I ask gently.

Those black eyes turn to me again. “Is . . . everything . . . okay,” she repeats, in the same way that she repeated my name. Like she’s trying it out, in her mouth. “Oh. Kay.”

“Is it?” I press. I drop my voice to a whisper and say, “You can trust me. It’s okay.”

She blinks once, twice, and then smiles again. The smile fills her face with light, and I see that I’ve guessed wrong.

“It caps the climax,” she says with a grin. “Got any ink?”

“Um. What?” I’m confused. I don’t even understand what she just said.

“Ink?” She peers at the pen, dandling it in her fingers. “You want me to sign it, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but . . .” I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say at this point and am about to ask her what she means, when she freezes, ears pricking up, listening.

“Are you—” I start to ask her, but she shushes me, pressing her fingers to my lips. My skin tingles where she touches my mouth, and I feel myself growing light-headed. Her fingertips are warm and soft.

“Shhh,” she whispers.

She listens intently, her gaze moving to the fa?ade of the building where we’re sitting. All I can hear is the faint buzzing of the neon clairvoyant sign, and the abrupt shutoff of the bodega guy’s hose at the end of the block. There’s a long minute of listening silence, and then her face twitches with recognition, as if she’d just heard someone call her name. But there’s nothing. Only the hot summer wind ruffling the pear tree leaves.