The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I’m about to ask her what’s going on when her fingertips disappear from my lips and she leaps to her feet, her dress bunching in her hands. Her ankles look skinny and pale above the slippers on her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she says in a rush, dumping the release form and pen in my lap. “I’m sorry, Wes, I’ve got to go. That’s my mother.”

“Your—what?”

She’s already dashed up the town house stoop and opened the door and started up the stairs that lead to the palm reader, and then I guess to the couple of apartments up above. But I haven’t heard anyone. The building is silent, still lost in morning sleep.

“My mother. I’m sorry, I have to go,” she calls from inside the vestibule.

“But—” I get to my feet, palms sweaty where they’re crumpling the release form. “Hey. Listen. I’m sorry, look, I know you don’t know me, but I really need your help with this.”

She hesitates on the inside stairwell, one hand on the banister, staring back at me.

“Help?” she says in a small voice.

But then something startles her, and she looks up with urgency to the curve where the stairs disappear into the dark.

I can’t stand to let her leave. I want her to stay here on the stoop with me, sitting close, making private jokes and elbowing each other. I mount one of the steps on the stoop, reaching a hand toward her.

“Please?” I say. I’m trying not to beg. It’s so not working, though.

“I . . .” She hesitates, torn.

She clearly feels bad about ditching me like this. But she is going to do it anyway.

“Look,” I say. “If you have to go right now, I can just wait. Okay? You go do whatever, and I’ll just wait down here. It’s no big deal. I mean. You won’t be long, right?”

“Um . . .” She’s almost persuaded.

What else am I going to do with my morning, anyway? Maybe I can hang out in the pizzeria, find a couple more people for Most. That would be pretty cool. Maybe she’d want to be in it. Maybe she’d let me film that bowlike mouth with its perfect mole talking, and talking, telling me what she wants most in the world.

“Please?” I say, more softly this time, my eyes pleading.

She chews her lip, hand still on the banister, considering. All at once, she relents. I can see it in her face. I have to suppress the urge to fist-pump in the air.

“All right,” she whispers. “Wait down there. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” I say. I’m grinning like I’ve just won Powerball. “Okay. I’ll be right here.”

She smiles at me and turns to hurry up the stairs.

“Wait!” I call out, and she stops, looking over her shoulder.

“I don’t know your name. What’s your name?” I don’t even care if I sound desperate. I can’t let her get away again.

She hesitates, but only for a second, and then she smiles.

“Annie,” she says. “I’m Annie.”

Then she’s gone.





CHAPTER 7


I think what I’d really like is my own place,” the pixelated kid says. “I been living with my moms since I got out of school, right? And she’s just . . . You know, she’s on my case all the time.”

The frame is tight on his face, his nose the same aquiline one I’ve seen on ancient Roman sculpture busts at the museum uptown. Heavy eyelashes, wavy dark hair. I zoom out about 20 percent so I can show the pizza ovens behind him and get the deadening quality of the fluorescent light. His white T-shirt is soft from washing.

“Where would you live?” I ask. “When you move out from your mom’s.”

He shrugs and his eyes slide to the right, over my shoulder. “I mean, the city, right? I’d like to get out of Jersey. You know. Get some sweet place downtown, like a loft? With a doorman, yo. Then when I roll up in my Lambo, with some tight little model, you know? I just throw him the keys. Forget about it.”

The kid smiles, gazing into his daydream. The digital video camera whirs softly, and I zoom back in, very slowly.

“Hey!” the older guy at the register hollers. “You got people waiting. What’s the matter with you?”

Shaken out of his reverie, the kid’s face darkens. He looks down, then back up at me.