The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“We done?” he asks, with a new challenge in his eyes.

“Yeah,” I say, shutting the camera off. “We’re done. Thanks. That was awesome.”

“You gonna put that on TV or something? Am I gonna be famous?” The kid grins. He’s kidding. Mostly.

“As if anyone wants to see you, on the television. This guy,” the older man behind the register says to a woman he’s ringing up for a soda and two slices. She rolls her eyes.

“Nah,” I say. “Sorry. It’s a project. For school.”

“Oh.” He’s hiding his disappointment, and now I feel guilty for filming him for Most. Like I shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

“I mean,” I stammer. “It’s hard to say, you know?”

“Oh yeah.” The kid shrugs me off. “Sure.”

He turns his back to me, ladling out tomato sauce in an expert circle of red on raw dough, showering it with cheese, placing pepperoni like punctuation marks to show that our conversation is over.

I check my phone.

12:32.

I blow an irritated sigh through my nose and lean my cheek against the pizzeria window for probably the thirtieth time, looking at the door to the apartments upstairs. I don’t know how much longer I can wait here. I mean, I sat on the stoop for an hour ’til they opened, and I’ve been parked in here ever since. I’ve bought about a slice an hour, and now my belly is sticking out a little over the waistband of my cargo shorts. I still haven’t showered, my hair is sticking up in all different directions from having been slept on, my chin is bristly, and I think I’m starting to look kind of sketchy, hanging out here all day.

But I told Annie I’d wait.

So I’ve been waiting.

“This guy,” the register guy says again. I don’t pay any attention. “What, he thinks real estate is free in New York?”

There’s a pause, and then I feel eyes on my back.

“Huh?” I say.

“You gonna sit in here all day?” the guy barks at me. Having abused his underling enough, I guess now it’s my turn. He must be really great to work for. Man.

“Um . . .” I pause, trying to come up with the right response. I guess it’s whatever keeps my ass from getting kicked.

Dammit. I told her I would wait here ’til she came back. I can’t stand the thought of breaking my word to her. Anyway, I need her to sign the stupid form. This guy is thinking about rearranging my face into a Cubist painting, and it’s all for nothing.

“This is a respectable business, you know,” the guy continues.

“Paul,” the Roman-looking kid says, putting a hand on his sleeve. “He’s been buying slices. He’s okay.”

I spread my hands in a what-can-I-do? sort of gesture, and smile my most apologetic, nice-guy-from-the-Midwest smile. I don’t know if those really work in New York, though. Paul glares at me. So much for my big plan of interviewing Paul to kill more time.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I pull out my phone, checking for I don’t know what. Do I think she’d have texted me? It’s not like she knows my last name.

Instead, I find half a dozen texts from Tyler, wanting to know where I am and what’s happening. If I don’t get the release he has to cut the footage she’s in, and he’s running out of time before fiction workshop, and he’s going to kick my ass and I’d better text him back.

Great. Just really terrific.

I stuff my camera into my backpack, toss a dollar onto the Formica countertop next to my greasy napkins and stack of paper plates, and slink out of the pizzeria. But on the stoop I hesitate.

I mean, I can’t just leave.