The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“What is?” I ask, leaning into him in a conspiratorial whisper.

Tyler smiles and takes my overturned shot glass so that he has something to play with on the table. Without looking at me, he says, “You don’t know me that well, do you?”

I’m taken aback. I mean, we’ve seen each other every day for five weeks. I feel like I have a pretty good idea about Tyler. I don’t always like him. But he’s okay, basically.

“Sure I do, man.” I stumble to reassure him. “Come on.”

Tyler shakes his head, smiling to himself.

“Did you know I had to work two jobs during the year to save up for summer school?” he says lightly. “My dad’s dry cleaning shop. And a moving company run by some Russian dudes in Brighton Beach. Cash only, under the table. So sketch. That’s how bad I needed this.”

I turn and stare at Tyler. Damn. He plays it close to the chest. The art films. All that 16 millimeter film stock. The hair and everything? The nightclub with the list? My image of his plush Upper West Side life—of framed prints and polished parquet and a mother with a gambling problem—evaporates before my eyes. No, I did not know he was sending himself to school. I’m starting to think that maybe I don’t see all that well into people.

He catches me staring and his smile shades uneasy. But whatever he’s worried about seeing in my face isn’t there. Tyler passes the shot glass back to me.

“Listen. I know I was being kind of a dick about stuff, before. It’s just, my dad couldn’t pay for it. And even if he could, there was no way he’d think art school was a good use of money, you know? He was kind of on the fence about college anyway. So I just really needed everything to be perfect. I had put too much into it to let myself screw it up.” He’s looking at me, needing me to understand.

“Your dad didn’t want you to go to college?” I ask. This baffles me. If I’d tried to not go to college, my parents would’ve sold me for parts. And Gran, forget it. She’d have clobbered me to death with her handbag. The big, hard-sided one from the sixties.

“Nah. I mean, to be an engineer or a doctor, yeah. But my math grades sucked. He was all set I should be a plumber. Make good money, not go into debt. College is just an excuse to waste time that would be better spent supporting the family. According to him.”

Tyler looks me full in the face, his eyes damp at the corners, and for the first time, I start to understand who the eyeliner is for. I nod.

“Shuttered Eyes had to be good,” Tyler goes on, his hand tightening into a fist. “I mean, it couldn’t just be good. You know? It had to be perfect.”

“No, no. I get it.” I rush to close the subject because we’re both about to get uncomfortable with all this sharing. Later, he’ll blame the tequila. Or more likely we’ll both pretend this conversation never happened at all. “It’s no problem,” I continue. “God, look at Krauss! She loved it. Right? And that woman from Gavin Brown?”

I’m not normally Mr. Effusive. But I want Tyler to know that I get it. I really do. I watch him, wondering if I’ve persuaded him. Wondering if this means we’re really friends now.

He weighs what I’m saying, and then his face splits into a delighted grin.

“Can you believe how freaking awesome this is?” Tyler cries, sweeping an arm out to encompass I’m not sure what. School, the workshop, the summer, maybe the entire city. “And Most? Seriously? It’s art, man. It’s freaking beautiful. I’ve seen what you’ve been doing. You’re a freaking artist, Wes. Next week, Krauss is gonna lose her mind. Everyone will. I’m freaking serious.”

Someone plunks two more tequila shots down in front of us and we look up in confusion, because we didn’t order them. The tableful of girls next to us all giggle some more and wave.

Tyler and I exchange a wry look, pick up the shot glasses, and lift them in tribute. Then we clink them together and down the shots in one gulp.