The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

Annie is sitting on the foot of my bed.

“What,” I gasp, not sure why I’m so afraid. “What. How did you get in? How did you know where I . . . What are you doing here?”

She stares at me, with those eyes, that perfect mole on her upper lip.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

This isn’t what I expected her to say. I don’t know what I did expect her to say, but it wasn’t that.

“How did you get in here?” I whisper, mindful now of Eastlin’s gentle snoring in the room with us.

“What do you mean?” she asks, looking genuinely puzzled. “But I told you I’d be right back.”

“What?” I ask, confused. I must be still dreaming. I must still be asleep. She’s not making any sense.

“Wes,” she says, and she rests her hand on my foot under the covers. “Can you help me?”

I blink at her. Annie. She’s sitting on the foot of my bed. Her eyes are boring into me. Her skin is whiter in the moonlight, almost supernaturally white. How did she get into my room? How did she even know where I was? And yet, through my confusion and fear, it’s still there. The tug of her. Of wanting to be near her. Even as my heartbeat thuds with adrenaline I feel pleasure, and relief.

She didn’t ditch me after all.

“Please?” she says. Her voice is small. “Could you? I’m sorry to have to ask, but . . .”

Now I remember. I asked her if she needed help. I imagined that I could protect her, that I could fold my arm over her shoulders and rescue her.

It was stupid of me. But I can’t let her see that.

“What’s going on?” I whisper.

She leans in closer, and for the first time I see that Annie is afraid, too.

“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes widening.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I place a hand atop hers. She’s cool to the touch, her bones small and delicate within her flesh.

Her eyes hunt around my dorm room, as if the answer might be found pinned up on my wall next to the Serpico poster.

“I”—she falters—“I’ve lost my cameo.”

She holds her other hand up in front of me, waggling her naked fingers. I don’t know what she’s talking about.

“You’ve . . . what?” I’m baffled. It’s like we’re having two different conversations.

“I don’t know!” she cries, and then she hides her face in her hands with sob.

“Oh, hey, don’t do that,” I say, feeling horrible for making her cry.

I edge closer to her on the bed and put my arms around her. She trembles against my chest, burying her face in my neck, and I feel the spreading warmth of her tears soaking my skin.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, bringing my hand to cup the back of her skull. Her hair is soft. The curls over her ears are crushed into my chest, and she smells like dusty roses and something else . . . smoke. And wet earth.

She sobs. Her sob is so loud I glance over at Eastlin to make sure she hasn’t woken him, but he lets out a rattling snore and I know he’s dead to the world.

“What’s going on, Annie?” I ask, one hand stroking her back. She’s trembling, and her hands have coiled around my waist and hold me so tightly that it’s hard for me to breathe.

“I’ve lost my cameo!” she wails.

“Okay,” I say, unsure what she’s talking about. “We’ll find it. Okay? We’ll find it.”

She wipes her bubbling nose on my chest and looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“I said I’d come right back,” she says, obsidian eyes searching mine. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

I don’t know what to say.

“Wes,” she gasps. “I came right back.”





PART TWO




   ANNATJE





CHAPTER 1


It’s my mother’s bedroom.