The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“Huh?” the boy says.

He pauses inside the thickest edge of fog, and I can tell by his movements that he’s looking around to see who I’m talking to. I stare hard at him, trying to see him clearly. But it’s not who I thought it was.

“Oh!” I exclaim, my heart sinking. I withdraw behind my knees for protection. If he puts his hands on me, there’s nowhere for me to go. I can’t run. There’s no one to help.

“Hey, no. I’m sorry,” the boy rushes to say. I can admit that he sounds friendly. Jolly, even. And not in a sporting way. “I’m Wes,” he goes on. “From the other night. Remember?”

“Wes,” I say slowly.

He acts like we’ve known each other before. By now he’s moved out of the fog and I can see him clearly. And it’s true, there’s something warm and familiar about him. Tall, much taller than Herschel. Taller even than Papa. Sandy-colored, with freckles. But he’s in ill-fitting short pants, which is puzzling considering his age, and no waistcoat. He’d look like a beggar, in such clothes, if he weren’t so clean. He’s cleaner than me, even. The skin of his face is scrubbed and pink, beardless, and his hair stands up in a mop like Herschel’s. I like it better than the oiled-down look that so many men affect. He’s not even wearing a hat.

“Yeah. Um. I was here with that other guy? Filming the séance. Last week?” He looks into my eyes, hunting for recognition. He seems like he really wants me to remember. But surely I would remember, meeting this strange boy. Film is not a verb, first off. And I certainly haven’t been to a “séance,” whatever that is. But it’s hard to resist his certainty that we’re already friends. I feel the pull of him and find myself wanting to remember. Unless of course, and this is a distinct possibility, this boy does not exist at all. In fact, there is quite a decent chance that this boy is a figment of my imagination, who I have conjured out of the mist because I am lonely, and that he’s familiar because he’s just a part of my mind. If that’s true, which it almost certainly is, then it’s doubly rude to send him away. Not only rude, but foolish, since who knows if I’d be able to conjure up anyone else?

“The séance,” I repeat as though I know what he’s talking about. Then I make my best show of remembering. “Oh yes! I remember. Of course.”

He looks worried. The figment of my imagination is sensitive.

“Are you okay?” the boy asks.

“Okay?” I echo. What does that mean? Am I . . . what? “I was just waiting,” I correct him.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he says, moving nearer.

The figment of my imagination is also charming. I smile prettily at him. Silly figment.

“You were?” I say.

“Definitely,” Wes insists with what I imagine he thinks is great authority. “In fact, it was absolutely imperative that I find you. Did you know that?”

“Aw,” I say, lowering my lashes to let him know that I’m on to his tricks. “You’re teasing me. You’re not really here.”

“Sure I am.” He looks hurt.

As if to prove a point he comes over and sits on the stoop, his knees drawn up next to mine. His shoes are odd. I’m trying to figure out what makes them so odd when he interrupts me by digging his elbow into my ribs.

“See?” he says.