The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

Annie gets a vague, faraway look in her black eyes. Something about that look frightens me. She’s on the point of answering when Eastlin slams back into the room and stalks back to his bed.

“. . . swear to God, Wes,” he’s saying, as if continuing a stream of invective that started in our room, followed him into the bathroom, and then back down the hall to our room unbroken, even though I wasn’t there to hear it. “You could be just a little more considerate, you know? Do you have any idea how tired I am? Between classes, and my job, and I realize you don’t have a job”—he walks right past me and Annie without glancing in our direction—“but it’s six in the morning, and I don’t have to be at the store until ten. I could be asleep, right now.”

Annie and I both watch him stalk about the room in nothing but his boxer briefs. I can tell from Annie’s expression that she’s pretty shocked. Like maybe she’s never seen a guy in just his underwear before. Or maybe she just thinks he’s hot, I don’t know. Eastlin is ripped, I’ll give him that. God, I should give her a towel to wipe the drool off her chin.

“I’m sorry, I was just—” I start to apologize, with one eye on Annie.

“I know you’re, like, an artist, or whatever, but that doesn’t give you license to sit there jabbering in the middle of the night,” he interrupts me. “God. Screw this. I’m going to the gym.”

He pulls on a pair of gym shorts and leans down to glance in the mirror on his desk. The gym is kind of a pickup scene, he’s told me, so I guess he has to make sure he looks good even at six in the morning. As if anyone could look good at six in the morning. From where Annie and I are sitting on my bed we can see his face reflected in the mirror. He peers in close, examining a nascent pimple on his otherwise flawless chin. His eyes shift focus from his chin to us in the background.

“Holy shit!” he says, stumbling backward and staring at Annie.

I have to suppress a smile, but Annie looks between us, worried. She’s sitting up now, curled in a little ball with her knees drawn up.

“Where the hell did she come from?” Eastlin demands, pointing at Annie.

“Eastlin,” I say, ready to placate him.

“You had a girl in here?” he asks me with a flash of annoyance. While I watch, though the annoyance changes shape. “Jesus,” he says, pulling his T-shirt over his head. “You should’ve said something. Scared the crap out of me. Have you been here the whole time?”

“I’m sorry,” Annie says, her voice small.

“Don’t be sorry. Christ. I should be thanking you,” Eastlin says with a wry smile at me. “Saved me the trouble.”

“Man. Come on. Shut up.” I give him my best approximation of Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter.

“This is her, right?” he says. “Hello.” He sticks his hand out.

Annie hesitates, then extends her own hand. They shake. She looks sort of shell-shocked by the whole exchange. “We really didn’t mean to wake you up,” she says. “Did we, Wes?”

“No,” I say. “Definitely not.”

He watches us both. I think he can tell something weird is going on. He’s smiling, but it’s an uneasy smile.

“It’s no problem,” he says, eyeing Annie.

He’s looking at her dress. He gets this appraising look in his eye when he’s evaluating clothes. A strange expression crosses his face, but he tries to act like everything’s normal.

“I was just going to see if Annie wanted to get some breakfast,” I say. “Do you?” I turn to her. “Want some breakfast?”

“I guess so.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

“Great,” Eastlin says.

We all sit there for a second, unsure what’s supposed to happen next. Eastlin picks up his gym bag and says, “All right. Well. I guess I’ll see you later. Nice meeting you . . .” He trails off, giving her time to fill in her name.

“Annatje,” she says.

“What?” Eastlin and I say together.

“Sorry. I mean, Annie,” she says. She blinks at us without explaining anything.