The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“I don’t even know what that means,” she says, looking miserably at her breakfast. She picks up a slice of bacon and holds it up to the light.

I rummage in my camera bag, pulling it out and hitting record in one fluid motion. When I look through the viewfinder I zoom in close on Annie’s face. I can see every detail of her expression: the mole at the corner of her mouth. The little hairs at the edges of her eyebrows. The redness under her lower lids. She glances up at me, and her black eyes are so intent and glittering that it stops me cold. She’s looking straight into me. I swallow, hard.

“Okay,” I say. “Retrace your steps. You last had your cameo on at a party, right?”

She nods. Then she lifts the bacon strip again and holds it delicately under her nose, and breathes in the smell. “Do you think I can eat this?” she asks me.

“Sure,” I say. “Go ahead.” I’m paying for it either way. I hope she eats it. If she doesn’t eat it, I will. Maybe I hope she doesn’t eat it, actually.

She opens her mouth and makes as though she’s going to take the world’s tiniest bite. But then she stops herself and drops the bacon strip with irritation.

“I can’t,” she mutters.

“It’s okay,” I say, zooming out ever so slightly. “You’re sure you had it on?”

“Yes,” she says. “At least, I think I did.” She’s staring down at her fingers like she can’t believe they’re really there.

“So. Tell me about this party,” I urge her. “Where was it?”

She looks at me again, and something is messed up with my focus, so I keep having to fiddle with it. All the zooming in and out makes my hangover pound even worse.

“Downtown,” she says.

She’s too cool to be all specific. Hipsters never just come right out and tell you where a party was, or who threw it, or what all went down at it. You’re supposed to already know.

“Like, where downtown?”

Annie picks up a spoon with some hesitation, and stirs the chili. “I asked for beans,” she whispers. “But this isn’t what I meant.”

I’ve never seen someone look so sad about a stupid bowl of chili. And I’ve never wanted to protect someone from how sad they’re made by a stupid bowl of chili. “Want to send it back? We can send it back,” I reassure her. I bet this place gets stuff sent back all the time. Who cares? It’s a diner.

“No,” she says, laying the spoon aside. “There’s no point.”

She hides behind her hands for another long minute, and then drops them to stare at me. The camera whirs, and she hazes in and out of focus in a way that makes my eye ache.

“Maybe tell me what you were doing right before you went to the party,” I suggest. “Then we can figure out when you last had it on. Were you at home? Getting dressed? What?”

Annie looks up to the ceiling, lost in thought.

“Ummm.” She frowns. “I wasn’t at home. We had to go to my aunt’s house, very suddenly. We all left in a hurry.”

“Okay,” I say. “So if you left in a hurry, are you sure you remembered to take it with you? Could it just be at your house?”

“My house,” Annie repeats. Then her eyes widen as if she’s just remembered something. She looks intently at me, and clutches my arm across the table. “My house! Oh my God. Wes,” she says, voice low and fierce. “Do you know what a Luddite is?”

“Huh?”

I wonder if Maddie messed with the focus while we were filming her scene for Most. I can’t get it to stay in place. As soon as I focus on one part of Annie, the rest of her softens out of clarity. I have to keep the camera moving, to even see her. It’s super-annoying. I wonder if Tyler would have any suggestions.

“Luddites. Do you know what they are?” She’s looking at me so intently that it’s making me nervous.