The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I lean my head back on the booth, staring up at the ceiling. Why do I always do this? Why do I let people barge into my life, spreading chaos? I let my mom persuade me to get that mushroom haircut that basically ruined junior year of high school. I let my high school girlfriend convince me we’d stay together after college started. Look how well that went. Barely a month into freshman year and I walk in on her tangled up with some Pike brother. In my room. I let Tyler convince me his project is some big art masterpiece that I should spend all my time on. I let Maddie drag me into abandoned buildings full of psychotic camera-stealing girls. I let Annie bail on me for no reason, all the time, and I never even say anything to her about it. What, do I not have enough chaos of my own to deal with? And now Eastlin thinks Annie’s some kind of thief. Whatever she is, she’s clearly completely messed up.

I fiddle with the video camera, reviewing the footage I took of Annie during breakfast. My heart contracts, as I watch it. She fades in an out of focus, my lens roving over her mouth, lingering on her mole. Her black eyes blink at me on digital video, red-rimmed and tired. I try a few different things to see what’s wrong with the focus, but I can’t figure it out.

I pull out my phone to text Tyler and see what he’s doing today. I’m also curious, I admit, to hear how Shuttered Eyes went down with the gallery person. I don’t want to be attracted by the electric snap of Tyler’s imminent success, and yet I am.

There’s a new text that came in while I was busy being pissed off.

It’s from Maddie.

Thanks for last night, it says. You doing anything later?

Last night. I can’t believe that Maddie was in my room just last night. I feel a sick twinge of guilt as I realize I fell asleep before I could follow up to make sure she got home okay. And I’ve been awake for hours now and haven’t texted her yet.

I am a huge jerk.

Hey, I text back. Maybe. What are you doing?

Is that cold? Maybe that’s too cold. I frown, and then add, I had a lot of fun last night, too.

Better.

Irritated, I shove the phone back in my shorts pocket, leave a heap of dollar bills on the table, and pack my camera into its padded bag. The table is cleared before I even have both legs out from the booth—breakfast rush. Basically kicking me out. Whatever. I shove my hands in my pockets and lope, head down, out of the diner to go find Tyler.

I stop short, though, when I see what’s going on outside.

It’s Annie. She’s got some kind of cloak on, and her back is pressed to the glass front diner window. She’s flailing her fists at nothing, thrashing her head, her eyes squinched closed, and she’s screaming. People pass her on the sidewalk, but nobody pays her any attention. In her weird frayed dress and cloak thing she probably just looks like a homeless person.

“Hey!” I shout, rushing up to her and putting my hands on her shoulders. “Whoa, Annie! Hey!”

I try to get ahold of her, but she’s thrashing so hard that I can’t get a good grip. Her shoulders are bony enough that they twist under my hands like eels. We struggle, and before I know what’s happened, there’s a crack and an eruption of stars rains down in my eyes.

“Jesus,” I slur, my hands flying to my jaw as I stagger backward. I taste copper on top of bacon grease, and I hock out a glob of metallic spit that lands in a wet red splotch on the pavement. I take my hand away from my jaw and look at my fingertips. They’re red with blood.

“Oh!” Annie cries. She’s opened her eyes and looks at me with a mixture of terror and concern, like it’s taking her a second to place me.

“What the hell, Annie?” I shout. Blood is running from my lower lip down my neck.

“Wes! It’s you!” she cries. She flies over to me and flings her arms around my waist. In a flash of blind anger I peel her off me, pushing her away.

“Where the hell did you go, huh?” I shout. “What is this?”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, raising a fingertip to my lip and touching it gently. The contact of her skin with mine makes me shiver despite the heat of the sun. “Did I hurt you? I did, didn’t I. I’m so sorry.”

Instantly I’m ashamed. Because she did hurt me, only not in the way that she means. “You have to stop doing that,” I say to her, my voice, catching in my throat. “You can’t just bail on me like that!”

“I didn’t mean to.” Her black eyes plead into mine. There’s an explanation in them, but I can’t see what it is.

“It’s . . .” I falter. “You didn’t even eat anything.”

“I know,” she says. The lower rims of her eyes glimmer with moisture.