The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“NYU,” Tyler says, appearing at the counter between us. “I’m doing an experimental film. It’s a non-narrative, multimedia, post-visual exploration of transcendent states. He’s just helping me out.”


Tyler reaches across us and helps himself to my second slice with a superior grin of acquisition. I glower at him.

“Um.” The girl with 1950s bangs suppresses a smile. “You don’t say.”

She eyes Tyler, and I watch her take in his skinny black jeans and faded Ramones T-shirt that he probably got at Urban Outfitters. I look down at my own utterly nondescript polo and cargo shorts from the Target in suburban Madison, Wisconsin, and frown.

“NYU, huh? That’s great,” she says in a way that suggests she doesn’t necessarily think it’s great.

“I . . . ,” I stammer. “I don’t really go to NYU. I mean, I want to. But it’s just summer school.”

“He thinks if he makes a good enough film, they’ll let him transfer.” Tyler smirks. “Then he can go for real.”

My ears flush purple. Dick. It’s true, though. It’s the one thing I want most in the world.

“Oh yeah? You any good?” she asks me.

I start to answer when Tyler interrupts through a mouthful of my pizza. “We should get going, dude. We’ve got the lab starting in twenty minutes.”

“Right,” I say. But I don’t make a move to leave. I want to tell her that yeah, actually, I am pretty good. But I’m afraid if I say that out loud the universe will hear me, and then I’ll be jinxing myself.

“Well,” the girl says, toying with a crust. “Thanks for the pizza, anyway.”

“Sure,” I say. “No problem.”

Tyler sighs loudly. “I’m Tyler,” he says to the girl. “And this is Wes. And Wes has got to be going now. Come on, man.”

I glare at Tyler in a way that I hope will set the gel in his hair on fire, but nothing happens.

“Well, Tyler and Wes,” she says. One pale eyebrow arches at me. “It’s been real.”

“I . . . ,” I start to say. There’s got to be a right thing for me to say, right now. Nothing good comes to mind, though, and Tyler is already outside with half the bags, flagging down a cab.

The girl pulls out a phone and snaps my picture. I’m embarrassed. I always look weird in pictures. My hair sticks up in this wavy way that I hate, and pictures make my nose look huge. Plus I’m too tall, so in group pictures the top of my head is always cut off.

She smiles mysteriously at me and whispers, “I see you, Wes.”

A strange shiver travels around behind my ears when she says this.

“I’ve got to go. Sorry,” I mumble.

“Sure.” She smiles that one-sided smile again, looking at her phone instead of me.

“But, listen,” I say in a rush of unaccustomed courage. “Can I know your name?” I’m not about to make the same mistake twice in one night, and not ask. Not even I am that stupid.

Her smile spreads, lighting up her eyes, and she leans in close to my ear.

“I see you, Wes,” she whispers again. Her lips hover so near to my ear that I can feel her breath on my skin. It makes my ear tingle.

“What?” I whisper back, confused.

“Dude!” Tyler hollers from the corner. “Come on, let’s go!”

Her smile goes sphinxlike.

Baffled, I gather my stuff, keeping one eye on her as I sling bags over my shoulder and toss a crumpled dollar bill onto the counter. With a last glance at her, which she meets with a slow, silent wave, I turn and lope out of the pizzeria. Tyler’s loading equipment into the trunk of a cab when I arrive puffing next to him.

“Hey, you see that girl come out?” he says to me.

“What?”

“That girl. The one who was blocking my shot. Did you see her come out?”

I glance back at the pizzeria and observe the tattooed girl with 1950s bangs collecting my pizza crusts and dollar tip and loading them into her backpack. Weird.

“No.” I pause.