Free The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen by Katherine Howe Page A

still haven’t showered, my hair is sticking up in all different directions from having been slept on, my chin is bristly, and I think I’m starting to look kind of sketchy, hanging out here all day.
    But I told Annie I’d wait.
    So I’ve been waiting.
    â€œThis guy,” the register guy says again. I don’t pay any attention. “What, he thinks real estate is free in New York?”
    There’s a pause, and then I feel eyes on my back.
    â€œHuh?” I say.
    â€œYou gonna sit in here all day?” the guy barks at me. Having abused his underling enough, I guess now it’s my turn. He must be really great to work for. Man.
    â€œUm . . .” I pause, trying to come up with the right response. I guess it’s whatever keeps my ass from getting kicked.
    Dammit. I told her I would wait here ’til she came back. I can’t stand the thought of breaking my word to her. Anyway, I need her to sign the stupid form. This guy is thinking about rearranging my face into a Cubist painting, and it’s all for nothing.
    â€œThis is a respectable business, you know,” the guy continues.
    â€œPaul,” the Roman-looking kid says, putting a hand on his sleeve. “He’s been buying slices. He’s okay.”
    I spread my hands in a what-can-I-do? sort of gesture, and smile my most apologetic, nice-guy-from-the-Midwest smile. I don’t know if those really work in New York, though. Paul glares at me. So much for my big plan of interviewing Paul to kill more time.
    â€œSorry,” I mutter. I pull out my phone, checking for I don’t know what. Do I think she’d have texted me? It’s not like she knows my last name.
    Instead, I find half a dozen texts from Tyler, wanting to know where I am and what’s happening. If I don’t get the release he has to cut the footage she’s in, and he’s running out of time before fiction workshop, and he’s going to kick my ass and I’d better text him back.
    Great. Just really terrific.
    I stuff my camera into my backpack, toss a dollar onto the Formica countertop next to my greasy napkins and stack of paper plates, and slink out of the pizzeria. But on the stoop I hesitate.
    I mean, I can’t just
leave
.
    I try the door to the town house, but it’s locked. Outside the front door there’s a row of brass mail slots, the kind that open with a small key, and an intercom buzzer with peeling paper labels stuck next to each button.
    I spend a long minute inspecting the buzzer, daring myself to push one of the buttons and get let in. There’s one that says FATIMA , which I think is for the palm reader. Then there’s one that says EINBERG , with the first letter missing, and one that says HERNANDEZ in pretty cursive. The other four are either blank, or whitened from rain.
    I cup my hands around my eyes and peer into the stairwell, blocking out the yellow summer sun. Honestly, other than the palm reader on the second floor, it doesn’t look like the apartments are occupied. No window-unit air conditioners jut out over the street. No window propped open with a spinning box fan. No catalogues on the floor. No menus.
    I take a deep breath, roll my head back and forth on my shoulders to loosen up, and push my thumb against one of the unlabeled buzzers.
    Nothing happens.
    â€œDammit,” I say aloud, stepping back to look up at the indifferent façade of the town house. It stares back at me, giving away nothing.
    I don’t understand. She definitely hasn’t left. I’d have seen her. I was sitting right by the pizzeria window. I had a clear view of the apartment building door. I watched the door the entire time, even when I was filming the Roman kid.
    I push the buzzer labeled EINBERG .
    Nothing.
    â€œHa,” a voice laughs behind me. “Good luck with that.”
    â€œHuh?” I spin, startled.
    I’m met with the amused expression of Maddie, in cutoffs