The Time of Change

Who?

We walk together to the tiny nook of a coffeehouse, which is wedged between two bigger stores. The whole front wall is a giant window, so anyone strolling by can see the entirety of what lies within. The inside is warmly lit in gold, cozy and smells of freshly-roasted coffee beans. While the floor is a nicely-polished dark wood, the walls merely reflect the outside of the building: rough red brick held together by crumbling grayish mortar. Here and there hang clippings of praises from the local newspaper, The Ledger, and framed pieces of artwork created here in town, either by the elementary school or struggling artists around the city. Small armchairs nestle themselves deep into two of the four corners, a few resting idly along the walls, with an elongated glass-topped coffee table to separate them from the rest of the patrons. Chairs with stiff backs but comfy padded seats gather in pairs around a smattering of clunky wooden bistro tables.

As I open the glass door into the shop, releasing the tantalizing scent of glorious caffeine, a man in a blue-gray business suit almost barrels into me with his steaming cup. I realize a beat too late that it doesn't have a lid on it and privately thank the same hand of Fate I was cursing earlier. The man mumbles an apology at the same time I laugh nervously through my own, and I step about a yard to the left to let him through. John gives me a look of amusement, to which I reply with a noncommittal shrug and a straightening of his coat on my shoulders.

When we get inside, John predictably claims the table in the dead center of the room to be our territory. I ask him what he wants. "Whatever you're getting," he replies. "I'm not picky." He tries to pull out his wallet from his pants pocket, but I hold out my hand, shaking my head. Before he can object any further, I walk over to the girl at the bar, whom I recognize as a student in the grade below me at school. Her nametag reads Kristine. I smile sweetly and tell her I would like two quad-shot soy lattes with no foam and give her the money. She says it'll take a minute, then returns my smile.

"Annie?"

I turn around, receipt in hand. There is a figure in the doorway with its hand holding the door from closing on it. I know from the way he stands that it's Hunter. The setting sun makes him silhouetted against my work building across the street, but I can still recognize him like the back of my hand. I smile at him and walk over.

"Where were you after our free period?" he asks, his face finally coming into focus when I get closer, and he shuts the door. He still looks pale, like he did at school this morning. In the back of my mind, I worry that he's getting sick.

"I showed John around," I answer dumbly and gesture toward the accused sitting at the table.

"I think Ms. Jacobson meant around the school," Hunter tells me. There's something in his tone that sounds strange. I don't know what it is, but I know I don't like it.

"Is there a problem, Hunter?" I ask, folding my arms. I work to keep the denunciatory tone out of my voice. He glances at John, and I'm sure he didn't want me to notice, but I do. And so does John.

"Do you two know each other?" he asks John slightly viciously.

I look at the other boy, who hops up and walks toward us with a friendly smile. Holding out his hand, he replies cheerfully, "Yep! Hello, I'm Annalise's imaginary friend. I know it's against the rules for me to see her again, but I came back anyway." The last part is said in a conspiratorial whisper, and I let out a single chuckle under my breath.

Hunter isn't so amused. "What does that even mean?" he demands. "You just met today! How are you so close already? It took me three months to get her to talk to me!"

"Oh, I get it," says John softly after a beat of electric silence. Hunter doesn't hear him. The girl behind the counter calls to me, and I whip around to go pick up our coffees. He follows me as John sits back down, looking reminiscent as he stares at the wall.