Page 20 of M.M. Scrooge
“No, Max.” His voice drops an octave. “We’re not.”
The silence between us stretches wide. The longer it remains, the tighter my shoulders get and the bigger the knot in my stomach grows.
“So, what’s my lesson? Why am I here?”
A sharp smile splits Tristan’s face, revealing a row of pearly white teeth. “Good boy, Max, asking for what you need. This time use your manners. Say ‘please.’”
This grates. The muscles in my jaw twitch. I hold back the protest on the tip of my tongue and get on with it. “What’s my lesson, please?”
“Very good. I knew you could do it. Remember your manners, and I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” Tristan glances over his shoulder.
I follow his gaze and startle. Bogey hovers over us as if floating rather than standing, his tattered black rags flowing around him. His presence darkens the room, bringing shadows and the dank smell of every basement everywhere along with him.
A chill seizes my spine and squeezes.
“If you would, please,” Tristan says to Bogey, who waves his skinny gray arm. The world beneath us drops.
My stomach’s in my throat, but the fall is blessedly short-lived. I land feet first, fail to catch myself, and thud to my ass.
We’re on a narrow street. It’s twilight. Lamps flicker overhead, illuminating a row of metered parallel parking, the sidewalk, little shops. I recognize this place. Gate Street is a short walk from campus, with not one but two little bookstores, an Italian bistro with outdoor seating, a coffee shop, a corner pub, and an eclectic gift store for people who like seasonal yard flags and smirking garden gnomes.
We used to grab a coffee here after class. If we killed an hour or so, my roommate would be gone by the time we returned to the dorms, and we could have the room to ourselves all evening. Those were some good times.
I’m perplexed. “Why here?”
“Shh.” Tristan takes my hand just like he used to, and we cross the street to the sidewalk, heading past the bookshop toward the rich scent of brewing coffee. “Just watch.”
Around us, a little slice of life snaps into focus. Other students, dusty cars, a kid on rollerblades who nearly mows us over, but Tristan jerks me closer to his side and out of the way. People chatter. Silverware clinks at the Italian place, pasta sauce and garlic aromatizing the air.
Up ahead, a line extends maybe ten people deep outside the open door of Bee’s Brews. The original owner was Beatrice Foust, Bee for short. Even though she sold the place a decade before Tristan and I made it to university, that catchy name stuck. A line that long was normal for Bee’s, and the staff were quick about getting people through.
Tristan tugs my hand. “Wait here.”
We stop.
What are we waiting for? One by one, customers exit the shop with sunny yellow paper cups full of steaming goodness in hand, but the line never gets any shorter because more students are always filing into the back of it.
What does Tristan want me to see here?
My gaze flits from one side of the street to the other, toward campus, and there we are, Tristan and me, nearly a decade younger, still hand in hand, making our way toward the siren’s call of caffeine.
Feeling nostalgic, I squeeze his hand in mine. We have some nice memories together, Tristan and I, even if we didn’t last all that long. I’m relieved this won’t be as bad as my first lesson. It couldn’t be, though this particular memory is fuzzy. We got coffee a lot. This could be any day.
“But it’s not any day, Max. Pay attention.”
I whip my head to face him. “Are you reading my mind?”
He gives a one-shouldered shrug, as if this is no big deal. Of course. Caleb wasn’t Caleb. He was a figment so the real Caleb wouldn’t have to relive a bad memory. So…is the man next to me even Tristan? Whose hand am I holding? Is he real? Or a demon like Bogey but in fancier skin?
I let go of his hand and shake him off. He only laughs and points to the younger Max and Tristan as we approach the back of the line.
Young Tristan’s face lights up as he recognizes a group ahead of us. They haven’t noticed our arrival, but Tristan is obviously excited to see them. Until I steer him away.
“Let’s go to the bookshop instead,” young me suggests.
He frowns. “But that’s Reese and Elise up ahead. I want to say hi.”
Young me links our elbows and physically tugs him the other way. “Reese is an idiot.”
