I should have noticed the Starbucks is busy. My mind was set on looking in the bookstore for a shirt, a hat, maybe a sweatshirt. No books, actually. Just merch.

It took me a bit to decide. I wanted something that wasn’t there. Something I had seen on someone else. I comb the racks, touching sleeves, wishing this fabric matched that logo.

Noticing the lateness of the time, 1:39, I pass up the hoodie and settle on the charcoal grey sweatshirt (to be an adult about it) that I’m more likely to grab in the future, and head to the counter to checkout.

By the time I’m in the short line for coffee (why didn’t I order first?) I see all the people standing around, presumably waiting for orders, with different states of anticipation. Many are grouped in threes.

I order the usual, grande iced coffee, cream, no classic in a personal cup. Then I take my place in the middle of the awkward waiting space near the counter, where everyone expects they are next.

I hear a young voice behind me ask “Why does that man have a backpack?”

The motherly voice responds. “Maybe he’s a student.”

“Isn’t he too old to be a student?”

I steal a glance at the boy, round cheeks and short, blonde hair, messy in a way that fits the age. Probably seven. Or a big six.

The boy is sitting next to a young girl, his little sister, no doubt. They seem happy.

“Maybe he works there.”

“He has one of those tags on his shirt. He must work there,” the young voice said. There was such confidence in his voice; someone my age must work, not learn.

I look at my phone to pass the time, waiting, checking the time again. 1:52. My mentor taps me on the shoulder as he walks by, a pickup order in hand, “You’re going to be late!”

The numbers dwindle, but mobile ordering makes havoc of the order. I turn back to look again at the boy who called me old, but he’s gone.

Only another minute now and my order will be called. I still might beat him to class.