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is where the Wendy Von Schmedlers and Leslies and Gossips and fashionistas all hang out. It’s where the PBVs drape themselves over the overstuffed red velvet couches and order complicated coffee drinks. It’s probably where I’d go, too, if I weren’t likely to spend my time there fending off insults or being asked to do people’s homework while they make out in the corner.
    Instead, I’ve become a regular at Any Time Now. And the truth is, the place has grown on me.
    I walk in and admire the new scene. Any Time Now is run by Hanna Fisher, who graduated from Weston High and had a short-lived but fruitful adventure in Hollywood (she was that pretty-but-quirky redhead on that oceanside teen series). When she came back to town, she opened Any Time Now and decorated it with “borrowed” props from various film sets and television sound stages in LA.
    I know all this only because I am such a frequent customer that she tends not to mind if I stay past closing time. She even lets me have free refills on the frozen hot chocolate, the house specialty.
    “Look what the lion dragged in,” Hanna says from behind the counter, when I walk in.
    “I think the expression is, look what the cat dragged in.” I look around for a table.
    “You’re way too literal, Cyrie.” Hanna folds napkins into neat piles, stacking them so they alternate colors. “Of course that’s the expression, but it never made much sense to me. Sure, a cat could drag in a dead mouse or a wounded bird or something, but it couldn’t possibly drag in a human. So I substitute lion. Gimme a little space.” She smiles at me and adjusts her bonnet.
    Normally, the sight of a woman in a bonnet might be surprising, considering I live nowhere near Amish country. But in Any Time Now, I have come to expect anything. Or rather, nothing surprises me in here.
    Any Time Now’s “thing,” as Hanna calls it, is that its decor, food, music, and overall air changes every month. One day a month, usually the last Sunday, she closes the doors, papers shut the windows, and spends hours upon hours with her staff changing the entire restaurant. Last month the whole thing was a Grecian Palace, with the baristas in glamorized togas, white columns adorning the dining area, faux marble painted onto the counter, vines and grape leaves draped from the ceiling, and amazing Greek food served on platters.
    Today, I am standing in an amazingly near-perfect replica of a Victorian tea shop. Standing lamps with ornate glass shades cast soft hues of light onto layered rugs. Little round tables, covered by cloths, are topped with three-tiered trays that hold a bounty of finger sandwiches and pastries.
    “Celedon? Darjeeling?” Hanna offers.
    “Don’t call me Darjeeling.” I smirk and point to a black raspberry tea on the handwritten menus. “And I’ll take a scone while you’re at it. Please.”
    Hanna flits off to deal with other customers and leaves me with a dark blue cloak and bonnet, just in case I want to dress up in theme. Which I don’t. Whenever the theme changes, Hanna hangs up extra costumes on the coat rack in hopes people will join in and wear flapper outfits, or kimonos, or—in this case—Victorian garb. I drape the cloak over the handrail, and clear a table so there’s enough room for my various books and binders.
    I look at the frenzied list we drew up of possible auction items, but before I get sucked into thinking about that, I make myself focus on the task at hand. The task being—college applications and essays.
    The applications I’ll do mainly online, but the essays take more time. Mr. Reynolds says he has a fail-proof formula for college essays, but he’ll only show it to us after we’ve written a draft of our own.
    “Here you are, Miss,” trills Hanna in a fake, though totally believable, English accent. “Scones and cream tea.”
    She sets a currant-dotted scone in front of me and stares a little too long at my face. My hand instantly flies to my