Part 1

Grease hung in the air and stuck to the walls as Oriana scrubbed a glob of congealed ketchup on a table. Sweat hid beneath her turtleneck and she rolled her shoulders, feeling as though she had bathed in poison ivy.

“Game’s in an hour.” Brooke straightened a picture of a hockey team on the wall and dropped a box of salt on the table. Glittering salt granules bounced across the surface that Oriana had just wiped.

“I’m not sure I’m going.”

“People are talking,” Brooke said, unscrewing the top from the saltshaker. In the far corner, the conversation between two high schoolers was lost in the country tunes crackling over the diner’s speaker. “It’s not every day a new person moves to Spruce Valley, and they want to meet you.”

“They meet me when they come for their burger and milkshake fix.”

“That’s hardly the same thing.”

Oriana meandered down the single aisle of Sal’s and collected a plate piled with tiny bones. Her reflection gleamed in a framed snapshot of a moose, with Brooke’s bright eyes and bouncy ponytail reflected over her shoulder.

“I don’t curl.”

“No one cares. It’s not really about curling, anyway. If you don’t fill Fred’s spot, we can’t play, and if we can’t play, the beer tastes flat.”

Their eyes met in the frame. Brooke’s smile released some of the tension hidden beneath Oriana’s layers. Pursing her lips, Oriana turned from the picture and rolled her shoulders again, her back crawling.

“Miss Ori.” A bearded man in coveralls who Oriana could not recall meeting looked up from his burger. “How long you been in town? Three weeks?” He scraped his nail between his teeth, fished out a bit of lettuce, and licked it from his finger.

“Just under.”

“People ‘round here want to meet new folks and bring them into the community, but you keep avoiding people, you be known as an outsider forever.”

“I’m not avoiding.” Oriana glanced out the window at the highway disappearing between snow-covered fields. “I just don’t curl.”

“Go to that damn curling rink.”

“Don’t mind Len,” Brooke said, reaching across the man and unscrewing the saltshaker on his table. “He’s just doing his job as the local welcoming committee.”

The burly man picked more lettuce from his teeth. Oriana shot Brooke a look as she balanced on one foot and scratched her shin with the other.

“But he’s right.” Brooke topped up the shaker. Len flashed a meaty smile mid-chew.

Dozens of pictures looked down on Oriana as she headed to the kitchen, their stories speaking to her from behind plexiglass glazing. Hockey, curling, fishing, kids making snow angels, a group of older ladies with a table of pies. A town parade complete with flags, horses, and a line of tractors.

She turned around. “All I need is gloves?”

“I’d recommend a hat, too. The rink is effing cold.”

Len looked up from his burger, then down to Oriana’s feet. “You have other shoes?”

Oriana dropped her gaze to her sneakers, once white, now grey, their soles sticky with spilled pop.

“There’s a boot cleaner there,” Brooke said. “You’ll be fine.”

A photo of smiling men and women hoisting a trophy, curling brooms, and 1979 Championship banner over their heads whispered to Oriana. “All right,” she said with an uncertain smile. “You win. I’ll go, but don’t expect much.”

Half a moon lit the quiet street as Oriana’s shoes crunched over sidewalk salt and patches of ice. She and Brooke passed the Spruce Valley Hotel and the only grocery store in town, the glow of Sal’s behind them but the smell of grease lingering in her hair.

“You still haven’t told me what brought you to Spruce Valley,” Brooke said, breaking the silence.

Flashing red and blue lights dropped into Oriana’s mind and she was brought back to that dumpster in the alley, breath rushing and tears lining her face, a backpack of gold bricks pulling on her shoulders as sirens grew louder, then faded.