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 highschoolers 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 gray, 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.
“I grew up in a small town and wanted to get back to that life,” Oriana said, focusing on keeping her voice steady. “I like the quiet.”
“You definitely came to the right place. There is nothing here.”
“You’ve been here your whole life?”
“Me and everyone else. You’re born here, and you die here. Some of the highway cops are from elsewhere, of course. There’s a new rookie,” Brooke said, hip-checking Oriana, “in case you are looking for a sweet somebody.”
“I’m good.” Oriana tugged her sleeves down to cover a flash of skin. “How far is the curling rink?”
“On the other side of town.” “Won’t we be late?”
Brooke laughed and lifted her chin. “It’s that building over there. Right beside the pool.” “I didn’t know Spruce Valley had a pool.”
“Outdoor. It’s great, but on hot days, you need to get there first thing because all the city folk flock here.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s really nice. Three waterslides and everything. Hey, we should go this summer.” Brooke hip-checked Oriana again.
“Thanks, but I’m good. I’m not much of a water person.” She pictured the sun throwing sparkles off her wet body, and she wrapped her arms around herself in a hug.
“At the very least, we could lounge in the pool chairs. Who knows . . . maybe the rookie cop will be there.”
Oriana forced a smile and nodded.
They pushed through the doors of the curling rink and Brooke showed Oriana the boot cleaner. “Hey, Oriana,” a woman said as the machine whirled away pop and grime. “Ready to destroy the pharmacy staff?”
“Pardon me?” Oriana turned but the woman was already through the second set of doors and in the rink.
“Clean enough,” Brooke said and pulled Oriana through the same doors.
Four sheets stretched the length of the building—two with ice and two of bare concrete, and the air tingled Oriana’s face as though they were still outside. The ceiling curved overhead, championship banners hung on the walls, and voices bounced around the space in an echoing jumble.
“Here,” Brooke said, holding out a couple of floppy pieces of rubber. “What’s that?”
“Grippers. You put them over your shoes so you don’t slip. You can borrow my extra slider, though. No one knows what happened to the club ones.”
“You guys don’t flood all the lanes?” Oriana asked as she squeezed her shoe into a gripper. “Sheets. And we used to, but our scraper is on the fritz. Doug owns the hardware store and is a part-time mechanic. He fixed the scraper enough to do the job but figures it’ll last longer if we only have two sheets going. We had to finagle the schedule a bit to make it work but at least we can still curl.”
“Oriana!” A woman Oriana vaguely recognized waved a broom in their direction and wandered over. She threw her arms around Oriana, crushing the air from her body while floral perfume drifted around them. “Glad you could join us,” the woman said, releasing her death hug. A seam
along the inside of Oriana’s shirt caught just below her armpit and she shimmied her arm until the fabric let go.
“Fred apologized for not being here but with the seed sale, he said he had no choice. He could probably do it all online but you know Fred . . . everything has to be in person. Honestly though, you’ll probably rock curling and completely replace him.” The woman winked, wrinkled face crinkling and pink lipstick stretched in a grin. “Pun intended. Anyhoo, how’s Sal’s going? I hear they had you clean out the grease traps on your second day.”
“Oh . . . Yeah, it was definitely an interesting introduction to the job. I’m sorry, but you are…?” The woman flinched as though slapped. “Gayle Boyko. We own Boyko Hardware.”
“Right.” Oriana reached her hand out to shake Gayle’s, making sure her sleeve didn’t ride up as she extended her arm. “I’m Oriana, but I guess you already knew that.”
“Honey, the moment someone walks into town, everyone knows it. Doug!” Gayle yelled, turning around. “Our team is here.”
Doug looked up briefly, then readjusted the John Deere cap perched high on his head and turned back to the racks of curling stones. Another man turned a stone over and Doug traced his fingers along the base.
“I know that look,” Gayle said. “This is not good.”
Doug wandered over, ringing his hat in his hands. His salt-and-pepper hair stuck up at odd angles, matching his bushy moustache. “Brooke,” he said with a nod. “Oriana. Glad you could make it.”
“It’s the bonspiel,” he said, turning to Gayle. “They’re moving it to Sunridge.” “But they said it could work with only two sheets.”
“It’s the rocks. They are due for papering and aren’t bonspiel-worthy in their current shape.”
“Then let’s get them sanded.”
“I’m looking into it,” Doug said, wringing his cap again. “But it’s too late for this year.
Hopefully we can host next year if we scrape up enough money to get the rocks done.”
“We could do a fundraiser,” Brooke said.
“We have to do something.” Gayle ran her gloved hand over the end of her broom and shook her head. “If we can’t host two years in a row, Sunridge is never going to let us forget it.”
* * *
The town was deep in sleepy silence as Oriana strolled up the cracked sidewalk to her rental house. Even the highway was empty. The taste of beer lingered in her mouth as she tossed her hat and mitts on the top of the closet and hung her coat on the hook. Her belly still ached from laughter, and the beer had numbed her burning skin as strangers took her in like they had known her their entire life. She had built friendships in a matter of hours, and now had a group of people—a whole community—who she could lean on in a pinch. As long as…
Oriana’s smile fell and she wandered past her living room outfitted with two lawn chairs, and down the bare hallway to the bathroom. She flipped the light switch and steadied herself in front of the mirror. With a deep breath, she pulled the turtleneck over her head and dropped it on the floor. Sparkles shimmered off her body, and the slightest movement threw spots of light over the mirror and bathroom walls as though she were a disco ball.
Oriana undid the button on her jeans and let them drop to her ankles. More sparkles bounced from her golden legs. Her fingers bumped over the few bare spots that had almost grown in— almost healed—the scales thicker in those spots.
Pursing her lips, Oriana leaned close to the mirror and tried to find the Sharpie mark she had made on her breastbone but there were just leaves of gold. She palpated the area, trying to
remember exactly where she had drawn the border, and if the gold had already grown over the line or if sweat had whisked the black away.
She ran the timeline through her head: seven months, three weeks, and two days since the belly ring piercing. She placed her hand over her bellybutton and thought back to when the scales had first appeared—a cute golden aura that was maybe an allergic reaction, maybe flakes from the belly ring settling on her skin.
Turning from the mirror, Oriana headed for the master bedroom and plunked herself on the floor. She pulled a cardboard box towards her and rummaged through until she found the box of bubble-wrap envelopes. Only seven remained from a pack of twenty-five. Grabbing her Sharpie, she crossed her legs and began writing on an envelope:
Spruce Valley Curling Rink – Donation – Anonymous
Oriana placed the envelope on the carpet and found her pocketknife and alcohol wipes in the box. The knife’s blade reflected Oriana’s golden scales as she unfolded it, sending more sparkles across the wall.
The front door, the open highway, called to Oriana but she turned to her phone, found her playlist, and cranked the volume.
As the moan of a cello filled the room, Oriana fished a ceramic mug and a plastic bowl from the box. Bracing the mug upside down against the worn carpet, she dragged the knife’s blade across the edge again and again, her focus locked on the soothing, rhythmic process.
The smell of alcohol and cleaner pricked at Oriana as she pulled a wipe from its packaging. She blocked the outside world from her mind and concentrated on cleaning the sharpened blade, ensuring every inch was disinfected. With her playlist carrying from her phone and filling the room with something normal, Oriana began to peel.
She started on her forearm. She slipped the blade under a golden scale, then pressed down and winced. Biting her tongue and focusing on the melody that danced around her, she pulled back on the knife, a two-inch length of glittering gold coming with it. The raw skin beneath oozed pink. Oriana cleaned the back of the golden piece with a fresh alcohol wipe and placed the glittering flake in the bowl.
Next, Oriana moved to the side of her elbow, mindful of the painful lesson that creases do not heal quickly, and repeated the process.
An hour later, as the battery on her phone burned red, Oriana laid a final piece of gold on top of the pile in the bowl. Body on fire, she gathered the golden flakes in her hands and began to squeeze and shape as though she were merely fashioning a snowball.
When she was satisfied, Oriana dropped the palm-sized brick of gold into the envelope and sealed it. She plugged her phone into the wall, found the next playlist, and rifled through the box for her first aid kit.
Fire ripped through Oriana as she cleaned the open wounds and spread ointment over every oozing pink patch. The roll of bandage fumbled in her grasp as she covered the open spots until she looked part mummy, part chryselephantine sculpture.
With the box’s contents returned and tucked away for another day, Oriana slipped her pajamas over her head, tucked the bulging envelope under her pillow, and settled under the covers. As her lids grew heavy, her thoughts drifted to her new temporary family and how they would proudly cut a ribbon in front of their renovated curling rink.