1
Still Waters Run Deep
Paisley
My stomach is growling. It’s impossiblenotto hear it in the silence, but no one looks over. It’s right before dawn; most of the people in the bus are still asleep.
I carefully bend forward to dig my smartphone out of my bag without waking up the person next to me. Over the last sixteen hours, we’ve hardly exchanged a word. His shabby pinstripe suit—which seems about two sizes too large—suggests that he’s a businessman. Maybe not the mostsuccessfulbusinessman. I mean, this Minneapolis to Aspen bus isn’t exactly the epitome of comfort.
But it’s good enough for me. It’s bringing me farther. Taking me away.
To safety.
My bag falls back into the footwell when the bus jerks over a bump. I glance at my phone. 7:17 a.m. It can’t be much longer. My stomach is full of butterflies, and they’ve made it all the way to my fingertips. When I lean forward to try and peep through the yellowed bus curtains, the window fogs up. Warm streetlights shine across rippling snow. Rows of little cabins, one after the other, hereand there a lighted window. My glance wanders farther, across the snowy roofs toward a tall, white bell tower.
It’ll be a new beginning. A leap into the unknown. I’ll be on my own, but that doesn’t bother me at all.
It’s always been that way. And always will.
Above our heads, the ceiling lights flicker on before casting their butter-yellow glow throughout the bus. After two more curves, the loudspeaker begins to crackle, and the driver’s monotone voice comes through. “In a few minutes we’ll be reaching Aspen. This is the last stop. Please get off the bus, and remember to take your belongings with you. Thank you.”
With a deep sigh, I pick my ice skates up off the floor, press them to my chest, and look out the window. Before me, Aspen’s snow-covered peaks tower into the sky as if trying to reach the clouds.
So, this is it. My new home. The opportunity of a lifetime.
The bus stops and the doors open. Cold air slams into my face as I shoulder my jute bag, dig my fingers into the white leather of my skates, and step out into the open air behind the few other passengers. The snow crunches beneath my winter boots.
Between the wildly whirling flakes here and there, I can make out individual streetlights. The air is pure and clear. It smells of freedom. Peace. Aspen is exactly what I imagined it would be.
Magical.
Strands of my blond hair tickle my cheek as I tug my woolen cap farther down over my ears and begin to stomp through the snow. My stomach starts growling again. It’s got to be at least a day since I’ve eaten anything. Most recently, before…
No. I’m not going to think about it. It’s over. I refuse to allow this venom to poison my happiness and ruin it like a drop of oil in clean water.
The white sky is streaked with pink to announce the breaking day. Now I can see rows of little cabins across the middle of the mountains as if they’d just sprung out of Santa’s village.
A light to my right draws my attention. It’s coming from a building on the corner. Behind the large windows, an attractive woman is standing in front of a long counter, pushing cupcakes into a bakery display case.
Cupcakes… My mouth begins to water. My legs start moving before I can even put together my next thought.
A bell above the door rings when I step inside and shut out the cold behind me. I am enveloped by wonderful smells. I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath. Then I take a look around.
Red and black upholstered barstools alternate in front of the counter; some of the leather is cracked, and I can see the yellow foam underneath. Along the wall by the windows, there are a number of red upholstered booths with white tables in between. Crooked red letters above the old-fashioned jukebox tell me the name of the place:Kate’s Diner.
It’s breakfast time. I can smell pancakes, blueberries, and cinnamon. Chocolate, almonds, and honey. More, more, more—there’s just so much, and it’s so heavenly I could never really take it all in, no matter how long I tried to define the smells.
And coffee. I can smell coffee.
The flickering pink neon sign behind the counter—hotdogs, hamburgers, milkshakes—tells me that the menu changes according to the time of day.
I hear the door close behind me. My eyes flit across the pictures on the walls. One of them is a view of the city lit up at night. The lights look like fires surrounded by the snowy mountains that flank Aspen like a protective wall. The other pictures are full of…
Pigeons. Of every stripe and at all moments. One of them has colorful feathers. Another one is featured close-up, fixing its yellow eyes straight into the camera. And yet another one, head held high, is crouching next to…a petite pile of its business. With the words, “Be like a pigeon—don’t lose your shit!” written above it.
“Hey, sweetheart.” The thin woman with the polka-dottedapron smiles at me. Her eyes are the same warm chocolate brown as her cupcakes. The soles of her white canvas shoes make a delicate sound with every step she takes across the black-and-white tiled floor toward me. “How can I make your morning sweeter? You look like you could use an extra scoop of sugar.”
“Coffee,” I stammer. “And…scrambled eggs. Please.”
