Dance Till I Die (gxg) ✓

"Starlight"

         Isla was ten. Rain streaked across the soccer field. The ball danced in front of her, guided by her small legs, and she deftly avoided each of the other players.

         From the bleachers, a single voice was louder than the others.

        "That's my daughter! That's my daughter! Do you see that? Do you see her?"

         Ace, shouting above the crowd.

         There was a small smile on Isla's lips as she kicked the ball towards the net.

         It slipped past the goalie's fingertips. Point. 

         Half of the crowd exploded. Uproarious cheering.

         Isla's teammates tackled her, knocking her to the ground. One of them, though―a little boy with red hair―stood off to the distance with a growl on his face.

          "Hey, Isla," he sneered. "Watch this."

          There was a soccer ball in front of him. He kicked it with completely terrible aim, but it knocked Isla back anyway.

          The grin on her face disappeared as she rose to her feet.

          "Cory," she said. Her teammates pulled back as she advanced on him. "What's your problem?"

          "You're a girl," he snapped. "You shouldn't be so good at playing sports. It's not fair."

          "How's this for fair?" 

          With a high roundhouse kick, Cory flew back.

          The crowd went wild.

          Mavis had never seen Ace so proud.

          An Alaskan malamute nuzzled the palm of Isla's hand. She was eleven. She giggled, tugging on Ace's sleeve. "Look! Look! Mace is kissing me. Isn't he so cute?"

         "Yes, he is cute."

         "Can we keep him? Please?"

         Ace hesitated. It was true―a dog was much better than a dragon. 

         "Fine, but you have to take care of―"

         Ace didn't get to finish. Isla was already hugging her, cheering, "Mace! Mace! Mace!"

         Isla was laughing, her dark eyes bright and glittering. She was a teenager. There was flour on her I'm A Ninja apron, and sugar dusted on her cheeks. She was leaning over a disastrous bowl of cake batter, attempting to crack an egg. And there . . . there was Ace. Older. With laugh lines―laugh lines. Her blonde hair was silvery now. "Mom, if you don't know how to measure out cocoa powder, just say so . . ."

          Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood echoed from the speakers in Isla's room. Wearing cuffed jeans, rainbow socks, and a pink-purple-blue pin, she skipped down the stairs.

         "Mom?"

         "Yes?"

         "I have a girlfriend."

         "I know, kiska. I already did a criminal background check on her."

          Isla was an adult. She sat across from Ace at a table. Outside, soft winter snow flurried down through the window. She leaned towards Ace, and there were tears in her eyes.

         "What is it, malen'kiy nindzya?" Little ninja.

         "I want you to walk me down the aisle, if that's okay with you . . ."

        "There is no greater honor."

       "She's been a good friend," Isla wept, burying her face in the dog's soft fur. "I love her so, so much."

       "It will be a painless death," the doctor assured them. "Mace won't feel a thing. She's been suffering for so long . . ."

        "It will be okay," Ace said, her blue eyes dark. "Mace has lived a long life, and now he's going to heaven . . ."

        Isla cradled her swollen stomach. "I just wish he could meet my babies."

        "He is going to see Mavis," Ace promised her. She was so beautiful―they both were. "They are both watching us, you know."

       "I'm scared," Isla said, choking back a sob. "What if they're not? I'm going to miss you, Mace . . ."

        Ace was sitting on a rocking chair. Silver hair was silhouetted in soft spring light. The flowers in the garden were bright and blossoming, ripe with colour. Her expression of weariness faded when a small child climbed into her lap, pinching her fragile, weathered cheeks.

        "Be gentle with Babushka, Eloise," chided Isla's voice.

        "What do you think I am?" Ace said in a stoic voice. "Old?"

        The little girl laughed, and a boy joined her. He tugged at a piece of Ace's silvery hair and said, "Mommy says you were a Russian assassin. Is that true?"

       "Let me tell you a story . . ."

       A woman was laying in a hospital bed, almost unrecognizable, as Isla bent down to her side. "I love you, Mom. You know that, right?"

       "Don't be silly," said the woman with a faint Russian accent. "Of course I know that. I am not stupid."

       Isla laughed weakly. "I know I'm your last goodbye, but I . . . I'm scared."

       "I want you to be happy," Ace whispered.

       "I'll miss you."

       "I know," Ace said gently. "But I can see it now . . ."

       Her blue eyes, framed by crinkled lines, traveled into the distance. Beyond Isla. Beyond the window. A clear summer night, with the northern star piercing the black velvet night.

       And her gaze . . . it found Mavis. Somehow, it found her. And she smiled softly, whispering, "What took you so long?"

       Isla was crying now, squeezing Ace's hand. "Mom, who are you talking to?"

      "I was waiting for you," Mavis whispered.

      "Is it time?" Ace breathed. The heart monitor went silent. She was eighty-five. Her time of death was 1:06 a.m. on a hot spring night in March. "You never answered my question."

       Mavis remembered the four words, forming on Ace's lips just before―

       "What did you ask?" she said, though she already knew.

        Ace's blue eyes were bright and soft, glossy with a sheen of liquid night. "Will you marry me?"

       Mavis laughed, and the world dissolved into starlight.