Aurora

The northern lights are putting on a hell of a show for my birthday. Just as well cos they’re the only exciting thing in this damn town.

First, there’s an emerald green light rippling in vertical bands, like a curtain at an open window. Then deep pink waves closer to the horizon, followed by stripes of intense violet. Behind the aurora, thousands of stars shine in the darkness. And the full moon hangs heavy over the mountains, its light reflected on the sparkling snow.

When I was little, I thought there were diamonds in the snow at night. And that I’d be rich if I only I could collect them before they melted away.

I gasp for air as I pull my fur-lined parka closer to me. It’s hard to fill my lungs up here, though I don’t know what’s actually taking my breath away. Is it the beauty of the lights, the after-effects of my menthol cigarette, or the high-altitude air? Or could it be because it’s minus-30? Again.

Who would be stupid enough to drive up here on her own in January?

Me, of course. And now I’m late for my own birthday party. My fault for stopping off at Cree Lookout for a smoke on my way to the bowling alley. It’s not that I want to bail on the party – I don’t want to be the first person there. Or the only one.

Tonight the lookout belongs to me alone. In the summer, there would be traffic from my fellow teens on their way to make-out sessions. But not in January. Instead, everything’s covered in a thick powdery blanket. Only my footprints break up the solid plain of snow. It’s pretty sparse up here to begin with - there's a bench and a garbage can and nothing else.

Snow squeaks under my boots while I spark up another menthol. The flame illuminates the dark mountains for a moment, and I sense them looming over me.

I’m standing where the local tribe used to watch out for wild goats and sheep. And then the inevitable white traders with their whisky and smallpox-infested blankets. Maybe my ancestors hung out here. But who knows? I’m a mystery even to myself.

I always end up thinking about my birth parents on my birthday. And I shouldn’t, because it makes things worse. I used to hope that they were young, stupid and in love and that they’d be back for me someday.

But my foster mom says my mother was tragic, and now she’s dead, and my dad’s a total deadbeat that nobody’s heard from in years. What was wrong with me? Did they want a boy instead? Did I cry too much? I'll never know. But now I’m a healthy specimen at 17. Trying to be at one with the universe.

And at one with my migraine headache – I can feel the tendrils of pain moving up through the base of my skull. Why now? I need to get out of here before my aura starts. I so don't want flashing lights taking over my vision at the moment. Not great for driving down mountains.

I shoot a last look at the panorama above, which is even more intense through the lens of my migraine. Aside from occasional glimmers of moonlight, it’s almost pitch black on the ground. There are no streetlights cos the lookout’s not open to tourists out of season. It’s so dark that it’s hard to make out the shape of my car mere feet away.

Fortunately, I know these parts. Beyond the bench, there’s a sharp cliff overlooking the river, which I definitely want to avoid. I can hardly believe it now, but when I was 12, I jumped off that very cliff. I landed in the water, but I hadn’t planned to be dragged through the rapids. I’ve still got the scars on my legs.

I’m in no rush to repeat that experience, that’s for sure, especially in minus 30.

I look up one last time. Man, the aurora is even more beautiful. Now the pink and violet lights dance forward with the shimmering green as a backdrop.

I can't remember what makes them happen, but I'm glad they've come out tonight. I’ll have to ask the science teacher about the science of the aurora at school on Monday.

But for now, the lights are pure magic.

I stand for what seems like either seconds or hours, forgetting the cold, my cigarette, my car. The lights play together, dancing back and forth.

Where will I be this time next year? I take a deep, cold breath. If I want to go to university, it’ll be an uphill struggle - I don’t have the cash for fees, so I’ll have to work while I’m studying. And before anything else, I need to get through my final exams.

I stub out my cigarette on the car door and look down to see 7 pm flashing on my watch. Damn. I’m already late for the party. Not good. Time to get out of here.

But a strange feeling makes me pause before I open the car door. I can hear voices, but there’s no way someone’s followed me up here. I would’ve heard them.

When I look back over my shoulder, the green and purple lights have faded away. An intense burst of pure white has replaced them. And it’s coming towards me like a shooting star. It’s beautiful, but it’s making me anxious.

My feet stop working, and I’m stuck like a statue, with my hand glued to the open car door. And my brain fills up with static - like I’ve smashed head-first into a TV that’s stopped broadcasting for the night.

What the hell?

The white burst is making noise.

I can hear voices.

Am I losing it?

The starburst expands into a glowing ring, pulsing in front of me. The ring frames something that looks like a distant, gauzy painting. I inch forward to have a look.

Holy crap – I can see and hear moving figures like I’m watching a movie through a chiffon scarf.

And what I see is skiers racing down a mountain, pushing hard. It must be a competition. I recognise one of them– it's Sylvie Lebarge in her pink designer racing suit, blonde hair sailing out behind. She's our local ski champion and far from my favourite classmate. I'd rather chew my leg off than watch her compete.

Through the ring, I see Sylvie hurtling through slalom gates, curving and crouching. Flags whip in the wind, and the finish line is in sight. There’s a banner tied overhead reading “Western Rockies Ski and Snowboard Meet 1989”. Whoa – that’s next weekend.

Sylvie’s in the lead, swooshing close to the finish line. But then she makes a stupid mistake. She peeks over her shoulder and decides now is the time for trash-talking. “Eat my dirt!” she yells at the girl in second place.

But she’s missed something important. Something that makes me gasp with horror. Because there’s an unmistakable noise - a crack, followed by a rush of movement - avalanche!

She cries out, but it’s too late: a surge of snow meets her body, flips her over, and then in a second, she’s gone. Buried, not even a flash of pink in sight.

Back at Cree Lookout, I double over with pain. It feels like my head is about to explode, and I’m barely able to keep from throwing up in the snow.

I shuffle backwards towards my car, keeping my eyes on my boots.

I’m not looking at the sky again.

I don’t want to see any more.