Page 19 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I set the cup down and reach for my battered old messenger bag on the floor beside me. I pull out a notebook with a tie dye pattern on the front and flip to the page where I’ve written out a bullet point list of options.

I watch Kenzie’s eyes scan over them after I hand her the book.

Her questions were all either predictable or super technical:

What’s the proudest moment of your highland career?

What dance do you find the hardest to perform, and how have you overcome that?

What is your pre-competition routine?

To be fair, I have a few questions like that too, but I also went a more unorthodox route with some of them.

“How the hell am I supposed to answer that?”

Kenzie flips the book around and taps on one of the questions. I squint to read it and then laugh.

“You’re supposed to answer it creatively, and maybe with a bit of humor, if that’s something you’re capable of.”

The deadpan stare she gives me proves she is at least fluent in sarcasm.

“So how would you answer it?” she asks.

I nod at the paper. “You have to actually ask me the question. Let’s do a practice round.”

She stares me down for another second, and when all I do is adjust myself in my chair and grin at her, she gives in.

“Moira Murray,” she begins in a surprisingly convincing news reporter voice.

It’s also surprisingly sexy. I make myself focus extra hard on how annoying and uncooperative she’s being to chase the thought away.

“If the Irish washerwoman character from the jig could talk, what would she be saying during the dance?”

I see the corner of her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.

It is a pretty good question.

The Irish jig—confusingly the name for a Scottish dance inspired by Irish dancing—is a crowd favourite. It requires special shoes with metal-capped wooden heels that make a satisfying clacking sound and a whole outfit of its own consisting of a red or green dress and white apron.

One of the stories told about the character the dancer is meant to embody is that she’s an irate Irish washerwoman who’s had her clothes stolen off the line by a mischievous leprechaun.

You really cannot make this shit up.

“Well, Kenzie, I think the washerwoman would say something like this.”

I clear my throat and raise my hand in a fist, shaking it the same way you’re supposed to do during the dance. I put on my best Irish-inspired scowl, the one that’s won me countless jig awards over the years.

“Aye, you wee mongrel!” I shout in a squeaky attempt at an Irish accent. “Those are me husband’s bloomers, you thieving green devil! Bring back me knickers right now, you wee scoundrel!”

I don’t realize there’s a barista wiping the table directly behind us until her snort makes me turn my head. She pretends to be extra focused on the rag in her hand when I glance her way.

I look back at Kenzie and find her lips pressed together and her cheeks ballooning out from her attempt to hold in a laugh of her own.

“Does that answer your question, dear interviewer?”

She takes a deep breath through her nose. “Why, yes. Yes, it does.”

“Now it’s your turn.”

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