Page 41 of The Devil Wears Tartan

“All right, maestro, play the music,” I announce when I’m ready.

She gets the song going on her phone, bumping the volume up as loud as it will go. I shift our chairs all the way back against the wall and then assume the typical highland starting position, with my heels pressed together and my hands resting in fists against my waist.

Chad Kroeger starts rasping about an old photo of his high school friends, and I do my best to channel my goofball eleven-year-old self.

I don’t even realize what my body’s doing until I’m halfway through a turn a few moments later and hear Kenzie laugh. I amp up the drama a little, incorporating a flowy step from the Lilt, and she whoops.

“It was cheesier than that, Moira.”

I resist the urge to flip her off and continue floating my arms in a wide circle instead.

“More drama!” she shouts.

I roll my eyes but don’t stop moving. “If you remember it so well, why don’t you come do it too?”

That gets her to be quiet.

“What, Kenzie?” I tease. “Too scared to join me? Too scared I might be better than you?”

I should have known that would get her up off the floor. She springs to her feet from where she’s been crouching beside the tripod and stomps over to stand beside me.

“This part will not be in the interview,” she says, pointing back at the camera, “but I’m not about to let you say you’re better and get away with it.”

She assumes the same starting position I did, and I stop my ridiculous routine to mirror her pose in front of her. With our fists still pressed to our sides, we bend at the waist to bow to each other.

The music builds, and then the chorus hits.

Kenzie jumps into action, busting out a complicated dance called the Tribute to JL McKenzie, with some added ballet-style flourishes thrown in. I up my game with some moves from the Flora and twist my face into an exaggerated grimace, like Chad’s growled nostalgia is piercing my very soul.

We hardly have any room to move, and we keep bumping into each other, shouting and laughing the whole time.

Just when I’m getting confident I’ve got an edge on her and will be the video’s clear winner, Kenzie dashes over to grab the nearest framed family photo off the wall and starts using it to mime out the song’s lyrics as she dances.

So of course, I have to do the same.

By the time the song winds down, we’re both panting and sweating, wrapping up our final spins with photos of my smiling family all decked out in tartan clutched dramatically to our chests.

I hold my final pose for a second after the music stops before I collapse down on my ass on the floor. Kenzie stumbles into a seat on one of the wicker chairs.

“Dramatic enough for you?” I say between gasps for air.

She lifts her hand to wiggle it in a ‘so-so’ gesture, and I let myself drop flat on my back as I groan up at the ceiling.

“You are impossible, Kenzie Andrianakis.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

I shift to prop myself up on my elbows, prepared to say something along the lines of ‘the hell I do,’ but when I look at her sprawled in the chair as she smirks at me, the words die in my throat.

Her cheeks are pink, her forehead slick with sweat that makes the stray hairs she pushes back stick to her skin. Her typical brutally tight ponytail has loosened, and her face looks softer when it’s framed by a few wayward locks of dark brown hair.

Her chest is heaving, and her collapsed posture has her legs spread wide enough to make her tartan skirt rise halfway up her thighs. My throat goes dry as I imagine crawling over to kneel in front of her and slide the red and white fabric higher up her legs.

She might make me want to scream and pull my hair out, but right now at least, I do like it.

I like it a lot.

“Come on.” She pats the arm of the other chair. “Let’s finish this interview.”

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