Page 42 of The Devil Wears Tartan

CHAPTER 10

MOIRA

By the time we finish recording, I somehow know even less about Kenzie than I did when we started.

It’s like everything I thought I knew about her is being unravelled layer by layer, and underneath, there are even more layers I need to unwrap. I had no idea she was working towards a Master’s in social work. Her whole face lit up when she talked about it, and the determination in her voice when she outlined her impressively detailed career plan made even me want to hire her for any job she wanted right on the spot.

She was careful to close herself back up every time she got passionate. I listened for the words she didn’t say during her answers, for the meaning held in pauses and half-finished sentences before she bit her tongue and moved on. I’ve realized the thing I’ve always taken for granted in the highland dance community—namely, that this is the one place I can feel like enough—isn’t something Kenzie was handed from birth.

I don’t think of the highland dance world as being particularly exclusive, but to someone like Kenzie and whatever she’s been through to make her this way, it might feel like a community that can be ripped out of her hands at any second.

It might feel like something she has to fight for, no matter the cost or who she hurts along the way. Listening to her talk, it’s clear she’s had to fight for a lot in life, that she still does.

It doesn’t make her attitude less annoying, but it does help it make a bit more sense.

“I can do the editing,” I say as I detach my phone from the tripod, still mulling over the way her eyes got all bright when she answered my question about what taking her first highland class felt like.

She said it felt like finding an anchor, like she’d been getting pushed and pulled around for years before finally finding something to hold her steady.

It didn’t hit me until just now that she was only eight when she started dancing. She felt that way about her life at only eight-years-old.

“You can see the final cut before we submit it,” I add when she makes a sound like she’s about to protest. “I just think it’ll be faster if only one person does the first round.”

Based on how long it’s taken us to get the interview itself done, it doesn’t surprise me when she gives in and nods. “Okay, that sounds good.”

I drop the tripod off in my brother’s room and come back out to find Kenzie clutching both our mugs.

“I was going to bring these to the kitchen,” she says.

“Oh, thanks. That’s, uh, nice of you.”

Now that we no longer have a project to guide us, we’re back to the tentative awkwardness from when we first arrived at the house. It’s almost one in the afternoon now. I’m not sure if I should offer her lunch. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say or do at all. When I think about how much has happened in the past few hours, my head starts spinning.

Kenzie leads the way downstairs, all the way to the kitchen where she sets the mugs down, their ceramic bottoms rattling against the metal sink basin.

I follow after her like a lost puppy.

“Are you, uh, hungry?” I ask when she turns from the sink, hovering on the tiled floor just like I am.

“I, um...”

We’re close enough that I can see the freckles dusting her nose, the faint markings like a hidden weakness only a few people get a chance to see.

“I should probably go,” she finishes.

“Right. Yeah. Do you, um, want a ride?” I ask, the idea hitting me when I realize my parents probably left one of the cars here.

“Oh, I don’t...”

She trails off, staring at something behind me, and I glance back to see the time spelt out on the microwave clock just past my shoulder.

“Actually, you wouldn’t mind?” she asks. “Normally I’d take the bus, but it might be a while, and I was planning on being home soon.”

“It’s no problem,” I answer, maybe a little too brightly. Something in me started wilting when she said she had to go, and it’s sprung back to life at the thought of driving her. “I’ll just grab the keys. We’ll go out the front.”

We get into our coats and shoes at the front door, and I lead the way to the dark green station wagon sitting in the narrow laneway that runs up the side of the house. We each take our seats, and as soon as I turn the key in the ignition, classic rock starts blasting at deafening volume.

“Sorry!” I shriek over the wail of a guitar solo while Kenzie winces.

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