Page 7 of The Devil Wears Tartan

Sometimes I think we need our own Dance Moms spinoff reality show. Highland Dance Moms would be a hit.

I’ve only just stepped into the lobby filled with kids standing around eating out of lunch boxes or lined up at the snack table when the first mom with a complaint cranes her neck around like an owl on high alert and heads straight for me.

“Hi, Laurie-Anne!” I say with a wave, coming to a stop next to one of the lobby’s big potted ferns.

“Miss Kenzie.” She flashes me a smile that slides off her face a second later. The ends of her blonde hair brush the shoulders of the Rebecca Stewart Academy t-shirt she’s wearing under a Lululemon zip-up. “Big day, huh? The first competition of the school year is so important.”

I nod as she forces another smile that comes out looking more like she’s baring her teeth. “Yep, it’s a big day for us all. The kids are all doing fantastic. I’m so proud.”

I really am. While pretty much every kid who goes to RSA attends training camps and competes all summer, there’s still a ‘fresh start’ feeling to the September competition, and from what I’ve managed to watch from the back of the auditorium, our dancers are killing it.

“You did see my Madeline’s sword dance, right?” Laurie-Anne asks.

“I did, yes. Her quick time was much more precise than it was at the start of the summer.”

Laurie-Anne purses her lips. “Yes, it was, and it would have been even better if that girl next to her hadn’t kicked her own swords and sent them flying straight at Madeline’s feet. That is unacceptable. She should be disqualified for interfering with another dancer, and I want to talk to someone about it.”

I press my lips together for a second and take a cleansing breath through my nose to keep from laughing. Every highland dancer lives in fear of kicking the two swords laid in a cross on the ground for the famous sword dance—not because the dull blades are actually dangerous, but because the entire point of the dance is to nimbly leap over and around them. Kicking your swords can be enough to land you in last place.

The sword kick Laurie-Anne is talking about barely budged the blades and definitely did not send them ‘flying straight at Madeline’s feet.’ I wouldn’t have even noticed it happen if the girl who kicked them didn’t freeze up for a couple counts afterward.

“Madeline is a beautiful dancer,” I say once I’ve got myself under control. “She handled it like a pro. I’d bet money that by the end of the year, she’ll qualify for the Premier division. She works hard.”

Laurie-Anne’s expression softens for a moment, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepening as her mouth lifts in a real smile for the first time. “She does. That’s why I want to make sure nothing gets in the way of that.”

“I know. Trust me, I want nothing more than to see her make Premier too. If I thought there was anything to worry about, I’d tell you.”

For a moment, I think she’s going to push for more. Her eyebrows furrow, and she taps her foot against the tiled floor a few times before nodding.

“All right, I’ll trust you. Oh and if you can, make sure Madeline’s not next to that same girl this afternoon.”

Again, I have to hold back a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I watch her head back over to her daughter before leading her outside, probably to get lunch at the nearby Pita Pit that’s a popular choice during competitions. I used to sit in this lobby with a ham sandwich packaged in cling wrap and watch the other girls toss Pita Pit wrappers in the trash can on the way back from lunch with their moms.

Catherine always sends me out to handle the parent complaints because I ‘have more patience for it’ than she does, but really, it’s not about patience at all. It’s about looking past the irritation and crazy demands to see moms like Laurie-Anne for what they really are: concerned and caring parents who want the best for their kids, even if their concern gets a little misplaced.

If you can speak to that part of them, they’re not really difficult at all. Of course, that’s much easier to do when you can look at their anger and wish for a mom who’d had to work less or been well enough to show up for competitions at all.

I pull my phone out of my pocket in the spare moment that follows Laurie-Anne’s departure, and my stomach twists with regret when I see there are a few texts from my mom.

It’s not her fault.

I repeat it to myself as I read through the texts narrating the ten minutes she spent in the psychiatrist’s waiting room.

It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault.

She wants to get better. She’s finally working to get better, and that should be enough for me. I can handle everything else for us.

No matter what it takes. No matter what I have to give up.

“Kenzie!”

I look up and shove my phone back in my pocket as another mom approaches with her daughter clinging to her hand.

I smooth my hair down and smile. “It’s our Seann Triubhas champion! Great job today, Amy. Those shakes were very precise.”

The girl blushes and scuffs her feet on the floor as the two of them come to a stop in front of me.

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