Page 95 of The Devil Wears Tartan

This might be stupid. It also might be the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

It’s certainly one of the most terrifying.

“If you walk away, you’re walking away from your job, from the academy...from me.”

I don’t know if she means it. I don’t know if I’m just calling her bluff, or if I really am giving everything up when I reach for the door.

I pull it open anyway and take a deep breath of air.

CHAPTER 22

KENZIE

I don’t realize where I’m driving to until I pull the car into my usual parking spot. The red brick wall of the Rebecca Stewart Academy of Highland Dance looms in front of me, looking much taller than its single storey today.

I cut the engine and unclip my seatbelt before sagging back against the driver’s seat to continue staring out the windshield, my eyes tracing the lines between the bricks. The bright April sunshine is doing a number on my head, but the nausea seems to be gone, and I’m not sweating anymore.

My heart is still going a mile a minute, and I can’t tell if it’s from the hangover or the last of the adrenaline burst that got me out of the high school and into the car.

I saw Moira in the parking lot. She was hunched over in the passenger seat of her family’s car, but I recognized the golden brown of her lopsided, half undone hair bun. Her mom’s arm was around her shoulders, and I drove off before either of them could catch a glimpse of me in the rear-view mirror.

My chest felt like it was cracking open wider and wider the farther from Moira I got, but I couldn’t stop and talk to her. I have no words yet, not even for myself.

I get out of the car and lock it behind me, my footsteps the only sound in the empty, narrow parking lot that spans the length of the building.

I round the corner to stand in front of the wide expanse of windows next to the glass front door. RSA’s name and logo are spelt out in laser cut sheet metal above them. The bottom half of the windows are covered with an opaque film for privacy, but above that, I can just glimpse the tops of the mirrors in one of the studios.

I guess I can grab my stuff in case Catherine really does fire me.

The thought makes me let out a huff of bitter laughter. I step over to the door and fish my key out of my purse. I’ve opened this door so many times, I’m sure I could do it with my eyes closed. The lobby inside is just as familiar, from the metal shoe racks topped with smooth leather benches to the linoleum-covered desk with another metal cut-out of the school’s logo attached to the front.

Even the sharp, chemical smell of carpet cleaner and floor polish is comforting. I pull my boots off, not bothering to put them on a rack, and step over to trace the blunt edge of the logo with my fingertip.

On the wall behind the front desk, there’s a display of photos all arranged in identical plain white frames. Each one shows a pivotal moment in the school’s history of excellence, but even though the logo says ‘Established in 1976,’ the photos are all from after Catherine took the school over from her mom.

Catherine stands with her signature tight-lipped smile on in a few of the shots. In the front and center of the display, she’s got her hand on my shoulder while I hold my second place trophy from the world championships in Scotland. We’re standing under a white tent with open sides, a rolling green field and the rare glow of a sunny Scottish day visible behind us.

I remember clutching the smooth sides of the trophy when we took that photo. My velvet highland jacket was sticking to my sweaty torso, and all I could think about was how disappointing it was to miss out on beating Moira.

Why?

The word keeps slicing through my thoughts like an arrow refusing to slow down or land. I don’t know where its final target is. I don’t know how much it’s going to rip apart on the way.

I tear my eyes away from the photos and head for the locker room down the hall, but I pause in front of one of the studios. The door has been left open, and I can see myself in one of the immaculate mirrored walls.

I look awful. My hair is limp and tangled. My face is puffy and red even though I haven’t done much actual crying. My outfit is a sloppily selected pair of leggings I dug out of my laundry bin and a worn old grey sweater under my coat.

Despite how off-putting my reflection is, I take a few steps into the studio. Three of the walls are lined with mirrors, the fourth painted in a bright, clean white that matches the hall and entryway. The floor cleaner must have come in last night; the white, springy surface gleams when I flip the light switch on.

I step to the middle of the room, spreading my arms as I spin around a few times and then come to an abrupt halt when my stomach reels in protest. I sit down instead, the ends of my open coat fanning out around me. I pull my knees into my chest and hug them, my gaze fixed on the girl watching me in the mirror.

Some people might call RSA’s decor vibe stark or even severe, and I admit that compared to the hominess of the Murray school, the monochrome tones and shiny surfaces are a little impersonal, but that hasn’t stopped this place from becoming my home.

This is where I learned to teach, to turn my ability for observation and precision into a gift that could help my students soar. This is where I learned to fly too, to jump and whirl and spring, up and away from anything that made me feel small and powerless.

I found something to reach for in these rooms, something that pulled me through so many dark moments.

I know Catherine has found that here too.

---