Page 96 of The Devil Wears Tartan

For the first time since I left the stairwell back at the competition, I let the fear and pain of what she said to me crash into my chest like blow after blow from an iron fist.

I could lose all of this. I could lose Catherine, and the part of me that feels washed with relief at the thought just makes the rest of me ache even more.

I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what to think. Everything is splitting at the seams.

In the mirror, my eyes turn glassy and glimmer under the lights before my vision blurs. Hot tears slide down my cheeks, and I squeeze my legs in extra tight as the first sob wracks my body. The sobs keep coming, again and again, leaving me gasping for breath and rocking to soothe some of the pain.

“I don’t know what to do,” I wheeze between gulps. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. Idon’tknowwhattodo.”

I drop my head down and roll my forehead back and forth across the hard surface of my kneecaps as my headache flares. There’s snot dripping down my face and pooling on the thighs of my leggings.

I almost had everything, and now I have nothing.

It’s what I’ve always been afraid of, and now it’s here. I can’t run. I can’t leap away. I tip over and curl into a fetal position as the deep, dark pit I’ve been running from all my life swallows the floor underneath me.

I fall. I fall and fall and fall, and as I lay shivering and crying alone on a dance studio floor, I realize this is the bottom. This is the unknown that’s always haunted me. This is what I’ve been scrambling to escape.

It’s got me now, and I’m still here. I’m still breathing. There’s still earth underneath me and sky above my head.

There’s still today, and tomorrow, and the day after that.

I’m still me.

I still have that.

Breath by breath, my sobs fade to sniffles and then to shaky inhales before they finally smooth into a rhythm that soothes me. I rest for another few moments and then push myself up into a cross-legged position.

I’ve hit the bottom, and I’ve gotten back up.

I wipe my cheeks with my hands and then grimace as I use the edge of my sweater to clean up the snot. I run my hands through my hair and tuck it behind my ears.

I keep breathing.

Just when I’m thinking of getting to my feet, a series of knocks on the front door echoes down the hall.

I freeze, a spike of alarm shooting up my spine.

We don’t run classes on competition days. There’s no reason for anyone else to be here.

I wait, straining my ears for any other sounds, and the knocks come again a moment later.

Slowly, like I’m on some kind of espionage mission, I get up and test my weakened limbs before tip-toeing over to peer into the lobby. One of the grey, faux-wood floorboards creaks as I pad into the hallway. I can see a woman at the door, and as soon as I catch sight of her face, my steps come to a faltering halt.

Moira’s mom is here.

She spots me and lifts her hand in a wave, a tentative smile on her face. I stand there blinking for a couple seconds as the shock wears off and then walk over to open the door.

“Um, hi,” I say as a rush of chilly wind slips in. The sunny afternoon is fading now.

“Hey, sweetie.” Her eyes sweep over my face and crease with concern. I’m sure I look like even more of a mess now that I’ve been crying. “Sorry if I scared you. Do you mind if I come inside?”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

I step back so she can make her way in to stand on the large black mat. Under her navy blue jacket, she’s still wearing the Murray School shirt and black slacks she had on at the competition. Miniature ghillie-shaped earrings are dangling from her ears.

“I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“I am,” I admit, and I’m surprised to hear myself laugh too when she chuckles.

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