Page 13 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I turn at the sound of my name and see a large white table near the front window occupied by a few highland dance people. Candice, the association member in charge of running the scholarship program, is waving at me.

“I’m so glad to see you, Kenzie,” she says as I approach, the lines around her eyes deepening when she smiles. “We were just talking about how great it would be to have some of our older dancers back on stage.”

Based on the reaction from the two girls and their moms sitting down with Candice, the enthusiasm belongs to her and her alone. I doubt the seventeen year-olds are all that excited to compete against a full-fledged instructor, and the grimaces on the moms’ faces make their shared attitudes clear.

“Do you want to order anything, Kenzie?”

Candice nods at the counter behind me, and I turn to glance at the letter board signs hanging down from the ceiling. The prices reflect how trendy the place is.

“I’m good with water,” I say after turning back and spotting the pitcher and glasses in front of them.

I take a seat on one of the wooden stools lining the table and grab a glass for myself. Candice continues a conversation about the association’s current leadership with one of the moms as we wait for the meeting’s start time to arrive.

I nod along like I’m listening, but my eyes keep drifting to the window behind Candice. The street is bathed in the orange light of the setting sun, and I watch the glow reflect on pedestrians’ faces as I scan them all for a glimpse of Moira.

My chest feels tight, and my stomach does a back flip each time I see a woman with long brown hair. I don’t know what I’m more nervous about: Moira showing up, or Moira not showing up.

Life would be a lot easier if she didn’t, of course, but I realize what the sinking feeling in my stomach is as soon as Candice claps her hands together and says we should start.

I’m disappointed. I have every reason to be thrilled. As far as the dance skills portion of the scholarship goes, I’m basically a shoo-in at this point, but instead of the warm rush of satisfaction, I feel like I’ve had one of the foamy, steaming lattes I can’t afford snatched right out of my hands.

It’s the same way I felt when Moira broke her ankle in Scotland two years ago. It made my life easier, but it also meant I couldn’t win.

“You girls are both heading to university next year, right?”

I tune back into the conversation as the two teenagers at the table nod to answer Candice. She looks at me next.

“And you’re in your second year now, Kenzie?”

I grip the cool glass holding my water. Drops of condensation have beaded on the sides. “I just started my third.”

One of the moms makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a grunt. Candice glances at her and opens and closes her mouth a few times like she’s not quite sure how to address the cave woman response.

“I just don’t see how that’s fair,” the woman finally says. I notice her daughter cringing in embarrassment beside her. “You have adults competing for the same scholarship as children.”

Technically her child will be a legal adult by the time anyone uses the scholarship money, but I do sort of see her point.

“Well, Linda, the point of this particular scholarship is to encourage older dancers to continue participating in our community. We see a huge drop off in numbers once students reach high school, and beyond high school, there are hardly any competitors. We want to keep highland alive for all ages. That’s why we’re requiring all scholarship participants to at least be old enough to head to university next fall. Holly could always participate next year if you don’t think this year is a good fit.”

She says it with a smile, but I can tell Candice is a steely veteran when it comes to handling less than happy dance moms.

“So this scholarship will be available next year?” the mom asks.

“Well...” Candice takes a sip of her latte. “We’re not sure if we’ll secure another donation of this size, but regardless, we’d like to prioritize offering some kind of scholarship every year from now on.”

The second teenager’s mom leans a little closer and drops her voice like there might be spies in kilts lurking behind the cafe counter.

“Do you know who made the donation, Candice?”

A painted expression takes over Candice’s face. She clears her throat before she speaks again, her voice strained like it’s a hit to her dignity to even admit what she says next. “I haven’t been deemed necessary to receive that information.”

It takes everything I have to hold back a snort and avoid showering the table in a spit-take.

The politics of the Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa are genuinely hilarious if you have the right sense of humor.

I’m still fighting to snuff out a laugh when the squeak of the cafe’s door swinging open distracts Candice from her mortified admission. Her grimace turns into a grin as she lifts her hand in a wave.

I don’t need to look to see who it is. The way my muscles tense as my heart rate kicks up makes it clear: Moira Murray has entered the ring.

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