Page 1 of The Devil Wears Tartan

CHAPTER 1

MOIRA

I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee, and I’m already chasing after a seven-year-old in a kilt with a hairbrush and an arsenal’s worth of bobby pins clutched in my hands.

“Deanna, come back!” I shout as I tear up the hallway, our footsteps squeaking on the polished floor and echoing off the lockers that line the walls.

The Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa—SDOO, for those of us cool enough to use acronyms—has been hosting competitions at the same high school auditorium for longer than I’ve been alive, but I’ve barely stepped foot outside the few rooms we use for events. I’ve never been up to the second floor before today, and Deanna has been running for so long I’m not even sure what floor we’re on anymore.

“Deanna, come on,” I call in between panting breaths, scanning the hallway for any hint of how to get back to the lobby. “We just have to finish your hair, and then we’re done.”

“NO!” she screams back at me. “I am done with the bun!”

I have to give her credit; that would make an excellent t-shirt slogan for an ex-competitor-turned-dance-teacher like me. The thought is enough of a distraction to make me stumble over my own feet at full speed, sending the travel mug I’m clutching dangerously close to spraying the hallway with lukewarm, cheap coffee from the food and drink table in the lobby. My hands are starting to ache from balancing my grip on the mug, hairbrush, and fistful of pins.

We’re not even supposed to be up here at all; if I make a mess, I’m going to singlehandedly ensure SDOO loses their competition venue forevermore.

I go for a pleading tone this time. “Deanna, sweetie, just slow down, okay?”

The oversized blue Crocs she has on to protect her ghillies are going to send her sprawling on her face if she runs any faster. I don’t want a bloody nose adding to any potential coffee mess.

I also don’t want any children getting injured today.

“You can’t make me!” she shrieks.

Her thin, dirty blonde hair is bouncing against her back, the ponytail holder I managed to get on her slowly slipping down its length. Her black velvet vest is hanging crooked over one shoulder of the poofy white blouse underneath, and the thick wool socks that match her blue and white kilt are starting to bunch up around her ankles. It will be a miracle if I get her and all my other students ready for their first event today.

Thankfully, I’ve become a bit of a highland dance miracle worker after spending literally my entire life in this strange world of kilts, bagpipes, and tartan-patterned everything.

I turn a corner and find Deanna steps away from a set of double doors at the end of the hall.

“Deanna, please, let’s just talk about this, okay?” I wheeze as she hesitates with one hand on the door’s push bar. “You can tell me what’s going on. We’ll sit down right here, and we’ll talk about it.”

Her eyes lock on mine, and I see the defiance there morphing into something much more vulnerable. It’s just like I thought: she’s not acting up to be a brat. She’s acting up because she’s scared.

A lot of teachers go for the tough love approach, especially with kids this young, and I don’t always blame them. Sometimes there are days when you’ve just got to tap into your inner drill sergeant, get the kids in their kilts, get them on the stage, and leave it at that.

That’s not what makes kids grow, though. That’s not what teaches them. That’s not what makes them jump higher, dance harder, and love what they do so much that heading to the studio is the highlight of their week.

That’s what they get in moments like this, when someone takes the time to really see them and tell them they’re still enough.

“Okay, you little cheetah,” I joke as I put on the brakes and come to stand a few feet away from her, “what do you say we take a break from all this running?”

She chews on her bottom lip as she looks me up and down. “Miss Moira...”

“Yes, Deanna?” I prompt.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then, before I can process what’s happening, she slams her hands against the push bar and whirls around to bolt through the doorway.

“Can’t catch me!” she screeches as she peels away.

“In the name of all that is holy,” I say with a groan, lunging for the door before it can slam shut.

I step forward and pause, blinking at the bright sun streaming through the school’s glass front doors as it replaces the fluorescent tube lighting in the windowless hallway. I could have sworn we were on the second floor, but I’m standing in the familiar main lobby now.

The vendor tables are filling up with merchants arranging dance and costume supplies. The refreshments station is bumping, crowded with parents filling up coffee cups from a couple of huge dispensers while their kids grab oranges and granola bars from the snack trays. One of my teenage students is working the cash box today, and she waves from behind the table when spots me looking.

I lift my hand, but I’ve already glanced away to scan the room for Deanna. Most of the dancers milling around are still in sweatpants and t-shirts, but there are just enough with kilts on to make Deanna disappear like a tartan chameleon. The lobby is filled with the din of voices, squeaking shoes, and crinkling garment bags as people make their way to the dressing room and warm-up gym. The September morning sun paints the whole room in a soft glow.

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