Page 22 of The Devil Wears Tartan

“It’s called night mode, baby!”

She settles her phone on a little ledge she’s created with two books and clicks on the camera button. A few black blobs and grey dots appear on the screen.

“Uh, okay, maybe you were right about that,” she says after raising her hand in a wave which doesn’t make it any clearer that her blob on the screen is a human. “Let’s go sit on that table under the streetlight instead.”

There’s no point attempting to stop her; she swings her bag over her shoulder and jogs off with her pile of books in hand before I can even try.

I let out a dramatic groan of my own, but as I sit there watching her rebuild her little interview setup on the other table, I realize this is my first night out in a long, long time.

The fact that I’m calling this a night out doesn’t say much in my favor, but it’s true. If I’m not studying, wiping cafeteria tables, or teaching kids to highland dance, I’m busy making phone calls or running errands to keep the house under control.

That’s what I was busy doing when I was supposed to be getting on the bus to meet Moira on time tonight. My mom forgot to pick up a prescription, and maybe it would have been fine to wait until tomorrow like she kept telling me, but I didn’t want to risk throwing off her routine.

So I went to the pharmacy because she wasn’t up to leaving the house tonight.

It’s not her fault.

I let my old refrain guide me as I reach for my phone and make sure no texts from her have come through. I usually don’t go more than half an hour without looking, but this is the first time I’ve thought about checking my texts since I walked into Starbucks and saw Moira sitting there in her jeans and army jacket, looking like the perfect distraction.

“Resistance is futile, Kenzie!” she shouts in my direction as she continues to mess around with her camera.

I double-check that there are no texts and then follow her to the other table. She’s right; resistance is futile. We need to get this interview right, and as much as it makes my skin crawl to admit it, she knows what she’s doing in this arena way more than I do.

She’s the highland dance world’s little ray of sunshine, after all. She just needs to waltz in and beam at everyone to have them thinking about switching dance schools for her.

That thought sobers me up enough to focus back on what’s important here: the scholarship.

The scholarship I need to win.

If it takes putting up with advice from Moira Murray, I’ll do it, but no way am I answering all those questions of hers.

The air has started cooling off, and I rub my hands along the smooth leather of my jacket’s sleeves as I make my way over to Moira’s table. It’s one of the nicest things I own, and it’s still in near-perfect condition almost two years after I bought it thanks to how obsessively I take care of my clothes.

Even before she gave me a job at the Rebecca Stewart Academy, Catherine taught me a lot about how important clothes can be. Clothes are like a shield; they help you choose what people see—and what they don’t see.

“You’re having way too much fun with this,” I announce after setting my purse down on one of the picnic table’s benches.

Moira looks up from reviewing her question sheet for what has to be the millionth time tonight. “Like I said, it’s supposed to be fun. Fun is the energy we want to present, even if we’re faking it.”

“Oh, we’re definitely faking it.”

The words come out way more laced with suggestion than I meant them to. She keeps her eyes fixed on her notebook, and I almost decide she didn’t notice, but then she looks up and tilts her head to the side.

“Are we?”

I freeze and blink at her before forcing myself to swallow. Something like satisfaction slips into her gaze.

I don’t know exactly what happened to her over the past two years, but even if Moira and I are playing the same old game, the rules have clearly changed.

We’ve got new weapons now, and despite the cutesy facade she puts on for most of the world, Moira Murray knows how to use them. Those dimples are dangerous in the right light.

I glance at the camera. “Is that on?”

“Not yet. I haven’t picked my first question.” She hums to herself as she taps the edge of the notebook against the weathered wooden top of the table. “Aaaaand now I’m ready. Shift down here to the end so you’re in the shot.”

She waves for me to come closer to where she’s sitting at the very end of her bench. I take a spot directly opposite her. The lamppost above us casts our faces in a yellow glow that makes the rest of the park look even darker than early evening, like this pool of light we’re sitting in has risen away from the earth to cut us off from the rest of the world.

She leans over to stretch her arm out and press the record button. When she straightens back up, she clears her throat.

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