Page 4 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I keep my fists clenched the whole way to the dressing room. I can hear my pulse thundering in my ears, and my jaw is starting to ache from being clenched so tight.

I knew Kenzie would be exactly the same. I just didn’t think I’d react exactly the same way, and I definitely didn’t think it would take all of two minutes to happen.

We’re adults. We’re twenty freaking years old. We’re here as teachers, for god’s sake, but instead of taking care of my students, all I want to do is march out there and scream in Kenzie’s face like I’m in the third grade again.

Call it force of habit. I’ve felt the perpetual urge to scream at her since we really were in the third grade and she told me my invitation to hang out during lunch at her first ever competition sounded ‘like a sabotage attempt.’

I push the memory away as I reach the classroom door with a sign that says ‘SDOO Dressing Room’ taped to the front and a few sheets of construction paper covering the window. A parent volunteer is stationed at a desk outside.

“I was starting to think you and Deanna decided to play hooky,” she jokes as I pull the door open enough to slip inside.

I do my best to return her smile and then turn to face the chaos in front of me. Most of the desks have been hauled out of the classroom, with a few left in place as hair stations. Some screens for changing spaces are set up along one of the back walls.

We use the school’s gym as a warm-up space where everyone stores their stuff, but that hasn’t stopped the change room from turning into its usual mess of hair product bottles, makeup bags, discarded clothes hangers, and emergency sewing kits. Dancers and teachers are bustling through the room, laughing and singing along to the pop playlist someone has playing on their phone.

I wave to the other teachers from my dance school. We all did our hair up in highland buns even though we’re not competing. We even tied tartan-patterned bows around them to look extra festive. Our matching t-shirts might not be as fancy as the Stewie tracksuits, but they’re comfy and cute, and they have our last names printed on the backs with a few rhinestone accents.

It’s a bit redundant to have ‘Murray’ written under ‘Murray School of Highland Dance,’ but that’s life when your whole family’s existence revolves around Scottish folk dance.

Deanna is waiting for me at one of the hair stations, swinging her feet and smiling serenely, like anyone would be crazy to suggest this little blonde angel just led me on a marathon-length recovery mission around the whole building.

“Change of heart, huh?” I ask, plastering on a grin to keep the resentment at bay when I realize I left the lobby without my coffee mug and Deanna’s hairbrush. I grab a comb I’ll have to clean after this and spread my free hand out in a dramatic swoop. “May I approach, Your Majesty?”

Deanna giggles and nods.

“You’re all smiley now,” I say as I start working out the tangles that have gathered in her hair. “Do you still want to tell me what’s up?”

She keeps kicking her feet, the heels of her Crocs drumming against the bottom rung of her chair. “I was scared, but Miss Kenzie said everyone gets scared when they go from Primary to Beginner. Did you know she didn’t even do her first competition until she was in grade three? That’s like, so old.”

I stifle a laugh as I reach for a hair elastic. It’s really not old at all, but Deanna is one of those kids who, like me, started competing at the tender age of six.

“Miss Kenzie is actually nice,” Deanna continues. She’s started swaying to the music, and I put my hand on her head to keep it still. “I used to think she was scary, but she said you wouldn’t be mad at me for making you fall, and she was right! Last year my mom said maybe we should switch schools so Miss Kenzie could be my teacher, but then you came back, and my mom says you beat Miss Kenzie more times than she beat you, so we should probably stay. Is that true? Did you beat her?”

She’s started speaking so fast it’s hard to keep up, but I catch enough to make my stomach twist with apprehension.

My rivalry with Kenzie isn’t exactly a secret in the highland dance community, but I didn’t think it would be enough to affect people’s decisions about where to send their kids, not when Kenzie and I have both been out of the competition circuit for a couple years now.

Deanna’s mom is wrong, anyway. By the time we made it all the way to Scotland for the culminating championship of our careers, Kenzie and I had the same number of trophies under our belt. We’d just graduated high school, and that final competition was supposed to end almost a decade of rivalry and determine which of us really was the best before I left to go backpack the world with my best friend.

Then I broke my ankle in a freaking mole hole and left the question unanswered forevermore.

“Well, we both beat each other a few times,” I answer as I start twisting Deanna’s ponytail into a bun, “but you know, that’s not really the point. The point is getting on stage to do your best while having fun. Winning is just a bonus.”

Deanna twists in her seat, her hair sliding out of my hands as she looks up to give me the sassiest eyebrow raise I’ve ever seen on a seven-year-old.

“Okay, it’s a pretty big bonus,” I admit with a chuckle, “but I mean it, kiddo. I don’t care what anyone else says. When you go up there today, I just want you to think about having fun—and pointing your toes, of course.”

She giggles and settles herself so I can finally finish the bun. I secure it in place with a combination of bobby pins, gel, and hairspray, just like I’ve manufactured hundreds of buns before. Deanna runs off to join her friends in the warm-up gym as soon as I’m done, and I take a minute to sit down in her chair and survey the room.

It’s still pandemonium in here, the chemical smell of hairspray filling my nose as I watch one of my fellow teachers perform emergency surgery on a tear in a girl’s blouse while another one chases after a stray button as it bounces across the floor.

It’s the kind of scene I’ve been watching unfold my entire life. The chaos of a dressing room is as comforting and familiar as curling up in my favourite chair at my parents’ house.

Instead of the reassurance I’m looking for, I only find more dread as I scan the room.

It’s been over two years since we’ve come face to face, but Kenzie’s still managed to find my weakest point in a matter of seconds. She still managed to hone in on what hurts most: the truth.

The truth is that I think I might only be back here because I couldn’t make it anywhere else.

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