Page 44 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I don’t go on. I didn’t mean to stop her at all, and I have no idea what to do next.

I’m not even sure what I want to do next. I just know it feels wrong for her to leave the car like this, like there’s something hanging in the air that needs to be said.

“Do you...Did you...We...” I stammer, searching for a question that doesn’t come.

She lets go of the door handle and turns to face me.

“Yes,” she murmurs, and I don’t need to check to know she understands.

She understands there’s something going on here that neither of us can understand at all.

“But I can’t,” she adds, her voice hardly more than a whisper. She’s staring down at the gear shift instead of at me. “So we should probably just forget it.”

Before I can stop her again, she jumps out of the car and takes off into her building.

CHAPTER 11

KENZIE

“Mom, did you pay this?”

My mom shifts where she’s lying under a knitted blanket on the couch. “Hmm?”

I’m already running late, but the date on the credit card statement I just found tucked under a pile of fliers by the apartment door has me heading back to the couch so I can show her the beige piece of paper.

“This one,” I say as she reaches an arm out from under the blanket to bring the paper up to her face.

We’ve gone into collections on one credit card this year. I got it paid off within a few months after asking for double shifts at the dining hall—back when that was still an option—but we can’t risk any more hits to my mom’s credit, especially when she’s had trouble making it in for all her hotel receptionist shifts lately.

“Did you pay the minimum?” I ask as her eyes dart around the page.

I found the statement open without an envelope, so she’s at least seen it before.

“This one...” She drags a finger down the list of expenses and then brushes a lock of dyed blonde hair out of her eyes. “Oh. Yes, this is the one with the charge for the car on it. Yes, I paid the minimum.”

I press my lips together to resist asking if she’s sure.

She’s still my mother. She might be sick, but she still deserves respect.

It gets even harder not to snap at her when she weaves her arm back under the blanket and curls her legs to free up the end of the couch. She nods at the empty space.

“Sit down, Zee-zee. It’s Saturday. Let’s watch TV.”

I put the statement down on the little desk under the living room window, on one of the trays holding all the other bills I do my best to make sure we keep track of.

It’s a system I’ve had in place since I was fourteen, since the divorce with Chris’s dad sent her into a spiral she’s never found her way out of.

“I can’t, Mom. I have the dance competition today, remember?”

She eyes the tight bun on the top of my head and the bit of mascara and lip gloss I’ve put on for SDOO’s November competition today.

“Competition? I thought you didn’t compete anymore.”

I grip the edge of the desk chair hard. “I do this year. For the scholarship, remember?”

“Right, right.” She snakes her arm out again and starts shifting clutter around on the coffee table a few inches away, only stopping when she finds the TV remote. “Sorry, baby. I can’t seem to remember anything these days. Do you have to go right this minute? It would be nice to watch some TV together, wouldn’t it?”

I blow out a breath. “We can do that after the competition. I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

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