Page 47 of The Devil Wears Tartan

She blinks at me before her attention slips back to the TV. She pulls the blanket a little tighter around her and murmurs, “Oh. Okay.”

I hold back a sigh. “I’ll see you in a few hours. I love you.”

I head over to grab the two garment bags hanging on the back of the apartment door and swing my purse over my shoulder, straining to hear any trace of a reply. My stomach churns with nausea when I pull the front door open and still don’t get a response.

She’s really not going to say it back.

I dig around for the car keys in my purse, stalling with the door still half-open as I step into the hall. I’m about to pull it closed and possibly give into my stupid tears when she calls out, “Love you too, Zee-zee!”

I let out a shaky exhale, my hands trembling a little as I lock the door behind me.

She loves me, and I love her. That’s why I do all of this. That’s why I’m still here.

When you love someone, you stay. You do the work. You hold it all together even when they can’t.

Somehow, after watching so many people walk away, I’m still holding onto that.

* * *

“Kenzie, this is absolutely unacceptable.”

Catherine’s hiss sends a chill up my spine and makes me straighten my shoulders like I’m expecting a visit from a drill sergeant as I turn to face her in the school gymnasium.

I’m in the middle of pinning my lace dickie to the front of the bodysuit I have on under my velvet highland jacket. I’ve already tried to get it straight three times, but my hands are shaking so much I keep pinning it on crooked.

“It’s your job to be here and support your students,” Catherine continues, the angular edges of her silver-streaked bob swinging in time with her steps.

She stops just in front of me, reaching to take the safety pin out of my hand and fasten the dickie perfectly into place with the deftness of someone who’s done it for hundreds of students before.

“Not to mention it’s your job to represent our school as a scholarship applicant, and you are”—she pauses to glance at the big clock on the gym wall—“not even fully dressed five minutes before your first event.”

She smoothes my hair down and adjusts a bobby pin before fastening the top button of my jacket. The silver buttons decorated with tiny thistle emblems are the same ones used on all highland outfits. They match the shiny silver trim edging the jacket. The velvet is jet black, a contrast to my scarlet red kilt and wool knee-highs.

I inherited this set when I was fourteen. Only the most serious dancers invest in a full highland outfit; the socks alone cost a few hundred dollars. Like most kids, I was part of the general process of cobbling competition outfits together out of borrowed pieces that have basically become the communal property of Ottawa’s highland dance community, but when I finally grew into this set, Catherine took it out of circulation and said it should be mine alone.

She even got it tailored for me, under the promise I’d do my very best to represent the Rebecca Stewart Academy of Highland Dance every time I put it on.

Even all these years later, I still think of those words when I do up my kilt. This outfit gives me a place here, a home, and it’s one I’ll always work to keep.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It won’t happen again. There was a bit of an emergency...at home, but I’ll be more prepared next time.”

She stares into my face for a moment before she nods.

“Don’t let her bring you down, Kenzie. You have so high to climb.”

My mouth twitches, but I bite back any impulsive replies. My mother isn’t something I want to escape, no matter how much ‘better off’ without her Catherine likes to remind me I’d be.

It’s all way too much to think about five minutes before my first competition in over two years.

Catherine gives my shoulder a single pat and then turns to lead us out to the auditorium.

“You’ve got a six step Fling,” she says as we pass through the lobby, even though I’ve already memorized my events for the day, “so pace yourself. The piper is slower than usual today.”

I can hear said piper blaring out the notes of the Fling currently being danced onstage. The droning gets louder when Catherine pulls one of the auditorium doors open. I hurry down the side aisle to the staircase that leads to one of the wings. The other dancers in my category are already lined up and waiting to take the stage.

There weren’t enough older entrants to do an adults-only division for this level, so we’re a sixteen and up group instead. That gives me five people I need to beat. Even coming off two years out of the competitive scene, there’s only one dancer I actually need to be worried about.

Moira is waiting in line, decked out in a royal blue jacket and kilt. Her thick hair is piled in a tidy bun on top of her head, highlighting the heart shape of her face. The mascara she’s got on makes her green eyes shine like emeralds to contrast the sapphire velvet hugging her curves.

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