Page 48 of The Devil Wears Tartan

She’s staring straight at me, and I realize it’s not her dancing I have to worry about today.

It’s her.

CHAPTER 12

KENZIE

After the final medals have been given out, Moira and I end up with an equal number of firsts for the day.

Normally, a tie with Moira Murray would have me spitting fire, but I can barely focus on the closing remarks the SDOO organizers are making up on stage as I shift around in my auditorium seat, fighting the urge to look back at Moira in the row behind me.

The only time we’ve talked today was during the lunch break, when I asked her how the video turned out and she asked me if I had time to hear her answer or if I’d prefer to ghost her again.

She must have seen some sort of involuntary response in my face, because a second later, all the fight went out of her, and I saw something slip into her expression that made my blood run cold.

She pitied me. She looked at me like my whole life was something she needed to feel sorry about as she apologized for being insensitive about my mom.

She said it right in the middle of the warm-up gym swarming with teachers and competitors. I had to lean in and hiss at her to never say that in public again before I pulled back and left the room.

I couldn’t handle more pity.

If people around here start to pity me, I won’t be able to trust I’ve earned my right to belong. I’ll be the local charity case instead of the girl who excels because she tries harder than everyone else.

I don’t think Moira can understand that, and I don’t think it would be a good idea to tell her even if she could. We’ve only spent a few hours together outside of the dance world, and I’ve already told her way too much. Highland dance has always been the one part of my life that doesn’t feel like it’s falling apart. It’s the one aspect I have complete control over, and I don’t need her messing that up.

It’s already gone so far I can barely even keep myself from looking at her in this auditorium. It does not need to go farther.

“Before you all head off for the day,” I catch one of the organizers say, even as I strain my peripheral vision to catch sight of Moira, “we have a special presentation from the applicants for our brand new university scholarship.’

There’s a smattering of applause. I fidget with the end of the tartan string lacing my bodice together, rolling the little knot between my finger and thumb. I’m still wearing my Aboyne after my outfit change this afternoon.

I’ve always liked these outfits less than kilts. The poofy skirt and petticoat feel like they’re trying to tangle themselves around my legs, and the elasticised sleeves of the equally poofy white blouse dig into my biceps.

Moira has always had an edge on me in these types of dances. She might joke about her Aboyne being as femme as she gets, but when she’s swanning around up there in her skirt, her movements have an element of grace I’ve never quite been able to replicate with my highly technical approach.

I’ve missed half of what the organizers are saying and tune back in just in time to hear them announce Holly and Nicole’s interview will be playing first. A projector screen starts sliding down from the stage’s ceiling as everyone claps.

I brace for a bit of a wait; SDOO is not the most technologically advanced organization in the world, but it only takes a minute or two before they’ve got the video beaming out from a projector set up on the edge of the stage.

Holly and Nicole appear sitting on folding chairs, dressed up in skirts and cardigans with little matching tartan bows pinned to their shirts.

Looks like Moira and I weren’t the only ones who thought wearing tartan in the videos would be a great way to suck up to the judges.

My neck muscles itch with the need to turn around and see Moira’s reaction, but I keep my attention fixed on the screen as the two girls ask each other some basic questions about their highland dance history and their hopes for life after high school.

A lot of the questions match what I came up with—the ones Moira called boring, and as I listen to the girls share their sweet and slightly naive answers, I realize how right she was.

This is boring. If we’d gone with my questions, we’d have nothing to set us apart, and these girls would have the clear advantage of being all adorably starry-eyed in comparison to whatever jaded air Moira and I would give off now that we’ve both experienced the true demands of university.

The video comes to an end, and there’s more applause as the projector screen shows one of the organizers navigating through the laptop to find the next video file.

I’d chuckle about how long it takes her to find the ‘downloads’ folder if my throat weren’t so suddenly dry. My stomach is twisting itself in knots, and more than ever, I’m regretting not making it to this editing session.

I have to sit back and trust this will be good enough. I danced my best today, but this part is out of my control.

The video starts with a black screen, and before the first frame fades into view, a soft, acoustic folk song sung in Gaelic by a woman with a lilting Scottish accent starts playing as a backing track.

“I’m Kenzie Andrianakis,” I hear my own recorded voice say as the screen lightens, “and highland dance changed my whole life.”

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