Page 50 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I let the mass exodus carry me out to the lobby, where parents and dancers are milling around with garment bags clutched over their shoulders, chatting with each other and getting a final look at all the vendor tables.

I spot Moira engrossed in a conversation with a couple parents, over by one of the large potted ferns along the lobby wall.

I need to talk to her. I might not be her favourite person right now, but she did an amazing job, and I need to tell her.

I cross the lobby and hover near the ferns. A few of my students spot me and come over to start impersonating my ‘Photograph’ dance, humming the song as they pretend to twirl around with imaginary picture frames in their arms. I’m grateful for the opportunity to not look like a total creep just standing on my own beside Moira, even if I know this means I’m going to spend at least the next month trying to make the kids stop doing this dance in my classes.

By the time Moira finishes chatting with the parents, my students have moved on, and the lobby is way less crowded than when we got out here. Moira has her back to me and starts making a beeline for the gym without turning around.

I could let her go. I probably should let her go. I should take the opportunity to backtrack over all the lines we’ve crossed. The interview is done. We don’t need to collaborate anymore. We can go back to facing each other onstage as the rivals we’ve always been.

I straighten my shoulders like I’m bracing for impact and then take a few steps after her.

“Moira, wait!”

She stops, but she doesn’t turn around.

“Moira. Hey.”

I halt a couple feet behind her, and she looks back over her shoulder at me.

“What, Kenzie?”

“I...”

Her usual annoyingly sunny expression looks like a full-on storm cloud now, and it drowns out everything I want to say.

“Yes?” she says, her tone sharp.

I force myself to swallow and clear my parched throat. “I just, uh...I wanted to say the video was good. Really good.”

Her eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch, and I don’t blame her.

Really good? Seriously?

“It was amazing,” I amend. “You did a fantastic job. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I see her working her jaw like she’s figuring out what to say, some struggle I can’t keep up with playing out in her eyes.

“Well, I needed it to be good,” she finally answers. “For me. So I can win.”

She’s doing her best to sound cold, but I hear the trace of pain underneath, hot and full of hurt that has her tensed up like a spring just waiting for a switch to flip.

“Um, right. Yeah. That’s true,” I mumble, trying and failing to find the words that will get us through this stalemate. “Look, about earlier, I’m sorry I was harsh. You didn’t deserve that, and—”

“God, Kenzie!” She whirls around to face me, throwing her arms up in the air as she lets out a sound that’s almost a growl.

The vendor at the table closest to us turns her head to stare at the commotion, and Moira drops her hands before spinning back around and taking off—only she doesn’t head down the hall to the gym. She yanks open the door to the nearest stairwell, and before I can talk myself out of it, I follow after her.

We’re both still wearing our ghillies with Crocs on top to protect them, and the squeak of her foam shoes on the polished steps echoes through the stairwell as she charges up to the next floor.

“You know, you’re really fucking annoying.” She hurls the words down at me over her shoulder, but since she hasn’t told me to leave her alone, I grip the painted blue concrete banister and do double time in my Crocs to catch up. My heavy skirt and petticoat swish against my calves, like I’m acting out the culminating scene in some kind of Jane Austen movie.

Moira yanks open the door to the second floor, and I keep following her into a deserted hallway lined with beige lockers. She whirls around, the flare of her sash and skirts adding to the period drama effect.

The fact that she’s panting and her chest is straining against her tightly-laced velvet bodice makes the scene a little too impure for a Jane Austen adaptation. Even now, when we’re in the midst of having it out, I can hardly look up from her chest. My hands ache to reach out and pull apart the laces holding her costume together.

Moira doesn’t seem distracted at all. She’s glaring at my face like she can will me out of existence.

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