Page 9 of The Devil Wears Tartan

For nine thousand dollars, I’d make time to come out of retirement and get back on that stage.

CHAPTER 3

MOIRA

“Oh my god, you’re an angel.”

I take the paper cup out of my best friend Lydia’s hands and pop the lid up so I can inhale the spicy scent of chai tea. It’s one of my favourite autumnal blends, with a hint of sweet apple and brown sugar. When Lydia said she was waiting in the lobby with a cup, I couldn’t resist sneaking out of the warm-up gym to meet her.

“I know I’m early,” she says as I blow on the steaming liquid, “but if I waited any longer to tell you I was here, I would have ended up drinking both of these.”

She lives right next to our favourite tea shop in Sandy Hill, and we can’t hang out without getting a cup. The competition is wrapping up now, and the tea is supposed to be our fuel for a walk and a catch-up chat after.

“They’ll be doing the medals soon anyway,” I tell her. “You should come watch my kids win stuff!”

“Are any of them wearing the sailor costumes?” she asks with a snort. “Those things are hilarious.”

I shake my head and push the lid back down after deciding the tea is still too hot to drink. “No hornpipe today.”

The hornpipe is a special character dance that only runs at some competitions. It requires a very distinct outfit: namely, a little sailor hat with a matching collared shirt and trousers. Lydia always dies of laughter when she sees it.

She snorts again. “You know it kills me that there’s a dance called hornpipe.”

I give in and laugh along with her. Lydia often serves as a reality check to remind me just how weird highland dance can be, but honestly, the weirdness makes me love it more.

Even in the empty lobby, Lydia sticks out from the highland dance crowd. She’s wearing a denim jacket decorated with a few colourful buttons that have political slogans and funny catchphrases printed on them. Her camo-patterned skinny jeans are cuffed above her black Converse high-tops, and her short, wavy brown hair is done up in a little ponytail to show off her undercut.

I’ve thought about cutting my waist-length hair a few times, but even my mom, who’s always supported me and my siblings doing whatever we want with our appearances, would probably freak out if I went with something too short to do a bun anymore.

Highland dance ideals are not exactly progressive when it comes to hairstyles.

“Should I get a new button?” Lydia jokes, pointing to a nearby vendor’s table, where a few tartan buttons featuring different Scottish family crests are displayed. “Which of those most screams ‘Actually, I am Jewish’ to you?”

I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t know why they sell those. Hardly anyone here actually has a Scottish last name. Anyone can do highland.”

“Yer tellin’ me I don’t got to be a wee bonnie lass to dance to the pipes?” she says in a voice I can only barely distinguish as a terrible attempt at a Scottish accent. She reaches over to tug on the end of my tartan hair bow for emphasis.

“You goon,” I say as I swat her hand away. “Come on, we’re going to miss the awards.”

I start leading the way to the auditorium, but I pause when we pass the SDOO information table, where a bored-looking parent volunteer is engrossed in her phone. There are a few poster boards about memberships and some information pamphlets, but what catches my eye is the small easel that’s been added to the display since this morning. The light blue paper resting against it spells out the details of the scholarship.

“What’s up?” Lydia asks when she looks back after realizing I’m not beside her.

Her voice makes the volunteer look up. She smiles at me. “Oh, hi, Moira, dear. Isn’t it wonderful news? I’ve always thought we should set up a scholarship, but the membership fees barely keep us afloat as it is.”

“It is wonderful,” I answer. “Someone was very generous.”

That’s all anyone can talk about: the mysterious source of the nine thousand dollars. Given how long ‘secrets’ usually last around here, the donor would have had to be truly and completely anonymous to avoid their identity becoming a rumor in less than a week.

I’m just glad there’s something more interesting for everyone to talk about than my abrupt return from South Africa.

“And someone’s going to be a very lucky student,” the volunteer adds. “Not many dancers keep competing into college. With you and Kenzie off the stage this year, I can only think of...well, not many at all.”

She hands me the blue information paper, and I see a few extra copies stacked behind it.

“Keep that and read it over,” she tells me. “Maybe it will get you dancing again. That’s what I told Kenzie when she took one. You dance such a beautiful Lilt, Moira. I’d love to see you on stage again.”

I almost miss the compliment. I’m too busy focusing on what she said about Kenzie.

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