Page 8 of The Devil Wears Tartan

“Yes, they were!” Her mom beams at her before looking back up at me, and my shoulders relax when I realize this is going to be one of the easier conversations. “Do you have any idea what the special announcement today is, Miss Kenzie?”

I blink. “Special announcement?”

The mom chuckles. “The one they said they’ll be making after lunch? I take it you’re in the dark too.”

“Oh. Yeah. I must have missed that.”

Catherine and the other teachers haven’t mentioned anything, so whatever it is must be news to all of RSA.

It’s most likely a fundraising raffle. They love their raffles around here.

“Well, we just wanted to say thank you for all your hard work getting Amy ready for today,” the mom continues. “You know, when I heard the rumor Moira Murray was teaching this year, I almost checked to see if we could get into one of her classes, but I’m glad we stayed. You Stewarts run a tight ship, but know your stuff—well, not that you’re really a Stewart, but you know what I mean.”

She chuckles and says thank you again before taking off. I can barely force my mouth open to say goodbye. Every word she said buzzes around my brain like a horde of wasps with vicious stings.

All Moira has to do is exist and people flock to her. She’s got the Murray name to reel them in and that ridiculously cute smile to seal the deal.

She must practice activating her dimples in the mirror every day; no one is that sweet without trying.

The rest of the lunch hour passes by in a blur. I rush to get all my students through their costume change for the next set of dances, which require a more ‘girly’ outfit called an Aboyne that consists of a plethora of poofy skirts. Costume-wise, highland dance is very wrapped up in gender roles.

I barely have time to shove a granola bar in my mouth as I rush through pinning numbers to tartan skirts and straightening sashes draped over the backs of velvet, lace-up vests.

“Announcement time!” I shout over all the echoing voices in the warm-up gym after I’ve pinned the last girl’s number in place. “RSA students, get in line in front of me, please!”

Most of my older kids have already made their way to the auditorium so we can all hear whatever the announcement is, but I make the youngest kids follow me like a little Scottish parade as I steer them through the hallway.

Brody, one of the few boys here today, is directly behind me, and I walk backwards for a few steps so I can help him adjust the oversized tam that keeps falling into his eyes.

Another highland quirk: the boys do not switch outfits, and they also get to wear little pom-pom adorned hats called tams.

Most people just take all the traditions and regulations at face value, but I would always question my teachers about them when I was growing up. I knew from my first class that I wanted to make this weird world of tartan and knee-highs my own, and that meant learning everything there was to know about it.

If I knew everything, no one could tell me I didn’t belong. No one could take it away from me.

I lead my parade to a free row of seats in the auditorium. I’ve just settled myself at the end when a couple of the Scottish Dance Organization’s leaders take the stage. There’s some applause and banter, along with a demand for a drum roll that gets my row of kids way too excited about slapping their thighs.

“We are pleased to announce,” one of the grey-haired women onstage says into her microphone, struggling to be heard above the noise, “that due to an extremely generous anonymous donation for this purpose, the Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa will be offering its first ever university scholarship this year!”

There’s another round of clapping from the audience, but instead of joining in, I sit up straighter in my seat, my ears straining to catch every word.

“This scholarship,” the second woman continues after taking the mic, “will be awarded to any dancer currently enrolled in post-secondary education or who will be starting post-secondary education next fall. It will be awarded at our April competition, and the applicants will be judged on a combination of competition results from this season, volunteer work within our organization, and a general sense of character and community spirit. Dancers from any competitive level are welcome to apply. The only requirement is that they must be competing this year.”

I sink back in my seat. Between my hours at the studio, my part-time job on campus, and the time I spend studying to keep a GPA high enough to secure the scholarships I already do have, there’s no way I’d have time to come out of retirement and compete.

It’s probably only a few hundred dollars anyway—not nearly enough to make my family’s money problems go away.

Not nearly enough to fend off the one solution that’s been following me around like a shadow stalking my every step: dropping out of school.

“Anyone interested can see Maureen in the lobby for more details,” the announcer adds. “What we’re truly excited and beyond grateful to tell you is that this scholarship is for a grand total of nine thousand dollars!”

A chorus of gasps and whoops fills the room, but once again, I stay silent as all my muscles tense and a burst of adrenaline makes my heart beat loud and fast in my ears.

Nine thousand dollars.

My mind starts racing with calculations. Nine thousand dollars would cover everything I need. I wouldn’t have to drop out and spend next year working. I wouldn’t even have to miss a semester. Hell, with a nine thousand dollar scholarship to my name, I could even spare enough of my own money to get the car fixed for good this time.

I’d stay on track. I’d stay in control.

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