Jeri Smith-Ready

I only wrote about 1000 (unpolished) words ahead of time, which means eventually I’ll be writing on the fly. Who knows what joys and griefs await Aura and Zachary? All I know is that it'll be fun for those of us watching at home. 

Oh, if Zachary wins this round, I’ll finish the story and get Aura and Zach back to their hotel room.

If Zachary wins this round, that kilt is coming off.

EDITED 7/26 TO ADD: The story is now finished--I hope you enjoy it! Much of it was written on-the-fly, which was an interesting experience, one that forced me to forgo my perfectionism and just ride the flow of the story. It's a bit goofy, but that's part of the fun.

“That dress is killing me.”

Aura smiles in response and gives a self-conscious tug on the hem of her skirt. The black dress is short in the front, mid-thigh, but long in the back, and flowing all round, so that the right breeze might lift it farther. At least in my imagination.

“Only a spectacular dress would keep you from upstaging me in that.” She leans back on the limousine’s leather seat and gestures to my kilt, stopping a few inches short, as if it’s a sacred relic.

“What, this auld thing?” I smooth down the green wool over my right thigh. I’m not usually one who cares for clothes, but I’ll not lie—I love this whole getup: the kilt, the jacket, the vest, the sporran…even the shoes that lace up and around my calves, tied in a neat bow in front.

It took literally hours to make it all perfect, with no one to help me this year. But worth it. Wearing the kilt is like a following a thread to the past, tapping into the strength of my blood.

Also, it’s incredibly expensive, so I feel a wee bit James Bond. On the outside, at least.

Inside I’m wound tight, and not because of the way the black dress dips between her breasts, the neckline framing them in a silver beaded V that says, “Here, ya numpty! Look here!” Were it not for the all-too-short hour together in my hotel room last night, we’d be ruining each other this moment. My mouth would be smearing her makeup and my hands tangling her hair. That maddening skirt of hers would be hitched up to her waist so her bare legs could wrap around me and—

A’right, her dress isn’t the only reason I’m tense.

It’s being here again, gliding down roads I traveled without care for eight months. While I lived here last year, I feared for many things—my father’s life, my happiness with Aura, my ability to not crash a car. But I never feared for my freedom. Why would I, in the land of the free?

We pass the street that leads to the regional DMP office. My chest thickens, as if my heart’s filling it up with its uneven, swollen beats.

“Zach, what’s wrong?”

The word, “Nothing” comes out before her question is even finished. “It’s a wee bit stuffy in here.” My fingers fumble for the window controls, and I press the first one I find.

A hole in the roof of the car slides open. “Ah, that’s better. Let’s pop our heids oot, like dugs.” At her confused look, I drop open my mouth and stick out my tongue in a look of canine joy.

She laughs. “Definitely on the way home tonight, once my hair’s already a disaster.”

Good, we’ve changed the subject from my state of mind. “I’m glad you wore it doon.” I risk a brief touch of one long, dark brown lock, just my fingertips.

Mistake: I want to bury my hands in all of her hair, now.

“With the strapless dress, I had to, or I’d feel naked.”

Her little laugh after she says the last word goes straight to the base of my spine. I try not to groan, but there’s one less-than-perfect element to my ensemble, a foreign element that’s suddenly become quite, em, constrictive.

I brush my bare knee against hers. Her lower lip pulls in, just a bit.

“Ye can touch it,” I tell her. “It won’t break.”

She clears her throat. “What?”

“The kilt.”

“Oh! Okay.” Slowly Aura rests her hand on  my right hip, closest to her, then she breaks into a smile. “Wow, it’s softer than it looks.”

Nae comment.

She clears her throat. “I mean, I thought, since it’s wool, that it’d feel like a sheep.”

“Sheep are softer than they look, too.” That didn’t come out right.

Her hand drifts down to the hem. “Is it okay if—can I?”

I nod, since my lungs are too tight to breathe, much less help me speak. I close my eyes as she slips her fingers underneath the kilt. I know it’s curiosity as much as lust on her part, but I don’t care.

Her hand stops at the top of my thigh, as I knew it would. “Wait. What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

Aura pulls back. “You’re wearing briefs? I thought you didn’t wear anything under the kilt.”

“Usually, but this is prom. I plan to be oot there spinnin’ on the dance floor. It’s dodgy.”

She gives me a sideways look. “You’re telling me you don’t know how to dance in a kilt without flashing the world?”

There’s no point in arguing with Aura, so I tell her the truth. “It’s the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

“Yer school’s. Last year before junior prom, Principal Hirsch called me to his office just to tell me to wear something under my kilt.”

“Principal Hirsch ordered you to wear underwear?”

“Basically. I wouldnae dae it otherwise, especially not these…” I shift on the seat. “I’m a boxer man, you know that.”

“Why not wear boxers under the kilt, then?”

“Same reason you don’t wear shorts under yer skirt. It ruins the streamlined look.”

She heaves a frustrated sigh. “Zach, this is stupid. You don’t even go to our school anymore. It’s not like he can give you detention.”

“But he could make us leave the dance. I don’t want that.” I brush my hand over her bare shoulder, where there’s the faintest subtle dusting of glitter. “I want tonight to be perfect.”

“Me, too.” Aura turns her head to rest her cheek against my palm, then lifts her dark gaze to meet mine. “So take them off.”

I swallow hard, wondering if she’s serious. “Sorry?” My voice comes half an octave higher than usual.

“Take them off. I don’t care if we get kicked out. I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be you.”

I feel I should argue. I always argue. But I can’t think of a good reason—or even a bad reason—to deny her this. I do consider a negotiation, however, asking her to remove her own underwear as well.  But she’ll say no, and then if I say yes, anyway, I’ll look weak.

“Compromise. I’ll take them off now, but only until the dance.”

One side of her mouth curves down. “’K,” she says, her flat tone in complete disagreement with her letter-word.

I glance at the driver, who suddenly seems much closer than before. But he’s no doubt seen worse, and anyway, the window between him and us is tinted.

Still, I keep the kilt down as I slip the briefs off my hips and over my legs. They get tangled about my knees, of course. I’m careful not to disturb the laces around my calves as I stand to step out of the hateful piece of cloth.

I give a deep breath of relief as I sit back down. Now the outfit is perfect.

“Told you you’d feel better,” she says. “These are nice, by the way.” Aura examines the scrap of blue silk, which looks small and pathetic. “Now close your eyes.”

A smirk slips over my lips. “Why?”

Aura looks at the tinted windows on either side of the limo. We’re entering the expressway headed south, a good ten minutes from the restaurant. “Just do it.”

“No, you cannae win this battle.” I try to hold onto the smirk, but it falters. She still doesn’t know how hard it is to close my eyes, whether I’m alone or with someone, even her. It’s been almost a year, yet sometimes I still see that void on the backs of my lids. I still worry that when I open them, there’ll be nothing but a white ceiling.

“Then I’ll have to find another way to surprise you.” Her wide, innocent smile turns dark and ominous. She waves my briefs at arm’s length, then stands, steps back, and tosses them out the sunroof. All before I can move an inch.

“What the—” I can do nothing but turn and watch the tiny scrap of cloth tumble down the road, tossed by the wind. Far behind us, a red pickup truck runs it over.

Aura sits beside me again, smoothes her hair, then folds her hands in her lap. “You can thank me later.”

(Back to Aura now.)

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EDITED TO ADD: Some nice person added this scene to GoodReads, so rate it if you like. Don't worry--I won't look.

Voting has now ended, and Zach didn't win in terms of getting the most votes, but Team Kilt made a brave showing and had a brilliant time. Thank you SO MUCH for all your support. It really meant a lot to me. 

In the meantime, you have through the end of Friday to enter by commenting on this post. Thanks!

Comment on this post to be entered to win an exclusive printed, illustrated (with photos!) version of "Shattered," Zachary's upcoming novella. One will be given away for every 500 votes Zachary receives. (EDITED TO ADD: These will not be available when the novella comes out--it will be ebook only.)

Open to international entries. Deadline: Friday, July 27.