Her peals of hysterical sobs bounced down the hallway. We rushed after their sister, trying to catch her and calm her down, but Veronica had slammed the door to her bedroom and clicked the lock into place before we could reach her.
Ross rattled the handle, and pounded on the door, muttering under his breath. I reached down and picked the lost shoe off the floor. I stayed a good distance away from the door, and let Ross try to coax Veronica out.
“You can’t just lose it like that in front of our guests, Veronica. It looks bad,” Ross said.
“They’re not ‘our’ guests! They are my guests, and I can – and I will – act any way I wish to act around them.” Her voice was muffled by the thick door. I could picture her, back against the door, legs akimbo, her remaining shoe tossed into the far reaches of the bedroom. She would be mocking Ross — which, had he been able to see her, would have made him turn red.
But Veronica was right: they were her guests. And Ross and I, even though we stood in the hallway where, as children, we would slide around in our stockings for hours on end, were her guests too.
A Storied Year 