Trying to make a rhythm, Dorothy Ann held tight to the railing, the taps on her patent leather shoes, which she loved almost as much as she loved visiting her mother's house, chimed on each step. At the top of the steep stairs, she stopped to catch her breath.
She would like to live here on the tree lined street bordered with rose bushes and peonies, but she knew she’d miss her old room with the gabled windows where she looked down the street to the school.'
Mother said she would have a new school.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted a new school. She liked walking to the end of her street, through the playground, and into the shiny wood floored kindergarten where her teacher always smiled and said, ‘Good morning, Dorothy Ann. How are you?’
Would her new school have a teacher who knew her name?
'Still,' she thought, 'it would be fun to live with my mother. Better than visiting.'
Turning the corner on the landing, she stepped into the upstairs bedroom, untied her hat and placed it on the small dark chest of drawers. In the smooth mahogany, her reflection frowned back at her.
Mother, with clean towels in her arms, walked out of the upstairs bathroom as Dorothy Ann gingerly ran her hand over the tiny solid bureau; she must not mar the top with fingerprints. She could be sent away again.