Mutiny of the Little Sweeties

It was the last week of summer. The city emptied; the resort visitors were leaving. The quiet little station was swollen and overcrowded with people. On the platform under the clock, taxi drivers honked angrily at each other. These were their golden days. Trains were moving one after another almost without a break. At night, they could hear the coupling rumbling and the person on duty at the station demanding the removal of a locomotive from the first track.

“Time to think about school!” Papa said, concerned. “How do we find out about school?”

“The mommy network is the best means of information of the system. Also the church. What mothers in church know today, intelligence only finds out in a year,” Mama replied, unruffled.

She had already gone around to a few schools in the city and stopped at the nearest, which had recently been an English school but now remained just a good school.

The young Gavrilovs regarded the approach of school differently. Timid Vicky was nervous, as she had been accepted to a new grade, gnawed her nails, and downloaded from the net all sorts of tutorials of the type Leadership Primer or How to be oneself in any team. Kate knew beforehand that she would figure it out without tutorials, did not worry about anything, and only demanded a new backpack.

“Your one from last year is still good!” Mama objected.

“It’s old. And Peter used it.”

“It may be old but it wasn’t made in China. It’s unbreakable. See: triple seam and parachute thread. And all these pendants will rub to a shine in two weeks.”

“I still want a new one! Let Alena have the not-made-in-China!”

Alena was indifferent to what backpack she used, provided that there was a pocket for her phone. She twirled in front of the mirror and was determining the whole time, which was better – two braids or one? One or two? Then she hid in the bathroom with scissors, cut off her bangs and howled for a long time, because they turned out uneven. Vicky began to clip her second bit of bangs and they turned out even more crooked. They had to resort to Mama’s help. Mama did a good job, however, alas, nothing remained of the bangs.

Peter was also preparing for school. He passed by the mirror, lifting his chin, and tried to decide the whole time if he was cool or not. Then he decided that he was and bought himself a pair of sunglasses like those of a special agent. It was his fifth pair.

It thundered on August 31st. The phone rang. Mama answered. It was the owner of the house calling from Yekaterinburg, informing her that he had quarrelled with his granddaughter and would likely return.

“And us?” Mama asked.

The old man on the other end of the line sighed. “She doesn’t like that I file my nails with a pumice stone. And I mustn’t put my clothes in with their wash! And she forbids smoking!” he complained about his granddaughter.

Everything came tumbling down in Mama’s mind. With such a bunch of kids and things, they would fit nowhere else. Prices had gone up for the summer. The Moscow apartment was leased for a year. Where would they go now? Who would lease what to them? They would have to return to Moscow and ask to live with Granny.

“So we have to move?” Mama asked.

The grandpa sighed again. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t quite decided if I’ll return. Maybe my granddaughter and I will adjust to each other and then you’ll be able to stay,” he said.