Rhythm of rebellion

Some say you have to be born a woman to understand the meaning of true love. An affirmation that is not worth questioning. Love certainly has no sex. When the world plunges into darkness, the only salvation of humanity becomes, as the reader has already guessed, love and love to dream - do not confuse them with each other, because these two things are completely different and, meanwhile, very serious. When we are at a crossroads, we people have to make choices and rely on them, because the mistake in this question is unacceptable if we do not want to regret our choice for the rest of our lives. The same thing happened in 1969, in the dusty and anarchic city of New York. Simran stuck her head out of the window only slightly. The taxi was caught in a long traffic jam resembling a bird’s tail from high altitude: the avenue stretched four kilometers and at the intersection expanded smoothly, acquiring a sloppy oval shape. And all because of a recent accident that took three innocent lives. The road was blocked and installed the necessary warning signs. From that and the traffic - had to go around. - It will take ten minutes, miss,' said the driver to Simran and, as if trying to lighten the atmosphere, poked his hand on the figure of a cute Hawaiian dancer in a bright pink skirt. Apparently she danced the hula - as Simran saw when she moved her hips in a quick dance. It struck her. Before that, Simran had met some bumpkins who could move only with their heads, but not their torso. -Okay, she blinked and looked back at the window. In reality, New York is as ugly as it is beautiful in the memory of Simran, who lived five years outside of it, at a private boarding school for girls. She was thirteen when she left home, her girlfriends and everything that the girl’s heart cherished: trips to the cinema, carefree games, elementary school and much more that little by little, in bits, returned to her memory. New York is a big, colorful city, because in places unknown, alien, cold, like giant skyscrapers that cast shadows on the ground. Turning her neck slightly to the left, Simran froze in surprise and gripped the doorknob firmly, seeing an unpleasant picture of people of low social status searching through garbage cans. The further the chain of cars progressed, the more horror the girl noticed: on the stairs in their apartments smoking women in dressing gowns, and on their knees weeping babies. The boys kicked a plastic glass, obviously imitating a football game, and dressed up ladies and gentlemen ran past them in all sorts of ways. It seemed too inconsistent. A contradictory spectacle, similar to the fruit of a drama: as if Caesar himself were wandering among this hodgepodge, scum... garbage, after all. Crazy pictures led Simran up to the bridge, and after it horrors met less often. The road has become wider, more restaurants and shops, the streets are clean, and there is no smell of burning rubber in the air. When the taxi stopped at a given address, from the brick house under number seven, the woman ran out. With her arms wide open, she smiled down the ladder and exclaimed too enthusiastically: - My dear! My dear Kiwi, the woman whose name is Annette Moss hugged her daughter in a kink and gave her a smack on the forehead, then calmly approached the taxi driver: - Bring your suitcases to the house and I’ll leave you a tip. - Of course, nodded the man who would not give up an extra dollar or even a few cents. - Mom, please don’t call me that word - took her briefcase in the toiletries and followed her to Simran’s house. -Are you talking about Kiwi? - I’m not ten anymore. - But you’re still my Kiwi,' Mrs Moss kept her promise and gave the cab driver a couple of coins and boldly slammed the door in his face. There was something repulsive about her; perhaps it was her hubris, the whispering of neighbors, arrogance and times in an uncontrollable urge to control. The clothes are usually not a judge, but Mrs Moss is a rare exception in our case. Adhering to old moral values, she dressed in skirts and dresses below the knees, did not recognize pants on girls, despised capes and shorts. As a diligent Catholic, she did not miss the Sunday services and went to confession once a month. The mother of three children, in addition to the eldest daughter Simran, or as she affectionately called her, Kiwi, Mrs Annette Moss gave birth to twins Charlie and Marly. It was a late pregnancy, so it’s hard. Having heard a child’s cry from the second floor, Simran ran up to the wooden staircase, on which blue carpet flowed. - The last time I saw my brothers was at Christmas. I mean, six months ago. - Since then they have not changed. Change clothes, put things in their places. You’ll have time to mess with them, baby - the mother went into the kitchen, combined with the living room. Wearing an apron, she went for dinner. - Soon your father will come. Will you help me with dessert? - With pleasure. *** The dessert was a charlotte, for which Simran cut five fragrant apples; now they, baked, crusted on the surface of golden dough. Putting the tray down by the open window, Mrs Moss joined the children on a square sofa with a variety of upholstery, as it was now fashionable. The twins, one-year-old jocks, biting their fingers, played in the sister’s arms, who watched them with tender eyes. Simran always dreamed of a big family. She hoped to babysit the sisters, strictly scolding them when necessary and caress if it is appropriate. The brothers were even happier. These two little angels with blue eyes and wheat hairs on the top, which will surely darken as it was with her, are made for love. And now the girl kissed their chubby legs. - Did you unpack your things? - Took Marly in her lap and smiled at little Mrs Moss. - Yes. - In the fall, you’ll go to Hanscher-Foy School. It’s a good school. - Why couldn’t I stay the same? - asked Simran in a tedious tone of voice and flinched as Charlie pulled her tiny pen behind the curl of brown hair. Frightened by the reaction that followed, the child raised his eyes, as if declaring himself innocent, and drooled, kicking his feet. Simran, thawed, laughed and began to kiss the baby again. - It’s just... you’re closer to home here. With the brothers, you can help... And you need to slowly slip into the dynamics of life here - picking up words, trying not to look at the daughter of Mrs Moss. The real reason for the transfer is lack of funds. Before the family was enough for all needs, but with the appearance of twins had to save a lot, including on the education of the daughter, who moved into senior class. Of course, the girls' boarding school could open many doors to Simran, but not to Mr Moss, a police officer, alas. The couple decided that Simran should finish school in New York. The girl, as if feeling that her mother had not told her, only smiled softly. - You know, I have no doubt that you’ll like it. The attempt at consolation was unsuccessful, and yet Simran, having taken her strings from Charlie’s whore, nodded. - I hope. My friends stayed at the boarding school. - You will get new ones, - hurried to dispel the fears of others Annette - you will see! A lot has changed, now teenagers are so... original. - Yeah, I saw it on the way home. - Oh no, dear, my mother said categorically, not them. These people are a bad example to you. Haven’t you noticed? Their behavior is insulting, the clothes are revealing, the language is open. Simran froze, reminded a group of guys standing at the kiosks with newspapers. They were dressed unusual for a girl locked in the walls of morality. The girls here have big red earrings in their ears, short shirts, tied on a knot, revealing their navels. Her hair was combed with barrettes and bright headbands. They laughed loudly and kissed their bridesmaids intermittently. Suddenly, Simran chuckled. - What’s so funny, honey? - It’s just that you said they have a loose tongue... -So what’s the big deal? Red, brunette shook her head and lowered her chin to hide the blush. - No, nothing. It’s just funny. - Beware of such a company, Kiwi, - Marly laid her naughty face on the carpet, Mrs. Moss spoke to her daughter with morals. - You don’t have to warn me, Mother - kissing Charlie on the cheek, Simran gently seated her brother next to her second and, tired, lying on the couch with her skinny legs tucked under a long linen skirt. - And I will warn you. It is the duty of every mother. Now you will study in a combined school, that is with girls and boys. In addition to the last class. Please remain reasonable and keep the integrity. Do not go around with these hippies... do not listen to them! Simran laughed. - Mom, as I said, I’m not ten years old. I know how unstable the world is today. - The world is always unstable, baby. - I promise not to talk to hippies. I won’t even breathe with them. - That’s right, because they’re smoking marijuana - said the one who made Simran moan in despair. - Well, I trust you. After dinner with the family, having taken a bath, Simran went to bed, but was not going to sleep. Insomnia could be explained either by the fullness of the day or by excitement after reunification with the family. Turning to his left side and throwing a tired look at the window through which the neighboring apartments with unextinguished electricity are seen, Simran fell into thoughtfulness. She stood so firmly before her mother, proving her maturity, but in fact had no idea of the present youth. Only at the end of her ear, from her friends in the boarding school, could she hear stories about rebellions by teenagers and people over eighteen. What did they fight for? For freedom. However, are they not free? What was meant by this «freedom»? Simran wandered for a quarter of an hour, wanting to find the answer to her question, until she finally gave up. And in the morning they went to church with their whole family for Sunday service.