Finally, I told my parents I would no longer go to church. Nothing was going to get in the way of my ambition for education and a career.
“How can we change your mind?” my mother asked me, weeping. Her grief barely registered, or maybe it did, but I punched it away. I was in the shotputter’s circle and she was outside.
“I don’t want to discuss this,” I told her.
“At least stay with the youth orchestra.”
I shook my head.
“Please!” she grabbed onto my arm and sobbed harder. “There must be a way to bring you back! What can I do?”
“Blue jeans,” I said.
My mother let go of my arm and took a step back. “What? Blue jeans?”
“I don’t have anything to wear to the youth meeting. Give me a pair of jeans, and then I’ll go.” A dirty trick, since we both knew buying a pair of jeans was impossible, but I didn’t care. Jeans cost about 150 rubles. That was more than my father’s salary for a month. Even if you had the money to pay for them, jeans were almost impossible to find.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish