Page 107 of Pioneer Summer

There was music coming from the benches by the courts. It was the radio he and Volodya had taken on their hike. The radio was competing with the song coming out of the camp speakers as the Pukes, Mitka, Vanka, and Mikha all took turns turning the radio dial, trying to get rid of the static. Yurka ran his hand along the chain-link fence around the tennis court and then batted at it. The fence jangled. He thought back to the middle of the session, when he was angry at Volodya after their conversation about adult magazines.

The song “The Last Time,” from the Jolly Fellows album, came hissing and sputtering out of the radio, telling him how time would go by and lovers would forget each other. Yurka was already heartily sick of the song.

“Yura! Konev, get over here!” Polina called, waving her arms. “Let’s sign your neckerchief, too!”

Yurka considered it:Well, why not? Let him have something to remember them by!He took off his neckerchief and handed it to the girls. In exchange, they gave him theirs and lent him a pen.

Yurka wrote the same thing carelessly on each one, without bothering to figure out which neckerchief was whose: “Thanks for the best session in the whole of Camp Barn Swallow. Konev, Session Two, 1986.” But then his conscience got the better of him, because the girls were all writing carefully, putting some effort into thinking of what to say.

“What should I write, Pol?” Ksyusha asked.

“I wrote, ‘Wishing inspiration for our pianist!’”

“Then I’ll write, ‘To the best assistant troop leader. Keep it up!’”

Yurka felt abashed. He had noticed that over the course of the session the Pukes had changed a lot. Or maybe it was Yurka who had changed, and the girls had always been this way? All of a sudden he’d stopped thinking of them as snakes and scourges, or thought it a little less, anyway. Yurka suddenly had the idea of at least asking them what numbers their schools were, because after all they also went to school in Kharkiv. And he could ask Vanka and Mikha, too, and Mitka.

So he did.

“We go to thirteen,” the girls said almost in unison.

“Hey, and we’re in eighteen,” said Vanka happily. “That’s also in the Leninsky District! We’re not far from each other!”

“Really? That’s near the Southern Railway. We can get together and see each other! Do you have phones at home?”

Yurka was barely able to keep himself from giving a low whistle of surprise and admiration. Yes, those Pukes really had changed! Earlier they had turned up their noses at Vanka and Mikha, but now it looked like they were actually flirting.

“So, Yur, by the way ... you promised me a certain person’s address ... ,” said Ksyusha with a wink.

“What person’s?” interjected Mikha.

“Whose?” Vanka corrected him.

“Vishnevsky’s,” snorted Ulyana. Ksyusha scowled.

“Well, I ... I have it,” announced Mitka, clapping his pocket. “Right here. And, uh ... and his phone number, too,” he added, seeing the surprise on everyone’s faces.

Mitka had clearly gathered up all his courage for the last day of camp. As soon as he finished giving Ksyusha the address, he led Ulyana off to the side and whispered something to her that made her smile radiantly.

“Pol—look.” Ksyusha glanced over at Mitka and Ulyana, then winked slyly.

Yurka, anticipating some kind of rude jibe from Ksyusha, decided to show some male solidarity and distract her. But how? And then he realized: he could kill two birds with one stone.

“Hey, Ksyush, by the way—do you know where Masha is?”

Ksyusha smirked. “Why? Do you miss her already? Did you and she maybe have a little thing going?”

“What? Me and her?!” said Yurka, his temper flaring. “No way. Never!”

“Oh, sure. You’re just together all the time.”

“I’m only asking because I’m glad she’s not here. You have no idea how sick I am of her!”

“Yeah, right. Everyone can tell you’re—”

“We saw Masha over by where the final bonfire’s going to be,” Polina interrupted softly.

Despite the interruption, Ksyusha clearly had a mind to poke Yurka’s sore spot again: she narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth.

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