Page 15 of Pioneer Summer

Yurka’s efforts were not in vain. He was very pleased to hear not just the whole trinity of Pukes but even Masha—who was usually focused on Volodya—exclaim, “Yurka did such a good job! An honest-to-goodness assistant troop leader!” That proud “good job” was so gratifying that Yurka forgot his hurt feelings for a while, and the words Ira Petrovna had said to him kept reverberating happily in his heart: “I never doubted you, Yura. But now I’m actually proud of you! I’ll talk about this at the staff meeting, let them all know what kind of person our Konev is!”

But of all the things people said to him, the sweetest, the absolute nicest and happiest thing of all was Volodya’s quiet, exhaled “Thanks,” along with the benevolent gleam in his gray-green eyes. That “Thanks” warmed Yurka to the bottom of his heart all that day and night. Because it had been earned, and also because it had been said by him, by Volodya ... someone who, after that brief half hour together at the beach, Yurka thought he understood better, was closer to. Someone who was maybe even almost a friend.

As it happened, the rambunctious children on the river weren’t Volodya’s worst problem. That same day, during rehearsal, Olezhka decided to tyrannize the artistic director about getting a big part in the play. He did have a loud voice, and memorized his dialogue quickly, and really got into character ... but his speech impediment made it hard to tell what he was saying half the time. Volodya didn’t want to insult Olezhka, but at the same time he couldn’t assign him a big speaking part. In the end, he promised he’d listen to the others, too, and then pick whoever was best. He assured Olezhka he’d get a part no matter what.

Yurka, bored, observed the free-for-all. Watching Masha had stopped being boring and started to become physically painful: in the background she kept pounding out the same old piece, the Moonlight Sonata, which everyone was sick of by now. What was worse, she also played it badly. Yurka tried not to listen, but he heard it anyway, and wished that both Masha and the damned instrument were far, far away.

Music ... he couldn’t imagine himself without music. It had sent its roots deep inside him, become part of him. But now—how long had he been trying to rip it out of himself? A year? His whole life? It had been so hard forhim to learn to live in silence, but, out of nowhere, here was a piano, and here was Masha, an excellent example of how not to play. And temptation came out of nowhere, too, along with the certainty that Yurka could’ve played better than her—not now, maybe, but earlier, a whole lifetime ago, back when he still could, when he still knew how. Now he’d forgotten. All he had left was listening to others while he suffocated in his own silence, emptiness, and burning self-hatred.

He watched Masha with gritted teeth. He tried to sneer at the way she cast longing glances at Volodya, but he couldn’t sneer. All he could do was get inexplicably angrier and angrier. He wanted to refocus his anger on someone else, like the trinity, but the girls hadn’t even shown up to rehearsal.

Yurka barely made it to the end of rehearsal before running off to change for the dance. As he was leaving the cabin, completely immersed in thoughts of the pack of cigarettes in their hiding place behind the fence around the unfinished barracks, someone called his name: “Yurchik!”

Polina grabbed Yurka by the elbow and gave him a conspiratorial look. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Yurka hesitated for a moment or two, still feeling angry from earlier, but his curiosity won out.

“What do you want?” He turned around and looked at her, half-questioning and half-angry.

“Are you mad at us or something? Don’t be mad, Yur. Come on, come over here.” Polina pulled him into the girls’ room of their cabin. Ulyana and Ksyusha were waiting there. Yurka really didn’t like their sarcastic expressions.

“Listen, Yurchik ...” Polina smiled sweetly and twisted a lock of wheat-gold hair around a finger. “You get along really well with Volodya, right?”

Yurka sighed. So that was what they wanted. The whole trio had a giant crush on the troop leader and now they wanted Yurka to get them together. Fat chance! Although ... Suddenly he thought of a cunning plan.

“Yes,” Yurka answered, letting his gaze pass mysteriously over the three of them. “We talk some. What about it?”

“Does he ever, like, go to the dances, do you know?”

Yurka shrugged.

“I don’t know. He’s probably busy with the little kids.”

Polina perked up and actually bit her lip: “Listen, but what if you could maybe get him to come to the dance somehow?”

Even though he already knew what he was going to do, Yurka pretended he was considering her proposal.

“I can try. No promises. But ...”

“But what?” Polya smiled even more sweetly than before, but it was such a fake sweetness that Yurka’s teeth almost stuck together the way they did when he ate toffees.

“What do I get in exchange?” He smirked impudently.

“What do you want?”

He assumed a thoughtful mien again, going so far as to scratch his chin.

“For Ksyusha to kiss me! On the cheek! Twice, and in front of everybody!”

“What?!” Ksyusha, who’d been sitting calmly on the bed until that point, went red and jumped to her feet. Evidently she disliked Yurka’s proposal.

He spread his hands wide. “Either that, or you go get him to come to the dance yourselves!”

The trinity exchanged glances. Ulyana sighed, “Well, at least we tried,” while Ksyusha shook her head vigorously in protest.

“Yurchik, wait outside the door for a minute, could you?” asked Polina, shooting a sly look at Ksyusha. “We’ll be just a second.”

He nodded. He didn’t even have a chance to get outside before the girls started whispering furiously behind him. A couple of minutes later, a sullen Ksyusha poked her head out. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

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