Page 6 of Pioneer Summer

No wonder they slide down, on a nose as straight as that, Yura thought. He would’ve stood there longer, watching and admiring Volodya, wishing he had one like that, too—not a nose, obviously. A pear. Because Yurka really, really liked pears. But without meaning to, he cleared his throat. Volodya looked up, put down the notebook, and reflexively moved his pointer finger to his face, but then caught himself and, with a somewhat condescending expression, instead lightly took hold of the arms of his glasses with both hands and repositioned them.

“Hi. Back from snack already?”

Yura nodded. “Where are they handing out pears? There aren’t any in the mess hall.”

“Someone gave it to me.”

“Who?” asked Yura automatically. Maybe it was someone he knew, and then he could get one, too, or trade for it.

“Masha Sidorova. She’s our pianist, she’ll be here soon. Want to share?” Volodya proffered the unbitten side of the pear, but Yurka shook his head. “No? Have it your way.”

Yurka climbed up onto the stage and crossed his arms matter-of-factly. “So. What am I going to be doing here?” he inquired.

“Cutting to the chase, eh? Good attitude. I like it. And it’s a good question ... Whatareyou going to be doing here?” Volodya rose to his feet and gazed thoughtfully at the clean white ceiling. “I’m looking at the script and thinking what part to give you.”

“Maybe a tree? Or a wolf? Every kid’s show has either a wolf or a tree.”

“A tree?” Volodya scoffed. “We’ll have a hiding place in a log, but that’s a prop, not a part.”

“Well, just—think about it. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s play a log really well, like a professional. Want to see?”

Without waiting for a reply, Yurka lay flat on the floor and stretched his arms along his sides.

“What do you think?” he asked, sitting up and looking up at Volodya.

“Not funny,” Volodya shot back bluntly. “Let me fill you in on something. This isn’t a lighthearted comedy, it’s a drama. A tragedy, even. The camp has a big anniversary this year: thirty years since the day it was founded. Olga Leonidovna was talking about it at assembly.”

“Yeah, I know she was,” Yurka said.

“All right, then. You already know, of course, that this camp was named after Zina Portnova, Pioneer Hero of the Soviet Union and one of the bravest Young Avengers. But the fact that the first big event held here was a show about Portnova’s life—that’s probably news to you. Well, that show is what we’re performing for Camp Barn Swallow Day. So no logs for you this time, Yura.”

Volodya spoke animatedly, with the air of someone intent on doing something special and meaningful.

“Bleah!” Yurka grimaced. “Boring.”

Volodya frowned at first, but then took a good, long look at Yurka and finally replied: “I think not. Boring is just what it won’t be—not for you, anyway. Since there’s no role for you, you’ll help me with the actors. Why not? The only other grown-up here, apart from me, is—”

Yurka rolled his eyes and scoffed in exasperation. “Yeah, some grown-up!” he broke in. “How old are you, even? Seventeen, if that! You’re in your first year of college; you’re just a year older than me.”

Volodya cleared his throat and repositioned his glasses, then said quietly: “I’m basically nineteen. Almost. My birthday’s in November.” Then he collected himself and added sternly: “And if I were you, Konev, I wouldn’t forget myself when I was talking with a troop leader!”

He looked more disappointed than formidable, and Yurka found himself embarrassed. Volodya really was a troop leader, after all, just like Ira Petrovna. Chastened, Yurka admitted, “Okay, I overdid it ... But who else in drama club is a grown-up, apart from you?”

“Masha,” replied Volodya. Yurka felt that Volodya had been more offended than he let on, but Volodya continued as though nothing had happened. “She’s from Troop One, same as you. The rest are all little boys. With girls, see, you don’t have to take care of them—they’re obedient by nature—but boys ... boys are completely wild. With boys, it’s not just watching them like a hawk, you also need authority.”

“Pfff ... let Masha babysit them, then. What am I, their mommy?”

“That’s what I’m saying, is that Masha can’t. These boys don’t need just anybody, they need somebody with authority. I don’t have the time to—”

“And what makes you think I’ll do it?”

Volodya sighed heavily. “You’ll do it because you don’t have a choice.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. If I were in your shoes, I’d be working on my self-discipline, or else ...”

“Or else what?”

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