Page 64 of Pioneer Summer

Volodya waited, pacing back and forth, shuffling his sneakers along the asphalt and breathing loudly with impatience. But Yurka still had no idea how to answer him, so he just let his eyes wander over his own hands and feet as he sniffled, barely audibly. Apparently the silence was beginning to drive Volodya crazy, since he started shuffling louder and breathing more angrily, then took to cracking his knuckles. Suddenly he crouched down on his heels in front of Yurka, looked into his eyes, and said, in a painstakingly civil voice, “Please, tell me what’s going on with you. At least now, while we’re stillfriends, I’ll hear you, I promise. If you say you were joking, or that you were making fun of me, or even that you were getting back at me, I’ll understand. If you say it was an accident, or that you didn’t mean to, I’ll believe you.”

Yurka’s mouth twisted in pain: Volodya was giving their friendship a chance, naïvely trying to preserve at least some of it. Yurka realized this, but instead of playing along with Volodya’s lie, he threw caution to the wind, gathered up his courage, and sighed out the truth: “I meant to.”

“What?” said Volodya, looking stunned. “You meant to? What do you mean, you meant to?”

Volodya had indeed been giving them a chance, but Yurka didn’t think for even a second that there was any point. You can’t bring back the past. The good, pure spark that had flickered to life between them would go out now. All they’d have left would be embarrassment, hypocrisy, and tension. And it was all Yurka’s fault.

“But you can’t do that, Yura!” Volodya was, it seemed, completely on the same page. “That kind of thing is—is very dangerous! Don’t even think about it!”

Volodya stood abruptly and turned away. He stood there motionless for a minute and then resumed his pacing back and forth. Yurka felt his world crashing down around him as his eyes tracked Volodya’s shadow moving to and fro.

He scraped together the last dregs of self-control. Without putting much hope in it, he mumbled in a dead voice, so low it was husky, “But you said you’d understand. That we were still friends.”

“But what kind of friends can we be after that?!”

Everything went still, inside and out. The wind vanished; all sound ceased. But all of a sudden, off in the distance, as though it came from another universe, came the sound of a child screaming. Not happy shrieks, as was usually the case, but cries of terror.

Volodya stopped in his tracks and ordered, “Wait for me here.”

But as soon as he’d taken a couple of steps, Yurka lurched to run away. Quick as a flash, Volodya grabbed his wrist and made him sit down on the bench. He didn’t let go of Yurka. “I’m not done yet.”

“But we’re not friends anymore. And that’s that!”

“No it’s not. I’ve told you a hundred times, the games you’re playing are stupid and dangerous. But this—!” His voice broke. Volodya was barely able to keep himself under control. To keep from yelling, he strangled his voice down to a whisper: “Never tell anyone anything about what happened. Don’t even hint at it. In fact, you’d better forget about it all like a bad dream. And from now on, don’t you dare let yourself even think about things like that!”

His hand tightened painfully around Yurka’s wrist. Yurka winced but didn’t make a sound.

“Volodya!” called a girl in a shrill voice. Yurka didn’t recognize who it was. Right now he wasn’t in any condition to recognize anyone or anything. “Volodya, come quick!”

For the first time since Yurka had known him, Volodya acted against his own nature. Instead of automatically running off to answer whenever and wherever he was called, Volodya stayed where he was and shouted, “Can’t you see I’m busy?!”

“Volodya, it’s Pcholkin again. He made Sashka fall down!”

Volodya growled out, “Be right there!” Then he bent over Yurka and said through gritted teeth, “Wait for me here. And don’t you move a muscle!”

“Volodya!” the girl sobbed. Only then did Yurka recognize who it was: Alyona from Troop Five, who played Galya Portnova in the show. “Voloooodyaaaa! Pcholkin spun the merry-go-round toooo faaaast! Sashka’s nose is bleeeeding! The whole playground’s covered in blooood!”

Volodya blanched and finally managed to let go of Yurka’s hand. Gently, he pushed Yurka down. He hissed, “Son of a bitch!!” through his teeth and ran off to where Alyona was pointing. Yurka was left by himself.

Yurka was ashamed. He’d ruined everything. He wanted to vanish from the face of the earth, disappear, be lost, so Volodya would never see him again; to be wiped from Volodya’s memory, so Volodya wouldn’t even remember him.

They weren’t friends anymore. Volodya might sit Yurka down like that again once or twice and start asking questions. Without meaning to, he’d torture Yurka. But the biggest torture was that Yurka had destroyed their friendship. It was true, now, that they were nothing to each other. And now he was going to have to spend a whole week close to Volodya, trying not tolook at him, making sure to stay out of his way, so as not to remind either of them of that humiliating kiss. But how? How was he supposed to be able to look at Volodya now? How was he supposed to speak with Volodya only at rehearsal, and only about rehearsal, without the slightest hope of hearing even a single kind word about himself? All he could do was mess things up. He longed to hear something kind, something reassuring, but what he’d get would be something else entirely: he’d get the cold shoulder from the person who in just two weeks had become closer to him than anyone else who’d ever shown him even the least bit of caring or affection. It was inevitable that Yurka would go crazy: he already was!

What use was camp to him without Volodya? Why should he torture himself living right here next to Volodya but not having Volodya? What good would it do him to suffer from pangs of conscience and burn up inside from shame? After all, Yurka hadn’t liked it here anyway, from the very first day of session.

The thought that had been running through his head all morning came to him again, insistently, blaring out louder than ever:I have to get out of here!

He got up, ripped off his on-duty armband and threw it on the ground, and ran away from that damned bench. He ran heedlessly down the path toward the Avenue of Pioneer Heroes, thinking of just one thing and motivated by just one goal: he had to get out of this camp—hopefully for good!

He only stopped once he realized he was standing in front of the bust of Marat Kazey. He flinched when he saw the face of the Pioneer Hero, for even that plaster boy was condemning him. “Paranoia,” scoffed Yurka to himself. He looked to the left, where the avenue led to the main square at the very center of camp. Straight ahead was the path to the unfinished barracks, where he’d made the secret hiding place for his smokes. To the right was the gate, the camp exit. To the right was freedom! And, through some stroke of luck, both on-duty Pioneers and the watchman were gone.They probably ran over to the commotion Pcholkin was causing, thought Yurka.Well, they’re gonna get it after this!He raced to the exit.

The heavy gate creaked, opening up onto a path through thick, dark forest, much denser than the woods in camp. It even smelled different there. It was cleaner, and breathing was easier. That was freedom for you: at firstthe smell of it made your head spin, and only later did it reach your brain. It reached Yurka’s brain with the thoughtThere’s no Volodya here, so we won’t run into each other!

He ducked into the thicket. He went through the trees on purpose, since he was afraid the campers on watch duty had only stepped briefly away and might see him leaving. As he made his way along the road leading from camp to the highway, where cars and buses drove past, he hid, ducking from tree to tree. He was planning his escape. He had a long way to go and time enough to think.

The first question was when to make a break for it. Not now, for sure: he didn’t have any clothes, or money, or the keys to get in once he got home. It’d be better to try at night while everyone was asleep. No, it’d be better in the early hours before dawn. He’d have to hide somewhere near the camp and wait for the first bus. He didn’t know where to wait, since Volodya knew all his hiding places. He’d have to find a new one. Maybe out here, in this forest? Yurka decided that right now he’d walk all the way out to the bus stop, memorize the path, and look at the bus schedule. Did they run regularly out here? One of them, at least, would have to go all the way to the city bus station. And from there he could get home.

All of a sudden he remembered the smell of home. The kitchen: slightly stuffy and sweet. The sitting room: dust and paper, because of the big library filling the bookcases lining one wall. Then the smell of his room burst into his memory: the piano’s aroma of wood and lacquer. It was so quiet and peaceful there, so good. And Yurka used to think it was boring.

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