Page 86 of Pioneer Summer

“Fucking hell!” he whispered through gritted teeth. “This is all we need!”

He raced back down the dock. Masha wouldn’t be able to see him until she went through the building and came out on this side. When he reached Volodya, Yurka acted without thinking. He grabbed his elbow: “Lie down in the boat, quick!”

“What?”

“Masha’s coming!”

“But we haven’t done anything. Why do we need to hide?”

“Lie down, I’m telling you!” ordered Yurka. “I’ll cover us up with the canvas.”

Volodya was flustered, but quickly hopped into the boat and lay down. Yurka followed him.

As he settled into the boat, he became aware that Volodya was correct: until they’d hidden in the boat, there wasn’t anything they could be caught doing. But now, since they’d hidden, there must be something they needed to hide. And if Masha saw them climbing, disheveled and wrinkled, out of a boat that had been covered in canvas, then who knew what the hell she would think. There would be no end of questions and inquiries. Yurka cursed quietly. He was the one who’d gotten them into this, who’d made them lie there without moving a muscle.

“How’d she get it into her head to come here?” he moaned quietly.

“No idea,” replied Volodya. “She didn’t exactly pick a great time to go for a walk.”

“That’s what I’m saying! She’s stalking you!”

Yurka peeked carefully out of the boat. He didn’t have a very good view. All he could see was a small area of the dock. But he was able to see Masha’s feet in her little black shoes and white anklets. She walked back and forth a couple of times. Then she walked over to their boat and stopped. Yurka’s heart did a somersault. She stood there for a second ... then she took a step toward the boat ... and then there was a deafening crack of thunder and the rain came sheeting down. The heavy drops drummed on the canvas. Masha yelped loudly and ran back to the boathouse.

“Is she gone?” asked Volodya anxiously.

“Yes. But I thought she’d seen something, dang it.”

“Will you be able to see her leave from here?”

“Of course not. She’s in the boathouse. How am I supposed to see her up there?” asked Yurka, irritated. “Maybe just in the window. But only if I’m lucky.”

Volodya paused, then murmured, “I see. So we’ll have to lie around here until the bugle.”

Only now did Yurka realize how tight it was there for the two of them. Moving extremely slowly and carefully, so as not to rock the boat, he turned onto his side so he was face-to-face with Volodya. His eyes still hadn’t gotten used to the dark, and if he hadn’t poked Volodya’s forehead with his nose, he wouldn’t have even known what position Volodya was in or where he was facing. Yurka slithered down a bit lower, and once his eyes adjusted, he was able to discern the outlines of Volodya’s glasses.

The rain was beating down on the canvas, and a cold, wet breeze was coming in around its edges, but Yurka was hot because Volodya was too close. Yurka wanted to touch him, not lay there unmoving like a little toy soldier. Yurka felt around, found Volodya’s hand, and gave it a hesitant squeeze. He felt how dry and warm it was. Volodya breathed out a faltering sigh and gave Yurka’s fingers an answering squeeze.

“Yur,” he said hoarsely.

“What?”

“Kiss me.”

Yurka’s heart skipped a beat. A wave of sweetness washed over his body. Everything around him smelled of water—rainwater and river water—and that’s exactly what Yurka would always remember when he remembered his first real kiss.

Volodya let him do more than usual: not just give Volodya’s lips a quick, innocent peck with his own but press his lips to Volodya’s and keep them pressed tight. This kiss lasted either several seconds or a whole eternity and was accompanied by the ferocious hammering of a heart, although it was unclear whose, Yurka’s or Volodya’s. And then Volodya parted his lips. Yurka was about to pull away, thinking this was the signal for the end, but he felt an even softer and wetter touch.

Yurka didn’t know how to kiss for real. He’d never done it. Volodya knew how, though. His lips caught up Yurka’s, pulling him into a kiss that was grown-up, and tender, and dizzying.

The rain had slowed and calmed, but Yurka had absolutely no desire to grow calm himself. He didn’t want to let go of Volodya’s hands and lips. He forgot about everything, about his irregular breathing, about the heat and languor filling his entire body, he didn’t want to stop, to break out of this moment. If he could’ve stayed next to Volodya forever, in that boat, underneath that canvas, Yurka would’ve done so without a second thought.

Volodya didn’t want it to end, either. He let go of Yurka’s hand and put his arm around Yurka, pressing him close, so close Yurka could tell that he wasn’t the only one who was burning hot. Without knowing why, Yurka put his hand on Volodya’s waist and ran his fingers underneath Volodya’s shirt to touch his skin. It was as though an electric current were running through his hand. Volodya shivered. Their kiss became rough and ravenous.

When the distant bugle came, signaling the end of quiet hour, it seemed deafening to Yurka. He tried to act like he hadn’t heard anything, but Volodya tore himself away and sighed, then said, “It’s time, Yura. We have to go.”

As though he were grasping at straws, Yurka asked, “Do you think Masha’s left yet?”

“The rain stopped and she heard the bugle ... Let me check.”

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