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“Nobody like her, though. And what difference does it make? Even if I liked one of them, they don’t like me.” He shrugged. “I’m not you. Every last one of them has fallen head over heels for you.”

“Yeah, right. ‘Every last one of them,’” Volodya scoffed.

“Most of them. And our group—it’s not the drama club, it’s your fan club! It’s the Vladimir Davydov harem!”

Volodya snorted. Encouraged by the smile that had flashed across Volodya’s face, Yurka continued in that vein: “I told you how the girls harassed me, trying to get me to bring you to the dance ...”

“Yeah, I remember that,” replied Volodya, a little less somber now.

“Ksyusha was going to have to kiss me in front of everybody for that ... on the cheek ... twice!”

“Oho!” said Volodya, and clicked his tongue.

“I know! I’d kind of forgotten about that, actually ...”

“Do you want her to?”

“Well, duh!”

Volodya considered this for a moment.

“So listen,” he said softly, making up his mind about something. “Since this is important, want me to go to the dance? I’ll go today.”

“Of course I do!” Yurka could already see how shocked Ksyusha would look when he informed her he’d done his part of the bargain and was waiting for her to do hers.

“Done! As soon as we finish, I’ll go get Lena to switch with me. And for now let’s get back to rehearsal. We’ve still got half an hour left.”

“You go on,” said Yurka, waving his hand dismissively. “First of all, I’m taking a day off today, and second of all, you don’t need me anyway. I’ll go on a walk and get some air before the dance. We’ll meet by your cabin on the merry-go-round.”

Volodya nodded and headed over to the theater. Yurka raced over to his hiding place on the construction site of the unfinished barracks. He needed to get the cigarettes Pcholkin had caught him with and move them to a different hiding place. There was probably a reason Pcholkin kept talking about some kind of hidden treasure: What if he meant Yurka’s smokes? Yurka hadn’t dared revisit the scene of the crime earlier, but now was the perfect time.

Once he had the incriminating evidence in hand, he returned to the movie theater, walked around to the back of the building, and clambered through the bushes there to his second hiding place. It didn’t hold a candle to his first hiding place, being small and narrow; a chunk of mortar near the bottom of the wall had come loose, revealing a little crack where he could fit his cigarettes, then cover them up by replacing the chunk of mortar. But Yurka wasn’t ready to part with them yet.

Club hour was about to end. Yurka took advantage of the fact that for the moment, all the Pioneers were busy with clubs, either inside a building or on the athletic fields, so nobody was out where they could see him. He took out the pack of filtered Javas and a box of matches, struck a match, lit the cigarette, and inhaled with pleasure. Even though he’d promised Volodya he wouldn’t smoke anymore, he just had to calm his nerves now, after such an emotional upheaval. He wanted to take a moment to settle himself ... and also to try and figure out who this mysterious stranger of Volodya’s was. Maybe she wasn’t even a stranger at all?

Apart from the girl campers, there were only two other girls at Camp Barn Swallow, both of them troop leaders: Lena and Ira Petrovna. Yura refused to even consider that it might be the unashamedly plain Lena. He knew it wasn’t okay to think like that, and he was embarrassed of his opinion, but he couldn’t help himself. They didn’t go together at all, not even in the slightest. Also, Volodya was always all business anytime he interacted with Lena. Yurka knew he couldn’t definitively exclude her as a possibility, but in spite of himself his thoughts turned to Ira, who was more attractive—to him, at least.

But his theory about Ira also fell apart immediately, because Volodya was so gallant, he would never have hurt her like that if he had feelings for her. Still, Yurka remembered Volodya’s comment about how he’d be capable of pushing the girl he loved away if it was for her own good, so Yurka couldn’t rule out that Volodya had said that for a reason. Maybe Ira could be Volodya’s secret passion after all.

Yurka’s imagination painted a vivid picture of Volodya going to have a tryst with Ira Petrovna late at night when everyone else was asleep. In the dark, in the quiet, his mask of calm would fall away and then it would be a completely different Volodya, one who was sincere, ardent, and flustered, whispering to Ira about his feelings. Maybe he’d even kiss her, ask her to hold him ...

Yurka scoffed in disgust. He clenched his fists in a sudden fit of anger that fell on him out of nowhere. He was barely able to restrain himself from hitting the wall of the movie theater, instead using a fist just to scratch his nose.

Still, on the other hand, what did they have to hide? Yurka knew from camp gossip that neither Ira nor Lena were married. So was it because of Zhenya? But what would be keeping Ira from just breaking up with Zhenya, then? The answer was obvious: Volodya himself was keeping them together. He’d just said that his beloved would be better of with another person.

But what didn’t make sense was why it was a big deal. She was a troop leader, he was a troop leader ... As long as they didn’t start parading themselves around in front of everybody’s faces, nobody would even think to judge them for it. Volodya couldn’t just be afraid of gossip, could he? Even if he were, he, of all people, would know Yurka could keep a secret. Volodya had shared the kind of secrets that could mean expulsion from the Komsomol; even just the thing about wanting to go to America—! An affair with a troop leader was nowhere near as bad as that. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than what Volodya had already entrusted to Yurka.

That meant that it couldn’t be a troop leader, then. So who was it? One of the girl Pioneers? That would be really bad. Being kicked out of the Komsomol was punishment enough for a lot of things, but not for an affair with a Pioneer. Volodya might well ruin his own reputation—and, worse, hers—for decades to come. People didn’t joke about that kind of thing; people didn’t betray that kind of secret, not even under torture, especially if their beloved’s happiness, which was precisely what Volodya cared about, would be put at risk ... If Yurka were him, Yurka would’ve kept quiet, too. He was keeping quiet about himself.

But still—who was she? If it really was one of the girl Pioneers, then which one?

As he clamped the cigarette in his teeth, the smoke blew back into his right eye, making him squint. He tucked the pack into the crack, replaced the chunk of mortar, and pushed his way back out of the bushes. His gaze chanced to fall on a window through which he could clearly see the entire stage and audience. What he saw happening there made his eye, already teary from the smoke, start twitching spasmodically.

It was like Yurka was watching a silent movie. The cast members filed out of the movie theater, leaving those same two people inside: Masha and Volodya. She still hadn’t calmed down yet. She was hunched in a seat in the first row of the audience, face buried in her hands, shaking. Once the door closed behind the last actor, Volodya sat down beside her. He whispered something in her ear. Yurka expected him to then get up and leave, but the troop leader kept sitting beside her. He kept talking to her and rubbed her back and stroked her hair. It looked ... romantic. Too romantic. It actually looked intimate, as though they were ... together.

What if they really are together? thought Yurka, and the strange stinging sensation shot through him more painfully than ever. The pain surged from a tiny speck in the pit of his stomach and flooded his belly and chest. It swelled, burning and pulsing, like a boil. Physically unable to keep looking at them, Yurka angrily stamped out his cigarette and fled back to his troop cabin.

He walked into the boys’ room, collapsed on his bed, stared at the ceiling, and tried to make himself calm down. Then he remembered something that brought him relief: these feelings would soon pass. And he felt better. He was an egotist, after all, which meant that his feelings weren’t actually real. It was just a delusion. Yurka probably just missed Anechka so much this session that he’d unknowingly transferred all his attention to the only person who was close to him, who he enjoyed being with: Volodya. Who would’ve thought? And that’s how the troop leader became the object of Yurka’s strong but purely friendly affections. That was it. Just Volodya instead of Anya. Pretty awkward.

The Troop One boys all came bursting into the boys’ room and raised a racket as they retold a story about Alyosha Matveyev almost pulling down the basketball hoop. As he laughed along with the others, Yurka could feel his anger and hurt feelings draining away by the minute as his mood began returning to normal. It wasn’t what you’d call a good mood yet, since traces of despair were still echoing inside him, but Yurka had an idea of what would raise it to that level. He went over to the girls’ room right after dinner to tell Ksyusha that today he’d finally be bringing Volodya to the dance.

The girls’ room was noisy with arguing and shouting. All the girls in the room, even Masha, were squeezed into the corners or flattened against the walls, leaving the space in the middle for the Pukes, who were on the verge of a fistfight.

“Why did you throw my hairspray away?!” shrieked the enraged Ksyusha.

“There wasn’t any left!” Ulyana shouted in her own defense, white as a sheet. Her friend’s reaction had obviously surprised her.

“Yes there was! There was a little left at the very bottom, it would’ve been just enough for my bangs!” Ksyusha’s bangs, which were sticking straight out in front of her, were trembling as much as her chin. “You go get it back out of the trash!”

“Girls, I looked in our trash. It’s not there,” Polina interjected, trying to calm her friends down. “Ul, maybe the dumpster hasn’t been emptied yet? Why don’t you look there?”

“Why don’t you go digging around in the dumpster!” said Ulyana, outraged. She was pale not from fear, as Yurka had thought at first, but from anger.

Yurka’s mood brightened instantly when he realized how viciously the Pukes were fighting.

Polya tried to calm them down again. “Come on, girls, don’t fight, okay? I asked my mom and she’s bringing hairspray, two cans of it! She’s definitely bringing it!”

“And when is that?” Ksyusha was almost crying. “Camp Barn Swallow Day isn’t until Friday! What am I supposed to do until then?”

“When I tease my bangs, they stay up just fine without any spray at all!” Polya the peacemaker assured them.

“Oh, Ksyuuushaaa!” sang Yurka, poking his head in the doorway. “I’ve got news for you. There’s good news and bad news. What do you want first?”

“What is it?!” all three Pukes asked in unison. The rest of Yurka’s girl troopmates stared at him, eyes narrowed inquisitively.

“Fine, I’ll start with the good news. Guess who’s coming to the dance tonight?”

“What?!” Ksyusha actually fell to a seat on her bed. Her shaggy bangs fell in a clump onto her face. Apparently this good news was bad news to her. “Oh come on ! Who does this, Konev? Why today? Why not yesterday, or on Camp Barn Swallow Day, or literally any other day when I have hairspray?!”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Yurka said magnanimously. “But you do owe me something instead of thanks, remember? And that’s the bad news.”

“What kind of person are you, Konev?!” she cried again. “I remember already! I remember!”

“And it has to be twice, not just once! You remember, right?” Yurka was unable to restrain himself any longer and broke into a broad, malicious grin.

All the girls except the Pukes turned their heads to stare first at Yurka, then at Ksyusha. Brazen, she didn’t even turn red. But Yurka did. Not from embarrassment, though. From barely suppressed laughter. Her anguish was hilarious to watch.

“I said yes, didn’t I?! Oh, Ulya! Why, oh, why did you throw away my hairspray?!”

The apple trees around the dance floor had been decorated with strings of lights. They flashed and sparkled, embellishing the evening’s deep blue with their yellows and reds. Music poured from the speakers. San Sanych, the facilities manager, was working the sound and light equipment that had been set up on the stage. The on-duty troop leaders, armbands in place, were patrolling the dance floor as the Pioneers danced their hearts out.

Familiar faces from the older troops appeared here and there. The boys—each and every one of them all dressed up, hair painstakingly combed, and smelling of cologne—were casting searching glances this way and that. The girls—each and every one of them all made up, painstakingly dressed in the latest trend, and flaunting teased bangs—were hanging around in languorous expectation, flirting, making eyes at the boys, and trying out shy little dance moves.

For ten minutes or so, Volodya and Yurka stood around under the apple trees, out of the limelight, watching the others. But as soon as the troop leader came around the row of chairs on the far side of the dance floor and joined the dancers under the roving rays cast by the light equipment, it was like a wind blew through the crowd. The first to notice them was Katya from Troop Two. She pointed at Volodya and leaned over to whisper in the ear of first one friend, then another, and the news flew with the speed of sound. Not a minute had passed before Volodya was surrounded by the twittering Pukes, and Masha, and another pair of the bravest girls. Yurka actually felt a little sorry for him, seeing the expression of obvious despair on Volodya’s face.

After a minute of this, Volodya somehow extracted himself from the bevy of clingy girls. He grabbed Yurka by the shoulder and pulled him to one side. He sat down on a chair and caught his breath.

“What’s up?” Yurka asked him. “Aren’t you going to dance?”

“Why?” replied Volodya, surprised.

“What do you mean, ‘Why?’ Because we’re at a dance, that’s why! People dance at dances! It’s fun!”

“Not really, not when you can’t dance,” said Volodya deprecatingly.

“Well, let’s just go lurch around to the music. Look at Matveyev busting a move over there!”

Alyosha Matveyev considered himself an avant-garde kind of guy, so he was dancing in a strange way that looked contrived and jerky. First he waved both his hands around up in the air, something like a broken marionette, or maybe a working robot. Then he plopped down onto the asphalt and waved his feet around the same way. Alyosha had once explained to Yurka that it wasn’t actually convulsions; it was a dance: “It’s really hot right now in Moscow, Leningrad, and the Baltics! It’s called ‘breakdance.’ It’s so cool! But yikes—what a hard dance.” Yurka decided that when he got a minute, he’d find out from Volodya whether kids in the capital knew about it. But when he saw the undisguised skepticism on Volodya’s face, he decided to ask some other time.

“No, thanks. I’m definitely not going to do any ‘lurching around,’” scoffed Volodya.

“Aw, come on! Are you not going to dance at all? Not even a slow dance?”

“With who?” said Volodya, blushing.

Yurka snorted. “You mean with which one?! Look how many candidates there are! Every girl here is yearning for you to ask her.”

It was true. Yurka looked around and noticed girl after girl gazing hopefully in their direction. Most of them were looking at Volodya pleadingly. Half of them were probably thinking, Well, why not? What if I’m the one he asks?

But Volodya shook his head. “It won’t look right if I dance with just one of the girls. What if the others get mad at her? So ... and besides, I didn’t come here to dance, but to see Ksyusha kiss you. Go get her. She’s over there.” He gestured to where the Pukes were standing. “I’m here, so you’ve fulfilled your part of the bargain. Time for her to pay up.” Volodya was clearly in a good mood, chuckling as he talked.

Yurka smirked and walked over to the Pukes. He was bursting with confidence. With impudence, too.

“Hey, Ksyukha!” he called loudly. “Here I am!”

All three of them stared at Yurka in surprise.

“A deal’s a deal! I brought him, so keep your promise.”

“Promises are made to be broken!” squeaked Ksyusha, who clearly didn’t want to keep her word.

“Now, now, girls, that wasn’t our agreement. If you don’t kiss me right now, Ksyusha, I’ll make Volodya leave. Yeah! How do you like that, eh? But on the other hand”—Yurka let a pause hang dramatically in the air—“if he stays, maybe he’ll ask one of you to dance!”

Yurka knew that wasn’t going to happen, but Polya’s and Ulyana’s eyes glittered with curiosity. Ksyusha was the only one who wasn’t burning with enthusiasm. But Ulyana stepped in, grabbing Ksyusha by the elbow and dragging her over to Yurka.

“Go on,” Ulyana whispered, nodding at him.

“Nuh-uh!” Yurka stopped them. “You promised to do it in front of everyone. We’re going to the middle of the dance floor.” He held his hand out to Ksyusha. “Shall we dance?”

She sighed and trudged gloomily after him.

A silly little song by a group that was popular at first but had now started getting on everyone’s nerves was pouring out of the speakers:

Your eyes are the color of morning skies,

Your hair’s as golden as fields of wheat.

Flowers bloom in my heart from your smile ...

“It’s like the song’s about you,” said Yurka, magnanimously complimenting Ksyusha. A disconcerted smile flashed across her lips.

It would’ve been hard to call their awkward shuffling “dancing.” The only thing Ksyusha allowed him to do was put his hands on her shoulders in comradely Pioneer fashion while they both tapped their feet in time to the music, holding each other at arm’s length.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Yurka asked her.

“I don’t hate you, but it’s your fault, anyway. You shouldn’t have jumped on Vishnevsky like that,” she mumbled angrily. “It’s your fault he didn’t come, you know.”

Yurka hadn’t known she cared whether or not Vishnevsky came to camp. “It isn’t, actually. He spent the whole session last year bragging about how his dad got him a vacation voucher to Bulgaria for an entire summer this year,” replied Yurka dryly.

It was like a dam burst. Ksyusha flooded him with questions. Apparently she cared an awful lot. But Yurka wasn’t listening. He was looking out the corner of his eye at Volodya, who was sitting at the far edge of the dance floor, leaning back in a chair, arms folded on his chest, smiling and watching the two dancers. He also caught other campers looking at him enviously. Vanka and Mikha all but applauded when they caught his gaze.

The song ended, but Ksyusha was in no hurry to either leave or kiss him.

“Come on, let’s go,” Yurka urged her. “What are you waiting for? Two times!”

“You don’t happen to have Vishnevsky’s address, do you?” Ksyusha asked, blushing.

“No. Kisses!”

Ksyusha rolled her eyes, sighed, and moved closer. Yurka gallantly turned his side toward her and offered her his cheek, so she could reach it if she stood on her tiptoes. She held her breath and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Yurka squinted his eyes shut in satisfaction as he felt that first soft little touch on his cheek, then a pause, and then a second one, which was even nicer. He liked it very much.

When he opened his eyes, all he saw of Ksyusha was her back as she rushed away to rejoin her friends.

Vanka and Mikha, flabbergasted, were waving their arms like crazy, beckoning him over. He obeyed.

“How?!” exclaimed Vanka. “How did you do that?!”

“Aw, man, why are you so lucky?” whined Mikha, who was green with envy.

“What’s the big deal, guys?” asked Yurka, faking surprise.

“That’s Ksyusha! She’s as mean as a dragon! But don’t tell her I said that, okay?” Mikha said, catching himself. “Me she snaps with a towel, but you ... She kissed you!” he pointed out, as though Yurka didn’t already know.

“Yeah,” agreed Vanka. “It’s the kind of thing we can only dream of ...”

“Oh, come on, like she’s so super-gorgeous,” said Yurka dismissively. “We’ve seen better.”

“That’s right! That’s the way to be,” said Mikha, energetically demonstrating his indifference. But immediately he added again, in a frightened whisper, “Just don’t tell her I said that, okay?”

“But still—how? It’s some kind of trick, right?” persisted Vanka, stumped.

Yurka shook his head. “Nope. I earned it,” he said with a proud jut of his chin, then turned and hustled back to Volodya.

But Volodya wasn’t on his chair anymore. Yurka looked around, lost.

“Maybe he went over to the outdoor stage to make up with Ira? He’d hardly have gone back to his cabin without telling me.” Sure that Volodya was here somewhere, it was just a question of finding him, Yurka went to the far corner of the dance floor and climbed his apple tree—the same one he’d been hanging the string of lights on at the beginning of the session. Carefully, though, this time. He pulled himself up and stood with his feet on either side of the forked trunk. He felt like a pirate in a crow’s nest as he started examining the area.

The crowd below started moving. Some boys were asking girls to dance, and Yurka was a little envious of them—what an adrenaline rush! Other campers were having fun without any partner at all, while a few, like Mitka, were standing hesitantly in place, lonely and nervous.

The announcer who read Camp Barn Swallow’s Pioneer Dawn was standing under a tree decorated with a string of red blinking lights and watching Ulyanka. He kept turning red as a piglet and then, as the string of lights blinked out, returning to being as white as chalk.

“And now we’ll take a little break ...” The camp director’s voice interrupted both Yurka’s observation of Mitka and the dance music. The Pioneers hollered in protest. “... so Olga Leonidovna can announce the results of our Summer Lightning campaign! And then we’ll have our ladies’ choice dance!”

Olga Leonidovna stepped out onto the stage for precisely one minute and without preamble announced loudly into the microphone that ultimately the winner of the Summer Lightning campaign of session two of the Pioneer Hero Zina Portnova Barn Swallow Pioneer Camp for 1986 was ... friendship!

A smattering of tepid applause followed. But as soon as the first notes of “Ferryman,” the smash hit of the summer, started playing, a whisper of excitement passed through the boys, and all the girls started looking around at once. They were urgently trying to find someone.

“The leader of Troop Five,” guessed Yurka. And following the direction in which most of the glances were pointed, he did indeed locate Volodya.

The troop leader was standing near the stage behind a tall speaker, which was why Yurka hadn’t noticed him right away. As expected, Volodya was talking with Ira Petrovna. From a distance it was impossible to hear their voices or tell what emotions played on the troop leader’s face, but Yurka could see Masha walking slowly and hesitantly toward them. She stopped and said something to them as she wrung her hands behind her back and shifted from foot to foot. Volodya nodded to Masha. Ira clapped Volodya on the shoulder, smiled, and walked away. Volodya bent slightly toward Masha and extended his hand gallantly.

Time stretched like syrupy fruit kissel dripping from a spoon. Yurka, frozen in an awkward position, saw Volodya leading Masha slowly, oh, so slowly into the middle of the dance floor ... he saw the girls looking enviously at them ... he saw Volodya carefully place his hand on Masha’s waist, keeping her at arm’s distance ... and a hot wave of hurt and anger rose inside Yurka again.

The Pioneers made a wide circle around Volodya and Masha, who swirled around the dance floor alone. Yurka observed them, flustered. His imagination added details, putting the dancing pair in a spotlight among dozens of lights, and all the stars were out, and the moon shone only for them, singling them out ...

You’re jealous , whispered his subconscious helpfully, naming the feeling that burned inside him. That was it, that was the same terrible sensation Yurka had felt today while spying on them through the window of the movie theater. It was jealousy, and the sting of it was far worse, far more painful, than ever before.

“Traitor! Liar!” raged Yurka. “He said he wouldn’t dance with anyone, but he betrayed me! And that’s not even dancing: he’s just pressing up against her! Masha, of all people! That stupid little ditz Masha! A friend, he says! Look what kind of friend he is!”

Meanwhile, the speakers were pouring out Alla Pugachova’s languid and—in Yurka’s opinion—dreary voice as she sang “Ferryman,” about pairs of lovers stuck on opposite banks of a river. The song was coming to the end, where she just kept repeating the phrase about how the ferryman would never be able to unite so many separated lovers, since there were so many of them but just one of him ...

“And there’s just one of me, too, hanging around by myself in this tree like a—a macaque! Like an idiot!” Yurka finally lost it. He grabbed hold of an apple growing on a nearby branch and yanked it free. He threw it at Volodya without aiming. He was sure he’d miss and the apple would hit the ground and explode, spraying them both with juice. But it traced an almost perfect arc through the air and hit Volodya smack in the shoulder.

What happened next took just a few seconds.

Yurka realized that he absolutely had to get out of the apple tree, because if they found him there, they’d throw him the hell out of camp! He’d never climbed down from a tree so fast. He dove down to the ground as nimbly as a circus acrobat and escaped the dance as fast as an Olympic runner.

But Yurka only thought he’d escaped. A few minutes later, red as a lobster, he stopped and looked around. There was a little windowless shed nearby. Yurka ducked around the corner of the shed and leaned back against the whitewashed wall to catch his breath. Only then did he sense the sweet smell of lilac and hear the humming of electricity. The power shed.

“Yura!” came a nearby call. “I know you’re here! I saw you go this way.”

How on earth did he catch me? thought Yurka, despondent, but decided it didn’t make any sense to try running again. Even if he evaded Volodya today, he’d still have to deal with him tomorrow.

“I’m here! Over here!” he called out.

Volodya walked up to him. Yurka assumed a very guilty mien and ducked his head low. But Volodya didn’t look angry; more like confused. He rubbed his bruised shoulder and looked at Yurka, perplexed. “Why did you throw an apple at me?”

“I’m sorry,” Yurka said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to, honest. I didn’t think I’d hit you. Did it hurt bad?”

“Well ... I felt it,” chided Volodya. “Why were you in the apple tree?”

“I was looking for you, and I could see better up there.”

“And ... ?” prompted Volodya, expecting further explanation.

“Masha was driving me mad,” Yurka admitted truthfully. “She invited you to dance, and you accepted.”

“So?”

“You said you wouldn’t dance with anyone! But then who did you dance with but her, even though you know how much she irritates me!”

“Yura, I don’t understand what the issue is.” Volodya rubbed his eyes wearily. “Explain so it makes sense.”

“The issue is that I saw you in the movie theater today! I saw you comforting her!”

“You were spying on us?”

“Yes! I was spying on you!”

“What for?”

“What difference does it make? First you hug her and stroke her hair, and now you’re dancing with her ... What next? Do you like her?”

“No,” Volodya replied firmly. “And anyway, what do you care what Masha and I—”

“But you said we were friends!”

“Of course we’re friends. But what’s that got to do with this? Yura, for the last three days something’s been up with you. I’ve been asking, but you won’t talk. And now you’re out to get Masha. But what you did just now—that’s too much!”

Yes, Yurka was aware his behavior was extremely odd. Rationally, he was aware of it. And Volodya’s relationship with Masha shouldn’t have provoked such a hurricane of emotion in him. But it did. His heart was spasming and breaking all at once. His chest felt both tight and hot. His cheeks burned, but chills raised goose bumps on his skin. His fingers trembled.

Volodya was calm. He stood with his arms crossed on his chest. Yurka approached him and, without breaking eye contact, said: “I want to be the only person in your life!”

“You are. You’re my only friend,” Volodya said softly, even affectionately. “Yura, if you like Masha, just tell me. I’ll back off.”

“‘Just tell me’?! Maybe you’re the one who’d better tell me !”

“What is it I’m supposed to be telling you?”

“The truth. About her. Because it’s her, isn’t it! Why didn’t you admit it was her from the start?! Why are you hiding it? And what are you even hiding, anyway? That you can barely wait a year for her? Just wait, and you’ll get everything you want! But I won’t ever get anything!”

“A year? I don’t understand.” Volodya really did look baffled now. He even let his hands fall to his sides. “But hold on ... wait ...” He thought furiously for a second, then clapped his hand to his forehead. “No, I was right a minute ago! That’s why you’re so strange, that’s why you’re avoiding me and picking on Masha: you like her, but she likes me!” Volodya burst out laughing.

As Yurka watched this travesty of his own making unfold, he instantly became furious. Suddenly everything around him was too intense, as though all his senses had sharpened at once. The hum of the power shed sounded deafening; the smell of the lilac felt cloying; even the dim light of the moon and stars was blinding him. In that light, Volodya’s face became paler and his gray-green eyes shone like emeralds. And maybe Yurka only imagined this, but along with the fake happiness there was something else in them, too. As though Volodya understood more than he should; as though he knew what was happening to Yurka even better than Yurka himself did. But Volodya was lying and putting on this clown show anyway.

“Your ‘girl from my building’ is Masha? Yur, I’m more than happy to ... to ... I won’t get in your way! Be bold, and you’ll get everything you want!”

“What are you even saying?!”

Yurka no longer knew what he was saying or doing. Time slowed down for the second time that evening. The humming in his ears was joined by the thundering of his heart. Yurka filled his lungs with air and tried to shout over the din: “It’s not Masha who I won’t have! It’s you!” Then he turned away.

“Wait! What?!” Volodya grabbed Yurka by the arm and turned him around. He furrowed his brows, gazing directly into Yurka’s eyes. “What did you say? Say it again!”

“How am I supposed to explain this to you?” croaked Yurka hoarsely. He took hold of Volodya’s shoulders, pulled him close, and paused for a heartbeat, then pressed his lips to Volodya’s.

Volodya gave a muffled gasp and his eyes widened in surprise. But Yurka simply lost all sense of self, all sense of self-awareness. All that existed was the way Volodya smelled ... like apples ... and also, just a little bit, the warmth of Volodya’s skin.

This lasted a couple of seconds, and then Yurka felt one more thing: Volodya’s hands on his shoulders. But before he could be glad, Volodya gently but insistently pushed him away.

Volodya, flustered, stared for a few more seconds at Yurka’s burning face. Then, keeping his hands in place so he held Yurka at arm’s length, Volodya said sternly, “You quit that.”