Page 22

CHAPTER FOURTEEN “I SWEAR: NEVER AGAIN”

Time had run out. The cast—Volodya especially—was scared out of their wits once they realized that the premiere of their show was the day after tomorrow.

Yurka skipped morning calisthenics to rush to the theater and immerse himself in practicing the Lullaby. He stayed there all day, so Volodya’s nerves didn’t affect him much. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the drama club, who had a pretty rough time of it. Volodya was incensed at the loss of the entire previous day due to the Camp Barn Swallow Day festivities, so starting first thing in the morning, he spent the whole day pulling actors in threes, twos, and even one at a time out of their activities and civic duty work to run tirelessly through their individual scenes.

Two clubs were mobilized to help with the show, the sewing club and the art club. But while the tailors, armed with Ksyusha’s sketches, were working as hard as they could, the artists were just goofing off. At least, according to Volodya. They weren’t able to make as many set decorations as the show required, so Volodya took a few of the sketches from them and set to work painting decorations himself with the help of actors and volunteers like Alyosha.

As for Yurka, while he was worried, he was completely calm when it came to the show. If they kept working at this rate, he was sure they’d be ready in time. That wasn’t what was tormenting him. The problem was that time was running out not only for the actors, but for him and Volodya.

Volodya understood this, too, and took action. He managed to find moments even in that chock-full schedule to run over to visit Yurka in the movie theater, pecking him on the cheek and tousling his hair.

Yurka was sad nevertheless. His sadness made the Lullaby sound magnificent, but even that wasn’t enough to reverse his mood. The only thing that made him really happy was that the time they spent alone together was exclusively theirs. And even though the moments they did steal and the tender, lightning-quick glances they did share all filled his soul with joy, Yurka waited in agony for the hundred and twenty minutes of quiet hour. They’d finally be able to really be together! They’d be alone. They could forget about the rehearsals, and the set decorations, and all the rest of it. They would live as fully as they could, breathe as deeply as they could, so they’d remember each other, so they’d remember this summer, the most magical time of both their lives.

“We can’t seem to make it out to that bas-relief from your scary story,” said Volodya when quiet hour rolled around, jingling the keys from the boathouse in his pocket. “What do you think: Should we try again? Last time we were on a boat we didn’t even try to get out there.”

Yurka was about to argue that the day had gotten overcast and it looked like it was going to rain buckets, but he changed his mind. Was getting all wet really that big a problem?

They went down the path to the dock, got into a boat, and started out in the same direction as before. This time Yurka set Volodya to the oars: his turn to row against the current. Volodya didn’t complain, but halfway there Yurka could tell he got tired and switched with him. It was a lot farther to row to the bas-relief than to the lily pond.

Yurka called the place with the bas-relief the “ruins.” It was an uneven patch of ground overgrown with weeds and surrounded by sparse pines. It was unclear whether it was a church or a manor house that used to be here, but either way, the remains of walls and the little hillocks of the foundation testified that something had definitely been there. All it took was a close look to see the shapes sticking up out of the tall weeds.

But their path took them farther, to a little space bordered by spreading vines forming a lush living fence, sprinkled with little white flowers like the sky with stars. A regular old moss-covered wall peered out from behind the vines. Yurka walked up to it, looked at the confused Volodya, pulled the vines aside, and grinned: “This wall here is our bas-relief.”

“It’s very old, I’ll give you that, but it’s obviously not a ... Wait a minute!”

Volodya squinted. He exclaimed softly when he made out the barely visible figure that stood out from the rest of the wall, but he didn’t have a chance to utter a word before Yurka got on his knees and started tearing away the vines and moss.

“Careful! Those vines are clematis. It’s poisonous!”

“How do you know all that? Are you a botanist or something?”

“No, it’s just that my grandma was really good at growing flowers,” said Volodya, shrugging. He extracted the notebook he always carried with him from his shorts pocket and tore out a couple of sheets. Equipped with the paper as makeshift gloves, the boys started clearing the bas-relief of the vines and moss. Soon a woman’s profile emerged from the living velvet, followed by a neck and chest, and then the silhouette of the baby the woman was holding close.

“She’s posed like the Virgin Mary,” said Volodya, amazed. “That’s interesting ... but this is a secular woman. Is she the lady of the estate?”

“She’s my ghostly countess. See these buds?” Yurka pointed at the little pointy-leafed, star-like flowers. “When I found it, the clematis was still blooming, and right here”—Yurka pointed at the woman’s collarbone—“there was a big white flower, like a brooch. That’s how I came up with the idea for the scary story. I’ve never heard of there actually being an estate here, though.”

“Is it maybe a gravestone?”

“Doesn’t look like it. But who knows ...”

The bas-relief and the living fence surrounding it were beautiful in a mysterious, Gothic way, but apart from looking at it there was nothing else to do here. By Yurka’s calculations, they still had quite a bit of time left.

“So tell me something: How long until we have to be back in camp?” he said deviously. He had a way better idea.

“An hour and change ... almost an hour and a half,” Volodya estimated.

“Great!” Yurka said excitedly. “I know this one place ...”

“How do you know all this? All these places!”

“Well, I am a deadbeat and a good-for-nothing,” said Yurka, smirking. “I’m always wandering around where I shouldn’t and poking my nose where I shouldn’t, and that’s how I find all kinds of cool stuff.”

“Whatever you say.” Volodya smiled. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“We don’t have to go far to get to the path, but then it’s a long way up, waaaay up there.” Yurka pointed at the cone-shaped wooded hill looming to the east.

“What’s up there? Seems like all there is over there is forest.”

“See that spire? There’s a tiny little gazebo up there at the very top.”

“Are you sure there’s a way to get up there?”

“It’s okay, there’s a path. It’s true that you have to scramble in places, but—”

“Are there any snakes up there?” interjected Volodya.

“—there aren’t any snakes up there,” finished Yurka, in sync with him.

As they went up the steep incline, they had to help themselves at times by pulling on some roots that were sticking out of the ground. Once, something happened that made Yurka’s heart leap into his throat: a gnarled dry root he was holding on to broke off underneath his weight, so he almost went tumbling downhill like a stone. But the rest of their journey was without incident, and soon they came upon some steps cut into the ground that led directly to the little gazebo.

The rickety little edifice wasn’t especially attractive: a plain wooden hut, its green paint peeling in places. Inside was a small table surrounded by uncomfortable, narrow benches. Everything was plain and mediocre. What made the little gazebo unique wasn’t its construction, but the fact that it was covered with writing on every possible surface: walls, beams, benches, table, floor ... The writing was everywhere, outside and in. Seryozha and Natasha, Session One, 1975. Dima + Galya, Fourth Session, 1982. Sveta and Artur were here: Camp Barn Swallow, Session One, 1979. A great multitude of names, dates, and numbers, written in different handwriting, in different colors, with different paints, pencils, and pens. Many had been cut into the wood. Many others had hearts around them.

Yurka walked over to the far corner of the gazebo and called Volodya over. He leaned over the edge and pointed out into the distance. “This is what I wanted to show you. Look.”

It was as though the hut was clinging onto the very edge of the precipice: a steep overhang of bare earth that fell for many meters until it met a thickly forested area that also fell steeply away, all the way back down to the water. Out past that, stretching for many kilometers, all the way to the horizon, was the steppe, cut here and there by the ribbon of a meandering river. The water, reflecting the overcast sky, was gray and white, but here and there, where the sun pierced through the clouds, the water sparkled and flashed with reflected rays. The grass, all dried up from the summer heat, was plastered flat in a yellow carpet as far as the eye could see, except for occasional spots with hints of green.

From here they could see the place they’d just been: the glade with the bas-relief, and the pool where they’d gone to see the lilies, and, of course, the camp.

Yurka sneaked a look at Volodya to see his reaction. He was gazing out into the distance, enchanted, breathing slowly and deeply, his face showing utter tranquility.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Yurka, moving toward the little table in the middle of the space.

“Very. But how did you find out about this place?”

“Strange you’ve never heard about it. You are a troop leader, right?” Yurka leaned back against the table and hefted himself up to sit on it. He kicked his feet back and forth as he told the tale: “This is called the lovers’ bower. Some girls from the senior troops told me about it two years ago, and all the troop leaders know about it—at least, the ones who aren’t at Camp Barn Swallow for the first time. It’s always been sort of like a tradition for camp couples to come here before the end of the session and write their names ... I’ve never understood it, but I came out here one time just out of curiosity, to see it with my own eyes.”

“What didn’t you understand?” asked Volodya, moving close to him. “It’s all very symbolic. You look at these names and you really can feel the romance—all these lovers. Can you imagine how much feeling has been concentrated here over the course of many years? How many tender words have been said?”

Yurka was on the verge of giggling at Volodya’s sentimentality, but he met Volodya’s eyes and went still. Volodya was looking at him so earnestly, so longingly, that it was as though ... as though Volodya was talking about them? Volodya leaned over, braced his hands on the table on either side of Yurka, and pressed the tip of his nose to Yurka’s. He closed his eyes and breathed out ... then breathed in, slowly and deeply ... and at that, Yurka’s heart started thundering so frantically that it seemed about to pound right through his chest. He brought the space between them to a minimum and stole a quick kiss. “Want us to leave our names here, too?” he whispered.

Volodya shook his head. He rubbed the end of his nose on Yurka’s again and murmured quietly, “Don’t. Wouldn’t be good if somebody from our session saw it. I’ll remember it anyway, Yur, without writing anything at all.”

Yurka put his arms all the way around Volodya and pressed his lips to Volodya’s neck, when suddenly Volodya shuddered and dropped his hands from Yurka. Yurka flinched, looked down, and saw that Volodya’s arms were covered in goose bumps. Both of them, completely covered, all the way up and down. Volodya looked away. To keep from making Volodya feel even worse, Yurka pretended he hadn’t noticed anything. And Yurka decided that to make sure Volodya didn’t feel as uncomfortable as that ever again, he’d never do that again—never touch Volodya’s neck.

They went back to camp the same way they had come. Although Yurka knew an easier way, the boys had left the boat onshore, and it had to be returned.

By the time they got as far as the river, the wind had picked up, covering the water in little ripples. The sky to the east went dark.

“It’s going to rain soon,” said Volodya, looking up. “We need to get back quick.”

“We’ll get back quickly now that we’re going with the current,” Yurka said, hoping to calm him.

He got into the boat and took the oars. Volodya pushed off from shore and hopped in.

They did get back quickly. Yurka put his back into the oars, the boat flew along, and it wasn’t fifteen minutes until they were tying up at the dock.

The wind had gotten stronger. The first raindrops plopped down from the gray sky.

“It’s going to come down any minute now!” said Volodya, raising his voice. “We probably won’t make it to camp. Let’s get under cover here at the boathouse!”

“You tie up the boat, I’ll go get some canvas.” By now, Yurka had to shout to be heard over the wind.

Yurka raced off the dock and flung open the door to the boathouse. He grabbed the canvas, and before stepping back toward the dock he glanced out to the window facing the beach. There was someone out there.

He ducked down, then poked just his head back up and took a better look. The person was approaching the boathouse. It was Masha.

“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.”

He sat up a little and, just like Yurka had done earlier, lifted up the corner of the canvas. At that moment Yurka very much wanted Volodya to see Masha’s feet out there and come back here, to him. He wanted to be able to hold Volodya and kiss him, even for just another minute.

“There’s nobody there,” said Volodya. He sat all the way up and threw the canvas off the boat.

The bright midday light blinded Yurka. Everything around them was damp and dripping, but the sky had gotten lighter, and in the distance the sun was poking through the clouds.

Volodya climbed out of the boat. Yurka followed him. While they were fastening the canvas back down, Yurka fought the desire to walk up to Volodya, embrace him from behind, and stand still, just like that, for a long, long time.

“That’s it. Good job, everyone. You can go,” announced Volodya, ending the rehearsal. The actors, pale from exhaustion, applauded. It had taken them until the fifth try for the cast to finally run through the entire play from start to finish and get it to where it was more or less bearable.

And while the actors were so worn-out after that day that they were literally falling down from fatigue as they left, the artistic director was so spent that Yurka didn’t know how he was still able to stand. Volodya was working himself to death, without hearing or seeing or noticing anything around him. His neckerchief had even gotten twisted around with the knot to the back, so it hung on his neck like a noose.

Yurka noticed that and snorted. He got up from the piano, went over to the artistic director, and reached out to fix the errant scrap of cloth.

“I wish they’d huwwy up and give me my vewy own neckewchief!”

Yurka actually jumped from surprise. He’d been certain all the actors had left the movie theater. But the spry little Olezhka had popped out from behind the bust of Lenin like the proverbial devil from a snuffbox.

Volodya lurched away from Yurka and adjusted his neckerchief himself. Then, with a forced smile, he explained, “Our little Olezhka here dreams of having the honor of being the first in his class, or even in his whole school, to be accepted into the Pioneers.”

“Aaaahhhh,” said Yurka slowly. He turned to Olezhka. “So have you already memorized the oath?”

“Suwe have!” Olezhka blushed, stood at attention, and began reciting expressively: “I, Wyleyev, Oleg Womanovich, as I entew the wanks of the Vladimiw Ilych Lenin All-Union Pioneew Owganization, in the pwesence of my comwades do solemnly pwomise: to fewvently love my Mothewland and to live, study, and stwuggle, as the gweat Lenin instwucted, and as the Comm—” Olezhka broke off and sucked in a huge breath. “—unist Pawty teaches, and to hold inviolate the pwecepts of the Pioneews of the Soviet Union!”

“Well done!” Volodya praised him. “And how do you give the Pioneer salute? Do you know that?”

“I do! Want to see?”

Yurka clicked his tongue. Volodya and Olezhka had to pick this exact time for a lesson! Without hiding his boredom, Yurka sat down on the edge of the stage, dangled his feet, and started snoring demonstratively. Volodya ignored him.

“Show me,” said the troop leader. He shouted out the call: “For the struggle for the good of the Communist Party: Be prepared!”

Olezhka barked the response—“Always pwepawed!”—and threw his hand up in the Pioneer salute.

Volodya adjusted Olezhka’s hand so it was higher than his forehead, not at the level of his nose. “You need to hold your hand higher than your head. That means that you will hold the interests of the Pioneer organization higher than your own. And also, during the oath ceremony, the person who ties your neckerchief for you will ask tricky questions.”

“Oh deaw!” said Olezhka, scared. “Awe they hawd questions? Have you asked questions like that?”

“I have. I asked a future Pioneer how much a Pioneer neckerchief is worth.”

Yurka, who had recovered somewhat, called out, “Fifty-five kopeks!,” enunciating each word.

“Yur, come on, you know very well that’s the wrong answer. Why are you messing with him?” asked Volodya, irritated. “A Pioneer neckerchief is priceless, because it’s part of the red banner. Can you remember that, Olezh?”

“Yes, I’ll wemembew that!” nodded Olezhka. “Okay, bye. I’m going to pwactice the oath some mowe befowe bed!”

“You’d be better off practicing your lines!”

“I’ll pwactice my lines, too!”

Olezhka ran off. Yurka started thinking about how it was too bad that Volodya was deceiving the little guy. After all, that was precisely what a Pioneer neckerchief was worth: fifty-five kopeks. No more. Because in the end it was just a dyed rag. By Yurka’s age, everyone believed this firmly. As if they were mocking their neckerchiefs, they wore them every which way: torn, or wrinkled, or drawn on, or covered with souvenir pins and badges, or backward like a cowboy bandana—the way Volodya’s had just been.

Maybe ten or twenty years ago the neckerchief had still meant something, had symbolized values and ideals. But now all that had vanished into the past. And when Yurka failed his piano exam, that was the point when he had begun to suspect nobody had any ideals or values left. Soon enough, something would happen to Olezhka, and he’d learn the same thing. Yurka felt preemptively sorry for Olezhka, for what a cruel disappointment was in store for a little guy who was so inspired, so full of dreams.

Yurka wanted to share his thoughts with Volodya, but before he could, the movie theater door opened again and the guys from the art club carried in several panels of stage decorations.

“Here’s the pumping station and steam engine,” said Misha Lukovenko, the head of the drawing section. “Like you said, we drew the outlines, but you’ll fill everything in.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” said Volodya gratefully. “Did you bring the paint?”

“Yes, it’s right here.” Misha handed him a big box with jars and brushes and reminded him, “I’ll pick it back up tomorrow.”

As soon as the artists left, Volodya turned to Yurka and asked, “Well? Shall we get to painting?”

Yurka groaned in despair. “Now? But, Volod, you’re exhausted, worn-out, and I’m tired too ...”

“The clock is ticking! There’s two days’ worth of work here, at least—we have to paint it, then it has to dry ... and then we’ll have to touch some things up, too.”

“Maybe it could still wait until tomorrow?” asked Yurka, with no real hope of success.

“Nope! But if you’re tired, I can do it myself.” There was no accusation in his voice. Yurka knew Volodya’s enthusiasm was such that he could spend all night in the theater to get everything done himself. But could Yurka really allow him to do something like that?

So they both stayed there to paint the stage decorations. They laid the giant panels out right on the stage floor and crawled around on them like partisans in the field, wielding their brushes. The work wasn’t hard, but it took a long time and there were some tricky bits here and there. It had gotten dark long ago, and it had been at least an hour since the bugle had sounded lights-out, but they were still painting away.

It was past midnight when Yurka looked at all their work, estimated they’d done about half, and surrendered. He tossed down his brush and lay spread-eagle on the floor.

“That’s it. I’m tired. Volod, let’s wrap it up, we’re working like draft horses here.”

But Volodya kept moving his brush like a windup toy. “No, we have to finish it today. You heard them: tomorrow we have to give the paint back.”

“Have to this, have to that ... ,” grumbled Yurka. All of a sudden he leaped to his feet, stomped over to Volodya, and tore the brush from his hand. “No, we don’t have to!”

Volodya glared at him angrily and tried to grab the brush back, but Yurka skipped away and hid his hands behind his back.

“Look at that! You’re painting outside the lines! You’re tired!”

“We have to—”

“We’ve still got a whole day and a half to go!”

“We only have a day and a half left!”

“Your stage decorations aren’t going anywhere! They’re fine!”

Yurka angrily threw the brush away and took three steps toward Volodya, so he and Volodya were nose to nose. He looked Volodya right in the eyes and said, in a much quieter voice, “But we are going somewhere. Do I have to remind you what’s happening the day after tomorrow? Apart from the show?”

Volodya frowned and looked away. But he immediately lifted his eyes back to Yurka’s, and in them Yurka saw both understanding and regret simultaneously.

“I remember,” Volodya replied sadly. “You’re right.”

Yurka put his hands on Volodya’s shoulders and rubbed them. Then Volodya’s neck. Then he ran his fingers through the hair on the back of Volodya’s head. Volodya responded by embracing him, wrapping his arms around Yurka’s waist and holding Yurka tight, reaching for Yurka’s lips. But he didn’t kiss Yurka the way Yurka was expecting.

“No, kiss me like you did in the boat,” Yurka asked, pressing Volodya even more tightly to himself.

“It’s no use,” responded Volodya gravely. He paused for a moment, lost in thought, then added, “Yur ... Yura, do you think we’re maybe doing this all for nothing?”

“For nothing? What do you mean? Don’t you want to anymore?” Yurka was expecting Volodya to hasten to assure him of the opposite, but Volodya just shrugged silently. Then Yurka started worrying in earnest. “But I don’t want to stop doing this, Volodya! I like it! Are you really saying you don’t like it anymore?”

Volodya turned away. He looked up at the ceiling, and then he looked down at the floor, and then he finally answered, “I like it.”

“Then why do you say it’s for nothing?”

“What if I let myself get out of hand again? And this is strange, you know. It is. It’s against nature. It’s not right. It’s disgusting.”

“You think this is ... disgusting?” said Yurka, flabbergasted.

He thought about it. Okay, maybe from the outside they really did look strange. But that was only from the outside. Being “inside” their relationship, their friendship, maybe even their love, felt completely natural and wonderful to Yurka. Nothing was better than—nothing could be better than—kissing Volodya, holding him, waiting to see him again.

“I don’t think so,” said Volodya dejectedly. “But other people do. But that’s not even the point. I feel like I’m leading you down the wrong path with all this, Yur.”

Yurka got mad. “Remind me again: Who kissed who back by the power shed?!” He crossed his arms and scowled.

The corners of Volodya’s lips started to turn up, but he held back his smile. After a pause, he asked, serious again: “Well, what do you think about this, Yur?”

“I try not to think,” answered Yurka, equally seriously. “What’s the point? Neither you nor I can stop ourselves. And us kissing isn’t hurting anybody.”

“Except ourselves.”

“Ourselves? I’m having a hard time seeing how I’m suffering here. Quite the opposite. It makes me feel good and I like it. What about you?”

Volodya smiled awkwardly. “You know the answer to that already.”

Yurka didn’t bother with asking or arguing anymore. He just seized the initiative. This was their second real, grown-up kiss. And it was nothing at all like their first one. Back then, in the boat, it had been hot and nerve-wracking, the boat melting away under the beating of their hearts and the pounding of the rain, but now it was quiet. Completely quiet. Outside the windows was nothing but night; inside the enormous auditorium was emptiness. It was as though everything had frozen, was holding its breath, and there was only the two of them, rediscovering each other lingeringly, slowly, softly, through the movements of their lips.

But then there was a loud crash in the doorway, and something clattered and rolled. The boys leaped apart so fast it was as though a bolt of lightning had struck, throwing them in different directions. A small flashlight was rolling down the steps of the auditorium one by one. And in the doorway, her eyes round, stood Masha, reeling.

Yurka’s first reaction was panic. Next came paralyzing horror. It felt as though the entire earth had fallen out from under his feet, as though the stage were breaking apart, as though everything around him were turning upside down. Then he was struck by confusion and disbelief: Maybe it was just his imagination playing tricks on him?

Because where on earth could Masha have come from, showing up here at almost one in the morning?

But there she was. Living and breathing. And getting ready to get out of there as fast as she could: she was already feeling around behind her for the door handle.

“Hold on!” shouted Volodya, the first of them to recover from his shock.

Masha froze. He ran down from the stage and took the stairs up several at a time until he was next to her. “Don’t run away. Please.”

Masha couldn’t utter a word. She was opening and closing her mouth, gasping for air like a fish tossed up onshore.

“Mash?” Volodya reached out to her, but she jerked away from him as though he had the plague. All she could manage to do was choke out a squeaky, “Don’t touch me!”

“Okay, okay ...” Volodya let out a shaky breath. He was trying to speak calmly, but his strained nerves were evident in every word. “Whatever you do, don’t panic. Come down here, please. I’ll explain everything.”

“What?! What will you explain?! You—you—what are you even doing ... It’s disgusting!”

It was like Yurka’s mind just shut down. He couldn’t figure anything out or make any decisions. He couldn’t even feel his hands. And his legs were made of cotton wool and wouldn’t hold him up. But there was no time to waste. And so, with an unbelievable effort of will, Yurka forced himself to walk over to them. Masha stared at him, her gaze even more wild and terrified than the look she had given Volodya.

“Mash,” said Yurka, forming the words with difficulty. “Now, don’t go jumping to conclusions.”

“You’re abnormal! You’re sick!”

“No. We’re normal. We’re just—”

“Why are you doing that? That’s just not right! That doesn’t happen ... People don’t do that ... That’s completely ... It’s just completely ...”

Masha started trembling and whimpering. Yurka realized that she was a hairbreadth away from hysterics. Right there, right then, she was going to go and wake everyone up and—

Yurka didn’t finish what he was thinking. He was starting to feel feverish himself. Everything started swimming before his eyes. It felt like he was about to faint, and then he’d just keep going and be swallowed up by the earth. He managed to preserve some semblance of at least external calm, although internally he couldn’t stop replaying the terrifying images that kept parading through his imagination, images of the shame and condemnation that would await him and Volodya as soon as Masha told everyone. They would become outcasts; they would be punished, a punishment it was terrible to even contemplate!

“We were just fooling around, you see?” chortled Volodya nervously. “Getting into mischief from boredom, from having nothing to do. And it’s no big deal, there’s nothing going on here. You’re right, this doesn’t happen. There’s nothing happening between us here.”

“What, are there not enough girls around for you? What is he giving you that we can’t?!”

“Of course that’s not it! Think about it: nature itself dictates that boys like girls, that men like women, and that’s the way it is. Mashenka, he’s not giving me anything, and I don’t want anything from him. We’re ... Yura and I are ... we’re just ... we don’t mean anything to each other. We’re going our separate ways after Camp Barn Swallow and we’ll forget each other. And you forget about this. Because this is just nonsense; it’s not worth it ... it’s meaningless, just a delusion ...”

Yurka heard him, but the words were muffled. Unable to breathe calmly, he shut his heavy eyelids and winced in pain. The pain burned his entire being without focusing on one particular spot; it flowed through him, seeming to even reach out past his physical body. Because Volodya could have said they’d done it for a bet. He could’ve said anything at all, even that they were “practicing” kissing. She might’ve believed it, wouldn’t she? But when Yurka opened his eyes and looked at her, he could read his answer in her face: No. Masha couldn’t be tricked with excuses, jokes, or promises. If she was going to believe them, she needed the truth. Maybe even just a grain of truth, but still the truth. And there was truth in Volodya’s words: the laws of nature, and their separation. And “Yura and I were just ...”

Yurka stared at Volodya, seeking an answer to the terrible question that had just occurred to him: that there might not have been a drop of lies in anything Volodya was saying. It was painful for him to hear all this, but even more painful to realize that saying exactly this was their only way out.

“Masha, please, don’t tell anyone about this. If anybody finds out about something like this ... it’s a black mark against us, for our whole lives. It’ll ruin our futures ... Do you understand me?” continued Volodya. Yurka continued to stand there dumbstruck.

“Okay ... okay ... ,” sniffled Masha. “Swear you’ll never do that again ...”

Volodya took in a deep breath, as though he were gathering his thoughts. “I swear. I’ll never do it again.”

“You too.” Masha turned to Yurka. Her eyes went from beseeching to cruel. “Now you!”

Yurka caught Volodya’s eyes for a moment, seeing pure and absolute despair in them.

“I swear. Never again,” Yurka choked out.