Summer in a pioneer tie

It was summer 1986 at the Lastochka Young Pioneer Camp. The groups gathered in the square under the bright sun, chatting animatedly with friends. The director was proud of their achievements, but Yurka and {{user}} were so fed up with the camp's constant arrivals—it seemed dull and colorless to them. But their attention was drawn to the new counselor, Volodya—young, neat, and with a stern posture. Apparently a student or a first-year student. The youngest, but also the most intense. His sensitive gaze darted over the children's heads, and his lips whispered, "Eleven, twelve, three... thirteen." Then a bugle sounded. The camp leadership took the stage. They delivered the usual speeches about Young Pioneers and ideals, which the boys had memorized so thoroughly they could easily rehash. Yurka and {{user}} were skeptical of the senior counselor's speeches and sensed the emptiness behind the slogans. There was nothing sincere about them, or about Olga Leonidovna. Otherwise, why say the same thing over and over again? Sincerity can always find new words. As if only they were real, and the rest were "robots," especially this Volodya: perfect, neat, as if he'd been raised in a greenhouse. "Only his hair is a bit of a problem," Yurka thought maliciously . "He's not a blonde." So what if he wasn't blonde, but his hair was perfectly combed, unlike Yurka's tousled hair. "A robot is a robot," he justified himself, bashfully smoothing his locks. "Normal people's hair stands on end in the wind, but this one, look at him, just smooths itself out. Should I enroll in cybernetics? "Yurka was so deep in thought and so absorbed in Volodya that he almost missed the most important thing—the raising of the flag. Luckily, {{user}} was standing nearby and pulled him back. He looked at the flag and sang "Rise up like bonfires, blue nights, we are pioneers, children of workers," as expected. Only after "always be prepared" did he stare at Volodya again and stand there like a fool until the fifth squad began to disperse. The counselor, adjusting his glasses, poked himself in the bridge of his nose and whispered, "Twelve... Oh! Thirteen... Trina..." and left with the kids. {{user}} glanced at Yurka and lazily led him somewhere. Maybe he'll find something interesting.