Going Over by Beth Kephart

it
.
    â€œ
Guten Morgen
.” To the man in the Lada. “
Guten Morgen
.” To the gray overcoat across the street. “
Guten Morgen
.” To the skinny lady behind her
Neues Deutschland
. “
Guten Morgen
.” To Lenin on the dining room wall.
    Ada brings you Pelikan ink pens and
Pop Rocky
magazines when she comes—smuggles them in, extra crafty. She traces your constellations with her fingers. She stands close beside you and even in summer, her skin is the perfect kind of weather. You show her the skies, she shows you her city—her Spree, her church spire, the signs on her shops where they sell duplicate versions of the exact same things, and also leather jackets. She shows you Arabelle out there somewhere. She shows you the idea of a boy named Savas. She changes the color of her mole and stares at you hard with her huge mineral eyes. She shakes her head of fluorescent pink. She puts her hand on your hands, her lips on your neck, she breathes and you smell paint.
    She says, “I’ll wait, but I won’t wait forever.”
    And it absolutely kills you.

SO36

    â€œYou’re late,” Henni says.
    â€œI know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œYou’re late, and good Jesus Lord, you’re a mess. What happened?”
    â€œSorry, Henni. Really. I’ll make it up to you.” I stare at her, hurting. Stand there on feet that won’t thaw. My knees hurt and my butt and my arms. My back and my shoulders thanks to the push through the snow. I leave Mutti’s old scarf in a knot at my neck. Keep the knitted cap on my head, my jacket zipped, my hands in my gloves, scanning the room for Savas. I smell like chickpeas to myself, old hummus. I have a spike of hurt in my head, a shiver in my bones, something hot behind my temple. Markus is over by the wide windowsill, looking blown about by wind, staring at the book in his hand. No Savas.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on?” Henni asks, turning her back to the kids and to Markus.
    â€œI’ll tell you in a second, okay? I promise.” Henni has blue eyes with enormous black pupils. She has fat little lashes that look like broken pencil stubs. She studies me and I half study her, then look past her, once again, toward the long, speckled table. The twins are side by side, four wide crayons in Aysel’s fist, a spot of green on Aylin’s nose. Dominik is sucking his thumb, arranging paint pots. Daniel’s fingers are slimy with glue. Meryem’s thinking, her chin perfectly balanced on the points of her delicate fingertips, and I know that she’s thinking about Savas. The table itself is like some dumped-out bottom drawer—paints, crayons, brushes, markers, triple-wide popsicle sticks, construction paper, felt squares, zigzag scissors, the pipe cleaners that Meryem thinks are caterpillars. “They aren’t alive,” I always tell her. But she screams when they come near her.
    There’ll be a show, I realize, of some sort. The kids are making stick versions of themselves. It’s all very abstract, and I don’t understand, and there isn’t time to piece it together.
    â€œYou look like you slept in a zoo,” Henni says.
    â€œSavas is missing,” I say.
    â€œI know,” she says. “I called his house. Nobody was at home, I guess. No answer.”
    â€œWe have to talk,” I say.
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œNot here, all right?” I glance toward the back of the room, the wall of windows, the deep sill, where Markus is hovering. “Markus,” I call out. “Can you cover for us?”
    â€œWhat,” he asks in his moody best, “do you think that I’ve been doing?”

“You’re sure,” Henni says now, after staring at me for what feels like an hour.
    I nod, gnawing the splattered cuticle around my little finger, where the paint leaked in last night. My gloves are warming on the heater. My