Becoming Jinn (20 page)

“Angry?” Like when I heated up the water in Henry's pool. “Afraid?” Like when I cooled down the water in Henry's pool.

My mother plunges her spoon into the icing-rich back of the cake. “Yes, those emotions work too. But once you fully embrace all this, there's an inner peace that will allow you to fully connect with the human's anima, accomplish the highest levels of magic, perform the most complex spells—”

I steal my own icing-loaded spoonful. “Be the Afrit's poster Jinn?” Or another model Jinn like my mom? “No thanks.”

Suddenly, the last bite of cake that was on my spoon is now on my mother's.

“There are other advantages,” she says. “Especially when it comes to spells. Magic is for the tangible. But spells are for the intangible. The uses are endless.”

She smirks and my mind goes back to the group of teenage boys jabbering away in the movie theater who came down with laryngitis at the same time … to the police officer who, despite all the scribbling on his pad after pulling my mother over for speeding, handed her a ticket with nothing but a smiley face on it … to the newlywed at the beach who lost her wedding ring, which my mother, who had never seen it and couldn't have conjured it, inexplicably found.

Suddenly I'm both in awe and very scared of my mother.

*   *   *

“
Come on
.”

I've barely crossed the threshold, and Henry's tugging my arm, dragging me into his living room. Tufts of hair flop over his forehead. Even with the glasses, if only his haircut didn't resemble something done by his mother, I can see how he might be called cute.

As he pulls me toward the kitchen, the muscles in my neck throb.

“Wait, Henry.” I yank my aching arm free. “We need to talk.”

Because I cannot endure another night like last night. My guilt meant I let my mother program our evening. Which means we did yoga. Not the yoga humans have been doing for centuries. My mother has to be trendy. Have conjured hammock, will suspend body from ceiling. For two hours. I hurt in parts of my body I didn't even know had muscles.

“I know, I know,” Henry says. “I have so many more questions. I could barely sleep last night.”

Me neither. But that's because the second stop on our mother-daughter bonding tour was terrifying. Literally.

Henry stops in front of the door to the basement. “Down here.”

I step back. “No way.”

My mother loves scary movies. I despise scary movies. Especially ones with stone-faced, creepy kids. Especially ones with Prince of Darkness themes. So what did she make me watch? The trifecta.
Rosemary's Baby
,
The Omen
, and
The Exorcist
.

I'll be lucky if I sleep again by the time school starts.

Henry glances at my white shorts. “Right, sorry, the dirt.” He starts down the stairs. “Listen, no one's home, so why don't you go on up to my room?”

“But Henry, about yesterday—”

“This is about yesterday.” His eyes plead with me. “Trust me.”

The power in those two words, that's real magic.

Even though it's been more than six years, my feet proceed on autopilot to the second floor of the Carwyns' home. The pile on the carpet treads may be flatter, the paint on the railing may have more chips, but the second-to-last step at the top still creaks in the center. I force myself past Jenny's—now Lisa's—door and enter Henry's room.

Remnants of the Henry I remember, the black-and-white space shuttle poster, the Red Sox bobbleheads, the model AT-AT he painstakingly put together one Christmas, mix with the Henry I'm just getting to know, the guitar in the corner, the map of the world on the wall, the pile of keyboards, monitors, and wires on his desk.

Surveying the room, I try to figure out where I should sit. On his blue-striped comforter? The clothing-strewn floor? The red locker at the end of the bed? Where do I tell Henry I'm going to confess the truth to my mother? Where do I tell him that I have no idea what will happen after that?

Hearing that second-to-last step groan, I head for his desk chair. Stacks of books surround his computer. Software manuals, biology textbooks, and …
really
?

“Is this a romance novel?” I wiggle the bare-chested blond hunk tearing at the dark-haired maiden's lace bodice at Henry as he walks through the door.

Not even a tiny bit of pink rushes to his cheeks. “I like to be well-rounded. I read a lot.”

I set the paperback down next to a thick book on ancient spirits, which must be how he knew what a Jinn was, and one on … witchcraft. “
Seriously, Henry?
A witch?”

“What was I supposed to think?
Seriously, Azra?
A genie?”

I toss the witch book at him, which he catches in one hand despite the box he's carrying in the other.

“What's that?” I ask.

“This is what's going to stop you from saying what you came here to say.”

“And how do you know what I came here to say?”

“Because I know you, Azra. I'm more of a rebel than you, and that's saying something. If telling a human about your world is the worst thing a Jinn can do, then my guess is you've been taking a whip to yourself all night. I bet yesterday was like my stay of execution.”

“Don't say execution.”

His weak smile doesn't mask how anxious he is. “You feel guilty. You're going to tell your mother, that's what you came here to say.”

“I have to, Henry. It's—”

“Okay.”

“Wait, what?”

“Go ahead and tell her. Just not today.”

Standing next to his bed, Henry flips over the dusty box and out falls … Jenny. A flower-covered scrapbook, a flutter of photographs, the seal stuffed animal she loved, the Big Bird with the broken neck I used to drag around, and a diary with a yellow lock. A broken yellow lock.

Henry spreads everything out across his mattress. “My mother wanted to throw all this away. She wanted to move, did you know that? After. My dad refused. Still does. That's why things are so … messed up right now.”

I sit on the end of the bed and run my fingers along Jenny's things. “Because your dad lost his job?” To Henry's surprised look, I add, “Your mom kinda told my mom the other day.”

“They did always get along, didn't they?” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “The truth is, he only lost his job because he wouldn't relocate to New York. My dad … he couldn't leave this place. My mother's furious with him. Not just because now he can't find another job, but because it was her way out. Out of here. This house, this town … I guess sometimes there can be too many memories for one person and not enough for another.”

Henry's describing his mother and father but a weight in my chest makes me think he could be talking about my mother and me. About my father, my mother, and me.

“Here,” he says. “Read this, and if you still want to tell your mom, I understand.”

The diary's cracked open to a page at the end. The entry's dated a few months before Jenny died.

Mrs. Nadira got our favorite ice cream again today. This time, I dug the bag out of the trash before she emptied the can. I was right. It does say Paris. I wrote down the street name: “rue Saint-Louis-en-I'lle.” It's not in Missouri. I looked it up. It's actually in Paris. There's something special about Mrs. Nadira. Azra too. One day, when she's ready, she'll tell me. She's my best friend. And best friends share secrets.

I don't read anymore. I can't. I can't see through my tears.

“This doesn't change anything, Henry.”

“But it should. All of this should.” He lowers his eyes. “Listen, Azra, we all have secrets. We all have inside and outside selves.” He kneels next to the bed and sorts through the photographs. “But eventually we need to let someone in. I know you wish it could be Jenny.”

He places a photo in my hand. Jenny and me. Linked arm in arm, just like Mina and Farrah. Like Samara and my mother. Probably like Laila and the brunette with the killer bladder.

“You and Jenny would have had so much fun with this,” Henry says. “Tell your mother. Just not today.”

 

19

It's been two weeks since the Zoe Incident. Two weeks of hanging out with my first non-Jinn friend since elementary school. Because that's what Henry is.

Thankfully, my mother was wrong about the crush. Henry and I are friends, normal friends, without jealousy, romance, or being Jinn getting in the way.

I add a blue-glass hurricane lamp to the collection of lanterns on the coffee table. Unlike my birthday party, official Zar gatherings are lit exclusively by candlelight. It's quite beautiful actually. The upcoming reunion, which we're hosting, is as official as they get. Laila will have finally turned sixteen, and my Zar will have its full-fledged initiation.

Even though we have plenty of time, I'm filling all the lanterns we own with oil now, per my mother's request. I've been a very diligent daughter and Jinn lately. It's a wonder my mother doesn't realize something's up.

The key to my new plan for telling her about Henry is time. The longer he knows and she doesn't, the better his track record will be. Keeping our secret for a day? A week? Maybe she can brush that off. But if Henry goes a month, two, six? She won't be able to deny his loyalty.

And I won't risk him being taken from me. So I'll confess, just not today. Call it my Scarlett O'Hara plan. Because, after all, tomorrow is another day.

I top off the final lantern and slip my phone out of my back pocket, scrolling to find the last text from Nate. After he assaulted the concession shack door, he texted to apologize. We've had a few, mostly banal, exchanges since then. His last message is from a day ago.

Greenheads vicious today. Hope gone when U back.

Me too. Luckily my two scheduled days off coincided with the worst of the biting greenhead fly season. Merciless little suckers.

I reply,
“What's the buzz today?”
Then, wondering if that makes any sense, I add,
“Flies?”

And with that, our texting remains on a second-grade level.

Returning a black, latticework-style lantern to its hook by the front door, I notice Mr. Carwyn leaning against the railing on his front steps, watching Lisa play in the front yard. The suit and tie he's wearing is a good sign—another job interview. But not my doing. To my secret relief, Henry won't let me risk getting into trouble to help.

In private, though, Henry can't get enough of seeing me use my powers. I spent yesterday magically stitching up the holes in his pockets, sprucing up a pair of his weathered loafers, and flattening out the gathered fabric surrounding the crotch on the ugliest pair of khakis I've ever seen. Even I know teenage boys shouldn't wear pleats.

Still, aside from his wardrobe, a perpetually warm pool, and a fire in the old pit in his backyard, the extent of our magical mischief has been so tame it doesn't deserve to be called mischief.

When a minivan pulls up to the house, Mr. Carwyn buckles Lisa inside next to another little girl, sending her off on what must be a playdate. He straightens his tie, climbs into his own small SUV, and backs out of the driveway. Mrs. Carwyn's at work, but I know Henry's home. And this means, now he's home alone. It's time to turn the genie volume up to eleven.

I know just how to start. I'm going to scare the pants off him.

Before I change my mind, I app to Henry's bedroom. Hearing his clomping footsteps, I slink into his closet.

I'm about to launch out from behind his hanging oxfords when Henry appears in a towel. Though he's at the beach almost as often as I am, his fair skin tends to burn. He usually wears one of those long-sleeved rashguard surfer shirts, so I had no idea his upper body was so … so …
toned
. Without his glasses and with his usually unkempt hair wet and plastered against his skull, he doesn't look anything like my friend Henry.

Droplets of water run off the ends of his hair, sprinkling his shoulders. His hand reaches for the tucked-in corner of the towel, freeing it from his waist.

I should look away.

I don't.

He's drying off his back, and I'm staring at his rounded butt cheeks. This is
Henry
, my
friend
Henry.

Mortified, I try to app home but lack the necessary concentration and only succeed in hopping two steps forward, crashing right into the skis propped in the corner of Henry's closet. He turns, and I squeeze my eyes shut. This is why, when I open them back in the safety of my own bedroom closet, I have no idea if Henry saw me or not. My pulse thumps in my temples as I force the picture of Henry's taut derrière out of my head.

So much for
scaring
the pants off him. As if I'm the one who's been caught naked, I wrestle a pair of jeans off its hanger and pull them on right over my shorts. The pile of sweaters on the shelf tumbles to the floor as I extract a gray cardigan from the center of the stack. I'm nervously braiding my stupidly long hair when I hear Henry's voice.

“Azra? Are you home?”

He's been in my room a zillion times, but suddenly I don't want him to come in here. I give up on the braid, rake my fingers through my hair, and rush out of my room.

Henry's at the bottom of the stairs. I stroll down, trying to act casual. But I can't look him in the eye. As I pass by, I tell him my mom's not here so he knows he can speak freely. I lead him into the living room where I begin putting lanterns back on the bookshelf.

Henry helps, setting a brass lamp on the top shelf. His finger glides across the Russian nesting dolls, floats over the Italian mortar and pestle, and stops at the hand-carved Indian chess set.

“Imports, right?” Henry gives no indication that he caught me spying on him. “That's what your mother supposedly does? How you explain all this cool stuff?”