Becoming Jinn (35 page)

Jenny and I were on the swings in my backyard, alone. We had each just finished a three-scoop ice cream cone. Chocolate had dripped down my chin and onto my neck and chest. My mother had gone inside for a washcloth, taking my
A
necklace with her to clean. She had told us not to go on the swings until she returned. Like we were babies. I wasn't going to be told what to do.

“Come on, Jenny,” I said.

She followed, and we sat on the swings, kicking at the ground with our feet.

“I wish I had a push,” Jenny said.

“I'll grant your wish,” I said to Jenny, teasing. Though I wanted to, I knew I wasn't allowed to tell her I was a genie.

But then all of a sudden our legs managed to propel us into the air. Up and up, we went, swinging faster and faster, higher and higher.

“I'm flying, Azra! Higher, Azra!”

It was all my fault.

I must have used magic to push us on the swings, to push us higher and higher in the air, to push us so high, we could touch the clouds.

The force of my trembling threatens to knock the rickety concession shack down. I was a kid. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't mean for anything bad to happen. I'm sure I only wanted to make Jenny happy. I couldn't have known. I
know
I couldn't have known. But that doesn't matter.

When you're responsible for the death of your best friend, nothing else matters.

My hand goes numb from its tight squeeze on my
A
pendant as I remember something else. That day, Mrs. Seyfreth was going to the ballet. I remember Jenny and I begging her to bring us back the program. She was at the back fence, peering over, booklet in hand, when Jenny fell. That must be what she saw. My mother using magic to try to save Jenny. Mrs. Seyfreth going crazy isn't my mother's fault at all. It's mine.

Forcing myself to breathe, I release my hold on my
A
and flex my fingers, trying to stimulate the feeling to return. My mother gave me this necklace when I was so young I don't remember it. I never took it off, feeling a compulsion to always have the pendant against my skin. That is, until the day I turned sixteen. It's not that I didn't like it anymore, but the insistent
need
to wear it was gone. Because … because that pendant was gone.

I once again test the weight of the
A
around my neck. I knew it was too light—unlike the one tucked in the far corner of my mother's jewelry box. The one she must have spelled to block my powers. The one she must have spelled so I'd never remove it.

If that's true, then my mother really does know I don't need a bangle to release my magic. She knows I'm unlike every other Jinn. But she didn't want me to know. Because she's protecting me or because she's afraid? Considering what I now know about the Afrit, the two go hand in hand.

My world suddenly unstable, I'm as shaky as a three-legged table, but I can't just apport home. Me disappearing would surely draw unwanted attention. And as my mother taught me, I can't have that.

I check to make sure no one's watching before sneaking out the door. Nate must be looking for me. Scratch that, Nate must have organized a search-and-rescue mission for me. I enter into a chaotic mess of people, police cars, and ambulances. There's even a news van.

I wander through the throng of bodies, but Nate's nowhere to be found. Wait, there's Chelsea. Is she crying? The rest of the beautiful bods are slumped over a picnic table. I'm heading toward them when Henry comes up behind me.

“Where have you been?” His voice is full of worry.

I never lie to him, but there's so much to tell, I don't know where to begin. My chest tightens and tears again creep into my eyes. Jenny. All this time Henry's been blaming himself. For what I did. He deserves to know the truth. But he can never know the truth.

“What took you so long to get back here?” he says. “I've been looking for you.” He touches my cheek. “You've been crying. So you do know? I'm so sorry, Azra.”

Henry puts one hand on each of my upper arms, rubbing gently. He's scaring me.

“Know what? What's happened?” I swivel my head. “Where's Nate?”

Henry bites his lower lip. His eyes won't meet mine. I grab his chin and force him to look at me.

“What is it, Henry?”

His Adam's apple bulges as he swallows. “The helicopter. His parents. They were stopping by on their way back from dinner. There was a car accident on the road to the beach. Some of the kids at the bonfire. They … they drank too much. It's bad, Azra, really bad.”

Henry looks like he's about to cry, which makes the tears I'm fighting all the more difficult to control. But this time, I do. I ask him where they're taking Nate's parents. I ask him if he thinks Nate's already there.

Once I have my answer, I'm off, running back to the concession stand. All I care about is getting to Nate and his parents. The only wish Nate could possibly make is to save them. And it's a wish I'll be able to grant. I don't know exactly how or what I'll do, but I know I'll be able to figure it out. I'll be able to grant Nate's wish and keep his family together.

After this afternoon, I was convinced the whole Afrit notion of “greater good” was a bunch of bull. But I was wrong.

 

34

No, I was right.

I'm in the ER surrounded by noise. I apped myself to the woods behind the hospital parking lot and sprinted through the sedans, SUVs, and minivans. Having barreled through the sliding glass doors into the waiting room, the blaring TV, crying babies, and chattering nurses momentarily overwhelm me.

I struggle to catch my breath while scanning the crowded room for Nate. Finally, I see him, huddled in the far corner with a young girl who must be his sister and two older adults who are most likely his grandparents.

My rush of adrenaline plummets. My feet won't budge. The effects of the caffeine long gone, the leftover acid gnaws at my stomach lining. I shut my eyes and breathe, steadying my rapid pulse. When I open my eyes, a man in green scrubs is crossing the room, approaching Nate and his family.

The din of the ER fades into the background. The doctor gets farther from me but closer to Nate. I'm no good at judging distances but I have to be at least twenty feet back. That far away and still I can read his mind.

My throat tightens, my knees buckle. I'm dizzy.
It can't be. It just can't be.
My feeble attempt at mind control doesn't stop the doctor from saying what he's about to say.

I plunge deeper into the doctor's mind: internal bleeding, ruptured lung, trauma to the head, gone before he arrived. Gone.
Gone
. Nothing we could do. Nothing anyone could do.

Anyone, not even me?
Was there nothing I could do to save Nate's father?

Gone before I even got here. Before I had a chance to do anything. How can that be? Did I waste time lying on a blanket, snacking on sugary almonds when I was supposed to be here? Did I waste time feeling sorry for myself, eating stale doughnuts in the concession stand? Is this all my fault? Did I miss out on being able to grant Nate the most important wish of his life? Was this not the wish I was supposed to grant? Was this not why Nate was chosen as a candidate? What could make him more deserving of a wish than this?

I can't look at Nate's face as the doctor tells him the news. I can't hear his thoughts. I can't bear the pain of hearing his thoughts. Selfishly, I shut him out. I shut everyone out. My heart is breaking. Nausea churns my insides. My breathing is rapid, irregular. I want to app away from here, far away. It's too much. Everything that's happened tonight, and now, this too, it's just too much.

I back up until I hit the wall behind me. I lean against it and steal a glance at Nate. His eyes are welded shut, and he's clutching his sister so tightly I'm afraid he might crush her. If I think it'd be painful to hear Nate's thoughts, what must it be like to
be
Nate, to be the one thinking those thoughts?

I think of Jenny, and I know. I think of the Afrit taking my mother, and I know. I think of the Afrit erasing Henry's mind, and I know.

I also know, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here, whether he needs me or not, I won't leave him. If he has to take this, so do I.

I tune back in to the doctor who's telling them about Nate's mother. Facial lacerations, broken ribs, significant blood loss. The older woman, who my mind-reading confirms is their grandmother and Mrs. Reese's mother, holds her breath through it all. But when the doctor says “investigating possible spinal cord damage,” she releases a moan, too soft for me to hear externally, but the strength of the one inside her head almost knocks me off my feet.

Nate and his grandmother follow the doctor to see his mother. In her grandfather's arms, Megan folds in on herself, hands tight against her chest, head hanging down, knees bent—the equivalent of a standing fetal position. I take the nearest seat and try not to lose it.

My head between my knees, I feel a hand rubbing my back. I look up.
Henry.
I fly out of the chair and throw myself against his chest with such force that we almost fall to the ground. Like Nate, he has long, strong swimmer's arms. They envelop me, and that's it. I lose control.

Now that Henry's here, I give in to my fear, my guilt, my worry, my … pain. I'm dragging out a memory from the furthest reaches of my brain, but the details are just beyond my grasp. But the feeling, the feeling comes. A hurt so raw and deep, it surpasses even this. I'm small and being held by some other boy's arms. Some other boy's arms that have the same ability as Henry to ground me, to make me feel like the world is not ending. The memory retreats, scurrying back to the dusty corners of my mind, but the feeling remains.

“Breathe, Azra, just breathe,” Henry says.

Chelsea comes up next to us and rests her hand on Henry's shoulder. Tears fall down her cheeks … her freckled cheeks. Weird that this is the first time I've noticed the smattering of cute little dots. I stare at them, mentally drawing lines between them. Somehow, it is these tiny speckles that soften her to me, and then soften me toward her.

She lays a hand on my forearm. “They're not … Nate's parents … they're not…” Chelsea is unable to say the words.

I don't make her. I look into her sympathetic eyes and whisper, “Just his father.”
Just
.

Finally, I push myself back from Henry. I take the tissue offered by Chelsea and blow my nose. She hands me another one and I blow again, still leaning one shoulder against Henry.

“Az.” Henry lifts his chin, gesturing to the other side of the room.

Nate and his grandmother are returning to his sister, grandfather, and a few other family members and friends who have arrived. The entire group shares the same tortured expression.

Nate's bloodshot eyes float around the room, and he sees me. He kisses the top of his sister's head before rushing to me. I meet him halfway, holding him, I hope, at least half as well as Henry held me.

My condolences don't need to be verbalized. I'm reading Nate's mind, and without me having to say anything, he knows how sorry I am, how much I'm hurting for him, how much everyone in this room is hurting for him. And that's becoming a problem.

They all mean well, but I can't face them. Not yet. I need …

Ending our embrace, I take Nate's hand. “Want to go outside? Get some fresh air? Just for a minute?”

Nate glances at his grandmother, tilts his head toward the exit, and raises a shaky finger in the air. Once she nods to him, Nate allows me to guide him through the well-meaning but rubbernecking friends and strangers. Though he's beginning to cut off the circulation in my hand, I let him squeeze as hard as he wants, as hard as he needs to, until we pass through the front doors of the ER.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask the question to which there is no answer because I have to say something.

That was … seeing her … seeing my mom … and Grandma … she went to see
him
 … I … I couldn't … I—

Even Nate's mind can't finish this nightmarish thought. He wipes his tear-dampened cheeks with his free hand. “Just … just walk with me.”

And so we travel through the parking lot, hand in hand, up and down the rows of cars. Unlike the beach, the moonlight barely shines here, drowned out by all the harsh lights.

“You'd think this would make me feel better,” Nate says, running a finger along the back window of a hatchback, leaving a clean, straight line in the dust. “That most of these cars probably belong to someone who's hurting. Someone whose loved one is in the middle of surgery or being treated for cancer or just … just … I can't even say it.”

He stops and rests against the end of a pickup truck. “What now, Azra? What will we do now, without … without … my dad. And my mom … all those machines and wires.” He bends, placing his hands on his thighs, staring at the concrete. “This can't be happening. This can't be happening.”

But it is. And I can't do anything about it. Because there are some things even our magic can't do.

We can't heal humans.

We can't bring people back from the dead.

We can't grant a wish for a candidate not assigned to us by the Afrit.

But Nate was assigned. To me.

“He was going to help me get a scholarship,” Nate says. “He and Megan already signed up for that sailing competition. He and my mom were going to go to Italy, move back to Boston once Megan graduated, become grandparents. And now, now, I just wish … I wish…”

I'm momentarily paralyzed. There's so much Nate might wish for that I can't give him. Doing the ritual now is risky. The last thing I want to do is have to employ a genie trick.