Becoming Jinn (39 page)

“I was just sitting here!”

Her eyes narrow, and she takes my wrist. “Are you sure? Not even subconsciously?”

“If it was subconsciously, how would I know?”

My mother looks at Henry, who has pushed back his chair and is sitting with his mouth hanging open.

“They'll come for her.”
The words the man … my father … said last night pop into my head.

“Should Henry leave?” I ask. “Is this … dangerous?”'

My mother cannot rid her face of its stunned expression. “I don't think so.”

“But you don't know?” I stand up and point across the table. “Henry, go!”

He scrunches up his face, eyeing me as if I'm crazy. He doesn't know what I now know about the Afrit. About my family.

“Seriously, Henry, now.”

My harsh tone works. He stands, but it's too late. Something else is already happening. The bronze bangle vanishes into the cereal milk. I take my spoon and swirl it around the bowl.

“It's gone,” Henry says. “How could it be gone?”

A silver bangle identical to the one I first received on my birthday materializes in the center of the table. It rolls toward me. I stop it with one finger before it spills into my lap. At my touch, it pops open at a very visible hinge.

“I'm guessing this is for me?” I know I don't need it. My mother knows I don't need it. But she doesn't know I know. So I play along. “My probation is over, then?”

My mother shrugs, but seems unnerved. “Apparently so.”

I lay my forearm over the table and line up my wrist with the bangle. It hops up, encircles my wrist, and snaps shut. The hinge seals itself.

Henry claps his hands. “That was awesome.”

Eyes fixed on my wrist, my mother has still not said a word.

“Mom? What's wrong?”

She shrugs again. “Nothing, I guess. It's just odd. I've never seen it happen. I heard about it from Nadia, but you know how she exaggerates. There's usually a formal application process to have a bronze bangle removed. And it takes time, months, years even. It's quite rare. You must have impressed them, Azra.”

She says this with sadness, and I know why. Impressing my paternal grandparents isn't something either of us wants me doing. The question is, what do they know? What are they impressed by? My use of spells, my granting Nate a wish properly, or my ability to use magic while wearing the bronze bangle? After what I read last night, I'm certain they wouldn't be rewarding me if it were the last one. They'd …
come for me.
But since they haven't, the secret about me being an evolutionary anomaly seems safe—for now.

Henry moves closer and touches the bangle. I wince slightly, but he doesn't notice.

“That's great,” he says. “Now you'll be able to visit me.” He gives my mother a sheepish grin. “That is, with your permission, Mrs. Nadira.”

“Visit?” I say, confused. I then realize what he means. “So New Hampshire's happening?”

Henry rounds his shoulders. “Seems like it. It sucks, but it sucked worse yesterday. Do you know how many connections it takes to get from there to here on a bus?”

The hug from Henry and the fact that he's already researched bus routes cannot take away the pit in my stomach. I feel like I'm waiting for that Jinn trick to kick in.

Maybe it already has. Maybe being an Afrit has its perks.

*   *   *

It's been three days since the accident. Three days since I've seen Nate but two nights that we've spent together. On the phone. On this third day, I'm standing in a newly purchased bra and underwear (not a thong), ripping clothes off hangers. Though full of black, nothing in my closet seems appropriate for a funeral.

It's been two days since I lowered my wrist into the silver bangle that I don't need. Don't need because apparently the inhibitor injection I received was a lemon. Or maybe because my father is an Afrit, his strong powers supersede or counter the effects. Doesn't matter. With or without a bangle, I'm not using magic unless I absolutely have to. I don't want to give my father's family any more opportunities to discover my secret. Plus, if I don't use magic, I figure I'll be less likely to become one of them.

Maybe that's not really a danger considering my bloodline is muddled. I'm half Jinn, half Afrit. A hybrid. Still, I'm not taking any chances.

It's been one day since I made the decision to keep all the questions I have about the rebellion, about my mother's diary, about my father to myself. For now, the answers I have—about my mother, who'd go to any lengths to protect me, and about my father, who'd risk his own life to ensure my safety—are enough.
Always, but not forever
. Enough for now, at least.

Because right now I have higher priorities: Nate, Laila, Henry, and Yasmin. Yes, Yasmin. She must feel utterly alone without Raina. She doesn't have any human friends. She's clearly threatened by me and my role in our Zar, and the rest of our sisters don't know the truth about her mother. Ironic as it is, that the two of us know means we share a secret all our own. I might be the only one who can help her through this.

I give up on my closet and check my e-mail for the millionth time. The only new message is from Farrah, whose string of exclamation points follows Mina's winky smiley face, the latest in the thread started by Hana congratulating me on getting my silver bangle back. Nothing from Laila. Even though, for the past three days, I've been sending photos of the silver tinsel to her. Levitating in front of the framed picture of me, her, and Jenny, in my hair, dangling from my ear, around my pinky toe, between my front teeth, the locales keep getting weirder. Still, not a single response.

Last night, I finally got up the nerve to app to her house to deliver Mr. Gemp. I left it outside the back door, the photo of all six of us rolled inside along with another from the night of our initiation. Not wanting to pressure her, I waited, even apping in and out a few times, hoping she'd sense me and come out on her own. Too soon, I guess. That's okay. I'm pretty sure one trait I've inherited from the Afrit is persistence.

As I dash across the hall to find something in my mother's closet to wear to the funeral, I'm caught by my, at least currently, third priority.

“Henry!” I cover myself with my hands as I fly into my mother's bedroom. I poke my head out from behind the door. “Don't you knock?”

“I did. Your mother let me in.” He grins. “
Thank you, Mom
.”

It's the first time I've laughed in days. It feels good and bad, right and wrong, all at the same time.

“I'm going to miss you,” I say suddenly.

Summer's coming to an end. The school year will be starting soon. For the first time in years, it was something I was looking forward to. I'd be starting off with a best friend and a boyfriend. Now, the best friend will be gone, and the boyfriend, if that's what Nate will even become anymore, will be dealing with a tragic loss, afraid that his mother's injures might make that two.

“Maybe it's for the best,” Henry says. “You'll be there for Nate and not have to worry about me.”

“No, it's not for the best. How could you even think that?”

Henry's jaw drops as I say this, and I realize his words weren't spoken out loud. I read his mind without knowing I was doing so.

“Holy sh—” he starts.

“Shh!” I grab Henry's hand and drag him into my mother's bedroom. “Don't say anything. And turn around. All the way.”

I hurry to my mother's closet and push back the hangers.

“Azra! How could you not tell me you can read my mind!”

“I said ‘Shh!'” I look back to find him staring at me. “And I also said, ‘turn around!'”

Long-sleeved wrap dress or suit with the pencil skirt? Dress. I don't want to be fussing with tucking anything in.

“For how long?” he says. “And how come you didn't tell me? Can you read minds other than mine? It's not just me, right? What … what else have you heard?”

I pop my head through the opening of the dress and wrestle it down. In front of the mirror, I adjust the neckline. I've been keeping my long hair down lately. I figure enough time has passed that no one remembers my shorter cut. If they do, whatever, I'll say it's hair extensions.

“See,” I say, “this is why I didn't tell you. I haven't told anyone, not even my mother. It's just easier this way.” I smooth the fabric over my hips. “You can turn around now.”

Henry stuffs his hands in his front pockets. He's wearing the pants whose pleats I erased.

“They look good on you,” I say.

“Yeah?” He looks down. “Something seemed different when I put them on, but I guess it's just your mending.”

“Uh-huh.” I hide my smile. “Must be.”

“But Azra, seriously, don't go reading my mind without warning me. That's not cool.”

I roll my eyes. “I didn't mean to. I'm still getting the hang of it. Believe me, I don't want to be reading teenage boys' thoughts any more than you all want me reading them.” He blushes as I face him. “Well?”

He doesn't say anything.

“Henry? Is it okay?”

Still nothing.

“Will you please answer me?” I whine.

“I am,” he says.

You look like the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.

“Stop that,” I say, feeling my own cheeks burn. “And thanks.”

 

38

“Let me just get my bag,” I say to Henry as I open my bedroom door. “I'll meet you downstairs.”

Even from the doorway, the stupid gold envelope perched on top of my pocketbook can't be missed. The paternal side of my family is having too much fun toying with me. They can't drop it for a single day. Not even for the day of a funeral.

“Bring it,” I say.

After everything I did the other night, there's nothing I can't do, there's no wish I can't grant, and, more importantly, there's no wish I won't grant. I'll do whatever I have to do to keep those I love safe.

I tear open the envelope. I curse and smile at the same time. You've really got to hand it to my family. They've got some
couilles
. That's French for balls. Henry taught me that.

Megan Reese. Nate's twelve-year-old little sister is my next assignment.

*   *   *

Henry takes my hand as we cross the threshold into the Reese home. We were both anxious to leave behind the cloud of gloom that hung over the funeral parlor. The years of sadness that oozed from every dusty curtain, every worn velvet chair, every piece of dark wood molding was to be expected. I was naïve enough to think this reception at Nate's house would be different. But the only thing lighter here is the paint on the walls.

Maybe I've been sorting through some weighty topics of late, but it's nothing compared to what's going on for the people in this room.

The last time I was in Nate's house, I didn't have time to take a tour. This time, I don't want to. The hand-knitted afghan draped over the back of the sofa, the model sailboat on the dining room buffet, the photographs on the mantel of a family of four reduced to three make me long for the funeral parlor. Where the cold is expected. Like the bright winter sun, all the things here that should exude warmth lure you in only to bite with the bitterness of a subzero New England day.

Just as Henry and I find Chelsea and the rest of the beach crowd, Nate's grandmother glances our way. She lifts her chin and smiles warmly as she pats Nate's forearm. He tugs on the collar of his white dress shirt and gestures for me to come over.

I leave Henry's side and walk self-consciously across the room. Everyone's eyes follow me as I approach the stars of the funeral, because that's what Nate and Megan are, no doubt about it. They are the main players on this perverse stage.

Nate grasps my hand and draws me to him. Megan leans against him, holding his other hand with both of hers. I feel like a fraud standing with them, but each time I try to excuse myself, Nate assures me he wants me to stay. So I do.

People flood the room, floating in and out, asking about Nate's mother, saying how sorry they are about Nate's father. Variations of the same themes dominate: “He was so young.” “You are so young.” “You're the man of the house now.” “God works in mysterious ways.”

It's clear that everyone means well, but it's not long before I'm numb. The words bounce right off; nothing sticks. After a while, nothing seems sincere. Maybe it's different for Nate and Megan, but I doubt it. They look vaguely distracted, like they are present only in body, not in mind.

The stream of people slows, which makes me nervous. With all those people filling the silence, the odds of me inadvertently reading Nate or Megan's minds were low. I don't want to hear their thoughts, especially Megan's. I don't want to know what she's going to wish for. Not now, not in the midst of this. It can wait. The 10 on the back of her candidate card means finding out what she wants can wait.

Nate's grandparents call to him. He turns to me and asks, “Can you stay with Megan?”

“Of course,” I say, though every fiber of my being is telling me not to. I try to block Megan's thoughts, but the instant Nate's gone, Megan wobbles and I have to wrap my arms around her to keep her from falling. She buries her head in my chest, and her body deflates as it uses mine for support. Megan lets the tears that she's been so bravely fighting all morning come.

I rub her back and brush her hair out of her face. She
is
young. Too young to be dealing with this. And then, that's it, I'm in her head, I'm hearing every horrible, painful, tortured thought. Not since my first time with Mrs. Pucher has reading someone's mind been accompanied by feeling their emotions. And this skill, like everything else, has progressed.