Becoming Jinn (5 page)

By the time I was ready to forgive, they were past wanting me to.

But maybe the genie lamp my mother just sent up here shows they're ready to try. Which leaves me as the only one who is not.

As usual.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm pulling my favorite pair of jeans out of my closet. Though they weren't when I bought them, they are now low-rise. Ultra low-rise. And cropped. The hem falls mid-calf.

The sudden commotion from downstairs means someone's already here.

Unfolding the tunic as I dart across the hall, I slip it over my head and rifle through the hangers in my mother's closet. The pair of white linen pants I find toward the back fits perfectly.

In my bathroom, I braid my long hair and even dab on some blush and lip gloss. Purple lip gloss. I make it match the color of the shirt from my mother. Groomed and dressed like this, I have to admit my magical makeover isn't half bad.

I'm almost out the door when I turn back around. My mother's right. This
is
a long road. Maybe I
can
dislike what I have to do without disliking who I am. And who my Zar sisters are (Yasmin being the obvious exception).

Using my powers, I center Mr. Gemp on my nightstand and fling the cantamen my mother brought up earlier to the floor, parking it under my bed. Amid the dustballs, the ratty old thing should be right at home.

Life is compromise, after all.

 

5

Laila's eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets as I enter the living room. Samara, her mother, smothers me in an embrace. As usual, her golden hair smells like apricots. Now taller than she is, I nuzzle into the soft waves and let her hold me. I've known Samara my entire life. Before I found out she too was a Jinn, there were times when I wanted her to be my mother. That I still do on occasion is a source of continuous guilt.

“My little Azra,” Samara says, releasing me. “You are breathtaking. Not that you weren't always gorgeous. But now … let's just say you might break your mom's record for most invites to prom.” She calls out to my mother. “What do you think, Kalyssa? Will you be upset if your daughter outshines you?”

“Lalla Sam, stop it.” I sink into the couch. “There's no danger of that.”

My mother joins us in the living room, a tray with bowls of hummus, roasted eggplant, and pita bread following her.

My newly inspired resolve to give this a chance receives its first positive reinforcement when my mother, upon seeing me in the purple tunic, smiles warmly.

Laila still hasn't said a word. I feel her eyes on me and turn to her. “What?” I instantly regret the harshness of my tone.

Weakest. Resolve. Ever.

That we aren't the best friends our mothers want us to be is entirely my fault. Still, we've grown up together, and she's the closest I'll ever come to having a sibling. When we were little, I liked having Laila around. Especially after Jenny was gone, being with Laila made me feel like I wasn't alone.

“It's just…” Laila starts. “This is what I'm going to look like?”

But ever since we started needing bras and deodorant, I've been alone again. Because Laila can't wait to be a genie.

“Awesome.” She runs her fingers through her already long hair. “Only a few more weeks to go.”

Seeing what magic managed to do to me, I'm not sure I want to stand next to Laila, with her blond curls and pale blue eyes, after she turns sixteen, especially if Samara's voluptuous figure is any indication of what's to come. As Samara bends over the coffee table to dip a slice of warm pita into the hummus, I get an eyeful of Laila's future.

I used to think the Afrit were huge fans of that silly old TV show and decided humans deserved their genies sexed up: lipstick-wearing, midriff-baring, cleavage-daring.

But the attractiveness of our species is simply genetic. We are all descended from Lalla Mimouna and Sidi Mimoun, the first Jinn power couple. Legend has it that Jinn were once spirit creatures, made of smokeless fire. These spirits inhabited a plane between the air and the earth and embodied the purest elements of the natural world. In return for corporeal form, the spirits agreed to use the magical powers nature bestowed on them to serve humans for the “greater good.”

Guess “pure” translated into “hot” when those spirits got legs. Then again, Jinn are particularly clever. It wouldn't surprise me if the bargain with nature included an eye-candy clause and we Jinn actually are the most shallow of species.

Samara wipes a glop of hummus off her heaving bosom, which causes Laila to turn to me. “Did you need a bigger bra?”

Everyone's eyes fall on my chest, which I am too easily able to cover with my arms.

“I sure hope I do.” Laila pulls out the collar of her cotton short-sleeved sweater and studies her breasts.

Samara's deep, sexy laugh precedes her reply. “Oh, you will. Runs in our line. Always has.”

Laila pats her boobs and beams.

Though our birthdays are less than two months apart, Laila has always seemed younger. Her being short—and anything under five feet four inches is short for a Jinn—doesn't help that. That'll likely change when she gets her bangle. But she's also seemed younger because she's so eager. She's been excited for her sixteenth birthday as far back as I can remember.

One December, when we were ten, we were celebrating Christmas. We celebrate all the religious holidays on a rotating basis. Some years it's Christmas, some years it's Hanukah, some years it's Kwanzaa, some years it's Las Posadas (my favorite because it involves whacking piñatas), and so on. But that year, it was Christmas's turn. Our moms were huddled together in front of the fire having one of their marathon talks, and Laila and I were rearranging the decorations on the tree.

Laila tore off a piece of the silver tinsel and broke it in half. She tied one strand around my wrist and the other around her own. “There,” she said, “now you grant my wish, and I'll grant yours.”

She wanted me to pretend first. Not because she wanted to make a wish so badly but because she wanted me to get the chance to grant one first. She was being her usual kind, generous self, letting me be the first to role-play as a genie. To Laila, being able to grant a wish was far more of a thrill than being able to make one.

Six years later, this fact still separates us. The only thing that's changed is my need to pretend. Now I can actually grant wishes. Somehow, everything I've done today makes this prospect more, not less, frightening.

“Dinner should be ready by the time everyone else gets here,” my mother says.

Samara snorts. “Oh, Kalyssa, you and your tagines. Tell me, why tagines? Why are tagines the only dish you make the human way? The very, very slow way?”

My mother looks at me. “I just think it tastes better that way.”

Her concession to make my favorite meal without using Jinn magic is the closest my mother can come to granting what she knows has always been my wish.

Samara swishes the wrist of her gold-bangled hand. “Yes, because it makes you starving. Hunger makes everything taste better. If I had your talents, there's nothing I wouldn't conjure rather than cook.”

“Well,” Laila says, drawing out the word, “perhaps if you spent half as much time practicing conjuring food as you do purses, we'd end up with something edible.”

Samara flutters her thick eyelashes at her daughter. “I'll let you perfect conjuring food, sweetheart. Until then, we'll have to settle for raiding the kitchen for more snacks.”

Laila hops off the couch and grabs my hand. “Want to help?”

Maybe maintaining my resolve is getting easier, because I kinda do. Let's say it's that and not the fact that my stomach is rumbling, begging for more than just the mint chocolate chip ice cream I fed it today.

“Sure, in a minute,” I say, which elicits an approving nod from my mother. She follows Laila and Samara into the kitchen while I roll up the sleeves of my tunic.

The house still radiates warmth from the morning's fires. I kneel on the couch and lift the window behind it as the Carwyns' SUV pulls into their driveway. Lisa pops out first, a pink-and-white-striped beach towel tied around her neck like a cape. Mr. and Mrs. Carwyn exit the front seats. Henry is the last to appear.

He waits until his sister has completed her circuit of figure eights across the front lawn and unties the towel. He shakes it, folds it in half, and adds it to the bag his father unloads from the back of the car.

It's a normal Saturday in the Carwyn household.

Mrs. Carwyn carries a red-and-white-checked doggie bag. The styling is instantly recognizable as that of the seafood shack that makes the best fried clams and oysters in our coastal town. The Carwyns must have spent the day at the beach followed by dinner at the Pearl. They spent my birthday the way I wanted to.

Before the family enters the house, each member leaves a pair of sandy flip-flops by the hose on the side of the garage. The four pairs sit there, each representing its owner: mother, father, daughter, son. When my family returns home from the beach, there are only two pairs of flip-flops. And they aren't even sandy. My mother vanishes the sand before we get in the car.

I'm still staring at their house when Henry emerges from the garage. He turns on the faucet and uses the hose to wash out a bucket shaped like a sandcastle. The patches of sun-bleached white on the blue plastic make me certain it's the same one Jenny and I used to play with.

Henry leans over to pick up a pair of flip-flops and his glasses slide off his nose. He digs them out of the slightly too-tall grass and tucks them into his back pocket. The post-beach, sun-touched pink of his cheeks and windblown tousle of his light brown hair suit him better than the fluorescent lights and prison gray walls of our French classroom. He looks directly at me. I freeze. The day at the beach and dinner at the Pearl was surely his family's way of trying to forget what today would have been for Jenny.

I flop down and hide behind the couch cushions. I can't think about that on top of everything else. When my rapid heartbeat slows, I inch back up and peer over the pillows. Henry is turning off the spigot. He wipes his glasses with the end of his shirt before he returns them to their perch on the bridge of his nose. He wasn't wearing his glasses. He couldn't have seen me. I sit back up. He looks right at me. And waves.

Though I'm technically an adult, at least in the Jinn world, my childish response is to duck behind the cushions again.

“Azra!” My mom enters the room with a bowl so full of chips that she needs to levitate the top ones to prevent them from cascading over the side. “It's freezing. What are you doing with that window open?”

Henry's still standing there when I shut the window. I turn around to see a bottle of wine hovering above the coffee table.

“Care for a glass?” Samara says.

Four wineglasses swoop into the room, landing underneath the bottle of wine just as the cork shoots out of the neck. The red liquid flows in an arc into the suspended stemware.

I grab a curtain in each hand and draw the fabric over the front windows.

It's a normal Saturday in the Nadira household.

 

6

Wine is delicious.

Samara persuades my mother to allow Laila and I half a glass each, a small indulgence to celebrate my entry into Jinn adulthood. She presses my mother on why human rules should apply. “It's bad enough they have to go to their schools, why should they have to do everything like them?”

This marks the first thing I have no objections to all day.

Traditionally, along with sweets, Jinn love alcohol. My mother has never allowed me a single taste before today. By the time I finish my glass, I have an inkling why. The warmth of my cheeks penetrates my whole body. It's like apping in place. Which, apparently, I'm not allowed to do.

“No apporting,” my mother says.

I make a face. Normal high school kids get the lecture about not drinking and driving.

“I'm serious, Azra,” my mother says. “I gave in, at least do what I ask, okay?”

I mumble a “fine” and lick the last red droplet clinging to the rim of my glass. Laila places her own empty glass on the table. She drank as fast as I did.

The knock on the door prevents me from angling for a refill.

Laila climbs across my lap and scrambles over the arm of the sofa. She seizes the doorknob but doesn't turn it. Instead she waves me over with her free hand. “Come on, Az. Let's open it together.”

The alcohol appears to have dulled my groan reflex. If my mother knew that, she'd probably change her tune and make me use wine instead of milk in my morning cereal.

Positioning myself by the door, I let Laila fling it wide open. I stumble back when, instead of the members of our soon-to-be Zar, before me stands Henry holding a string in his hand. I follow the string up to the balloon it's tied to, the balloon that reads, “Happy Sweet Sixteen!”

Ah, Henry doesn't know that for me, the only thing sweet about turning sixteen is the slowly digesting wine in my stomach.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck prickles, and my “thank you” lodges in my throat. The room hums with static electricity. Thanks to Yasmin and Hana's earlier visits, I know exactly what this means. Laila begins to move out from behind the open door, but I shove her aside in the same instant that a glass shatters behind me.

Samara's shrill voice cries, “Azra, app, appi—”

I'm already launching myself out the front door. I collide with Henry just as eight assorted Jinn materialize out of thin air in my living room. I slam the door shut and pry myself off of Henry's chest. I search his eyes, whose same greenish hue as Jenny's leaves me momentarily speechless, for any sign that he caught a glimpse of the swarm of teleporting Jinn.

I can't read the look on his face. Surprise? Fear? Amusement? Amusement, yes, he's tickled pink, and not just from the sun. From me.