Becoming Jinn (7 page)

Samara quickly intervenes. “I'm the last Jinn to put a damper on fun, but, really, Yasmin should be setting an example for the other girls considering how long she's been doing this. She knows the importance of not exposing our magic.”

Remaining true to the way their Zar has always functioned, Lalla Isa and Lalla Jada let the stronger personalities dominate the conversation.

The same way Laila, always the peacemaker of our Zar, chimes in with, “Plus, it wasn't very nice.”

Raina and Yasmin snort at the same time. My mother smiles, but her nostrils still flare. Raina is my mother's least favorite “sister” even if she would never admit it. And Samara is my mother's favorite. Like mother like daughter, generation to generation.

 

7

Our mothers have retreated to the living room where they're indulging in wine and ancient history as they flip through a collection of photo albums. Nostalgia seems to have eased the tension that hovered like a rain cloud over the dinner table. Well, nostalgia and the wine.

Yasmin, Hana, Mina, and Farrah ducked out to the garage, claiming they had a surprise to work on.

This leaves Laila and me in the kitchen cleaning up my birthday dinner. Serves me right. I wanted today to be like any other day.

Laila stacks a plate in the dishwasher. “Show me more.”

“More what?” I pretend to be ignorant though I'm actually impressed she contained herself for so long. This is why she volunteered us for kitchen duty.

“Anything. Everything. I can't wait to see what I'll be able to do.”

I gesture toward the living room, where our mothers are debating who had the cutest pregnancy belly. “You know what you'll be able to do. You've seen it with them our whole lives.”

“But they're so high level. I want to see what
I'll
be able to do.”

My eyes float back before I can stop them.

Laila's face reddens. “Oh, it's okay. It's not like I expect to be as good as you. I really just want to watch you in action.” She clutches my hand. “Az, this is what we've been waiting for our whole lives.”

“We” is not the right pronoun, but I can't tell her that while she's looking at me with such affection in her eyes. She squeezes my hand. Maybe when we were younger I deserved Laila's friendship, but why she's stuck by me all this time, I don't know. I haven't been all that friendly the last couple of years. Still, she's here. And not because she was dragged, unlike me the last few times my mother apped us to her house.

“Okay,” I say to Laila, setting two empty wineglasses on the counter. Recalling the fruity taste of the red wine we had earlier—and picturing what I know of the wine-making process, which consists of a single image of bare feet stomping grapes, I close my eyes until it feels like icicles are stabbing my insides. When Laila yanks my arm, I open my eyes to see our glasses filled with a deep red liquid that I hope tastes like wine and not feet.

A sneaky satisfaction fills me. “Voila!”

Laila starts to clap. I cover her hands with my own to stop her. “Shh. They won't let us. At least my mom won't. Your mom would. You're lucky.”

Confusion passes over Laila's face. “But we can't actually drink it.”

“Don't you want more?” I prod.

“Hmm … we aren't supposed to.”

Words that will guide the rest of my life. But I've done enough of what I'm supposed to do today. And it's still my birthday. “That's what makes it fun,” I say.

Laila hesitates. Neither of us could be called delinquents. But if one of us were the instigator, it'd be me. The salt instead of sugar “we” poured in our mothers' coffee when we were eight, the heels “we” broke off my mom's pumps and glued to our own when we were twelve, the hunger strike “we” went on when they said we couldn't watch that vampire movie a couple of years ago, that was all me. And not because I'm a natural troublemaker. Because I bore easily, which explains the first two. The third is because I'm stubborn. And I hate to be told what I can and cannot do.

Each time, Laila stood by my side, always using the wrong pronoun and saying “we” when our mothers asked whose idea the mischief had been.

I pick up my glass and say the words I know will convince her. “To sixteen.”

Laila snaps up her own glass, clinks it against mine, and repeats the toast. She takes the first sip. “Not bad.” She licks her lips. “Hints of tobacco.”

Wine shoots out of my nose. “Like you'd know that.”

Laila runs her fingertip around the rim of her glass as a mischievous smile plays on her lips. “Maybe you're not the only one with a rebellious streak.”

I could be blown over by fairy dust. “Well, well, well. Little Laila.”

Embarrassment consumes her petite face. “It was only a couple of times.”

“Of course,” I say.

“See, there was this boy—”

“
Of course.
”

The color springing to Laila's cheeks matches the wine.

“Tell me,” I say.

And she does. By the time we finish the dishes, despite the supposedly higher tolerance of Jinn, Laila and I are tipsy. We share this first like so many others. And we talk like we haven't in months. Maybe years. The closer to sixteen I inched, the further from Laila I ran. Stubborn. And to what end? Though Laila's wearing those see-through pink harem pants and can't wait to be a genie, she's still the Laila I grew up with. My oldest friend. My only friend.

*   *   *

“Look at this,” Lalla Nadia says as we take slow, measured steps into the living room.

Her long fingernail points to a plastic-encased photograph. “You two and my little Hana at Halloween. Too cute. Just like today. Well, except for Azra.”

Of course except for Azra. Because I swore long ago that the matching genie costume my eleven-year-old self is wearing in that photo would be the first and last such outfit I'd ever step into. A vow not even the gold ensemble Hana brought for me tonight could break. The Afrit can make me be their beck-and-call girl but I'll be damned if I'm going to look like one. Still, the tug on my heart upon realizing Hana was including me means the costume now hangs in the back (the
way
back) of my closet.

While Laila peers over Nadia's shoulder, I scoop up an album of my mother's I've never seen before. The first picture of her and Sam sporting big hair and backpacks tells me it's from high school. I flip through until I arrive at prom night.

The abundance of photos of my mother, in a neon-orange dress only she could pull off, and Samara, who's spilling out of a tight, red, strapless dress, almost makes me miss the lone one of my mom and her date. Tall with hair the color of volcanic rock, the cute boy clings to her waist. She leans into him, the warmth in her gold eyes as strong as anything she's ever directed my way. I wiggle the picture out, wanting to ask my mother what happened to this boy she was so enamored of, when Hana calls from the garage, “Laila, Azra, where are you?”

Laila jumps up and grabs a shopping bag off the end table. I slide the picture of my mother and her prom date into my back pocket and follow her into the garage. I know something's up when I have to weave around a tall stack of cardboard boxes full of the books my mother and I packed away to make room for her growing collection of Moroccan tea cups.

Standing at the end of the makeshift wall is Farrah. She smacks her gum and holds out her palm. “IDs,” she says.

Laila giggles and starts to move past Farrah.

“Back o' the line, blondie,” Farrah says in a deep voice. “Unless you got an ID. Showing skin ain't everything.”

Clearly Laila and I weren't the only ones who continued to drink.

The headband in Farrah's hair changes colors like a disco ball as she twirls the tassels dangling off the waistband of her teal harem pants. She then breaks into laughter. “They're here, Mina!” she yells over her shoulder.

Phone to her ear, Mina appears behind Farrah. She leans in and whispers, “Aiden,” to which Farrah nods knowingly.

“That's right, babycakes,” she says, curling a lock of her chestnut hair around her finger. “
Next
Saturday means the one at the end of
next
week. Oh, and be sure to wear those jeans I got for you.” She hangs up and sighs. “Body of a Jinn, brain of a turkey. Anyway…” She digs her hand into her sapphire-blue bra top. “Here you go. Happy Birthday, Azra.”

In my hand is a fake ID.

Farrah drops the bouncer act. “And I made one for you, Laila.”

I wonder just how much Laila's been hanging out with them all lately because she seems as taken aback as I am.

“You guys made these?” she says. “With magic?”

I study mine. The fine lines of the background grid, the blue of the state seal, the glinting of the metallic stamp, everything looks perfect.

Downplaying her usual soda-pop effervescence, Mina taps her nail against her phone and shrugs. “It's just a side business.”

“But why?” Laila asks. “It's not like we need to make money.”

With a sly grin, Mina says, “Money's not the only thing humans will trade with.”

“What else do you need?” Laila says.

“I haven't done homework since the day I turned sixteen,” Mina says with pride. She nods to me. “I can teach you if you want.”

Farrah taps Laila's ID. “She taught me.”

Laila pokes me with her elbow, and I look at her license. It says she's five-foot-six and forty-two.

Behind Farrah's back, Mina holds her finger to her lips and shakes her head.

“A few more months,” Farrah says, “and you'll be able to app, Laila. Then you can sneak out and meet us at a club. An over-twenty-one club. That's where the best bands are at.” She starts ticking off her fingers. “Rat Tooth and Fungus and Bloody—”

“Weeks,” Laila says. “My birthday is in weeks, not months.”

“I know.” Pink spreads across Farrah's cheeks. “Sure, of course, you'll be able to app right away. Unlike me. I bet Azra can already app.”

I can, but does that speak more of my abilities or Farrah's?

“Are you going to let them in or not?” Hana calls.

Laughing, Mina and Farrah hook arms, spring past the wall of boxes, and cry, “Ta-da!”

Laila and I follow to find Hana sitting at a dark wood bar surrounded by five other backless stools with red-leather seats.

“Kickin', right?” Hana says.

Yasmin sidles up to the bar and, with a drawl that confirms her alcohol intake, says, “I don't know why you're bothering. She's never going clubbing with us.” Her icy tone makes that sound more like a threat than a statement. “I mean, Azra's too stuck-up about being Jinn to even wear the outfit Hana made.”

Made?
I reach out and touch Laila's sheer scarf. The material's too rich to be dime-store quality. “Hana, you made these genie outfits? As in conjured?”

“As in sewed,” Yasmin snipes. “By hand.”

My stomach lurches.

“You know she's always had a thing for designing,” Yasmin says. “No, wait, you probably don't.”

Mina hides her head in her phone as she says slowly, “You haven't really been around much, Azra.”

Hana's eyes dart to mine before fixating on a spot on the concrete floor.

Suddenly Farrah blurts out, “Neither have we.” Everyone stares at her. She sets her hands on her hips. “Screw it, it's true.”

With deliberate steps, Laila leaves my side and moves to the center of the room. “Well, we're all here now, so maybe the past can stay in the past?”

The hush that comes over the garage contrasts with the raucousness of our mothers that flows through the closed door.

Hana, Mina, and Farrah hover by the metal shelves against the far wall. With Yasmin on one side of the room, me on the other, and Laila in between, the dynamics of our Zar reveal themselves.

Yasmin breaks the silence by plunking a glass bottle on top of the bar. “Perhaps we need to take our cue from them.” She begins to fill six shot glasses with a green liquor. “Absinthe.” Her tone infuses the word with sex and danger. Surely she's been perfecting this. Nothing comes off sounding so velvety without practice.

“You conjured that?” Laila asks, eyes wide.

Yasmin wets her lips. Again, undoubtedly, a rehearsed move. “I could, but I didn't have to. Lalla Kalyssa had it.”

Though she's used the respectful “Lalla,” the way my mother's name spills from Yasmin's devil-red lips comes across as anything but respectful.

“Where?” I ask, my tone more accusatory than I meant. Not that I didn't mean to accuse, I just didn't mean to
sound
like I was accusing. “My mom only drinks wine.”

The edges of Yasmin's lips curl into a predatory smile. “Or so you think. I bet there's a lot you don't know. About your mother. About lots and lots and lots of stuff.”

We've always rubbed each other the wrong way, but tonight there's something underlying Yasmin's posturing. She's the quintessential silverback pounding her D-cup chest.

I should ignore her. But the impatient tapping of her foot makes me focus on the lineup of shot glasses. I'm preparing to send them and the green liquid inside flying as payback for slamming the door in Henry's face when I steal a glance at Laila, still standing between us with hope in her eyes. I owe her. So instead of the first shot glass crashing to the ground, it soars across the room, thanks to my powers. I catch it with one hand.

“Nice, Azra,” Farrah says. “Took me a week to get the hang of levitating.”

“Thanks, it's no big deal,” I say, though the glass shakes the tiniest bit in my hand.

With an exaggerated eye roll, Yasmin zooms the remaining shot glasses around the room. They stop with a jolt and bob in front of each of the other girls.