Becoming Jinn (9 page)

“Lalla Nadia's making pancakes. From scratch.” My mother ignores Samara's huff. “I trust you two will be down shortly?”

My stomach turns at the idea of food, but I say, “Uh-huh.” The heavy breathing next to me signals that Laila has fallen back to sleep, full coffee cup in hand. I smack her leg.

“Huh?” Laila jerks awake. Coffee sloshes over the side of her ceramic mug. “What cat? There was no cat.”

I widen my eyes and shake my head.

“Oh, honey,” Samara says, “if you're going to dream, dream big. Lion, panther, chupacabra, make it worth it.”

Our mothers leave, and Laila offers me some of her coffee, pouring half her mug into mine. We sip in silence until something from last night comes back to me.

“How did you figure it out?” I ask.

Laila pries back her hand, which has been shielding her eyes from the sunlight. “Figure what out?”

“Last night, how did you know it was Henry's cat? Yasmin didn't say—”

“Cute.” Laila covers her eyes again. “She said the cat was cute just like his owner.”

I almost spit the last mouthful of coffee I'm savoring onto the bed. Cute. Henry? I'm about to ask Laila when the door opens and Yasmin prances into my room.

“Sooooo,” she says, bouncing onto the end of the bed, “how are my sisters this fine summer's day?”

You've got to be kidding me.
Jackhammers bore through my skull, and Yasmin sounds like a songbird. She tosses her mane of freshly coiffed hair around and smoothes out her flowered skirt. And looks like she ate a canary.

Laila throws back the comforter. “I need a shower. And I think I might be sick.” She tumbles out of bed and heads for the bathroom.

“At least you can do both in the same place,” Yasmin jokes.

Then she just sits there. Smiling. It's unnerving.

My fuzzy tongue rubs against the roof of my mouth. “I need a mint.” The combination of coffee and stale alcohol has left me with a bad taste. Or maybe that's just Yasmin.

“Ooh, would you like me to conjure you one?” Yasmin's tone is sweeter than any candy.

“No. I've got some.” I pull out the drawer to my nightstand and fumble for the mints. Yasmin's would probably be laced with arsenic.

My heart skips a
thump
when, along with the roll, out of my nightstand comes a gold chain. I manage to discreetly shove it to the back of the drawer before dropping a mint into Yasmin's flattened palm.

She pops it into her mouth, sucking loudly, before saying, “I'm glad we have a minute to ourselves. I want to explain about last night. Defend myself. I know it looks bad.”

What Yasmin did last night seems unexplainable, indefensible, and doesn't only look bad, it
was
bad. My mother would forget about the alcohol in an instant if she knew about the real danger of last night.

“See,” Yasmin says, “I think it's time for me to get some more high-profile candidates. All mine have been local nobodies.”

Now that the art of granting wishes lies in covering our tracks as much as it does in fulfilling a human's desires, being well-versed in the customs and laws of each region and country helps us grant wishes in ways that won't draw questions from inquisitive humans. The first wishes we grant are usually close to home. As our magic grows and we prove ourselves, we start receiving higher-profile candidates all around the world. It's like the Jinn equivalent of being on the honor roll.

“My mother disagrees. She says I'm not ready.” Yasmin snorts. “Not that she's concerned about my career path. It's the trash-talking from the other Zars. That's what she's all worked up about.”

I sit up higher in bed. Yasmin hasn't confided in me since … well, ever.

Yasmin sighs. “I know I can do more, but it's just a lot of pressure.”

I nod, slowly. This, at least, I can relate to.

“Anyway,” she says, “you're lucky you're just starting out. Local wishes are super easy to grant. Well, for me.”

I groan at her conceit. So much for being able to relate.

She pats my hand. “For you too definitely. But it'll get trickier.” Yasmin's eyes drift past me to Henry's sweet sixteen balloon. She reaches for the string, curling it around her finger. “I'm just under some stress. So last night when everyone was so impressed with your skill, I felt like I couldn't breathe, and I just kind of—”

“Lost it?” And we're back to relating.

She smiles weakly. “The alcohol might have had a tiny bit of influence.”

I rub my temples. “You think?”

Her laughter hurts my head, but despite everything, I find myself joining her, softly, very softly.

“Oh.” She lets the balloon go. “I have something for you.” A lacy red bra and thong materialize in her lap. “I left them in the guest room until I was sure you'd be open to a peace offering.” She hands me the delicate lace. “Happy Birthday.”

My entire body flushes as I touch the bra. The push-up bra.

“Hope it's okay,” she says. “I was working on it all morning. I wanted to make sure I got it just right. Not being in need of the push-up part myself, I had to do some research.”

An insult and yet not an insult. That's always been Yasmin's specialty. I trace my fingertip along the lace front. But maybe this should be her new one. “You conjured this?”

Yasmin nods. “Hana's the only one crazy enough to use a needle and thread. If you like it, I can do more. Not that you can't. I'm sure you can.”

How predictable. A world of things to conjure, and I started with a chisel.

Yasmin squeezes my forearm, and the signet ring that covers three knuckles on her right hand digs into my skin. I recognize it. “Isn't that your mom's?”

The light reflects off the gemstones as she draws back her hand. She nods hesitantly. “It's her talisman. I know it's a bit early for doing spells, but she's letting me work on a few. Please don't tell anyone. She doesn't want word to get out until I'm
perfect
.” The gemstones sparkle again as she waves her hand dismissively. “You know my mother.”

Actually, I'm realizing I don't know Lalla Raina all that well. My mother may want me to take this seriously, but she's not half the controlling stage mom Raina appears to be.

“Oh, for the love of Janna!”
Laila's cry from the bathroom makes me jump.

“Huh.” Yasmin's tongue pokes her cheek as she plays with the mint in her mouth. “Invoking the name of the Afrit's world is usually reserved for the throes of passion.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Stop, don't even go there.” I bite my mint in two and start gnawing off the sharp edges. Paradise … that may be what “Janna” means but something makes me think the Afrit's subterranean realm fails to live up to its name.

“Who used all the freakin' hot water?”

I forget about my head and laugh loudly. “Torture. Now that's more like it.”

“A little help, please!”

Yasmin stands and pushes down her skirt. “Heating up her water is the least I can do.”

“Azra, come on! I need your super-duper skills. Like. Right. Now!”

Yasmin stops halfway between my bed and the bathroom door. Her back arches as if she's taking a deep breath. Turning, she rolls her hand at me. “Your talent has been requested.”

The abrupt end to our “relating” has nothing to do with me, but that doesn't stop me from cringing inside. I hold up my hand. “I'm sure you'd be better. Faster. Go ahead.”

“Azra!”

Yasmin's body stiffens. Spotting the pillow Hana embroidered with my and Jenny's initials, she clenches her jaw and the edge in her voice returns. “Just go before she hyperventilates.”

Pushing back my comforter, I climb out of bed and slink past Yasmin, keeping my eyes on the floor as I hurry to prevent Laila from getting frostbite.

When I reenter my bedroom, Yasmin is gone. All that remains is a splash of red that pops like a bloodstain against my white comforter. I bury the bra and thong in my top dresser drawer, trying not to think about what I buried in my nightstand.

But not only do I think about it, I reach for it. My insides go as cold as Laila's shower as I pull out the worst thing I've ever done to the best soul—human or Jinn—I know. Attached to the gold chain I hid earlier is the antique locket with the infinity symbol etched on the front and the inscription to Samara on the back.

The locket I stole from Laila.

I sink into my bed and sit with my legs crossed and my back against a pillow. I swing the locket back and forth like a pendulum before prying it open and staring once again at the photograph inside. It is the first male Jinn I've ever seen. It is the first Jinn father I've ever seen. Laila's father. Gold eyes, but blond. An anomaly, just like her.

How could I steal from Laila? I've never stolen anything else in my life. And yet this, something so incredibly precious to Laila, somehow becomes the thing to make my fingers sticky? It was an impulse. A stupid impulse. When she brought me to her room six months ago at the end of the last Zar reunion, she had been so excited. She gushed with pride and honor and love. I really did want to share in her happiness.

Samara had kept the photograph hidden from Laila until then because such feelings go against the way our world functions. I don't know if it's so much forbidden as just impossible, seeing as how we live here and the male Jinn live in Janna.

The way my mother has always shrugged off my questions about my own father made me think she didn't care about him, doesn't miss him. Laila showing me the locket was like having my finger jammed in an electrical socket.

Some of our Jinn mothers and Jinn fathers might have actually loved one another? Might have wanted to live together as a family?

Some, but not my mother. My mother was the model Jinn, the most Afrit-abiding genie of her circle, maybe of her generation. She wouldn't think of wanting something the Afrit told her she couldn't have. And before I was born, the Afrit said she couldn't have my father.

Which meant neither could I.

I stroke the locket the same way I did that night when I snuck into Laila's room. In that moment, after an entire weekend of my Zar “sisters” making in-jokes and rehashing events I (admittedly, voluntarily) wasn't a part of, more than wanting to share in Laila's happiness, I wanted—needed—to
feel
her happiness.

Laila had been keeping the necklace wrapped in tissue paper in her nightstand, stealing a peek now and again to remind her that her father existed, somewhere.

In my nightstand, it did the same thing for me, even though the father in the picture was not my own.

Laila's frantic call when she discovered the locket missing should have prompted me to return it on the spot. Instead, I allowed her conspiracy theories that the Afrit had somehow found out and taken it away to continue. I may have even encouraged her, once or twice, just a little.

I meant to return it. I was … I am going to return it.

“Azra,” Laila calls from the bathroom. “Think there's still cake?”

I clutch the locket in my hand as Laila, whose blond hair appears two shades darker when wet, enters my room. She's wearing my robe. The white, waffle-knit fabric drips from her arms, concealing her small hands. She rolls the sleeves and bunches the material in front so she won't trip as she moves to my closet.

“Mind if I borrow a top?” She slides hangers aside. “Geez, an old black-and-white movie has more color than your wardrobe. That's it. I'm taking you shopping. No arguments. You'll pick something out for your birthday present. Subject to my approval, that is.”

Remorse makes my insides roil. “But you already gave me a present.”

Still facing the closet, Laila says, “It's a milestone birthday. Certainly you deserve more than one.”

I'm about to open my palm when I realize something. Now that I can app, I can slip into her bedroom and stow the necklace under her bed or in the pocket of an old coat. She'll have it back. That's what's important. Not how she gets it back.

Coward.

The bond between Zar sisters is revered above all else. We share everything, from learning to grant wishes to raising daughters to leaving the human world. We swear to be friends—sisters—for life. We promise to help one another. Not to hurt one another. So why tell her and hurt her for no reason?

Nope. Sorry. Still a coward.

By the time Laila faces me, holding up a sleeveless tank that's been too small for me for two years and yet still lands at her hips, the locket is no longer in my hand.

“Mint?” I ask, holding out a piece of candy instead.

Sometimes the lie is better than the truth. If being Jinn in a world of humans has taught me anything, hasn't it taught me that?

*   *   *

By the time Laila and I make it downstairs, our Zar sisters are almost finished returning the garage to its normal state.

“Your mom was
pi-i-i-ssed
,” Farrah says, as she runs a broom over the floor using her magic. The bristles hover an inch above the ground but the dirt still collects into a small pile.

Thanks to Mina. She catches my eye and winks.

Hana caps her yellow highlighter and closes it inside the Coco Chanel biography she's reading. “Think you'll be grounded?”

I haven't done anything to get me grounded in years. Mostly because I haven't
done
anything in years.

“Because,” Hana says, “if not, we're all going to hear some band—”

The broom clatters to the ground. “Some band?” Farrah turns the rhinestones in her headband scarlet. “The bass player was wooed from Drunken Toad.
Drunken Toad
, I mean, come on.”

Mina throws a hand in the air. “Plus, they're hot.”