Three Wishes (5 page)

Granting wishes is like getting a regular oil change for a car; it keeps us young and running well. As you know from the genie poem, we never age past thirty-three. Also, we're not susceptible to most of the normal human diseases. Barring any unforeseen accidents, a genie's lifespan lasts three hundred thirty-three years. But that works only if we keep finding new masters and granting them each three wishes every three years.

The trick is being judicious with the wishes you grant outside of the master-genie relationship. Some things you simply can't wish, like bringing people back from the dead. And know, too, you can change people's actions, but not their emotions. Above all, bear in mind that any wish can drain your powers, sometimes for a long time, if you try to do too much.

For my first, I was hopeful I might be able to find the ideal, unselfish master, who would make three altruistic wishes to help other humans. Some genies care less about humans and their world, but my mother had raised me with the genie rule: wish for others as you would have them wish for you. Humans call it the golden rule, but it was ours first.

With all of this in mind, I began my search through my family's hometown of Marseille, seeking the right master. One frustrating day, I retreated to a nearby café and ordered myself a demitasse. At the adjacent table I noticed two young men, engaged in a vigorous dialogue in English. By nature, genies are language experts, and we can become fluent instantly. After all, you never know what language your master will use to make wishes. So, I could speak English as well as French.

These two men looked like students, with satchels slung over their chair backs. Even if they were draped in American flags, it couldn't have been any more obvious they were from the U.S. The over-loud voices, sneakers, and pathetically endearing attempts to place their coffee order in French pegged them as
les Américains
. Unlike some of my human countrymen, I found Americans more amusing than irritating, and it entertained me to tune in to their conversation.

They were both handsome, in that clean-cut, well-raised manner. Americans call it preppy. The taller of the two was red-haired, with incredible sea-green eyes and a sprinkle of freckles over his nose and on his bare arms. The sun, which streamed in through the café window, shone through his hair and made him glow. It was like a spotlight on him, making sure I wouldn't miss the signs: here I had found my first master.

Sipping my coffee, I thought about what to do next. Wish for his backpack and search it for clues to his identity? Follow him and spy on him?

As I pondered these options, I saw out of the corner of my eye a pair of American sneakers approach my table. He held out his hand for introduction.
“Bonjour. Je m'appelle Mathieu. Je suis Américain,”
he said, in poorly accented but grammatically correct French. I would later find he had learned much of the language from his French-Canadian mother.

“Hello, Matthew,” I couldn't help giggling. “I'm Geneviève.” As I shook his hand, it was as though the proverbial spark flew between us. I rose from my seat and we left the café, entranced by one another, Matthew's friend forgotten. I know it sounds like something in a scene from a crummy Hollywood movie.

The diary goes blank. “What? That's it? Thanks, Mom. Hardly helps at all,” I mutter. Despite years of therapy, I still harbor some irrational anger toward my parents for having left me orphaned at such a young age. To have gotten such a small, but juicy taste of who my mom was only brings these feelings back to the surface. I throw the diary under my bed and lie back to analyze what she has told me.

This Genie Poem: interesting. So all of my traits I felt proud of — I glance at my prize-winning drawing from fourth grade, framed and still hanging on my wall — are only because I'm a genie.

I don't yet have my full powers, so it gets better!

I have to find a master (
ugh,
I hate that word)

My parents fell in love at first sight: kinda cool

I have to use my wish power carefully

I'm not sure if the rest is relevant, but I have to admit it makes for good reading. Too bad there wasn't any more. And… too bad I can't wish for Pete to like me. I realize, in the back of my mind, I was planning on trying to make that happen. I sigh. Well, on the bright side, I've gone from straight to curvy and human to genie. Not so bad, all things considered, though I will have to be careful about using the word
wish
— I can see causing myself all kinds of problems around normal humans if I don't watch out.

With so much on my mind, I've gotta
do
something. There's still a little daylight, so I might as well keep in shape for swimming while I'm at it. I roll off the bed and begin dressing in my running gear.

I walk to the end of our street and then take off along the empty coast road. I'm about a mile into my three-miler when I see a car I recognize in the distance. It's Pete, and he's heading in my direction. My cheeks instantly flame at the thought of him seeing me bouncing around while I run, and I careen right, into the trees lining the road to avoid him. Heart pounding, I watch from my hiding spot as he drives the rest of the way down the coast road and toward my street.
Maybe he's coming
to
see me.
If only.
That
would be a wish come true.
I continue the rest of my run, head full of Pete, as usual, and distracted from what my mom had written.

When I return home, though, my mind goes right back to the diary. I see my grandparents' cars in the driveway and do my post-run stretching on the stoop. I decide my next step is to talk to them.

“Mamère? Papa?” I call out as I walk in.

“Right here.” Their heads pop up from the living room couch.

I stop in the kitchen for a glass of water and go back out to the living room. Grabbing the ottoman, I place it in front of the TV and sit down facing them. They look at each other, and then my grandfather clicks the TV remote off.

“So?” I say.

“Yes?” they ask in unison.

I make them wait while I drain my glass. Putting it down carefully, trying to stay calm, I wait a few beats before accusing. “Do you know what I was reading?” To give them credit, they do seem confused.
Hmm. Maybe they didn't know about it.
“It's — my mom's diary. She explained more about what she was — what I am. How could you have kept all of this from me?”

“Now, honey,” my grandmother starts.

“No, Mamère,” I interrupt. “I know my mother said it was to protect me, whatever that means, but I think I had a right to know.”

“Genie,” my grandfather tries next. “We know why you're upset. Frankly, I think I would be, too, if the situation were reversed. But your mother made us swear to secrecy. It was one of the last conversations we ever had with her, and we felt as though we needed to respect her wishes.”

“Her wishes, huh?” I say.

“Poor choice of words, perhaps,” Mamère concedes. “Think about it, though — how could we have told you? You wouldn't have believed it until you saw what was happening to you. And, even if we had told you, what would you have done with the knowledge? There was a good chance you would be a regular human, so we wanted to give you the opportunity to have a normal childhood, without the burden of anticipation.

“Sweetheart,” she adds, “you know you can choose not to be a genie. If you don't find a master by the time you're eighteen, you'll lose all of your powers and you'll revert back to how you were yesterday.”

“Is that what you wish, Mamère?” I ask, a bit stunned.

“We both support you, no matter what you do,” Papa says, giving her a glance. “We love you. You're our family. All of our family. And nothing could ever change that. Right?”

“Of course,” Mamère adds. “I… only want her to understand all of her options.”

“Fine,” I say, and stalk off into the kitchen. I need more time to think this all through. My grandmother follows me in. Sometimes I wish she would leave me alone, but I don't dare say it out loud.

“So how are you coping with the, uh, physical changes you're experiencing?”

“It's fine, Mamère. Well, not really.” I take a swig from the glass of water I'd refilled, and look down at her slippered feet. “It's weird. I feel different, and everybody's staring at me, which is kind of good, but not. And swim team practice was… awkward.” I don't usually talk about girl stuff with my grandmother, so I feel strange discussing it.

She seems uncomfortable, too, and gives me a quick hug, saying, “I'm sure. It's a big change, sweetie. Most girls develop gradually. To have a new body in an instant…” She lets the thought trail off, shaking her head.

“Yeah, well, I'll have to keep adjusting, I guess,” I tie up the conversation. “Well, I've got to shower, and I, uh, have homework, so I'm going upstairs. G'night.” She pats me on the shoulder as I leave.

I poke my head back into the family room. “G'night, Papa.”

“Sweet dreams, sweet girl. I love you,” he says. Papa still acts like I'm seven, not seventeen, but it's okay, most of the time.

“Love you too.” I take the stairs by twos as I run up to my room.

If a man could have half of his wishes, he would double his troubles. — Benjamin Franklin

Settling onto my bed, I think more about what happened today. So much attention, and a date — okay, a study date — with Pete Dillon this Saturday! It's kind of unbelievable. He has always been so out of my league, there's no way he ever would have paid me any attention before my transformation. But on my dream boyfriend checklist, he's got it all: taller than me, smart, athletic, and oh-so-hot. I shiver with excitement, and a little bit of nerves, anticipating seeing him on Saturday. Other than my short, almost accidental relationship with Luke, I have been pretty much left behind in the romance department.

It's funny; a month ago my biggest wish might have been to have a curvier body. I'm sure there are worse nicknames than Bean Pole, but I have gotten pretty sick of hearing it. But now that it's happened, I have mixed feelings — mostly good — but it's still weird. More than one guy today talked to my chest. In fact, this one dude annoyed me so much I said out loud, “I wish you would look into my eyes.” Of course, then he stared at me, without blinking, for the rest of the conversation.

I want to read my mother's diary, and I dig through the clutter under my bed to try to retrieve it. Even if it hasn't told me as much as I'd like, it's one of the few things left connecting me to my mom and her family. At least I got to hear stories about my dad's childhood from my grandparents, and from occasional run-ins with my dad's old friends who still live in town. Even my bedroom is dad's old room, redecorated, of course, but it is easy enough to picture him here as a boy.

More mindful than ever of my mother's absence, I place her diary on the nightstand next to the bed. I flop back down on the bed and examine the diary, illuminated by the pool of light from my reading lamp. How frustrating — just as I was going to learn something more about her, I am again disappointed. I pick it up again and begin re-reading her entry, hoping to gain more insight. Her handwriting splashes over the page, as if she was writing in a hurry, eager to get her thoughts on paper. When I get to the end, I sigh, and say, “Mom, I wish you had written more!”

Of course, that did it.

Incredulous, I page through the diary, which now has an additional twenty or so pages of her elegant cursive. Pulling myself together, I think,
why should I be surprised?
At this point, nothing should shock me. I dive right in.

Darling, congratulations on solving the puzzle! I wanted to make sure these words were for your eyes only. Plus, I would be so happy to know you're learning how to use your wish power for your own benefit. I'm sure you've realized, while your masters are limited to three wishes, you can grant yourself more. Beware, however, as too many selfish wishes can quickly drain your power. Experiment with what you can do. You'll learn what separates a good wish from a great wish. And, yes, there can be bad wishes, too. It all comes back to finding the right master.

I was sure I had found the one when I first saw Matthew. But then, after this brief, magical touch, I could imagine him becoming my first love.

But love between genie and human was not done. Though not forbidden, it went against tradition. Genies usually socialized only with each other. Complicating matters, we lived outside of humanity, apart from their society, and were promised at birth. In my case, I was to be married to Guy Maroc, a distant cousin.

The Marocs are a djinn family almost as old as mine, the de la Bouteilles. Guy and I weren't close, though I didn't worry much about our lack of connection. Genie females often live together, sort of like a harem, and we visit our mates for recreation or procreation, if you know what I mean. Guy was attractive and suitable for that purpose.

So, we had no use for human relationships beyond needing to grant them wishes. Typically, our only interaction with our masters was when they called us, ready to make a wish. Upon completing their three-wish cycle, we altered their memories of us so they — and we — could go on with our lives.

Already, though, the thought of Matthew forgetting me was crushing. It sounds impossible to fall in love at first sight, and yet, I swear that is what happened to us. Perhaps my magical genie qualities intensified our physical reaction to one another's touch, or maybe it was his human chemistry drawing me to him. It would be hard for you to understand, unless you, too, have fallen in love in such a way.