by Rose David
Turns out that geniehood can be genetic, or at least it is when it comes to weird, rare cases like mine. I guess that means that, one day, I might marry Chace Crawford and pop out a little genie of my own. At the very least, this makes an excellent case for me to devote my life to raising orphaned ponies or something.
So, basically, I’m half-human, half-genie. I’ve got some powers, but my wishes never turn out the way I want them, like when I was nine and wished to go to Disney World. Oh, I got myself there--but without any parents or money or a place to stay. I rode some rides and hung out with Mickey for a while, but that’s all.
The rest of the story involves Dad paying a ton of money for a last-minute plane ticket to Orlando, and then having to hunt for me in Disney World before some security guard assumed I had run away or something. So I’m pretty careful when I say the words, “I wish,” but sometimes I slip a little, like this morning.
After school, I changed out of my borrowed pants, determined to forget the sensation of Sean Fabry’s vomit all over my legs.
I dumped the Mom Jeans into my closet, planning to sneak them into the laundry tonight after manning Nat’s charity booth at the soccer game. Natalie had already caught a ride with our friend, Rajesh, so all I had to do was get changed and walk back to school. I knew it would have been faster to ride my bike (there were trails all over town because of some “green” initiative a couple of years ago), but the idea of being seen on a bicycle, looking like some random fifteen-year-old, made me cringe.
Not that I wasn’t fifteen-years-old or anything, but there was no reason for me to emphasize my lack of a driver’s license, was there? Something about my bike just felt so... junior high. Even if it would add another ten minutes to my trip, I’d rather hoof it back to school than pedal there on my ten-speed.
I dumped my shirt into the hamper and grabbed a fresh pair of jeans. I had only just pulled them on when Mom walked in.
I yelped and covered my bare chest with my arms. “Hey!”
“Oh, sorry.”
“I thought we agreed to start knocking around here.” With one arm, I fumbled for the scoop-neck shirt I had laid out on the bed.
“Sorry, honey. I was just going to ask if--”
“Yeah?” I pulled my shirt on and looked up at Mom, stiffening as I saw the expression on her face.
Her gaze turned sharp as she stepped into my bedroom. “Layla Yasmin Sadat-Grubman.”
Uh-oh. I flinched under the Power of the Full Name. To me, that was even more potent than, ‘I wish...’ Looking down at my jeans-covered legs, I almost expected some kind of lingering puke-residue.
“What on God’s green earth is your ring doing on your neck like that?” Mom said.
“Oh, right. My ring.” I shrugged. “So what?” Hidden under the dark material of my shirt, it just looked like a little bump on my chest.
“’So what?’” Mom repeated, her voice louder.
A second later, Dad appeared behind her, his eyelids clamped shut. “Everybody decent?”
“Yes!” Mom and I said together, our voices so tense that Dad jumped. When he saw Mom’s harried face, he sighed. There was only one thing that could upset my normally calm mother so quickly. “Layla,” he said, “how many times have we talked about this?”
“I was just--”
“You cannot afford to be careless with your ring,” Mom said. “What if someone got curious and asked to see it? What if they wanted to borrow it for a minute? Or what if they just grabbed it off your neck? They’d have it in their hands, Layla, and then--”
“I know what would happen then!” I burst out, unable to keep my voice from spiking up.
“If you know what’s going to happen, then why would you wear your ring around your neck like that?” said Mom.
I sighed. I had a perfectly good reason--just not one I wanted to share with my parents. Something told me that admitting the truth would only get me grounded.
“Honey, we know you like to have your ring close to you,” said Dad, “but you can’t wear it against your skin that way. It’s not safe.”
“Oh! Oh, yeah, right. My skin.” That made a lot more sense than mumbling some excuse about an art class gone wrong. I shook my head and added, “I was going to tie it into my pocket before I went to the game. I’m not that forgetful, you know.”
“Really?” Dad said. “You looked pretty surprised when we reminded you.”
“Oh my gawd. Why do you guys always have to treat my like an idiot? I know, okay?” Never mind that I kind of had forgotten about it. It’s not like I wouldn’t have remembered it eventually, and who says that someone would have noticed my ring, anyway?
Dad put his arm around Mom, who looked ready to explode--or to pull me out of school and make me study from home, which they had wanted to do for years.
Mom let out a heavy breath. “Just tie it into your pocket, Layla, all right?”
As I heard the fatigue in her voice, my stomach flip-flopped with guilt. “Fine,” I mumbled. “Whatever.”
“You’re on thin ice, kid,” Dad said. “You’re lucky you’re still going to that soccer game tonight.”
“I can’t just ditch Natalie and Raj,” I protested, but stopped when Dad’s expression turned steely again.
“Thin ice,” he repeated.
I sighed again. “Well, I’m going to be late. I’m meeting them at the game and we still have to set up.”
My parents left, shutting the door with a soft click. We’re not a door-slamming kind of family, which was why fighting with Mom and Dad always left me feeling tired, instead of mad. I sat on my bed, not getting up until long after the sounds of my parents’ footsteps had faded away.
#
By the time I got to the soccer game, Natalie and Rajesh had already set up our charity booth for the Heifer Project. A few dozen cow-shaped sugar cookies were arranged on the table, marching in straight lines like sprinkle-covered soldiers.
I carried a plastic bag filled with my share of cookies, baked and decorated last night.
As I set it down, Rajesh wondered, “Are those supposed to be squid or something? I--Oof!” He rubbed his side, where Natalie had elbowed him.
I shrugged. “Something went wrong with the dough. Or the oven. Or something.”
Rajesh took one of my malformed creations, giving it an experimental sniff. He and Natalie exchanged looks of concern.
“We’ve got so many cookies already,” Nat said, her voice as chipper as ever. “Maybe we can use these as back-up.”
“Yeah. For when we sell out,” said Raj.
I glanced at the spectators who had started to pour into the soccer stadium, none of which seemed all that interested in our decorated cookies. “That’s cool,” I said, sitting down.
I should probably have been embarrassed, but I was still too upset with my parents to think about much else. It seemed like every little mistake I made around Mom and Dad was magnified to epic proportions. Sure, I understood that losing my ring could mean a lot of things: being exposed and enslaved, forced to grant any wish that came my way, even if it hurt people. Really, I couldn’t blame them for freaking out, but I was too stubborn to let myself sympathize for long.
Caught between the two tugging emotions, I watched without interest as we sold a cookie or two before the game started. After that, our trickle of customers dried up completely.
With the sounds of cheering soccer fans blaring behind me, I grabbed a cookie for myself and nibbled thoughtfully on a rainbow-sprinkled cow’s head.
One corner of Raj’s mouth curled up. “You know, every time you steal a charity cookie, a little kid stops believing in magic.”
Nat chuckled, and normally, I would have done the same. But today, Raj’s joke seemed kind of unfair, like I couldn’t even do something as normal as eat my feelings without getting flack for it.
I stood. “I’m going to get a hot dog or something. I’ll be back.” Not waiting for a response, I slipped off to the concessions stand around the corner.<
br />
With the game on, I didn’t think anybody else would be there, but I found myself standing fourth in line. The girl up front was Diana Bukowski, who must have accidentally wandered away from her crowd of spray-tanned wannabes. That was strange; didn’t popular girls always run in packs? I wondered what her bleached-out cronies were doing without her.
Probably plotting a coup, I thought. Diana was kind of their Alpha Blonde (probably by virtue of her naturally golden hair) but I assumed there was plenty of competition to be Carter High’s Next Top Hottie.
Diana ordered a Diet Coke (of course) and returned to the stands. Even as she mingled through the crowd, she never quite blended in. Diana was too tall and too pretty for that. Meanwhile, I could disappear so well that, sometimes, it felt like that was my magic power, instead of the whole genie thing. I felt a little flutter of envy--or maybe that was just my stomach growling.
The two girls in front of me giggled loudly, craning their necks to watch Diana. “Such a skank,” said the one in the miniskirt, loudly enough that Diana had to have heard.
I rolled my eyes. As the story went, Diana Bukowski had cheated on Sean Fabry, a fellow junior, at some lame party last month when she’d had a tongue-fest with a college guy. Most people seemed happy to call Diana a skank and call it a day, but I had a feeling there was more to the story than that.
Not that I would ever really know, since I hadn’t been invited to that party. Like the rest of the lowly underclassmen, Nat, Rajesh, and I had only heard about the incident after the fact.
Miniskirt Girl and her friend were so preoccupied with Diana’s skank-itude that they didn’t notice the clerk ask for their orders.
My stomach gave another insistent growl and I heard myself say, “Hey! Order something or get out of line!”
They both looked at me like I was some form of radioactive mutant dog beast, but it got them both to hurry up and order. That alone was enough to keep me from feeling too bad about my outburst.
A few minutes later, I was devouring a hot dog with everything on it, drowned in relish just the way I liked.
Miniskirt Girl took a sip of her Diet Coke and smirked at me. “Nice. That’s not fattening or anything.” As she said it, her eyes slid across my (totally average-sized) butt.
I had a suggestion ready about how she could learn how to zip-and-button these new-fangled things called “pants,” but my mouth was full, so I just sounded like Yeti.
And then a big glob of relish chose that exact moment to fall onto my boob. Miniskirt Girl and her friend cackled like it was the funniest thing in the world.
I flicked the relish away with my finger, but it still left a nasty green smear on my shirt.
At least, I thought, it’s better than puke.
CHAPTER THREE
The parking lot was empty as I made my way back to school, where my stinky (but relish-free) gym t-shirt was waiting inside my locker. I wasn’t in the mood to walk all the way to the main building, but what else could I do?
Umm, duh. Genie, anyone?
Somehow, my feet realized it before my brain did, and I came to an abrupt halt beside a bright yellow sedan.
I frowned down at the stain on my shirt, which looked more like ectoplasm than relish underneath the harsh, fluorescent lamps. If I could just think of the right words, then I could just make the relish go away, couldn’t I?
I wish that the stain on my shirt would disappear...
Ugh, wait. What if I didn’t just zap away the stain, but the material it was on? I shuddered, imagining a gigantic, circular hole cut in just the right spot. I’d rather be showing off a little relish-boob than a little regular-boob.
I wish that my shirt were relish-stain-free and unaltered in any way.
That sounded harmless enough. I opened my mouth to speak, but paused. There had to be some possible catch, and I didn’t want to risk any kind of disappearing-shirt action in the middle of a school parking lot, even if everyone was watching the game.
Meanwhile, my gym t-shirt was still crumpled in my locker and totally relish-free. Wouldn’t it be easier just to zap the clean t-shirt over, instead of gambling with a wish that might make me go wild in the middle of a soccer game? (I mean, as wild as a short brunette wearing her oldest, rattiest sports bra could get.)
I pressed my lips together, wondering. If I could figure out a way to do this without making my locker--or anyone else’s--explode, then maybe it could work. I glanced around, just in case, but I couldn’t find anyone in the lot. In the middle of the game, who would be out here except for a mugger or something?
Besides me, of course.
“Need some help?” asked someone behind me.
I spun around. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t to find Sean Fabry coming up behind me, wielding a bent coat hanger. I yelped and backed up against the yellow car. “I’m sorry about the puke, okay? It was an accident!”
Sean’s forehead wrinkled as he stared at me, still brandishing the hanger. He had bent the corners inward so he could hold it more easily, while the hook-part remained intact and ready for slashing.
Easier to get revenge with, said a raspy voice in my head.
I clenched my fists. In horror movies, you were always supposed to run away from the psycho, not stand there chatting with him, but for some reason, my legs wouldn’t move.
Maybe I could wish them into working. I was busy figuring out exactly how I should phrase it when Sean took a step closer.
“Did you lock your keys in?” he asked. “I saw you standing out here when I was getting some nachos. I can help you get them out.” He held up the coat-hanger-hook.
“W-with that?”
“Yeah.” He stepped up to the driver’s side and shimmied the hook-part in between the window and the door itself.
In spite of myself, I leaned over and watched. As the panic in my veins started to fade, I pulled myself together enough to ask, “Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, in your soccer uniform? Playing and stuff?”
He shook his head. “Coach thinks I might have the flu or something because of this morning.”
“Oh. Sorry about that.”
“It’s cool. I felt fine right after.” Sean wriggled the hanger for a moment, and the door came unlocked with a satisfying click. He smiled. “Presto-change-o.”
My heart was still jumping, so I put a hand on my chest and told myself to calm down. I felt my ring underneath my fingers, still hanging around my neck. I must have forgotten about it after my fight with Mom and Dad. “‘Prest-o-what-o?’” I said.
Sean’s smile faltered a little. He shrugged, looking down at the ground. “Nothing. Umm, here’s your car.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Reality came back to me in a slow trickle, and I registered that Sean and I had (kind of) just broken into someone’s sedan. “That’s, umm, not actually my car.”
He and I both looked at the car door that was gaping open, and, beyond that, the plushy tan interior. It looked comfy. And, meanwhile, Sean looked queasy.
“Pardon me,” I said, scooting around him. I clicked the lock back in place before slamming the door.
“Holy crap.” Sean scanned our surroundings for (I assumed) sedan owners or cops. “Yeah, okay. So, which car are you driving?”
“None. I drive a bike.” When I heard myself say the words, I couldn’t help but flinch. Not that I really cared what Sean Fabry thought of me, but... Seriously? I drive a bike?
I expected Sean to snort or roll his eyes, but he paused. After a thoughtful moment, he wondered, “Then why are you standing out here while the game’s on?”
Well, as a matter of fact, I’m a genie with a big relish stain on her boob and I was just trying to figure out a way to fix it without flashing the entire school!
“There’s a stain on my shirt,” I told him.
“Okay...”
“No, it’s true.” I pointed at it. “See?” I realized a second too late that I had just instructed Sean to stare at my chest. S
o much for not going wild.
“Dude, I believe you. Are you like, scared or something?”
“Like... of my relish-boob?”
“What? No. I mean, are you scared of walking back to school by yourself?”
I couldn’t help but scoff. “Yeah, I think there’s this federal marshal on my trail. It’s a total drag.”
“Actually, I was thinking you were freaked out because it’s all dark and stuff.” Sean glanced at the soccer stadium, no doubt wishing he had stayed there, instead of coming out to help a crazy girl.
I couldn’t help but peek at my path to the main building, which was definitely lacking in the overhead lighting department. Come to think of it, I probably would have been a little freaked out walking there on my own. I guessed it wouldn’t hurt to have Sean around, though, ideally, I would have brought along a burly cro-mag from the football team. In a pinch, I guessed that a tall, mostly buff soccer player would work.
Not that I had spent a ton of time ogling Sean’s goodies. But sometimes, it was just hard not to notice. Was it my fault that he occasionally liked to whip off his shirt during soccer games?
I turned back to Sean. “I guess you’re right. Would you mind walking with me?”
He shrugged, his smirk fading. “That’s cool.”
Sean and I returned the coat-hanger-hook to the trunk of his car, then we fell in step together as we weaved our way through the parking lot.
“How big is this marshal guy, anyway?” he asked. “You think I could take him?”
I pretended to study his biceps with a critical eye. (Okay, so I wasn’t exactly pretending. Sue me.) “You might stand a chance. I think you could keep him busy long enough for me to get away, at least.”
We shared a lame chuckle, after which we were caught in a semi-awkward lapse in conversation until we reached the main building. At that point, I managed to break the ice by cursing when I tried the door and found it locked.
I should have known it would be. School had ended hours ago. If Sean hadn’t been there, I probably could have wished the door unlocked, but it was too late now.
So it looked like I’d be rocking some relish-boob tonight. If I acted like the stain was supposed to be there, would people think it was just a cool new trend?