by Carol Riggs
Through it all, I’m not troubled one speck about the potential of my bottle being crushed or melted. Unfortunately, the confounded thing seems indestructible.
One day I’m flipping silver drachmas into a bowl, trying my aim from varying distances, when the hum of activity increases Outside. My bottle lurches upright and becomes airborne. It turns this way and that. Someone is examining my housing. The hum changes into a circular brushing, a rubbing that squeaks every so often. It’s as though someone is polishing the glass. I pause in mid-throw.
Ah, camel’s dung. There’s no denying it. I’m on the verge of a new master.
My luck has ended.
I peer into a mirror and jab at my hair to tidy the strands. I put my coins away, smooth my dress, and sit with my hands folded in my lap. At this point it’s useless to think this human won’t rub that one vile section of glass, won’t call me to years of slavery. I can’t help frowning. A plague on this change of events. I’m half-afraid when I arrive in the human realm, it’ll be Faruq who’ll greet me.
In thirteen more seconds, I’m sucked into a column of smoke.
I materialize in a room populated with quaint furniture, porcelain dolls, and kerosene lanterns. Oddly, a spinning wheel stands to one side. Dust tickles my nose. As I expected, the figure who holds my bottle and stares at me shock-eyed is not Rehema. Instead it’s a male, about the age I appear to be. Gorgeous nut-brown hair. He stands a head taller than my own height. His skin is pale, which I believe is natural and not just from astonishment.
He drops my bottle. It bounces and rolls under a spindly-legged table. He swears a mild oath and keeps his eyes on me. “Great. If that got cracked, Mom’s gonna kill me.”
“Don’t worry, it’s unbreakable.” My dry response is followed by the urge to spout forth my usual spiel, so I bow, sweep my arms outward, and introduce myself as his ever-faithful servant. I speak in his native language, which is different from my own or Bello’s. It’s apparently called English. Automatic communication is one of the few benefits of my miserable profession.
The boy coughs as if there’s dust in his throat. “Um, hi, Adeelah. I’m Nathan. Is this some kind of Beagley joke, or are you a hologram?”
“I’m real,” I say, unsure what a Beagley is. Or a hologram. “As I said, I’m here to grant your wishes. As many as you want.”
“Sure you are.” Nathan glances out the room’s windows, where the morning sun is blushing the sky with pink. Painted Old English lettering reads backward across the panes. Antiques. “How’d you get in here, anyway? The shop’s not open yet, and the door’s locked.”
I nod toward the spindly table. “I’ve been in that bottle since 1977.”
He laughs. “Whoa. I’ve gotta be dreaming.” He pinches himself on the arm. “Ouch, I guess not.”
I can’t help but snort. If I had a drachma for every master who thought he was dreaming when I appeared… “You saw the smoke, pale master. I came out of the bottle.”
He folds his arms and smirks down at me. “So prove your genie abilities, petite girl. I’ve been craving a Wefler caramel-pecan bar all weekend. Go on. Rustle me up one.”
Very well. If that’s the way he wants it. I work fast to wipe the smirk from his face, snapping one palm out before me while sifting images of gooey sweetness and roasted nutmeats from his mind. My fingers trace the air in a long rectangle, layering on a substance rich with buttery flavor. Dark chocolate flows. Solidifies. A shiny metallic wrapper covers it.
I hold out my proof, careful to extend it so he can’t brush my fingers.
His jaw goes slack. “What—how did you—?” He takes it from me as though it’s going to leap up and gnaw his nose. If possible, he becomes even paler. “Uh, thanks.”
“Is there anything else you wish for, Master?”
He scoots a wicker chair closer and waves me into it. “Not yet. This is insane. I can’t believe I’ve found a magic genie. You say you’ve been in that bottle for about forty years?”
“I guess so.” I shiver as I sit. It’s cold here, wherever this is. “Am I still in Hawaii?”
He gives me a peculiar look while unwrapping his caramel bar. “We’re in Oregon. Mom spent her birthday in Hawaii last week and bought your bottle at an auction. It came from some mansion’s big estate sale after decades of legal hassling. She paid two thousand bucks for it because it was so old, like it belonged in a museum. I thought she was nuts.”
Interesting. And good. The more complex my location trail since Kenya, the better I’ll be able to lose Faruq. But that doesn’t help Karim’s search for me, and my search for him. The number of places in the world he could be is overwhelming. I must secure this boy’s goodwill so I can enlist his help later on. “I assume your mother wants to re-sell my bottle in this shop.”
“Yeah, hopefully for a big profit. But since you’re inside it, I can’t let her do that now.”
Not surprising. And it’d be best for me to keep this sane-sounding boy as my master rather than gamble and end up with another human like Bello or Rehema. “Then hide it somewhere and don’t tell your mother where it went.”
Nathan bites into his Wefler bar and talks while chewing. “Can’t do that. I gotta have a way to explain why it’s missing. She spent a truckload of cash on it, like I said.”
“Wish for money,” I say. “Give her that, and tell her it sold.”
He grins. “Nice. That’d work. So…there are no tricks, like it’ll all turn into Monopoly money in a few days, or something?”
“It won’t change. Not unless you truly want this Monopoly money you speak of.”
“No way. Man, this is awesome! Mom wants at least five thousand for this bottle. Or hey, could we make it seven? That way she’ll be impressed by my sales abilities. Plus, I get to keep ten percent.”
I stare into his enthusiastic face, his brilliant blue-gray eyes. While he’s disconcertingly handsome and his smile is wide and pleasant, that was a rather Bello-like remark. It’s plain to see it hasn’t dawned on him yet that I could fill this entire room with currency.
With an effort, I resist an eye-roll and begin my renewed duties by forming a stack of crisp green bills.
Chapter 5
For the next thirty minutes, Nathan opens the shop and putters around the crowded room, sweeping the cement floor and dusting. He straightens brass cowbells and rearranges chicken figurines beside frosted glass baubles. Either he hasn’t realized he could wish the place clean, or else he doesn’t care. He chatters at me while he works. I suspect he wants company, and his friendliness is encouraging. How can I best bring up the subject of Karim? How long do I have to wait to ask for help? I suspect at least a week, to gain his trust. How chafing.
I twist the rings around on my fingers and try to appear fascinated by his words.
“Business on Mondays is slow,” Nathan is saying. He nods toward the back of the shop. “But if we get a customer, duck into the work area or the bathroom. Since you look like you’re dressed for Halloween and all, like some genie-wannabe.”
“I could wait for you in my bottle, and you could rub it if you want something.”
He shakes his head. “I’m too stoked by this magic stuff. It’s surreal. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep talking to you.”
Of course I mind, but he’s my master and I cater to his desires.
“We’re just stuck here until lunch,” he says. “Mom will take over the shop after she gets off from her ‘real’ job. In the summer she works part time in the mornings as a receptionist at a veterinarian’s office.”
I detect his backpack behind the counter, which is where my bottle now resides. I’d rather hide in there before she arrives. “I see,” I say, although I have no idea what a receptionist is, or a veterinarian’s office. “And then I presume you’re free for the rest of the day.”
He throws me one of his easy grins. “Yep. Today, anyway. Tuesdays and Thursdays I keep an eye on my little brother David. He can be a real pain in t
he butt. My Aunt Jean can only handle watching him for three days a week without going nuts.”
I let those details sink in. So, a younger brother. It sounds like I’ll at least have two days a week to myself while Nathan’s performing brotherly duties. That’s good. “I trust you have a place to store my bottle where no one will steal it?”
“I can keep it in my backpack and store it in a locker at the new YMCA. That’ll be David-proof. The building’s only a couple of blocks from my house.”
“This YMCA place is secure?”
“Should be. They don’t search lockers unless they think someone’s peddling drugs or something. Even if they do a random check, they won’t take the bottle.” He whisks a feather duster across the cherry blossoms of a cabinet labeled as a Japanese prayer closet. “Okay, enough of my life. What’s it like being a genie, hanging out in that bottle?”
Patience. I need patience. “I’ve had a countless succession of masters. My longest stretch without one was three centuries.” My words are rigid. Those years without Karim were an incredible waste of time.
“Three centuries. Un-BE-lievable. Do you like what you do, granting wishes and making people happy?”
I spin away from him. Making people happy, indeed. Why doesn’t he spout a few inane, selfish requests for me to fulfill and let me return to my bottle? I flick a strand of hair behind my shoulder. “Humans don’t really know what will make them happy.”
He chuckles. “Unexpected Wefler bars for second breakfast make me happy. And a hefty commission on an antique I didn’t have to sell—that ends up having a magic genie in it—is pretty fantastic, too.”
“I suppose.” Through the shop windows, I see an elderly couple crossing the street, aiming for the front door. “Someone’s coming,” I say, and dodge displays of glassware and jewelry as I run toward the back of the store.
A bell tinkles to announce the couple’s entrance. I slip beneath a rusted plow hanging from the ceiling, and into a curtained-off room filled with assorted paraphernalia. A long table holds glue, nails, a wooden marionette, and other chipped or broken items. Shelves line the wall with flowered teacup sets and small lamps. Thimbles. Smudged vases, worn angels.
I explore the dusty relics, listening to the conversation in the next room, until the bell tinkles again and the shop goes quiet.
“Adeelah,” Nathan calls. “They’re gone.”
I re-enter the front of the shop, throwing a careful glance toward the front windows.
He studies my attire. “You know, that dress is pretty and all, but you need some twenty-first-century clothes to blend in. Then it won’t be such a big deal if someone sees you.”
“Or I could stay in my bottle when you’re not making wishes,” I suggest, trying to keep the exasperation from my voice. If only I didn’t need his permission to return Inside.
“Nah, I like you out here with me.” Nathan flips a leather football into the air and catches it. “It’s not every day I get to hang out with a centuries-old genie.”
Oh, dear. I need to keep my energy from being unnecessarily drained, and I hope saying something about it won’t irritate him. “Not to be impertinent, Master, but I must restore my powers by being bottled. I can’t stay in the human realm all the time.”
He replaces the ball onto a shelf. “Interesting. If I let you stay in there at night, plus most of Tuesdays and Thursdays, will that give you enough time to recharge your batteries?”
Batteries...like that big metal box I conjured inside Rehema’s car? “Perhaps. I’ll try that schedule.”
“Great. And call me Nathan. I’m not into the whole ‘Master’ stuff.”
“Yes, Mast—um, Nathan.” I cringe. That form of address strains my internal rules of servitude. While not forbidden, the variation feels full of sharp edges and hard walls.
“Can you whip up jeans and a T-shirt to wear?” he asks, plucking the material of his own shirt. “That way when Mom gets here, you’ll look normal. We’ll tell everyone you’re seventeen, like me, and you moved here from Hawaii. At least the Hawaii part is true.”
I scrutinize him. Out of all the things he could be wishing for, he wants to dress me in boy clothes and introduce me to his mother? I suppose I shouldn’t object. He’s making my work simple. But it sounds like I’ll be keeping him company in the outer world most of the day. I stifle a weary sigh. “As you wish, Master.”
“Nathan.”
“I mean, Nathan.”
I begin modifying my dress, transposing the lavender and blue silk into the clothing from his mind. His wish ends up being a soft green shirt paired with snug-fitting pants he calls “jeans.” My embroidered slippers refashion themselves into simple black shoes with no heels. I glimpse myself in an oval mirror propped nearby. Well, well. Not so boyish of attire after all. He’s also left my bracelets, earrings, and rings, but I have an inkling those are bound to my servitude and can’t be changed by a mere wish. I always end up with them, no matter what.
When I finish, I give a dutiful bow.
His eyes widen as they zigzag down my figure. He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. “All righty, then. We’re set. This afternoon we can run around and you won’t have to hide.”
Pink flushes his cheeks. It appears his awareness of my gender has just been heightened. I don’t know what he expected, dressing me in such curve-hugging clothing. This isn’t a good development. If I’m to enlist his help in finding Karim, I must discourage anything beyond a hospitable fulfilling of wishes. I’ve had masters who smothered me with gifts and unwanted affection. I’ve had masters who desired me to the point of obsession. As highly attractive as Nathan is, I don’t want to be worshipped, pined after, or leered at.
I want Karim.
The next hour drags by while Nathan shows me around the shop and tries to keep his eyes on my face while he converses. He pauses at a metal lamp with a base that’s formed to resemble tiny strands of twined branches.
“This stupid thing probably looked amazing sixty years ago, but it’s a headache to polish,” he says. “Check out those hard-to-reach places. Mom says a spray might do the trick, to dissolve some of the tarnish.” He looks doubtful.
Our eyes meet. A wish blooms in the space between us.
“Yes, I’m able,” I say before he can ask.
He gestures to the lamp with a flourish. “Then please do.”
“As you wish.” I’m aware of his scrutiny as I work. His rapt attention to my finger flickings and arm driftings feel warm and somehow personal. I sidestep to put more distance between us. Not only is his nearness unsettling, I’d like to avoid accidental touching.
When I’m finished, the lamp base gleams as if its metal foliage has come to life, apparent even in the mellow lighting of the shop.
“Cripes,” Nathan says, the word not more than a breath. “I can’t believe I just watched you do that. I love having my own genie!”
My nod is brief. He’s content, at least for the moment, though the level of his enthusiasm over his ownership of me is unnerving. In fact, his overall soul-energy is a little too intriguing and compelling for my comfort. It makes me feel ungrounded. Time for a distraction. I turn to a light brown stuffed bear sitting in a rocking chair, and stroke its fluffy arm. “This is charming. Is it an antique?”
“Not quite. Not everything in here is technically antique. Antique means over a hundred years old. A lot of our stuff is more vintage, some plain old retro.” He picks up the bear and hands it to me. “But this guy’s pretty close. He was made in the 1930s.”
I take the bear, careful not to bump Nathan’s fingers. The bear’s belly is round and full, its arms curved. Its black glass eyes twinkle up at me. I have a sudden desire to squeeze its body against my chest and curl my head into the space between its round ears. It’s been a long time since I’ve hugged anything. Or anyone. While I’ve clutched pillows, I haven’t hugged something with a face for ages. That’s a different matter altogether.
“He
’s sweet,” I say, the words coming out shakier than I intend.
“Yeah, that’s a Hugmee bear, made out of mohair. Mom adores him. I’m pretty sure she prices him outrageously high so no one will buy him.” Nathan watches me draw the bear closer. “Hey, you must be older than he is. You’re an antique, Adeelah.”
“I suppose I am,” I murmur. The bear smells of apples and linen, grassy fields and affection.
The shop bell tinkles, jarring me out of my tender mood. A woman with short wavy hair enters, her coat collar turned up to the tips of her long feather earrings.
Nathan looks up. “Hey, Mom. I’ve had a great morning. Sold one thing, and I bet you can’t guess which one.”
“That Granny Ann teapot I can’t get rid of, or the hickory armoire?” she asks. Her smile comes easy and wide, like Nathan’s.
“Nope. I’ll tell you in a sec. First, let me pay attention to my manners.” He indicates me. “Mom, this is Adeelah. I met her in the shop this morning. Adeelah, this is my mom, Sheila Turner.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Turner,” I say on cue.
His mother takes stock of me, appraising me from my long dark hair to the black shoes and everything in between. Her smile remains strong as she approaches me with an outstretched hand. “So nice to meet you, Adeelah.”
She wants to shake my hand. I gape and fumble the Hugmee bear. He flips head over pointy paws to the ground. Nathan bends to help, but I duck and retrieve the bear before he reaches it. “I’m so sorry,” I say to his mother, brushing off the bear’s fur. “I’m being careless with your merchandise.”
Mrs. Turner lets her arm drop to her side. She doesn’t seem concerned that I haven’t shaken her hand. “That’s all right. No harm done.”
“Right,” Nathan says. “If you’re going to drop something, that bear’s pretty safe.”
He exchanges a sober glance with me, and I wonder if he’s recalling my bottle bouncing and rolling across the floor.
His mother’s focus snags on the bamboo lamp. “Oh, my word,” she exclaims. “Nathan, how on earth did you get that so clean and shiny?”