by Carol Riggs
“Magic.” He flashes her a grin.
She pokes him on the shoulder. “You silly noodle. Whatever you did, it worked marvelously. You must’ve polished on it all morning.”
Nathan squirms a little. “Not really. So, let me tell you what I sold today.” He jogs to the money box he calls a register, opens it, and brings back the thick stack of bills I conjured. He laughs at her shocked expression.
“Cash, and all from one item?” She takes the pile and ruffles it, her face radiant.
“Yep. Seven thousand genuine bucks. I got it for that bottle you brought back from Hawaii.”
His mother gives a laugh that’s almost a giggle and springs up to give him a hug. Envy twists inside me. I miss experiencing jovial bantering like that, and exchanging comfortable family hugs.
It’s curious Nathan didn’t lie outright to her about most of what he told her. It’s admirable he’s honest, along with being well-mannered. I watch Mrs. Turner count out bills for Nathan’s share and set them off to one side in the register. He grabs his backpack, says farewell to his mother, and holds the door open for me so we can leave the shop.
Outside, the day is crisp. There’s a briny tang to the air that indicates we’re near the seashore. Gulls cry like banshees overhead. We walk along a street lined with ice cream parlors and kite shops, pocket-sized art galleries and fish-and-chip cafés. Nathan pulls out a small black device, holds it against his ear, and speaks into it.
“Beagley! You and Cherie gonna meet me for some grub at Stark’s? My treat. I’m bringing a new friend. She just moved into town.”
I scrutinize the smooth black object. If he’s talking to someone far away on that thing, that’s a modern magic I haven’t encountered. Unless it’s similar to the telephones Rehema had, which were larger and tethered to the wall. I wonder if he can summon Karim on it.
After a few more words of communication, Nathan pockets the device. “Before I do any more wishes, I thought we could grab lunch and intro you to my best buds.”
“All right,” I say, although it’s the last thing I want to do. A cool breeze blows by, raising a crop of gooseflesh on my arms. I shiver.
“Are you cold?” Nathan asks. “I’m sorry. June in Oregon isn’t as warm as Hawaii.” He unzips his pack and pulls out a dark jacket with gold lettering on the back that says Bandon Tigers. When he reaches over to place it across my shoulders, his fingers and jacket drag through my skin and shirt. We both yelp. I shrink away.
“Hand it to me, don’t place it on me,” I whisper, keeping my eye on a family strolling along the other side of the street. “I’m not touchable, and it’s uncomfortable when you try.”
“Freaky.” His eyes are saucer-wide. “How’d you hold the bear in the shop, then?”
“If I’m the one initiating the touch, I can hold everything except my bottle. People are wholly restricted. I can’t touch them and they can’t touch me. Things they hold or throw can’t affect me, either. It’s a protection feature of my servitude.”
“So that way no one can punch you, or squirt window cleaner in your eyes.”
I nod. “I should’ve told you right away. But sometimes it makes things more difficult when I let masters know my limitations.”
“That sucks. Maybe this lunch thing isn’t a good idea. Can you even eat?”
“Yes, although I don’t need food to survive. I believe it dissolves as soon as I swallow.”
“Weird.” He offers me his jacket as he would a bone to a rabid dog.
I take it and shrug into it. “Thank you.” I’m more comfortable now, despite the prickling rawness on my shoulders where he touched me. “It’s kind of you to share your warmth.”
“We’ll get you a jacket of your own after lunch.”
I assume he means I’ll be conjuring it. Still, that’s considerate. Not many masters pay attention to my comfort. Most of them assume I’m a creature with no feelings.
We continue to walk. Long before I’m ready, we enter a bright café and slide into opposite sides of a padded turquoise booth. A serving girl chewing on a pink substance moves toward us with glasses of water. She keeps chomping on the wad and never swallowing. It’s a bizarre kind of food.
Already I miss the familiar security of my bottle. It’s so close, right under Nathan’s arm in his backpack.
When the serving girl departs, Nathan leans in. “I hate lying to my friends, but let’s tell them you live in the new housing development south of town. We can say your family moved there last week.”
My family. I suck in a quick breath. The phrase catches me off guard. Jolts me. I’m surprised it affects me after all this time. Maybe it hurts afresh since I just met his mother and saw her interacting so affectionately with Nathan.
“Are you okay?” He reaches toward my hand on the table, then freezes as he obviously remembers I’m not touchable.
“I’m fine.” I struggle to regain control. “It’d be wiser not to talk about me having a family, since no one will ever see evidence of one.”
He cracks a lopsided smile. “You can’t whip up a genie mother or father on command?”
“No.” The word is wooden. I take a moment to summarize my wish limitations concerning people. He listens with great interest.
“Gotcha,” he says when I finish. “Then I guess we’ll say you’re eighteen and on your own, living in an apartment. That new complex off Brandt Street will work. Man, I wish I had an apartment.”
I start itching to build one for him. I’m not sure he’s serious, though. Despite his use of the word “wish,” it didn’t quite sound like a genuine request. “Is there a reason you can’t have one of these apartments?”
“I’m living at home and have to finish my senior year first. And I’m saving up for college.” He cocks his head like an alert robin and squints. “Hey. With this magical stuff, I could wish for money for college, couldn’t I?”
“Yes.” He’s finally comprehending the scope of my services. I’m going to be busy soon.
“Hold on,” Nathan says in a low voice, eyeing the servant girl calling out a food order. “Since you’re running around with me, we should make you legal to be here in this country, in case anyone checks. Can I make a wish for you to do that kind of paperwork?”
“Of course.” I set to work, drawing up documents that indicate I was born in a place called New Jersey as a natural citizen. I’m assigned a special nine-digit number as Adeelah Thana Naji, and I’m finished. While I doubt I’ll need such protection, it’s noble of him to think of it.
Nathan glances toward the café’s front door. “Ah, they’re here. Brace yourself.”
I clench my jaw and latch onto the table edge. There’s no telling what his friends will be like, whether invasive or aloof or overbearing. I won’t be able to warn them not to touch me.
Across the table Nathan is chuckling, but my fortifying efforts are dead serious.
Chapter 6
I try to breathe in a natural, even rhythm. In and out. In and out.
Nathan’s friends can’t find out who I am. What I am. They might try to take my bottle from him. I’ll lose all my momentum with him as my master. Oh, stars. What will I do if they want to shake my hand? Maybe I can knock over my water glass, or pretend I have an illness they might catch from skin contact.
Two humans Nathan’s age walk into the café, one gangly and one lovely. The boy ambles toward us, all swagger on skinny legs. His head is streaked with metallic green, like stains of grass in his hair. The girl is soft and blond, with wispy bangs and straight hair to her shoulders.
“Heeeey, Turner,” the green-stained boy says to Nathan. “Wazzup?”
While they bump fists in the air, I scoot to the wall of the booth. Nathan moves over on his side too, but the boy sits by me instead.
“Hello there,” the boy says to me. “What’s your name?”
“Adeelah.” I keep my arms crossed on the table to discourage handshakes. Or anything else.
“This
is Jared,” Nathan says. “But call him by his last name, Beagley. He loves it.”
“Yep, I do.” Beagley keeps gawking at me, like he’s a parched camel and I’m a freshly filled watering trough.
The girl slips in beside Nathan. She takes account of the jacket I’m wearing, and her mouth tightens a fraction. “I’m Cherie,” she says. “How long have you been in Bandon, Adeelah?”
“Since last week.” I feel like I’m a puppet in a street-show, with prearranged lines to speak. “I lived in Hawaii for about six months before I came here.”
Beagley guffaws. “You came to this dinky, stale town? I would’ve stayed in Hawaii.”
I give him a flinty look and don’t answer.
“Gosh, yes,” Cherie says with a lilting laugh. “My parents love small coastal towns, but I can’t wait to get away and see some of the world. California, Arizona, Florida. Africa or India. Australia! Someplace where the sun shines enough to make you sweat once in a while.”
“Come on, Adeelah,” Beagley persists, leaning closer to me. “Are your parents loony? I can’t believe they dragged you here. Did they change jobs or something?”
His arm is mere inches from my elbow. I can’t make myself any smaller, or scrunch closer to the wall. My lungs lock up. I need to get out of here. I need to be in my bottle. I can’t do this anymore. I simply can’t. Beagley’s staring at me with a powerful intensity, waiting for me to answer—
“My parents are dead,” I snap. “My whole family died a long time ago. Brothers. Sisters. Everyone I grew up with.”
As the words spill out, Nathan and his friends go statue-still. A pressurized moment hovers in the space above our table, a hurricane’s eye where no one seems to be breathing.
No sounds, no heartbeats, no movement.
“Hey,” Cherie murmurs at last. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” The smooth tenderness of her voice slices through the tightness. Diffuses it.
“Yeah,” Beagley echoes. He’s having a hard time looking at me now.
Air rushes back into my lungs, easing the constriction a little. Like Beagley, I’m not sure where to rest my gaze. The tabletop is the safest place.
Nathan clears his throat. “My dad’s gone too, Adeelah. Three years ago.”
“It’s not easy.” Cherie’s words are like a sigh. “I lost my grandma last summer. Lung cancer.”
I don’t answer, because I don’t know what to say.
The serving girl who’s chewing the pink substance returns. My tablemates order food in subdued tones, and Nathan orders something called a fish basket for me. After the server leaves, Beagley hunches into his shoulders, turtle-like.
He throws me a solemn glance. “You’re welcome to hang with us, Adeelah. Anytime.”
“We’ll be around all summer,” Cherie says. “Maybe we’ll even see you in classes when they start up, if you’re a senior.” She leans over and rests her head against Nathan’s shoulder. His face flushes. He clears his throat again and mumbles a similar affirmative.
“Thanks,” I say to all of them, blinking, too fragile at the moment to tell them I won’t be attending their school. “Thank you so much.”
I’m not sure I want or need their sympathy, but I appreciate their efforts to make me feel welcome. For humans, they’re not bad sorts.
* * *
Beagley owns a sleek metal vehicle that glimmers vibrant ruby and silver in the sun. After our meal, I ease into the back of it with Nathan, and follow his wordless direction for latching a safety belt. The interior smells of leather and a cloying pine. I’m not sure I want to journey in this form of transportation, although no one else appears worried. Cherie sits up front with Beagley, and I don’t think she’s pleased with that arrangement. Her words have a flatness to them. She dons dark glasses that hide her eyes as we ride to the YMCA.
This is a new experience, since Rehema never ordered me to travel in her car. We power into an accelerated motion. Beagley’s vehicle is so fast it’s disturbing, with a speed and ease that far surpasses any horse-driven carriage. I clutch the armrest and swallow down a sense of vertigo as we speed along. The car comes to a stop in front of a brick building with cement walkways, and Cherie watches me as I get out on wobbly legs with Nathan. Her focus shifts to him as he waves. A strange sadness or despair infuses her manner.
“Have fun with your Bandon tour,” she calls to us out the open window.
“Yeah,” Beagley says, “it’ll take you all of ten minutes.” His staccato laughter recedes as he drives off.
Nathan snorts. Then he faces the street across from us, where a man in shabby clothing stands with a simple brown sign. He greets the man with a vigorous wave. “That’s Ted. He can’t find work because he’s got a bum knee. He’s been staking out that corner for over a year.”
I watch as someone in a car leans out to hand the man some paper money. Nathan runs over and hands him more money from his own pocket, but I don’t follow him. Ah, a town beggar. Nothing has changed over the centuries. I’ve seen countless of his kind in other villages and cities, scraping up bits of coin and food in order to survive. As a human child, I always saved back a wedge of cheese or a hunk of pita to help them out, even though Omaa chided me for the extravagance. At least my family owned a handful of camels and a pair of goats. Compared to the beggars, our lives as tentmakers were rich indeed.
Nathan lopes back over to me, and we head toward the brick building.
“So here’s the YMCA,” he says, as if I can’t read the words on the front. “I’ll stash your bottle in the locker room while you wait here in the lobby. Can you really get sucked back into it no matter where you are, when I order you to return?”
“Yes, but to summon me from the bottle, you’ll have to come here and rub the glass.”
“Or maybe I’ll fetch it from here and go to my house to make you come out. It’s close. Can’t have you materializing in the guys’ locker room, after all.” He chuckles. “Crazy. I can’t believe I’m talking about summoning a genie. I bet I’ll wake up tomorrow and find I’ve been hallucinating, big time.”
He vanishes through a door. I wander around the reception area, staying as far away from people as I can. When he appears again, he’s pocketing his keys. His backpack and my bottle are gone. Unease stirs inside me.
“Next stop, my house,” he says.
We walk there. A short distance down the street we find ourselves at his residence, a two-story house with narrow windows, featuring wind-beaten tiles on its roof. Vines trail up and around the porch. It’s not a ramshackle dwelling, but it’s obvious many seasons have passed it by. The car on the graveled side of the yard, however, is decidedly dilapidated. It’s scraped, dented, and worn to a faded blue.
I clomp up the steps with him. Once we’re inside with the door closed, Nathan rubs his hands together.
“Finally,” he says. “Let’s start with that wish for your own jacket.”
That’s kind of him. I remove the one I’m wearing and toss it on a velvety sofa. Next to it, I conjure a more feminine version of his jacket, black with the same gold lettering. The colors whirl and solidify. A tiny roaring tiger head decorates the front on one side. I hadn’t noticed that on his before, but it’s there.
“Cool!” Nathan says. “Are you reading my mind, or what? This is a jacket from my high school. Maybe it’ll help you feel more like you belong in Bandon.”
I’m not so certain that’s what I want. “And now you’d like currency for your education?”
Nathan flops onto the sofa, his mouth twisting. “I dunno. I’ve been thinking about that. If I suddenly have a bunch of money for tuition that my grants and scholarships don’t cover, what’s Mom going to think? Or the bank…or the police or tax guys? It’d look suspicious, like I was selling drugs or something.”
“Perhaps you think too much,” I say.
“No, trust me, it’s gonna be a problem. I can’t dump thousands of dollars into my account with no explanation. I could try a few hundred,
maybe. We’ll go with six hundred.”
“As you wish.” I don’t bother to suggest he could keep the money here in his house instead. I sift images of greenish paper and a long string of official bank numbers from his mind. The numbers settle into columns, which transform into the word “deposit” and today’s date. June seventeenth. I nudge a few more numbers and recede from the space.
I bow. “It’s done.”
He brightens and jumps up. “Awesome. This is gonna be a blast. There’s a ton of things we can do, even if I can’t wish for money. Like, can you fix this house? I don’t mean making a brand new one. That would freak Mom and the neighbors out, and be too magical or suspicious. But we could fix pipes and wiring and the foundation and stuff. Make the house stronger and newer without changing how it looks on the outside too much.”
He’s warmed up to the wishing. It was only a matter of time.
“Yes, Mast—Nathan.” My arms rise. He watches me, intent on my face. I try to ignore him, gathering my energy and sending it outward. I explore his knowledge as well as the hidden workings of the house. A dripping pipe over there: sealed. Cracks and brittleness beneath the house foundation in one corner: bolstered strong. I straighten beams, unwarp shingles, and unclog drains filled with hair and black gunk. I clean the carpet.
I work my way up the stairs, repairing cracks. His mother’s room contains a mouse—it’s gone in a flash, sent to a distant meadow. I suck creaks from the floorboards of Nathan’s room, and erase grime from what I assume is his young brother’s wall. I re-seal around the toilet base. Rust and mildew vanish. Window frames un-droop.
Done. I lower my arms. As expected, they protest with a ferocious ache, from my shoulders all the way to my fingertips. I rub them and try to catch my breath.
“Nice!” Nathan pivots and looks around, grinning like a madman. “I don’t know all the things you’ve done, but the carpet looks cleaner. Fresher. The whole house is sharp, like I wiped a foggy window and everything’s clearer. Smells better, too. I bet Mom will be super charged.”