Becoming Jinn

by Lori Goldstein

  We’re halfway through the container when my skin prickles and a purring fills my ears. It’s less a shock and more like the vibration from a pumped-up stereo bass.

  The next instant, Hana apports into our living room. Her orange-red hair echoes the fierce flames of my earlier fires, but she’s the gentlest of my soon-to-be Zar sisters, except for Laila, of course.

  “Happy Birthday!” Hana gushes, with her arms flung wide.

  Is it my own arms at my sides that makes her change course? Because instead of hugging me, she pulls her elbows in and takes my hand, giving my arm a shy, tentative tug.

  Am I Hana’s Yasmin?

  As she greets my mother with a kiss, I can’t help but think magic lessons aren’t the ones I need.

  Though we’ve e-mailed a few times, I haven’t seen her since she became Hana 2.0. Body taller, hair redder, lips fuller. What I’m thinking about her, she says about me.

  “You’re gorg, Azra!”

  Except I wouldn’t use “gorg” without the “eous.” Ever.

  She walks a circle around me. “Hmm … though it’s all actually pretty subtle, isn’t it? Thankfully for the rest of us.”

  My mother and Hana laugh. Unsure if I should join, I issue an awkward half smile. Which results in … crickets.

  Hana clears her throat. “Just wanted to swing by and give you this.”

  She holds out a kitschy, tarnished-gold, Aladdin-style lamp, complete with the stereotypical long spout and curved handle. “Congrats! You’re the new keeper.”

  Pop culture has turned genies into a joke. Oil lamps, serving a master, flying carpets, three wishes—none of it’s true. Jinn live in houses, not lamps or bottles. Jinn do not fly on a carpet or otherwise. The Afrit assign wish candidates to Jinn. The candidate gets but one wish. The idea of three stems from humans who were greedy and Jinn who were pushovers.

  “Keeper?” I ask.

  Hana purses her lips. “Oh, right, you haven’t been to most of our parties, have you?”

  I skipped Yasmin’s sixteenth birthday bash. Our other Zar sister, Mina’s, too. But what about Farrah’s and Hana’s parties? I don’t recall getting an invite to their birthdays.

  Hana and I stare at each other as we each realize this at the same time.

  Again, crickets.

  “Yasmin started it,” Hana says. “She found Mr. Gemp—”

  “Gemp?”

  “Genie lamp.”

  “Right.”

  “Anyway, Yasmin passed it to Mina when she turned sixteen. And Mina gave it to Farrah, who gave it to me, and now, well, now it’s your turn.” She pulls the lamp, still held in her outstretched hands, closer to her chest. “You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. I know it’s silly. It’s just—”

  “No.” I pluck the lamp with more force than I intended. I’m really going to scare the poor Jinn. “I might have a wish or two I’d like granted,” I say softly as I stroke the side of the lamp.

  Hana and my mother laugh again. This time, I join in, even though, in my heart, that wasn’t a joke.

  There’s talk of how Hana’s finals went (straight As, as usual) and the summer internship in the costumes department of her local theater she nabbed (with her mother’s magical help, of course), and I zone out. Second to Laila, Hana’s the one I’m closest to. But closest to and close aren’t the same thing.

  We just don’t have much in common.

  “Get your family’s cantamen yet?” Hana asks.

  Other than this.

  “I made these killer flash cards for mine.”

  Why am I not surprised? Then again, considering the size of my family’s genie handbook, that might not be such a bad idea. The Nadira cantamen codex is so big, if I dropped it, I’d surely shatter a toe. Or Yasmin’s.

  I grin slightly at the thought.

  Hana mistakes my look for excitement. “I can help you if you want.”

  “That’d be lovely, Hana.”

  Though the words left my mother’s lips, not mine, when Hana hugs me good-bye, she whispers, “I told the others you’d come around.” She releases me, waves to my mother, and says, “See you later!” before apporting.

  That makes two “see you laters.” From my soon-to-be Zar sisters. On my birthday.

  And it clicks. “You didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?” It’s too late for my mother’s innocent eyes. Hiding this is the reason—well, part of the reason—she was so quick to shoo Yasmin out the door.

  “Seriously? You invited all those GITs to my party?”

  My mother gives me a blank look.

  “GITs,” I say. “Genies in training. HITs are tricky enough. But teenagers with powers?” I shudder.

  I was trying to be funny more than bratty. My mother’s, “Don’t start, Azra,” as she leaves me for the kitchen means my ratio was off.

  Through the open doorway, I watch her place the red tagine on the stovetop. Like always, my mouth waters.

  Her chicken tagine with tomatoes and sweet caramelized onions has been my favorite for as long as I can remember. It’s one of the few meals she insists on making without the assistance of magic. “Some things turn out better without magic,” she once told me when I was little. “Making something with your hands instead of your mind can be satisfying, even rewarding,” she said as I stood on a chair watching her slice the juicy, red tomatoes grown, more or less naturally, in our backyard.

  Using my powers of levitation, I steal an orange cherry tomato, a new variety for us this year, from the bowl on the counter as she grinds the cinnamon with a wave of her hand.

  Okay, so she uses a little magic.

  Before popping the tomato in my mouth, I say, “You should have asked.”

  She sighs. “I did. You said no.”

  “And so you invited them all anyway?”

  My mother shakes the excess water from a freshly washed bundle of cilantro and ignores me. Again.

  Testing my levitation skill with something heavier, I float Mr. Gemp her way. “This will be their fifth.”

  “Hmm?” She swats at Mr. Gemp.

  “Birthday party. Their fifth. Guess I should consider myself lucky I only have to make it through this one.”

  The unexpected crack in my voice makes me lose control of the lantern. My mother’s eyes meet mine as she catches it and sets it on the table.

  She begins methodically stripping cilantro leaves from their stems. “My Zar should have never let this go on for as long as we did.” She pauses. “I shouldn’t have.”

  Leaning against the side of the refrigerator, I think of all the parties I missed. Theirs and mine. I haven’t had a birthday party with my full Zar since the year after Jenny died.

  “Then again,” she says, “I haven’t been able to force you to do anything in years.”

  As I wiggle my wrist, the bangle bounces against my skin. Except for this.

  She gathers the cilantro leaves into a neat pile. “I thought it’d be better if you came around on your own. All of you. But Laila will be sixteen soon, and your Zar will become official. You girls need to cement your bond now. Besides, there’s a lot you can learn from them.”

  I turn the oven on from across the room. “I’ve got this.”

  “I wasn’t referring to magic,” she says curtly. “But fine, if you’re already an expert on what you can do, what about the things you can’t do? Crystal clear on those, I assume?”

  Having grown up in a house where meals cook themselves, high heels pop out of nowhere, and walls swap paint colors in an instant, the list of things we can’t do is short.

  “I can’t grant a wish for a human not assigned to me by the Afrit.” I repeat what I learned practically at birth.

  From here, I have a perfect view of the Carwyns’ garage out our living room window.

  “I can’t heal humans.” A lump finds its way to my throat. “And I can’t bring someone back from the dead.” I repeat what I learned when I was nine.

  My mother’
s face falls, but I keep going. “We live here. Alone. While—”

  In an instant, she’s at my side. The scent of cilantro clinging to her combined with the way she strokes my back causes the lump in my throat to swell. I fight back the water my tear ducts are conjuring without my permission.

  “I get it, Azra,” she says gently. “The Afrit’s rules stink. But you can dislike what you have to do without disliking who you are. And who they are. Your sisters. It’s precisely the restrictions the Afrit have placed on us that make your Zar sisters that much more important. They fill the hole.”

  My face grows hot, and my teeth clench. The hole? Try holes, plural. Like the hole left when I had to stop befriending humans because my lies about the nine fireplaces and perpetually blooming backyard lilacs were no longer cutting it. Like the hole left by the Jinn father I’ve never met. Like the hole left by Jenny.

  My mother’s Zar sisters may be enough for her, but the Jinn girls who will make up my Zar have a heck of a crater to fill.

  My mother squeezes my shoulder. “You need them, kiddo. Learning to access your magic is only part of granting wishes. There’s a lot more to becoming Jinn.”

  Swallowing the fight rising up in my throat, I force myself to say the one thing I’ve wanted to say since I woke up this morning. “And I … I have to, right?”

  Though she manages a weak smile, the creases around my mother’s eyes show her exhaustion. Whether she’s tired or just tired of me is unclear.

  “Look, Azra, here’s the thing. This may not be the life you want, but it’s the only one you’ve got. Making the best of it, not the worst, is up to you, but it’s a long road to take all by yourself. Life is compromise, after all.”

  Compromise? Really? That’s what becoming Jinn is?

  My knuckles turn white as I ball my hands into fists. Without a word, I peel out of the kitchen and march toward the stairs. Until the bangle taps against my leg, I forget I don’t need the stairs anymore.

  I app myself to my room, relishing the internal burn as I collapse on top of my white comforter. I flick the bangle with one finger, letting it ride circles around my wrist.

  Compromise suggests a concession on each side. But we’re the ones who have to give up everything. We live without the rest of our families, in our little Zar enclaves, churning out the next generation of Jinn. Being able to conjure chocolate truffles doesn’t make up for that.

  My mother doesn’t understand. She can’t understand. Yes, the same restrictions apply for her, but that wasn’t always the case. She grew up with her mother and her father. She had male Jinn in her life, even … even my father. It wasn’t until around the time I was born that the Afrit ordered all male Jinn to leave the human world. Even if she only had my father for a short time, it’s more than I’ve had.

  I bury my head under my pillow until the smell of browning chicken wafts through my open door. I sit up. My mother’s cooking without magic for me. She’s trying. My birthday present, the purple shirt neatly folded on my dresser, further chastens me. I know she’s trying.

  And the truth is, unless we want to bring the wrath of the Afrit down on us, neither one of us has a choice. On this long road, all we really have is each other.

  Mr. Gemp materializes out of thin air on my nightstand.

  I swear, sometimes it’s as if my mother can read my mind. Because we don’t just have each other. We also have our Zar sisters. At least we’re supposed to.

  Open. Close. Open. Close.

  I toggle the lid, but nothing escapes in a cloud of blue smoke. I pick up the lamp to move it to my bookshelf and notice the top isn’t fully closed. Something’s caught in the hinge. Not a magical genie—at least not yet.

  Rolled up inside the lantern is a photograph of six tween Jinn. Along with our shiny hair and penchant for sugar, we inherited our closest Zar relationships from our mothers: me and Laila; Mina and Farrah; Hana and Yasmin. I always thought Hana got the raw end of that deal. Which everyone else must think of Laila.

  Laila, sweet, blond, petite Laila, who, even in the picture, is a head shorter than the rest of us. Standing in front with her skinny arms spread wide, the tip of one finger in front of me and the tip of the other in front of Yasmin. The mortar in our bricks then and now.

  My mousy self-cropped hair and slouch is countered by Yasmin’s cascading jet-black curls and arched back. With her long skinny nose raised in the air, all that’s missing is the pointy black hat. Again, then and now.

  Hana. Next to me, with her fiery-red hair grazing her shoulders and mine. She was in her eyeglasses-wearing stage then. As if she needed them to prove how smart she is.

  And in the middle, Mina and Farrah, as close as Siamese twins. Born with a noisemaker in her mouth and party streamers around her belly, baby-faced Mina stands in her signature stance of hands tossed high in the air. With her boundless energy and vivacious personality, she’d match, hoop for hoop, any dolphin at SeaWorld. Next to her is square-chinned Farrah, whose quick, sharp movements and cuddly nature always reminded me of a rabbit. Her foot’s caught in mid-tap and her finger tugs on a strand of hair as she works to cover what she’s always thought was a slightly too-big forehead.

  Laila, Yasmin, Hana, Mina, and Farrah. My Zar, who stopped inviting me to their birthday parties. But who, apparently, are still coming to mine.

  I wonder if they feel as conflicted about that as I do?

  Even before I flip the photo over, I know the date it was taken. The day I turned ten. The first birthday I didn’t share with Jenny.

  I remember the present Laila gave me: a framed picture of Jenny and me kneeling on the grass outside her house with the tiny Laila standing on our backs. Henry took that photo.

  I remember the awkward looks on Hana, Mina, and Farrah’s faces as Laila gave me that present. None of them acknowledged Jenny’s absence then. None of them had acknowledged Jenny’s absence in the year before then. Though Jenny had been as much a fixture in my life as they’d been, when she was gone, it was like she never existed.

  But mostly, I remember Yasmin. Walking in on her reading my diary later that day. Seeing the guilt turn to hurt on Hana’s freckled face. Watching Mina mistakenly snip Farrah’s dark brown bangs too short. Feeling Laila’s warm fingers interlacing with mine, holding me back as much as holding me.

  “None of them!” Yasmin read, stomping her foot and treating my words like those of a petulant child instead of a grief-stricken “sister.”

  Not Hana, not Mina, not Farrah, not Yasmin. None of them came. None of them said they were sorry. Not right away and not in the months since. She was my best friend. I thought she was their friend too. They acted like it. Are they acting with me too?

  Laila’s the only one who cares. She’s the only one I need. I’d trade all the rest to have Jenny back. I’d trade all the rest to have Jenny back for a single day. Let the Afrit take them. They deserve that and more.

  Even Yasmin’s voice trembled as she read that last line.

  Each one tried to apologize. The heart-shaped pillow embroidered with my and Jenny’s initials that Hana made me still sits on the chair next to my window, though Mina’s collage of all the guys from One Tree Hill has probably been recycled into toilet paper or coffee filters by now. The mix CD Farrah gave me, bursting with the falsetto of all her favorite boy bands, is tucked away somewhere on my shelves. Yasmin’s card? The one where she listed all the reasons not to befriend humans? I read it and burned it.

  Maybe in her own way she was trying. They all were. But I couldn’t. My tenth birthday is one of a handful of times my whole Zar has been together in the years since. The more our mothers pushed, the more we pulled away.

  Sometimes, Laila and I were a team. When Yasmin pulled a new prank on a human, we tattled together. But when Hana staged one of her runway shows, making each of us model ensembles she put together from clothes conjured by her mother, I hit the pavement alone while Laila hopped right up on the lighted catwalk our mothers’ powers built. Mina
and Farrah morphed from infatuated preteens to full-blown boy-crazy Jinn, sneaking into clubs to see emo bands that I mistakenly thought had something to do with an annoying character on Sesame Street.

  By the time I was ready to forgive, they were past wanting me to.

  But maybe the genie lamp my mother just sent up here shows they’re ready to try. Which leaves me as the only one who is not.

  As usual.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m pulling my favorite pair of jeans out of my closet. Though they weren’t when I bought them, they are now low-rise. Ultra low-rise. And cropped. The hem falls mid-calf.

  The sudden commotion from downstairs means someone’s already here.

  Unfolding the tunic as I dart across the hall, I slip it over my head and rifle through the hangers in my mother’s closet. The pair of white linen pants I find toward the back fits perfectly.

  In my bathroom, I braid my long hair and even dab on some blush and lip gloss. Purple lip gloss. I make it match the color of the shirt from my mother. Groomed and dressed like this, I have to admit my magical makeover isn’t half bad.

  I’m almost out the door when I turn back around. My mother’s right. This is a long road. Maybe I can dislike what I have to do without disliking who I am. And who my Zar sisters are (Yasmin being the obvious exception).

  Using my powers, I center Mr. Gemp on my nightstand and fling the cantamen my mother brought up earlier to the floor, parking it under my bed. Amid the dustballs, the ratty old thing should be right at home.

  Life is compromise, after all.

  5

  Laila’s eyes threaten to pop out of their sockets as I enter the living room. Samara, her mother, smothers me in an embrace. As usual, her golden hair smells like apricots. Now taller than she is, I nuzzle into the soft waves and let her hold me. I’ve known Samara my entire life. Before I found out she too was a Jinn, there were times when I wanted her to be my mother. That I still do on occasion is a source of continuous guilt.