Becoming Jinn

by Lori Goldstein

  Her greatest wish.

  I grab hold of a bamboo tomato stake and take a deep breath. I granted someone’s wish. And not just any wish. A wish for family.

  Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

  When my mother comes up behind me, slipping her arm around my waist to guide me across the lawn and back to our house, I lean into her, grateful for the support.

  “It really was okay, then?” I ask tentatively.

  She smiles a kid-on-Christmas-morning smile. “More than okay. Next time, though, if you open yourself up a bit more, your magic will demand less energy.”

  I nod, happy this is her only real criticism. I may not be my mother, but perhaps I’m just talented enough to coast my way through this, to fake it straight through to retirement. Whenever that is. We work until the Afrit tell us not to.

  My mother and I are at our front door when Henry crosses to our side of the street. He lifts his chin instead of waving because his hands are full of gardening supplies.

  Did Mrs. Pucher say Henry checked out the garden just yesterday?

  “Come inside, Azra,” my mother says. “You need to rest.”

  I should tell my mother about my magical green thumb. But that will erase all the goodwill I just built up by successfully granting Mrs. Pucher’s wish. She might even make me quit my job at the beach before it begins so I’ll spend time studying the stupid cantamen.

  Mrs. Pucher was probably exaggerating. How closely could Henry have studied her garden anyway? Surely teenage boys have way more important things on their mind than bottom rot.

  11

  A damp, gray mist clung to the shoreline for my entire first week behind the snack bar. Yesterday’s flip of the calendar ushered in July and, with it, the sun. Just in time. As my white shorts make painfully clear, my legs need a tan.

  I leave myself ample time to bike to the beach and arrive early. The weathered wood shack that serves as the concession stand creaks as I prop my new bicycle against it. The overly complicated twenty-four-speed contraption is a birthday present from my mother’s Zar sisters. The irony of giving me an external method of transport now that I have my own internal one isn’t lost on me.

  With time before my shift begins, I follow the arched wooden path over the dunes. I sweep my fingertips along the tall grass that rustles on either side, feeling the air crisp with each step. When I arrive at the last plank, I kick off my sneakers. It’s low tide. The beach spreads out before me, empty, quiet, calm. This is my favorite time of day in my favorite place.

  If it were up to me, we’d open our front door to this. But the location of our home, like so much else, is not up to me. My mother says a flashy house at the beach would raise more questions than it’s worth. Draw too much attention—the worst thing for a Jinn. Funny, I gather the attention my mother garners by being drop-dead gorgeous has yet to cause a problem.

  I walk the wide expanse of open beach down to the water. The frigid Massachusetts waves reach for my toes.

  I can’t resist. I inch forward and let the icy ripples surround my feet.

  Standing at the edge of the ocean, everything seems possible. The endlessness of the sea makes me believe in beginnings.

  Mere seconds pass before I cry out, unable to withstand the torture any longer. My toes sting as I race toward a patch of sun and bury my feet. The cool sand lurking underneath does little to alleviate my chill, but still … it was worth it.

  Returning down the same wooden path, I run into the clique of beautiful bods—the lifeguards. A morning beach run is a requirement of their job. Of the three female lifeguards, only Chelsea does the run in a two-piece bathing suit. Emblazoned with “guard” across the chest in capital letters, the red, sporty bikini is even more intimidating than her orange-and-black cheerleading uniform. And that has a tiger paw plastered across the front.

  A couple of the guys nod slightly as they pass me. Though we all recognize one another, the rules in play in the halls of the high school extend to the dunes of the beach. If you wave to me during homeroom, you wave to me here. If you nod to me during the change of classes, you nod to me here. If you ignore me during gym, like Chelsea does, you ignore me here.

  If you make me unable to speak in the cafeteria, you make me unable to speak here. Like Nate. Nathan Reese, the cute lifeguard, star lacrosse player, soon-to-be senior. He’s heading straight for the path I’m hurrying down. I reach the end and duck through the side door of the concession shack.

  I shouldn’t really worry about running into him and being rendered mute. So far, “hi,” “here you go,” and “thanks” form the core of our conversations. Nate does his part to save the world by bringing his own reusable water bottle to work, and I’ve spent the past week being his water girl, refilling the stainless steel bottle from the sink in my little shack two, sometimes three, times a day. Yesterday, when he tilted the bottle toward me and winked before returning to his perch on the lifeguard stand, I was especially grateful the transactions don’t require much verbalization.

  I jump as Zoe, my coworker, swings open the door and lets it clank shut behind her. Her short, dark brown hair, secured by a dingy white scrunchie, juts out from the back of her head like a stunted tail.

  She stomps over to the counter, plops her bag on top, and grunts a hello. “It’s your turn to refill the ketchup bottles.”

  She’s been in a bad mood all week. It took me two days to realize when she was complaining about not being good enough to be a point guard, she was talking about basketball and not some branch of the military.

  The only way out of a Zoe mood is to allow a Zoe rant. “Tough day again yesterday?” I ask, tentatively.

  “He thinks I’m hopeless. He actually said that. My own brother. What does he know, right?”

  A lot, as she’s explained to me. Zoe’s older brother is a superstar basketball player at Providence College. He’s home for a couple of weeks before heading to some training camp, and Zoe’s desperate for him to turn her into a female version of himself before he leaves.

  “If only I were taller,” Zoe says. “That’s his expert advice.”

  She opens a pack of gum and shoves three pieces into her mouth. She holds the pack out to me, but I shake my head. On the list of annoying Zoe traits, her gum popping comes in a close second to her incessant talk about dribbling.

  She smacks her gum as her eyes travel up and down my body. “How tall are you, anyway?”

  I shrug before bending over and hiding among the condiment containers.

  * * *

  Zoe’s in the bathroom and I’m still playing with ketchup bottles when I hear a voice.

  “Anyone know whose bike this is?”

  Not a voice. Nate’s voice.

  I peek above the sun-bleached wood counter. Nate is standing in front of the snack bar, his lifeguard shirt slung across one shoulder and his hands on the handlebar of my flashy bike.

  Sometimes I wonder if he hasn’t been granted a wish. Those are not the abs of a normal seventeen-year-old boy.

  I smooth the sides of my hair, ensuring all the ends are tucked inside my ponytail, before fully surfacing. I chicken out. Instead of answering with words, I wave.

  “Azra, you really shouldn’t leave…”

  I know he’s talking, but I have no idea what he’s saying because I’m stuck on the “Azra.” Nate knows my name?

  He’s staring at me, and I know I’m supposed to reply. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to reply. I brace myself against the counter and mumble, “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you have a minute now?” he asks. “I can show you where to lock it, but we have to do it fast. You have a lock at least, right?”

  I don’t, but I can get one. I hold up one finger and sink down, concentrating as hard as I can. When I return to an upright position, it is with a conjured bike lock in hand.

  “Great,” he says, “I’m late for the run.”

  He can close the gap. He’s faster than all of them—something my mi
ld stalking has permitted me to notice.

  “You’ll catch them easily,” I say before I realize my mouth has opened.

  Imperceptible to anyone not ogling him as I am, his muscled shoulders fall the slightest bit as he curves them in. “You’ve … you’ve seen me run?”

  “No, well, yes. Maybe just a couple of times. When I was picking up garbage on the beach.” Garbage, how romantic.

  Walking behind Nate to the bike rack I had no idea existed, I resist the urge to touch the top of his head to see if his close-cropped black hair feels as soft as it looks.

  “Here,” he says. “Lock it next to mine.”

  “You bike to work?” The water bottle is one thing, but everything else about him screams red convertible.

  He maneuvers my bike into the rack and takes the lock from my hand. His fingers brush my palm, and a tingle spreads through my body. I try to pay attention to his words instead of his abs as he talks about the cost of fuel and the danger of emissions and the increase in global warming.

  He snaps the lock shut. “What’s with the old-school lock for the killer bike?”

  I compare the lock on my bike to the one on his. Mine is literally a silver chain and black lock with a center keyhole, a keyhole for which I don’t even have the key. His is a sophisticated, black-and-yellow, U-shaped crossbar that I couldn’t figure out how to open—even using magic—if I tried.

  I’m forcing back my nerves to ask him where I can buy one when Chelsea shows up. Standing next to the petite Chelsea makes me feel like an Amazonian warrior.

  “Nate, we were waiting for you,” she says with a pout on her shiny red lips.

  Who wears lip gloss at the beach? I chew on my lower lip, tasting only lip balm. With SPF.

  “Oh,” she says to me, “I think you have something in your hair.”

  My fingers pat my ponytail and come away with ketchup. Chelsea tucks a length of flat-ironed hair behind her ear. Despite how I may now look, I’ll never act like a cheerleader.

  I return Nate’s good-bye wave and watch him run off, Chelsea at his side.

  I don’t care. I’ve never wanted to be a cheerleader, having to worry about being popular and boys and calories and leg waxing.

  Being popular is all about pretending to be something you’re not.

  I pause mid-step. Seems I’ve been training to be popular my entire life and didn’t even know it.

  * * *

  The day is insane. The combination of sun and Saturday draws a full crowd. PB&Js, BLTs, BBQ wraps, I serve more sandwiches with acronyms than I would have thought existed.

  Thankfully, we close at four o’clock. My plan is to find an unpopulated corner of the beach and soak up the sun.

  Zoe skipped out early to go practice. I’m wiping the counter when Henry and his family, hot and sweaty from their trudge off the beach, drop their gear in front of the soda machines. When Henry sees me, he picks up three Carwyn beach chairs and approaches the snack bar.

  “That’s quite the green thumb you have,” he says.

  What? Do not panic. Do not panic. My brain struggles to come up with a way to explain Mrs. Pucher’s suddenly perky garden as I twist the rag in my hands. I look down. And laugh, feeling my jaw relax at the sight of green relish smeared all over my thumb.

  “You seem to do that a lot around me,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Laugh. I might start to get a complex. You are laughing with not at, right?”

  I laugh again. He’s wearing the T-shirt of a band whose songs I just downloaded, giving me the perfect way to steer clear of Mrs. Pucher’s miraculous tomatoes. “Did you see them in concert?”

  “I wish,” he says, which causes me to laugh once again, though Henry has no idea why. We debate the best track until his little sister tackles his legs.

  “You know the stray we can’t get out of the house, right, Azra?” Henry scoops up Lisa. “For six years, this one’s been hanging around.”

  Fighting the pangs in my chest, I look Lisa directly in the eye and smile. To my surprise, her giggle, which naturally reminds me of Jenny’s, dulls the ache. I better understand how Henry can be around her.

  “Ooh, tough,” I say. “We had one of those once. I think I may have something around here that helps get rid of the little critters.”

  Surveying the shelves and back counter, I realize we are sold out of everything but limp salad. Dipping so far down that my stomach almost rests flat against the floor, I conjure a carton of french fries and then plop them on the snack bar. “Fries, lots and lots of fries.”

  “I l-l-love fr-fr-fries,” Lisa says.

  Henry shoots me a worried look. Though I haven’t spent much time around Lisa, I don’t blink. I simply pass her a freshly topped-off ketchup bottle. “Hmm, guess I was misinformed. Fries seem to be having the opposite effect. I think you may be stuck with this one, Henry.”

  Lisa giggles and pops three fries in her mouth at once. I breathe a sigh of relief when she chews and swallows without spitting them out. At least my skills are good enough for a six-year-old’s palate.

  Henry sets Lisa down and hands her the container. “Easy, don’t choke.”

  He mouths a thanks, which I dismiss. It’s sweet that he’s so protective of her. Just like an older brother should be, or so I imagine, never having had one myself.

  “Funny,” Henry says, “earlier, the other girl said you were wiped out. Not a single greasy potato was to be found.”

  Uh-oh. I make a face. “Oh, Zoe’s clueless. All she cares about is b-ball and bank shots.”

  I’m hoping Henry’s quizzical look is because he’s as ignorant about sports as me, not because of the fries.

  “Basketball,” I say.

  He grins. “Oh, I know. It just sounds funny coming out of your mouth.”

  “Yeah, well, it feels even funnier.”

  His grin widens as he searches his pockets. “Well, anyway, what do I owe you?”

  I wave my hand. “It’s on me.”

  Henry tenses. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve got money.”

  His tone is gruff. I’ve offended him. I don’t know why. It’s just some fries. When I fib that they were leftovers and would only be tossed, he relaxes and offers an apologetic thanks.

  As I lay down a few napkins, my silver bangle hits the counter, causing Henry to say, “I saw that the other night.”

  Now, I tense.

  “It’s cool,” he says. “New? Birthday gift?”

  I nod, though that’s not exactly the truth.

  “Your necklace is cool too.”

  I touch the pendant from Laila.

  “Someone must really like you,” he says.

  I nod again, though that wouldn’t exactly be the truth if Laila knew what I did.

  Henry’s eyes linger on me. I pat the counter, feeling for my sunglasses. As I hide behind them, he says, “That spa change your hair? Looks nice. Different, but nice.”

  I tighten my ponytail elastic. “Highlights. Laila made me.”

  Like on my birthday, guilt piggybacks my lies. I quickly lean over the counter and call hello to his parents, a distraction tactic I regret when I hear the pain in their voices as they wish me a happy belated birthday. They politely ask about my mother before heading for the parking lot. Lisa stays behind. She’s waiting for Henry.

  “See you tomorrow?” Henry asks.

  “I’m off tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Brief disappointment passes over his face. “Well, in that case, the pool’s open if you want to stop by. You know, if you’re hot.” He raises an eyebrow before crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Come on? Nothing? You’re supposed to say, ‘I’m always hot.’”

  I bite my lip. “But I’m not. Actually I tend to be on the chilly side.”

  Henry throws back his head, laughing, and I finally get his joke. My cheeks burn, contradicting my statement.

  Taking Lisa’s hand, Henry says, “Try to stay cool, then, Azra.”

 
“Oh, it’s not that I like to be cold, it’s just…”

  Henry closes his eyes and shakes his head. I wait for my body to shrink in embarrassment. But it doesn’t.

  It must be wrong to be this jealous of a six-year-old. Henry’s playful teasing lets me know what it’d be like to have a brother. What I missed out on. Yes, because of the Afrit’s rules. But also because of mine. Because over the years, each time Henry came knocking, I refused to answer, literally and figuratively.

  Which is why, when I’m walking to the bike rack later on, trying to conjure the key to go with the lock, and hear Chelsea’s voice, my fists clench.

  In the center of her little clique, she’s dropping fake bits of bread on the ground. “Here, b-b-b-birdies.” Chelsea cracks herself up. “Did you see her brother? The kid with the messy hair and glasses? Following her around like a puppy. Poor s-s-s-sap.”

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe HITs are worse than GITs. I want to knock the shine off Chelsea’s stupid red lips for mocking Lisa’s stutter but don’t want to lose my job. Or be punched back.

  I’m wondering if my powers allow me to control the bowel movements of seagulls when Nate closes in on Chelsea from the other side. I push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and arrive just in time to see Nate plant himself in front of her.

  He folds his arms across his chest. “That’s enough, Chels.”

  Chelsea clutches her throat and laughs. “Oh, Nate, are you doing an impression of Mr. Florio?”

  Mr. Florio is our vice principal. He’s half Nate’s size with a voice twice as deep. If Nate is doing an impression of Mr. Florio, Nate sucks at impressions.

  The hinge on Nate’s jaw protrudes as the muscles on his face tighten. “No. But you know what you’re doing an impression of?”

  Chelsea steps back.

  “A mean girl, a freakin’ walking cliché,” he says. “Oh, wait, you aren’t doing an impression. That’s just you.”

  The gesture Chelsea makes with her fingers is not a sign of affection. She then seizes the arm of the girl next to her and storms off. No one else follows. Instead, before they disperse, they actually mumble apologizes to Nate.