“I’ll agree, if you promise to study the cantamen.”
I relax. “Okay.”
“And—”
I tense.
“If you promise to call me the second something bad happens.”
“Bad?” I whirl around. “Why would something bad happen?”
“Sorry, if something bad happens.”
Why do I feel like she just jinxed me? “I promise.”
She sucks the ice cream off the spoon. “And one more thing.”
I swallow my groan. At this point she may as well come.
“Bring one of your sisters with you.”
Should have seen that one coming. “It doesn’t have to be Yasmin, does it?”
Her eyes smile, though she refuses to let her lips follow. “No, it doesn’t have to be Yasmin.”
I conjure a second spoon and dig in. “Deal.”
* * *
Upstairs, I plop onto my bed, feeling satisfied. When negotiating with my mother, getting one’s second choice is still a major win. Plus, if Zoe were toned down, I wouldn’t mind working every shift. Every shift? Or every shift Nate and his abs are also working?
I grab my phone and flip to Nate’s text: “Too bad.”
Now this is what I need magic to figure out. Is he joking? Is he … flirting? Does he want to throw a kegger here? Powers, useless powers. My neutral “Why?” zooms off, and I yank the covers over my head. An eternity passes before my phone dings:
Oh, just glad U R home safe.
That’s it? Home safe? Nate the lifeguard. Nate the protector. That’s all he’s doing. I’m an idiot if I thought it was something else. I stare at my phone but it doesn’t make a buzz, a ding, or a beep. Probably for the best. Despite my bravado in front of my mother, I probably should study some before granting Zoe’s wish.
Hanging upside down, I stretch to reach the worn, leather-bound cantamen I shoved underneath the box spring more than a week ago. My hand fumbles under the dust ruffle and lands on an old shoe box. I slide it out, knowing exactly what’s inside. I blow the dust bunnies off the box and lift the lid.
Amid the stickers, candy necklaces, and two tiaras sits the framed photograph of me, Jenny, and Laila. Buried for too long. I wipe it clean with the end of my bedsheet and set it on my nightstand next to Mr. Gemp.
More photos of Jenny and me—Henry too—line the bottom of the box. I flip through, feeling selfish and guilty about not fighting more to grant Henry a wish. Or Lisa. I should have asked about Lisa. But as soon as my mind zeroed in on Zoe, all other thoughts disappeared.
I lie on my back and toss the contents of the box in the air. Before everything floats to the ground, I use my powers of levitation to create a memorabilia mobile.
I stare at the revolving photos and Hello Kitty playing cards until I fall asleep.
* * *
My arms have a rash. A red, blue, yellow, and white rash. One lick identifies it as candy necklace.
Crushed pastel mounds of the multicolored sugar dot my bed. I must have rolled over the brittle necklaces in my sleep. And the photographs. Fortunately, most of those survived unscathed. I flatten out the ones my body creased and return everything to the shoe box.
As I wipe the sleep—and sugar crystals—from my eyes, I check my phone. No new texts. Did I really expect there would be?
Downstairs, I fix myself a bowl of cereal. Eating while carrying the bowl into the living room, I almost choke on a pink heart marshmallow when I see my mother through the open front door.
What is she doing?
She’s on the sidewalk in front of our house alongside Henry’s mother. With Jenny gone, my mother’s need to socialize with Mrs. Carwyn dwindled. Socialize with, not be friends with. Though being friends with humans isn’t explicitly forbidden, there are reports of the Afrit punishing Jinn who become too entwined with a human, fearing we’ll slip up and let down our guard. Which is why my mother adheres to the caution against becoming too attached.
So what’s changed? The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The nonexistent crush, that’s what’s changed.
Watching (spying) through the front window, I make a mental note to search the cantamen for a spell to amplify one’s hearing. When the two of them start hugging, I dive into the couch and slurp the last of my cereal.
My mother strolls through the door, the contents of our mailbox in her hand. Upon seeing me, she hurries over and kisses the top of my head.
“Azra, you should have told me. Not that it would have changed my mind, but I’m so proud of you for wanting to help Henry and his family. I had no idea Mr. Carwyn’s been out of work so long.”
Out of work? Me neither.
She drops a pile of catalogs on the end table on her way into the kitchen. “Six months? That’s a long time. Poor Elyse.” My mother’s voice lowers to a whisper. “Apparently Mr. and Mrs. Carwyn have been fighting a lot. On the verge of separating, it sounds like. It’s affecting all of them, Henry and little Lisa too.”
The sugary milk churns in my stomach. The fries. That’s why Henry was so weird about the free fries. He thought I was pitying him.
Popping up from the couch, I’m ready to go to battle over Henry being my next practice candidate. We’re a lot alike, at least we used to be, which is why I don’t need research to know what Henry would wish for. He’d use his one wish to find a job for his father because his family is hurting, and because it might make them whole again, and because … because it’s the wish I’d make.
Oh … invested.
My mother pours coffee into two mugs and adds a cavity-inducing amount of sugar to each. She returns to the living room and gives one to me.
As I blow on the hot liquid, I debate asking my mother if I can switch to Mr. Carwyn. She’ll probably still say I’m too invested. But why can’t I just help Mr. Carwyn without invoking the circulus, without risking granting the wish I want to make, not the one he wants to make. If what I give him just happens to be what he or Henry would wish for, lucky coincidence, right?
I take a sip. “So, how can we help? Can’t be that hard to get Mr. Carwyn a job.”
Before she can respond, a feather tickles the back of my neck and Samara and Laila materialize on the staircase landing. And I burn my tongue on my coffee.
My mother didn’t tell me they were coming over. If past behavior is a predictor of future behavior, I guess I understand why.
“Perfect timing,” my mother says to Samara. “I could use your help. Azra’s confused, despite all her studying.”
That emphasis on all is definitely going to come back and bite me in the—
Ooh, cake … ice cream cake. My eyes follow the familiar white box my mother takes from Laila, whose past behavior is always an accurate predictor. She and Samara never show up without my favorite dessert from their local shop.
Closing the freezer door, my mother says, “Azra’s asking about the kitten clause.”
Laila drops her polka-dot tote bag on the couch. “What’s the kitten clause?”
I’m relieved that not even she knows what this is.
Samara hugs me from behind and purrs softly in my ear. “The tugging of the newbie’s heartstrings. In other words, the desire to use your freshly liberated magic to help humans. No surprise you’d feel it, Azra. Not all Jinn do.” She coughs, and under her breath so only I can hear, she says, “Raina, Yasmin.” She resumes in a normal tone, “You will too, Laila, dear, so listen up.”
Laila scrunches her delicate face. “But why even consider it? If we grant wishes for humans not assigned to us, can’t the Afrit tell?”
Samara tilts her head back and laughs. “Sometimes I think our little Jinn were switched at birth, Kal.” She tousles Laila’s hair as she moves next to my mother. “We’re not talking about granting wishes, babe. Because Janna forbid we choose our own wish candidates. The mighty Afrit are the only ones who could possibly know who deserves to benefit from our powers.”
“Sam,” my mother say
s.
Samara bows. “Apologies.” She turns to me. “I assume we’re talking about other things, Azra?”
I refill my coffee cup using my powers. “Yup, like this. Or like helping Henry’s dad get a job.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Henry? Your birthday suitor?”
“Stop. We’re friends, Lalla Sam.”
“Uh-huh,” Samara and my mother say at the same time. The way they giggle with each other gives me an instant picture of them at my age.
“Anyway,” I say, looking at Laila. “His dad needs a job. Why can’t I do something to help?”
Samara waves her hand. “Technically, you can. There’s nothing to prevent it.”
“Except,” my mother says, snatching Samara’s hand and lowering it, “it’s risky. Sure, you can conjure Henry a shirt or light a candle while he’s out of the room, but how are you going to conjure him a car and explain it away? The greater feats of magic you do for humans, the more chances you have of someone getting suspicious, catching you in the act, and spilling the beans to some reporter—”
“Blogger,” Laila says.
“YouTube,” I say.
A deep sigh precedes my mother’s “Whatever. The point is, there’s too much unknown to feel safe. If you recite the wish-granting ritual incantations, the Afrit will catch you, but if you don’t, the human might, because you won’t be able to read his mind. You’ll be working blind. The human could be fishing, even trying to trap you and you’d never know. If a human figures out what you can do, you put all Jinn in jeopardy. Think humans are going to discover magic exists and just let us stand behind them in line and order a mocha latte?” She pauses, but it’s clear she doesn’t really want an answer. “Even if you escape the human’s notice, what about the Afrit?”
Laila sucks in a breath. “Tortura cavea,” she whispers. “If they find out you exposed our magic to humans, it’s an immediate life sentence.”
Locking us up in tortura cavea, the equivalent of jail in the underground world of Janna, is the Afrit’s punishment for most infractions. But from what our mothers have described, there really is no equivalent for the human version of jail in Janna. Think less metal bars and more fire-breathing dragons. Or snakes. Or ghosts. Or clowns. Or in Laila’s bizarre case, squirrels. Whatever your fear, the Afrit tap into it and make it your cellmate. In the most extreme cases, for life. Jinn aren’t exactly a “trial by a jury of our peers” kind of species.
“If,” I say. Part of me has always believed tortura cavea is nothing more than my mother’s way of ensuring I behave.
My mother stares at me.
“If they find out. And I’m not even talking about conjuring a car in the Carwyns’ driveway, I’m talking about floating his dad’s résumé to the top of the stack. The Afrit can’t track everything we do, right? Just the circulus incantation. So if we’re careful—”
My mother seizes my arm and draws me to her. “The circulus is the only thing we know they monitor.” Her eyes bore into mine. “Don’t push the boundaries, Azra.” She swivels her head to the side. “Laila?”
Like she’s surrounded by squirrels holding tiny pitchforks, Laila can’t even nod she’s so scared stiff.
Samara circles in front of us. “I know I like to tease, but your mom’s right. You girls do need to be careful. So conjure your paramour an argyle sweater but wrap it in a box from the mall.” She winks. “Just don’t screw up, and you’ll be fine.”
We’ll be fine. Henry, his dad, his family, less fine. Guess serving the “greater good” all depends on one’s perspective.
Laila finally takes a breath. And what she says may be even worse than what my mother’s said. “Speaking of malls, wait until you see the swimsuit Mom and I got for you, Azra.”
Samara hooks her arm through my mother’s, and the two step in unison into the kitchen. The start of their discussion signals the end of ours.
“Come on.” Laila grabs her bag and slips her arm around my waist. “App us to your room.”
With a loud sigh I hope reaches my mother’s ears, I app upstairs.
We’re in my bedroom and Samara’s shouting “show-off!” from downstairs before I realize this was my first time co-apping. I should be proud, but right now I’m feeling anything but proud to be a Jinn.
13
I can’t believe I’m wearing this. A two-piece bikini that would make Chelsea’s look like a muumuu. Even in the privacy of our fenced-in backyard, I want to conjure a blanket.
Fidgeting in the lounge chair next to Laila—the definition of confidence in her pink, strapless bikini—I tug on the sides of my halter top.
Laila drops her magazine on her stomach and lowers her gold aviator sunglasses. “Enough! I mean, it’s not exactly a challenge to ensure you’re fully covered up there.”
I use my powers to playfully whip the glossy magazine off her lap.
Jumping up to catch it before the wind does, Laila says, “So not fair!”
“You know what’s not fair? The way my mother licks the Afrit’s boots.” I pick up my iced coffee. “Look at everything she can do. If she wanted to help Henry’s family, she could figure it out.”
Sitting back down on the side of her chair, Laila shakes her head. “It’s a slip and slide, Azra.”
“A what?”
“A slip and slide. You know. One thing leads to another.”
“You mean ‘slippery slope.’”
She cocks her head. “Really?”
“Positive.”
“Strange … slide seems more dangerous than a slope.”
“They’re both dangerous if you get pushed down them.”
“This.” She swats my forearm with the rolled-up magazine. “This right here is the attitude that worries me.” She flattens the pages against her thighs. “Because … because maybe you do one thing and get away with it, so then you do another. And another. But eventually they catch you. And you get taken. It happens, Azra. Tortura cavea is real. There are stories in my cantamen.”
I forget that Laila, the model Jinn of our Zar, has had her cantamen memorized since she was twelve.
“I know you feel bad about Henry,” she says, tying back her blond curls. “But if you really want to help, I have a way.”
“You do? What?”
The edges of her lips curl. “Let him see you in that.” She winks and is the spitting image of her mother. “Now, are we going swimming or not?”
I flop back into my lounger. Henry’s backyard has been my private sanctuary. I’m not sure I want to enter in broad daylight. And I’m positive I don’t want to enter while wearing this.
She touches her infinity necklace. “If so, we should take these off so they don’t get tarnished.”
I’m still wearing my matching necklace. And I still haven’t returned Laila’s locket. I fiddle with my bikini top again.
Laila leans over and tightens the knot in the strings of my halter. Her fingertips trace the circular scar at the nape of my neck. “Yours is so tiny.” She turns around and points to her scar. “Mine’s like a dime.”
Her inhibitor scar makes mine look like a pinprick. Before we are even a week old, the Afrit apport into our human world to inject us with a compound that blocks our magic until we are old enough (apparently sixteen) to handle our powers. The bangles cancel out the injection and release our magic. In reality, today, it’s not so much magic that runs through our Jinn blood but the obstruction of magic. Makes sense, I guess. Can’t have baby-fat-legged toddler Jinn waddling around conjuring stuffed animals on the playground.
At least a human playground. I finger my scar. “Think the males are injected too?”
Laila nods. “My mom said they are. But she could have been lying to make me feel better about having to wait. Seems silly to block their magic in Janna.”
The Afrit’s theory that keeping our numbers among the humans low reduces the risk of exposure means all nonessential genie personnel live in Janna. Since males don’t grant wishes, this inclu
des the boys. All the boys. Including Lalla Nadia’s son.
I sit up straighter. “Does Hana ever talk about it?”
Laila mutters a “what?” but her eyes are closed. Purposely? I can’t tell.
Lalla Nadia gave birth to a boy before she had Hana. She’s the only Jinn in my mother’s Zar with another child. Something else we don’t talk about. Along with how my generation of Jinn is the last to be conceived naturally. And how there won’t be any photographs of my little Jinn’s father in any lockets in my house because I won’t even know who my little Jinn’s father is.
The Afrit’s mix of science, nature, and magic has revolutionized Jinn procreation, allowing them to keep male and female Jinn apart and still propagate the species. When the Afrit decide it’s time, whether I’m ready or not, my DNA will be merged with that of a male Jinn of the Afrit’s choosing. Following the Afrit’s “one in, one out” rule, after I give birth to a girl, my mother will transition into Janna, where she’ll live with the rest of the Jinn who no longer grant wishes. Where she’ll live with my father. If she wants to, that is.
“Three to one,” I say.
“Hmm,” Laila moans, settling deeper into her lounge chair.
“Three girls for every one boy.” Since they now control the process, the Afrit ensure we pop out more females than males. “That’s the ratio, right?”
Laila mutters an “uh-huh.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
Flipping her palms to expose the underside of her arms to the sun, Laila says, “What?”
I swing my feet to the ground. “That the odds are at least some of us will have a boy.” A boy who will be taken away.
Though her eyes narrow the tiniest bit, Laila responds as a model Jinn should. “But they’ll be raised with their families in Janna. And we’ll see them one day.”
One day? She can’t really believe that’s good enough.
“Is that how you feel about—” I bite my lip, stopping myself from saying, “meeting our fathers,” knowing we don’t talk about this. But why don’t we talk about this? Or is it just my mother and I who don’t talk about this?
The way my throat threatens to close makes me change the end of my sentence. “About having a boyfriend for the first time too? I mean, we’ll be older than our mothers.”
Becoming Jinn Page 11