Becoming Jinn

by Lori Goldstein

  “Now,” Henry says, his voice still dripping with warmth, “if Auntie Azra can move her tush and go retrieve your mommy from her probably much-needed but poorly timed getaway, all will be right with the world.”

  Duh. Henry’s not a Jinn, his brain’s muddled by alcohol, and still he’s more rational than I am. Because he’s less afraid. Samara was right about me being more likely to get myself into trouble than the others.

  “Anytime now,” Henry says.

  Though the baby has quieted down, I ask with a trembling voice, “You’ll be okay here, alone?”

  “This is not my first rodeo. Lisa was a screamer. Me, I’m a light sleeper, unlike my parents.”

  Henry’s love and protectiveness of his sister goes back to when she was this little. Lucky kid.

  “Now, go,” he instructs.

  “Right.” I desperately want Henry to come with me, to calm me like he’s calming the little girl. What if my mind control was a fluke? How do I stop Ms. Wood from freaking out? Calling the police?

  Stop it, Azra. You have to do this. Yourself.

  Or not.

  Before I can depart the nursery, my mother appears, hair dripping, beach cover-up sticking to her wet bathing suit, feet caked with sand.

  “Mom!” I cry, way too distracted to have had a shot at sensing her imminent arrival.

  Her already furrowed brow and tense lips chisel deeper grooves into her face when she sees Henry. “Oh, Azra, how could—”

  “I can explain. Henry’s just … But how did you…? Why are you…?”

  My mother violently shakes her head. “We don’t have time.” She expertly extracts the baby from Henry’s arms, whispers to the little girl, and settles her into the crib without waking her. In a controlled but insistent voice, she says, “Now, Henry, I trust you can get home yourself?”

  Tentatively nodding, Henry’s even more shocked and speechless when Samara, wearing a string bikini top and a full-length sarong around her waist, materializes in the doorway.

  “Oh, Azra, how could—” Samara says when she sees Henry.

  “No time, Sam.” My mother cuts her off. “Henry’s leaving. Now.”

  “But he’s helping me, Mom. I’ve … I’ve got this under control.”

  The sleeping baby must be the only thing keeping my mother’s voice at a reasonable volume. “Control, Azra, really? You have no idea how out of control this is about to become.” She glares at Henry. “And you’re not moving, why?”

  Cheeks flushed, Henry mumbles a “Sorry” and squeezes past Samara, whose serious face is so out of character, it’s almost what scares me the most.

  With Henry gone, my mother ushers Samara and I into the hall, pulling the nursery door halfway closed behind her. She turns to Samara. “How long?”

  “Minutes, a half hour at most,” Samara says.

  After a deep breath, my mother takes charge. “Azra, tell me exactly what you did and how you did it. As abridged as you can make it.”

  Swallowing my million questions as to how she knew I was doing this, why we have so little time, and what happens if we run out, I offer the abbreviated version of how I screwed up granting Ms. Anne Wood’s wish. “I’d never have taken her there if I knew about the baby.”

  “But you didn’t know because you didn’t do any research, did you?” If she were a snake, she’d be spitting venom. “No mother’s anima would have allowed her to leave her child. Did you even bother to enter her psyche?” My mother briefly closes her eyes. “Later. Let’s move on. What I don’t understand is how you got her to Hawaii without her questioning it. Oh, please, no, don’t tell me you’re now just announcing to the world that you’re a genie?”

  “No, no, of course, not. Henry was a mistake. I—”

  “Not now,” she interrupts. “Oddly enough, that’s the least of our concerns at the moment. Tell me about the candidate.”

  “Well, I was going to do it the right way, I was going to fake a contest and everything, but when the mind control started working, I just kind of went with it.”

  Samara backs up and leans against the wall. “Mind control? Azra, you mean reading her mind?”

  “No,” I say, “well, yes, I was reading her mind, and then, all of a sudden, she was thinking what I was thinking. I figured it was a way to get her to accept the contest without having to actually make up a contest. Why didn’t you guys ever tell me about being able to do that? It’s so much easier. I don’t get why we wouldn’t always grant wishes that way.”

  My mother’s clearly ticked off. “Since when have you been studying spells?”

  “Spells? I haven’t. Not a one.”

  My mother’s and Samara’s moods shift into such an alarmed state, I expect the baby to feel the tension and begin wailing again. Fear consumes their eyes as the two evaluate each other.

  Gently, my mother says, “But Jinn can’t control people’s thoughts, Azra, not without spells. How … how did you do it?”

  I shrug. “It just kinda happened. But I’ll fix it. I was about to go get her back when you guys showed up.”

  Silent for longer than I think is a good idea if the Afrit’s hitman or whoever is about to make an appearance, my mother finally speaks. “Mind control requires more power than Jinn are capable of. Even using spells, it’s not something most Jinn can do.”

  Samara nods. “The Afrit can do it. It’s coveted by Jinn but—”

  “But feared,” my mother quickly finishes. “Mind control is not something to be used casually. Azra, it’s not something you should use at all. Ever. It’s dark. It’s dangerous. The risks … the consequences … I can’t stress enough how you mustn’t tell anyone about this. Not Laila. Not anyone.”

  I stare at my feet. “But Henry knows. Though maybe the two beers will make his memory foggy.”

  “The what? The beers? The two beers?” My mother breathes long and hard through her nose. She rubs her temples. “Another item for the long list of things we need to discuss. But for now, just promise me you won’t tell him anything more and you won’t try it again. Please, Azra.”

  I’m nodding so hard I’m dizzy. Her tone, her face … she’s scaring me. A lot. I’ve lost my desire to use mind control ever again. But … wait … don’t I have to do it again?

  “What about Ms. Wood?”

  “I’ll do it.” My mother enters the baby’s room and returns to the hall with the little girl in her arms. “Tell me where your candidate is, and I’ll bring her home, hopefully before they find her.”

  “Who?” I ask, frustrated. “Before who finds her? What’s going on?”

  “Samara, take Azra home. Stay with her. Make sure … just stay with her.”

  Samara wraps her arm around my waist. “Of course.”

  “But,” I say, “don’t you need me to get into Ms. Wood’s head?”

  “Kalyssa’s got this,” Samara says hesitantly, directing her statement to my mother.

  “Yes, yes.” My mother’s large, emerald signet ring gets snagged in her hair as she gathers it into a bun. She extracts the jeweled ring along with several hairs from her head.

  “Don’t worry, Kalyssa,” Samara says. “You can do this.”

  My mother kisses my cheek. “I know. I have to. Now, go.”

  The tight squeeze on my hand convinces me I have to stay and help, but before my mouth opens, she’s gone. And then so are we.

  24

  My butt cheeks are numb from the amount of time I’ve been sitting in the wooden chair at the kitchen table waiting for my mother to return. When we first got back, there was a note addressed to “Kalyssa” affixed to the refrigerator door. Samara snatched it, read it, and tucked it into the pocket of the shirt she conjured for herself. She won’t tell me what it says or who it’s from. Her feet do the running her mouth usually does as she paces the kitchen.

  Her nerves beget my nerves. Unable to stand it, I ask for the third time why we had to leave so quickly. As before, she refuses to look me in the eye let alone answ
er.

  “At least tell me what you were both so afraid of,” I say.

  This stops her, right in front of the stove, where she attempts to cover her reaction by filling a teapot with water and lighting the burner.

  My mother, still in her swimsuit cover-up, pops into the doorway. “Not what,” she says, answering me, “who.”

  Samara rushes to embrace her. Whispers too low for me to hear are exchanged, followed by a soft moan from Samara. She pecks my mother’s cheek, her hands holding the sides of my mother’s head almost as if she’s the only thing keeping her upright.

  Finally, my mother settles into the chair next to me and says, “The Afrit.”

  Clasping my hand around my silver bangle, I whisper, “Did they…? Were they somehow watching me?”

  The baby girl, Anne Wood, the mind control, my mother having to fix my mistake, her and Samara finding out about my mistake, about Henry, so many claws dig into my heart at once, but the sharpest one is the thought that something might happen to Henry, that the Afrit might make something happen to Henry.

  My mother grabs the leg of my chair and twists the whole thing so I’m facing her. “Henry? That’s what you’re most concerned about?”

  Feeling like it shouldn’t be but unable to help it, tears spring to my eyes.

  She leans forward and pulls me into her chest. “He’s going to be fine.”

  My body slackens in her arms. “And the baby? Ms. Wood?”

  She strokes my hair. “Safe, home, together.”

  In this moment, I feel nothing but gratitude that my mother is a model Jinn.

  When the smell of mint wafts over us, she lets me go. Samara places three mugs of tea on the table.

  Enveloping the warm cup with my hands, I take a sip. “Ooh, sweet.”

  Samara kisses the top of my head. “Is there any other way?”

  My mother thanks Samara but doesn’t reach for her mug. Instead, from the side pocket on her cover-up, she extracts a bronze bangle—thicker, shinier, and more deeply carved than either my silver version or her gold one.

  Apologizing in a voice weak with sadness, my mother asks for my wrist. She opens the bronze bangle, gently tugs my arm forward, and lowers my hand.

  Fascination mingles with fear as the bangle clamps around my wrist and instantly seals any evidence of a hinge, clasp, or seam. The moment the bronze bangle secures itself, the silver one breaks in two and vanishes before either half gets the chance to land in my lap.

  My mother slides her mug in front of her. “The answer to your earlier question is ‘no.’ The Afrit can’t watch you the way you’re thinking. But they do follow up on every candidate.”

  Samara sits across from me. “Every assigned candidate. We do the practice ones.”

  Afraid to move my wrist I ask, “What does follow up mean, exactly?”

  “They check in on the human,” my mother says. “To make sure a wish was successfully granted and that no undue attention was garnered.”

  Samara adds, “They can trace the energy of invoking the circulus to your bangle so they know when you grant the wish.”

  And so they do act fast. Which means, I’m damn lucky that the Zoe Incident occurred with a practice candidate.

  My mother glosses over exactly who alerted her to the mess I’d created (and how), simply saying it was someone doing her a favor, someone with both our best interests at heart.

  Though it was too late to hide what I’d done, my mother’s goal of intervening was to fix my screwup before the Afrit had to step in and do so themselves. She figured this might lessen my punishment. Maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. All she knows is that by the time she successfully returned Ms. Wood to her home, using a spell to leave my wish candidate thinking she’d spent the afternoon having a vivid and bizarre dream, the bronze bangle was waiting for her, well, waiting for her to bring to me. She found it in the baby’s crib. A perverse teething toy.

  “This,” my mother says, laying her hand on my forearm, “will prevent you from using your powers.”

  “I … I can’t do magic anymore?” Faced with what I’ve hoped for my entire life, my urge to celebrate is tamped down by what I know of the Afrit. And surprisingly, by a twinge of disappointment.

  My mother answers, “Yes and no. This will block your magic, except—”

  “Except when I’m granting a wish.” I tentatively touch the bronze bangle. “They’ll let me access my powers for that?” I wedge my hands under my thighs to stop their trembling. “Seriously, I still have to grant wishes after what I did today? Is that … wise?”

  Samara reaches across the table and gestures for me to do the same. She cocoons the clammy hand I extend with both of her warm ones. “Don’t you start doubting your abilities, Azra. Certainly, you can never again do what you did today. It was impulsive. It was wrong. But it was also a mistake, an unintentional mistake. Believe me, when I was your age, I knowingly did worse things that should have earned me one of those.”

  “But times have changed,” my mother says in a strained voice.

  “Yes.” Samara sighs. “Indeed, they have.”

  My mother explains that the bronze bangle will release my magic when I utter the words that begin a wish-granting ritual. When I close the ritual, it will send my powers back into hibernation. If it’s not a wish I can grant in that moment, then each time I need to draw on my magic to accomplish a portion of the wish, I’m supposed to ask permission by saying “izza samhat.” We Jinn who prove to be less skilled, who require additional training, who violate the rules forfeit our silver bangles for this amped-up Big Brother bronze number.

  Not fair.

  Having my magic restricted should mean not granting wishes at all. Like failing a class and being kicked off the football team. Leave it to the Afrit to make it more like every pass, every catch, every tackle is being watched by an elite team of MVPs ready to pounce on the slightest misstep. I’m already perspiring at the thought of performing under such pressure.

  Given all that I’ve done, all that I’ve lied about, I’m lacking the moral high ground to chastise my mother for not fully explaining what would happen if I botched a wish.

  Still my lips flatten into a thin line. “You should have told me.”

  My mother’s eyes widen. “Told you what, Azra?”

  I spin the bronze bangle. “About this. About what this would mean.”

  The last thing I expect is the end-of-the-world look on her face to morph into a smug, I-told-you-so grin.

  She leans over and pats me on the head. “Thanks, kiddo.” She then holds her empty palm out to Samara. “Pay up.”

  Samara frowns. “That’s not confirmation.”

  “Fine,” my mother replies to Samara. To me, she says, “So you didn’t reach that part of the cantamen yet?”

  That part? All my bluffing through my mother’s random pop quizzes is about to be for naught. “I guess not. I’m … I’m taking it kind of slow. Making sure I absorb fully before moving on.”

  Samara exhales a huge sigh. “Thanks a lot, Azra.”

  My mother laughs. “Do I know my daughter, or do I know my daughter?” She points at me. “Take that look on her face, right now. Confused, anxious, knowing she’s been caught in a lie but not knowing exactly how or which one. Isn’t that so, honey?”

  “I … I don’t know,” I stammer.

  Samara pushes her chair back. “Oh, give it up, Azra. You’re cooked. And now I owe your mother the finest bottle of wine in my cellar. A 1906 Bordeaux. Even she can’t conjure something that good. All my flirting with that twerp at the fancy rare wines store in Boston for nothing. He was going to put it up for auction. For auction. Can you imagine? Some rich blowhard would bid an obscene amount of money and put the damn thing under glass, displaying it like some fossil. Wine like that deserves to be enjoyed.”

  “Oh, it will be,” my mother says.

  Samara, trying to prove to my mother that I was taking all this Jinn stuff seriously, claimed that
the only way I could be so talented so quickly was by having already read and internalized everything in the cantamen, spells included. My mother assured her I hadn’t even cracked the book open.

  My own mother bet against me.

  Apparently, the explanation of the bronze bangle as the first penalty for not properly granting a wish is on page two. All this time, through every stupid quiz, my mother knew I hadn’t been doing squat. And yet she sent me out there to do a wish, on a real candidate, by myself. This is all her fault.

  “How could you let me go?” My anger flares. “How could you let me do an assignment if you knew I hadn’t prepared? If you knew my success with Mrs. Pucher was just a fluke?”

  The screech of her chair against the floor precedes my mother standing over me. “How could I let you go? I, who had no idea you were embarking on this today? I, who would have never let you go if I did? I, who saw your very real finesse with Mrs. Pucher but still stressed the importance of research. Of fully linking with the human’s psyche? Both of which you ignored?”

  “But I didn’t have time for research.” I pull the folded note card out of my pocket and toss it on the table. I flatten it with my hand. When I lift my palm, staring up at me is a 7.

  A 7?

  My mother taps the paper. “You had six more days. What you mean is you didn’t have time for research because you couldn’t wait to show Henry your powers in action, isn’t that right?”

  “No, I…” My voice trembles. Did my nerves make me see things that weren’t there? No, no, no. It was a 1. I know it was. I could try to explain, but she’s never going to believe me. I whack my bangle against the table. “This … this … sucks.” The anger gone from my voice, all that remains is the fear.

  “Yes, it does, for all of us. This doesn’t just affect you.” My mother bends so that her arms fall around my neck and her cheek rests next to mine. She whispers in my ear, “Scared?”

  I nod as tears obscure my vision. I’m mourning the loss of my powers but also of my ability to be in denial. This bronze bangle makes the Afrit and their punishments, including tortura cavea, more than a tale my mother told me to make me behave. The Afrit are real. My need to stop behaving like a selfish jerk is real.