Becoming Jinn

by Lori Goldstein

  “Good,” she says. “Because if this were them finding out about Henry rather than a mishandled wish, you’d be gone. No probation. No second chance.” She swallows. “So don’t forget how this feels—ever.” She kisses my wet cheek. “And if it seems like you are, I’ll remind you because no matter how hard I may want to, I’ll never be able to forget.”

  She stays that way, her body protectively wrapped around mine, until my shaking subsides.

  Samara conjures a tissue and hands it to me. “Don’t worry, Azra. They don’t know about Henry, so you’re still a blunder or two away from your date with the guillotine.”

  I blow my nose, laugh, and wince all at the same time.

  With a wink, Samara says, “Too soon?”

  “Way too soon,” my mother says despite her weak smile. She rubs her tired eyes. “Tell me, Azra, you haven’t let anyone else in on our little secret, have you?”

  I assure her I haven’t.

  After she and Samara study each other, my mother asks Sam, “You’re positive they don’t know?”

  Samara lifts the note that was on our refrigerator out of the pocket of her conjured shirt.

  My mother reads it, and her eyes flutter shut. She holds it against her heart. She then locks eyes with Samara. “We could try to make him forget.”

  Panic sets my heart racing. She’s going to take Henry from me. She’s going to use her spell to make him forget. Or … no, she’s going to make me make him forget.

  I roughly shake my head. “I won’t do it. I won’t use mind control on him.”

  At my mention of mind control, both my mother and Samara unconsciously touch their foreheads. My mother then says, “No, no, of course not. I told you not to do it again, I’d never ask you to. Not that you can now, anyway.”

  Right. I forgot. Funny how second nature using magic has become to me.

  Leaning over the table, Samara evaluates me. Her lips curl up slightly. “You could though, right? If you weren’t wearing that thing? You could do mind control?”

  “Sam, maybe it’s time for you to go. Azra and I still have a lot to talk about.”

  Samara frowns at my mother. “Hold on, Kalyssa. Making Azra’s candidate forget an afternoon is one thing. But we both know using a spell to make a human forget something this big won’t be easy. It’s not designed for that. Isn’t that why Isa never tried it with Larry?”

  Larry? A memory comes back to me. A pair of fur-covered hands pinching my cheeks, a gravely voice singing “Azra-cadabra!”

  “Hairy Larry?” I ask. “Lalla Isa’s old boyfriend?”

  The fling Farrah’s mom had with Hairy Larry lasted longer than any other relationship I know of between one of my mother’s Zar sisters and a human. From when I was probably seven until just a couple of years ago.

  My mother starts to speak, but Samara cuts her off. “Lalla Isa’s old human boyfriend who knew about her.” She places her hands on her voluptuous hips. “And us.”

  The ball of fear in the pit of my stomach begins to unravel. Relief mixes with a sense of betrayal for what’s been drilled into me my entire life. “But what about the whole ‘telling a human being is the worst thing a Jinn can do’ thing?”

  “It is,” they both say.

  “If the Afrit find out, that’s it, Azra,” my mother says.

  “It really is a life sentence,” Samara adds, the two of them playing off each other like a perfectly timed duet.

  “It’s reckless,” my mother says. “It puts us all in jeopardy. Which is why the punishment is so severe.”

  “And why it’s a risk few take,” Samara says. As she stands and faces my mother, the dynamics of the conversation seem to shift. Less between them and me and more between the two of them. “Still, Jinn slip, purposely and not. It’s happened before, and it’s bound to happen again.”

  My mother purses her lips as she leans against the counter behind her. “Sam’s right about the spell. Making someone forget requires a delicate touch.”

  Samara keeps her eyes focused on my mother. “And it’s dangerous. It doesn’t even appear in the majority of cantamens. Of the Jinn who do have the spell, most won’t ever use it.”

  “Shouldn’t,” my mother says.

  “Isa wouldn’t,” Samara says. “She refused. Rightfully so.”

  So I’m guessing erasing memories of a house-blazing after-prom party is on par with wiping away one afternoon? Were they joking then? Or are they just trying to scare me now so I don’t use the spell to, oh, I don’t know, make Henry forget he ever met Chelsea?

  “But they broke up,” I say, deciding not to ask about the party. If I ask, they’ll know I eavesdropped, which will make it harder to do again. “How did Lalla Isa know he wouldn’t tell?”

  Samara’s deep laugh reverberates off the cabinets. “The three cars and the mansion in South Beach. Plus, if he opened his mouth she’s got that fake video of him with a hooker.” Samara looks at me. “He’s a state senator. The hooker is your Lalla Jada in disguise but the ruse never went far enough for him to figure that out.”

  “Blackmail,” I say. “Would have thought that’d work the other way around.”

  My mother shakes her head. “Security, perhaps, not blackmail. Because Sam knows full well the real reason he keeps Isa’s secret is because he loved her. He still does.”

  Samara loops around to my side of the table and lifts me out of the chair. “How long has your little loverboy known?”

  “He’s not my—” I stop, thinking maybe this, combined with my Scarlett O’Hara plan, will actually help my cause. “Weeks.”

  “Weeks?” my mother repeats.

  Samara nudges my chin upward. “You trust him?”

  “As much as I trust you, Lalla Sam.” Looking at my mother, I add, “He swore on Lisa’s life, Mom.”

  She tears up as I say this. Samara goes to her, gently wrapping her arm around my mother’s shoulder. “Let her have him, Kal. Who knows? Maybe things won’t always be this way.”

  A chill runs through me as Samara hugs me good-bye. I cling to her, waiting for the comfort her apricot-scented embraces always provide to come. But it doesn’t. All that’s there is the fruity smell.

  Apparently, my magic isn’t the only thing this bronze contraption can take away.

  25

  The noxious odor causes my eyes to water. I’m mopping up sewage from an overflowed toilet, humming this new song I just heard on the radio. Even the putrid smell doesn’t make me want to return to the stale air of my bedroom that I’ve been stuck breathing in for the past week.

  My mother grounded me, forbidding me from leaving the house for all purposes, including work. Today’s my first day back, thanks to Nate. Somehow he made sure I had a job to return to. That they gave my snack bar shifts to the new girl and saddled me with bathroom attendant duties doesn’t even matter.

  Wringing out the mop, I force back bile. Okay, so it matters a little.

  Still, I’m here. Nate’s working. Henry said he’d stop by. Even seeing Chelsea can’t bother me today.

  Back at the desk at the front of the women’s restrooms, I strip off my two pairs of gloves and kick off the work boots I borrowed from Ranger Teddy’s office. I agreed to clean up the mess, but there was no way I was wading through that cesspool in flip-flops. I text Henry my locale and stare out the tiny holes in the screen door, waiting for him to arrive.

  My mother allowed him a single, brief visit during my imprisonment. She kicked things off by securing his eternal promise to never reveal our secret. Something in the way she muttered under her breath and kneaded her hands when Henry repeated the exact sentence she demanded (“I shall never utter, write, or think a word about the Jinn world in anyone’s presence other than a member of the Nadira family.”) makes me wonder if she wasn’t sealing his vow with some sort of spell.

  Even though her decision not to erase Henry’s memory came less out of the goodness of her heart and more out of her fear that Sam was right about the s
pell not being powerful enough, I was grateful. I not only endured but agreed with her lecture on how irresponsible my behavior has been, how the infringement on my freedom is a result of me not taking things seriously, and how I need to be conscious of the fact that my actions have a ripple effect on others.

  The last part stung. Seeing that baby all alone, knowing I was the one responsible, confirmed every fear I’ve ever had about being Jinn. Granting wishes in real life is nothing like in the movies or on TV. These are real people who want real things that I have no real idea how to give them—at least without hurting them, someone else, or, apparently, myself.

  Henry’s convinced if he hadn’t followed me, none of this would’ve happened. While I have my doubts about that, I’m pretty sure the fact that he blames himself played a role in my mother’s decision. As did my renewed dedication to the cantamen.

  The codex and I spent the week of my grounding together. We may not know all of each other’s secrets, but we are certainly on a first-name basis.

  And, it turns out, a description of the bronze bangle does indeed lie on the second page, but it offers no details beyond what my mother told me. How to get the probation lifted? What kinds of mistakes might ramp me up to the next level of punishment? What that next level might be? Nothing. Despite flipping through the book every day of my grounding, I couldn’t find another reference. Figures that my Jinn ancestors would think it was cute not to include an index. There’s not even a table of contents. Isn’t that funny? Um, no. Not at all.

  The haphazard way the cantamen is organized means there’s no sense in trying to read it as a straight narrative, starting on page one and following sequentially to page whatever (apparently my ancestors also believed page numbers were superfluous). Over the years, newer generations of my Jinn family magically inserted their own pages ahead of those of previous generations, sometimes smack in the middle of a spell or a Jinn’s personal history. There’s even an entire section in the middle left entirely blank. The thing is less user-friendly than a software manual.

  If I didn’t think tapping Henry to upgrade the relic to the digital age would send my mother’s blood pressure skyrocketing, I’d have asked him. Because studying the cantamen appears to be as worthwhile as my mother said it would be. The nuts and bolts of wishes my family has granted are documented in such detail that if only I didn’t have to slog through recipes for sugar cookies and reviews of the best beaches in Mexico, I just might be on my way to becoming a model Jinn (minus the whole exposing us to humans thing).

  Nature laughs at the thought, sending a stream of sun through the open restroom window that reflects off my bronze bangle and blinds me. I cover the shiny metal with my hand. If I still had my powers I could have used them to clean up this disgusting mess. That’s what I get for being so cocky, so flippant, so superior to all of this. Poetic justice indeed.

  I’m more scared than I’ve admitted to my mother that the Afrit will be evaluating my magic so closely. Before my probation, I’m not sure I believed tortura cavea was real. Now, well, the Afrit not only have my attention but my full benefit of the doubt. The question is, how many chances do I get before they take me away from everyone I care about? My mother. Henry. Lisa. Laila. Samara. My Zar sisters (most of my Zar sisters). And Nate. Don’t forget Nate.

  Maybe the Afrit should rethink their rules about keeping Jinn separated from our families and discouraging attachments to humans, because the more I gain the more I have to lose.

  Afrit, I am humbled. Can you give me my life back? Who would have thought I’d actually be asking for my trusty silver bangle? Or that it would equate to me having a life?

  Cheap toilet paper scratches my chin as I retrieve a tall stack from the supply closet and carry it to the long line of stalls. A knock on the screen door makes me pivot, and the rolls tumble to the ground. At least the floor’s clean, having been freshly mopped by me.

  I’m expecting to see Henry, but it’s Nate. Nate with a fresh haircut, a deeper tan, and a sexy smile aimed squarely at me. Score one for absence and fondness.

  Weaving my way through the toilet-paper obstacle course, I approach the entrance. I draw upon my learned skill of pretending to disguise the fact that my heart’s about to bust through my rib cage. I lean my arm against the doorjamb and stretch out my leg, keeping the screen door open with my courtesy-of-being-Jinn, pre-probationary, perfectly pedicured toes.

  “Is your mom okay?” Nate asks.

  This is not the reaction I expected. “Um, yeah, I guess.”

  “Because your aunt seemed pretty freaked out last week. I was coming to say hi when she nearly tackled me, asking me to gather up their beach gear, saying they had no time. That your mom wasn’t feeling well. Seemed 911 emergency worthy.”

  It was. But the sirens were for me, not her. “Oh, that. My aunt has a flair for the dramatic. My mom gets migraines.” From me. “Lal—, I mean, Aunt Sam just overreacted. But she’s fine. Thanks for asking. And for getting their stuff.”

  “I dropped it off a few days ago. I was hoping to see you, but your mom said you were grounded. Do anything really good?”

  His raised eyebrow and mischievous grin make me glad for the support of the doorway.

  “I mean good in a bad way,” he adds nervously. “I know you wouldn’t get grounded for being good, of course.”

  Books and covers and judging, Nate’s the poster boy for that warning. Outside he’s all underwear model but inside he’s just as much a self-conscious dork as the rest of us.

  “Maybe you could tell me about it over lunch?” Nate’s rock-hard forearm that rests against the door frame and his smooth palm that envelops my hand compensate well for his inner geek. “Unless you’ve got other plans.”

  “Yes,” I say, adrenaline soaring so high I expect to see a syringe sticking out of my chest. “I mean, no, no other plans. I mean … lunch sounds nice.” I do not cover my inner dork nearly as well.

  “Cool. I’ll meet you on the beach near my usual chair?”

  “Okay. I can grab something from the snack bar for us, if you want.”

  He squeezes my hand. “Azra, don’t you know I’m a gentleman? The guy always picks up the tab on the first date.”

  Date. First date. As in an expectation of a second.

  He smiles. His teeth gleam toothpaste-commercial white.

  “I’ve got it covered. Trust me on this.”

  On this. On that. On anything.

  * * *

  The vomit on the ramp up to the restrooms is not my problem. I’m on lunch break. I shove the mop in my fill-in’s hand as I skip down the planks.

  The beach is jam-packed. Being sequestered in my bedroom all week and the restrooms all day, I’ve got a touch of stranger anxiety.

  Knowing Nate likes my hair down, I’ve taken it out of its usual ponytail and the wind blows the long strands across my face. I tuck as much as I can behind my ears as I scan the area around Nate’s lifeguard chair. I see him a bit past it, waving both arms above his head. I kick off my flip-flops and jog toward him. Too eager. I downshift to a casual stroll. Too uninterested. My jerky-paced trot ends at a red blanket and a spread worthy of ten people.

  He said “date.” I know he did. Was he joking? Is this actually a group thing? I should have known.

  “Are we expecting company?” I try not to sound disappointed.

  Nate rounds his shoulders. “Guess it is a lot, huh?”

  He’s blushing. At me.

  “I just wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says.

  “Wow,” is all I can think to say.

  There’s a plate of cheese and crackers, rolled cold cuts and sliced bread, a heaping Tupperware of potato salad, a matching one with a green salad, even a container of sushi. Not to mention the pile of chocolate chip cookies and the tower of fudge brownies, which in truth is all he needed for me.

  We don’t sell any of this at the concession stand. “You brought all this from home?”

  Nate kneels on the blan
ket, pulling plates made from recycled plastic out of his backpack. His sheepish smile forces me to sit rather than risk my knees actually buckling.

  “Well,” he says, “I knew you were coming back today, and I … I wanted to do something special.”

  That’s it, Azra, he likes you, accept it, I hear Samara saying in my head. Now work it, honey.

  I stretch out my legs and reach for a cookie. “But why?” I ask Nate.

  Samara groans at me.

  “Because…” Nate runs his hand over his newly cropped hair. “Geesh, Azra, this is that vibe I was talking about. You are not easy to read.”

  I like you, don’t you know that? What’s it going to take for you to know that?

  The cookie gets caught in my throat. These words are not Samara’s. They are not mine. They are Nate’s.

  I choke, unable to swallow. My coughing results in crumbs spewing from my mouth.

  Instantly at my side, Nate’s ready to do the Heimlich. “Azra, are you okay?”

  I hold up a finger and clutch my throat. Nate might not be able to read me, but I can read him. I can read his thoughts. I accept the water bottle he offers me and drink slowly.

  How is this happening? Panic overwhelms me. The Afrit. They’ll think I’m doing this on purpose. But I’m not, I swear I’m not. I’m not using my powers. How can I? I’m not granting him a wish. How can I be reading his mind?

  All this for nothing. Makes sense. She’s so super smart. And funny. Of course, she doesn’t like me. I was wrong.

  “No!” I cry in response to Nate’s thoughts before I can stop myself. I clamp my hand over my mouth. How could he not be sure if I liked him? How could he question such a thing? Does he not know how sweet he is? Does his house have no mirrors?

  I cover by wiping crumbs off my mouth with the back of my hand. “I mean, no, please, don’t do that choking maneuver on me or anything. I’m okay. Just took too big of a bite.” I pick up the cookie, nibble the edge, and force myself to swallow. “It’s good, really good. Thanks.”