Becoming Jinn

by Lori Goldstein

  “Do you feel any different?” Laila asks.

  “The whole linked thing?” I say, to which Laila nods. “No. Did you know?”

  Laila shakes her head. “But now it makes sense. How close they are. Our mothers. Do you think tapping into one another’s emotions is a choice?”

  “I hope so. Forget Yasmin, can you imagine knowing every little goofy thing Farrah feels?”

  Even sweet Laila laughs at this. Pausing as we enter the kitchen, she points to my bronze bangle. “How are you doing with that thing anyway?”

  She says “thing” like I’ve got the plague, which I guess, in her mind, I do. I can’t expect Laila, who has yet to grant a wish, to understand there are perks to not doing magic.

  But as we move to the couch, talking and catching each other up on our summers, I realize she actually might. Her lack of enthusiasm for potentially shooting up six inches tomorrow stems from the fear that she’ll have to change schools. That because of her magical makeover, she’ll have to say good-bye to her friends, something she won’t even be able to do in person. Whether the downsides to becoming Jinn are something Laila has just started to realize or just started to admit, I can’t tell. But it binds us more than any ceremony could.

  I wouldn’t trade having Henry in my life for anything, but it’s not the same as this. It’s not the same as sharing being Jinn with Laila. As much as I want to hate it that my mother’s right about what a Zar can give me, I don’t. Not at all.

  We’re at the top of the stairs when Laila says, “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that the Afrit zeroed in on your candidate so fast? My mom says if they’d waited even five minutes you’d have had everything back to normal and it’s likely no one would have ever known.”

  I’m about to tease Laila for her conspiracy theories when I realize she’s probably right. It is strange. Do they always check up on wish-granting rituals so quickly? The gnawing in my gut says no. But that makes me seem conceited, like I’m worthy of some super special Afrit attention.

  I shrug, voicing the most likely conclusion, “It’s just bad luck I guess.”

  Laila looks unconvinced. “Hmm, just be careful, okay?”

  Her tone gives me goose bumps. Before I push open my bedroom door, I ask, “So you really don’t know where Raina is?”

  “Nope. All I know is she’s away. That’s what my mom said when she told me Yasmin would be staying with us.”

  “She’s staying with you? For how long?”

  “Beats me.” Laila lowers her voice. “But I hope not long. She’s been weird.”

  “She’s always been weird.”

  “This is different. She’s … sad.”

  As we enter my room, that changes to “drunk.”

  Yasmin’s levitating an empty shot glass, laughing, and dancing. No music is playing. At least none outside of her head.

  Hana rushes over to us. “She’s about to conjure a third round. She’s acting crazy. And not normal Yasmin crazy.”

  Mina wiggles her shoulder under Yasmin’s left arm. “Let’s take her to the guest room and try to get her to lie down.”

  Farrah scoots in under Yasmin’s right. “Come on, Yas.”

  The way Yasmin’s gyrating her hips makes me think getting her to lie down won’t be easy.

  “She needs coffee,” Hana says. “Homemade, not conjured. That way we can make sure it’s good and strong.”

  “In the cabinet next to the sink,” I say to Hana who then apps downstairs.

  Mina and Farrah drag Yasmin to the door, and the shot glass falls to the floor. As they’re about to cross the threshold, Yasmin frees herself from the other girls and takes one hand of Laila’s, hesitates, and takes one of mine.

  “You two,” she says with a slur in her voice. “Don’t let them risk it.”

  She crushes our fingers, and Mina and Farrah have to force her to let go before they can guide her out into the hallway.

  Linked or not, I will never understand Yasmin.

  “What was that all about?” I say.

  Laila flops onto my bed. “Told you she’s been weird.”

  I bend to pick up the shot glass, which, having landed on the rug, thankfully didn’t break. From my crouched position, I see Laila sit up, smile at the framed picture of her, me, and Jenny, and then reach for the drawer of my nightstand.

  “Whatever Lalla Isa brought was full of garlic,” she says. “Gross. You still have those mints?”

  My stomach lurches the instant Laila’s hand hits the knob. I can’t get up fast enough to stop that third curveball I should have never doubted was coming. All I can do is suck in my breath as Laila sees, for the first time in months, her gold locket with the infinity symbol engraved on the front.

  “But how—” Laila looks at me. “You … you found it?”

  It’s like my heart is being torn in two. I swear I’m trying to speak, but I can’t find my voice any more than I can find my words.

  Laila’s lip trembles. “Azra? Where? When? And why … why didn’t you tell me?”

  Forcing myself to say something, anything, I squeak out, “I didn’t exactly find it.” I back up and lean against my dresser. “You see … I … what I mean is…” I can’t defend myself. Because there is no defense for what I did.

  Laila’s small forehead creases. “But I don’t understand. You had it all this time?”

  I’m desperate to turn away from the betrayal in Laila’s eyes, but she deserves to see me squirm. And I do.

  My cowardice takes over, and I lower my gaze to the floor. “Yes, but I can explain. See, when you showed it to me, I was … not in a good place. I was mad at my mother, mad at everyone, and the locket, well, I thought, if only my mom cared about my dad as much as yours, then, maybe, this would be different. Maybe—”

  Holding on to my dresser, I inhale and exhale, trying to compose myself before attempting another explanation, equally as flawed, but Laila’s not really listening. Her fingertips caress the locket over and over again, as if she can’t believe it’s real.

  The piece of silver tinsel she gave me on my birthday, which I’d placed in the drawer, must have been stuck to the chain, for it floats to the floor as she wraps her hand around the locket and brings it to her chest.

  She lifts herself off the bed, steps on the tinsel, unintentionally, I think, before moving in front of me and forcing me to look at her. “That’s why you took mine? Because you don’t have one?”

  Choked up, I nod slowly. “But … but I was going to return it, Laila. And then—”

  I swivel my head around the room, desperate for someone, something, to blame. But there’s no one.

  “And then, I didn’t.”

  No one but me.

  Laila slips the gold chain over her head. “I was the only one there for you, Azra. The. Only. One.” She closes her eyes but still loses the fight against the tears she’s been holding back since the moment she opened the drawer.

  In a harsh voice I’ve never heard before, Laila says, “I put up with all your … your…” She presses one hand against her stomach. When she speaks again, her tone is strong but calm. “With all of your attitude because I know this has always been harder for you than for the rest of us.”

  I turn my face to stone. Seeing me cry would only diminish Laila’s hurt. She’s the victim. Not me. Seeing my tears … that’s not what Laila needs. My voice barely above a whisper, I say, “Only because I make it that way.”

  It isn’t until Laila’s eyes focus on my rock-hard jawline as she brushes past me that I realize my tears are exactly what Laila needs.

  28

  I have to go after her. I have to explain. But I can’t. Not now. Not tonight. Not while our whole Zar and my mother’s whole Zar is here. A Jinn here, a Jinn there, everywhere a Jinn. I can’t breathe. I need my escape hatch.

  I open my jewelry box and snatch the silver key Henry gave me on my birthday. I fly down the stairs, swing open the front door, and land on Henry’s front steps. My knoc
k on the door elicits no response. Neither does my text. His whole family is still in New Hampshire. But lights are on all over the place. Henry must be somewhere.

  The fence that surrounds the backyard is too tall to see over. When I open the locked gate to let myself in, it’s like the pillow that’s being held over my face, preventing me from breathing, is crammed down my throat.

  If one could successfully untangle the mass of arms and legs squeezed onto the lounge chair at the shallow end of the pool, they’d find one pale set belonging to Henry and one deeply tanned set belonging to Chelsea.

  I don’t have to read either of their minds to know what’s happening here. I’m backing away, desperate to escape unnoticed, when my phone begins belting out the first few bars of my favorite song. My favorite song from my favorite band. The band Henry and I bonded over that first day at the beach. He downloaded the track for my ringtone weeks ago.

  The caller ID displays Nate’s name along with his photo.

  Henry jumps up, nearly knocking Chelsea to the ground. His shirt’s off, as is hers.

  “Sorry!” I shout. “I should have called.”

  I don’t know why I say that since I did call, well, text, basically the same thing, but someone has to say something, and neither of them are talking. Guess their lips are too sore.

  Waving awkwardly, stupidly, I hightail it out of there, retracing my steps through the gate. I’m in the middle of the street when Henry catches up.

  “Hey.” He clasps a hand on my shoulder.

  I spin around, and he gasps, taking in my dress, heels, and general nine-foot-tall edge.

  We hold each other’s gaze, neither of us speaking. What is there to say? It’s not like Henry’s doing anything wrong. His parents are away. Most guys would be having some huge rager. All he’s doing is making out with some girl.

  Not some girl. Chelsea.

  Does it really matter that it’s Chelsea? Would this feeling of … of … oh, let’s just say it, betrayal be any different if it were some other girl? Betrayal? Really? Nate’s smiling face is in the palm of your hand. What nerve, Azra. Oh, and why don’t you ask Laila if her feelings of betrayal would be any different if it were some other Jinn?

  Smack in the middle of the street, halfway between my house and Henry’s, I suddenly have nowhere to escape to.

  “Azra,” Henry says, “I’m sorry.”

  He truly has nothing to be sorry about. That’s what I should say. He deserves … deserves whatever this is … especially after what he told me today about Jenny, about moving … but somehow Laila’s wounded eyes and Chelsea’s naked stomach lead to me simply shrugging. “If you want to be another one of Chelsea’s lovesick puppies, that’s your choice. Go ahead and strap on a collar. Just make sure it’s a flea-and-tick one.”

  It is then that I hear Henry’s thoughts: Some best friend.

  My heart crumples like a piece of paper.

  He kicks the ground and tosses his hands in the air. “You’re impossible!”

  Wearing down the asphalt, Henry paces between me and the sidewalk in front of his house before finally stopping and facing me. He shoves his fists into his front pockets. “I don’t know what more you want from me.”

  More. As if I’ve asked so much, I’ve drained him. I probably have. While he’s made my life easier, I’ve made his harder. It is only now that I realize the pressure he must feel to always be on guard. To not slip up. To not reveal who I really am. Maybe it’s time for me to let him go. Let him out of all of this. All this lying. All this Jinn stuff. All this me.

  “Nothing. I want nothing more from you.” Though I mean this in the most altruistic way, in that “if you love something, set it free” way, the nuance is lost on him.

  “Damn it, Az, you’re too much. Maybe everyone’s right.”

  Everyone?

  “I heard the way the guys at school would talk.” The muscles in Henry’s face tense. “Half afraid to talk to you because you’re so freaking pretty, they knew they didn’t have a shot, and the other half choosing not to talk to you because you’re so freaking pretty, they figured you must be a total bitch.”

  At the start of the summer, Nate had mentioned gossip about my “vibe,” but I couldn’t imagine being a topic of conversation for anyone at our school. This being true stuns me almost as much as the bitch part stings me.

  I say softly, “Which camp were you in?”

  Henry sighs. “Neither. Because I … I figured you were lonely. No one ever visited except Laila. Course, that was before I knew why.”

  I rest my trembling hands on my hips. “And now?”

  I’m still waiting for a response when a fully clothed Chelsea appears on the front lawn. At the sound of her tentative, “Henry?” he turns and replies, “I’ll be right there, promise.”

  I snort at his sugary tone before I can stop myself.

  His nostrils actually flare. “Now,” he says in a tone lacking even one molecule of sucrose, “now, I’m squarely in both camps.”

  He walks away from me, wraps an arm around Chelsea’s waist, and tucks a finger (which is all that will fit) into the waistband of her cutoffs.

  I’m standing in the same spot watching them disappear through the fence gate when the full weight of Henry’s answer hits me. He thinks I’m a bitch. He also thinks I’m so pretty, he didn’t have a shot with me.

  Didn’t or doesn’t?

  Didn’t. It has to be. Because if he still wanted a shot with me, how could Henry be groping Chelsea?

  Then again, if it’s Nate’s legs I want to be intertwined with mine, why am I this rattled to discover Henry groping Chelsea?

  Clichés exist for a reason. Somewhere inside lurks a hidden truth. Turns out one of the truths behind the cliché that romance ruins a friendship is that it can apply even when the friends remain platonic.

  A trick without any magic involved.

  * * *

  When I hit my front yard, I wrest the heels from my aching feet. The cool grass tickles my toes as I walk in circles. I move slowly, trying to absorb what just happened with Henry. That was our first fight. But friends fight, don’t they? And we’re friends, aren’t we? We are. We always have been. But maybe we’re more. Maybe we always have been more.

  Just like with me and Laila. My heart pounds as I struggle to find the words to say to her to make her understand. To make her forgive. She will, right? I mean, if Mrs. Pucher’s sister could forgive her, Laila has to forgive me for this. Then again, it took Mrs. Pucher’s sister thirty years and a genie to get there.

  As I approach the fence to our backyard, I see Mrs. Seyfreth out of the corner of my eye. The lilac bush still blocks most of her view. She doesn’t brush a single leaf aside. She just stands there in her little world, peering into ours. But there’s nothing to see here. Not even the tent. I force my dirt-smudged feet back into the high heels to get a better view over the top of the fence. All I see is our normal backyard.

  A Zar reunion has never before ended on the same night it began. Laila must have told. My heart aches with the thought of Samara finding out what I did.

  I inch open the front door. The living room is empty. I tiptoe upstairs, desperate to make it to my room without being noticed.

  “Poor Yasmin,” my mother says through her open bedroom door.

  Samara replies, “Hana and the other girls got her settled in at Nadia’s. Laila seemed so upset by it all that I thought it was better if Yasmin spent the night elsewhere.”

  “It’s understandable,” my mother says, “but sad. I just wish it didn’t have to ruin the girls’ night. Yasmin needed it more than any of them.”

  “It didn’t ruin it. They had their initiation. That’s what’s important.”

  There’s an edge to my mother’s voice. “Is it really though? The Zar sisterhood. Sticking together. Raina would likely have something to say about that.”

  “When didn’t Raina have something to say?”

  My mother responds with a soft laugh
. “Especially to me.”

  Samara sighs. “So much history. So much to remember. So much that’s hard to let ourselves remember.”

  Yasmin and Laila and Henry and Chelsea. All of their wounded faces, at least half of which I am responsible for, float before me. I round the corner and plant myself in the doorway.

  “Like what?” I demand. Being Jinn is so full of secrets and lies, I need a playbook to keep track.

  My mother snaps her head in my direction. “Azra! Where have you been?”

  I drop her high heels to the floor. “I want to know what’s so hard for you both to remember.” My mind returns to Henry and me on the black rock. Maybe having memories does make it hard to move on, but not having any makes it impossible.

  My eyes dart from my mother to Sam. “But it’s not what, is it? It’s who. My father. Laila’s father. Is that why we don’t talk about them? Because it’s hard?”

  Their shocked faces but thin-lipped silence fuel me. Lots of things in life are hard. And as I’ve just discovered, avoiding them doesn’t make it any easier.

  “Did it ever occur to you both that it may be hard for us because you don’t … because you won’t talk about them? Don’t you want to, Sam? I know you cared for him. I know you loved Laila’s father.”

  Samara lifts herself off of my mother’s bed. “Azra, I’m not sure what’s gotten into you—”

  “Stop. I know about the locket.” My guilt lashes out in the form of anger at my mother. I narrow my eyes at her. “How do you think it felt to know Lalla Sam actually loved Laila’s father? That she knew it’d be important for Laila to be able to see him one day?” I push past the lump in my throat. “You … you just gave him up, didn’t you? You didn’t care about him at all. Is it the same with Raina? What happened? Did she chip your tagine so you banished her from the house? Did you just give her up too?”

  Samara takes my mother’s hand. The two of them have always had each other. Guess they didn’t really need anyone else.

  In my hand, my phone buzzes. A text. I close my eyes, selfish enough to want it to be from Laila, naïve enough to hope it’s from Henry, but in my heart, knowing who it’s from. I look down. Nate. I’m both disappointed and not disappointed.