As You Wish

by Jackson Pearce

  “Go…go away,” she whispers, like she’s warding off a bad dream.

  “I’d love to. So wish three times, and after the third wish, you’ll forget about me. You’ll go about your happy little wish-laden life and I’ll go back to Caliban. Come on. Just begin with ‘I wish’…then you fill in the rest.”

  “What’s Caliban?” she whispers.

  Her question yanks at me, like being struck and dragged along the sand by a wave. I’m surprised that she’s asking about something beyond wishes. But the tug is also a result of the bond that connects me to her. I can’t avoid direct questions or orders from my master, and the more intensely a master wants answers, the harsher the wave feeling is. It rushes me, drowns my mind. I answer quickly to make the feeling go away.

  “Caliban is my world, which I’d like to get back to, thanks, since I don’t age there. Jinn age like humans while we’re earthbound fulfilling wishes, so as of right now you’ve taken”—I glance at the clock—“seven hours and forty-six minutes from my life.”

  I can see her aging in front of me—every moment passes seamlessly into the next, but it leaves her a second older, a tiny bit different than she was before. She doesn’t even realize it—mortals forget to notice that time is passing. She’s changed so much since I first arrived—her hair is longer—her nails, too—not to mention the changes in her skin tone. I must have aged just as much. The thought makes me nauseous. So does the disbelieving, skeptical expression that crosses her face. Every moment she doubts me is another moment of my life gone. I bite my tongue.

  “Look, I’ll prove it.” More desperate than I want to let on, I finally snap. She has the chance for all her dreams to come true, and she needs proof.

  Ridiculous.

  I point toward her with a sigh. One generic teenage girl wish, coming up. My master wraps her fingers around the lamp at her bedside, ready to fling it at me. My hands tense and feel warm as a swirling noise, like a tornado churning in her bedroom, echoes around her. Her fingers release the lamp, and her eyes close slowly as it clunks to the floor. She inhales deeply as the air around her begins to move, rearranging itself in spirals over her body. Her skin brightens, her hair becomes glossy and golden, her eyelashes lengthen, her stomach gets flatter. The way she looked before the Lawrence guy left her.

  My master opens her eyes. She lifts her fingers and runs them across her lips cautiously. She looks at me, a wary expression on her face, and lets her hand slide down to touch her stomach. She sidesteps to look in a wicker-framed mirror, and I roll my eyes when a slow, sad smile crosses her lips. Yes, this is what you want. Well, sort of. Mortals always want something more—they wish for money, but what they’re really after is to be carefree. Power when what they really want is control. Beauty when they want love. Sometimes they know it, sometimes they don’t. I can’t quite figure out what she’s really after, but I’ve yet to have a teenage master who didn’t want to look like the fake magazine people. It’s kind of my default “See what you can have!” move.

  Come on. Make the wish.

  I grimace as she reaches toward her reflection. That’s enough of that.

  I nod toward my master, and a quick breeze sweeps around her. Her hair dulls to brown, her fingernails go back to being chewed and bitten, and her hips grow a little larger. She jumps back from the mirror, as if someone has punched her.

  “What…what was that?” she whispers.

  “You wanted proof that I’m real? There you go. It was just an illusion. But you can have that. Just wish for it,” I prod.

  She drops to her bed. Her eyes are wide, and chill bumps litter her shoulders.

  Seven hours, fifty-three minutes.

  My master is still quivering, but at seven hours and fifty-five minutes, her expression changes. Her eyes rise to meet mine, and before she says a word I already feel a rush of relief. She believes me. She doesn’t want to believe me, but finally, she does. One step closer to a wish.

  She speaks, her voice shaky. “So I should…I mean, if it’s all real, then…I should wish for world peace or…or something.”

  I roll my eyes. Some jinn would trick her. They’d just smile and nod and let her go about wishing for world peace.

  Why am I so nice?

  “You can, sure, whatever. But it’s a waste—wishes aren’t permanent. If you wish for a million dollars, it’ll be granted, but once you spend it, it’s gone. If you wish for world peace, it’ll be granted, but once someone fires a gun, it’s gone. If you want your wishes to last, you have to wish for what will make you happy—not for happiness, because once it rains or your cat dies or something, it’s gone. But for something that will bring you happiness. And you’ve got a half million wishes to choose from, so, please, pick one that will make you happy.”

  She sits on the bed and draws her knees to her chest. “Then I could…I could wish for…”

  “Anything. Anything specific…,” I say anxiously. I glare at the clock on her dresser as another minute clicks by.

  “But I don’t know what could…make me happy. I don’t know what could make me belong again—”

  “Hair! Clothes! A new boyfriend, for all I care. Come on,” I mutter. I should have just let her wish for world peace.

  “Hair and clothes aren’t going to stop me from being invisible,” she says dejectedly. “If I could just…if I could be a part of something, something special. If I could belong…be something that’s not just the hot gay guy’s best friend or…something…something that would stop me from being invisible.”

  “Yes!” I cry with so much fake enthusiasm that it startles her into nearly leaping backward. “Wish for friends! Lots and lots of friends. I can do that. Just say the words, say ‘I wish for friends,’ and it’ll happen. Reversing invisibility is easy—I can make them practically worship you.”

  “Well, no,” she protests. “It isn’t them, it’s just…I mean, they’re nice to me and all, but I don’t really belong with them. They don’t care if I’m hanging out with them or locked up in the art room. I’m the invisible one—”

  “Yeah, okay,” I cut her off. “Whatever you want. Let’s do this.” I clap my hands and rub them together, nodding.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  Why isn’t she saying anything?

  I ball up my hands and inhale. “Any time now.”

  “Just like that?” she says feebly.

  “Yes. Just like that.” Another minute clicks by. She bites her lip nervously. “Okay, so then, you have…a problem with how incredibly, painfully easy this is?” I offer.

  “Um…yes. I just…,” she replies, her voice barely a whisper.

  I hold in a sigh. “And why is that?”

  “It’s just…just like that? I’ve been trying to belong again for seven months and four days but…just like that? I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t make it on my own, but now…just like that…I can?”

  “You can thank me after you wish,” I answer through gritted teeth.

  “I…no. I can’t just wish.” Her voice changes, gets stronger. She narrows her eyes at me. “I’m not that pathetic. I don’t have to wish for friends. I can’t just wish and belong again.”

  “Yes, you—”

  “No! I won’t do it. Go away.”

  “I can’t go away unless you wish!” I shout, my temper finally at its breaking point.

  “And what happens if I don’t wish?” she wheels back.

  My breath freezes in my lungs. It was a direct question, so I have to reply. I swallow hard, hoping my voice won’t quiver when I answer.

  “Then I die.” Saying it aloud makes it feel like I’m aging even faster, dying quicker than before. “If you don’t wish, I’ll age just like you, and I’ll eventually die here, just like a mortal.” I look to the ground, and when I bring myself to meet her eyes again I’m both relieved and ashamed to see a look of pity on her face. Pity. For a jinn. It isn’t fair, mortals having such power over us. But still—please. Please wish.

  �
��Okay,” she says.

  I’m unable to hold in a sigh of relief.

  “I’ll figure out what to wish,” she continues. “I don’t want…I don’t want to make anyone die. But you won’t die now, will you? I can think about it? Just for a little while. It’s only, well, I don’t know what to wish for….”

  I want to lie and tell her she must wish immediately, but once again, her question was direct, so I’m trapped. I nod reluctantly—no, I won’t die right now. Her face relaxes.

  “Fine. I’ll be back when you have a wish,” I mutter. It’s not what I want to say. I want to explode, to yell, to tell her to wish now before another minute passes.

  She nods, biting her lip.

  I have to get out of here, before I say something that makes her hate me—if she hates me, she won’t trust me, and if she doesn’t trust me, she won’t wish. The fabric-softener scent of her bedroom fades, and the liquidlike feeling of vanishing sweeps through me. The obnoxiously pink walls are replaced with cool night air; the hum of her fan, with the sound of crickets. I’m standing in the driveway now, and I look back at her house.

  I run a hand through my hair. It’s longer.

  Damn.

  There is no fear in Caliban. But one day here and suddenly I’m afraid for my life. I shake my head and fold my arms as the nighttime chill bites into me.

  I hate this place.

  Jinn don’t sleep while earthbound, so while she enjoys a bed of giant quilts tonight, I have nothing better to do than wander the streets until she wakes up and thinks of a wish. I inhale deeply as I walk, even though the air tastes like the pollution that fills it. If I try hard—very hard—I can block the scent of Earth and think of Caliban at sunset. Caliban’s sunsets are extraordinary: brilliant light beaming through the windows of an elegant city, illuminating the busy streets and tranquil gardens in a pale orange glow.

  If she doesn’t wish, I’ll never get back.

  No! I can’t think like that. She’ll wish. Besides, the ifrit won’t allow that to happen. They can press her to wish, put her in a situation where she has to wish her way out—I bet I could help them figure out a press, even. I shouldn’t be ashamed to ask for their help; it’s their job, after all. Still, I’ve never had to ask before…something about the idea of putting in a request for a press is sort of embarrassing.

  I stop and study my surroundings. I’m standing by an entrance sign that reads HOLLY PARK and is surrounded by wilting daisies. Ahead is a pool with a faded blue tarp sagging into the deep end, where the letters on the POOL RULES sign have been rearranged to spell curse words. Cigarette butts litter the sidewalk, and the pond far ahead is lined with weeping willows and graffiti-covered garbage cans. At the center of the park, however, is a single oak tree, standing tall and proud on a hill, branches fingering their way into the stars. It’s just like the trees in Caliban—they grow tall but never old. I trudge toward it and collapse among its mossy roots.

  There are no stars in Caliban. Or clouds. There’s the sun and the moon, but never rain or snow or lightning or stars. In Caliban there isn’t even much night—just sunsets that blur into sunrises and the day. There are parks like these, but none with sticky-letter curse words, and there are houses like my master’s, but no horribly pink rooms. The city has skyscrapers, but no cars or smog. Thousands of jinn, but no disbelief or anger.

  I have to get home. How do humans tolerate living on Earth, chained down by the mortality of their own bodies? The longing for Caliban floods me, filling my limbs and veins until I think I might explode from the pressure.

  I have to get home.

  three

  Viola

  THE ART ROOM is chilly, its stone floor littered with bits of paper and fragments of paraffin blocks. The walls are lined with stovetops and sinks—long ago it was the home economics room, before the school decided that teaching kids to cook is sexist. I guess it doesn’t matter—it was replaced with the art program, and I can’t cook anyway. It’s six thirty on a Friday morning, so the school is almost completely silent, save the soft whir of the janitor waxing the floor a few halls down. A teacher shouts to a colleague in the hallway behind me—I jump at the sound of the voice. Worrying that a jinn might appear at any moment isn’t good for the nerves. It wasn’t good for my sleep schedule either—last night I slept for about an hour, tops.

  Stop. Forget about him. Forget about wishes. Just focus on painting.

  I set up several easels and pull out the paintings I’m working on for the Art Honors Expo that’s coming up. The topic for the Expo this year is landscapes, and I can’t convince myself that my mountain scenes don’t need more trees or…something. I sit back, and my eyes wander to a set of easels on the opposite side of the room—Ollie Marquez’s paintings.

  I’m jealous, I admit it. I’ve been painting swamps, deserts, and mountains for the Expo. They’re okay but nothing special. Ollie’s paintings are way more creative—she’s painted bedrooms in mountains, dining rooms underwater, and televisions on the edges of snowy lakes. I stand and walk toward them. Ollie used red, pink, neon orange. I used olive green and drab colors, thinking my pictures would look more like real nature. Whenever I try to be bold, to use colors like Ollie does, the paintings feel awkward and cheap, like knockoffs of Ollie Marquez originals.

  It doesn’t really matter that Ollie and I always win the same awards and are in the same art classes. Ollie is the artist. It’s like Ollie herself is a painting, an imported piece from a performance space in Manhattan, complete with hoop earrings and scarves in her hair.

  And she paints with neon orange.

  And she’s dating Aaron Moor. They’re king and queen of the Royal Family. Ollie’s another beautiful person who belongs everywhere, who floats effortlessly among the crowds of people who adore her. I run my hand over the colors; they’re carefree, sensual, reckless.

  “Again? Really?”

  I cringe at the voice.

  “I don’t have a wish,” I gripe, turning to face the jinn.

  He lifts himself onto the counter, his forearms flexing like bent amber, and then shrugs. “You have dozens, actually. You just refuse to make them.”

  “I’m not going to use a wish for something stupid,” I mutter. I don’t really know what’s worse—the fact that I have these wishes for hair and clothes and belonging, or the fact that a stranger knows it. “Are you going to…I mean…are you going to be appearing and disappearing all day again?”

  “I only come when you want me to or when you have a wish.”

  “So you…read my mind?” I say, nervous chill bumps rising on my arms.

  The jinn rolls his eyes. “No. You’re my master, so we’re connected to each other until you make your wishes. You want me or you have a wish, I’m here—you don’t even have to call for me out loud. I just feel it when you want me to show up. It’s hard to explain. But I’m not a mind reader.”

  “Oh,” I say, not entirely sure I understand.

  “And if you don’t want me here, just tell me to stay away. I can’t disobey a direct order from you, master.” There’s a note of sarcasm—or is it remorse?—in his voice.

  Master—the word makes me shiver. “Don’t call me that,” I say aloud. Hearing him say it is weird, like someone’s calling me sexy.

  The jinn raises an eyebrow. “What am I supposed to call you?”

  “Viola?”

  “We’re not supposed to call our masters by name.”

  I stare at him nervously. I’m no one’s master.

  The jinn inhales deeply and rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll call you Viola,” he says. “I’ve been here nineteen hours now, Viola. You know, the name thing breaks the first protocol. I’m going to be in trouble when I get back.”

  “Thank you,” I say sincerely. “And thank you for breaking…protocol?” I ask. He grimaces, like my question hurts him.

  “There are three overarching protocols for earthbound jinn—respect one’s master, be visible only to one’s master, and ret
urn to Caliban as quickly as possible. So calling you by your first name is just one of the many ways to break the first one. There’s an exhaustive list for each protocol. I’ll get you a copy.”

  “Oh,” I say, not sure if he’s being sarcastic but certain that, protocol or not, I’m still not letting him call me master. It’s creepy. “What happens if you break protocol?”

  He sighs. “We’re punished by the Ancient Jinn. Sometimes bound. You know that genie-in-a-lamp story? Just a jinn who broke protocol and was bound to a lamp in the middle of a desert. So I’d rather not break the rules, thanks.”

  “Oh. Then…um…it’s just…the word master…” I struggle for words, trying to find middle ground so the jinn doesn’t get stuck in a lamp and I don’t have to be called master.

  Finally, the jinn holds up his hands. “Whatever,” he says, shaking his head in irritation. “I’ll deal with the Ancients when I get back. If I get back.”

  I nod and step away from Ollie’s paintings and toward my own, hoping the jinn will vanish again if I ignore him.

  I run a finger across my own canvas affectionately. I love painting, even though I know I’m not exactly a brilliant artist—high-school good, maybe, but I’m no pro. But when I paint, it’s like my emotions can fall through the brush, then be brightened up, toned down, manipulated, or hidden away. Everything about Lawrence, about being invisible, about wanting to belong…I can say it all on canvas in a way I could never say it aloud. When people ask about the paintings, I come up with some abstract meaning, but really, they’re all just shouting about me in acrylic.

  The jinn is watching me—I can feel his eyes on me. I inhale, trying to calm my nerves—I don’t want him to see me like this: the sappy, emotional way I get whenever I start painting. It’s like he’s watching me undress. When I look back at him, he has a curious expression on his face.