Becoming Jinn

by Lori Goldstein

  “In that case,” Henry says, “I’ll keep an eye out. I can’t wait to see your costume.”

  I snort. “Don’t hold your breath. Unless you want to leave me that Batsuit. I could probably use the armor.”

  Henry laughs as he walks backward down the steps. “Bonne fête, Azra.”

  “Happy Birthday” in French.

  “Au revoir, Henry!” all five of my Zar sisters chirp.

  He raises his hand high in the air and waves to them over my head as he mouths “good luck.” Before I get to say good-bye, the door propels forward, throws off my hand, and closes with a bang in the face of the still-waving Henry.

  My open jaw clenches shut as I turn around to see the smirk on Yasmin’s face.

  “What was that for?” I demand.

  Yasmin twirls a long, raven-black curl around her finger and shrugs. “Some guests don’t know when it’s time to leave. They need a little prodding.”

  “He was leaving. And he wasn’t your guest.”

  Looping her arm around Laila’s waist, Yasmin says, “Your house is my house. After all, we’re sisters, Azra.”

  Like I need reminding.

  Hana slides next to me and hooks her arm through mine. She whispers, “Wow, Azra. Those eyelashes. All day, I’ve been plotting how to pluck them off one by one and glue them to mine.”

  With her glossy, tangerine-hued hair and teasingly freckled cheeks, Hana’s exterior reflects her spirited interior. She has all of Yasmin’s strength with none of Yasmin’s edge.

  “Don’t let her spoil your day.” Hana pecks my cheek, and I realize maybe it’s not so bad to be reminded of the sister part.

  * * *

  By the time us six GITs enter the dining room, our mothers have already expanded the table, conjured a mismatched array of plush, rainbow-colored chairs, and set out so much food, we’ll be eating leftovers for a week.

  More than six months have passed since the twelve of us have been in the same room together. Now, with all of us daughters except for Laila having transformed into full Jinn, it’s like a room full of lead actors and their stunt doubles.

  My mother takes a seat at one end of the table and gestures for me to perch myself at the other. I scoot in right before Samara and snag the chair she was angling for in between Laila and Hana.

  Samara gives me a wink before rerouting herself to the seat at the head of the table. To her left is Lalla Nadia, whose auburn hair is a shade deeper than her daughter, Hana’s. Nadia simultaneously dims the brass chandelier and lights what must be at least fifty candles spread out around the room.

  Yasmin’s mother, Lalla Raina, whose glossy black hair skims her hips, is seated to Samara’s right. She levitates the wine bottle and begins pouring white wine in everyone’s glasses, including those set in front of us girls.

  My mother clears her throat. “Do you think that’s wise, Raina?”

  The shrug dripping off Raina’s shoulders is an exact replica of the one Yasmin just gave me.

  “What’s the harm?” Raina says, eyeing the other mothers.

  Lalla Isa, Farrah’s mother, and Lalla Jada, Mina’s mother, shoot a look across the table at one another that’s the equivalent of one of my best eye rolls. Nadia nudges Samara’s elbow.

  The frequency of the Zar reunions that used to bring our entire group together has dropped in the past couple of years. I was naïve enough to think I was the reason.

  I may be a reason but I’m not the reason.

  Raina’s brows dip down over her wide-set eyes. “They’re all adults, except for little Laila here. And it’s not like they’re going to be driving.” She fixes her gaze on my mother. “You’d know best, Kalyssa, but that’s the humans’ biggest concern, isn’t it?”

  Yasmin, seated directly across from me, is already sipping her full glass.

  No one else dares lay a finger on their wine stem.

  Usually flapping away, Mina’s delicate pink lips hang open. Her thumbs hover over her phone, frozen in mid-texting mode. The soft candlelight highlights the red tones in her rich mahogany hair as her eyes, lined with shimmery ice-blue eyeliner, dart from Lalla to Lalla.

  Next to her, a jittery Farrah magically changes the color—pink then blue then yellow then green—of the rhinestones in the headband holding back her pin-straight hair. Dark brown with caramel highlights, her hair is the shortest at the table. The sharp angles hit her shoulders and the long bangs she leaves free of her headband graze her eyelashes, a style that no matter how cool it looks would have me scratching my eyes out.

  The wine bottle travels in front of Samara, who stops it and says, “Considering our higher tolerance, a glass can’t hurt, can it, Kal?”

  My mother plasters on a smile. “Certainly not. It’s a celebration.”

  Samara then fills her glass without using magic. She’s clumsier without her powers and accidentally knocks over the bottle as she rests it on the table.

  Wine streams toward my aqua place setting. Instinctually, I douse the yellow tablecloth with some conjured seltzer water and then evaporate the liquid, leaving the fabric bone-dry and without a single splotch.

  Samara claps. “Kalyssa, clearly you’re an excellent teacher. I’m going to have to bring Laila over here for your tutelage.”

  My mother holds up a hand. “It’s got nothing to do with me. Azra’s gifted. She was far more advanced when she woke up this morning than either of us were after a week. Probably a month.”

  This is the first I’ve heard of this. My mother seemed pleased with my skills, but all day, she simply nodded each time I made something appear or disappear, or blow up or knit back together. She’s probably exaggerating, like when she said I had a talent for gymnastics. She kept on encouraging me even though after every class she had to employ the power to heal fellow Jinn that comes with her gold bangle and stitch up an open wound on my forehead or mend a broken toe.

  Isa waves her hand. “Well, naturally Azra’s gifted. She’s your daughter, Kalyssa.”

  Now Jada and Raina share a look, and Nadia’s the one clearing her throat.

  Boy was I na-ïve.

  Nadia swivels her head to address the entire table. “And that’s wonderful news for the girls’ Zar. Strength in numbers.”

  Over the rim of the wineglass she’s already drained by half, Yasmin narrows her eyes at me.

  She’s giving me attitude? After what she just did? The gate key calls to me from my front pocket. Pushing back against my desire to flee, I change the subject and say to Yasmin, “You shouldn’t have done that to Henry.”

  She points at her ample chest and widens her gold eyes. “Me? What did I do?”

  “You slammed the door in our neighbor’s face.” I look at my mother. “Our human neighbor’s face.”

  Though I’m more concerned with her insulting Henry, I say the second part because I know it will rankle our elders.

  My mother chokes on her chicken. “Using magic?”

  Though Yasmin’s only response is to lower her eyes to her plate, I nod vigorously. It’s followed by an equally strong nod from Laila and, to my surprise, from Hana.

  Raina puts her fork down. “Did he notice?”

  Sitting up straighter in her chair, Yasmin says, “Certainly not. I’m no amateur.”

  “Well,” Raina says, “no cause for alarm. Besides, what good are powers if you can’t have a little fun every once in a while? Especially with the humans?”

  The tip of my mother’s knife spears a cherry tomato. Seeds spurt past her plate, creating a polka-dot pattern on the tablecloth.

  Raina’s, and now Yasmin’s, dismissiveness of humans has always been a source of contention for my mother.

  Samara quickly intervenes. “I’m the last Jinn to put a damper on fun, but, really, Yasmin should be setting an example for the other girls considering how long she’s been doing this. She knows the importance of not exposing our magic.”

  Remaining true to the way their Zar has always functioned, Lalla Isa and
Lalla Jada let the stronger personalities dominate the conversation.

  The same way Laila, always the peacemaker of our Zar, chimes in with, “Plus, it wasn’t very nice.”

  Raina and Yasmin snort at the same time. My mother smiles, but her nostrils still flare. Raina is my mother’s least favorite “sister” even if she would never admit it. And Samara is my mother’s favorite. Like mother like daughter, generation to generation.

  7

  Our mothers have retreated to the living room where they’re indulging in wine and ancient history as they flip through a collection of photo albums. Nostalgia seems to have eased the tension that hovered like a rain cloud over the dinner table. Well, nostalgia and the wine.

  Yasmin, Hana, Mina, and Farrah ducked out to the garage, claiming they had a surprise to work on.

  This leaves Laila and me in the kitchen cleaning up my birthday dinner. Serves me right. I wanted today to be like any other day.

  Laila stacks a plate in the dishwasher. “Show me more.”

  “More what?” I pretend to be ignorant though I’m actually impressed she contained herself for so long. This is why she volunteered us for kitchen duty.

  “Anything. Everything. I can’t wait to see what I’ll be able to do.”

  I gesture toward the living room, where our mothers are debating who had the cutest pregnancy belly. “You know what you’ll be able to do. You’ve seen it with them our whole lives.”

  “But they’re so high level. I want to see what I’ll be able to do.”

  My eyes float back before I can stop them.

  Laila’s face reddens. “Oh, it’s okay. It’s not like I expect to be as good as you. I really just want to watch you in action.” She clutches my hand. “Az, this is what we’ve been waiting for our whole lives.”

  “We” is not the right pronoun, but I can’t tell her that while she’s looking at me with such affection in her eyes. She squeezes my hand. Maybe when we were younger I deserved Laila’s friendship, but why she’s stuck by me all this time, I don’t know. I haven’t been all that friendly the last couple of years. Still, she’s here. And not because she was dragged, unlike me the last few times my mother apped us to her house.

  “Okay,” I say to Laila, setting two empty wineglasses on the counter. Recalling the fruity taste of the red wine we had earlier—and picturing what I know of the wine-making process, which consists of a single image of bare feet stomping grapes, I close my eyes until it feels like icicles are stabbing my insides. When Laila yanks my arm, I open my eyes to see our glasses filled with a deep red liquid that I hope tastes like wine and not feet.

  A sneaky satisfaction fills me. “Voila!”

  Laila starts to clap. I cover her hands with my own to stop her. “Shh. They won’t let us. At least my mom won’t. Your mom would. You’re lucky.”

  Confusion passes over Laila’s face. “But we can’t actually drink it.”

  “Don’t you want more?” I prod.

  “Hmm … we aren’t supposed to.”

  Words that will guide the rest of my life. But I’ve done enough of what I’m supposed to do today. And it’s still my birthday. “That’s what makes it fun,” I say.

  Laila hesitates. Neither of us could be called delinquents. But if one of us were the instigator, it’d be me. The salt instead of sugar “we” poured in our mothers’ coffee when we were eight, the heels “we” broke off my mom’s pumps and glued to our own when we were twelve, the hunger strike “we” went on when they said we couldn’t watch that vampire movie a couple of years ago, that was all me. And not because I’m a natural troublemaker. Because I bore easily, which explains the first two. The third is because I’m stubborn. And I hate to be told what I can and cannot do.

  Each time, Laila stood by my side, always using the wrong pronoun and saying “we” when our mothers asked whose idea the mischief had been.

  I pick up my glass and say the words I know will convince her. “To sixteen.”

  Laila snaps up her own glass, clinks it against mine, and repeats the toast. She takes the first sip. “Not bad.” She licks her lips. “Hints of tobacco.”

  Wine shoots out of my nose. “Like you’d know that.”

  Laila runs her fingertip around the rim of her glass as a mischievous smile plays on her lips. “Maybe you’re not the only one with a rebellious streak.”

  I could be blown over by fairy dust. “Well, well, well. Little Laila.”

  Embarrassment consumes her petite face. “It was only a couple of times.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “See, there was this boy—”

  “Of course.”

  The color springing to Laila’s cheeks matches the wine.

  “Tell me,” I say.

  And she does. By the time we finish the dishes, despite the supposedly higher tolerance of Jinn, Laila and I are tipsy. We share this first like so many others. And we talk like we haven’t in months. Maybe years. The closer to sixteen I inched, the further from Laila I ran. Stubborn. And to what end? Though Laila’s wearing those see-through pink harem pants and can’t wait to be a genie, she’s still the Laila I grew up with. My oldest friend. My only friend.

  * * *

  “Look at this,” Lalla Nadia says as we take slow, measured steps into the living room.

  Her long fingernail points to a plastic-encased photograph. “You two and my little Hana at Halloween. Too cute. Just like today. Well, except for Azra.”

  Of course except for Azra. Because I swore long ago that the matching genie costume my eleven-year-old self is wearing in that photo would be the first and last such outfit I’d ever step into. A vow not even the gold ensemble Hana brought for me tonight could break. The Afrit can make me be their beck-and-call girl but I’ll be damned if I’m going to look like one. Still, the tug on my heart upon realizing Hana was including me means the costume now hangs in the back (the way back) of my closet.

  While Laila peers over Nadia’s shoulder, I scoop up an album of my mother’s I’ve never seen before. The first picture of her and Sam sporting big hair and backpacks tells me it’s from high school. I flip through until I arrive at prom night.

  The abundance of photos of my mother, in a neon-orange dress only she could pull off, and Samara, who’s spilling out of a tight, red, strapless dress, almost makes me miss the lone one of my mom and her date. Tall with hair the color of volcanic rock, the cute boy clings to her waist. She leans into him, the warmth in her gold eyes as strong as anything she’s ever directed my way. I wiggle the picture out, wanting to ask my mother what happened to this boy she was so enamored of, when Hana calls from the garage, “Laila, Azra, where are you?”

  Laila jumps up and grabs a shopping bag off the end table. I slide the picture of my mother and her prom date into my back pocket and follow her into the garage. I know something’s up when I have to weave around a tall stack of cardboard boxes full of the books my mother and I packed away to make room for her growing collection of Moroccan tea cups.

  Standing at the end of the makeshift wall is Farrah. She smacks her gum and holds out her palm. “IDs,” she says.

  Laila giggles and starts to move past Farrah.

  “Back o’ the line, blondie,” Farrah says in a deep voice. “Unless you got an ID. Showing skin ain’t everything.”

  Clearly Laila and I weren’t the only ones who continued to drink.

  The headband in Farrah’s hair changes colors like a disco ball as she twirls the tassels dangling off the waistband of her teal harem pants. She then breaks into laughter. “They’re here, Mina!” she yells over her shoulder.

  Phone to her ear, Mina appears behind Farrah. She leans in and whispers, “Aiden,” to which Farrah nods knowingly.

  “That’s right, babycakes,” she says, curling a lock of her chestnut hair around her finger. “Next Saturday means the one at the end of next week. Oh, and be sure to wear those jeans I got for you.” She hangs up and sighs. “Body of a Jinn, brain of a turkey. An
yway…” She digs her hand into her sapphire-blue bra top. “Here you go. Happy Birthday, Azra.”

  In my hand is a fake ID.

  Farrah drops the bouncer act. “And I made one for you, Laila.”

  I wonder just how much Laila’s been hanging out with them all lately because she seems as taken aback as I am.

  “You guys made these?” she says. “With magic?”

  I study mine. The fine lines of the background grid, the blue of the state seal, the glinting of the metallic stamp, everything looks perfect.

  Downplaying her usual soda-pop effervescence, Mina taps her nail against her phone and shrugs. “It’s just a side business.”

  “But why?” Laila asks. “It’s not like we need to make money.”

  With a sly grin, Mina says, “Money’s not the only thing humans will trade with.”

  “What else do you need?” Laila says.

  “I haven’t done homework since the day I turned sixteen,” Mina says with pride. She nods to me. “I can teach you if you want.”

  Farrah taps Laila’s ID. “She taught me.”

  Laila pokes me with her elbow, and I look at her license. It says she’s five-foot-six and forty-two.

  Behind Farrah’s back, Mina holds her finger to her lips and shakes her head.

  “A few more months,” Farrah says, “and you’ll be able to app, Laila. Then you can sneak out and meet us at a club. An over-twenty-one club. That’s where the best bands are at.” She starts ticking off her fingers. “Rat Tooth and Fungus and Bloody—”

  “Weeks,” Laila says. “My birthday is in weeks, not months.”

  “I know.” Pink spreads across Farrah’s cheeks. “Sure, of course, you’ll be able to app right away. Unlike me. I bet Azra can already app.”

  I can, but does that speak more of my abilities or Farrah’s?

  “Are you going to let them in or not?” Hana calls.

  Laughing, Mina and Farrah hook arms, spring past the wall of boxes, and cry, “Ta-da!”

  Laila and I follow to find Hana sitting at a dark wood bar surrounded by five other backless stools with red-leather seats.