DIARY.
Five block letters centered on the cover saying so little and yet so much. Instinctually, my eyes flicker across the room. My mother’s downstairs “reading,” which means she’s probably fast asleep. Using my powers, I shut and lock her bedroom door.
Clutching the diary to my chest, I pace in front of the bed. A simple snap keeps the journal closed. No lock needs picking for me to invade my mother’s privacy.
My hand rests on top, as if I could absorb her thoughts by osmosis. I can’t. I tell myself I don’t have to open it—to which my self replies, What if she wrote about your father?
A gentle pop and the snap closure releases. The spine cracks so that I’m somewhere in the middle of the diary, but the page is blank. I thumb forward a few pages. Blank. I move a few pages back. Blank. I go to the very first page. Blank. Flipping through the entire diary, I can’t find a single written word.
I slam the book shut. Total rip-off.
Wait, of course. Magic must be concealing the writing. I sit on the end of the bed, open to the beginning, and concentrate. Still blank. I really have no idea what I’m doing, though. If my mother’s thoughts are hidden by magic, she probably used a spell. I know nothing about using spells.
I fling the book toward the headboard, and a page falls out. Great. Now I damaged the stupid thing. But I didn’t. It’s not a blank sheet of diary paper. It’s a photograph. My mother, younger and just as beautiful, planting a kiss on some guy’s cheek. Even though her eyes are closed, she exudes a happiness I’ve never seen. The dude in the photo, though? Him I think I’ve seen. In fact, I know it.
In her closet, I find the white linen pants I wore on my birthday. I slide my fingers into the back pocket. It’s still there: the picture of my mother and her prom date that I pulled from her old photo album. Holding the two photographs side by side, I confirm the guy whose cheeks are attached to my mother’s pursed lips and the guy whose arm is wrapped around my mother’s tiny waist are one and the same.
Both my mother and her beau look slightly older in this new photo. I turn it over, searching for a date or a name or any clue as to who he is or why my mother would have a picture of him stashed in a blank diary.
In the corner, surrounded by a tiny heart, are the letters “K+X.” That’s it. “K” for “Kalyssa,” my mother, and “X” for, appropriately enough, “mystery man.”
As far back as I can remember, my mother’s never gone on a date. She’s not a hermit. Though most of her socializing hours have been spent with either Samara or her Zar, she has gone to parties, to the movies, to the occasional dinner with human friends. But not with a man. If a man was involved, he was always part of a larger group.
Though Samara’s dated lots of men, it never occurred to me before now that my mother’s nonexistent love life was peculiar. Can’t blame me, really. No one wants to see their mom making out with some random stranger. I still don’t, but knowing how I feel when I’m around Nate, who’s not even my boyfriend (cue mixed feelings), it’s a bit sad to think my mother hasn’t felt that, at least not in my lifetime.
Her soft footsteps don’t make much noise as she walks toward the stairs, but sixteen years of listening assures I’m attuned to even her lightest tread. I place the diary and the magazines back on my mother’s nightstand, unlock her door, and app across the hall with the cantamen. I leap onto my bed and slip the two photographs inside my pillowcase.
“Come in,” I say over my drumming heartbeat in response to her gentle knock.
She sits at the foot of my bed. “Feeling okay, kiddo?”
I nod. I don’t know why I lie any more than I know why I don’t ask her about the guy in the photographs.
“Well,” she says, smoothing out my comforter, “I just wanted to say if you were playing host to a swarm of butterflies, they will eventually find themselves a new home. It gets easier.”
So weak is her smile that I doubt she expects me to believe this. I mirror the forced grin right back, and we stay that way, each pretending we aren’t aware the other is full not just of butterflies but of bull—
“Night then.” She eyes the laptop. “Don’t stay up too late doing research. I imagine Ms. Wood will be pretty straightforward.”
* * *
But she wasn’t, at least not in my dreams. All those random potential wish texts from Henry gave me nightmares. Another reason I should have texted my Zar sisters instead of him. Is that karma or hindsight? Probably both.
On the kitchen table is a note from my mother. “At the beach with Samara.” She hasn’t been all summer. Funny that she waits until my day off to go. Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be embarrassed to be seen around her?
I traipse around the house, trying to send the butterflies that are ricocheting off my intestines back into their cocoons. Iced coffee, the latest mermaid book, texting with Laila, binge-watching TV shows with pithy HITs, nothing slows down the flapping wings.
The only thing that will is granting Ms. Anne Wood’s wish. Which is why I grab the note card with her address and settle into the couch with my laptop. Having not really used my mind-reading skills with Zoe or Lisa, I have no idea if they’re good enough to rely on. No matter how silly it feels, I need to do some research.
As I flip the paper over to double-check the address, my eye is drawn to the 7.
The 7 that’s not a 7.
The 7 that’s a 1.
How can it be a 1? I could have sworn it was a 7. My mother even said I had a week. But I don’t have a week. I have a day.
I check the time on my computer. Scratch that. I don’t have a day. If 1 means twenty-four hours, I have exactly forty-five minutes.
I have no time to do external research. Mind-reading, it’s all on you.
The panic I feel inside oozes out of my fingertips, which are slimy and shaking as I pound out a text to my mother, a text that resounds from across the room. She forgot her phone. Again. And Samara doesn’t believe in those “smart thingys.”
I could app to the beach and find them, but what are they going to do? They can’t come with me. They’ll see how nervous I am, and all I’ll end up doing is ratting myself out. My mom will realize how little studying I’ve been doing all summer. Gone will be days off ogling Nate at the beach. No more evenings around Henry’s fire pit. And I can hang up my beige work polos for good.
I grab my mother’s phone and erase my message. Pausing, I then pick up my own and text Henry: “I have to do it today.”
He’s spending the day with his grandparents before they return to New Hampshire.
“But you haven’t done much research,” he replies.
Why do I tell him so much? “It has to be enough,” I text back. Though I add, “I’m ready” so he won’t worry, I can’t help but feel mildly betrayed when he simply replies, “Good luck.”
My first, second, and third attempts at apporting fail. I’m so rattled, the only thing I can do is hop on my fancy bike and pedal until my thighs burn.
I’ve granted three wishes. I’ve granted three wishes. Like a mantra this plays on a loop in my mind as I ride. By the time I turn down Ms. Wood’s street, my head is clearer. I circle the block, again and again, letting the sun and the wind calm my nerves.
The Afrit wouldn’t give me an assignment—an assignment to do in one day—if they didn’t think I could. And the clincher, if her wish proves to be more complicated, is that I have twenty-four hours before the circulus curse kicks in. I’ll be ready by then.
One last lap around the block and I stash my bike behind Ms. Wood’s hydrangeas. I stride up to the door, hoping to exude much more confidence than I feel as I rap my knuckles against the door.
A muffled sneeze makes me flinch. But the door hasn’t opened yet. I’m peering through the front window when a second, louder sneeze comes from … from the arborvitae at the front corner of the house. The arborvitae at the front corner of the house wearing shiny loafers.
He didn’t. Please tell me he didn’t
.
I slowly swing my head.
He did.
23
Henry. Camouflaged behind the group of trees bordering Ms. Anne Wood’s house. He must have followed me.
He pokes his head past the arborvitae, and I glare at his dimpled, sheepish smile.
My knock takes so long to elicit a response, I’m cruelly teased by the initial relief that washes over me when I think Ms. Anne Wood is not home.
But she is. Too pale, a messy bundle of dark hair piled atop her head, bags under her vacant eyes, Ms. Wood cracks open the door and stares at me.
“Is anyone else home?” I ask.
Despite me being a complete stranger, the frazzled Ms. Wood shakes her head.
Perfect. Needing as much time as possible to read Ms. Wood’s thoughts, I launch right into the wish-granting ritual.
The arborvitae to my right sneezes a third time, but I remain focused. Either my mind-reading skills have progressed or Ms. Wood’s a particularly open human.
I’m so tired I can’t see straight. What I wouldn’t give to sit on a beach for two weeks with nothing but a bag of books and an endless supply of piña coladas. I’m not even working. Would be the perfect time to go to a tropical paradise—
That’s her wish? Easy enough. I’ll arrange for her to win a bogus contest, get her plane tickets to Hawaii and a paid-in-full hotel room, and she’ll be all set. Might take me a few days, but that’s expected—that’s the responsible way to grant wishes.
I won a contest? I won a contest!
What? Ms. Wood hasn’t uttered a word since her frazzled “Yes?” upon answering the door. I check Henry’s position, but he hasn’t moved—or spoken.
I’ll be in a hotel room. On the beach. All expenses paid. Ahh …
I’m still in her head. In her thoughts. But wait, aren’t those my thoughts? Am I actually giving her my thoughts? No way. The mind control I sought to erase Henry’s knowledge of me being a genie does exist? And I can do it? Only during wish-granting rituals or all the time? Please, please, let it be all the time.
Ms. Wood remains in front of me in her trance-like state. Why not test this new power now? She mentioned not working. I check her ring finger. Bare. Good, not married. If she has a boyfriend, she can call him from her tropical paradise and tell him to come join her.
Going further into her thoughts, I discover she’s been so busy lately, her friends and family have barely heard from her in weeks. A sudden vacation wouldn’t seem so sudden to them. So, really, there’s no reason not to send her today. Who needs the paraphernalia of a bogus contest for cover when I can simply implant the idea in her head and park her on a beach this afternoon? I have yet to apport a human, but it’s supposed to be the same as apporting a Jinn.
My mind instructs Ms. Wood to pack a bag, and she’s up the stairs before I know it.
It’s working.
Henry peeks out from behind the tree, but I shoo him away. I can’t have my concentration broken.
When Ms. Wood returns, I inspect her suitcase. She’s a neat, efficient packer. Clothes, toiletries, books, cell phone, even some snacks in little plastic baggies. Excellent. I grab her arm, and we’re gone.
* * *
By the time I return from Hawaii, Henry’s lying on Ms. Wood’s couch, watching TV and drinking a beer.
I swipe the bottle from his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Relax, it’s only my first. And they were so far back in the fridge, I’m pretty sure she’ll never miss them. Guest beers, most likely. I figured you could replace them.”
“I wasn’t talking about the beer. I was talking about following me. Though you shouldn’t have done either one.”
“Like your text wasn’t a thinly veiled invite.”
A what? “No it wasn’t!” Was it? “Even if it was, which it wasn’t, why are you inside the house? What if someone came home?”
Henry scoffs. “Please, like I didn’t do recon?” He points to a stack of self-help dating books on the side table. “Between those and the one car in the garage, pretty sure she’s single.” He nods to a pile of tiny clothes half folded in a laundry basket and tosses in the plastic doll sitting next to him. “And considering the amount of clothes she’s got for this creepy thing, she’ll stay that way. Besides, you were gone a really long time. What was I supposed to do?”
Henry swings his legs to the floor, making room for me to sit. He holds out his arms, which are red and splotchy. “And I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to those shrubs.”
“Arborvitaes.”
Eyebrows raised, fear in his voice, Henry says, “Is that dangerous?”
I roll my eyes. “The trees, you doofus.”
Making sure I can conjure replicas first, I let Henry open one more beer and agree we can stay long enough for him to finish it. He’s apparently “stressed,” which makes me laugh. I just granted my first official wish and he’s the one stressed? He passes me the bottle, but one sip is enough for me to discover that beer is not to my liking.
He turns on the stereo, and I can’t help cringing as he pops his hips up and down. I may be a shy dancer, but I’m better than Henry. Not that he cares. He’s almost two beers in and grooving like he’s got something to prove. What and to who, I’m not sure.
“Not too loud,” I say, regretting my decision to let him open that second bottle. At least I stopped him from eating the box of Goldfish crackers he found in the kitchen. “And less dancing, or whatever that is you’re doing, and more chugging. Finish up so we can get out of here.”
He taps his foot nowhere close to in time with the music and takes a swig as I tell him first about the mistaken 7 and then how I granted Ms. Wood’s wish.
“You apped all the way to Hawaii?” Henry says after I finish. “Nice work, Azra.”
Huh, I guess it was. That’s the farthest I’ve apped, though it was probably so easy because I’ve been there already.
“That’s not even the best part.” My adrenaline soars as I describe the mind control.
Once his shock wears off, Henry plunks his empty beer bottle on the coffee table. “Now that’s the kind of magic I was talking about.”
As he begins to plot all the ways we can take advantage of this in the upcoming school year, I rein him in. “Don’t get your hopes up. I couldn’t get it to work on the woman at the hotel.” I then relay what took me so long.
It wasn’t until I’d apped Ms. Wood to her tropical paradise that I realized there were more details to iron out than just convincing her she’d won a contest, spent fifteen hours on a plane, and could now enjoy her vacation.
Having not thought things through, I had to use my mom’s credit card to secure her a room, book her a return flight, and leave her with enough spending money. I had to bribe the woman at the front desk to add a note in the reservation system: All employees dealing with Ms. Wood must go along with any comments she may make about having won this all-expenses-paid trip. I pretended I was her niece and my mom was treating her but wanted to remain anonymous. It was not an easy sell. I stayed long enough to tie up all the loose ends and then watch the exhausted Ms. Wood curl up on a lounge chair at the side of the pool and fall asleep.
Sitting in Ms. Wood’s living room now, my rush from testing out the mind control fading, I know I shouldn’t have let my excitement usher me into granting her wish so quickly.
Henry turns up the music. “I love this song.”
He’s bobbing his head, and I’m running through things, making sure I’ve covered all my bases. Can’t hurt to do some after-the-fact research. My snooping starts in the hall closet. I’m pushing coats aside when I hear a faint noise I can’t identify. I shut the music off from across the room, causing Henry to whine. Like a baby. Please.
As I fumble for the light switch, my hand lands on the vacuum handle. More crying. Wailing, actually. What’s wrong with him? I turn toward Henry. His mouth hangs open, but he’s not making a sound. The crying isn’t coming from him. It’s coming fr
om upstairs. And that handle I’m grasping? It doesn’t belong to a vacuum. It belongs to a stroller.
“Oh, shi—” Henry starts, but I’m already taking the stairs two at a time.
I come to such an abrupt halt on the landing that Henry barrels right into me. Through the open door directly across from where we stand lies the source of the crying—lying, literally, in a white wooden crib.
No, no, no, no, no, noooooooo!
Ms. Wood didn’t have a single thought about a baby.
The truth nags at me: I didn’t let Ms. Wood have a single thought about a baby.
But Ms. Wood wished to go to a tropical paradise.
Nag, nag, nag: Ms. Wood never actually used the word “wish,” which she’s supposed to do.
But Ms. Wood didn’t give any indication of living with someone else.
Nag, nag, nag: the Goldfish crackers, the “doll” clothes, the snacks packed in little baggies, the bags under Ms. Wood’s eyes, the messy hair, the being too pale, the frazzled hello.
“Um, Az, what now?” Henry says from behind me.
My feet won’t budge. The baby’s shrieking prevents me from being able to think. All I want to do is app myself home and forget this ever happened. All of it. Everything. This is why I’ve dreaded this moment my entire life. Because this, this howling child, is the perfect symbol of what being Jinn is really like. It’s not heating up swimming pools, it’s not making backyard fires, it’s not fun with mind control. It’s being responsible for people’s lives. It’s making colossal mistakes that ruin people’s lives.
Gently but firmly pushing me aside, Henry enters the room. “Shh, it’s okay, little one,” he says to the baby in a soft, comforting voice. Lifting it—her, as the PJs with pink flowers on them reveal—from the crib, he rocks her tenderly and, despite his two beers, carefully. “Everything’s going to be just fine. Isn’t it, Azra? Azra?”
My instinct was to app us away. Henry’s instinct was to console the little girl. Maybe it’s a good thing my life as a Jinn won’t afford me a normal family and friends. Clearly, I am anything but normal.
Becoming Jinn Page 18
