As You Wish (2 page)

SHE SCREAMS.

Of course. Mortal females tend to do that. It just
had
to be a female again. There's nothing about this particular female that shouts “looking to summon a jinn,” but then, there rarely is—my masters tend to be random. Wannabe pagan teenagers, young mothers, liver-spotted old men. They've all got wishes. This one in particular has straight, paintbrushlike hair. She's not fat, but I've granted “I wish I were thinner” wishes for females her size before.

There's nothing I can do until she calms down and stops shaking, so I lean back on her cluttered desk, knocking over
a few bottles of nail polish. Seconds pass. Minutes. I shiver—I can feel myself aging here. Skin cells flake off my body, my hair grows slowly, millimeter by millimeter. My entire body is decomposing all around me, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Another minute passes.

I sigh impatiently. I can't help it.

At least sighing gets a response from her. “Don't come any closer!” my master cries shakily. “I'll scream! My parents will come!”

So we're going to go this route?

“You've already screamed,” I say, “and they can come, but since no one can see me but you, you'll look crazy. Just like you did at school when you tried to show me to your friend.”

She grits her teeth. She's known about the invisibility since noon—I could tell when she figured it out—but hearing me confirm it scares her even more. She longs for me to be a stalker, because that fact would be easier for her to swallow than my truly being invisible. I can tell what she wants, feels, wishes for, just by watching the motion of her eyes, the way she moves her hands, the flick of her hair. Mortals give themselves away too
easily. Everything they want is spelled out like words on a page, easy to read if only you know the language.

“Who are you?” she whispers, her voice brittle and frail.

“I don't have a name,” I respond. “Call me whatever you want. But can we skip the formalities and hurry this up? I've been here more than seven hours already. Seven hours I'll never get back.”

She folds her arms over her waist and backs up against the wall. “Hurry
what
up?”

I run a hand through my hair—if I hold onto it, I think it'll grow between my fingers like ivy. “With the wishes. What's the first one? I want to get back to Caliban, so if we can knock out all three wishes by—”

“What wishes?”
The words explode off her tongue. She breathes heavily in the silence that follows.

Wow. She snapped.

All right. Try a different approach. Whatever it takes to get the wishes started.

“Let's start over.” Light, think light, airy, bubbly, like those glittery female classmates she stares at. “I'm a jinn. I'm here to grant three wishes because you had a real, true wish
today, and you lucked out. A jinn—that's me—was assigned to grant it. A wish in your Shakespeare class—of all places. You wished you didn't feel invisible, whatever the hell that means. So, it'd be super-great if you could make your wishes, say, immediately, because until you do I'm stuck here instead of in my own world. So, please, tell me what you wish for. You can do it. Just say ‘I wish for great hair,' and we can get this thing rolling.
Master
,” I tag on the end, rolling my eyes.

“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.