Becoming Jinn (2 page)

I rummage through the top drawer of my bathroom vanity until I find an elastic and the pair of bug-eyed sunglasses my mother bought for me last year. I gather my hair into a ponytail and hide my gold eyes behind the tinted shades. It's summer. Well, almost summer. In New England, summer doesn't debut until July. And only if we're lucky. June is always a tease. Still, with tenth grade in the rearview mirror, I can camouflage my new look this way until school starts again. By then, no one will remember what I used to look like.

As if that's a valid concern. I could walk into calculus tomorrow with rainbow-colored dreadlocks and half the class wouldn't even blink an eye.

Being invisible is a trait I've learned all on my own.

 

2

The smell of chocolate fills my nostrils as I head down the stairs. The bracelet slides easily around my wrist but is in no danger of falling off. It doesn't have to be tight like a handcuff to achieve the same effect.

I linger in the kitchen doorway. My mother gathers her long hair with one hand and secures it into a bun with the other. The silk of her emerald kaftan glides across her body, accentuating her graceful movements and making them appear all the more effortless. She leans over our farmhouse table and pushes back her sleeves.

I wrap my hand around my silver bangle. It is identical to the one around my mother's wrist except for the color. Hers, like that of all retired Jinn, shines a deep gold. The same color as her—now, our—eyes.

“Happy birthday, kiddo.” As she takes in my appearance, she shakes her head. “Nice touch with the sunglasses. Very movie star incognito. But the way you're strangling those pretty new locks is criminal.”

I lower the shades so she can see my eyes rolling. Flipping the end of my ponytail, I say, “How else am I supposed to explain the sudden change in length? I'm not the type of girl to get hair extensions. I don't want people to
think
I'm the type of girl who would get hair extensions.”

“Because they'll think you're vain? Or be jealous?” My mother laughs. “Believe me, they've been jealous all along. Yesterday, even I would have sworn you couldn't look any more beautiful.” She smiles. “But I'd have been wrong.”

Despite or maybe because of what I've seen in the mirror, I dismiss her compliment. It's actually my mother who has the capacity to stun. I've spent fifteen, no, sixteen years looking at her, and her beauty still catches me by surprise.

She returns her attention to her pastry bag and with a gentle squeeze pipes the second “a” of my name in gold icing.
Azra.
The letters shimmer atop the chocolate-frosted cake. I know from previous birthdays how sugary the combination is, but nothing's too sweet for us. Salt, we are sensitive to, but the amount of sugar we eat would incite comas in humans.

She underlines my name with a squiggle of gold. Then she pipes that loaded “16” underneath. The exclamation mark she adds causes me to use my long fingernails to scratch at the skin underneath my bangle.

“So,” my mother says, “just in case your stubbornness kept you under the covers for the better part of the day, I scheduled the party for tonight.”

The groan that escapes my lips is a reflex. She knows I don't want this party because she knows I don't want this birthday.

At least the guest list is short. It's not like I have any friends from school. Having to hide who we are from humans means our social circle consists solely of fellow Jinn.

My mother wanted to invite all five of the female Jinn who make up her Zar, the lifelong friends she calls her “sisters,” and their daughters, who, once we all reach sixteen, will officially make up mine. But I negotiated her down to just Samara, my mother's best friend, and her daughter, Laila, whom my mother has been desperate for me to make my best friend since we were born. They're the closest I have to a family.

My mother then makes me promise to be good, like I'm turning six instead of sixteen.

“I'd appreciate it if you could dial down the attitude for the party,” she says. “Laila hasn't turned yet. Let her be excited, okay?”

She sinks sixteen candles into the smooth icing, and I promise to try. But I know it's a promise I won't be able to keep. The only way I could is if the wish I make when I blow those candles out comes true and this band magically falls off my wrist. But I know better. Birthday candles, eyelashes, shooting stars, that's not how wishes are granted. Being selected by the Afrit, that's what makes wishing so.

Even if I don't get a birthday wish, I should be able to spend the day however I want, wherever I want. Sun, sand, and a book. Maybe mussels for lunch. Considering we live less than ten minutes from a four-mile-long sandy shoreline, that's a wish even a newbie genie like myself could easily grant.

“If the party isn't until later,” I say, “we can spend the whole day at the beach, right?”

“We could,” my mother says, “but I think we need to start practicing.”

The perfectly decorated cake leaps from the counter, beelining for my head. My instinct to duck kicks in a second after my instinct to throw my hands in the air. The cake freezes, hovering three feet above the hand-painted Moroccan tile floor.

I walk a circle around it, amazed not that the mass of chocolate is floating but that I'm the one making it float. Unlike the magic I've been doing upstairs in my room, this just happened. It was automatic. Something engaged even before my brain could.

I admit it. Having powers doesn't suck. If only they didn't come with being told when and how to use them.

“Who needs practice?” I say with confidence, despite the quiver in my hands.

Crumbs fly and chocolate icing splatters the dark cherry cabinets as the cake plummets to the floor. The three-second rule doesn't even get a chance to be applied, for the cake reassembles in perfect form in less time than it takes to blink.

My mother smiles and places her hands on her curvy hips. “Practice? Certainly not me.”

No, my mother doesn't need practice. She's been doing magic since before I was born. Since the day she turned sixteen, probably even earlier. The rules were different back then.

I wipe the single leftover dollop of brown off the kitchen table. As I suck the icing from my finger, my heart pounds. I have no idea how I summoned the magic that suspended the cake in midair or if I can do it again. I'm as curious as I am terrified to find out.

 

3

“Now,
Azra, now!”

At this moment, my mother is the one terrified. With good reason.

Flames from the inferno I ignited lick the shelf above the fireplace, threatening to consume her collection of Russian nesting dolls.

“Concentrate like I showed you!” My mother springs back from the stone hearth as a flickering yellow flame paws at her foot. “Like you did before.” She positions herself behind her favorite pumpkin-colored armchair, more willing to sacrifice it than her hand-beaded slippers. “With the cake.”

“I am,” I grumble, even though I'm not. We've been at it all morning. My mother's aggressive agenda has taken the magic right out of these lessons. Memorizing the periodic table was more fun than this.

Her worried eyes dart toward the mantelpiece, and the rosy-cheeked Russians dance over our heads, landing safely on the couch.

“This isn't working,” I say, upending the empty bucket in my hand. I release my grip, and the metal pail falls to the floor with a hollow clank. The drops of water I've managed to conjure are less than the amount of saliva I could summon sans magic. “How about we compromise and I turn the faucet on with my mind?”

An ember hurtles past the hearth and lands on the antique Turkish prayer rug. My mother stamps it out and shakes her head. “Come on, Azra. Dig deeper than your surface instincts. This isn't hard.”

“
For
you.
” The frustration in my voice just slips out.

And an admonishment stabs right back.

A
zap!
ten times stronger than a shock from a shuffle across a wool rug pierces the back of my neck. The source of my electric jolt materializes a second later. Yasmin, one of my Zar “sisters.”

Having arrived via Jinn teleportation, she quickly drops the red clay pot she's holding onto the coffee table and shouts, “Lalla Kalyssa, watch out!”

Sable-black hair flying behind her, Yasmin rushes to the fireplace, nudging (more like
shoving
) my mother aside. With less effort than it takes to inhale deeply, Yasmin conjures a wall of water that douses the sizzling fire. The charred logs eke out a final hiss as she dissipates the resulting smoke before it fills the room.

“
Phew!
” she says, tossing her long hair off her shoulder. “Good thing I apped when I did.”

This is my first time sensing an apporting Jinn. Turns out, it's less like being licked by a puppy and more like being stung by a wasp.

Or in Yasmin's case, a swarm of wasps.

By mutual unspoken agreement, we haven't seen each other in months. For me, these few seconds are enough to reinforce why.

“I mean,” Yasmin says, thrusting back her shoulders, “someone could have gotten hurt.”

The muscles in my jaw tense, preventing me from returning her condescending smile. Though, since it's always condescending, I should just call it her smile.

My mother straightens her kaftan. “Thank you, Yasmin. Azra was just about to conjure the water. And if not, well…” She twiddles her fingers. “I would have never let her get hurt.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” For once, the patronizing tone is missing from Yasmin's voice. She blinks her thick eyelashes and lowers her gold eyes. “I didn't mean to imply you couldn't have conjured the water, Lalla Kalyssa.”

“Lalla” is a term of endearment and respect often used when speaking to a female Jinn one is very close to, kind of like how humans refer to family friends as “aunt” or “uncle” even though they aren't related by blood. I almost believe Yasmin's usage is sincere.

Almost.

“Anyway…” Yasmin waves her silver-bangled hand. “My mom wanted me to return your tagine.”

Running a finger along the conical dish, my mother says, “The original this time. Not a conjured replica. Thank her for that.” She floats the red-glazed tagine straight from Marrakesh, which she swears is better than any magic can create, into the kitchen. “And thank you for bringing it, Yasmin. Though I did expect you yesterday. I had planned to start cooking Azra's special dish this morning.”

Back straight as a rod, Yasmin places a hand on her heart. “My apologies, Lalla Kalyssa. I forgot you like to spend all day cooking. Like a human.”

She smiles, and I expect to see fangs. She's always seemed more serpent than genie.

She slithers closer as her almond-shaped eyes scan my body. “At least your bangle didn't do much to improve—” She covers her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, I mean change your appearance, Azra.” She flips her hair. “We had to move states.”

This bangle may change a lot of things, but it doesn't change this: Yasmin getting under my skin in less than five minutes. This time though, instead of scratching and walking away, I burrow right back under her perfect complexion.

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought it had something to do with a sloppy lottery rigging. Right about the time you started granting wishes…”

Yasmin's flared nostrils are at odds with her syrupy tone. “Having trouble with the H
2
O?” She kicks the empty bucket with her foot. “Don't worry, sweetie. Sometimes the Afrit wait months before assigning wish candidates. Me getting the hang of this in a day was probably a fluke.” She snorts. “Took Farrah weeks.”

Fluke? Sweetie?
That's. It. So what if Yasmin's been an official Jinn for almost a full year? Older means older. Period. Not wiser. And sure as Jinn not better.

Narrowing my eyes, I glare at my silver bangle. My heels drive into the wood floor as I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on the
thud thud, thud thud
of my heart. The harsh squawk of a blue jay in the front yard. The traces of my mother's vanilla perfume. The weight of the humidity in the air. Instead of letting it all distract me, I do as my mother instructed and absorb these elements of nature that surround me, welcoming them, internalizing them, commingling their energy with my own.

The sudden shock of current that shoots through my body ends in my fingertips. Water sloshes over the side of the pail, puddling around my bare feet. And Yasmin's.

“Azra!” Yasmin leaps back. “These are
lea-ther
!”

My mother's fleeting smirk doesn't escape my notice as I shove my trembling fingers into my pockets. Still, I'm a bit surprised to hear her unsubtle sayonara.

“No harm done,” she says, drying Yasmin's gold gladiator sandals with a swish of her hand. “There, you're good to go. Thanks again for returning the tagine in time for Azra's birthday.”

As if this reminds her, Yasmin tips her head in my direction. “Oh, yes. Happy Birthday, Azra.” She squares her shoulders and snaps her heels together. “See you later.”

And she's gone. Disappeared. Like a snake down a hole.

The mutual unspoken agreement between my mother and I is not to acknowledge that Yasmin, like her mother, Raina, makes her skin as itchy as mine. Instead, she eases over to me, extracting my fists from my pockets. “Better than picturing a wrench, isn't it?”

She's referring to the way I conjured the tools earlier. Simple visualization is, according to my mother, the equivalent of a cheap parlor trick.

“Inelegant,” she says.

“But effective,” I say, nodding to the box of tools at the front door, poised for donation.