It’s been two weeks since the Zoe Incident. Two weeks of hanging out with my first non-Jinn friend since elementary school. Because that’s what Henry is.
Thankfully, my mother was wrong about the crush. Henry and I are friends, normal friends, without jealousy, romance, or being Jinn getting in the way.
I add a blue-glass hurricane lamp to the collection of lanterns on the coffee table. Unlike my birthday party, official Zar gatherings are lit exclusively by candlelight. It’s quite beautiful actually. The upcoming reunion, which we’re hosting, is as official as they get. Laila will have finally turned sixteen, and my Zar will have its full-fledged initiation.
Even though we have plenty of time, I’m filling all the lanterns we own with oil now, per my mother’s request. I’ve been a very diligent daughter and Jinn lately. It’s a wonder my mother doesn’t realize something’s up.
The key to my new plan for telling her about Henry is time. The longer he knows and she doesn’t, the better his track record will be. Keeping our secret for a day? A week? Maybe she can brush that off. But if Henry goes a month, two, six? She won’t be able to deny his loyalty.
And I won’t risk him being taken from me. So I’ll confess, just not today. Call it my Scarlett O’Hara plan. Because, after all, tomorrow is another day.
I top off the final lantern and slip my phone out of my back pocket, scrolling to find the last text from Nate. After he assaulted the concession shack door, he texted to apologize. We’ve had a few, mostly banal, exchanges since then. His last message is from a day ago.
Greenheads vicious today. Hope gone when U back.
Me too. Luckily my two scheduled days off coincided with the worst of the biting greenhead fly season. Merciless little suckers.
I reply, “What’s the buzz today?” Then, wondering if that makes any sense, I add, “Flies?”
And with that, our texting remains on a second-grade level.
Returning a black, latticework-style lantern to its hook by the front door, I notice Mr. Carwyn leaning against the railing on his front steps, watching Lisa play in the front yard. The suit and tie he’s wearing is a good sign—another job interview. But not my doing. To my secret relief, Henry won’t let me risk getting into trouble to help.
In private, though, Henry can’t get enough of seeing me use my powers. I spent yesterday magically stitching up the holes in his pockets, sprucing up a pair of his weathered loafers, and flattening out the gathered fabric surrounding the crotch on the ugliest pair of khakis I’ve ever seen. Even I know teenage boys shouldn’t wear pleats.
Still, aside from his wardrobe, a perpetually warm pool, and a fire in the old pit in his backyard, the extent of our magical mischief has been so tame it doesn’t deserve to be called mischief.
When a minivan pulls up to the house, Mr. Carwyn buckles Lisa inside next to another little girl, sending her off on what must be a playdate. He straightens his tie, climbs into his own small SUV, and backs out of the driveway. Mrs. Carwyn’s at work, but I know Henry’s home. And this means, now he’s home alone. It’s time to turn the genie volume up to eleven.
I know just how to start. I’m going to scare the pants off him.
Before I change my mind, I app to Henry’s bedroom. Hearing his clomping footsteps, I slink into his closet.
I’m about to launch out from behind his hanging oxfords when Henry appears in a towel. Though he’s at the beach almost as often as I am, his fair skin tends to burn. He usually wears one of those long-sleeved rashguard surfer shirts, so I had no idea his upper body was so … so … toned. Without his glasses and with his usually unkempt hair wet and plastered against his skull, he doesn’t look anything like my friend Henry.
Droplets of water run off the ends of his hair, sprinkling his shoulders. His hand reaches for the tucked-in corner of the towel, freeing it from his waist.
I should look away.
I don’t.
He’s drying off his back, and I’m staring at his rounded butt cheeks. This is Henry, my friend Henry.
Mortified, I try to app home but lack the necessary concentration and only succeed in hopping two steps forward, crashing right into the skis propped in the corner of Henry’s closet. He turns, and I squeeze my eyes shut. This is why, when I open them back in the safety of my own bedroom closet, I have no idea if Henry saw me or not. My pulse thumps in my temples as I force the picture of Henry’s taut derrière out of my head.
So much for scaring the pants off him. As if I’m the one who’s been caught naked, I wrestle a pair of jeans off its hanger and pull them on right over my shorts. The pile of sweaters on the shelf tumbles to the floor as I extract a gray cardigan from the center of the stack. I’m nervously braiding my stupidly long hair when I hear Henry’s voice.
“Azra? Are you home?”
He’s been in my room a zillion times, but suddenly I don’t want him to come in here. I give up on the braid, rake my fingers through my hair, and rush out of my room.
Henry’s at the bottom of the stairs. I stroll down, trying to act casual. But I can’t look him in the eye. As I pass by, I tell him my mom’s not here so he knows he can speak freely. I lead him into the living room where I begin putting lanterns back on the bookshelf.
Henry helps, setting a brass lamp on the top shelf. His finger glides across the Russian nesting dolls, floats over the Italian mortar and pestle, and stops at the hand-carved Indian chess set.
“Imports, right?” Henry gives no indication that he caught me spying on him. “That’s what your mother supposedly does? How you explain all this cool stuff?”
I utter an affirmative “uh-huh” but keep my back to him as I return another lantern to its original position.
Importing goods from around the world is my mother’s cover story. Like most Jinn, she’s never actually had a human job. Aside from money not being an issue for Jinn, human jobs, like human friends, risk us becoming too ingrained in this world. They grease up Laila’s slip and slide. Most Jinn abstain from both. No surprise I’m one of the few, not one of the many.
Henry sits on the couch across from me. “You’ll be able to travel anywhere. Everywhere.” He snaps his fingers. “Just like that. You’re so lucky.”
Henry’s right. My mother’s ability to apport allowed her to plop us on a beach in Hawaii for the afternoon as the snow piled up at home and whisk me off to that shop on the Île Saint-Louis, the little island in the center of Paris, just to have a cone of the best ice cream (or so she assures me) in the world.
But Henry’s also wrong. I think I was twelve when I fully understood that the ability to wake up in my bedroom in Massachusetts and be eating a fresh-from-the-oven pizza in Naples for lunch came with a price tag that wasn’t paid in dollars or euros. My mother’s souvenirs were a constant reminder that the day I turned sixteen, my desires and choices would be irrelevant. I would be irrelevant. A necessary cog in a wheel whose inner workings I didn’t—and still don’t—quite understand. That day, I shattered my mother’s favorite Chinese vase, swearing I’d never amass such a collection of junk.
Maybe one day I can app to China and find a replacement. If only I could take Henry with me.
He lifts another lantern. It’s Mr. Gemp, the kitschy, tarnished-gold, Aladdin-style lamp with the long spout and curved handle that Hana gave me on my birthday.
“Cheeky and bold,” he says, “hiding in plain sight. I like it. Better than sneaking around and hiding in closets.”
Immediately my face burns. Henry’s innocent look doesn’t fool me. He caught me spying on him. Even I can’t bluff my way out of this one.
* * *
“You’re being careful with him, right?” my mother asks after Henry leaves.
Suppressing my gasp makes the sound that comes out of my mouth closer to a gargle. Has she discovered our secret?
“I know you two are growing close…” she says.
Oh no, it’s worse than her finding out about Henry. This is going to be that kind of talk.
“… but you can’t slip up and let him catch you using your powers.”
Whew. Instantly my relief gives way to guilt.
She tips her head toward the bookshelf. “Thanks for doing the lanterns. Mind if I ask one more favor?”
To ease my conscience, I’d agree to just about anything.
“You’ll stay in this refreshingly pleasant mood for dinner? Nadia, Samara, and the girls are coming for dinner.”
“Great,” I say.
My mother raises an eyebrow. “I invited Mina and Farrah too.”
“But not Yasmin?”
“Raina said she had plans.”
“Then yes, great.”
Skepticism lurks in my mother’s smile but she wants to believe. So do I. Pretty sure we have Henry to thank for that. He was with me when my phone buzzed like a swarm of bees as texts came in from my Zar sisters. They’d added me to a running chain joking about how Farrah could have tried to give that old guy a womb. Henry insisted this was proof that they really did want me to go with them to see Drunken Toad, which turns out to be a pretty decent band. I think he just wants the chance to see them next time—them meaning both the band and my smokin’ hot “cousins.”
A couple of individual texts with Mina (asking about “the Adonis”) and Farrah (asking about my favorite Drunken Toad track) followed, and Hana and I have been e-mailing (mostly about her flash-card strategies but also about my apparently not-short-enough shorts).
My phone dings, and I sneak a peek. Nate: “Flies not bad. Perfect now for hanging.”
I squeeze the phone in my hand. Perfect now. Is that an invitation? Do I have time to accept if it is?
“When’s dinner?” I casually ask my mother.
“They’ll be here at seven-thirty.”
Butterflies kick into gear as I realize the answer to my second question is yes. If only I knew the answer to the first.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I debate texting him back to ask. If it’s not an invitation, and I act like it was, my bug-eyed sunglasses won’t be enough to hide how mortified I’ll be for the rest of the summer. But if it is and I don’t reply …
I’ll just show up. That’s it. That way I don’t have to ask. If Nate still happens to be there, if I happen to run into him, I’ll let him talk first. Life is compromise, right?
I open my sparsely filled jewelry box and let my fingers graze over my A pendant. Have I really not worn it since my birthday? Before then, I could count on one hand the number of times it left my neck. Worse than feeling naked without it, I felt like I was missing a limb. I remove my infinity necklace and hook my A back around my neck. It no longer calms me the way it used to. In fact, since Nate mentioned it, it seems to have the opposite effect.
After brushing out my hair and putting on some lipstick, I pry open my dresser drawer and eye the red lace thong. I’m feeling bolder than usual, but not bold enough for that.
Leaving the thong where it is, I pull out the bra and finger the delicate lace. I have to admit, Yasmin has excellent conjuring skills. And good taste. I peel off my cardigan and T-shirt, slip on the bra, and top it with a light cotton V-necked sweater. The mirror on the back of my bedroom door shows a curvy version of myself thanks to the push-up bra that I don’t want to like but do. It also shows the bright red lace through the thin, white sweater. In an instant, I change the sweater to a deep jade green. Sure, I could have changed the bra to white but then it would no longer match the thong.
Nice try, Azra.
I’m in the hall when Samara’s voice spills through my mother’s closed bedroom door. “I know I’m early. But Laila’s at the mall with some girls from school, and I’m bored.”
Sounds about right, boredom being another Jinn trait and all.
“Just in time,” my mother says, “I’m trying to finish writing this spell. Want to help?”
“Pfft,” Samara says. “Me? What’s with the lack of confidence, Kalyssa? That’s certainly not the girl I remember. The one who spelled that nice policeman to forget the massive after-prom party that set the house on fire?”
My hand seizes the railing. There’s a spell to make someone forget? A spell my mother could use on Henry? A spell I should use on Henry? No, Azra, remember: Scarlett O’Hara plan. Think about that tomorrow. Which, right now, is easy to do since I’m actually less shocked by the idea that there’s a spell to make someone forget than that my mother threw a party. A party that set the house on fire. Is Samara speaking metaphorically?
“Led to my first time conjuring water,” Samara says, answering my question. “Ah, one of my top five nights ever.”
“That was a long time ago,” my mother says. “Powers fade.”
“Powers don’t fade unless you make them, Kal.”
“Not now, Sam.”
“What?”
“I’m not in the mood for one of your lectures on how I’m not living up to my duties. If that’s why you came early—”
“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,” Samara says, feigning innocence. “But since you’ve brought it up … just what do you think you’re doing with Azra?”
I release my grip on the handrail and inch closer to my mother’s door.
“How much have you told her?” Samara asks. “Maybe the rest of the girls aren’t ready, but they will be soon. I’m already dropping bread crumbs for Laila. We know Raina told Yasmin long ago. As for Azra, even I can admit she’s smarter than the rest of them, mine included, which means she’s more likely to get herself into trouble. She needs to know everything.”
So I’m not the only Nadira keeping secrets. Maybe hiding Henry isn’t my fault. Maybe it’s hereditary.
My mother inhales and exhales loudly. “You’re right. I know. She’s always been more like you than me. Skeptical, questioning—”
“That used to be you too, Kalyssa.”
“Precisely why I want her to have this time. You know how moody and withdrawn she’s been the past couple of years. I was hoping, just maybe, she’d have some fun, enjoy it, appreciate the good before learning the bad.”
“It doesn’t have to be bad,” Samara says. “It wasn’t for our parents or their parents. It can be that way again.”
“I thought we were talking about Azra.”
“We are. We’re talking about Azra and Laila and all of them. And us. I don’t know what it’s going to take for you to realize that.”
“You think I don’t miss the way things used to be as much as the rest of you? But I can’t, Sam. I can’t lose anything more.”
Samara’s voice lowers, and even with my ear pressed against the wood, I can’t hear what they’re saying. Maybe if I crack open the door, just a smidge … my hand reaches for the doorknob when all of a sudden a gust of wind rustles my hair.
“Oh my Janna!” Mina’s voice calls from behind me. “Is this … it is!”
I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my hand to my side. Opportunity missed. I turn around to see Mina in a gold sequin crop top and skintight white jeans wiggling my phone.
“The Adonis,” she says, one hand slapping her jutted hip. “Azra, you little vixen!”
“Shh,” I say, pushing her farther into my bedroom and pulling the door shut behind me.
“What?” asks Farrah, who’s wearing a matching silver sequin crop top and black jeggings.
Should have known Farrah would be here too. These two make my mom and Samara look like strangers.
Mina holds up the blurry photo of Nate I snapped while he was on a morning run. She must have backed out of the text message to my contacts.
“The dark-haired boy,” she says to Farrah. “He just asked Azra out on a date at the beach.” Mina faces me. “The question is, why are you still here?”
Farrah grabs the phone. “Let me see that.” She returns to the text. “That’s not an invite.”
“Sure it is.” Mina reclaims the phone. “And I should know.”
“Maybe.” Farrah snatches it again. “But maybe not.”
Before they give me whiplash, I hold up my palm. “Wait.” I hesitate. Am I really about to ask them for dating advice? There is no part of that thought that feels possible to me. I take a breath. “So, what do I do?”
“You go,” Mina says. “But let him find you.”
Farrah fluffs my hair. “And if he’s with another girl, find one of those alabaster boys and kiss him on his milky-white lips!”
Another girl? Nate could be hanging with another girl? With a group of girls? With his lifeguard buddies? “I-I-I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“Farrah?” Mina reaches for my elbow.
“Just say when.” Farrah latches on to my other wrist.
I back up, which only pulls them forward. “What are you—”
“When,” Mina says.
Farrah’s long bangs falling across her winking eye is the last thing I see.