The noxious odor causes my eyes to water. I’m mopping up sewage from an overflowed toilet, humming this new song I just heard on the radio. Even the putrid smell doesn’t make me want to return to the stale air of my bedroom that I’ve been stuck breathing in for the past week.
My mother grounded me, forbidding me from leaving the house for all purposes, including work. Today’s my first day back, thanks to Nate. Somehow he made sure I had a job to return to. That they gave my snack bar shifts to the new girl and saddled me with bathroom attendant duties doesn’t even matter.
Wringing out the mop, I force back bile. Okay, so it matters a little.
Still, I’m here. Nate’s working. Henry said he’d stop by. Even seeing Chelsea can’t bother me today.
Back at the desk at the front of the women’s restrooms, I strip off my two pairs of gloves and kick off the work boots I borrowed from Ranger Teddy’s office. I agreed to clean up the mess, but there was no way I was wading through that cesspool in flip-flops. I text Henry my locale and stare out the tiny holes in the screen door, waiting for him to arrive.
My mother allowed him a single, brief visit during my imprisonment. She kicked things off by securing his eternal promise to never reveal our secret. Something in the way she muttered under her breath and kneaded her hands when Henry repeated the exact sentence she demanded (“I shall never utter, write, or think a word about the Jinn world in anyone’s presence other than a member of the Nadira family.”) makes me wonder if she wasn’t sealing his vow with some sort of spell.
Even though her decision not to erase Henry’s memory came less out of the goodness of her heart and more out of her fear that Sam was right about the spell not being powerful enough, I was grateful. I not only endured but agreed with her lecture on how irresponsible my behavior has been, how the infringement on my freedom is a result of me not taking things seriously, and how I need to be conscious of the fact that my actions have a ripple effect on others.
The last part stung. Seeing that baby all alone, knowing I was the one responsible, confirmed every fear I’ve ever had about being Jinn. Granting wishes in real life is nothing like in the movies or on TV. These are real people who want real things that I have no real idea how to give them—at least without hurting them, someone else, or, apparently, myself.
Henry’s convinced if he hadn’t followed me, none of this would’ve happened. While I have my doubts about that, I’m pretty sure the fact that he blames himself played a role in my mother’s decision. As did my renewed dedication to the cantamen.
The codex and I spent the week of my grounding together. We may not know all of each other’s secrets, but we are certainly on a first-name basis.
And, it turns out, a description of the bronze bangle does indeed lie on the second page, but it offers no details beyond what my mother told me. How to get the probation lifted? What kinds of mistakes might ramp me up to the next level of punishment? What that next level might be? Nothing. Despite flipping through the book every day of my grounding, I couldn’t find another reference. Figures that my Jinn ancestors would think it was cute not to include an index. There’s not even a table of contents. Isn’t that funny? Um, no. Not at all.
The haphazard way the cantamen is organized means there’s no sense in trying to read it as a straight narrative, starting on page one and following sequentially to page whatever (apparently my ancestors also believed page numbers were superfluous). Over the years, newer generations of my Jinn family magically inserted their own pages ahead of those of previous generations, sometimes smack in the middle of a spell or a Jinn’s personal history. There’s even an entire section in the middle left entirely blank. The thing is less user-friendly than a software manual.
If I didn’t think tapping Henry to upgrade the relic to the digital age would send my mother’s blood pressure skyrocketing, I’d have asked him. Because studying the cantamen appears to be as worthwhile as my mother said it would be. The nuts and bolts of wishes my family has granted are documented in such detail that if only I didn’t have to slog through recipes for sugar cookies and reviews of the best beaches in Mexico, I just might be on my way to becoming a model Jinn (minus the whole exposing us to humans thing).
Nature laughs at the thought, sending a stream of sun through the open restroom window that reflects off my bronze bangle and blinds me. I cover the shiny metal with my hand. If I still had my powers I could have used them to clean up this disgusting mess. That’s what I get for being so cocky, so flippant, so superior to all of this. Poetic justice indeed.
I’m more scared than I’ve admitted to my mother that the Afrit will be evaluating my magic so closely. Before my probation, I’m not sure I believed tortura cavea was real. Now, well, the Afrit not only have my attention but my full benefit of the doubt. The question is, how many chances do I get before they take me away from everyone I care about? My mother. Henry. Lisa. Laila. Samara. My Zar sisters (most of my Zar sisters). And Nate. Don’t forget Nate.
Maybe the Afrit should rethink their rules about keeping Jinn separated from our families and discouraging attachments to humans, because the more I gain the more I have to lose.
Afrit, I am humbled. Can you give me my life back? Who would have thought I’d actually be asking for my trusty silver bangle? Or that it would equate to me having a life?
Cheap toilet paper scratches my chin as I retrieve a tall stack from the supply closet and carry it to the long line of stalls. A knock on the screen door makes me pivot, and the rolls tumble to the ground. At least the floor’s clean, having been freshly mopped by me.
I’m expecting to see Henry, but it’s Nate. Nate with a fresh haircut, a deeper tan, and a sexy smile aimed squarely at me. Score one for absence and fondness.
Weaving my way through the toilet-paper obstacle course, I approach the entrance. I draw upon my learned skill of pretending to disguise the fact that my heart’s about to bust through my rib cage. I lean my arm against the doorjamb and stretch out my leg, keeping the screen door open with my courtesy-of-being-Jinn, pre-probationary, perfectly pedicured toes.
“Is your mom okay?” Nate asks.
This is not the reaction I expected. “Um, yeah, I guess.”
“Because your aunt seemed pretty freaked out last week. I was coming to say hi when she nearly tackled me, asking me to gather up their beach gear, saying they had no time. That your mom wasn’t feeling well. Seemed 911 emergency worthy.”
It was. But the sirens were for me, not her. “Oh, that. My aunt has a flair for the dramatic. My mom gets migraines.” From me. “Lal—, I mean, Aunt Sam just overreacted. But she’s fine. Thanks for asking. And for getting their stuff.”
“I dropped it off a few days ago. I was hoping to see you, but your mom said you were grounded. Do anything really good?”
His raised eyebrow and mischievous grin make me glad for the support of the doorway.
“I mean good in a bad way,” he adds nervously. “I know you wouldn’t get grounded for being good, of course.”
Books and covers and judging, Nate’s the poster boy for that warning. Outside he’s all underwear model but inside he’s just as much a self-conscious dork as the rest of us.
“Maybe you could tell me about it over lunch?” Nate’s rock-hard forearm that rests against the door frame and his smooth palm that envelops my hand compensate well for his inner geek. “Unless you’ve got other plans.”
“Yes,” I say, adrenaline soaring so high I expect to see a syringe sticking out of my chest. “I mean, no, no other plans. I mean … lunch sounds nice.” I do not cover my inner dork nearly as well.
“Cool. I’ll meet you on the beach near my usual chair?”
“Okay. I can grab something from the snack bar for us, if you want.”
He squeezes my hand. “Azra, don’t you know I’m a gentleman? The guy always picks up the tab on the first date.”
Date. First date. As in an expectation of a second.
He smiles. His teeth gleam toothpaste-commercial white.
“I’ve got it covered. Trust me on this.”
On this. On that. On anything.
* * *
The vomit on the ramp up to the restrooms is not my problem. I’m on lunch break. I shove the mop in my fill-in’s hand as I skip down the planks.
The beach is jam-packed. Being sequestered in my bedroom all week and the restrooms all day, I’ve got a touch of stranger anxiety.
Knowing Nate likes my hair down, I’ve taken it out of its usual ponytail and the wind blows the long strands across my face. I tuck as much as I can behind my ears as I scan the area around Nate’s lifeguard chair. I see him a bit past it, waving both arms above his head. I kick off my flip-flops and jog toward him. Too eager. I downshift to a casual stroll. Too uninterested. My jerky-paced trot ends at a red blanket and a spread worthy of ten people.
He said “date.” I know he did. Was he joking? Is this actually a group thing? I should have known.
“Are we expecting company?” I try not to sound disappointed.
Nate rounds his shoulders. “Guess it is a lot, huh?”
He’s blushing. At me.
“I just wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says.
“Wow,” is all I can think to say.
There’s a plate of cheese and crackers, rolled cold cuts and sliced bread, a heaping Tupperware of potato salad, a matching one with a green salad, even a container of sushi. Not to mention the pile of chocolate chip cookies and the tower of fudge brownies, which in truth is all he needed for me.
We don’t sell any of this at the concession stand. “You brought all this from home?”
Nate kneels on the blanket, pulling plates made from recycled plastic out of his backpack. His sheepish smile forces me to sit rather than risk my knees actually buckling.
“Well,” he says, “I knew you were coming back today, and I … I wanted to do something special.”
That’s it, Azra, he likes you, accept it, I hear Samara saying in my head. Now work it, honey.
I stretch out my legs and reach for a cookie. “But why?” I ask Nate.
Samara groans at me.
“Because…” Nate runs his hand over his newly cropped hair. “Geesh, Azra, this is that vibe I was talking about. You are not easy to read.”
I like you, don’t you know that? What’s it going to take for you to know that?
The cookie gets caught in my throat. These words are not Samara’s. They are not mine. They are Nate’s.
I choke, unable to swallow. My coughing results in crumbs spewing from my mouth.
Instantly at my side, Nate’s ready to do the Heimlich. “Azra, are you okay?”
I hold up a finger and clutch my throat. Nate might not be able to read me, but I can read him. I can read his thoughts. I accept the water bottle he offers me and drink slowly.
How is this happening? Panic overwhelms me. The Afrit. They’ll think I’m doing this on purpose. But I’m not, I swear I’m not. I’m not using my powers. How can I? I’m not granting him a wish. How can I be reading his mind?
All this for nothing. Makes sense. She’s so super smart. And funny. Of course, she doesn’t like me. I was wrong.
“No!” I cry in response to Nate’s thoughts before I can stop myself. I clamp my hand over my mouth. How could he not be sure if I liked him? How could he question such a thing? Does he not know how sweet he is? Does his house have no mirrors?
I cover by wiping crumbs off my mouth with the back of my hand. “I mean, no, please, don’t do that choking maneuver on me or anything. I’m okay. Just took too big of a bite.” I pick up the cookie, nibble the edge, and force myself to swallow. “It’s good, really good. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Nate moves hesitantly in front of me. “But take another sip of water, okay?”
Nate lays his hand on my leg. He pats my kneecap and then rubs my lower thigh, gently, reassuringly, like a caring doctor. But I’m not a patient. And his hand is on my thigh. We look at each other, and sparks may as well fly.
I feel it. And he feels it. I know because I can still read his mind. “The ability to read human minds outside the wish-granting ritual is rare,” my mother had said. How rare is it to be able to read minds when one’s powers are blocked? Is my mind-reading not actually tied to my Jinn blood? Am I like a psychic now too or something? The surprises keep on coming. Why do I think this is going to prove to be a problem?
Hot, she is so hot.
When Nate’s thoughts travel further than his hand, I close my eyes, not wanting to follow. At least not right now. My face burns so strongly, I expect it to actually shoot out flames. As inexplicably as I entered his mind, I’m out again.
Nate’s making me an assorted buffet plate. My pulse races and my hands shake from both the astounding realizations I’ve just had: Nate likes me. I can read minds. The two battle for supremacy.
Henry’s at the water’s edge. Oh man, wait until he hears about me actually having ESP. My bronze bangle clanks against the green plate Nate’s handing me.
On second thought, maybe I shouldn’t tell Henry. With me on Jinn probation, it’ll only make him worry. Still, it would feel strange not to say anything. He’s experienced everything else with me. It’s almost like it’s not real until he knows.
Then again, my desire to share the second bulletin about Nate is less intense.
Chelsea sprints down the beach, stops behind Henry, and places her hands over his eyes. Making a show of it, Henry fumbles behind him, trying to catch Chelsea’s petite body, which wiggles and keeps itself just out of reach. She inches forward, playfully testing him, and Henry nabs her. His long arm sheathes her small waist. His hand slides to her bikini-clad bottom. And cups it.
Henry! That’s not my Henry!
Giggling, Chelsea leans into his palm. Henry spins around, picks her up, and dashes into the ocean. He toys with her, pretending to drop her. She shrieks and slaps his chest.
Nate sees me staring at them. “They’ve been spending a lot of time together this week.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“You guys are neighbors, right?”
“Friends.”
“Friends,” Nate repeats in a tone that suggests a dozen question marks would follow its written form.
I nod, still watching the couple who appear to be reenacting a cheesy romantic comedy.
“She’s not so bad,” Nate says. “Chelsea. I know she can come off as a b—”
“Bitch.”
“Bit strong, is what I was going to say. But, yeah, I guess ‘bitch’ isn’t that far off. But not to everyone. If she likes you, that is.”
The way she hangs on Henry’s arm as they walk up the beach seems to indicate Henry is getting a big thumbs-up.
Nate raises his hand and waves to them.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“We have so much food. And Henry’s your friend.”
I notice he doesn’t say, “And Chelsea’s mine.”
Henry’s smile fades as he gets closer. It’s almost like he doesn’t want to see me.
“Hello,” “Hi,” “Hey,” and “What’s up?” make the rounds before Nate invites Henry and Chelsea to share our lunch. The only good part of them saying yes is that Chelsea adds she can’t stay long. Her break’s almost over.
The blanket has shrunk with the four of us crowded onto it, likely closer than most of us want to be to one another.
I can’t help myself. “I texted you earlier,” I say to Henry.
“I know,” Henry replies, “I was looking for you.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
Chelsea scooches closer to Henry. The look on her face surprises me, more anxious than anything else. Our subsequent painful, banal small talk is mercifully interrupted by two ten-year-old boys who begin to use the empty lifeguard chair as a jungle gym. Chelsea swallows her last piece of sushi. Her third, I think. The only thing she’s touched since sitting down. Meanwhile, I’ve had a turkey sandwich, potato salad, and two brownies.
“Damn,” Chelsea says, “I better go deal with that.” She checks her watch. “I’m back on the clock anyway.”
Nate’s on his feet. “I’ll help. I’ve already yelled at those two twice today.”
Chelsea looks directly at me. “It was nice to see you, Azra.”
I don’t think she’s ever said my name. I’m waiting for the catch, but all Chelsea does is smile. It’s so genuine, I know it’s fake.
“Talk to you later, Henry?” she says.
He flirtatiously replies, “Absolutely, my lady.”
My lady? Wasn’t long ago that Henry referred to me that way. How quickly ladies can be dethroned.
“So,” I say when Nate and Chelsea are out of earshot, “what’s that all about?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Henry says gruffly.
Holy attitude. Henry can’t actually like Chelsea, can he? He can’t actually think she’s for real? Every brain cell screams for me to warn him against trusting her, but his tone makes me strangle each tiny voice into silence.
“Did I … do something?” Chelsea or no Chelsea, I can’t risk losing Henry.
Henry’s face softens. “No, course not. I’m happy to see you.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.” I don’t want to be pouting, but I’m pretty sure I am.
“Oh, Azra, I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly.
My skin still crawls from Chelsea’s phoniness. I need to know that Henry’s not being duped.
“Well, I’m worried something might go wrong. Horribly wrong.” I gesture to Chelsea. “Are you guys seriously … friends?” I don’t want to ask if they are more than that.
“She’s not so bad,” Henry says defensively.
I don’t want to (okay, so maybe I do), but now I feel I have no choice but to tell him how Chelsea was making fun of Lisa’s stutter. I’m being careful, not indicating how truly awful she was, when Henry cuts me off.
He waves his hand. “Don’t bother. She told me.”
She what? That seems completely and totally out of character. Unless she’s playing him.
Henry continues, “See, she’s not as bad as you think. She told me the other day. Lisa wanted to go up on the lifeguard chair again, but I said she couldn’t. Chelsea helped avoid a meltdown by giving Lisa her whistle and pretending it was a princess pendant or something. She’s into music, did you know that? She’s going to be choreographing the cheerleading routines this year. Anyway, after we talked, the next day, Chelsea came right up and apologized.”
I’m dumbfounded. I would have bet I’d get my silver bangle back before Chelsea would apologize to anyone. “So you like her, then?”
Henry shifts, sliding next to me so he no longer has to look me in the eye. “I don’t know. She’s okay.”
“But what could you possibly have in common? She’s so … so…”
“Fun? She’s fun, Azra. Easy. Uncomplicated.”
The opposite of me.
“Oh, okay,” I say, trying not to sound hurt.
“Hey, Az, it’s just that a lot’s going on right now.”
I touch my bangle. “I know this makes things different, but we can still hang out. It wasn’t just my powers we had in common, you know.”
“I know, but it’s harder. There’s more at stake. I don’t want to make you mess up again.”
I thought Henry knowing I was a Jinn would make things easier. Maybe there really is something to TMI. Because now he feels solely responsible. And afraid. Afraid I’ll get hurt because of him. I know because I am apparently in his head. In his head again. That day at the picnic table, the day after he saw me come home with Nate, when I thought I was just being intuitive, I must have been reading his mind. And Mrs. Pucher’s sister? It wasn’t being in the middle of the ritual that allowed me to hear her thoughts, was it?
“It’s not just stuff with you either,” Henry says. “My parents. Lisa. A lot’s happened since we last talked.”
“Like what?”
He shrugs.
“Tell me.” I put my hand on his forearm, and he tenses.
No. Because you’ll want to try to fix it. And you can’t.
“Henry, forget my magic. Just talk to me like you don’t know I’m the great, all-powerful Oz. Because I’m not. At least not right now.”
Mind-reading aside, of course.
Henry creases his forehead, eyeing me like he knows something’s not quite right. My words hit too close to his thoughts. Still, he off-loads everything that’s been going on while I’ve been under house arrest. And before that. Why didn’t he tell me sooner? Or had he been trying to? By following me, by saying he was stressed, by having that second beer?
Did me, my magic, and I push his problems to the back burner? Or did he use us as an excuse to push his problems to the back burner?
His voice lowers to a hair above a whisper as he explains his parents have been fighting more than usual lately. Lisa’s been upset, acting out.
“She’s peeing her bed,” Henry says. “She hasn’t done that in years.”
Of course Henry’s the one changing her sheets.
In one long breath, Henry then says, “My mom’s sick of having to work two jobs and says my father’s exhausted all possibilities for work around here so she wants us to move in with her folks in New Hampshire and rent our house so they can make their mortgage payments again and my father’s furious with her, saying he’ll never leave and never let strangers sleep in his house.”
My heart beats so fast it makes me dizzy. “So you’re not going?”
Henry picks at a cuticle. “I don’t know. My mom says she’s still leaving. She’s going to take Lisa and just go without my dad.”
“And you?” Henry can’t move to New Hampshire. He just can’t.
“She says it’s my choice. I can stay with my dad or go with her and Lisa.”
Breathe, Azra, breathe. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Henry drops his head into his hands. He rubs his face roughly. When he reemerges, his cheeks and eyes are red. “Because there’s only one reason to go and only one reason to stay.”
He doesn’t have to say it. Even if I couldn’t read his thoughts I’d know what both those reasons are. The only reason to go is to be with Lisa. And the only reason to stay is to be with me.