My mother holds up a hand. “It’s got nothing to do with me. Azra’s gifted. She was far more advanced when she woke up this morning than either of us were after a week. Probably a month.”
This is the first I’ve heard of this. My mother seemed pleased with my skills, but all day, she simply nodded each time I made something appear or disappear, or blow up or knit back together. She’s probably exaggerating, like when she said I had a talent for gymnastics. She kept on encouraging me even though after every class she had to employ the power to heal fellow Jinn that comes with her gold bangle and stitch up an open wound on my forehead or mend a broken toe.
Isa waves her hand. “Well, naturally Azra’s gifted. She’s your daughter, Kalyssa.”
Now Jada and Raina share a look, and Nadia’s the one clearing her throat.
Boy was I na-?ve.
Nadia swivels her head to address the entire table. “And that’s wonderful news for the girls’ Zar. Strength in numbers.”
Over the rim of the wineglass she’s already drained by half, Yasmin narrows her eyes at me.
She’s giving me attitude? After what she just did? The gate key calls to me from my front pocket. Pushing back against my desire to flee, I change the subject and say to Yasmin, “You shouldn’t have done that to Henry.”
She points at her ample chest and widens her gold eyes. “Me? What did I do?”
“You slammed the door in our neighbor’s face.” I look at my mother. “Our human neighbor’s face.”
Though I’m more concerned with her insulting Henry, I say the second part because I know it will rankle our elders.
My mother chokes on her chicken. “Using magic?”
Though Yasmin’s only response is to lower her eyes to her plate, I nod vigorously. It’s followed by an equally strong nod from Laila and, to my surprise, from Hana.
Raina puts her fork down. “Did he notice?”
Sitting up straighter in her chair, Yasmin says, “Certainly not. I’m no amateur.”
“Well,” Raina says, “no cause for alarm. Besides, what good are powers if you can’t have a little fun every once in a while? Especially with the humans?”
The tip of my mother’s knife spears a cherry tomato. Seeds spurt past her plate, creating a polka-dot pattern on the tablecloth.
Raina’s, and now Yasmin’s, dismissiveness of humans has always been a source of contention for my mother.
Samara quickly intervenes. “I’m the last Jinn to put a damper on fun, but, really, Yasmin should be setting an example for the other girls considering how long she’s been doing this. She knows the importance of not exposing our magic.”
Remaining true to the way their Zar has always functioned, Lalla Isa and Lalla Jada let the stronger personalities dominate the conversation.
The same way Laila, always the peacemaker of our Zar, chimes in with, “Plus, it wasn’t very nice.”
Raina and Yasmin snort at the same time. My mother smiles, but her nostrils still flare. Raina is my mother’s least favorite “sister” even if she would never admit it. And Samara is my mother’s favorite. Like mother like daughter, generation to generation.
7
Our mothers have retreated to the living room where they’re indulging in wine and ancient history as they flip through a collection of photo albums. Nostalgia seems to have eased the tension that hovered like a rain cloud over the dinner table. Well, nostalgia and the wine.
Yasmin, Hana, Mina, and Farrah ducked out to the garage, claiming they had a surprise to work on.
This leaves Laila and me in the kitchen cleaning up my birthday dinner. Serves me right. I wanted today to be like any other day.
Laila stacks a plate in the dishwasher. “Show me more.”
“More what?” I pretend to be ignorant though I’m actually impressed she contained herself for so long. This is why she volunteered us for kitchen duty.
“Anything. Everything. I can’t wait to see what I’ll be able to do.”
I gesture toward the living room, where our mothers are debating who had the cutest pregnancy belly. “You know what you’ll be able to do. You’ve seen it with them our whole lives.”
“But they’re so high level. I want to see what I’ll be able to do.”
My eyes float back before I can stop them.
Laila’s face reddens. “Oh, it’s okay. It’s not like I expect to be as good as you. I really just want to watch you in action.” She clutches my hand. “Az, this is what we’ve been waiting for our whole lives.”
“We” is not the right pronoun, but I can’t tell her that while she’s looking at me with such affection in her eyes. She squeezes my hand. Maybe when we were younger I deserved Laila’s friendship, but why she’s stuck by me all this time, I don’t know. I haven’t been all that friendly the last couple of years. Still, she’s here. And not because she was dragged, unlike me the last few times my mother apped us to her house.
“Okay,” I say to Laila, setting two empty wineglasses on the counter. Recalling the fruity taste of the red wine we had earlier—and picturing what I know of the wine-making process, which consists of a single image of bare feet stomping grapes, I close my eyes until it feels like icicles are stabbing my insides. When Laila yanks my arm, I open my eyes to see our glasses filled with a deep red liquid that I hope tastes like wine and not feet.
A sneaky satisfaction fills me. “Voila!”
Laila starts to clap. I cover her hands with my own to stop her. “Shh. They won’t let us. At least my mom won’t. Your mom would. You’re lucky.”
Confusion passes over Laila’s face. “But we can’t actually drink it.”
“Don’t you want more?” I prod.
“Hmm … we aren’t supposed to.”