Words that will guide the rest of my life. But I’ve done enough of what I’m supposed to do today. And it’s still my birthday. “That’s what makes it fun,” I say.
Laila hesitates. Neither of us could be called delinquents. But if one of us were the instigator, it’d be me. The salt instead of sugar “we” poured in our mothers’ coffee when we were eight, the heels “we” broke off my mom’s pumps and glued to our own when we were twelve, the hunger strike “we” went on when they said we couldn’t watch that vampire movie a couple of years ago, that was all me. And not because I’m a natural troublemaker. Because I bore easily, which explains the first two. The third is because I’m stubborn. And I hate to be told what I can and cannot do.
Each time, Laila stood by my side, always using the wrong pronoun and saying “we” when our mothers asked whose idea the mischief had been.
I pick up my glass and say the words I know will convince her. “To sixteen.”
Laila snaps up her own glass, clinks it against mine, and repeats the toast. She takes the first sip. “Not bad.” She licks her lips. “Hints of tobacco.”
Wine shoots out of my nose. “Like you’d know that.”
Laila runs her fingertip around the rim of her glass as a mischievous smile plays on her lips. “Maybe you’re not the only one with a rebellious streak.”
I could be blown over by fairy dust. “Well, well, well. Little Laila.”
Embarrassment consumes her petite face. “It was only a couple of times.”
“Of course,” I say.
“See, there was this boy—”
“Of course.”
The color springing to Laila’s cheeks matches the wine.
“Tell me,” I say.
And she does. By the time we finish the dishes, despite the supposedly higher tolerance of Jinn, Laila and I are tipsy. We share this first like so many others. And we talk like we haven’t in months. Maybe years. The closer to sixteen I inched, the further from Laila I ran. Stubborn. And to what end? Though Laila’s wearing those see-through pink harem pants and can’t wait to be a genie, she’s still the Laila I grew up with. My oldest friend. My only friend.
*
“Look at this,” Lalla Nadia says as we take slow, measured steps into the living room.
Her long fingernail points to a plastic-encased photograph. “You two and my little Hana at Halloween. Too cute. Just like today. Well, except for Azra.”
Of course except for Azra. Because I swore long ago that the matching genie costume my eleven-year-old self is wearing in that photo would be the first and last such outfit I’d ever step into. A vow not even the gold ensemble Hana brought for me tonight could break. The Afrit can make me be their beck-and-call girl but I’ll be damned if I’m going to look like one. Still, the tug on my heart upon realizing Hana was including me means the costume now hangs in the back (the way back) of my closet.
While Laila peers over Nadia’s shoulder, I scoop up an album of my mother’s I’ve never seen before. The first picture of her and Sam sporting big hair and backpacks tells me it’s from high school. I flip through until I arrive at prom night.
The abundance of photos of my mother, in a neon-orange dress only she could pull off, and Samara, who’s spilling out of a tight, red, strapless dress, almost makes me miss the lone one of my mom and her date. Tall with hair the color of volcanic rock, the cute boy clings to her waist. She leans into him, the warmth in her gold eyes as strong as anything she’s ever directed my way. I wiggle the picture out, wanting to ask my mother what happened to this boy she was so enamored of, when Hana calls from the garage, “Laila, Azra, where are you?”
Laila jumps up and grabs a shopping bag off the end table. I slide the picture of my mother and her prom date into my back pocket and follow her into the garage. I know something’s up when I have to weave around a tall stack of cardboard boxes full of the books my mother and I packed away to make room for her growing collection of Moroccan tea cups.
Standing at the end of the makeshift wall is Farrah. She smacks her gum and holds out her palm. “IDs,” she says.
Laila giggles and starts to move past Farrah.
“Back o’ the line, blondie,” Farrah says in a deep voice. “Unless you got an ID. Showing skin ain’t everything.”
Clearly Laila and I weren’t the only ones who continued to drink.
The headband in Farrah’s hair changes colors like a disco ball as she twirls the tassels dangling off the waistband of her teal harem pants. She then breaks into laughter. “They’re here, Mina!” she yells over her shoulder.
Phone to her ear, Mina appears behind Farrah. She leans in and whispers, “Aiden,” to which Farrah nods knowingly.
“That’s right, babycakes,” she says, curling a lock of her chestnut hair around her finger. “Next Saturday means the one at the end of next week. Oh, and be sure to wear those jeans I got for you.” She hangs up and sighs. “Body of a Jinn, brain of a turkey. Anyway…” She digs her hand into her sapphire-blue bra top. “Here you go. Happy Birthday, Azra.”
In my hand is a fake ID.
Farrah drops the bouncer act. “And I made one for you, Laila.”
I wonder just how much Laila’s been hanging out with them all lately because she seems as taken aback as I am.
“You guys made these?” she says. “With magic?”
I study mine. The fine lines of the background grid, the blue of the state seal, the glinting of the metallic stamp, everything looks perfect.
Downplaying her usual soda-pop effervescence, Mina taps her nail against her phone and shrugs. “It’s just a side business.”
“But why?” Laila asks. “It’s not like we need to make money.”
With a sly grin, Mina says, “Money’s not the only thing humans will trade with.”
“What else do you need?” Laila says.
“I haven’t done homework since the day I turned sixteen,” Mina says with pride. She nods to me. “I can teach you if you want.”
Farrah taps Laila’s ID. “She taught me.”