Laila pokes me with her elbow, and I look at her license. It says she’s five-foot-six and forty-two.
Behind Farrah’s back, Mina holds her finger to her lips and shakes her head.
“A few more months,” Farrah says, “and you’ll be able to app, Laila. Then you can sneak out and meet us at a club. An over-twenty-one club. That’s where the best bands are at.” She starts ticking off her fingers. “Rat Tooth and Fungus and Bloody—”
“Weeks,” Laila says. “My birthday is in weeks, not months.”
“I know.” Pink spreads across Farrah’s cheeks. “Sure, of course, you’ll be able to app right away. Unlike me. I bet Azra can already app.”
I can, but does that speak more of my abilities or Farrah’s?
“Are you going to let them in or not?” Hana calls.
Laughing, Mina and Farrah hook arms, spring past the wall of boxes, and cry, “Ta-da!”
Laila and I follow to find Hana sitting at a dark wood bar surrounded by five other backless stools with red-leather seats.
“Kickin’, right?” Hana says.
Yasmin sidles up to the bar and, with a drawl that confirms her alcohol intake, says, “I don’t know why you’re bothering. She’s never going clubbing with us.” Her icy tone makes that sound more like a threat than a statement. “I mean, Azra’s too stuck-up about being Jinn to even wear the outfit Hana made.”
Made? I reach out and touch Laila’s sheer scarf. The material’s too rich to be dime-store quality. “Hana, you made these genie outfits? As in conjured?”
“As in sewed,” Yasmin snipes. “By hand.”
My stomach lurches.
“You know she’s always had a thing for designing,” Yasmin says. “No, wait, you probably don’t.”
Mina hides her head in her phone as she says slowly, “You haven’t really been around much, Azra.”
Hana’s eyes dart to mine before fixating on a spot on the concrete floor.
Suddenly Farrah blurts out, “Neither have we.” Everyone stares at her. She sets her hands on her hips. “Screw it, it’s true.”
With deliberate steps, Laila leaves my side and moves to the center of the room. “Well, we’re all here now, so maybe the past can stay in the past?”
The hush that comes over the garage contrasts with the raucousness of our mothers that flows through the closed door.
Hana, Mina, and Farrah hover by the metal shelves against the far wall. With Yasmin on one side of the room, me on the other, and Laila in between, the dynamics of our Zar reveal themselves.
Yasmin breaks the silence by plunking a glass bottle on top of the bar. “Perhaps we need to take our cue from them.” She begins to fill six shot glasses with a green liquor. “Absinthe.” Her tone infuses the word with sex and danger. Surely she’s been perfecting this. Nothing comes off sounding so velvety without practice.
“You conjured that?” Laila asks, eyes wide.
Yasmin wets her lips. Again, undoubtedly, a rehearsed move. “I could, but I didn’t have to. Lalla Kalyssa had it.”
Though she’s used the respectful “Lalla,” the way my mother’s name spills from Yasmin’s devil-red lips comes across as anything but respectful.
“Where?” I ask, my tone more accusatory than I meant. Not that I didn’t mean to accuse, I just didn’t mean to sound like I was accusing. “My mom only drinks wine.”
The edges of Yasmin’s lips curl into a predatory smile. “Or so you think. I bet there’s a lot you don’t know. About your mother. About lots and lots and lots of stuff.”
We’ve always rubbed each other the wrong way, but tonight there’s something underlying Yasmin’s posturing. She’s the quintessential silverback pounding her D-cup chest.
I should ignore her. But the impatient tapping of her foot makes me focus on the lineup of shot glasses. I’m preparing to send them and the green liquid inside flying as payback for slamming the door in Henry’s face when I steal a glance at Laila, still standing between us with hope in her eyes. I owe her. So instead of the first shot glass crashing to the ground, it soars across the room, thanks to my powers. I catch it with one hand.
“Nice, Azra,” Farrah says. “Took me a week to get the hang of levitating.”
“Thanks, it’s no big deal,” I say, though the glass shakes the tiniest bit in my hand.
With an exaggerated eye roll, Yasmin zooms the remaining shot glasses around the room. They stop with a jolt and bob in front of each of the other girls.
Laila raises her glass in the air. “To lifelong friends.”
I focus on her as I repeat the words. I then feel the burn of my first, and last, shot of absinthe all the way to my toes. Laila’s grimace as she sets her glass on the bar tells me she feels the same.
She loops the shopping bag around her arm and says, “Guess now’s as good a time as any.” With a wobble in her step, she returns to my side and pulls out a small blue box that she places in my hand. “Happy Birthday.”
The burn in my gut turns to nausea as I lift the lid.
Connected to a silver chain lies a figure eight on its side. I touch the pendant that means “never ending” and am overwhelmed with guilt. The infinity symbol attached to this necklace matches the engraving on the gold locket that used to belong to Samara. The locket Samara gave Laila months ago. The locket Laila no longer has. The locket Laila knows is no longer in her possession but doesn’t know is now in mine.
My “thank you” comes out in a whisper, causing Laila to bite her bottom lip. “Do you really like it? I wasn’t sure since you’ve always worn your ‘A.’ But my mom thought maybe you’d be ready for a change.”
Though I’ve worn my A necklace nearly every day of my life, I hesitate for only a moment before unhooking the clasp. I test the pendant’s weight in my hand before dropping it in my pocket. It’s lighter than I would have thought.