Henry turns around and studies his house. “Huh, how did I not notice that before?”
“Oh,” Laila says, moving closer to Henry, “it’s funny the things we miss that are often right in front of our noses.” She gently lays the cat in his arms and retreats to the front door.
She doesn’t look my way to see how my eyes are begging her not to leave this in my hands. What if Henry’s still suspicious? What if they no longer keep the litter box in the garage? What if the door to the house is locked up tight? What if—
“Ouch.” Henry sticks the finger Slinky just nipped into his mouth. “Stupid, demonic cat. I swear I don’t know why Lisa’s so attached. The mongrel hates me, and the feeling is mutual.”
The giggle that leaves my mouth is so uncharacteristic that I blame the evil absinthe.
Henry smiles. “Find this funny, do you?” He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t if you woke up to this mangy beast standing on your chest like it’s contemplating whether or not to suffocate you with its fat belly.”
I giggle again, enjoying the image of Slinky creeping toward Yasmin’s pointy nose.
Wearing the same amused look from earlier, Henry says, “Well, I should get this thing back to Lisa before she has a complete meltdown, if she hasn’t already.”
I glance back at my house. For the first time in years, the idea of following Henry through his front door, even with all the memories of Jenny, is more attractive than walking through mine.
“I remember when you first got her,” I say. “Jenny picked her out, didn’t she?”
His smile turns bittersweet. “Yeah. I wanted a turtle. But Jenny said—”
“You can’t cuddle a turtle.” Tears pool in my eyes. Damn that absinthe. I start inching backward toward the garage. “I should go.”
“Course, sorry, you’re the guest of honor, and I’m making you miss your own party. Thanks again.” He hurries across the street. When he reaches the sidewalk in front of his house, he turns around. “Oh, and I’m glad to see you went with that costume.”
Looking down at my white pants and purple tunic, I say, “What costume?”
“You know, just a normal teenager. It suits you.”
*
Music is playing, Jinn are dancing, and cameras are clicking as I walk through the door to my house. I hide out in the corner. The Christmas-tree-colored mix of red, white, and green alcohol combined with the rich tagine churns my stomach like a lifeboat on rough seas.
Eventually I’m dragged into the darkened dining room where all sixteen candles glow on my perfectly iced chocolate cake. The shadows cast on the walls reflect the room full of Jinn, but the only thing I’m seeing is the shadow that should be here, blowing out sixteen candles of her own.
I puff, again and again, making the same wish I made when I was ten and Laila was standing before me, silver tinsel around her wrist, her brow creased, her tongue protruding from between her lips, concentrating so hard I thought she’d explode.
I wish I were normal. I wish I had a normal family. I wish becoming Jinn didn’t mean losing everything else—Jenny, my father, me.
It is a wish I’ve made on every birthday, on every shooting star, on every eyelash since I can remember. It can never come true. I know it can’t. I know it can’t. Still … doesn’t hurt to try. Just in case.
The forkful of chocolate cake hits my lips, and I know I’m going to be sick. I manage to app myself to my bathroom but land in the tub. I throw back the shower curtain and fall in front of the toilet. My mother’s next to the bowl, having already lifted the lid. I’m grateful. I wouldn’t have had enough time to open it myself.
*
In bed, tucked under the covers with Laila asleep next to me, her mouth hanging open, I hear my mother and Samara arguing.
“You’ve never hidden your contempt for this world,” my mother says, “but that’s my daughter. How could you let her? How could you start this?”
“Contempt is right,” Samara replies, “because this would have never happened in our world. It’s absurd, this making things taboo. Of course all they want to do is defy us. But, whatever. We’ll do things your way—again. But for the record, you’re the one who agreed to let them have the wine with dinner.”
I can practically hear the grinding of my mother’s teeth.
“You were always so quick to take risks, Sam. You and Raina.”
The harshness in my mother’s voice surprises me.
“And you were always so willing to go along, Kalyssa. Always following the rules. Always so afraid to take a risk. And look how that’s worked out. For them. For all of us.”
“This isn’t about that,” my mother quips.
“The hell it isn’t,” Samara says. “Tell me, did you even get to see him today? Did his risk pay off? His risk for you?”
The heaviness of my eyelids pushes them down. I don’t want them to close, but I can’t help it. I hear the sound of crying from my mother, then from Samara. Forcing myself to stay awake, I strain until a few minutes later I hear the sounds of laughter, from Samara, then from my mother.
And then I’m asleep, silver bangle tight around my wrist.
9
“My head’s killing me,” Laila says. With a moan, she shoves her face under the pillow next to me.
I touch my forehead and wince. Shh. I don’t think I manage to say it out loud. I roll onto my side and yank the comforter over my shoulder. Today, I will skip.
Again, my mother has other plans. She’s perched at the foot of my bed. Samara stands next to her. They’re both smiling. At least they’re not fighting. Do I even know what it was they were fighting about?
“Since you two like trying new beverages so much,” Samara says, “we thought we’d introduce you to coffee.”
A tall, white mug appears on my nightstand next to Mr. Gemp. Steam swirls above it. A matching cup materializes next to Laila.
“Can’t you just make it go away?” I ask, struggling to sit up. “I feel awful.”