“Good,” my mother says. “I want you to feel awful. Samara had to stop me from making you feel worse.”
A long lecture about the dangers of drinking follows. We are too young, our Jinn bodies can’t yet handle the effects, we have to follow the same rules as human teenagers no matter what our Jinn world might or might not allow, and on and on. My mother speaks while Samara tries not to smirk.
I sip the sugary coffee, and my head begins to clear. I nod from time to time—gently. It hurts to move too much. But I’m not really listening anymore. As the thumping in my head confirms, I’m not drinking alcohol again. I’ve found a much better replacement. Take that, Jinn blood. I tilt my coffee cup to suck down the last drops.
“Lalla Nadia’s making pancakes. From scratch.” My mother ignores Samara’s huff. “I trust you two will be down shortly?”
My stomach turns at the idea of food, but I say, “Uh-huh.” The heavy breathing next to me signals that Laila has fallen back to sleep, full coffee cup in hand. I smack her leg.
“Huh?” Laila jerks awake. Coffee sloshes over the side of her ceramic mug. “What cat? There was no cat.”
I widen my eyes and shake my head.
“Oh, honey,” Samara says, “if you’re going to dream, dream big. Lion, panther, chupacabra, make it worth it.”
Our mothers leave, and Laila offers me some of her coffee, pouring half her mug into mine. We sip in silence until something from last night comes back to me.
“How did you figure it out?” I ask.
Laila pries back her hand, which has been shielding her eyes from the sunlight. “Figure what out?”
“Last night, how did you know it was Henry’s cat? Yasmin didn’t say—”
“Cute.” Laila covers her eyes again. “She said the cat was cute just like his owner.”
I almost spit the last mouthful of coffee I’m savoring onto the bed. Cute. Henry? I’m about to ask Laila when the door opens and Yasmin prances into my room.
“Sooooo,” she says, bouncing onto the end of the bed, “how are my sisters this fine summer’s day?”
You’ve got to be kidding me. Jackhammers bore through my skull, and Yasmin sounds like a songbird. She tosses her mane of freshly coiffed hair around and smoothes out her flowered skirt. And looks like she ate a canary.
Laila throws back the comforter. “I need a shower. And I think I might be sick.” She tumbles out of bed and heads for the bathroom.
“At least you can do both in the same place,” Yasmin jokes.
Then she just sits there. Smiling. It’s unnerving.
My fuzzy tongue rubs against the roof of my mouth. “I need a mint.” The combination of coffee and stale alcohol has left me with a bad taste. Or maybe that’s just Yasmin.
“Ooh, would you like me to conjure you one?” Yasmin’s tone is sweeter than any candy.
“No. I’ve got some.” I pull out the drawer to my nightstand and fumble for the mints. Yasmin’s would probably be laced with arsenic.
My heart skips a thump when, along with the roll, out of my nightstand comes a gold chain. I manage to discreetly shove it to the back of the drawer before dropping a mint into Yasmin’s flattened palm.
She pops it into her mouth, sucking loudly, before saying, “I’m glad we have a minute to ourselves. I want to explain about last night. Defend myself. I know it looks bad.”
What Yasmin did last night seems unexplainable, indefensible, and doesn’t only look bad, it was bad. My mother would forget about the alcohol in an instant if she knew about the real danger of last night.
“See,” Yasmin says, “I think it’s time for me to get some more high-profile candidates. All mine have been local nobodies.”
Now that the art of granting wishes lies in covering our tracks as much as it does in fulfilling a human’s desires, being well-versed in the customs and laws of each region and country helps us grant wishes in ways that won’t draw questions from inquisitive humans. The first wishes we grant are usually close to home. As our magic grows and we prove ourselves, we start receiving higher-profile candidates all around the world. It’s like the Jinn equivalent of being on the honor roll.
“My mother disagrees. She says I’m not ready.” Yasmin snorts. “Not that she’s concerned about my career path. It’s the trash-talking from the other Zars. That’s what she’s all worked up about.”
I sit up higher in bed. Yasmin hasn’t confided in me since … well, ever.
Yasmin sighs. “I know I can do more, but it’s just a lot of pressure.”
I nod, slowly. This, at least, I can relate to.
“Anyway,” she says, “you’re lucky you’re just starting out. Local wishes are super easy to grant. Well, for me.”
I groan at her conceit. So much for being able to relate.
She pats my hand. “For you too definitely. But it’ll get trickier.” Yasmin’s eyes drift past me to Henry’s sweet sixteen balloon. She reaches for the string, curling it around her finger. “I’m just under some stress. So last night when everyone was so impressed with your skill, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I just kind of—”
“Lost it?” And we’re back to relating.
She smiles weakly. “The alcohol might have had a tiny bit of influence.”
I rub my temples. “You think?”
Her laughter hurts my head, but despite everything, I find myself joining her, softly, very softly.
“Oh.” She lets the balloon go. “I have something for you.” A lacy red bra and thong materialize in her lap. “I left them in the guest room until I was sure you’d be open to a peace offering.” She hands me the delicate lace. “Happy Birthday.”
My entire body flushes as I touch the bra. The push-up bra.
“Hope it’s okay,” she says. “I was working on it all morning. I wanted to make sure I got it just right. Not being in need of the push-up part myself, I had to do some research.”