“Here,” I say. “We’re all we’ve got here.”
Silence. Complete silence. We don’t talk about this. We don’t talk about how, for the past fifteen years, the Afrit have forbid all but us mothers and daughters from living among humans. We don’t mention how it feels to be separated from the rest of our families and every other Jinn who isn’t integral to granting wishes. We don’t waste a single breath discussing what this means for my generation of Jinn, the first to never know our fathers, our grandfathers, our grandmothers, to live under the harshest reforms, to be subject to the whims of the Afrit.
For centuries, granting wishes has formed the core of our society and taken precedence above all else.
But retired female Jinn still have their powers. So do male Jinn, though they haven’t granted wishes in decades. When the order came, why did they all just go? Why did we let them all just go? Why is travel between the two worlds prohibited? Why do we let the Afrit—a council of but twelve Jinn—dictate so much about our lives? Aren’t they an elected council?
The ballot competition must be beyond pitiful if these Jinn keep winning.
All of this runs through my head, but none of it spills from my lips. It already has. Many times. And the answer is always the same: “to protect us from being exposed.” My mother has refused to give another answer. Samara has refused to give another answer. But there must be another answer.
Today’s times may be different from my mother’s, but not different enough to require such drastic changes to our world. I nudge Laila’s shoulder. Clearly destined to be the model Jinn of our circle, she intervenes, but only to make peace.
She swings her purse in front of her stomach, pulls out a piece of ribbon, and pushes it into my hand. “Here. For luck. And rest up. Tomorrow’s a big day. I’m so jealous!” Laila waves good-bye as Samara hooks an arm around her daughter’s waist and makes them both disappear.
Luck? Tomorrow? She must think that’s when my job starts, but my first day behind the snack bar at the beach isn’t for a couple more days.
Though most kids in school have had jobs for years, my mother wouldn’t let me work until this summer. Apparently sixteen is quite the loaded age, bringing with it enough maturity to dole out hot dogs and wishes.
I fall into the couch and hug a sequined throw pillow to my chest. “I didn’t know Laila wanted a summer job.” Between the residual alcohol and the residual Yasmin, it’s a good thing I don’t have to start work yet. I turn to my mother. “How long do Jinn hangovers last, exactly?”
The double entendre doesn’t register until the words have left my lips.
My mother gives an empathetic smile. “How about I make you feel better?”
She lays one palm on my forehead and the other on my stomach. With her eyes closed, she whispers an incantation I recognize as a healing one. The instant she removes her hands, my lingering headache and nausea are gone.
“Better?” she asks.
I nod, tentatively, wary of what made her change her mind about healing me.
She gathers her hair into a bun, using a long strand to keep it in place. I’ve tried, but can’t do it with my own. Guess I’m sticking with the elastic and the ponytail.
“Good. Because today…” She takes both of my hands and swings my arms. “Today, we get to practice. Your first wish-granting ritual is tomorrow! Fun, right?”
Wrong.
My mother continues, “Your powers are so advanced that the Afrit think you’re ready for your first candidate.”
Damn, has this stupid bangle actually ratted me out? Or was it my mother?
“This is a good thing. Your talent is being recognized. You’re being rewarded.”
“Whoopee.” My queasiness makes a comeback. Rewarded for all my misbehavior. Is that really the lesson I should be learning?
I open my clenched palm. The silver glistening in my hand isn’t a ribbon. It’s a piece of Christmas tree tinsel. Surely it’s the piece of Christmas tree tinsel. The one Laila fashioned our pretend bangles out of when we were ten.
Maybe it’s too late. Maybe being rewarded for my misbehavior is a lesson I’ve already learned.
10
My mother has chosen for me. This is the first thing I’m annoyed about. She has chosen Mrs. Pucher. This is the second thing I’m annoyed about.
What does Mrs. Pucher need? She’s probably just going to wish for another yappy Pomeranian. If I didn’t live next door to the mutt, I’d never believe something so little could be so loud.
At least she didn’t choose the crazy old lady on the other side of us. And I mean literally crazy. As sorry as I feel for Mrs. Seyfreth, the way she silently paces her backyard decked out in high heels, a full-length lace dress, and a camel-colored fur coat creeps me out. I’m certain my powers aren’t advanced enough to rewire whatever’s wrong with her brain.
I don’t want to waste a choice on either one of our next-door neighbors because I only get three. All any Jinn gets is three. While we have few restrictions on using our powers for our own personal magic, we are forbidden from granting wishes for humans unless they are officially assigned to us by the Afrit. The only exception are those humans chosen to serve as guinea pigs. Like in a teaching hospital, newbie Jinn learn by doing. In an effort to make it easier for us to get the hang of this wish-granting thing, we are permitted to choose our first three candidates.
Or in my case, my mother is permitted to choose.