“Uh-huh,” Samara and my mother say at the same time. The way they giggle with each other gives me an instant picture of them at my age.
“Anyway,” I say, looking at Laila. “His dad needs a job. Why can’t I do something to help?”
Samara waves her hand. “Technically, you can. There’s nothing to prevent it.”
“Except,” my mother says, snatching Samara’s hand and lowering it, “it’s risky. Sure, you can conjure Henry a shirt or light a candle while he’s out of the room, but how are you going to conjure him a car and explain it away? The greater feats of magic you do for humans, the more chances you have of someone getting suspicious, catching you in the act, and spilling the beans to some reporter—”
“Blogger,” Laila says.
“YouTube,” I say.
A deep sigh precedes my mother’s “Whatever. The point is, there’s too much unknown to feel safe. If you recite the wish-granting ritual incantations, the Afrit will catch you, but if you don’t, the human might, because you won’t be able to read his mind. You’ll be working blind. The human could be fishing, even trying to trap you and you’d never know. If a human figures out what you can do, you put all Jinn in jeopardy. Think humans are going to discover magic exists and just let us stand behind them in line and order a mocha latte?” She pauses, but it’s clear she doesn’t really want an answer. “Even if you escape the human’s notice, what about the Afrit?”
Laila sucks in a breath. “Tortura cavea,” she whispers. “If they find out you exposed our magic to humans, it’s an immediate life sentence.”
Locking us up in tortura cavea, the equivalent of jail in the underground world of Janna, is the Afrit’s punishment for most infractions. But from what our mothers have described, there really is no equivalent for the human version of jail in Janna. Think less metal bars and more fire-breathing dragons. Or snakes. Or ghosts. Or clowns. Or in Laila’s bizarre case, squirrels. Whatever your fear, the Afrit tap into it and make it your cellmate. In the most extreme cases, for life. Jinn aren’t exactly a “trial by a jury of our peers” kind of species.
“If,” I say. Part of me has always believed tortura cavea is nothing more than my mother’s way of ensuring I behave.
My mother stares at me.
“If they find out. And I’m not even talking about conjuring a car in the Carwyns’ driveway, I’m talking about floating his dad’s résumé to the top of the stack. The Afrit can’t track everything we do, right? Just the circulus incantation. So if we’re careful—”
My mother seizes my arm and draws me to her. “The circulus is the only thing we know they monitor.” Her eyes bore into mine. “Don’t push the boundaries, Azra.” She swivels her head to the side. “Laila?”
Like she’s surrounded by squirrels holding tiny pitchforks, Laila can’t even nod she’s so scared stiff.
Samara circles in front of us. “I know I like to tease, but your mom’s right. You girls do need to be careful. So conjure your paramour an argyle sweater but wrap it in a box from the mall.” She winks. “Just don’t screw up, and you’ll be fine.”
We’ll be fine. Henry, his dad, his family, less fine. Guess serving the “greater good” all depends on one’s perspective.
Laila finally takes a breath. And what she says may be even worse than what my mother’s said. “Speaking of malls, wait until you see the swimsuit Mom and I got for you, Azra.”
Samara hooks her arm through my mother’s, and the two step in unison into the kitchen. The start of their discussion signals the end of ours.
“Come on.” Laila grabs her bag and slips her arm around my waist. “App us to your room.”
With a loud sigh I hope reaches my mother’s ears, I app upstairs.
We’re in my bedroom and Samara’s shouting “show-off!” from downstairs before I realize this was my first time co-apping. I should be proud, but right now I’m feeling anything but proud to be a Jinn.
13
I can’t believe I’m wearing this. A two-piece bikini that would make Chelsea’s look like a muumuu. Even in the privacy of our fenced-in backyard, I want to conjure a blanket.
Fidgeting in the lounge chair next to Laila—the definition of confidence in her pink, strapless bikini—I tug on the sides of my halter top.
Laila drops her magazine on her stomach and lowers her gold aviator sunglasses. “Enough! I mean, it’s not exactly a challenge to ensure you’re fully covered up there.”
I use my powers to playfully whip the glossy magazine off her lap.
Jumping up to catch it before the wind does, Laila says, “So not fair!”
“You know what’s not fair? The way my mother licks the Afrit’s boots.” I pick up my iced coffee. “Look at everything she can do. If she wanted to help Henry’s family, she could figure it out.”
Sitting back down on the side of her chair, Laila shakes her head. “It’s a slip and slide, Azra.”
“A what?”
“A slip and slide. You know. One thing leads to another.”
“You mean ‘slippery slope.’”
She cocks her head. “Really?”
“Positive.”
“Strange … slide seems more dangerous than a slope.”
“They’re both dangerous if you get pushed down them.”
“This.” She swats my forearm with the rolled-up magazine. “This right here is the attitude that worries me.” She flattens the pages against her thighs. “Because … because maybe you do one thing and get away with it, so then you do another. And another. But eventually they catch you. And you get taken. It happens, Azra. Tortura cavea is real. There are stories in my cantamen.”
I forget that Laila, the model Jinn of our Zar, has had her cantamen memorized since she was twelve.
“I know you feel bad about Henry,” she says, tying back her blond curls. “But if you really want to help, I have a way.”
“You do? What?”