Becoming Jinn

Suddenly, the last bite of cake that was on my spoon is now on my mother’s.

 

“There are other advantages,” she says. “Especially when it comes to spells. Magic is for the tangible. But spells are for the intangible. The uses are endless.”

 

She smirks and my mind goes back to the group of teenage boys jabbering away in the movie theater who came down with laryngitis at the same time … to the police officer who, despite all the scribbling on his pad after pulling my mother over for speeding, handed her a ticket with nothing but a smiley face on it … to the newlywed at the beach who lost her wedding ring, which my mother, who had never seen it and couldn’t have conjured it, inexplicably found.

 

Suddenly I’m both in awe and very scared of my mother.

 

*

 

“Come on.”

 

I’ve barely crossed the threshold, and Henry’s tugging my arm, dragging me into his living room. Tufts of hair flop over his forehead. Even with the glasses, if only his haircut didn’t resemble something done by his mother, I can see how he might be called cute.

 

As he pulls me toward the kitchen, the muscles in my neck throb.

 

“Wait, Henry.” I yank my aching arm free. “We need to talk.”

 

Because I cannot endure another night like last night. My guilt meant I let my mother program our evening. Which means we did yoga. Not the yoga humans have been doing for centuries. My mother has to be trendy. Have conjured hammock, will suspend body from ceiling. For two hours. I hurt in parts of my body I didn’t even know had muscles.

 

“I know, I know,” Henry says. “I have so many more questions. I could barely sleep last night.”

 

Me neither. But that’s because the second stop on our mother-daughter bonding tour was terrifying. Literally.

 

Henry stops in front of the door to the basement. “Down here.”

 

I step back. “No way.”

 

My mother loves scary movies. I despise scary movies. Especially ones with stone-faced, creepy kids. Especially ones with Prince of Darkness themes. So what did she make me watch? The trifecta. Rosemary’s Baby, The Omen, and The Exorcist.

 

I’ll be lucky if I sleep again by the time school starts.

 

Henry glances at my white shorts. “Right, sorry, the dirt.” He starts down the stairs. “Listen, no one’s home, so why don’t you go on up to my room?”

 

“But Henry, about yesterday—”

 

“This is about yesterday.” His eyes plead with me. “Trust me.”

 

The power in those two words, that’s real magic.

 

Even though it’s been more than six years, my feet proceed on autopilot to the second floor of the Carwyns’ home. The pile on the carpet treads may be flatter, the paint on the railing may have more chips, but the second-to-last step at the top still creaks in the center. I force myself past Jenny’s—now Lisa’s—door and enter Henry’s room.

 

Remnants of the Henry I remember, the black-and-white space shuttle poster, the Red Sox bobbleheads, the model AT-AT he painstakingly put together one Christmas, mix with the Henry I’m just getting to know, the guitar in the corner, the map of the world on the wall, the pile of keyboards, monitors, and wires on his desk.

 

Surveying the room, I try to figure out where I should sit. On his blue-striped comforter? The clothing-strewn floor? The red locker at the end of the bed? Where do I tell Henry I’m going to confess the truth to my mother? Where do I tell him that I have no idea what will happen after that?

 

Hearing that second-to-last step groan, I head for his desk chair. Stacks of books surround his computer. Software manuals, biology textbooks, and … really?

 

“Is this a romance novel?” I wiggle the bare-chested blond hunk tearing at the dark-haired maiden’s lace bodice at Henry as he walks through the door.

 

Not even a tiny bit of pink rushes to his cheeks. “I like to be well-rounded. I read a lot.”

 

I set the paperback down next to a thick book on ancient spirits, which must be how he knew what a Jinn was, and one on … witchcraft. “Seriously, Henry? A witch?”

 

“What was I supposed to think? Seriously, Azra? A genie?”

 

I toss the witch book at him, which he catches in one hand despite the box he’s carrying in the other.

 

“What’s that?” I ask.

 

“This is what’s going to stop you from saying what you came here to say.”

 

“And how do you know what I came here to say?”

 

“Because I know you, Azra. I’m more of a rebel than you, and that’s saying something. If telling a human about your world is the worst thing a Jinn can do, then my guess is you’ve been taking a whip to yourself all night. I bet yesterday was like my stay of execution.”

 

“Don’t say execution.”

 

His weak smile doesn’t mask how anxious he is. “You feel guilty. You’re going to tell your mother, that’s what you came here to say.”

 

“I have to, Henry. It’s—”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“Go ahead and tell her. Just not today.”

 

Standing next to his bed, Henry flips over the dusty box and out falls … Jenny. A flower-covered scrapbook, a flutter of photographs, the seal stuffed animal she loved, the Big Bird with the broken neck I used to drag around, and a diary with a yellow lock. A broken yellow lock.

 

Henry spreads everything out across his mattress. “My mother wanted to throw all this away. She wanted to move, did you know that? After. My dad refused. Still does. That’s why things are so … messed up right now.”

 

I sit on the end of the bed and run my fingers along Jenny’s things. “Because your dad lost his job?” To Henry’s surprised look, I add, “Your mom kinda told my mom the other day.”

 

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