“They did always get along, didn’t they?” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “The truth is, he only lost his job because he wouldn’t relocate to New York. My dad … he couldn’t leave this place. My mother’s furious with him. Not just because now he can’t find another job, but because it was her way out. Out of here. This house, this town … I guess sometimes there can be too many memories for one person and not enough for another.”
Henry’s describing his mother and father but a weight in my chest makes me think he could be talking about my mother and me. About my father, my mother, and me.
“Here,” he says. “Read this, and if you still want to tell your mom, I understand.”
The diary’s cracked open to a page at the end. The entry’s dated a few months before Jenny died.
Mrs. Nadira got our favorite ice cream again today. This time, I dug the bag out of the trash before she emptied the can. I was right. It does say Paris. I wrote down the street name: “rue Saint-Louis-en-I’lle.” It’s not in Missouri. I looked it up. It’s actually in Paris. There’s something special about Mrs. Nadira. Azra too. One day, when she’s ready, she’ll tell me. She’s my best friend. And best friends share secrets.
I don’t read anymore. I can’t. I can’t see through my tears.
“This doesn’t change anything, Henry.”
“But it should. All of this should.” He lowers his eyes. “Listen, Azra, we all have secrets. We all have inside and outside selves.” He kneels next to the bed and sorts through the photographs. “But eventually we need to let someone in. I know you wish it could be Jenny.”
He places a photo in my hand. Jenny and me. Linked arm in arm, just like Mina and Farrah. Like Samara and my mother. Probably like Laila and the brunette with the killer bladder.
“You and Jenny would have had so much fun with this,” Henry says. “Tell your mother. Just not today.”
19
It’s been two weeks since the Zoe Incident. Two weeks of hanging out with my first non-Jinn friend since elementary school. Because that’s what Henry is.
Thankfully, my mother was wrong about the crush. Henry and I are friends, normal friends, without jealousy, romance, or being Jinn getting in the way.
I add a blue-glass hurricane lamp to the collection of lanterns on the coffee table. Unlike my birthday party, official Zar gatherings are lit exclusively by candlelight. It’s quite beautiful actually. The upcoming reunion, which we’re hosting, is as official as they get. Laila will have finally turned sixteen, and my Zar will have its full-fledged initiation.
Even though we have plenty of time, I’m filling all the lanterns we own with oil now, per my mother’s request. I’ve been a very diligent daughter and Jinn lately. It’s a wonder my mother doesn’t realize something’s up.
The key to my new plan for telling her about Henry is time. The longer he knows and she doesn’t, the better his track record will be. Keeping our secret for a day? A week? Maybe she can brush that off. But if Henry goes a month, two, six? She won’t be able to deny his loyalty.
And I won’t risk him being taken from me. So I’ll confess, just not today. Call it my Scarlett O’Hara plan. Because, after all, tomorrow is another day.
I top off the final lantern and slip my phone out of my back pocket, scrolling to find the last text from Nate. After he assaulted the concession shack door, he texted to apologize. We’ve had a few, mostly banal, exchanges since then. His last message is from a day ago.
Greenheads vicious today. Hope gone when U back.
Me too. Luckily my two scheduled days off coincided with the worst of the biting greenhead fly season. Merciless little suckers.
I reply, “What’s the buzz today?” Then, wondering if that makes any sense, I add, “Flies?”
And with that, our texting remains on a second-grade level.
Returning a black, latticework-style lantern to its hook by the front door, I notice Mr. Carwyn leaning against the railing on his front steps, watching Lisa play in the front yard. The suit and tie he’s wearing is a good sign—another job interview. But not my doing. To my secret relief, Henry won’t let me risk getting into trouble to help.
In private, though, Henry can’t get enough of seeing me use my powers. I spent yesterday magically stitching up the holes in his pockets, sprucing up a pair of his weathered loafers, and flattening out the gathered fabric surrounding the crotch on the ugliest pair of khakis I’ve ever seen. Even I know teenage boys shouldn’t wear pleats.
Still, aside from his wardrobe, a perpetually warm pool, and a fire in the old pit in his backyard, the extent of our magical mischief has been so tame it doesn’t deserve to be called mischief.
When a minivan pulls up to the house, Mr. Carwyn buckles Lisa inside next to another little girl, sending her off on what must be a playdate. He straightens his tie, climbs into his own small SUV, and backs out of the driveway. Mrs. Carwyn’s at work, but I know Henry’s home. And this means, now he’s home alone. It’s time to turn the genie volume up to eleven.
I know just how to start. I’m going to scare the pants off him.
Before I change my mind, I app to Henry’s bedroom. Hearing his clomping footsteps, I slink into his closet.
I’m about to launch out from behind his hanging oxfords when Henry appears in a towel. Though he’s at the beach almost as often as I am, his fair skin tends to burn. He usually wears one of those long-sleeved rashguard surfer shirts, so I had no idea his upper body was so … so … toned. Without his glasses and with his usually unkempt hair wet and plastered against his skull, he doesn’t look anything like my friend Henry.
Droplets of water run off the ends of his hair, sprinkling his shoulders. His hand reaches for the tucked-in corner of the towel, freeing it from his waist.
I should look away.
I don’t.