The haphazard way the cantamen is organized means there’s no sense in trying to read it as a straight narrative, starting on page one and following sequentially to page whatever (apparently my ancestors also believed page numbers were superfluous). Over the years, newer generations of my Jinn family magically inserted their own pages ahead of those of previous generations, sometimes smack in the middle of a spell or a Jinn’s personal history. There’s even an entire section in the middle left entirely blank. The thing is less user-friendly than a software manual.
If I didn’t think tapping Henry to upgrade the relic to the digital age would send my mother’s blood pressure skyrocketing, I’d have asked him. Because studying the cantamen appears to be as worthwhile as my mother said it would be. The nuts and bolts of wishes my family has granted are documented in such detail that if only I didn’t have to slog through recipes for sugar cookies and reviews of the best beaches in Mexico, I just might be on my way to becoming a model Jinn (minus the whole exposing us to humans thing).
Nature laughs at the thought, sending a stream of sun through the open restroom window that reflects off my bronze bangle and blinds me. I cover the shiny metal with my hand. If I still had my powers I could have used them to clean up this disgusting mess. That’s what I get for being so cocky, so flippant, so superior to all of this. Poetic justice indeed.
I’m more scared than I’ve admitted to my mother that the Afrit will be evaluating my magic so closely. Before my probation, I’m not sure I believed tortura cavea was real. Now, well, the Afrit not only have my attention but my full benefit of the doubt. The question is, how many chances do I get before they take me away from everyone I care about? My mother. Henry. Lisa. Laila. Samara. My Zar sisters (most of my Zar sisters). And Nate. Don’t forget Nate.
Maybe the Afrit should rethink their rules about keeping Jinn separated from our families and discouraging attachments to humans, because the more I gain the more I have to lose.
Afrit, I am humbled. Can you give me my life back? Who would have thought I’d actually be asking for my trusty silver bangle? Or that it would equate to me having a life?
Cheap toilet paper scratches my chin as I retrieve a tall stack from the supply closet and carry it to the long line of stalls. A knock on the screen door makes me pivot, and the rolls tumble to the ground. At least the floor’s clean, having been freshly mopped by me.
I’m expecting to see Henry, but it’s Nate. Nate with a fresh haircut, a deeper tan, and a sexy smile aimed squarely at me. Score one for absence and fondness.
Weaving my way through the toilet-paper obstacle course, I approach the entrance. I draw upon my learned skill of pretending to disguise the fact that my heart’s about to bust through my rib cage. I lean my arm against the doorjamb and stretch out my leg, keeping the screen door open with my courtesy-of-being-Jinn, pre-probationary, perfectly pedicured toes.
“Is your mom okay?” Nate asks.
This is not the reaction I expected. “Um, yeah, I guess.”
“Because your aunt seemed pretty freaked out last week. I was coming to say hi when she nearly tackled me, asking me to gather up their beach gear, saying they had no time. That your mom wasn’t feeling well. Seemed 911 emergency worthy.”
It was. But the sirens were for me, not her. “Oh, that. My aunt has a flair for the dramatic. My mom gets migraines.” From me. “Lal—, I mean, Aunt Sam just overreacted. But she’s fine. Thanks for asking. And for getting their stuff.”
“I dropped it off a few days ago. I was hoping to see you, but your mom said you were grounded. Do anything really good?”
His raised eyebrow and mischievous grin make me glad for the support of the doorway.
“I mean good in a bad way,” he adds nervously. “I know you wouldn’t get grounded for being good, of course.”
Books and covers and judging, Nate’s the poster boy for that warning. Outside he’s all underwear model but inside he’s just as much a self-conscious dork as the rest of us.
“Maybe you could tell me about it over lunch?” Nate’s rock-hard forearm that rests against the door frame and his smooth palm that envelops my hand compensate well for his inner geek. “Unless you’ve got other plans.”
“Yes,” I say, adrenaline soaring so high I expect to see a syringe sticking out of my chest. “I mean, no, no other plans. I mean … lunch sounds nice.” I do not cover my inner dork nearly as well.
“Cool. I’ll meet you on the beach near my usual chair?”
“Okay. I can grab something from the snack bar for us, if you want.”
He squeezes my hand. “Azra, don’t you know I’m a gentleman? The guy always picks up the tab on the first date.”
Date. First date. As in an expectation of a second.
He smiles. His teeth gleam toothpaste-commercial white.
“I’ve got it covered. Trust me on this.”
On this. On that. On anything.
*
The vomit on the ramp up to the restrooms is not my problem. I’m on lunch break. I shove the mop in my fill-in’s hand as I skip down the planks.
The beach is jam-packed. Being sequestered in my bedroom all week and the restrooms all day, I’ve got a touch of stranger anxiety.
Knowing Nate likes my hair down, I’ve taken it out of its usual ponytail and the wind blows the long strands across my face. I tuck as much as I can behind my ears as I scan the area around Nate’s lifeguard chair. I see him a bit past it, waving both arms above his head. I kick off my flip-flops and jog toward him. Too eager. I downshift to a casual stroll. Too uninterested. My jerky-paced trot ends at a red blanket and a spread worthy of ten people.
He said “date.” I know he did. Was he joking? Is this actually a group thing? I should have known.
“Are we expecting company?” I try not to sound disappointed.
Nate rounds his shoulders. “Guess it is a lot, huh?”
He’s blushing. At me.
“I just wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says.
“Wow,” is all I can think to say.
There’s a plate of cheese and crackers, rolled cold cuts and sliced bread, a heaping Tupperware of potato salad, a matching one with a green salad, even a container of sushi. Not to mention the pile of chocolate chip cookies and the tower of fudge brownies, which in truth is all he needed for me.