She spins to face me, grabbing both of my wrists and drawing me close. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It’s just … she’s gone, Azra. You do realize that, don’t you?” Balled-up tissues poke out of the ends of her sleeves. “But we’re here. We’ve always been here. Waiting.”
She releases her hold on my wrists and wipes her nose. “But we can’t wait anymore. The initiation’s tonight. Either you’re with us or with them.”
“Them?”
“The humans. I told you to be careful. Looks like you didn’t take my advice.”
Does she know? Does she know Henry knows?
“Henry and I are just friends,” I say.
“Oh no. You’re more than that.”
“We’re not together, if that’s what you think. I’m kind of … interested in someone else.”
“The lifeguard.” Her eyes search mine, and the softness in her voice turns to stone. “And there’s my answer. Closer to them than you are to us.” She turns away. “Like I said, don’t ever forget they’re humans, Azra.”
My anger burns like the flame of a struck match but dies out just as fast. Because we don’t have to inherit everything from our mothers. Their fights don’t have to become ours.
Without hurt or spite or bitterness, I say, “Why does it have to be us or them? Why do you hate them so much?”
Yasmin whirls around, knocking into the candle and almost setting the black pashmina that drips off her shoulders on fire. “Is that what you think? That I hate the humans?”
“Don’t you?”
“No. I hate the way they make us live.”
“Then your anger’s misplaced. The Afrit are responsible, not the humans.”
“But you can’t win a fight against the Afrit.” She tosses the end of her wrap over her shoulder. “And you know what they say if you can’t beat ’em.”
With a zap that shoots through to my fingertips, she disappears.
I will never understand her. Tonight we’ll officially be sisters, but Yasmin and I couldn’t be further apart.
*
More than two hundred candles simultaneously ignite, illuminating the tent like a full moon. The flickering light dances across the canvas flaps, which may be the only white in the room. Between the maroon fabric on the lush sofas, the gold tablecloth draped over the long, communal table, and the kaleidoscope of colors on the skirts, tunics, and dresses of the assorted Jinn under the big top, not a single hue remains unaccounted for. It’s like a three-dimensional color wheel.
I’m doing my part in my short, jersey dress. No one else would be representing black. In the heels Laila insisted I wear, I look and feel nine feet tall. Maybe it’ll give me the edge I fear I need tonight with Yasmin. I haven’t seen her since our earlier conversation—a conversation I can’t help but feel I lacked sufficient information to fully participate in.
Ignoring the knots in my stomach, I pat Laila on the head. “Think you’ll be as tall as me?”
Her sixteenth birthday isn’t until tomorrow. Per tradition, the initiation is being held on the eve of the last member’s final night without powers. Since Zar gatherings usually last for days, we’ll all be together when Laila turns.
She stuffs her hands in the pockets of her white linen shift dress and frowns. “I hope not.”
Before I can ask why, Hana joins us. The open back and plunging neckline of her champagne-colored halter dress seem to defy the laws of gravity. She holds out a tray of cheese-filled dates and says, “Did you hear? Lalla Raina’s not coming.”
Another knot ties off in my gut. “What? Why?”
Hana levitates the tray, freeing her hands to snag a date. “Everyone’s tight-lipped.”
In mid-reach for one of her own, Laila stops and pulls back her hand. “I can’t believe they’re fighting. Today. So much for our Zar following their example.”
It’s Laila’s disappointment that prompts the lightness in my voice that I surely don’t feel. “Whatever it is, it’ll blow over. They’ve always had squabbles. They’ve always made up.”
“Just like us,” Hana says. She then conjures a gold belt that she cinches around my waist and a rose that she tucks into Laila’s blond curls. In the process, she forgets about levitating the plate and it crashes to the ground.
From across the room, Farrah shouts, “It wasn’t me!”
Laughing, Mina tackles her, and together they app to our side of the tent. When they appear, I realize they’re wearing matching saffron-yellow kaftans, gold headbands, and cobalt-blue eyeliner.
As Hana tells them about Lalla Raina, Yasmin slinks into the room, significantly better groomed than earlier in tight black jeans and a red silk camisole, but instead of coming to us, she stakes out a position next to the bar and pours rum into a Coke can.
Farrah picks a date up off the floor, blows on it, and takes a huge bite. Mouth full, she mumbles, “I’d be PO’d too if my mom wasn’t here.”
Mina whacks the dirty date out of Farrah’s hand. “Sure, but that upset?”
Yasmin’s eyes meet mine and my usual desire to escape to Henry’s backyard makes a resurgence. But I can’t. I can’t do that to Laila … I can’t do that to any of them.
We transition into the feast, narrated by proud speeches from each of our mothers, which only highlight Raina’s absence. Once the dishes are magically cleared, Samara moves to the center of the tent. She begins the initiation ceremony by instructing us six daughters to form a circle.
I slip in between Laila and Yasmin. As tightly as Laila clutches my hand is as loosely as Yasmin does. Across from me, Mina mouths, “How’s the Adonis?” and Farrah winks.
Lalla Nadia places a lei made from white henna flowers around each of our necks. My mother lights the sticks of incense spread throughout the tent, infusing the air with the strong aroma of tea roses.
Samara interlaces her fingers. “Nothing, not the silver…” Her eyes flicker in my direction. “Or bronze … Not the silver or bronze bangles you wear today nor the gold ones you will wear in the future, will ever be as tight a circle as the one you form now. As important a role as we, your mothers, have played in your past, even we cannot compete with the role your Zar will play in your future.”