Either one works for me.
Despite everything, or maybe because of everything, Nate officially proving that the “first” in front of his “date” from the other day was a necessary adjective makes my heavy heart do cartwheels.
A second date with Nate, a second date with Nate. I bounce my head from side to side as I sing the rhyme in my head.
My lack of response other than bouncing brings a follow-up text:
Work thing, I know. Promise to make it up w/ third.
Third, oh really? I prove I’ve gotten the hang of this flirting thing as I tease:
Presumptuous much?
Know what they say about assuming …
That it brings u and mi together? ;)
So maybe Nate the underwear model doesn’t quite hide his inner dork as well as I thought. Nothing could make me happier.
The late hour combined with the lack of feeling in my thumbs signals it’s time to go to bed. We sign off, and my joints crack as I change into my pajamas. Passing by my window before climbing into bed, I catch sight of Henry and Chelsea fused together, illuminated by the light on the Carwyns’ front steps.
My mix of jealousy, anger, and guilt is an entirely normal response. My wish has finally come true. And this weight in my chest confirms that wishes do indeed come with a price.
29
Too small for my wrist, the silver tinsel stayed wrapped around my ring finger while I worked my morning shift at the beach. Chelsea, the only one from last night I’ve seen today, seemed both embarrassed and a little frightened when we crossed paths at work, neither of which made me as happy as I would have expected.
I now twist the tinsel in my hand as I sit on my bed, preparing to apologize to Laila. While I also owe Henry an apology, Laila comes first. Especially because today is her sixteenth birthday. The day she’s been waiting for her entire life.
Since my bronze bangle prevents me from apporting, I steel my nerves and dial her cell. She doesn’t answer. I call the house phone. No answer. I open my laptop and try her that way. Nothing. I probably wouldn’t answer either.
I load my e-mail and type my rehearsed apology. It takes me almost an hour. I read it over. Twice. And then delete the whole thing. Because it sounds rehearsed.
As much as I want to forget all things Jinn, as much as I don’t want anything to ruin my date with Nate, what I should do is skip the bonfire and ask my mother to app me to her house. I should, but rust is beginning to eat away at my steel nerves. My guilt on the other hand is all spit shined and gleaming. Because I’m more relieved than disappointed that Laila didn’t answer any of my calls.
Coward that I am, I type an e-mail that simply says, “I’m sorry. Happy Birthday, Sister.” I send it along with a photo I take of the silver tinsel wrapped around Mr. Gemp—the genie lantern Hana gave me on my birthday that I should be passing to Laila today.
This is when the tears I should have shed last night come.
30
Nostalgia for a past whose simplicity eluded me at the time makes me choose the purple linen tunic my mother gave me for my birthday. I’m wearing it over the lace bra and thong conjured by Yasmin. She really does have impeccable craftsmanship. The thong doesn’t itch like I thought it would.
At the bathroom mirror, I keep one eye on the YouTube instructional video that plays on my laptop while I attempt to apply more than my usual lip gloss. The angled brush draws a line of deep pink on my cheeks, and I force my guilt to take a time out, just for tonight. A sparkling green camouflages my lower lid, and I bury the image of Laila’s sad, knowing eyes. Mascara thickens my long lashes, and I replace the image of Laila’s blue—now, gold—eyes with Nate’s blissfully unaware chocolaty ones. With each brushstroke I cover the part of me that is Jinn. I become a normal teenage girl going on her first real date.
I put down the tube of cinnamon-colored lipstick and assess my work. Paired with the copper accents in my long, dark hair, the end result causes me to do a double take, not out of conceit but out of astonishment for how much I resemble my mother when she was my age. I could stand in for her in any picture in her high school album and I’m not sure anyone could tell the difference.
Tonight calls for something better than jeans. Fortunately, the benefit of being my mother’s doppelg?nger means I have effectively doubled my wardrobe. In her bedroom, I try on three different skirts before settling on a white denim mini I can’t ever remember her wearing.
Before leaving, I sift through her jewelry box. This may be the first time I’ve ever thought about accessorizing. I feel a twinge in my chest when I think how proud both Hana and Laila would be.
Checking out the stockpile of jewels in the bottom drawer, I spy a thick, African-style wooden bracelet that looks like it’d pair well with my bronze bangle and slip it over my hand.
I rummage through, holding up black pearls from China and glass beads from Italy, but decide the necklace I’m already wearing works best. I start to close the drawer. That’s when I notice what the large wooden bracelet was hiding.
Tucked into the furthest reaches is my silver pendant with the cursive A engraved on the front. But it can’t be. Because that pendant’s currently around my neck. I pick up the duplicate A, which feels much heavier than the one I’m wearing. It’s the weight I remember it being before I turned sixteen.