As You Wish (3 page)

I stop and study my surroundings. I'm standing by an entrance sign that reads
HOLLY PARK
and is surrounded by wilting daisies. Ahead is a pool with a faded blue tarp sagging into
the deep end, where the letters on the
POOL RULES
sign have been rearranged to spell curse words. Cigarette butts litter the sidewalk, and the pond far ahead is lined with weeping willows and graffiti-covered garbage cans. At the center of the park, however, is a single oak tree, standing tall and proud on a hill, branches fingering their way into the stars. It's just like the trees in Caliban—they grow tall but never old. I trudge toward it and collapse among its mossy roots.

There are no stars in Caliban. Or clouds. There's the sun and the moon, but never rain or snow or lightning or stars. In Caliban there isn't even much night—just sunsets that blur into sunrises and the day. There are parks like these, but none with sticky-letter curse words, and there are houses like my master's, but no horribly pink rooms. The city has skyscrapers, but no cars or smog. Thousands of jinn, but no disbelief or anger.

I have to get home. How do humans tolerate living on Earth, chained down by the mortality of their own bodies? The longing for Caliban floods me, filling my limbs and veins until I think I might explode from the pressure.

I have to get home.

THE ART ROOM
is chilly, its stone floor littered with bits of paper and fragments of paraffin blocks. The walls are lined with stovetops and sinks—long ago it was the home economics room, before the school decided that teaching kids to cook is sexist. I guess it doesn't matter—it was replaced with the art program, and I can't cook anyway. It's six thirty on a Friday morning, so the school is almost completely silent, save the soft whir of the janitor waxing the floor a few halls down. A teacher shouts to a colleague in the hallway behind me—I jump at the sound of the voice. Worrying that a jinn might appear at any moment isn't good for the nerves. It wasn't good for my sleep
schedule either—last night I slept for about an hour, tops.

Stop. Forget about him. Forget about wishes. Just focus on painting.

I set up several easels and pull out the paintings I'm working on for the Art Honors Expo that's coming up. The topic for the Expo this year is landscapes, and I can't convince myself that my mountain scenes don't need more trees or…something. I sit back, and my eyes wander to a set of easels on the opposite side of the room—Ollie Marquez's paintings.

I'm jealous, I admit it. I've been painting swamps, deserts, and mountains for the Expo. They're okay but nothing special. Ollie's paintings are way more creative—she's painted bedrooms in mountains, dining rooms underwater, and televisions on the edges of snowy lakes. I stand and walk toward them. Ollie used red, pink, neon orange. I used olive green and drab colors, thinking my pictures would look more like real nature. Whenever I try to be bold, to use colors like Ollie does, the paintings feel awkward and cheap, like knockoffs of Ollie Marquez originals.

It doesn't really matter that Ollie and I always win the same awards and are in the same art classes. Ollie is the
artist
. It's like
Ollie herself is a painting, an imported piece from a performance space in Manhattan, complete with hoop earrings and scarves in her hair.

And she paints with neon orange.

And
she's dating Aaron Moor. They're king and queen of the Royal Family. Ollie's another beautiful person who belongs
everywhere
, who floats effortlessly among the crowds of people who adore her. I run my hand over the colors; they're carefree, sensual, reckless.

“Again? Really?”

I cringe at the voice.

“I don't have a wish,” I gripe, turning to face the jinn.

He lifts himself onto the counter, his forearms flexing like bent amber, and then shrugs. “You have dozens, actually. You just refuse to make them.”

“I'm not going to use a wish for something stupid,” I mutter. I don't really know what's worse—the fact that I have these wishes for hair and clothes and belonging, or the fact that a stranger knows it. “Are you going to…I mean…are you going to be appearing and disappearing all day again?”

“I only come when you want me to or when you have a wish.”

“So you…read my mind?” I say, nervous chill bumps rising on my arms.

The jinn rolls his eyes. “No. You're my master, so we're connected to each other until you make your wishes. You want me or you have a wish, I'm here—you don't even have to call for me out loud. I just
feel
it when you want me to show up. It's hard to explain. But I'm not a mind reader.”

“Oh,” I say, not entirely sure I understand.

“And if you don't want me here, just tell me to stay away. I can't disobey a direct order from you, master.” There's a note of sarcasm—or is it remorse?—in his voice.

Master
—the word makes me shiver. “Don't call me that,” I say aloud. Hearing him say it is weird, like someone's calling me
sexy
.

The jinn raises an eyebrow. “What am I supposed to call you?”

“Viola?”

“We're not supposed to call our masters by name.”

I stare at him nervously. I'm no one's master.

The jinn inhales deeply and rolls his eyes. “Fine, I'll call you
Viola
,” he says. “I've been here nineteen hours now,
Viola
. You know, the name thing breaks the first protocol. I'm going to be in trouble when I get back.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. “And thank you for breaking…protocol?” I ask. He grimaces, like my question hurts him.

“There are three overarching protocols for earthbound jinn—respect one's master, be visible only to one's master, and return to Caliban as quickly as possible. So calling you by your first name is just one of the many ways to break the first one. There's an exhaustive list for each protocol. I'll get you a copy.”

“Oh,” I say, not sure if he's being sarcastic but certain that, protocol or not, I'm still not letting him call me
master
. It's creepy. “What happens if you break protocol?”

He sighs. “We're punished by the Ancient Jinn. Sometimes bound. You know that genie-in-a-lamp story? Just a jinn who broke protocol and was bound to a lamp in the middle of a
desert. So I'd rather not break the rules, thanks.”

“Oh. Then…um…it's just…the word
master
…” I struggle for words, trying to find middle ground so the jinn doesn't get stuck in a lamp and I don't have to be called
master
.

Finally, the jinn holds up his hands. “Whatever,” he says, shaking his head in irritation. “I'll deal with the Ancients when I get back.
If
I get back.”

I nod and step away from Ollie's paintings and toward my own, hoping the jinn will vanish again if I ignore him.

I run a finger across my own canvas affectionately. I love painting, even though I know I'm not exactly a brilliant artist—high-school good, maybe, but I'm no pro. But when I paint, it's like my emotions can fall through the brush, then be brightened up, toned down, manipulated, or hidden away. Everything about Lawrence, about being invisible, about wanting to belong…I can say it all on canvas in a way I could never say it aloud. When people ask about the paintings, I come up with some abstract meaning, but really, they're all just shouting about
me
in acrylic.

The jinn is watching me—I can feel his eyes on me. I inhale,
trying to calm my nerves—I don't want him to see me like this: the sappy, emotional way I get whenever I start painting. It's like he's watching me undress. When I look back at him, he has a curious expression on his face.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, so fast that it seems he forgot to be short with me. It surprises both of us, and I think if the jinn's skin were a little lighter, his cheeks would be red. The jinn looks away for a moment, then raises an eyebrow at my work. “You could wish to be a better painter, you know,” he says firmly, folding his arms.

I shake my head at him. “It's not about being good. It's about being…passionate.”

His mouth drops like he's about to say something, but he closes it again. I get the vague feeling I've impressed him. I try not to show my satisfaction.

I turn back to my canvas. “Look, when I have a wish, I'll—”

“Who are you talking to?” a voice interrupts. It isn't the jinn's.

I whirl around to see Lawrence standing at the art room
door, extension cords draped over one arm and a confused look on his face.

Awkward Moment Number One of the day.

“I…” I try not to look at the jinn, whose eyes are heavy on me.

Lawrence can't see him—
no one
else can see him, I remind myself. Don't make a fool of yourself in the art room, of all places.

“No one. What are you doing?” I ask, nodding to the cords.

“Lighting for the play, remember?”

“Oh, yeah—how's the show coming?”

“Horrible. The school board said that Rizzo can't have a pregnancy scare and Sandy isn't allowed to wear leather pants. And at the new, improved Rydell High School, there's no swearing, sex, or smoking.” He steps from the doorway and drops the cords on a table.

“Sounds like family-friendly boredom.” I grin. The jinn chuckles at the joke behind me, but of course Lawrence doesn't hear him.

“Pretty much. What can I say…the football team can practically be sponsored by Budweiser, but if the theater department shows a pregnant teen, all bets are off. I guarantee you they don't have these problems in New York. Thanks a lot, North Carolina.” Lawrence nods at my paintings. “They look finished.”

“Maybe. I've got another week to work on them, and they just aren't…I don't know…coming together the way I'd like. I think I'll come in this Sunday and spend the entire afternoon with them.” I'm about to continue when Awkward Moment Number Two manifests, as bright laughter fills the hallway outside the art room. Lawrence and the jinn look to see the source, but I already know who it is.

Of all the mornings. They had to come in on a day when I've got a jinn following me around.

Ollie is traipsing down the hall toward the art room in a polka-dotted silk dress and long, plastic pearls. When she turns her back for a moment, a bright white tattoo of an artist's palette shines on her honey-colored skin. Ollie is trailed by Aaron Moor, who is sipping on cappuccino from the gas station. They
pause in the hallway to kiss; it doesn't last long, but they press into each other and smile afterward in a way that makes me feel shaky. I was never one for PDA, even when I was with Lawrence, but right now I'd give anything to melt into someone like that.

“She looks almost like a female jinn,” the jinn says, frowning when Ollie and Aaron kiss again. He jumps down from the counter and comes to stand behind me.

Of course she does—only Ollie Marquez could look like a supernatural creature. If girl jinn are as beautiful as the guys apparently are, Ollie is dead on.

Ollie smiles at me as they enter the art room—I force a smile in return despite the swirling nerves in my stomach. She goes to her paintings, while Aaron drops down in a chair. He kicks his feet up onto a table, and his eyes fall on me and Lawrence.

“Hey, Viola. Wish I'd known you would be in here—I would've picked you up some coffee,” he says with a smile.

“You could wish he'd gotten you coffee!” the jinn adds. I try to both smile at Aaron and roll my eyes at the jinn—the
resulting expression probably makes me look like I've lost my mind. Perfect.

“Dumott!” Aaron turns from me and calls out Lawrence's last name. They're friends—not like Lawrence and I are, but friendly enough because they're both high-school royalty. “What's with the extension cords?” Aaron asks.

“Lighting for the play. Aren't you doing sets for it?”

“Yeah, I'm trying to. Not a lot of time, lately.”

“Too many parties?” Lawrence asks with a half grin.

Aaron laughs and Ollie nods. I try to look too busy sorting paints to answer, since my last “party” was my unicorn birthday bash when I turned eleven.

“He's charming, really. You should wish for him,” the jinn says in a bored tone.

I've got a choice: ignore him or look crazy in front of Aaron. I've got to ignore the jinn.

“Your pieces look great, Viola,” Ollie calls out from across the room. “I thought I'd finally come in and touch up mine.”

“Thanks. I love yours, too,” I reply while Ollie kneels to sort her neon-orange and pink paints. Jealousy rips through
me, both for the paint colors and for the way her dress flutters around her like water.

“You don't like her?” the jinn interrupts my thoughts.

“I like her fine. She's very nice,” I mutter.

“Yeah, but that's why you don't like her.” He grins, stepping closer to me. “You know, she
knows
who you are. The two guys
know
you. You're not as invisible as you think. So why don't you just ditch that particular wish and wish for a nice morning cappuccino instead?”

“Shut up,” I mutter. He can't possibly be expected to understand that it's not about people knowing me—it's about not feeling like I
belong
with them. I shake my head at him in frustration as I turn away. “And you're wrong about Ollie. I like her,” I whisper over my shoulder. I'm not sure if it's a lie or not—after all, Ollie is nice. And perfect. Everyone loves Ollie.

Breathe. Don't let him get to you.
I exhale and stand up, only to see Lawrence eyeing me.

Awkward Moment Number Three. Lawrence raises an eyebrow, then starts toward me.

“You're in trouble,” the jinn says, a hint of amusement in
his voice. It makes me want to punch him. Lawrence grabs my wrist as he passes me, dragging me along after him. Ollie and Aaron are too busy telling each other jokes between quick kisses to notice. The jinn ducks out of the way as Lawrence pulls me into the supply closet.

“You're hiding something from me, Viola Cohen,” Lawrence says in a low voice. The scent of clay and old paint fills my throat as I inhale.

“You have no idea,” the jinn answers as he leans on the doorframe. Lawrence, of course, doesn't hear him. I'd love to tell the jinn to get lost, but speaking to invisible people probably isn't going to make Lawrence any less suspicious.

“Whatever it is, Vi, you can tell me. It can't be any worse than anything I've told you. You're really going to keep secrets from your best friend?”

I have to hand it to Lawrence. He can really lay on a guilt trip. I shoot the jinn a bitter look through the dim light before speaking.

“If you had…let's just say, hypothetically, you had three wishes. What would you wish for?” I say.

“What?” Lawrence asks.

I collapse onto a stepladder with a loud sigh. Words begin to fall out of my mouth the way emotions usually fall from my paintbrush. I start with Shakespeare class, last night in my bedroom, this morning. Lawrence listens, expressionless, and the jinn shoots me doubtful looks.