Becoming Jinn (11 page)

Mrs. Pucher returns to her seat on her yellow tufted couch. “Thank you, dear, for the tomatoes,” she says to my mother, who brought a basket of our homegrown tomatoes as an excuse for our uncharacteristic stopping by. “I've always been jealous of your green thumb. I mean, my tomato plants barely have flowers, and yet you've managed to coax yours into giving you plump, red fruit!”

My mother squirms, clearly not having considered that it's only June, far from the height of tomato season in New England.

“Yes,” my mother says, “well, it's a special variety. Maybe I can plant it for you next year.”

Mrs. Pucher clasps her hands in her lap. “Oh, that would be lovely. Maybe the young man from across the street can help. He was here just yesterday mowing the lawn. Wouldn't take a penny, if you can believe that in this day and age. He was kind enough to take a gander at the sorry state of my vegetable garden. Even offered to bring me some fertilizer. Such a sweet boy…”

Enough.

I need to tune everything out: Mrs. Pucher's questions about tilling the soil, Pom-Pom's low growl, the clatter of doubts ricocheting in my head. I need to concentrate because I'm supposed to be able to read Mrs. Pucher's mind.

If only I could read my mother's mind, maybe I'd get a clue as to
how
I'm supposed to read Mrs. Pucher's mind. But we can't read fellow Jinn's minds. Even reading human minds only kicks in during wish-granting rituals.

Which is why, when we arrived at Mrs. Pucher's under my breath I muttered the first of the incantations I spent yesterday memorizing. And ever since I've been waiting to find myself plopped inside her head.

On and on, Mrs. Pucher's peppering my mother with questions about bottom rot and calcium, and even though my pupils are drilling a hole into her white-haired head, I'm getting zip. Supposedly the longer I do this and the more I practice, the earlier in the ritual I'll be able to read my wishee's mind. But that doesn't help me today.

Today, I'll have to rely solely on the circulus incantation, which, bizarre as it sounds even to me, will allow me to connect with Mrs. Pucher's psyche. It is there that I'll find her truest wish. Being able to read her mind first is like seeing the trailer to a movie. It preps me for what she might want, what and who in her life might be an obstacle to this, and what elements I need to be conscious of when crafting the wish.

The psyche is all heart. All emotion. Without the mind-reading, without the head and the logistics, I'm working with a genie handicap.

My mother's I-just-ate-a-lemon face as she sips a cup from the new pot of tea means it's go time. I give up on mind-reading and nod to my mother, who moves to the edge of her peony-covered chair. I'm looking Mrs. Pucher in the eye, starting to utter the words that will set things in motion when my mother interrupts me.

“Azra! Your … your cloak!”

Mrs. Pucher cocks her head. “Cloak? Why it must be seventy-five degrees today.” She turns to me. “Dear, are you ill? Is it that migraine? Heavens, if it was my tea, I'll never forgive myself.”

I assure Mrs. Pucher it wasn't her tea, smoothly transitioning into a lie about getting over an early summer cold.

My cloak. Pretty clever of my mother, really, but I can't believe she had to remind me. I almost forgot the cloaking enchantment. The incantation that blocks this memory from forming. I was about to grant Mrs. Pucher a wish without ensuring she wouldn't remember the event. That's basic stuff. I know better, and even if I didn't, my mother's lessons should have made sure I did.

Angry at myself, I whip through the rest of the required incantations and have Mrs. Pucher where I need her to be within seconds. I ball my hands into such tight fists that I'm cutting off the circulation to my fingers.

One moment I'm planning how I'll get around conjuring her another puppy since we can't actually conjure living creatures, and the next I'm wondering if I'll die before my sister forgives me.

What?
I don't have a sister.

Phyllis, what I wouldn't give for us to bury the hatchet.

I don't know a Phyllis. I have never used the word “hatchet.”

I am in Mrs. Pucher's head. I am reading her mind.
I am doing this.

I spy my mother out of the corner of my eye. The worry lines creasing her face cause me to turn away from her. I can't lose my focus. Especially as I'm flooded with such intense emotions that tears spill down my cheeks. My stomach hurts, my hands shake. I push through and go deeper.

The intimate details of Mrs. Pucher's life fly at me. Mrs. Pucher—Eva. Her sister, Phyllis. Phyllis's husband, Frank. Eva and Frank. Kissing. More than kissing. Phyllis walking in. The anger, the fight, the tears, the relationship, broken. Sisters no more.

The wrongness of invading Mrs. Pucher's privacy makes me want to stop, but I can't. Because underneath the aching sadness lies her wish: to reconcile with her sister before it's too late.

Was there any amount of research that would have led me here? To this?

My mother thought this would be easy for me because I've known Mrs. Pucher my entire life. This proves how much I don't know Mrs. Pucher. How little I've tried to know her. She used to change my diapers, but this is the first time my mother or I have sat down with her for tea. That's why we had no idea she had such an aversion to sugar. This is the problem with being Jinn. We can't open ourselves up to the humans we should know best.

I'm determined to grant her this wish, but I don't know how. We are all in limbo for several more ticks of the grandfather clock when I finally have an idea.

“Mrs. Pucher, call your sister,” I instruct. “Call Phyllis.”

My mother widens her eyes, but I raise a finger to indicate I'm in control. Mrs. Pucher is already at the phone, dialing.

When Phyllis answers, I know she's about to hang up. I know because I can read Phyllis's thoughts too. I burrow into her mind via the receiver both Mrs. Pucher and I are listening through. Underneath the painful betrayal is Phyllis's yearning to reconcile with her sister—with Mrs. Pucher.

In Phyllis's mind, I find the words Mrs. Pucher must say in order to earn her sister's forgiveness. I prompt Mrs. Pucher to recite them, but I don't have to make her believe them. She already does. And once I get her going, she adds more of her own.

“It was just the one time, Phyllis. I promise you that. I loved him. I did. But I loved you more. I still do. Oh, how I've regretted that moment. Every day of my life, I've regretted that moment of weakness that made me lose you. Made me lose us. I'll never forgive myself, Phyllis. But I pray that you can.”

Once the two women are laughing instead of crying, I relax the cloaking enchantment, easing Mrs. Pucher back into a place where she can remember this part. She'll want to remember this part.

Weakened and a bit dizzy, I allow my mother to guide me to the couch. We listen as Mrs. Pucher talks with a voice full of lightness and joy.

My mother stares at me, tense lines still drawn on her face.

“What?” I ask, gulping down air. “I know I almost messed up with the cloaking enchantment, but the rest of it was good, wasn't it?”

My mother rests her hand on my trembling knee. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

When I explain about hearing Phyllis's thoughts, my mother's hand shoots up to cover her mouth.

I groan. “Was that not allowed?” If I'm going to have to actually read that entire cantamen, it's going to be a really long summer.

“No, no, it's fine. It's just—”

“Just what?”

My mother looks at Mrs. Pucher and then back at me. “It's just … unusual to be able to read the mind of someone whose physical presence you're not in.”

Whew.
I didn't violate some cardinal Jinn rule. “But Phyllis was on the phone. Same thing, right?”

Though her expression is strange, my mother nods slowly. “It must be. Because the ability to read human minds outside the wish-granting ritual is rare. If it even exists at all. Most think it's extinct, simply gone from our species.”

Seriously, sometimes it feels like I'll never be able to please her. How can I be expected to compete with her reputation as the model Jinn?

“But I
was
in the middle of the ritual. I was granting a wish.”

She shakes the worry lines from her face. “You were, weren't you?” She claps her hands together. “You did, didn't you? Granted a wish. My little baby Jinn.”

“
Mom
.” I'm desperate for sugar. “Can we go home now? There's still chocolate cake, isn't there?”

My mother pecks the top of my head. While she makes our good-byes to an elated if somewhat disoriented Mrs. Pucher, I go outside for some fresh air, feeling my legs wobble underneath me as I fight back the torrent of emotions still swirling my insides.

I circle to the back of the house and find Mrs. Pucher's vegetable garden. Sorry doesn't describe it. I steady myself against the weathered trellis a potato vine is unsuccessfully trying to climb. Full of weeds, squirrel-dug holes, and spindly tomato plants, it looks far beyond anything fertilizer can help. I move closer and concentrate on the dandelion field strangling the rosemary and chives. In an instant, my powers clear it.

My energy slowly returns as I use my magic to fix up the garden, even turning most of the tiny yellow flowers on the tomato plants into green orbs of fruit. It's more fun than I would have thought. Besides, Mrs. Pucher used to babysit for me. She wiped my bottom—without the help of magic. Even granting her greatest wish isn't enough to make up for having to do that.

Her greatest wish.

I grab hold of a bamboo tomato stake and take a deep breath. I granted someone's wish. And not just any wish. A wish for family.

Maybe this won't be as bad as I thought.

When my mother comes up behind me, slipping her arm around my waist to guide me across the lawn and back to our house, I lean into her, grateful for the support.

“It really was okay, then?” I ask tentatively.

She smiles a kid-on-Christmas-morning smile. “More than okay. Next time, though, if you open yourself up a bit more, your magic will demand less energy.”

I nod, happy this is her only real criticism. I may not be my mother, but perhaps I'm just talented enough to coast my way through this, to fake it straight through to retirement. Whenever that is. We work until the Afrit tell us not to.

My mother and I are at our front door when Henry crosses to our side of the street. He lifts his chin instead of waving because his hands are full of gardening supplies.

Did Mrs. Pucher say Henry checked out the garden just yesterday?

“Come inside, Azra,” my mother says. “You need to rest.”

I should tell my mother about my magical green thumb. But that will erase all the goodwill I just built up by successfully granting Mrs. Pucher's wish. She might even make me quit my job at the beach before it begins so I'll spend time studying the stupid cantamen.

Mrs. Pucher was probably exaggerating. How closely could Henry have studied her garden anyway? Surely teenage boys have way more important things on their mind than bottom rot.

 

11

A damp, gray mist clung to the shoreline for my entire first week behind the snack bar. Yesterday's flip of the calendar ushered in July and, with it, the sun. Just in time. As my white shorts make painfully clear, my legs need a tan.

I leave myself ample time to bike to the beach and arrive early. The weathered wood shack that serves as the concession stand creaks as I prop my new bicycle against it. The overly complicated twenty-four-speed contraption is a birthday present from my mother's Zar sisters. The irony of giving me an external method of transport now that I have my own internal one isn't lost on me.

With time before my shift begins, I follow the arched wooden path over the dunes. I sweep my fingertips along the tall grass that rustles on either side, feeling the air crisp with each step. When I arrive at the last plank, I kick off my sneakers. It's low tide. The beach spreads out before me, empty, quiet, calm. This is my favorite time of day in my favorite place.

If it were up to me, we'd open our front door to this. But the location of our home, like so much else, is not up to me. My mother says a flashy house at the beach would raise more questions than it's worth. Draw too much attention—the worst thing for a Jinn. Funny, I gather the attention my mother garners by being drop-dead gorgeous has yet to cause a problem.

I walk the wide expanse of open beach down to the water. The frigid Massachusetts waves reach for my toes.

I can't resist. I inch forward and let the icy ripples surround my feet.

Standing at the edge of the ocean, everything seems possible. The endlessness of the sea makes me believe in beginnings.

Mere seconds pass before I cry out, unable to withstand the torture any longer. My toes sting as I race toward a patch of sun and bury my feet. The cool sand lurking underneath does little to alleviate my chill, but still … it was worth it.

Returning down the same wooden path, I run into the clique of beautiful bods—the lifeguards. A morning beach run is a requirement of their job. Of the three female lifeguards, only Chelsea does the run in a two-piece bathing suit. Emblazoned with “guard” across the chest in capital letters, the red, sporty bikini is even more intimidating than her orange-and-black cheerleading uniform. And that has a tiger paw plastered across the front.

A couple of the guys nod slightly as they pass me. Though we all recognize one another, the rules in play in the halls of the high school extend to the dunes of the beach. If you wave to me during homeroom, you wave to me here. If you nod to me during the change of classes, you nod to me here. If you ignore me during gym, like Chelsea does, you ignore me here.