She was. She did. And then all that was next to me was the metal chain.
The day she died was the day I realized magic couldn’t fix everything. It was the last day I wanted to become a Jinn. A Jinn like my mother. A Jinn like my grandmother. A Jinn like my great-grandmother. On and on, generation upon generation, we become Jinn. In exchange for granting wishes to humans, we receive powers that allow us to do the impossible. Though there are some things even our magic cannot do.
We cannot bring someone back from the dead.
This I learned the day Jenny fell from the swing in our backyard. The day I begged my mother to use her powers to save my best friend. The day I lost my best friend was the last day I had a best friend.
“Azra,” my mother’s voice floats up the stairs. “How about a break from all this, kiddo?”
A break. From all of this. If only there was one. If only I could find one.
Even though my mother always insisted there was no way out of me fulfilling my destiny, when I was younger I thought maybe she was forcing me into this like other parents force kids to take piano lessons.
I steal a last glance at the “A+J.” Henry, barely a year older than Jenny and me, tried to take her place over the years, but I wouldn’t let him. Couldn’t let him. Though it surely would have been better for both of us if I had. But for the past few years, at least he’s had Lisa, whose resemblance to Jenny both comforts and unnerves me. For the first time, I wonder if Henry feels the same.
At the brick hearth, I steady myself against the mantel, allowing my thumping heart to retreat to its normal rhythm. I lay a finger on the oval pendant hanging from a silver chain around my neck. The cursive A engraved on the front stands for the first letter of the name I share with my grandmother on my mother’s side—the necklace’s original owner, whom I’ve never met. Like a security blanket, my A has always calmed me. I was so young when my mother first looped the chain around my neck that I don’t remember it.
Leaning over the terra cotta bricks, I wring the water out of my shirt and clutch my A once more before heading back downstairs.
When I enter the living room, my mother points to the bookshelf. “Up there,” she says. “Happy birthday.”
A box wrapped in silver and gold is nestled in among the tchotchkes. Painted tribal masks from Ghana, onyx candleholders from Mexico, baskets of yarn from Ireland, the objects cramming the shelves are a tangible history of my mother’s life. Being Jinn has allowed my mother to see the world. Traveling to even the farthest reaches is only a matter of a blink and a nod for Jinn.
My hand reaches the box without me having to stand on tiptoes even though it’s on the highest shelf—something I couldn’t have done yesterday, but then again, yesterday, unlike today, my mother and I were not yet the exact same height. My tank top rides up, fully exposing my belly button.
“Tell me,” my mother says, waving her hand and drying my damp shirt, “because, knowing you, it could go either way. Is the midriff baring an unfortunate side effect of your metamorphosis or an intentional display of contempt for this whole thing?”
I run the tip of my red nail along my exposed stomach, working to bury the ache that always comes with thinking of Jenny. I issue a wry smile that lets her think it’s the latter. I wish I would have thought of that. I wish. Rolls off the tongue. So easy to say. Takes so much to do.
Inside the box lies a deep purple tunic with pinstripes of gold so thin the effect is subtle, not flashy. I rub the soft linen between my fingers. “It’s … it’s beautiful. Thanks, Mom. Really.”
My sincerity throws her. “I can make it black if you want.”
“No, I like the purple.” The understated nature of the shirt—a departure from the bright fabrics of her wardrobe but in line with my monotone collection of blacks, whites, and grays—proves she knows how hard all of this is for me. As does what comes next.
“I know I said we’d wait until tomorrow,” she says, refolding the shirt. “But if you want, if you’re not too tired, we can give it a try.”
“It” can only mean one thing—the power even I couldn’t help but crave.
“Ready to app, kiddo?”
4
The rides I’ve hitched while my mother apported us both are nothing like doing it myself.
I do as she says and stand as still as stone. I’m so attuned to the beating of my heart that it pounds in my ears as if playing through earbuds. I close my eyes and picture the space around me in such detail that I could paint it if I had any artistic talent, which I don’t. I envision my destination, focusing on one item I know to be in that location, clearly drawing it in my mind. Eventually, my mother says I won’t need a specific object to latch onto. The name of the place itself will be enough, which is how we accomplish long-distance apping to grant wishes around the world in locales we’ve never been.
My mind zeroes in on my old single-speed bike.
Then it’s pulse racing, head spinning, adrenaline skyrocketing. Rush, rush, rush.
Unlike the chill that accompanies conjuring, apping sears my insides as if they were made of fire. Light-headed, I plant my hand on the wall of the garage.
I’m in the garage. I apped myself to the garage.
What’s that sound? That big ole creak? The door to the world just opened, and I’m standing on the welcome mat.
It may only be the garage, but it’s a start.
As I app back into the living room, I work to erase the grin that’s plastered itself to my face. I convince my mother to conjure us a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and I produce the two spoons.
We’re halfway through the container when my skin prickles and a purring fills my ears. It’s less a shock and more like the vibration from a pumped-up stereo bass.