Awkward is the only word to describe breakfast.
On one side of the table sits Henry. Having cereal with Henry is awkward because we spent the night in the same bed and because my mother knows Henry and I spent the night in the same bed. On the other side of the table sits my mother. Sharing a pot of coffee with my mother is awkward because I’m ninety-nine percent sure my father was in this very spot last night and because I’m ninety-nine percent sure my mother plans not to tell me my father was in this very spot last night.
We are as screwed up as any normal family.
“Do you know when the funeral will be?” my mother asks.
I drop my spoon. Of course there will be a funeral, and of course I’ll have to go. I sent Nate a text this morning asking about his mother. He answered immediately as if the phone were glued to his hand, which made me kick myself for not checking in with him sooner. His mother’s condition is still listed as critical. He didn’t mention a funeral for his father, and I didn’t think to ask.
I shake my head. I’ve never been to a funeral before. I didn’t even go to Jenny’s. I am no longer hungry.
“Does everyone do that open-casket thing?” I ask nervously.
My mother squeezes my shoulder. “I don’t think so, but even if they do, you can pay your respects without approaching the casket. It’s okay.”
“It is?” Henry asks, sounding as relieved as I feel, making me wonder if Jenny’s casket was open.
My mother smiles weakly. “Yes, especially for you kids. Just be there for your friend. That’s all that’s important.”
She returns the milk carton to the refrigerator and places her bowl in the dishwasher. She could use magic to clean up since Henry knows about us, but I can tell she’s not in the mood. As she refills her coffee mug, I notice a slip of paper peeking out of her back pocket. Henry, whose parents don’t allow sugary cereal in the house, has his head buried in his second bowl. Before my mother turns back around, I pickpocket her.
My chair scrapes against the floor as I excuse myself to get a tissue from the living room. Written across the front of the small, folded note is simply “Kalyssa.” Instantly I recognize the slant of the letters. It’s the same handwriting that was on the note, also addressed to my mother, that was waiting when Samara and I returned from Ms. Anne Wood’s house. I unfold the paper. “Always. But not forever.”
My hand grips the arm of the sofa. Those conflicting words wouldn’t make sense to most. Then again, most have not read my mother’s diary.
He was here. My father was here. And he’s been here before. Perhaps being an Afrit, he’s able to come and go as he pleases. How could he visit my mother and not me?
I close my eyelids against the tears begging to come. My fingers begin to curl into a fist, and the note crinkles.
Wait. My eyes snap open and focus on the handwriting once again. My father’s handwriting. My mother said whoever warned her about Ms. Wood was “someone with both our best interests at heart.” My father.
I have to trust there’s a reason, aside from my recent questionable secret-keeping abilities, why my mother and father haven’t let me see him. I have to trust that, in his own way, my father is doing everything he said he would. Infiltrating the Afrit. Loving my mother. Loving me.
When I return to the kitchen, my heart still beating fast, I down my coffee and hold out my mug. “More, please?” I say to my mother.
Risking the minute amount of energy it must require, I cause Henry’s spoon to slip from his hand. As he bends to the floor to retrieve it, I return the note to my mother’s back pocket.
Taking my coffee, I needle my mother to see what, if anything, she might reveal about last night. “Sleep okay?”
“Not really,” she says. “Samara came by. She was worried about you.”
So she’s not going to lie about that part.
“You two?” My mother is unable to conceal her slight grin.
I cut Henry off. “No, that dog was barking again. And you’re right, it’s definitely not Mrs. Pucher’s Pom-Pom.”
“Really?” she says. “I didn’t hear anything.”
So that part she’s going to lie about.
We have achieved stalemate. We’ll never know which one of us might have blinked first because it is at that moment that my bronze bangle breaks in two and falls in my half-eaten bowl of soggy cereal.
My mother rushes over. She wiggles the dish but doesn’t touch the bangle. “Azra, what did you do?”
“I was just sitting here!”
Her eyes narrow, and she takes my wrist. “Are you sure? Not even subconsciously?”
“If it was subconsciously, how would I know?”
My mother looks at Henry, who has pushed back his chair and is sitting with his mouth hanging open.
“They’ll come for her.” The words the man … my father … said last night pop into my head.
“Should Henry leave?” I ask. “Is this … dangerous?”’
My mother cannot rid her face of its stunned expression. “I don’t think so.”
“But you don’t know?” I stand up and point across the table. “Henry, go!”
He scrunches up his face, eyeing me as if I’m crazy. He doesn’t know what I now know about the Afrit. About my family.
“Seriously, Henry, now.”
My harsh tone works. He stands, but it’s too late. Something else is already happening. The bronze bangle vanishes into the cereal milk. I take my spoon and swirl it around the bowl.
“It’s gone,” Henry says. “How could it be gone?”
A silver bangle identical to the one I first received on my birthday materializes in the center of the table. It rolls toward me. I stop it with one finger before it spills into my lap. At my touch, it pops open at a very visible hinge.
“I’m guessing this is for me?” I know I don’t need it. My mother knows I don’t need it. But she doesn’t know I know. So I play along. “My probation is over, then?”