Laila, sweet, blond, petite Laila, who, even in the picture, is a head shorter than the rest of us. Standing in front with her skinny arms spread wide, the tip of one finger in front of me and the tip of the other in front of Yasmin. The mortar in our bricks then and now.
My mousy self-cropped hair and slouch is countered by Yasmin’s cascading jet-black curls and arched back. With her long skinny nose raised in the air, all that’s missing is the pointy black hat. Again, then and now.
Hana. Next to me, with her fiery-red hair grazing her shoulders and mine. She was in her eyeglasses-wearing stage then. As if she needed them to prove how smart she is.
And in the middle, Mina and Farrah, as close as Siamese twins. Born with a noisemaker in her mouth and party streamers around her belly, baby-faced Mina stands in her signature stance of hands tossed high in the air. With her boundless energy and vivacious personality, she’d match, hoop for hoop, any dolphin at SeaWorld. Next to her is square-chinned Farrah, whose quick, sharp movements and cuddly nature always reminded me of a rabbit. Her foot’s caught in mid-tap and her finger tugs on a strand of hair as she works to cover what she’s always thought was a slightly too-big forehead.
Laila, Yasmin, Hana, Mina, and Farrah. My Zar, who stopped inviting me to their birthday parties. But who, apparently, are still coming to mine.
I wonder if they feel as conflicted about that as I do?
Even before I flip the photo over, I know the date it was taken. The day I turned ten. The first birthday I didn’t share with Jenny.
I remember the present Laila gave me: a framed picture of Jenny and me kneeling on the grass outside her house with the tiny Laila standing on our backs. Henry took that photo.
I remember the awkward looks on Hana, Mina, and Farrah’s faces as Laila gave me that present. None of them acknowledged Jenny’s absence then. None of them had acknowledged Jenny’s absence in the year before then. Though Jenny had been as much a fixture in my life as they’d been, when she was gone, it was like she never existed.
But mostly, I remember Yasmin. Walking in on her reading my diary later that day. Seeing the guilt turn to hurt on Hana’s freckled face. Watching Mina mistakenly snip Farrah’s dark brown bangs too short. Feeling Laila’s warm fingers interlacing with mine, holding me back as much as holding me.
“None of them!” Yasmin read, stomping her foot and treating my words like those of a petulant child instead of a grief-stricken “sister.”
Not Hana, not Mina, not Farrah, not Yasmin. None of them came. None of them said they were sorry. Not right away and not in the months since. She was my best friend. I thought she was their friend too. They acted like it. Are they acting with me too?
Laila’s the only one who cares. She’s the only one I need. I’d trade all the rest to have Jenny back. I’d trade all the rest to have Jenny back for a single day. Let the Afrit take them. They deserve that and more.
Even Yasmin’s voice trembled as she read that last line.
Each one tried to apologize. The heart-shaped pillow embroidered with my and Jenny’s initials that Hana made me still sits on the chair next to my window, though Mina’s collage of all the guys from One Tree Hill has probably been recycled into toilet paper or coffee filters by now. The mix CD Farrah gave me, bursting with the falsetto of all her favorite boy bands, is tucked away somewhere on my shelves. Yasmin’s card? The one where she listed all the reasons not to befriend humans? I read it and burned it.
Maybe in her own way she was trying. They all were. But I couldn’t. My tenth birthday is one of a handful of times my whole Zar has been together in the years since. The more our mothers pushed, the more we pulled away.
Sometimes, Laila and I were a team. When Yasmin pulled a new prank on a human, we tattled together. But when Hana staged one of her runway shows, making each of us model ensembles she put together from clothes conjured by her mother, I hit the pavement alone while Laila hopped right up on the lighted catwalk our mothers’ powers built. Mina and Farrah morphed from infatuated preteens to full-blown boy-crazy Jinn, sneaking into clubs to see emo bands that I mistakenly thought had something to do with an annoying character on Sesame Street.
By the time I was ready to forgive, they were past wanting me to.
But maybe the genie lamp my mother just sent up here shows they’re ready to try. Which leaves me as the only one who is not.
As usual.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m pulling my favorite pair of jeans out of my closet. Though they weren’t when I bought them, they are now low-rise. Ultra low-rise. And cropped. The hem falls mid-calf.
The sudden commotion from downstairs means someone’s already here.
Unfolding the tunic as I dart across the hall, I slip it over my head and rifle through the hangers in my mother’s closet. The pair of white linen pants I find toward the back fits perfectly.
In my bathroom, I braid my long hair and even dab on some blush and lip gloss. Purple lip gloss. I make it match the color of the shirt from my mother. Groomed and dressed like this, I have to admit my magical makeover isn’t half bad.
I’m almost out the door when I turn back around. My mother’s right. This is a long road. Maybe I can dislike what I have to do without disliking who I am. And who my Zar sisters are (Yasmin being the obvious exception).
Using my powers, I center Mr. Gemp on my nightstand and fling the cantamen my mother brought up earlier to the floor, parking it under my bed. Amid the dustballs, the ratty old thing should be right at home.
Life is compromise, after all.
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