Becoming Jinn (27 page)

I'm expecting to see Henry, but it's Nate. Nate with a fresh haircut, a deeper tan, and a sexy smile aimed squarely at me. Score one for absence and fondness.

Weaving my way through the toilet-paper obstacle course, I approach the entrance. I draw upon my learned skill of pretending to disguise the fact that my heart's about to bust through my rib cage. I lean my arm against the doorjamb and stretch out my leg, keeping the screen door open with my courtesy-of-being-Jinn, pre-probationary, perfectly pedicured toes.

“Is your mom okay?” Nate asks.

This is not the reaction I expected. “Um, yeah, I guess.”

“Because your aunt seemed pretty freaked out last week. I was coming to say hi when she nearly tackled me, asking me to gather up their beach gear, saying they had no time. That your mom wasn't feeling well. Seemed 911 emergency worthy.”

It was. But the sirens were for me, not her. “Oh, that. My aunt has a flair for the dramatic. My mom gets migraines.” From me. “Lal—, I mean, Aunt Sam just overreacted. But she's fine. Thanks for asking. And for getting their stuff.”

“I dropped it off a few days ago. I was hoping to see you, but your mom said you were grounded. Do anything really good?”

His raised eyebrow and mischievous grin make me glad for the support of the doorway.

“I mean good in a bad way,” he adds nervously. “I know you wouldn't get grounded for being good, of course.”

Books and covers and judging, Nate's the poster boy for that warning. Outside he's all underwear model but inside he's just as much a self-conscious dork as the rest of us.

“Maybe you could tell me about it over lunch?” Nate's rock-hard forearm that rests against the door frame and his smooth palm that envelops my hand compensate well for his inner geek. “Unless you've got other plans.”

“Yes,” I say, adrenaline soaring so high I expect to see a syringe sticking out of my chest. “I mean, no, no other plans. I mean … lunch sounds nice.” I do not cover my inner dork nearly as well.

“Cool. I'll meet you on the beach near my usual chair?”

“Okay. I can grab something from the snack bar for us, if you want.”

He squeezes my hand. “Azra, don't you know I'm a gentleman? The guy always picks up the tab on the first date.”

Date. First
date. As in an expectation of a second.

He smiles. His teeth gleam toothpaste-commercial white.

“I've got it covered. Trust me on this.”

On this. On that. On anything.

*   *   *

The vomit on the ramp up to the restrooms is not my problem. I'm on lunch break. I shove the mop in my fill-in's hand as I skip down the planks.

The beach is jam-packed. Being sequestered in my bedroom all week and the restrooms all day, I've got a touch of stranger anxiety.

Knowing Nate likes my hair down, I've taken it out of its usual ponytail and the wind blows the long strands across my face. I tuck as much as I can behind my ears as I scan the area around Nate's lifeguard chair. I see him a bit past it, waving both arms above his head. I kick off my flip-flops and jog toward him. Too eager. I downshift to a casual stroll. Too uninterested. My jerky-paced trot ends at a red blanket and a spread worthy of ten people.

He said “date.” I know he did. Was he joking? Is this actually a group thing? I should have known.

“Are we expecting company?” I try not to sound disappointed.

Nate rounds his shoulders. “Guess it is a lot, huh?”

He's blushing. At me.

“I just wasn't sure what you liked,” he says.

“Wow,” is all I can think to say.

There's a plate of cheese and crackers, rolled cold cuts and sliced bread, a heaping Tupperware of potato salad, a matching one with a green salad, even a container of sushi. Not to mention the pile of chocolate chip cookies and the tower of fudge brownies, which in truth is all he needed for me.

We don't sell any of this at the concession stand. “You brought all this from home?”

Nate kneels on the blanket, pulling plates made from recycled plastic out of his backpack. His sheepish smile forces me to sit rather than risk my knees actually buckling.

“Well,” he says, “I knew you were coming back today, and I … I wanted to do something special.”

That's it, Azra, he likes you, accept it
, I hear Samara saying in my head.
Now work it, honey.

I stretch out my legs and reach for a cookie. “But why?” I ask Nate.

Samara groans at me.

“Because…” Nate runs his hand over his newly cropped hair. “Geesh, Azra, this is that vibe I was talking about. You are not easy to read.”

I like you, don't you know that? What's it going to take for you to know that?

The cookie gets caught in my throat. These words are not Samara's. They are not mine. They are Nate's.

I choke, unable to swallow. My coughing results in crumbs spewing from my mouth.

Instantly at my side, Nate's ready to do the Heimlich. “Azra, are you okay?”

I hold up a finger and clutch my throat. Nate might not be able to read me, but I can read him. I can read his thoughts. I accept the water bottle he offers me and drink slowly.

How is this happening? Panic overwhelms me. The Afrit. They'll think I'm doing this on purpose. But I'm not, I swear I'm not. I'm not using my powers. How can I? I'm not granting him a wish. How can I be reading his mind?

All this for nothing. Makes sense. She's so super smart. And funny. Of course, she doesn't like me. I was wrong.

“No!” I cry in response to Nate's thoughts before I can stop myself. I clamp my hand over my mouth. How could he not be sure if I liked him? How could he question such a thing? Does he not know how sweet he is? Does his house have no mirrors?

I cover by wiping crumbs off my mouth with the back of my hand. “I mean, no, please, don't do that choking maneuver on me or anything. I'm okay. Just took too big of a bite.” I pick up the cookie, nibble the edge, and force myself to swallow. “It's good, really good. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Nate moves hesitantly in front of me. “But take another sip of water, okay?”

Nate lays his hand on my leg. He pats my kneecap and then rubs my lower thigh, gently, reassuringly, like a caring doctor. But I'm not a patient. And his hand
is on my thigh
. We look at each other, and sparks may as well fly.

I feel it. And he feels it. I know because I can still read his mind. “The ability to read human minds outside the wish-granting ritual is rare,” my mother had said. How rare is it to be able to read minds when one's powers are blocked? Is my mind-reading not actually tied to my Jinn blood? Am I like a psychic now too or something? The surprises keep on coming. Why do I think this is going to prove to be a problem?

Hot, she is so hot.

When Nate's thoughts travel further than his hand, I close my eyes, not wanting to follow. At least not right now. My face burns so strongly, I expect it to actually shoot out flames. As inexplicably as I entered his mind, I'm out again.

Nate's making me an assorted buffet plate. My pulse races and my hands shake from both the astounding realizations I've just had:
Nate likes me. I can read minds.
The two battle for supremacy.

Henry's at the water's edge. Oh man, wait until he hears about me actually having ESP. My bronze bangle clanks against the green plate Nate's handing me.

On second thought, maybe I shouldn't tell Henry. With me on Jinn probation, it'll only make him worry. Still, it would feel strange not to say anything. He's experienced everything else with me. It's almost like it's not real until he knows.

Then again, my desire to share the second bulletin about Nate is less intense.

Chelsea sprints down the beach, stops behind Henry, and places her hands over his eyes. Making a show of it, Henry fumbles behind him, trying to catch Chelsea's petite body, which wiggles and keeps itself just out of reach. She inches forward, playfully testing him, and Henry nabs her. His long arm sheathes her small waist. His hand slides to her bikini-clad bottom. And cups it.

Henry! That's not my Henry!

Giggling, Chelsea leans into his palm. Henry spins around, picks her up, and dashes into the ocean. He toys with her, pretending to drop her. She shrieks and slaps his chest.

Nate sees me staring at them. “They've been spending a lot of time together this week.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“You guys are neighbors, right?”

“Friends.”

“Friends,” Nate repeats in a tone that suggests a dozen question marks would follow its written form.

I nod, still watching the couple who appear to be reenacting a cheesy romantic comedy.

“She's not so bad,” Nate says. “Chelsea. I know she can come off as a b—”

“Bitch.”

“Bit strong, is what I was going to say. But, yeah, I guess ‘bitch' isn't that far off. But not to everyone. If she likes you, that is.”

The way she hangs on Henry's arm as they walk up the beach seems to indicate Henry is getting a big thumbs-up.

Nate raises his hand and waves to them.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“We have so much food. And Henry's your friend.”

I notice he doesn't say, “And Chelsea's mine.”

Henry's smile fades as he gets closer. It's almost like he doesn't want to see me.

“Hello,” “Hi,” “Hey,” and “What's up?” make the rounds before Nate invites Henry and Chelsea to share our lunch. The only good part of them saying yes is that Chelsea adds she can't stay long. Her break's almost over.

The blanket has shrunk with the four of us crowded onto it, likely closer than most of us want to be to one another.

I can't help myself. “I texted you earlier,” I say to Henry.

“I know,” Henry replies, “I was looking for you.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Chelsea scooches closer to Henry. The look on her face surprises me, more anxious than anything else. Our subsequent painful, banal small talk is mercifully interrupted by two ten-year-old boys who begin to use the empty lifeguard chair as a jungle gym. Chelsea swallows her last piece of sushi. Her third, I think. The only thing she's touched since sitting down. Meanwhile, I've had a turkey sandwich, potato salad, and two brownies.

“Damn,” Chelsea says, “I better go deal with that.” She checks her watch. “I'm back on the clock anyway.”

Nate's on his feet. “I'll help. I've already yelled at those two twice today.”

Chelsea looks directly at me. “It was nice to see you, Azra.”

I don't think she's ever said my name. I'm waiting for the catch, but all Chelsea does is smile. It's so genuine, I know it's fake.

“Talk to you later, Henry?” she says.

He flirtatiously replies, “Absolutely, my lady.”

My lady? Wasn't long ago that Henry referred to me that way. How quickly ladies can be dethroned.

“So,” I say when Nate and Chelsea are out of earshot, “what's that all about?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Henry says gruffly.

Holy attitude. Henry can't actually like Chelsea, can he? He can't actually think she's for real? Every brain cell screams for me to warn him against trusting her, but his tone makes me strangle each tiny voice into silence.

“Did I … do something?” Chelsea or no Chelsea, I can't risk losing Henry.

Henry's face softens. “No, course not. I'm happy to see you.”

“Doesn't seem like it.” I don't want to be pouting, but I'm pretty sure I am.

“Oh, Azra, I'm sorry.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly.

My skin still crawls from Chelsea's phoniness. I need to know that Henry's not being duped.

“Well,
I'm
worried something might go wrong. Horribly wrong.” I gesture to Chelsea. “Are you guys seriously … friends?” I don't want to ask if they are more than that.

“She's not so bad,” Henry says defensively.

I don't want to (okay, so maybe I do), but now I feel I have no choice but to tell him how Chelsea was making fun of Lisa's stutter. I'm being careful, not indicating how truly awful she was, when Henry cuts me off.

He waves his hand. “Don't bother. She told me.”

She what?
That seems completely and totally out of character. Unless she's playing him.

Henry continues, “See, she's not as bad as you think. She told me the other day. Lisa wanted to go up on the lifeguard chair again, but I said she couldn't. Chelsea helped avoid a meltdown by giving Lisa her whistle and pretending it was a princess pendant or something. She's into music, did you know that? She's going to be choreographing the cheerleading routines this year. Anyway, after we talked, the next day, Chelsea came right up and apologized.”

I'm dumbfounded. I would have bet I'd get my silver bangle back before Chelsea would apologize to anyone. “So you like her, then?”

Henry shifts, sliding next to me so he no longer has to look me in the eye. “I don't know. She's okay.”

“But what could you possibly have in common? She's so … so…”

“Fun? She's fun, Azra. Easy. Uncomplicated.”

The opposite of me.

“Oh, okay,” I say, trying not to sound hurt.

“Hey, Az, it's just that a lot's going on right now.”

I touch my bangle. “I know this makes things different, but we can still hang out. It wasn't just my powers we had in common, you know.”

“I know, but it's harder. There's more at stake. I don't want to make you mess up again.”

I thought Henry knowing I was a Jinn would make things easier. Maybe there really is something to TMI. Because now he feels solely responsible. And afraid. Afraid I'll get hurt because of him. I know because I am apparently in his head. In his head
again
. That day at the picnic table, the day after he saw me come home with Nate, when I thought I was just being intuitive, I must have been reading his mind. And Mrs. Pucher's sister? It wasn't being in the middle of the ritual that allowed me to hear her thoughts, was it?