boyââ
â Of course. â
The color springing to Lailaâs cheeks matches the wine.
âTell me,â I say.
And she does. By the time we finish the dishes, despite the supposedly higher tolerance of Jinn, Laila and I are tipsy. We share this first like so many others. And we talk like we havenât in months. Maybe years. The closer to sixteen I inched, the further from Laila I ran. Stubborn. And to what end? Though Lailaâs wearing those see-through pink harem pants and canât wait to be a genie, sheâs still the Laila I grew up with. My oldest friend. My only friend.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âLook at this,â Lalla Nadia says as we take slow, measured steps into the living room.
Her long fingernail points to a plastic-encased photograph. âYou two and my little Hana at Halloween. Too cute. Just like today. Well, except for Azra.â
Of course except for Azra. Because I swore long ago that the matching genie costume my eleven-year-old self is wearing in that photo would be the first and last such outfit Iâd ever step into. A vow not even the gold ensemble Hana brought for me tonight could break. The Afrit can make me be their beck-and-call girl but Iâll be damned if Iâm going to look like one. Still, the tug on my heart upon realizing Hana was including me means the costume now hangs in the back (the way back) of my closet.
While Laila peers over Nadiaâs shoulder, I scoop up an album of my motherâs Iâve never seen before. The first picture of her and Sam sporting big hair and backpacks tells me itâs from high school. I flip through until I arrive at prom night.
The abundance of photos of my mother, in a neon-orange dress only she could pull off, and Samara, whoâs spilling out of a tight, red, strapless dress, almost makes me miss the lone one of my mom and her date. Tall with hair the color of volcanic rock, the cute boy clings to her waist. She leans into him, the warmth in her gold eyes as strong as anything sheâs ever directed my way. I wiggle the picture out, wanting to ask my mother what happened to this boy she was so enamored of, when Hana calls from the garage, âLaila, Azra, where are you?â
Laila jumps up and grabs a shopping bag off the end table. I slide the picture of my mother and her prom date into my back pocket and follow her into the garage. I know somethingâs up when I have to weave around a tall stack of cardboard boxes full of the books my mother and I packed away to make room for her growing collection of Moroccan tea cups.
Standing at the end of the makeshift wall is Farrah. She smacks her gum and holds out her palm. âIDs,â she says.
Laila giggles and starts to move past Farrah.
âBack oâ the line, blondie,â Farrah says in a deep voice. âUnless you got an ID. Showing skin ainât everything.â
Clearly Laila and I werenât the only ones who continued to drink.
The headband in Farrahâs hair changes colors like a disco ball as she twirls the tassels dangling off the waistband of her teal harem pants. She then breaks into laughter. âTheyâre here, Mina!â she yells over her shoulder.
Phone to her ear, Mina appears behind Farrah. She leans in and whispers, âAiden,â to which Farrah nods knowingly.
âThatâs right, babycakes,â she says, curling a lock of her chestnut hair around her finger. â Next Saturday means the one at the end of next week. Oh, and be sure to wear those jeans I got for you.â She hangs up and sighs. âBody of a Jinn, brain of a turkey. Anywayâ¦â She digs her hand into her sapphire-blue bra top. âHere you go. Happy Birthday, Azra.â
In my hand is a fake ID.
Farrah drops the bouncer act. âAnd I made one for you, Laila.â
I wonder just how much Lailaâs been hanging out with them all lately because she seems as taken aback as I
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