Three Wishes (14 page)

“Yes?” she asks with narrowed eyes. “How did you feel?”

I wonder how much detail I should give her and only mention my headache.

“Oh,” she says, eyebrow arched. “Are you
sure
that's all?”

What is she getting at?
“I also felt hot, and there was, like, a buzzing in my head.”

Again she examines me before saying, “You know, you look so much like your mother.”

“How — how do you know? Did you know her?”

“Never mind about that right now. Have you ever been near a tetrahedron before today?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I believe I'm the one asking the questions,” she responds.

I nod to indicate I understand, though my mind is whirling, trying to process what in the world is going on. Swiftly, she stands up and moves over to the teacher's desk at the front, where the shapes we used earlier are still sitting. With a flourish, she picks up and carries over the tetrahedron we used earlier in class, placing it on the desk surface in front of me. As before, I feel myself growing warm and my head begins to buzz.

“Genie,” Dr. Morocco says, and her voice sounds far away. “Genie,” she calls again. “I know what you are,
Genie
.”

That revelation draws my attention away from the shape long enough to pull my gaze from it to her, and I see a mixture of envy, empathy, and haughtiness in her face.

“Don't you feel it in me, too, my dear?” she asks.

Again, I feel myself nod, though I'm slow to comprehend what she is telling me, until it hits me — tall and olive-skinned, ageless beauty —
Dr. Morocco is also a genie
. I feel a surge of excitement and nearly gasp at the realization I am not alone anymore. It seems unbelievable, but wonderful, and the immediate relief makes me tear up, which I blink away.

“Do you know why you're so drawn to the tetrahedron? By the way, it was a test for you, if you're wondering. Take a close look and tell me what you see.”

“Well, the tetrahedron is a, a three-sided pyramid, right? Is it somehow significant?”

“It's significant if you're a djinn. You know about our connection to the number three, of course.”

“Oh!” I grasp what she's getting at. “Does it somehow focus our power, or what?”

“You know all that nonsense about djinn being kept in bottles. I hope you read the
1,001 Arabian Nights
I left for you.”

Ooh — I had forgotten about it. And I sure didn't know it was from Dr. Morocco. I nod at her anyway.

“There's a great deal of misinformation in there, though it will give you some idea of our history. Rather than bottles, tetrahedrons are what we use to concentrate our power enough to be able to give wishes to our masters.”

Fascinated, I mutter to myself, “It's odd mom's diary didn't mention this.”

“What diary?” Dr. Morocco asks.

“What? Oh, nothing. What?” I'm reluctant to tell her about it. “So, uh, I want to know more about the tetrahedron. And about you, and how you knew about me.”

“Well, every djinn has his or her own tetrahedron — you must find one before you turn eighteen and gain your full powers. You give it to each of your masters, in turn. But you have to be careful with the tets of other djinn, since they can be dangerous.”

I reach a finger out to stroke it, but Dr. Morocco again barks at me to keep away. “This is my tet. If you touch it, you can lose your own power. Notice that warm, buzzy feeling? It's drawing you and your power into it, and if you come into contact with someone else's tet, you can endanger yourself.”

“I—I don't even know what to say,” I tell her, tearing myself away from the tet once more. “There's so much I want to ask you.”
Whoa.
This
is the tutoring she was talking about, then.

“We've done enough for today. But I'm glad we made contact. We'll be in touch.” As she speaks, Dr. Morocco is ushering me out the door of the classroom, closing it right behind me with her final words.

Hmm. Okay. I'm left with more questions than answers. Still, I feel a great weight lifted off me, and I am invigorated, inspired enough to dare to use a wish to get myself home. I hole myself up in my room for a while, turning this development and new knowledge over in my mind. Later on, I get an annoyed-sounding text from Pete, asking where I am. I call him back. “I'm at home, hanging out.”

“Well, I waited for you, babe. Where did you disappear to?”

“I guess after my talk with the sub, I headed straight home. I didn't think you'd be waiting, with such crappy weather and all.”

“But — how did you get home?”

Uh-oh. I don't have a quick answer for this, and stumble a bit, saying I started walking, saw Leia driving, and caught a ride with her. It sounds suspicious even to my ears — who would choose to walk in the sleet, especially having just been in the hospital? But Pete seems to buy it and segues into asking about coming over until my grandparents return from Papa's doctor's appointment.

I know what Pete has in mind, and I am not in the mood. “I'm not feeling myself right now, Pete. I think I need to crawl into bed and watch TV or something.”

“Oh, poor Genie!” he says. “Should I bring you soup or come make you some tea?” He does come through at times.

“That's sweet, but I want to be alone right now and decompress.”

“All right, all right. I keep thinking about when we go off to college, and I won't get to see you as much, and I want to spend as much time as possible with you for as long as I can.”

I sigh. He knows how to get me. “Well, if you want to come over and
just
watch TV with me, I think I'm up for it.”

He agrees to be over in fifteen minutes, and I tell him I'll leave the door unlocked so I don't have to get off the couch to let him in. Forget homework tonight, for once. There's nothing actually due tomorrow, though I do need to prepare for a test at the end of the week. It can wait; I'm in no condition to focus on work right now.

I go downstairs to the living room, but I don't feel like messing with the woodstove, either, instead snuggling under the fleece blanket we keep on the couch. The DVR doesn't seem to have any shows I'm interested in watching, and I leave the main menu playing while I lie there, thinking. I've been fluctuating back and forth for over a month now about excitement over being a genie and the strong desire to choose being a normal girl. With my current euphoria after my discussion with Dr. Morocco, maybe I should start embracing my true nature.

Meanwhile, I've been neglecting my mom's diary. I'd like to go consult with it, but with Pete coming over any minute I don't want to take it out. I make a mental promise to read it tonight, and instead grab my
1,001 Arabian Nights
from where it's been languishing on my bookshelf. Propping up my feet on the coffee table, I start reading. It draws me in right away, and I'm fascinated by my people's lore.

Engrossed in the stories-within-stories, I'm surprised when I feel Pete's cool lips on the top of my head. I slide in a bookmark and tuck the book away. He's shaking off the chill from the lousy weather outside, and raises a corner of the blanket along with his eyebrows, asking wordlessly if he can warm up under the blanket with me.

“You're allowed,” I say. “But no funny business. Cuddling only.”

“Got it, boss.” He slides in and takes me into his arms, lying down on the couch with me so we're spooning, our bodies molded together. It does feel nice, and I relax into him. As I had feared, he gets the wrong idea and begins kissing my neck and running his hands down my body.

“Cut it out, Pete,” I tell him, a little annoyed. I push his hands away.

“Okay, okay. What, are you hormonal or something? Super-crabby.”

“Just respect what I already told you.”

His face has fallen, and I take pity on him, offering a kiss and a squeeze. Still, I sit up so we're no longer spooning. “Let's see what's on TV.”

He agrees, though he's somewhat reluctant to let go of his ulterior motives. We're able to find a sitcom both of us enjoy but don't usually get around to watching. And, as promised, he makes me tea and heats up some instant ramen.

The show is relaxing and mindless, and we veg on the couch until my grandparents get home at six. Though they invite him to stay for dinner, Pete takes off after promising to pick me up in the morning. We're standing in the doorway to say goodbye, but I can see my grandparents in the kitchen. Papa is settled in his chair, weary, and rubs his head with his hands. A cup of tea sits untouched in front of him, while Mamère bustles around him as she prepares the meal.

“Don't let the cold in!” Mamère sings.

I wave my hand at her back in dismissal.

“Why don't I pick you up instead?” I make an effort to be fair and equitable.

He laughs. “You'd rather go in your car than mine?”

I glance out the door at my ten-year-old gray sedan, so tiny next to Pete's brand-new, tricked-out red SUV. “Guess not.”

“Besides, mine's better in the winter.”

I concede his point and give him a rushed kiss while my grandparents aren't peeking.

After dinner, when I'm alone, I run upstairs to my bedroom and seek out my mom's diary. I'm now feeling ready to talk with her about some of the things Dr. Morocco mentioned.

You're back, at last
.

It's hard to tell if she's being sarcastic or is glad to hear from me.

Have you been working on finding a master?

Ugh.
I don't want to talk to her about that right now. “So, I had a sub in calculus today,” I begin, trying to distract her.

And?

“Well, she brought out a bunch of three-dimensional shapes for us to examine, including a three-sided pyramid.”

A tetrahedron.

I could almost hear the grimness to her statement.

“Yes, and as you might know, I had a funny reaction to the tetrahedron. I started feeling lightheaded and buzzy. I'm sure you've felt it.”

Oh,
ma chérie.
This was so dangerous for you. Are you okay?

“I'm fine, but why didn't you tell me about that before? Why did I have to learn about tetrahedrons from a substitute teacher? Who, by the way, also happens to be a genie.”

What? Who is she?

“Her name is Dr. Morocco.”

Dr. — Genie, don't you see who she is?

“Do you know her? She said something about how I look like you but wouldn't answer me when I was asking her questions.”

Think. What is the word for Morocco in French?

I gasp. Morocco — Maroc. Dr. Morocco must be somehow related to Guy Maroc, my mother's ex-fiancé. I'm still fuzzy on the details of how she broke off her arrangement with Guy, but obviously it happened, since I'm here.

This could be dangerous, too. I can't believe Dr. Maroc would risk your powers by exposing you to the tetrahedron. Be careful around her.

“I didn't sense she meant me any harm, but then again, I didn't feel like she had kind thoughts, either. Who is she? How is she related to Guy?”

If I'm not mistaken, she's Guy's mother, a powerful genie. She, alone among the Marocs, recommended your father and I be allowed to go quietly, without being shunned by the genie community in France.

“Well, maybe she's feeling guilty, or compassionate, or something? Why else would she come back to find me?”

You may be right; or, she may have had a change of heart and wants to make sure you are kept isolated by the genie community. Regardless, beware until you understand her motives.

“Understood. But back to the question of the tetrahedrons — why didn't you tell me about them? Shouldn't I have been prepared?”

I didn't want to overload you with too much information. A tetrahedron is something you can come by easily; it doesn't require much preparation at all.

“Oh? So I should, like, march down to the tetrahedron shop and buy myself one? I mean, how does it work, anyway?”

Yes, you do acquire your own tet. The right one will sort of sing to you and have a natural fit when you hold it — you'll know what I mean when you find it. But do use caution. If you get that buzzy feeling when you're seeking out tets, don't handle those with your bare hands, as one of them is likely to belong to another genie. You should be able to find a good choice of tetrahedrons at a crystal or natural healing store. It needn't be big — it just needs to feel right.

But wait until you're closer to your birthday. As your powers keep growing, you may react differently to the tets. Start searching when you're a couple months away from turning eighteen. Okay? And you must figure out who you'll have as your first master, too. Don't delay!

“Okay,” I agree, filing away this plan for later.

Please — be careful
.

I wish they would only take me as I am. — Vincent van Gogh

By Valentine's Day I've recovered from our family ordeal, though my grandfather still has to take it easy. He has no memory of that terrible night, and the accident report blames black ice.

Life is mostly back to its new normal. I had to miss a couple of swim meets while I was recovering, but have come back stronger than ever and jumped right back into training.

Pete and I have almost reached our ten-week anniversary, and he's promising me a big surprise. I'm not sure what he means, but I
am
up for some excitement to alleviate the dullness that often comes mid-winter.

The theater club at our school delivers roses to kids in class on Valentine's Day as a fundraiser to help pay for their spring musical production. In years past, Leia and I would send roses to each other throughout the day and sign it
Secret Admirer
, knowing full well whom they were from. This year, I'm pretty sure I'll be getting a rose from Pete, too. I had signed up to send roses to both Leia and Pete, with delivery scheduled in the class I have with each of them.