Just touch him.
My cell phone rings. The energy is ripped apart like torn paper as I kick the blankets off and dart across the room, stumbling when I realize my left foot is asleep. Jinn stands, running a hand through his hair and then collapsing into the armchair as I answer.
“Hey, baby,” a voice says. It’s Aaron. He sounds tired and not totally sobered up yet.
“Hi,” I answer, turning my back toward Jinn and dropping my voice.
“You left early last night. You missed it—Audrey got wasted, it was hilarious.” I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s doing that cocky grin thing.
“Yeah…sorry.”
“We’re still on for a movie or whatever this afternoon, right?”
I stop. I turn and look hesitantly at Jinn. The dark pools of his eyes flicker up at me.
“I can’t,” I say. Jinn’s eyes soften and he smiles at me. “I can’t. I have plans.”
“Come on….” His voice is sly and smooth, like he’s coaxing a wild animal.
“I have to go—I’ll call you later,” I say, and before he can speak again, I flip my phone shut.
“After wishing for him, you turn him down?” Jinn asks. His hair is bed-tousled and falls in front of his eyes.
“Call Lawrence,” I say as I toss Jinn my phone. “I’m getting dressed.”
“Yes, master,” he says. I whirl back around, but see that he’s grinning mockingly at me. I toss a stuffed cat at him and slip into the bathroom.
“So, what you’re saying is, he’ll use me to press Vi, like he used Ollie?” Lawrence asks a few hours later as we sit in the greenhouse at Lawrence’s place. I look away, but Jinn gives a serious nod.
“Yes, I think so. You’re closest to Viola. He’ll use you to get to her. I don’t know how—he’s good at what he does, it could be anything.”
“I’m sorry, Lawr—” I begin desperately, but Lawrence holds up a hand to stop me.
“Don’t be. If I can handle coming out to you, Vi, I can handle anything this ifrit can throw at me. Don’t wish for me. I don’t want you to forget Jinn over me.”
Jinn interjects, “It’s not that simple, Lawrence. You could get hurt. Physical presses are the most common—”
“What’s the alternative, though? She wishes now, when nothing’s going on?”
“Well, no, but—” Jinn tries to explain.
“Then leave it. If it gets bad, fine, she wishes me out of it. But not early.”
“Lawrence—” I protest again.
“Viola, stop,” Lawrence replies. He meets my eyes and shakes his head. “Vi, I’ve always wanted you to be happy. That’s why it was so hard for me to tell you…to break up with you. So even though it didn’t work out with me, I’m not going to get in the way of you being happy again. I’ll be fine. If it gets bad, wish for me—but not until it gets bad,” he finishes, giving Jinn a firm glance.
I want to speak, but only air escapes my lips—what words are appropriate now? Lawrence reaches forward to touch my hand briefly. At the same moment, Jinn places a soft hand on my shoulder. A broad grin spreads on Lawrence’s face as he looks from Jinn’s palm to my eyes.
“You should stay near me,” Jinn tells Lawrence. “He’s less likely to press if I’m around. Too big a risk that I’ll interfere or break protocol again by trying to help without Viola using a wish.”
“All right. But I’m not sitting in this greenhouse waiting for some angry jinn to make me cry in a rose garden. Let’s go somewhere. I’ll drive,” Lawrence says.
A half hour later we’re at the mall, where a traveling carnival has unloaded in the parking lot. It’s crowded, despite the fact that the roller coaster looks like it’s held together with glue and one of the “rides” is a slide. Little kids with sticky pink cotton candy mouths run around us, and harried mothers look bitter over spending their Sunday counting handfuls of tokens. Lights race around the borders of ride canopies and glint off the sparkly paint of the Ferris wheel, which stretches into the overcast sky. The entire situation seems to make Jinn nervous.
“I can’t figure out where they’re running to so I can move,” he gripes as a small child almost darts right into him.
“So just be visible,” Lawrence replies.
“You and Viola are used to seeing me now. You don’t realize how unlike a human I look.”
He has a good point. His eyes look even more animal-like than usual when the ride lights flicker off them. As we pass the merry-go-round, I glance at our reflections in the gold-framed mirrors that line the center. Even though Jinn walks invisibly just a step behind me and Lawrence, in his place there’s a strange and very faint glow in the mirror, a glow you’d never notice were you not looking for it among the dappled plastic horses.
“Do you really think any of these people are looking that closely, Jinn?” Lawrence says.
He has a good point. The mothers are far too occupied reining in their children, the ride operators too interested in convincing the children to ride, and the children too intent on winning stuffed animals. We come to a stop in front of a calliope that’s set away from the rides. It plays a charming song that’s almost lost to the speakers elsewhere blasting out the local radio station.
“It’s a huge breach of the second protocol. Showing myself just to Lawrence is one thing, but to an entire carnival…,” Jinn says, his voice wary as he avoids my eyes.
“What if I order you to do it?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. Jinn looks at me.
“Well, I can’t really disobey my master,” he replies with a sort of smirk.
“I hope you don’t think this ‘master’ thing is going to start working with everyone.” Lawrence nudges me playfully. I laugh and am about to turn to Jinn when I see Lawrence’s eyes stray very briefly to a boy in the crowd. It’s not the first time I’ve caught him looking at a guy, but it’s the first time that I don’t care. How could I, when Jinn’s eyes are locked on mine?
“Let them see you,” I say quietly, looking up at Jinn with a smile. He nods and touches my hand briefly. We step away from the calliope, into the light, with Jinn in full view. The merry-go-round ahead reflects all three of us, a hundred times over.
twenty-two
Jinn
LATELY, WHENEVER VIOLA gives me a direct order, I’m not sure if I’m obeying because I have to or because I want to. Like now, when I nod to Viola and instantly shift to become visible to the crowd. A little girl whose face is painted like a tiger walks by and freezes right in front of us, staring at me intensely. I shuffle uncomfortably as she sucks on a piece of her hair, smudging her tiger makeup. Then she smiles—a gummy, six-year-old smile, and scurries away.
I’ll be in so much trouble for protocol violations when I get back. They probably won’t even bind me to a lamp or bottle. I’ll be the Genie of the Toilet Bowl Brush when the Ancients are through.
But it’s worth it. I look at Viola and Lawrence. There’s nothing like this in Caliban.
It takes several hours, but my nerves finally fade. Lawrence was right: No one seems to be looking at me too closely, save for the occasional child who notices what the harried mothers don’t. Dusk has fallen and the mosquitoes are out. We’ve ridden most of the rides that we aren’t too tall for, so we relax on a periwinkle and seafoam-green picnic table across from a face-painting booth.
“Who is it?” Lawrence asks when Viola’s cell phone rings.
“Aaron again,” Viola answers, and silences her phone. It’s the eighth time he’s called since we arrived at the carnival. I catch her eye as she shoves her phone back into her pocket.
“Let’s ride the Himalayan again,” I suggest, nodding toward the ride.
“Four times? Do they not have cheap carnival rides in Caliban?” Lawrence asks. He looks a little green.
By the time the carnival closes at nightfall, I’m windswept and I smell like sweet popcorn, making me feel extremely mortal. Lawrence drops Viola and me off in her driveway. Just before Viola opens the door,
she whirls around and puts a hand on my chest. I freeze under the pressure of her palm, looking into Viola’s eyes, afraid that, if I breathe, she’ll pull her hand away. Can she feel me changing, aging, the way I could feel her changing?
Viola speaks, blushing. “I just—are you still visible to everyone?” she asks, drawing her hand away. The memory of her hand lingers on my chest for a moment as I raise my eyebrows.
“I forgot,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t believe I forgot that. Go ahead, I fixed it.” Reverting to invisibility is uncomfortable, like putting on clothes that are too tight, though I’m not sure if it’s the act itself or the reminder that I’m not mortal. Viola opens the door.
“Finally! I was worried about you, baby,” a voice calls out.
“Um…hi,” Viola says, stopping in the doorframe. Aaron is sitting at the kitchen counter, magazine in hand. Behind him, Viola’s parents watch television; they both turn around to watch as Aaron sets the magazine down and sweeps his hair back.
“You didn’t answer my calls all day…I got concerned,” Aaron says. “I mean, don’t think I’m a stalker or something. It just worried me, that’s all.”
“Right,” Viola responds faintly. I wonder what Aaron would do if I were still visible. Aaron wraps an arm around her and kisses her on the cheek. Viola barely moves, so it’s like he’s hugging a doll. She glances at me, then at her parents, who quickly turn back to the news as if they weren’t watching to begin with. Viola pulls away from Aaron, busying herself by shuffling through her purse.
“Well, we’re hanging out tomorrow after school, right?” Aaron says, swinging back onto the barstool.
Tomorrow night is the Art Expo.
“I…” Viola’s voice trails off as she looks at me.
Tell him no, Viola. You don’t love him. He doesn’t make you whole. He doesn’t know you like I do.
I step forward and place my hand on top of hers, and she turns her palm to grasp mine. She exhales.
“I’m busy. I’m sorry.”
“Baby, come on, it can wait. Is something wrong?” Aaron asks, standing. He walks to Viola’s side, forcing me to duck out of the way. Viola turns to Aaron and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she looks at me, standing just behind Aaron’s shoulder.
“Nothing’s wrong, but I’m busy. It’s the Art Expo. I’m sorry,” she says, and there’s a firmness in her voice that wasn’t there before. I smile. Aaron sighs.
“All right. I get it. But here, I brought you these,” Aaron says dully. He circles back around the bar and pulls a bouquet of flowers off a bar stool. A dozen yellow and red striped carnations with sprigs of baby’s breath.
Striped carnations? I give a quiet laugh. Didn’t he bother to learn that striped carnations are for refusal, regret, and bitterness, before he gave them to the girl he loves? Mortal boys are clueless.
But Viola has a sympathetic smile on her lips. Of course. She’s always wished someone would bring her flowers. Even if it’s Aaron. She takes them from his hand with a look of wonder and pity for Aaron and his efforts.
“I’ll see you later, I guess. I love you,” Aaron says, and moves to kiss her. Viola starts to step away, but then she glances at the flowers, and a look of guilt passes over her face. She allows him to kiss her cheek, and embraces him quickly.
“Yeah. Thank you,” she responds, and Aaron departs, hands shoved in his pockets and a look of defeat on his face.
“I should never have made that wish,” Viola mutters to me, her eyes on the floor.
“Was that your new boyfriend?” Viola’s mother calls out over the evening news.
“Something like that,” Viola answers dully.
Her mother mutes the television and turns around in her chair. “He got here an hour ago and insisted on waiting for you.”
“I don’t like him,” Viola’s father adds in a low grumble, without looking at her.
Viola’s mother rolls her eyes at her husband and gives Viola a sympathetic look. “I knew the Lawrence thing had you down, but…that boy just doesn’t seem your type, Vi.”
Viola shakes her head and sighs. “He’s…well, I…um…I think you may be right.” Viola turns to retreat to her bedroom—I linger behind just long enough to see her mother smack her husband’s arm and grin at him.
“See? We’re reestablishing our relationship with her, just like the book said!”
“Mmm-hmm,” her father responds, unmuting the television.
I smirk and shut Viola’s door for her, wondering through my amusement if there’s a book that could tell me how my relationship with Viola is supposed to work. Do I stay here tonight, with her? Is that the way this works, this longing for each other? Viola vanishes to the bathroom to change. I lean against the windowpane to watch the stars outside.
“Stars?” Viola says, stepping out of the bathroom.
“Exactly,” I answer, turning away from the window. I sit down as she combs her hair.
“The Expo is tomorrow afternoon. I still don’t know how to explain my paintings,” Viola says as she throws back the quilts on her bed. “I started over, you know. Yesterday, before the party, I went to the art room. I painted…everything. Aaron, Lawrence, you, me, Invisible Viola, Shiny Viola, Old Viola…”
“What will you say in your speech?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she yawns, and sits on the edge of her bed. “I can’t talk about painting, period—much less talk about everything. No one will understand.”
I sit down next to her, keeping a few inches between us. “It doesn’t really matter if they understand. It matters that you have the nerve to tell them.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “You’ve never actually been to high school, have you?”
twenty-three
Viola
THE NEXT MORNING, I don’t sleep in Shakespeare class. Instead, I spend the time poring over my Expo speech. It’s not very good. Actually, it sucks. It doesn’t even make sense; it’s all a jumble of names and feelings and types of people and…stupidity. I really shouldn’t have started over. I should’ve stuck with my boring forest paintings. I work on my speech in every class that follows, and I skip lunch to try and hunt down a thesaurus. But before I’ve written even a full paragraph, the final bell is ringing, and I’m ducking into the art room, just hours away from the start of the Expo.
“Hello, stranger,” a cheery voice calls out as I pull the art room door shut. I almost shout in surprise, and wheel around toward the speaker.
It’s Ollie. But she doesn’t look like Ollie. Not the Ollie that I longed to be or the sobbing Ollie from the garden. She’s not wearing much makeup, and though she’s still draped in beautiful thrift store finds, they’re not as tight and don’t match as perfectly. She even seems to have gained a little weight, but looks all the better for it.
“Ollie! Hi!” I finally reply, after Ollie has already turned back to the painting she’s touching up. She’s adding more bright pink to an armchair in a forest.
“I saw your Expo paintings lying on the table,” Ollie says, pointing to the forest pieces. “You aren’t backing out, are you?” she continues.
“No, no, I just…I started over,” I explain sheepishly. Looking at my original paintings, I feel a little like I’m seeing old photos of myself. “I haven’t really shown them to anyone. They were sort of a last-minute inspiration. They don’t even fit the landscape theme.”
“Yeah, well, the theme sucks,” Ollie says with a laugh. “Can I see them?” She steps closer; she smells of clean linen and lavender.
For a moment, Invisible Viola returns, and I want to stammer about how much better Ollie’s pieces are than mine. It’s true. But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore, really. Ollie is just a girl, just a…a friend? I don’t need to study her like I used to, to try and figure out how to belong in her crowd. She’s a better painter, yes. But at least now my pieces are my own, not attempts at being Ollie, or at being punk or emo or popular. I nod and pull the covers off m
y paintings.
The paintings are sort of a mess. People with blurry faces, defined by their hair and clothes and the colors that surround their fuzzy forms. Scenes from parties, from school, the backs of heads in classes and the dark, small forms of Invisible Girls.
“Oh, wow,” Ollie says sincerely. She smiles and nods as she studies each one carefully. Once she passes over the fifth and final painting, she meets my eyes again. “These are amazing.”
“Well, the technique is kind of rushed…,” I mumble through a grin.
“Yeah, but the originality! And the emotion, they’re…they’re powerful,” Ollie says. “I was afraid you’d get distracted. It’s what happened to me when I dated Aaron. I mean, he’s a good guy and all, but painting isn’t really something he’s too focused on. I don’t know. It’s like he and I were meant to be together because we ran in the same circles, but we didn’t bother to think about whether we had the feelings that come with ‘meant to be together.’ If that makes sense. Which I don’t think it does.” Ollie says, tossing her hair back. “It’s just easier now, I’m more…more me. And I’m dating again anyhow,” she finishes with a slight blush.
“Really? Who?”
“Xander Davis.”
“Wow” is all I can think to say. Xander Davis is nothing like Aaron. He’s a staple in the school’s darkroom and master of the photography department, though he’s known more for his spiky blue hair than for his photos. He’s on my level. Well, my old level, I realize, thinking of the high-school social order. He was someone I could have dated, even when I was Invisible Viola.
“Yeah. He sees me. Aaron didn’t. Maybe Aaron sees you, though,” Ollie says with a friendly shrug.
Not hardly. A boy with blue hair appears at the door—Xander.
“Ophelia?” he says, and his voice sounds poetic, like he’s speaking the lyrics of a song. Ollie grins.
“You said you wouldn’t call me that in public, Lysander,” she teases him back.
“Wait—Ophelia?” I ask in surprise as I set up a blank canvas.