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like to be something to someone. — Ali Javan

    It’s quiet, and the house has a somber feel. After I dump my bag at the base of the stairs, I sit with a mug of steaming decaf and stare at a book sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. It’s small and beautifully crafted, with handmade pages and a watercolor of deep-blue ocean on the cover. Read me, says a note lying next to it. A gust of wind from somewhere ruffles its pages, like someone is thumbing through it. Disconcerted, I hesitate then take the book and my drink and head upstairs.
    My Diary is written on the first page, but it’s blank inside. Shaking my head in annoyance, I’m trying to figure out what in the world I’m supposed to do with this thing. I leaf through each page, making sure I’m not missing anything, and hold it by the covers and tap the back to see if anything falls out. Nope, nada . I guess it’s just a book for me to record my innermost thoughts? Perhaps my grandparents thought it would be helpful for my mental health, as I cope with the surprise of who — what? — I am.
    Sighing, I decide to play along and pick up a pen and write, “I wish I could figure out what this book is for.” To my surprise, several pages fill with handwriting only vaguely familiar to me. My Diary has now changed to Diary of Geneviève (de la Bouteille) Lowry . My mother’s name. The plot thickens.

    I am writing this for you, my sweet baby — the little nugget, which even now grows within me. This diary is meant to give you more knowledge of my past and a better understanding of your own life. If you are reading this, ma chérie , it must mean I am gone. I have left this behind for you to start reading when you turn seventeen-and-a-half .
    I feel a glow from you, powerful already, so I think you are one of my kind and not human like your father. But I am not there to find out for sure. For you to have unlocked the secrets of this diary means you made a wish to be able to read it. Without your wish power, this would be a beautiful, blank book for you to fill with your own, purely human story.
    Congratulations, my dearest one!
    I know you’ll be a girl. Your father and I have decided to name you Eugénie. A sweet French name. Will you choose to be called Genie, not realizing why your father and I picked that name for you? I wish I had been there in person to see you blossom into your full self. You have many questions, I’m sure, about what is happening to you. I hope your grandparents already shared with you the genie poem:

    Those who wonder about genie Must comprehend the rules of three.

    At birth the child is like the rest Though soon she will go through a test.

    Year three do give her books, and heed Because she will now learn to read.

    At six her true intelligence starts With great talent, most so in art.

    From nine to twelve her body morphs To Amazon from tiny dwarf.

    Fifteen her strength is on display Athlete, scholar, she’s on her way.

    When seventeen point five her curves do grow By eighteen full powers she will know.

    At twenty-one the training is done Her true adulthood has begun.

    By twenty-four she settles down With a mate her mother has found.

    At age twenty-seven is when Her fertility comes to an end.

    She’ll never age past thirty-three If with a master she will always be.

    In the 333rd year everyone knows A genie’s life will come to a close.

    Between seventeen-and-a-half and eighteen, you will continue growing into your powers and will be able to start making wishes come true. Reading this poem, you may recognize some things about yourself: how you have developed throughout the years, and how you will continue to change. I shall share with you my own story, as well. Reading this diary should help you understand more about what is happening to you.
    Forgive me for not sharing with you my people — our people. First of all, you should know I asked — even