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begged — your grandparents to keep you in the dark about my heritage. Do not be angry with them for keeping such secrets all of these years. It is for your own safety. But I’ll explain more to you further into the story.
    So… you are seventeen-and-a-half . And so was I, just over a year ago. I knew to anticipate the new body. It didn’t surprise me the way it probably has you. I know humans don’t experience such rapid physical changes.
    And unlike all of the old stories, we genies find our own masters, not the other way around. To realize our full genie power, we need to have a master by age eighteen.
    Granting wishes is like getting a regular oil change for a car; it keeps us young and running well. As you know from the genie poem, we never age past thirty-three. Also, we’re not susceptible to most of the normal human diseases. Barring any unforeseen accidents, a genie’s lifespan lasts three hundred thirty-three years. But that works only if we keep finding new masters and granting them each three wishes every three years.
    The trick is being judicious with the wishes you grant outside of the master-genie relationship. Some things you simply can’t wish, like bringing people back from the dead. And know, too, you can change people’s actions, but not their emotions. Above all, bear in mind that any wish can drain your powers, sometimes for a long time, if you try to do too much.
    For my first, I was hopeful I might be able to find the ideal, unselfish master, who would make three altruistic wishes to help other humans. Some genies care less about humans and their world, but my mother had raised me with the genie rule: wish for others as you would have them wish for you. Humans call it the golden rule, but it was ours first.
    With all of this in mind, I began my search through my family’s hometown of Marseille, seeking the right master. One frustrating day, I retreated to a nearby café and ordered myself a demitasse. At the adjacent table I noticed two young men, engaged in a vigorous dialogue in English. By nature, genies are language experts, and we can become fluent instantly. After all, you never know what language your master will use to make wishes. So, I could speak English as well as French.
    These two men looked like students, with satchels slung over their chair backs. Even if they were draped in American flags, it couldn’t have been any more obvious they were from the U.S. The over-loud voices, sneakers, and pathetically endearing attempts to place their coffee order in French pegged them as les Américains . Unlike some of my human countrymen, I found Americans more amusing than irritating, and it entertained me to tune in to their conversation.
    They were both handsome, in that clean-cut, well-raised manner. Americans call it preppy. The taller of the two was red-haired, with incredible sea-green eyes and a sprinkle of freckles over his nose and on his bare arms. The sun, which streamed in through the café window, shone through his hair and made him glow. It was like a spotlight on him, making sure I wouldn’t miss the signs: here I had found my first master.
    Sipping my coffee, I thought about what to do next. Wish for his backpack and search it for clues to his identity? Follow him and spy on him?
    As I pondered these options, I saw out of the corner of my eye a pair of American sneakers approach my table. He held out his hand for introduction. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Mathieu. Je suis Américain,” he said, in poorly accented but grammatically correct French. I would later find he had learned much of the language from his French-Canadian mother.
    â€œHello, Matthew,” I couldn’t help giggling. “I’m Geneviève.” As I shook his hand, it was as though the proverbial spark flew between us. I rose from my seat and we left the café, entranced by one another, Matthew’s friend forgotten. I know it sounds