"You're driving me wiyaald, wiyaald, WIYAAALD!"

"You're driving me wild with all your terrible singing," I cringed. I checked my ears to make sure they weren't bleeding. They weren't, but if Theo and Zeinab didn't stop singing they would any moment now.

"You're just jealous because we are great singers, right Alex?" Theo addressed his brother, who was in the front seat, much to my annoyance. I usually always called shotgun, but not this time. Nasr was generous enough to pick me up from school today instead of taking the bus. Since Alex and him both attended the same uni and were taking the same classes they decided to kill five birds with one stone – the birds being us, and the stone being Nasr's car – and carpool. Unfortunately, I was in the middle, since I was the slimmest, so I had two terrible singers on either side of me. But to make up for the permanent aural damage, I had the air con blasting directly onto my face.

"If you don't stop singing, I'm going to kick you out of the car," Alex threatened.

"You can't do that, you're not the driver," Theo pointed out.

"The driver agrees with Alex. Please stop singing," Nasr scolded.

"Thank you!" I exclaimed in relief. Theo and Zeinab were quiet for a few minutes, until a certain song came on. This song was the reason I stopped listening to music – for good this time.

"Hands in the air like we don't care," Theo hollered along, hands in the air.

"If you're not ready to go home," Zeinab sang along in her whiny voice. "Can I get a hell no?"

"Hell no!" I cried. "Please stop singing." But I knew they wouldn't listen. Even Alex and Nasr were nodding their heads to the beat. I felt betrayed.

"And we caaan't stoooop, and we wooon't stoooop," Theo sang in my face, pumping his fists while Zeinab did a weird dance in her seat.

"That's it, I'm changing the song," Nasr pressed a button, switching it to another song in his playlist. Yes, my brother was the type to blast music in his car. I would tell him time and time again that it was haram but he never listened. When Alex was in the car with him, he took it as an excuse to turn the car into a party.

I sighed, glad that we didn't have long until we dropped Alex and Theo off at their house. They didn't live far from us, which was convenient, but also annoying. Alex would constantly be coming over, and then I'd have to put my hijab on, and feel all uptight and constricted until he left.

"See ya tomorrow, Mims!" Theo opened the car door, letting in hot air as he got out. As soon as they left, I wriggled over to the side, getting more comfortable.

"Finally," I sighed, sinking into the seat. It was warm, and I could still smell Theo's lingering sweat in the air, mixed with Nasr's cologne.

"Can you play One Direction?" Zeinab begged Nasr, to which he refused, and I loved him for that. I didn't know what I'd do if One Direction started playing in this car. I'd probably jump out, doing the whole ninja tuck and roll. But I knew that if I did so, my hijab would get all tangled up and I'd look like the clothes in a tumble dryer.

"No more music please. I have a headache," I complained, massaging my temples. Nasr listened to me, but only because Alex and Theo were gone. He was always trying to impress his best friend.

"We prayed at school today," Zeinab told Nasr. "Have you prayed Zuhr yet?"

Nasr shook his head, concentrating on driving. "No, I'm gonna do it when we get home. I don't see why you guys pray at school when you can pray at home."

"But it's better to pray at school," Zeinab argued. Aw, I was so proud of her. She was starting to sound like me. "You're supposed to pray the prayer in the first half of the time, not the second half. You get more hasanat if you pray on time, ya akhi."

"Well, it's more convenient for me to pray at home. There's nowhere to pray at the uni," Nasr was just making excuses. I knew for a fact that his uni had a prayer room. I'd seen it when I went on the tour with him. He was probably too embarrassed to go in there, worried what Alex would think. Seriously, why did everyone care so much about other people's opinions? It wasn't like we could control what other people thought about us, so we might as well embrace it. That's just my opinion anyway.

"Habibati!" My mother opened the door for us, beaming at her two beautiful daughters. Then she saw Nasr, and her face fell into a frown.

"Ya Nasr, you didn't say Salam to your Um this morning," she chided, smacking the back of his head as he walked in. I removed my leather T-bar shoes, slipping into my thongs. Mama didn't let us walk around the house without wearing some sort of shoes, whether it was slippers in the winter and flip-flops in the summer.

"I'm sorry, Immi, I was in a hurry," Nasr mumbled, setting his keys on the table and reluctantly giving Mum a hug. At home Immi let her hair breathe and hang out freely, and she looked beautiful like that. I got her silky hair, and so did Zeinab. The perks of being Lebanese – you get killer hair follicles.

Speaking of, Zeinab and I ripped off our hijabs and began the daily ritual that resembled a certain Willow Smith music video. Zeinab had slightly longer hair than mine by two centimetres (yes, we measured our hair once, don't judge) but hers was a shade darker than mine. I had the lightest hair in the family, which was saying something since it was still a dark brown, like the colour of coffee.

"Stop shaking your hair like that, you look like crazy women," my Baba told us off in his joking manner. Lately he was trying to lose weight so he was going for regular jogs and Mama was trying to feed him healthier food, but since most of our food was either cooked in oil or coated in honey, it wasn't really working. But our father's gut made a great drum at family gatherings. My cousins loved when he drummed on it so they could belly dance. Yeah, I had a crazy family. I was the only sane one, though.

"But Baba, you try wearing a hijab for six hours in thirty five degree heat. It was so hot today," Zeinab complained. She was best at complaining about everything.

"This heat is only a reminder of what Jahannam would be like," Baba said. He was always relating everything to the akhira. He wasn't depressed or anything: far from it. He was just religious. Thinking about death only strengthens your deen.

"I'm taking a shower first," Nasr announced, grasping our attention.

"Oh, no you're not!" I cried in determination, sprinting towards my brother and barrelling past him down the hall, locking the bathroom. I could hear Zeinab and Nasr banging against the door as I undressed, but I just laughed at them. They were so slow.

After a refreshing cold shower, it was time to do something that should be illegal for the first day of school – homework. Yes, I had homework already, from all subjects, including physics. We just had to read a chapter of the textbook, which was fine. But then there was English – over the holidays we were required to read The Turn of the Screw, and now we had to write a brief report on it. First, I had to figure out what I had read, since the book had really screwed with my brain, pun intended.

I finished my homework before dinner, which was a grand event for the family. It was one of the rare occasions that we were all gathered in the same room, all five of us. Not that we didn't all get along perfectly fine, it was just that with Nasr's one worded answers to our parents' questions and Zeinab's tendency to babble on and on about her friends was kind of annoying.

"I think if we put you two into a blender we'll get a perfect child," Mama proclaimed.

"How about me? Aren't I your perfect child?" I asked, smiling angelically.

"You're the middle child, so you should be the most messed up," Nasr teased.

I rolled my eyes. "We all know that's not true. I'm the least messed up."

"Yeah, Mariam is our perfect daughter," Baba pinched my cheek, grinning at me.

"Hey!" Zeinab pouted. "What about me?"

"I never claimed," Nasr sung the AAMI insurance ad song. "They get the same as I -"

"Eskut!" Mama barked at him. "La illaaha ilallah."

"Muhammadu rasullallah," Nasr mumbled the rest of the shahada sheepishly. Singing was a no-go in our house, though sometimes my siblings would break out into song, only to receive disapproving glares from our parents.

"You will always be our little one," Baba said affectionately to Zeinab.

"The baby," I teased. Zeinab poked her tongue at me, showing off her chewed up food. I really didn't need to see that. "Real mature, Zay-Zay. You're just like a little baby."

"I'm fifteen!" Zeinab cried defensively.

"Then act like it and close your mouth," Nasr chided.

"You can't tell me what to do!" Zeinab stuck her tongue out at him. Once again, didn't need to see that.

"Actually, I can," Nasr reasoned.

Zeinab looked to our parents for help, but they just shrugged and said, "Listen to your brother."

Zeinab groaned. "I hate being the youngest!"

"Someone has to," I pointed out. "I was once the youngest, and now it's your turn. Think of it as taking one for the team."

"If this is a team, can I be midfielder?" Nasr asked through a mouthful of chicken.

"I'll be goalie!" Baba raised his hand. He too was a soccer fanatic.

"I also hate soccer," Zeinab grumbled, chewing stubbornly.

"Then you can't be a part of this family," Nasr joked.

"Nasr!' Mama scolded. Mama was the only one who didn't like soccer along with Zeinab, meaning I was also a soccer fan. Don't look so surprised. Soccer is the only sport I could bear to watch on TV, plus I grew up playing it with Nasr, and I wasn't too bad at it.

Yeah, we were such a functional family. We got along so well. Notice the sarcasm. But I loved them, and most importantly, they loved me. Mariam in the Middle. That would make a great TV show. Not.

***

"How was your first day?" Fatima asked over the phone. We were hijabi sisters, and we met when we were six at the mosque where they held classes on Saturdays to learn the Quran. I stopped going when I was Zeinab's age because I didn't have time to do my homework anymore. But that didn't mean I stopped keeping in touch with my bestie, Fatima, who attended a private girls' school, lucky her.

"Where do I begin? I think it was the most overwhelming day so far," I huffed, lying on my bed, fully clothed with my hair in a long braid. It was just easier to roll into a bun when it was in a braid, plus it ensured I didn't get knots and tangles overnight. It was past ten o'clock, so I should be in bed, but when Fatima called, I made an exception. Best friends over bed times.

"What happened?" Fatima was one of those kind friends who would listen to everything you had to say first, and then speak. I loved her for that, because whenever she called, I always felt the need to rant about everything that happened since I last spoke to her.

"One word – Damian Brewer," I said.

"That's two words," Fatima pointed out.

I waved my hand dismissively. "Whatever. But seriously, that guy is such a jerk!"

"Is he good looking?" Fatima asked.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, most jerks are good looking," Fatima pointed out.

"I mean, he probably thinks he's all hot stuff, when really, all I see is his ego," I said bitterly. I normally wasn't a bitter person, but when it came to that demon, I was as sour as a lemon. So I told her all about what he said to me in physics, and Fatima reacted exactly how I wished I had – with explosive rage enough to blow the roof off.

"What a prick! You should've hit him with your textbook!" Fatima exclaimed.

"Whoa, Fatima, you know I'm not a fan of violence," I said in my defence.

"But still, I really hate guys like that," Fatima grumbled. "There's a girl in my biology class who's kind of like that. She's so racist too, saying I was the darkest Arab she's ever met, and I'm not even Arab!"

"What? That's so stupid. You're Pakistani. Don't tell me she thinks all Muslims are Arab?" I was outraged at people these days. With all that was going on in the news, it wasn't really helping our peaceful existence in this country as Muslims.

"I guess I can't tell you, then, because she does," Fatima replied, sounding just as annoyed as I felt. I hadn't even met the girl and already I was plotting revenge.

"I've seriously given up on this world," I sighed.

"Coming from Miss Hopeful, that's gotta be bad," Fatima teased. "In Sha Allah this year will go well for the both of us, despite all the jerks and bad boys we have to put up with."

"Yeah, despite all that," I laughed. "It's our last year, so let's just focus on working hard, okay?"

"Ugh, Mariam, you are such a nerd," Fatima giggled. "But you're right."

"I'm always right," I claimed proudly.

"The annoying part about that is it's true," Fatima muttered. "Anyway, I gotta go now. I need my beauty sleep."

I yawned, exhaustion suddenly settling upon me like a tidal wave as soon as she said those words. "Yeah, me too. But wait – you didn't tell me about your day!"

"Let's just say that my day was so tiring that I can't even talk about it. Anyway, good night!" Fatima hung up before I could even get a word in. That girl really loved her beauty sleep more than talking to her best friend! But as I fell onto the pillow, I realized so did I. Talking was exhausting.

Glossary (in case you didn't figure it out)