because I am loving Confessions of A Muslim Girl and it is helping me write this story too.

(Edited Chapter)

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Abu Hurairah (RA) reported: (Sallallahu Alaihi wasallam) said, "He who goes to the mosque in the morning or in the evening, Allah prepares for him a place in Jannah whenever he goes to the mosque in the morning and returns from it in the evening."

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"Hurry up, Zeinab, we're going to be late!" I urged as Zeinab undid her hijab for the third time, claiming it wasn't perfect. My sister the perfectionist. I knew the Prophet (S.A.W) told us to do everything at its best, but this was just getting ridiculous.

"We have to leave now or we'll miss Maghrib!" I called down the hallway, grabbing my purse and checking my hijab one last time. We were going to the mosque, as we always did for Maghrib prayer on a Friday night, however, Zeinab and Nasr were taking far too much time in getting ready.

"I want to look good for Allah," Nasr said as he finally got out of his bedroom, running his fingers through his thick dark hair. He had been growing out his stubble in the past week, and he smelt fresh, his clothes clean and ironed.

I fixed up his collar and smiled at him. "Well, you do look good, bro, but you didn't have to take so long."

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Zeinab stumbled out of her room, her hijab still a little wonky, however I was not going to tell her that, especially since we only had five minutes to drive to the mosque and join the prayer, and Immi and Baba were waiting for us at the front door.

"Yallah, ya awlaad!" our mother ushered us out the door, barely even wearing our sandals. I was still hopping into mine, my left foot bare. Well, there goes my perfectly clean feet.

Our local mosque was quite packed on a Friday night, as we lived among many Muslims from a variety of countries. The majority of our neighbourhood consisted of Lebanese and Palestinian, with a few Indonesian, Pakistani and Somali thrown in. I noticed a blond head belonging to a tall man in a blue thobe bobbing in the crowd in front of me as we all shuffled in the door, removing our shoes. I always put mine on the top right shelf so that it'd be easier to find it, since hardly anyone put theirs on the top shelf. I had never seen the blond man before, perhaps he was a convert, and I noticed him shaking hands with other men as he entered the mosque, smiling and saying, "Assalamu Alaikum."

I was quickly swept through the doors that led to the women's section of the mosque, and I felt someone barrel into me, enveloping me into a hug. I sniffed. Pomegranate soap, apple-cinnamon muffin and lemon laundry powder. It had to be Fatima!

"Fatima! Salam, sister!" I hugged her back after realizing it wasn't some random stranger, and she beamed at me, brown eyes twinkling.

"I missed you, Mariam!" she exclaimed, only to receive disapproving glares and shushes from the mothers that passed us. I glanced around and sure enough, everyone was getting in line for prayer.

"Oops!" Fatima covered her mouth sheepishly, dragging me by the hand so that we could stand together for prayer. Zeinab and Mama joined me on my left while Fatima was practically jittering on my right, excited to be here. Fatima loved coming to the mosque, and not just because she got to see me. She was a much more devoted Muslim than me, and that was saying something. Being her friend also made me want to be a better Muslim, and it was she who convinced me to stop listening to music and come to the mosque regularly a couple of years ago, since I had fallen through a time when I was out of touch with Islam. If it wasn't for Fatima, I would've probably ended up like Nasr, missing prayers and going to parties in the last couple of years of high school. Alhamdulillah for Fatima.

The prayer ended ten minutes later, led by the Sheikh, who spoke through the microphone for us women in the back to hear. It was fully packed tonight, and I felt squished in my place in between Fatima and Zeinab, but it also reminded me how blessed we were to all be praying together like this in congregation, for the hasanaat was increased when you prayed in a group rather than alone.

Most of the people broke off and left the mosque, while a few stayed behind to read Quran. I was also that few, however after reading Quran for five minutes, Fatima couldn't help but whisper to me.

"What Surah are you up to?"

"Al-Hajj," I replied, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb mama, who was not far from us, reading Quran from the kitab.

Fatima's eyes gleamed. "I'm up to Nur," she boasted. "I'm ahead of you."

"Masha'allah," I remarked kindly, ignoring the fact that she was rubbing it in my face. We had this thing for the last two years where we'd start reading Quran on the first of January from the beginning and see who would finish it first. Fatima usually always won, but this year, I wasn't going to let her. I had been too busy with homework to find time to read Quran; I'd strive to read half a juz a day, however that wasn't enough to beat Fatima, who read very fast and spent more time on it. Did I mention she was also very competitive? But then, so was I.

"Oh, Mariam, you are so humble," Fatima smiled. "But I know deep down you are planning to read more Quran just to beat me!"

"You know me too well," I feigned defeat at her discovering my plans. I then turned back to my Quran. "Bismillahi rahmani Raheem..."

After reading Quran for around ten minutes, Fatima and I went to return them to the cabinet, and there we came across the blonde man in a blue thobe, searching for something. As soon as he saw us his eyes lit up.

"Are you finished with them?" he asked, pointing to the Qurans in our hands, and we nodded.

"Yeah, we were just going to put them back," Fatima replied. "Would you like to read one?"

"Yes, please," Fatima handed her copy to the man, who thanked her with a, "Jazakallahu Khair," while I put my Quran back on the shelf. I noticed that there were no other Quran copies left, which was amazing, since that meant that there were a lot of people here reading Quran.

"I've never seen a blonde Muslim before," Fatima remarked as we walked back to the women's section of the mosque.

"Well, these days Muslims come from all parts of the world, which just shows how far our religion is spreading, Subhanallah," I responded.

"Yeah, Subhanallah," Fatima murmured.

Once we sat down, I threw my arms around her and squeezed. "Ya Allah, I missed you. I wish we went to the same school."

"You definitely don't want to go to my school," Fatima said. "Girls are no better than boys."

"Well, you would hate my school. A private school girl like you wouldn't survive one day," I chuckled.

Fatima looked offended. "Hey! I bet I could. How hard could it be?"

"You wouldn't be able to cope with all the boys swarming around. You don't even have a brother!" I pointed out. "You're boy-starved!"

"More like boy-cleansed," Fatima countered. "Not dealing with boys every day is very refreshing, Mariam. You should try it – oh, wait, you can't. And while we're on the subject, what's up with Nasr?"

I could tell Fatima was trying to be casual about it, but I knew her well enough to know she had a little thing for my brother. It was sickening to say the least, but I tried to brush it aside and reply nonchalantly. "Oh, you know, he's just cruising through uni, skipping salahs and probably classes."

"Isn't he studying to be an architect?" Fatima inquired.

I arched an eyebrow. "How did you know? I never told you that."

Fatima reddened. "Oh, I think your mother mentioned it once."

"Allah doesn't like liars, Fatima," I repeated her same words to me earlier.

Fatima sighed. "Fine. I may have gotten the answer via Zeinab," she confessed.

At the mention of Zeinab, the girl herself approached us with a wide smile. "Hey, Fatima, sorry, but we have to go now. Baba's waiting in the car," she reported.

"Okay, Zay-Zay," I loved calling her that, especially since it made her wrinkle her cute little nose.

"Don't call me that!" she cried.

"Ya banaat, the mosque isn't a café, so stop gossiping," Mama told us off, clutching her kitab. She always brought her own Quran because she didn't feel comfortable using the mosque's Qurans. I was the opposite, though. The mosque's Qurans had beautiful designs in the borders and on the covers that made the reading experience all the more pleasant.

"Sorry, Mrs. Barakat," Fatima always called my mum by her formal name, and my mum liked it, since it made her feel professional.

"We are leaving now, ma'a salama, Fatima," I watched my friend and mother embrace as we stood up to leave.

I retrieved my sandals from my spot, bending down to slip them onto my feet. I noticed a shadow before me as I rose to my full height, and find myself face to face with...

"Zaid," I didn't expect to see him here, since I hadn't seen him since we were twelve attending the same Quran class every Saturday morning. He had stopped taking them for some reason, and we never saw him at the mosque, which meant seeing him now was surprising to say the least. Five years later and he still had the same black faux-hawk, tanned skin and white smile. Except now he was taller than I, and I remember distinctly being five centimetres taller than him.

"Mariam," his features lit up with a smile. "Salamu Alaykum. Long-time no see."

"Wa alaikum musalam," I returned the peace greeting, taking in his jeans and white t-shirt, his bare feet in black sandals. "It certainly has been a long time."

Zaid placed a hand on the back of his neck, nodding. "Yeah, I remember you from Quran School."

"Why'd you quit it?" I might have blurted that question a little soon, but Zaid just shrugged, his smile never faltering.

"Oh, I guess I realized I could learn it easily at home, and for free too," Zaid replied. "How about you? Do you still go?"

I laughed. "No, actually, but I don't think they have classes for seventeen year olds."

"You can never be too old to go to Quran School," Zaid said wisely.

"True that," I agreed. "So are you going to the mosque now for prayer?"

Zaid nodded. "Yeah, I'll be coming here every Friday. My father's kind of forcing me, but I think it's about time I rekindle my relationship with Islam."

"Well, good for you," I commended.

"Mariam!" I heard Zeinab call.

"I gotta go," I said apologetically, pointing my thumb over my shoulder.

"Oh, yeah, me too," Zaid fell into step with me as I followed the sound of Zeinab's voice. She was tapping her foot impatiently and frowning at me.

"What kept you so lo – who's that?" Zeinab noticed Zaid, who was still following me like a lost puppy, except he wasn't lost, or a puppy, so I didn't know why I made that comparison.

"That is Zaid," I introduced him casually. To be honest, I never knew Zaid very well. He always sat on my left while Fatima sat on my right, and occasionally he'd ask to borrow a pencil or an eraser, but that was the majority of our conversations. We were connected by a past time, and that was it, really.

"Zaid? Are you my future brother-in-law or something?" Zeinab's words were probably meant as a joke, but for some reason I felt extremely embarrassed, and by the looks of it, so did Zaid.

"No, Zeinab, he's nothing like that, where did you get such a ridiculous idea from?" I scoffed, trying to brush off my embarrassment, but it was sticking to me like a cicada shell.

Zeinab smiled cheekily. "I was just teasing you, Mims."

My eyes widened at my nickname. Zaid chuckled beside me. "Mims? Really?"

I shot him a glare. "I didn't come up with it," I said in my defence.

"Still, it's pretty b –"

"Beautiful?" I interrupted, twisting his words which would've been otherwise bad. "Yeah, I know."

Zaid raised his eyebrows. "I was going to say pathetic."

I was sure I heard a b, but – "Typical Arab can't pronounce the 'p'," I spat the p for emphasis, making Zeinab laugh, and Zaid frown.

"Was that bro-nounce or pro-nounce?" Zaid taunted me by pronouncing the p exactly how I had, practically spitting on me.

I wiped my cheek dramatically and said purposefully, "Listen, bro, I pronounce things how I want, okay? Now, ma'a salama."

I grabbed Zeinab's hand and dragged her with me through the exit and into the balmy night air. The sky was a dusty blue and it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the fading light as we headed to the carpark. I realized I hadn't said a proper goodbye to Fatima, so I whirled around to hurry back into the mosque, only to collide with none other than Zaid.

"Whoa, are you really this eager to see me again?" he teased. I rolled my eyes and stepped aside from him, pushing through the crowd until I found Fatima with her family, leaving in the direction that I was heading.

"Fatima, wait!" I ran over to her like a crazy person, flinging my arms around her. You would've thought we were in an airport saying goodbye for the last time, but after not seeing her for a week this hug was very necessary. Even if I'd already hugged her twice tonight.

"I thought you already left?" Fatima's words were muffled in my hijab as I pressed her against me, memorizing her scent once more. This girl was like a sister to me, and not just in Islam. We had met through Quran Class, but unlike Zaid, we never stopped keeping in touch.

"Is that Zaid?" Fatima pulled away from me, her eyes set on the guy who was now occupied with another man who looked very familiar. She approached him with me in tow, addressing Zaid shamelessly.

"Zaid! It is you!" Fatima exclaimed. She sure was feeling loud today, and of all places, in a mosque. Astaghfirullah.

"Oui, c'est moi," Zaid said in French, surprising us both. He grinned at Fatima, briefly glancing over at me.

"Hey, Baba, do you remember these two from Quran School?" Zaid introduced us to his father, who had a very long beard Masha'allah, and a white taqiya cap on.

"Oh, yes, the two talkative girls," his father chuckled. I suddenly realized why he looked so familiar. He worked here at the mosque, and I remembered seeing him in the halls, always with a tusbah in his hands.

"Sorry about that," I apologized.

"It's okay. But next time, if you have to talk, go outside," he advised us.

"Yes, sir!" Fatima saluted him, earning a funny look from both of the men. I nudged her. Sometimes my friend could be so strange.

"It was nice seeing you two again. You have really grown to be beautiful young women, Masha'Allah," his father complimented us, making me blush, despite myself.

"Jazakallahu Khair," we said simultaneously. Sometimes Fatima and I shared a brain. Not physically, though, that would be weird.

Zaid's father slapped him on the back, saying cheerfully, "Who knows? Maybe someday my boy will marry one of you."

My jaw dropped. So did Fatima's. Zaid just grinned, winking at us when his father wasn't looking. "Someday," Zaid whispered to us before leaving with his father. Fatima and I just stared at each other in shock.

"No way," we said in unison, breaking into laughter that was soon interrupted by Nasr, who had come into the mosque, searching for me. He looked downright ticked off, so I bid Fatima a goodbye and followed Nasr back to the car, hardly believing what had just happened. I didn't even want to acknowledge it, so I slipped into the backseat next to Zeinab wordlessly, glad to be going home.

I had a feeling Fridays were going to be a little more interesting from now on.

peace be with you ✌

Glossary:

Awlaad = Kids

Kufi/Taqiyya cap = Hat for men

Thobe = long dress for men

Kitab = Book

Tusbah = Prayer beads

Oui c'est moi = Yes it is me

Masha'Allah = Glory be to God