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Mariam's POV

"Okay, repeat after me. Sa."

"Sa."

"Lam."

"Lam."

"Sa-lam."

"Slam."

I sighed. "No, not slam, you have to add the 'sa' before the lam."

"Lamb? Why are there baby sheep involved?" Damian asked, brows furrowed in bemusement, though from the twinkle in his eye I knew he was only joking.

"Damian, come on, be serious for a moment," It was like working with a child. An insolent child trapped in an eighteen year old's body.

"I am serious," Damian insisted, completely contradicting his words by grinning at me.

I turned to Denise, who was busy doing her work, like we were supposed to, but Damian insisted on me teaching him how to say the Islamic greeting that we used. Denise had finished half the revision questions while I was still on the fifth one. We had thirty to do in total, and because Damian decided to sit at our table, I wasn't getting much work done.

"If I were you, I'd do work," Denise whispered.

"Good thing you're not me, since you don't have to deal with this guy," I whispered back, jutting my thumb to my left, where Damian sat, twiddling his pen between his fingers and tapping it on his blank book. I fixed my attention back to him for the last time. He was smirking.

"Don't act like you're not enjoying my company, Mariam," he smirked. "Anyway, what was it again? Slam?" He was pissing me off on purpose.

"It can't be that hard to just say, 'Salam' can it?" I gritted my teeth.

Damian shook his head amusingly. "No, but I like making it hard." Beside me, Denise groaned, muttering, "Oh brother."

"Is physics not hard enough for you, Mr Brewer?" Mr Newton swung by on his rounds around the classroom, making sure everyone was on top of their revision for our upcoming test. I had a feeling Mr Newton enjoyed Damian's insolence, even if he displayed that enjoyment through numerous detentions.

"Yes, actually, Mr Newton," Damian replied airily, leaning back on his chair. "It's so easy that there's probably no point of me doing the test, since it'll just be a waste of time, you know?"

"Oh, I know all too well, Mr Brewer," Mr Newton chuckled. "It's such a waste of time marking the tests, and yet I still find myself doing it! Maybe if it's so easy, you could sit it at lunch time today with no problem?"

I was surprised when Damian shrugged and said, "Sure. I could do that."

Mr Newton cocked an eyebrow. "Are you bluffing, Mr Brewer?"

Damian grinned. "Yup," he replied, popping the p.

Mr Newton laughed. "Then I suggest you do some revision now, and stop gambling with gravity," he pushed Damian's chair back on its four legs as he passed onto the next students, and Damian let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"You gotta love Mr Newton. He's definitely my favourite teacher," he said.

"That's funny, he's Mariam's favourite teacher too," Denise chimed in, and I shot her a look.

Damian raised his eyebrows at me. "Aw, would you look at that? We have something in common!"

"How cute," I drawled.

Damian was smiling at me weirdly, and of course I didn't return his smile because it was a Monday morning and I was just waiting for the -

"Finally!" Denise stood up so quickly her chair fell backwards as she gathered her books and laptop while the bell rung, hurrying out of that classroom like she was on a mission. Then that reminded me of my own mission - CTBB. And the bad boy was right beside me, scratching the back of his head as if he was trying to remember something.

"Crap, did I say that?" he mumbled, scrunching up his eyes.

"Say what?" I asked vaguely as I slid my worksheets into my display folder.

"Nothing," Damian muttered, coughing as he strode out of the room before me.

I stared after him in befuddlement before marching purposefully out of the room, bidding Mr Newton, "Thank you," as I did to all my teachers. It was finally starting to get cold now, as we were nearing the end of April, and a chilly breeze ruffled my long winter skirt I had tailored, since the school skirt was at the knee and no way was I showing more than my ankles!

I reached my locker as Damian had just finished with his, fixing me with a dimpled smile. "Salam," he saluted me, a muesli bar in his hand, and I could all but stutter a surprised, "Salam," back as he passed me, joining up with his friends. Were we making progress? Definitely.

"Did he just say Salam to you or am I going crazy?" Yasmine interrogated me once I recovered from my initial shock, though it wasn't really a shock since I was teaching him it moments before in class.

"He said Salam to me, but that in no way guarantees your sanity," I replied.

"Huh? English please?"

"That was English, silly," I chuckled. "But to translate - you're still crazy Yaz, whether he said Salam or not."

"Good crazy or bad crazy?" Yasmine asked it so seriously I burst out laughing.

"Good crazy, of course! Inti majnoona!"

"Whoa, did you just speak another language?" Theo joined us suddenly, making Yaz jump with fright, since he crept up from behind her.

"It's called Arabic, and yes, I did," I replied, shutting my locker.

"What did you say?" Theo asked curiously, looking between me and Yasmine.

"Nothing you want to know," I said cheekily, nudging Yasmine as if we had a dirty secret.

Theo just shook his head, rolling his eyes and muttering, "Girls."

"Hey, Theo," Denise waggled her fingers at Theo, flashing a...was that a flirtatious smile I was witnessing? I watched Theo's reaction, which was equally as flirtatious.

"Hey yourself," he winked at her. Denise reddened slightly, and I exchanged a look with Yasmine.

"How was your weekend?" Denise asked casually as we descended the stairs.

"My weekend was gr -" I elbowed Yasmine sharply in the ribs, to which she cried, "Ow!" as anyone would when one was elbowed, but she didn't realise that Denise wasn't asking her. She was asking Theo.

"Went to Damian's birthday party last night. It was da bomb!" Theo whooped.

"Birthday party?" Denise frowned slightly.

"Yeah, I was even the DJ! I had a blast - literally, man, I was blasting that music so loud!" Theo became animated as he described the party we all didn't go to, as it was apparently on Facebook and a lot of people came, and since Denise had deleted her Facebook and Yasmine and I were strictly forbidden to go to parties, especially since there was no point of us going. It was basically haram central. And the fact that Damian threw the party was a little surprising, but apparently his parents were out having dinner and it was Felix's idea to throw the party in the first place.

I remembered the call last night, and how it was so unexpected for him to call me, and yet I still answered. For the first time in a while Damian sounded genuinely happy, even if it was mostly due to the effects of alcohol. Alcohol either brought the worst out of people or the best, but in the end, it was alcohol, and it destroyed your body every time. I wondered if that was Damian had intended, to let it take over him for a little while and make him forget. This was why alcohol was prohibited in Islam: it robbed a man of his senses, and if we forgot the reason we were on this Earth - to worship Allah and strive for Jannah - then we forgot everything.

***

"Hey, can I borrow your phone for a second? Mine's totally flat, and I need to call my dad," I was surprised to find Samantha asking me to use my phone, but I handed it over anyway, since we were both waiting at the gates, her for the tram and me for my brother, who was still picking me up, except only on Mondays and Thursdays. The rest of the days Zeinab and I would have to endure the bus, which would've been fun if it wasn't full of screaming little kids with no respect for the other passengers.

"See ya!" Denise waved to me as she rode her bike past the gates, ringing her bell, and I waved back, impressed that she rode her bike to and from school every day. It was a pretty long distance to cover on bike, but Denise claimed that it took less time than in the car, especially when she took her shortcut at high speed. I haven't rode a bike in so long I never get the time to, but one day, In Sha Allah, I would ride again, and feel the wind in my hijab.

"Oh my Gosh," I turned to Sam, who was staring at my phone with her mouth agape. She raised her green eyes to me, frowning slightly as she asked, "Why is Damian in your call history?"

Uh-oh. I was not liking the look on Samantha's face. I was also not liking the fact that Samantha had been looking at my call history. "Why were you looking through my call history?" I questioned.

Sam narrowed her eyes. "When I pressed the phone icon, it just popped up, okay? And you haven't answered my question, unless you know another Damian?"

Well, there goes that idea. I knew I couldn't lie here, since Samantha was scrutinizing me as if I had used lipstick as foundation (I don't recommend it, spoken from an unfortunate experience as a little girl) so I sighed and said, "No, it's the same Damian we both know and -" Whoa, how was I planning on ending that sentence? Good thing I didn't.

"10:23PM he called you," Sam read out. "Wait a minute...he called you during the party!"

I didn't say anything as Zeinab finally approached with her bag slung over one shoulder. I would've scolded her if it weren't for the situation I was in with Sam. Ya Allah, why didn't I change his contact name to something like Jerkface or Demon or anything other than his actual name? Maybe I was too nice like that.

"Yeah, he did," I mumbled as Zeinab beamed at me.

"Hey, Mims!" Then her eyes fell on Sam, who still held my phone. I ignored my sister for a moment and tried to explain to Sam why I had Damian's number and why he called me.

"You see, we're working on a project in physics, and we needed to go over the finishing touches..." It was a white lie, and a really bad one too, but Sam seemed to buy it, seemed being the operative word.

"Okay..." Eventually, Sam called her dad, and while she did that, I turned to Zeinab, who had her arms crossed, and her bag at her feet.

"What's this I'm hearing about you having Damian's number?" she said sternly. Now she was starting to sound like the older responsible sister instead of me. I really needed to up my game, didn't I?

"You didn't hear anything," I waved my hands in front of her face mystically as if I could erase her memory with my strange hand movements.

Zeinab looked unamused. "Mariam, tell me the truth. Have you or have you not been talking to Damian on the phone for the past few weeks?"

It seemed my sister was more observant than I gave her credit for. But I guess she would find out anyway, given that she slept in the room right next door to me every night. Admittedly, I had lied to her face whenever she would ask me who I was talking to on the phone, and I felt guilty about that, and I wished I could tell her, but after Mama and Baba's strict rule about developing a relationship with boys outside of the school context (Theo was within the school context), I was worried Zeinab would tell on me. She had a bad habit of snitching to my parents about whatever Nasr and I did. She had a better relationship with my parents than Nasr and I ever did, I guess because she was the youngest, so she was able to tell them anything. Me, on the other hand, I preferred to keep things to myself, especially if it concerned Damian.

"Okay, fine, you got me," I held my hands up in surrender. "But it was all for the purpose of our mission, Zeinab, nothing haram like you think."

Zeinab cocked an eyebrow. "Mims, talking to boys on the phone is haram."

"Not if it's for a good cause," I added.

"So you wouldn't mind if I told Mama and Baba about it?" Zeinab smirked.

"No, don't do that!" I blurted in a panic. "It's not like we can tell them about Mission CTBB, right?"

"I mean, I don't see why not," Zeinab shrugged. "If we aren't doing anything wrong, why can't we tell them? Wouldn't they be proud of us for spreading the message of Islam?"

"Listen, Zeinab, some things are better kept unshared, okay?" I explained gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We don't have to tell everyone everything that's going on in our lives."

"That's why we have twitter," Zeinab joked. When I didnt laugh, she held up her hands in protest. "I'm just kidding! It's not like I'm using it as a diary. It's more like the daily newspaper for me. I gotta know what's going on in the world! Hashtag stay woke."

At that, I laughed, but my laughter was cut short when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find Samantha holding out my phone to me.

"Thanks," she said curtly, and I took it from her hand, eyeing her carefully. She flicked her highlighted blonde hair over her shoulder, revealing the glint of three piercings at the tip of her ear.

"I'm not jealous or anything," she added, making me almost choke on air. She flashed me a smile that was so empty and pretentious I wondered where the rest of her had gone - the girl I had gotten to know during our workout sessions with Theo and Denise, who was funny and warm and kind and anything but pretentious. "Damian can do what he wants. But I'll always be his first..."

I expected her to say more after that, but she just flipped her hair and secured her bag strap on her shoulder, strutting out of the gates and down the path. I wondered what she meant by always being his 'first' and why she would even think that there was something like that going on between Damian and I (God forbid!) but then again, I did have his number in my phone and I should probably delete it.

But for some reason, I kept it. Just in case.

***

Immi walked into my room while I was doing biology homework with a wide smile on her face, and I returned the smile a little warily, because my mum rarely barged into my room unless she had an ulterior motive.

"How is my oldest bint doing?" she asked in a cloud of perfume. I set down my pencil for a moment and turned to her from my desk, giving her my full attention.

"Alhamdulillah, just finishing some homework," I replied.

"Masha'Allah, you are such a good girl, Mariam," Immi beamed at me proudly, and I noticed how tired she looked then, under the unflattering light of my room. However her Lebanese beauty still shone through her exhaustion, with her large honey brown eyes fringed with long lashes, slender nose and rosy lips. I looked like her in many ways, and I thanked Allah every day that I did. My mother, as religious and reserved as she was today, used to be a hit with the boys when she was a teenager. They flirted with her, she flirted with them. But then she met my father, and she covered up for him, never flirting again and instead turning to her faith more than before.

"Thank you, Immi," I said, deciding to get up from my chair and envelop her in a hug. I didn't get to hug her that often these days as I was always cooped up in my room doing homework, so I took this opportunity to do so and show my mother how grateful I was to her.

"Ah, habibti, I needed that," my mother sighed into my hair as we embraced, and I inhaled her sweet perfumed scent that made my heart ache with how familiar it was. It was only in my mother's arms that I felt truly at peace, and truly at home. People said home was where the heart was, but really, home was where my mother was. the woman who provided me with a home for nine months before I entered this world, and the woman who continued to provide me with food and shelter throughout the past seventeen years. Alhamdulillah for mothers. And fathers too, can't forget them, especially when they never forget about us.

"Me too," I breathed, and I gently kissed her cheek, which was so soft, the way a mother's cheek should be. Immi attacked my face with kisses as if I was a little child again, and we ended up on my bed, her arms tickling my sides. My mother knew all my weak spots, and I squealed with laughter, so loud that Zeinab had to join in the fun and Immi tickled her too.

"It's nice to know that even at this age, you are still ticklish," Immi said after giving us mercy from her tickles. Our cheeks were flushed and eyes shining with happiness after that tickle session, our stomachs filled with bubbly glee.

"I will always be ticklish, Immi, no matter how old I am," I replied.

"Even when you're seventy five years old?" Zeinab asked.

"In Sha Allah," I answered.

Immi pulled us both to her sides, our heads tucked under each of her arms. "I love you two so much, you know that?"

"We know," Zeinab and I chorused together, exchanging smiles.

"Good," Immi kissed both our heads, and released us, standing up from the bed. "Now get back to your homework."

After Zeinab trudged out of the room, Immi remained, turning to me. "I came here to talk to you about something important, Mariam," she said seriously.

"I knew it!" I exclaimed.

Immi sat beside me on the bed again, getting straight into business. "Zaid's parents called us today, and they want an answer from you about the proposal."

I gulped. Way to kill the mood, mother. I had been on a tickle high (that's what I called the feeling after being tickled, it was like being on top of the world) until Immi brought me down to earth, face planting into the dirt (gotta love metaphors). Honestly, the "proposal" had slipped my mind, especially since I rarely saw Zaid anymore thanks to my Dad pulling me out the Wednesday shifts at the hospital (I was still allowed to work on Saturdays, at least, since Zaid didn't work that day) and we didn't go to the mosque as frequently as before, which was the only other place I could possibly run into Zaid.

"Immi, I'm not really a hundred per cent sure about this..." I murmured, staring at my hands. Wow, I really needed to cut my nails!

"We are not trying to rush you, habibti, it's just that we need to confirm if this is what you want for your future, since your father and I think Zaid would be an ideal husband for you In Sha Allah..." I knew my mother married young, like around nineteen years old, but I never expected her to want me to get engaged so soon! I was still in high school, wasn't I?

"Can't you ask me about this in two years, or five? Why do I have to make a decision now?" I whined like the child I was. Maybe if I showed my inner child Immi would pronounce me too immature to get engaged.

Immi took my hands in hers and said, "Because, habibti, we want to secure your future for you before it's too late."

"Too late?" I echoed.

"Zaid's parents might find someone else, but I think you are the best suit for him, especially as you are both pursuing the same career path and you get along well..."

"How do you know we 'get along'?" I got along with everybody! I was even starting to make some progress with Damian.

"I am your mother, I know everything," Immi joked.

"Allah knows more, and He also knows that I do not love Zaid!" I cried.