"So there's a volunteering program at St. Vincent's Hospital," Baba brought up at dinner. All important matters were discussed at dinner, which gave Zeinab and Nasr the excuse to talk with their mouths full.

"What about it?" Zeinab asked, showing us what potatoes, carrots and lamb look like all mashed together.

Mama sent her a frown as Baba swallowed his food, continuing. "I want you girls to get involved. It's for school students aged fifteen to eighteen," Baba looked pointedly at me and Zeinab.

"What do we have to do?" I asked, gaining interest.

"Basically, you just serve the patients food," Nasr answered, as he had a friend who did the same thing three years ago. "And make the beds and clean the bathrooms."

Zeinab wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Gross, I am so not doing that."

"It would look good on your résumé, Zeinab," Baba told her. "You too, Mariam. After all, you will be a doctor when you grow up, In Sha Allah."

"I don't want to be a doctor," Zeinab said stubbornly.

"Is your name Mariam?" Mama shushed her.

"We're not expecting you to be a doctor, Zeinab," Nasr rolled his eyes. "That's like expecting a frog to turn into a prince." I snorted, but Zeinab didn't look offended.

"I think it would be a good idea, Mariam," Baba continued, as if Zeinab hadn't butted in with her complaining. Zeinab had a weak stomach, so the idea of her working at a hospital, cleaning toilets and serving food for free was ridiculous. "This is your chance to do it since last time you missed the opportunity."

That was true. When they had started pushing work experience in year ten, I tried registering at a hospital but the places were all filled up, so I couldn't do it. And year eleven got too crowded with assignments and school work to worry about volunteering at a hospital, but this was my last chance to do it. And it would be good for Zeinab too, since it was only February and there was still time for her until her allotted work experience week.

"You should do it for your work experience," I suggested to her.

"But I wanted to work at a hairdresser's!" Zeinab loved styling hair, it was all she could do since she was a little girl. She washed her dolls' hair with real shampoo and braided their hair; she even borrowed Mama's henna so that blonde Barbie became a redhead. I never let her touch my hair, because Zeinab and scissors weren't a good mix, especially at the tender age of seven.

"You can still do experience at a hairdresser, but this opportunity doesn't come very often. Think of it as a good deed," Baba persuaded.

Zeinab sighed in defeat. "Okay, I'll do it, but only because it's a good deed, and I like helping people."

Baba smiled, looking satisfied. I think I inherited his persuasion skills. He should've been a lawyer, but he ended up as an accountant. "Allah will reward you both."

After dinner, Baba sat us both down in the lounge and we applied for the volunteering positions online. Then we spoke over the phone to an administrator there and they allocated our shift times. They couldn't get us to work at the same time, so I was placed on Wednesday evenings and Saturday mornings, while Zeinab only had one shift per week since she was a little younger. It felt like we were applying for a real job, minus the pay.

"Maybe if you work there long enough, they'll give you a real job!" Baba joked.

"I don't think that's how it works, Baba," I said. "But it would be good experience."

"Nowadays, the workplace is all about experience," Baba preached as Mama came in carrying a tray of mazaher. Mama and Baba always drank white coffee (which was basically just orange blossom tea) after dinner, it was like a tradition.

"Yes, that is very true," Mama joined in, sitting on the armchair across from us. "Without experience, we are all just babies." Trust Mama to put it all in perspective, but she was right. Experience was what made us who we were - whoa, that got way too deep.

"A hospital is a sad place, yes, but it will make you feel grateful to Allah for blessing you with good health," Baba said, sipping his tea. He was growing out his beard lately, and it was thicker around his chin. Baba liked to trim it often, and keep it neat.

"We cannot truly know how fortunate we are until we see those who are less fortunate than us," Mama said wisely. She was bursting with wise advice, and it felt nice to take a break from my homework to listen to these two people who raised us and taught us how to be good Muslims. Alhamdulillah for parents.

I nodded, along with Zeinab, who was silent beside me, listening intently. "I don't mind working at a hospital," I said. "As for Zeinab..."

Zeinab held up a hand. "I'll be fine. I just hope I won't have to clean the toilets," she gagged.

Mama cracked a smile. "Oh, Zeinab, you know Nasr was only joking. When I was a nurse, they never made the volunteers do that kind of work. That was only for the professionals."

That's right, Mama had been a nurse up until Zeinab entered primary, and then she had to quit because the hours were too long and she wanted to be there for us more. Mama took up craft classes after that to keep herself occupied, and now she had a part time job at the community centre, helping Muslim women deal with their issues.

"That's a relief," Zeinab exhaled, a hand over her heart. I smiled - she could be so dramatic sometimes.

"But you will probably be made to sweep the floors," Mama added, chuckling as Zeinab fell back on the couch, a hand over her eyes in a theatrical pose, crying, "Ya Allah!"

***

I was surprised to see Damian the next day on the bus, getting on at his usual stop. I was even more surprised when he sat with Felix and his other mates in the back, hollering and laughing and causing a nuisance as they usually did in the last fifteen minutes until we arrived at school. It didn't matter how loud I turned up my Quran, I couldn't drown out their loud chatter. Every now and then I'd glimpse Damian smiling, and wonder how he's coping. I didn't know much about his family, except for a few things I overheard when he was in my year seven and eight classes - good times. His father was a business man, as he would boast about all the time. I remembered Damian had this catch phrase that he'd always retort to the teachers whenever they asked him how he was going with the work - "Mind your own business, or I'll get my dad to mind it for ya!"

Even now it made me chuckle, though I'd never admit to anyone that I thought Damian was mildly entertaining during the first years of high school. But I think it was after year ten that he started getting cocky, and his jokes became dirtier, his retorts sharper. It was hard to avoid him when he was just everywhere at once, flirting with girls and having a laugh with his mates. I wondered if his mates knew about his mother's condition, however, judging from the way they were back to their old selves, causing a ruckus in the backseat of the bus, he had yet to tell them.

I stepped off the bus, thanking the driver on my way out. I always did that, because it was important to remember that the drivers were people too, and they had to put up with us at least twice a day.

Zeinab passed me, talking avidly with her friends. She could get so caught up with them that I'd worry about her. Zeinab was a loyal friend, but some of her friends didn't reciprocate her loyalty, so I worried she'd get hurt one day. I looked after her in primary, and whenever she had issues with her friends I'd always solve them, because what were big sisters for? Nasr did the same for me, so it was only right that I did it for Zeinab too.

I was so lost in my thoughts as I entered the school that I didn't realize I had accidentally stepped on someone's foot. But it wasn't anyone's foot - oh, no. It was Damian's, who had somehow crept up behind me along with his gang of friends, if I could call them that.

"Bloody hell!" Damian swore, hopping a couple of steps on his foot. He looked a little ridiculous, but I wasn't in the mood to laugh.

"Sorry," I mumbled as Damian scowled at me. We had reached the stairs, and I began to climb them, aware of Damian and his pack behind me. Even without turning I could feel them staring daggers into my back.

At my locker I dug my pockets for my locker key, but as soon as I retrieved it, it fell from my grasp. I was such a butterfingers!

I leaned down to grab it, and saw a hand reach out to do the same. Before I could even snatch the keys off the ground, the hand took it first, and I slowly glanced up to see the face of the hand. Ah, Damian, we meet again.

"That's mine," I pointed to his hand, which was scrunched over my key, and I was slowly growing irritated, because Damian was smirking again. For some reason, I preferred his smirk over his scowl, even if that smirk made me feel like clawing his eyes out.

"Is it?" Damian dangled the key from its keychain of the Lebanese flag, inspecting it as if it were a lava lamp.

"Could you give it back, please?" I demanded, holding my palm out.

Damian rolled his eyes, throwing it back to me. Alhamdulillah, I caught it, for if I didn't, I would just look like more of a fool in front of Damian. Not that I cared what I looked like in front of him.

"Thank you," I snapped, turning to insert it into my lock. I could feel his eyes on me as I grabbed my books, since he was clearly waiting for me to get out of the way so that he could also get access to his locker below.

I spun around, clutching my books to my chest, and found Damian gazing intensely at me with those aquamarine eyes. I would say Masha'allah because that colour was...wow, but he was demon - Damian. He was a little too close for my liking, in fact I would've tripped over my own feet if I hadn't stabilised myself in time, for he towered over me, his bag hanging off one shoulder, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"I hope you didn't tell anyone," he whispered.

"Tell anyone what?" I asked innocently.

Damian narrowed his eyes, and he pointed a finger just centimetres before my face, saying, "Don't go spilling my business to your friends, or anyone else for that matter. And you know exactly what I'm talking about."

I blinked, a little intoxicated in his cologne. Seriously, why did he have to wear so much of that stuff? "Do you mean -"

"You know what I mean," Damian interrupted bitterly. "I shouldn't have told you anything."

"Yeah, you shouldn't have, but I promise I won't say anything to anyone else." I realized my slip too late, and Damian realized it too.

"Anyone else? You mean you told someone?" he was good at keeping his temper in control, I had to give him that. But I could hear the layer of anger in his words, and it terrified me - only a little, though.

"Only Yaz knows, I swear," I admitted.

Damian sighed exasperatingly, running a hand through his hair. "Why the hell did you tell her?"

"She sort of overheard you talking to me yesterday," I lied, immediately feeling guilty, but luckily Damian bought it.

"Shit, I shouldn't have gotten so angry," Damian murmured, glancing away. He had stepped back, giving me a little more breathing space. I saw Yasmine chatting with Denise at the lockers further down the corridor, and they were laughing about something. I wished I were with them now, instead of in this situation with Damian.

"Why do you want to keep it a secret?" I asked out of curiosity.

Damian arched an eyebrow at my question. "Wouldn't you?"

I shrugged. "I'd at least tell my friends."

At my last word one of Damian's mates walked past, saying, "Sup?" to Damian, and he just responded with a nod, his jaw locked tight until he turned back to me. "They wouldn't understand," he muttered.

"And I would?" I realized if Damian hadn't told his friends about something as big as this, then what did that make me?

"You're not my friend," was all Damian said before shoving past me and getting to his locker. I took it that the conversation or whatever you could call that exchange of sentences was over, so I headed to my first class, passing Denise and Yasmine on the way.

"Were you talking to Damian?" Denise asked with raised eyebrows. Yasmine gave me a look, and I could almost translate it as, "Was it about his mum's cancer?"

I shrugged. "I guess you could call it that."

"I could call it many other things," Denise said slyly, but she was just joking. I hoped.

"I'll see you guys at recess," Yasmine bid us goodbye, heading towards where Damian came, sauntering down the hallway like he owned the place. But I knew for a fact that he didn't.

I watched them pass each other, and Damian frowned slightly at Yasmine, and though I couldn't see her expression I knew she looked confused. I'd explain it all later. Since I had double bio with Denise, I waited for her to get her books (whenever she and Yaz talked at the lockers, they tended to forget the whole point of its existence), and Damian passed us both without a second glance. I felt a strange bond to him, not in the way that you may think, (don't forget this was Damian Brewer we were talking about, he was as appealing to me as a used handkerchief) but solely because of his secret, a secret that was painful, and sad, and made me feel sympathy for someone I used to loathe.

"Hello? Earth to Mariam - staring into space again," Denise waved a hand in front of my face, and I blinked rapidly at her mischievous expression. "Were you staring after Damian Brewer?" She said his name as if she were a wistful teenage girl pining after a celebrity.

"No, now hurry up, we're gonna be late for bio," I urged, and as if to mock me, Denise began to slowly, carefully extract her textbook and folder from her locker, and slowly stack them in her left arm, so slowly -

"Stop being ridiculous!" I sped up the process, assisting her by snatching her books and closing her locker door with a BAM, fed up with her nonsense. Denise grinned at me - she knew I didn't like sluggishness.

"Gosh, Mariam, you are just too cute," she pinched my cheek as I handed her books over, and I rubbed the area she pinched with a frown.

"Gosh, Denise, you are such an old lady sometimes. Pick up the pace and don't pinch my cheeks!" I scolded, but at the sight of Denise laughing my features melted into a grin, and I guessed I hadn't had my vaccine because her laughter was contagious.

***

"Cells, cells, they're made of organelles!" Denise sang as we answered textbook questions in biology about cells. Seriously, all we did was textbook questions, and the occasional dissection.

"That song has been stuck in my head since year eight," Samantha groaned from beside me. I was between Denise and her each biology class, since the classroom was always arranged in a way that the girls sat in a line and the boys on the edges.

"I know, right?" Denise talked to her over me, so I was literally Mariam in the middle.

"It helps, though, to remember," Samantha said airily, brushing back a lock of straight honey blonde hair from her tanned face. She was one of the girls who began using fake tan since year nine, and it caught on with many other girls too. Honestly, they all looked like Oompa Loompas.

"Hey, Mariam, what's the answer to question three?" she asked, glancing at my work. One thing I found irritating about her was that she was constantly trying to peek at my answers, and each time I shifted away from her, she'd bat her long eyelashes at me, smiling imploringly so that eventually I gave in and told her the answer. I could try explaining, but then Samantha would say, "I still don't get it, can't you just give me the answer? It'd save us both a lot of time."

"Mitochondria," I replied, ignoring the look Denise gave me. She didn't like the fact that Samantha couldn't be bothered working it out for herself, though it defeated the reason she chose to do biology in the first place. She claimed she wanted to be a vet and take care of those "cute, fluffy animals in need."

"Oh, and how about question four. I got endosome, is that correct?" I knew what Samantha was doing. She would purposely say the wrong answer (well, in her case it would be accidentally since she didn't know the actual answer) and 'double-check' with me.

I shook my head as Denise stifled a laugh beside me. "No, it's incorrect," I told her. Samantha looked disappointed, glancing down at her work with a pinch of a frown in her waxed eyebrows. She was also the first to get them waxed in year seven. "Oh. But I thought -"

"It's lysosome," I divulged, knowing she would only keep pressing if I didn't give up the answer now.

"Pushover," Denise muttered, and I nudged her with my elbow.

"I'm not a pushover, I'm just nice," I hissed back.

Denise rolled her eyes as the bell rang. Finally!

"Thanks so much for your help, Mariam," Samantha smiled sweetly at me. I offered a weak smile, collecting my books and refraining from releasing a sigh. "Anytime."

Samantha tossed her hair, walking past me in a cloud of sickly sweet perfume, waggling her fingers at Ms Jenson our bio teacher. "Bye, Carol."

'Carol' beamed at her, saying, "Have a nice lunch, Sam."

I exchanged a look with Denise. Samantha was on a first name basis with all her teachers because she wanted to treat her teachers as 'equals' and they all liked Samantha. She was charming, and this might be a little cliché, but she was also a bit of a queen bee. She was a style-setter, and a guy-getter, and everyone loved her. I was pretty sure Theo had a little crush on her, but then, who wouldn't?

Sam used to be besties with Yasmine in primary before they drifted apart. Yasmine told me all about how Sam used to tease other girls about their looks, and she still did it, in a way. She had even teased me a bit in year seven about my hijab, and she had teased Denise about her red hair, but that was years ago, and Samantha had apologized to us. Was it possible for people to change? Maybe. Had Samantha proved this? Not really.

***

"My mum wants to invite your family over for dinner," Yasmine brought up at lunch. We had relocated from the canteen to beneath a shady tree, the sunlight dappling our faces as we lay on the grass, just the four of us, like it had been for the last four years.

"Really?" I was wondering when Samia would invite us over. I had only been a couple times when we had to work on a project together, and Samia was always going on about wanting to invite us for a meal. Yasmine lived ten kilometres from us, so we weren't exactly neighbours, but we made the effort to visit sometimes.

"Yeah, this Friday," Yasmine replied, plucking the petals of a daisy. She had been plucking daisies for the past five minutes, while Theo was ripping grass blades to shreds. Denise was more of a stick snapper, while I just liked to tear leaves. We each had our own habits when we sat under the tree. You try sitting on a grassy lawn scattered with leaves without fiddling with anything. It's impossible.

"Okay, I'll let my parents know," I added my latest massacred leaf to the pile I had been collecting, brushing off my hands.