Chapter 1

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Before class starts I’m sitting atop my desk, twisting the chords of my headphones between my fingers. I listen to a podcast, the monotone voice of the anchor cutting between various witnesses. 

Their voices slur, testimonies mix and mash like an old stereo. I leave lunch for later, madly scribbling notes inside my book as the perimeters of the courtroom materialise in my head. The narrator speaks; his voice detailing the podium at the front where the lawyer is, as the defendant is led to the front. My grip loosens over my pencil, intently listening. He clears his throat and the metal scratch of his shackles catch the audio. 

The defendant denies all the allegations, listing off the details of the scene. 

It’s back and forth between revised language; a mashup of prose and stuttered words—nerves spiked in his voice. My head fills with whirring images of men in suits; a loop of gunshots and graffiti bulging through the charcoal coloured walls and the rusted bars streaked with sweat. 

The bell echoes through the building, seeping into the classroom and the image in my head distorts, clearing my sight towards the whiteboard at the front. 

I yank out my headphones, winding them back into my case and shift off my desk, settling into my chair. 

Outside, school grounds are clearing of students as they make their way back to class, slinging bags across their shoulders. It’s peak summer and the sun is glaring through the window, burning my skin as I try to shield my face. The day is nearly over and my eyes are stinging with sleep; struggling to stay awake. Everyone is slowly taking their seat, jostling between the desks cluttered with books and pencils as our teacher passes a thick stack of papers across her table. 

I lay my cheek against the desk; the cold press of the surface comfortably cool against my skin; as I glance at the sheet, and read a list of university pathways. The paragraph at the top, set to a glaringly bold font, reads 

‘CHOOSE YOUR OPTIONS CAREFULLY AND NUMBER YOUR PREFERENCE FROM 1 TO 5’

Beside me, Malik nudges my arm. He’s got a look on his face moulded with confusion, holding the sheet up to me and mouths, ‘Already?’, voicing what everyone else is probably thinking. 

School made it seem like year eleven and twelve were the most crucial years of your life. You had one chance to make the right decision or you’re screwed. I’m going over the options in my head, hearing it in the monotone voice of the principal at assembly and the previous graduates reciting speeches invited at the end of the year.

Miss Shazia turns to face us, holding up the whiteboard marker to the top where she’s written next week’s date and speaks in her distinctly, upbeat voice. “Make sure you return this before summer holidays!” She strides across the classroom in her floral printed dress and switches the lights off cutting the lesson short, sparing our brains from going into autopilot with a documentary on space. Specifically, on black holes and planets, which gives me an excuse to lay my head down. 

You know when you’re falling asleep and the noise around you seeps into your dreams? That’s what was happening; a dazed sequence of courtyards with bouncing planets going through basketball hoops until the metallic sound of a can pops. The planets explode, dripping soda everywhere.  

I’m up, rubbing my eyes and stare around the classroom, cleared of everyone. 

Chairs were stacked in the corner and the desks had been wiped clean, carrying the sharp bite of disinfectant. 

Pins and needles numb my limbs as I work myself into action, sliding off the chair. I step towards the door. It’s locked, and the clock tells me it’s already five pm. At this moment I realise I’m alone, shut inside the school without anyone around. 

The first thing I do is turn to grab my phone but someone speaks, keeping me static. 

“What’s up stranger?” His voice has a cold edge, and I glance towards the direction of my teacher’s desk, watching the chair spin. 

The intense red of his bomber jacket catches my eyes, and his battered sneakers tell me he’s not a student. 

Quick wraps conceal his knuckles, tightly gloved over his hands. He places a can down with force, holding onto the sheet my teacher gave. 

“Can I help you?” I say. Time’s running out, and I cross my arms tightly as I think of how to get home. 

Red moves the paper away from his face, uncovering a menacing grin and leans back into the chair.

“One to five, huh?” He sneers. “Don’t tell me you’re signing up for this.” 

I search for our school crest beneath his jacket but he’s wearing an old white tee that wouldn’t go past any of the teachers with all its creases. I reach for my phone inside my pocket, realising it isn’t there and roll my eyes back. 

‘What the hell Yaseen!’ How could I have left the most important device inside my bag? Hoping it might be inside the other one, I quickly check but it’s empty.

“Where did you get that sheet from?” I say, watching him swivel in the chair and hold the sheet upside down like it’s a toy, then leans his cheek against his palm.

“You gave it to me, remember? So I thought I’d fill it out for you.” The sheet slips from his fingers, fluttering down onto the floor. “Although, I don’t think you’re cut out for any of this.” He leans back, rolling the can on the surface of the desk. 

All the options spring in the back of my head, that same uncomfortable feeling I pushed away before I fell asleep winds through me. I grit my teeth, anger simmering as he takes a jab at me, wondering if he’s calling me stupid. Look, I wasn’t great at school, but I wasn’t failing either.

Red nudges the tip of his shoe against the sheet, a frayed shoelace falling atop it, and then pushes it underneath the desk.

I walk towards where my sheet is laying on the floor, creased and dirty from his shoes and reach down to pick it up. As my fingers graze its edge, he pulls it back with the tip of his shoe. I quickly reach forward trying to catch the sheet. Unaware of my surroundings my head slams into the side of the desk.

“Ow!” My head feels light as I slowly get up and rub my temple, wincing at the bruise. 

“What the hell is your problem?” My patience runs short, anger scraping the hollow parts inside me as he grins. 

I kick his chair, frustrated but it barely moves an inch, seeming to amuse him more than anything.

“Are you sure you want it back?” He leans down to pick it up, dangling it in front of me.

I reach out to grab it, standing on the tip of my shoe, but I can’t get it.

My eyes follow the list, going over the standard careers that my teacher droned on about.

What was I good at…? 

I liked karate, I’d been doing it as a kid and I was pretty good at it. 

Mum pushed me into it after coming home from school one day, shocked to see the blood on my shirt. I’d tried to get it off my nose, hoping she wouldn’t notice but honestly, as much as it hurt, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Karate was probably one of the best things to ever happen to me. 

And then that was it. I could stick up for myself—and others. 

Seriously, kids could be nasty as hell to each other. Play fights turned to bullying; jokes turned into slurs. A nudge on the shoulder became a punch to the ground. Yeah, even at Muslim schools, stuff like that happened. Kinda a rude awakening but I guess that made me suck things up.

It wasn’t the worst experience as a kid, there were good times too. Movies, games, and of course spending time with my best friend. 

My favourites were Karate Kid, Rocky and Back to the Future. Arcades after going to the cinema felt like the coolest place ever. The whole place would be lit up with strobing with fluorescent lights; chunky machines with tiny screens and retro designs from floor to ceiling. Nothing could beat those OG games; Pacman, Street Fighter, Space Invaders, Nintendo… There was something about jamming the controls, trying to beat your mates and yelling at a screen of 8 bit pixels until you realised you were out of coins. Somehow, it was the best and worst feeling ever on a Saturday afternoon. Heck, even the cinemas with those funky carpet designs added to it. Since when did they think replacing them with all black was a good idea? 

I unclenched my fist, facing the clock propped above the whiteboard. Honestly, I didn’t really have a clue what exactly was going on in those movies, but re-watching them now as a teen, it felt like a distant memory. It’s fun to reminisce, but the stories that really inspired me now, were real people. 

Muhammad Ali, The Greatest. 

Man, he was a total badass that never let anyone stick a finger to his face. For me, that meant everything. Watching someone stand up for what they believed in and keep on fighting, stuck with me. Especially as a Muslim, these days there weren’t a whole lotta people we could look up to that felt like they represented us properly. 

I shrugged, letting my hands down on my side, suddenly feeling nostalgic. Could anything I do be tantamount to something meaningful? Karate wasn’t exactly an option for me to carry on outside of school as a career. 

Science? Maths? Hell nah, my grades were good enough but keeping my nose down inside a book bored me to death.

Numbers and equations weren’t my thing. The only reason I considered physics was because my scores were high, but it wasn’t something I felt passionate about. University was always in the back of my mind–mostly because that was the no-negotiation expectation. Chatter rose across the room, pulling me out of my thoughts. I slid off the desk, noticing three other people scattered around the classroom. 

“I need to get home.” I say, trying not to get into a pointless argument with Red. 

I reach below the desk, swiping for my bag but at some point I pause. All I’m grabbing is air. I slide off my chair to take a glance below the desk. 

‘The hell?’ No way I could’ve tossed it somewhere else, it’s always underneath my desk. 

As I scan the room, two other people stand in my line of sight, backed into the corner. Their features are similar to Red–I hadn’t noticed them before… 

A light nudge on my shoulder whips me into a karate stance, as I turn around to face someone smiling. 

The first thing I notice is the bright yellow scarf wrapped around his neck and the glint off his watch. 

He reaches his hand out, but I don’t shake it.

“Apologies for the abrupt greeting! Lovely to meet you.” His voice is upbeat, each word trim and refined, like he’s something out of an old film. Like the others, his dark hair and skin match the rest of their features. 

“Perhaps a re-introduction.” He pulls back the handshake and jams his fist into my shoulder, throwing me off balance. The impact is stronger than I imagined, almost tumbling back until he steadies me. 

“San is my name, and you’ve got a good balance! Though there is still room for improvement.” 

My arm aches as I rub it, completely caught by surprise as he jumps between persona. 

“What was that for?” I say. 

“Just a little friendly greeting!” San whips his scarf tighter, straightening out the creases neatly and leans closer. “A friendly word of advice, I’d maintain a healthy distance from Red.” Whatever he was trying to advise me at that moment became secondary, realising I still needed to get home. Where things made sense. 

All I needed was my phone, bag, and a way out of here. 

I leap onto the desk, turning away from San and face Red, still at the front. My bag is dangling right in front of me as he holds it upside down. 

“Give that back!” I climb over, ready to fight. One more step closer but then I stumble back. A hard tug on my arm yanks me down and I begin to feel the pinpricks of a headache. 

“What part of caution don’t you understand?” San’s bright smile fell into a thin line. 

My patience was running short, anger sharpening to the sound of my books falling to the floor. 

“Do you wanna get it for me instead?!” but he shrugs, leaning against the desk.

“Oh I would, but my skills are not up to par yet.”

“Then stay out of it!” I trace the line towards Red. He’s holding my phone now, calloused fingers aggressively tap the screen. When it doesn’t light up, he throws it down. “What a load of junk!” 

I grit my teeth, feeling my face flare up as he moves onto my bag again. One by one all my stuff falls; books splay across the desk and my empty lunch container makes a loud thump as it hits the floor. 

I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until now. 

His hands are deep inside, shuffling through everything until he pauses. One brow raises, and he glances down. 

“Bet this is pretty special.” His hands wrap around my manga and the bright, glossy cover bounces light across the room, softening the outline of characters. No no no, not that edition! I worked for weeks just to grab it.

Red sinks back into his chair, leafing through the pages until a stray piece of paper fell out.

I can’t wait anymore, running straight to him and reach over to take it back. 

The black and white pages of illustrations don’t register. Instead I stare at a due date in bold letters, reminding me how late it was. 

Red faces me, slowly shaking his head and clicks his tongue. He folds the manga, placing it down. 

I’d forgotten about it, the one from humanities, which was my toughest class. 

Disappointed, I felt my shoulders slump and reach down to pick it off the floor, holding it close to my face. The question wasn’t tough, and it stung more knowing how I could’ve done well if I managed my time better. 

I’d gotten too caught up in the thinking part and didn’t leave enough time for the doing. 

“Yikes, that’s gotta bring your average down..” Red was playing with the book, his constant mockery adding to my nerves. 

“Truly unfortunate,” San added. 

Besides the grade, what’s worse was how well I could’ve done on the last topic of this semester. 

I look away, guilt cutting through the rage as I read the excerpt repeatedly. It was a short article about date farms being stolen in Palestine. They’d been illegally farmed by Israel, cutting off one of the major ways of sustaining their economy. Without it, it would be a huge loss to them, especially in Ramadan. 

“This sucks!” I slam the paper down, trying not to let the white knife of anger get to me. 

The one thing that made me feel passionate was when I was angry about something, but that wasn’t a good alternative for me to get things done—or do anything in general. As I continue the loop of answers in my head, slow footsteps approach us. He peels it off the desk.

It was one of the other guys from the back. Unlike the modern attire of Red and San, he’s got a thobe on, but what draws my attention the most is the brightly coloured turquoise hat sitting on his head, woven with patterns. The line of his features slightly cracks, staring to face me. The calmness in his eyes deepens into a thoughtful gaze.  

“I’m sure you can figure a way.” He says. I should be surprised but considering Red and Mr Happy’s appearance there’s not much room left for shock. 

“No way, definitely failing this class.” I kick the chair over again and immediately regret it, awkwardly hopping across the room as my toe aches from jamming it into the surface. 

What would I tell my parents if they found out that I missed a huge assignment? 

“Isn’t there another assignment coming up you can boost your grade with? Can’t you get an extension?” He says it so casually, as if I can get one without any reasonable explanation. 

“Of course not.” 

“Why?” 

“It doesn’t work like that. Haven’t you ever been to school?” Blue’s expression falters, taken aback. Impulse gets the better of me, and I leap off the desk. Moving quickly towards Red, I clench a fist, connecting it squarely into his cheek, causing him to careen off the chair. My phone slips through his fingers, tumbling across the floor towards someone else’s feet.

From afar I watch him, slowly emerging from the shadows in the corner as he faces us. Light bounces off the lens of his glasses. 

When he reaches for the phone I see his eyes, cold and dark like the river after a storm. 

“The hell’s wrong with you man?!” Red’s off the floor, his hand against a bruise forming along his cheek and steps closer to me. I keep my feet planted, raising my fists up to a fighting stance, one fist below and the other above my head to block. 

But he’s too fast.

Before I can retreat in time, Red yanks me close with a harsh grip, kicking me in the torso. 

My head feels light as I try to open my eyes but the light stings. Everything is a blur. The pain spreads across my ribs, throbbing where he kicked me, and makes me feel sluggish as I try to get up.

“Game on.” Red lets his arms down by his side, but I wipe my face, not ready to give up. 

“You’re on!” I throw caution out the window, steeling my balance as he approaches me with a threatening gait and throws the first move again. I’m out of the way in time, only just blocking another punch, I aim for his shoulder but he swipes my arm away, a smirk wide across his face. “You were so close too.” He’s got an iron grip, shoving me back. I waited for another impact, but nothing happened.

No pain, no broken teeth waiting to be spat out or a bleeding, cut lip.

Instead, it’s Blue who steps between us and shoves me aside towards where San is, shaking his head in dismay at the both of us.  

“Can’t you just be a decent human for once instead of picking a fight with everyone you meet?” Blue’s temper switched on like a quiet flame. Tension builds between them, and I maintain my distance, propping onto the desk, heavily out of breath. The pain in my shoulder receded, but it still hurt to move. 

“Relax, I was just teasing him.” Red fumbles with his jacket, glancing towards me. “We were just messing around, right?” 

“I was just getting started.” Sweat beads through my hair as I nod, trying to level my breathing. I’m ready to fight again, determined to make it an equal fight and move but Blue pins me with a sharp gaze. 

“Don’t.”

I say fine. 

Okay, whatever. 

“Hold up, you saw him throw me off the chair, didn’t you?” Red says. 

“Does that mean you need to fight him? How many times have we spoken about this?”

“You mean sparred? We’ve both fought—” Blue raises his hand, and to my surprise Red backs off, swearing underneath his breath. He nears the chair, kicking it down. 

“Look how ridiculous he is, wearing that oversized uniform.” Suddenly I feel self-conscious, rolling up my sleeves as I hop off the desk.

“Why do you care?” I grit my teeth, feeling a flutter inside my jaw when he looks me up and down, forgetting how intimidating his gaze is. “It makes you look weak.” 

“At least I’m not in a battered jacket.” I say, pointing out the tears around the hem. “Yea? Most kids like you would kill to have something like this. It’s from the eighties y’know.” Envy grows as I take in the details, suddenly realising why it had such a distinct style. The long sleeves and stripes running down the side with cuffed sleeves. Fine, I’ll give him credit for that. The eighties were pretty cool. 

Before I drift into admiration, worry stalks in the back of my mind. I’d almost forgotten that I was stuck inside a school and glanced towards the door. 

“I could break the window.” Red says, shoving his hands inside his pocket. 

“There’s gotta be another way out.” I say.

“Any ideas, genius?” 

My reflection sharpens on the surface, becoming clearer as it darkens outside. Suddenly I feel small, pulling at the fabric of my jacket, wondering about the assignment. Thoughts about school heighten the pressure of failure. 

Blue nears us, dragging me away from the window, a warning flashing through his features. 

What’s the worst that could happen if I do end up punching the glass? The sky is already dark outside, and the oval is eerily silent. “Do it, Yaseen.” Red’s voice almost seems to be amplifying inside my head. 

“You’ll end up with a broken hand, glass shards everywhere. Not pleasant.” Blue’s words test me with reason, but I hold my fist up. In front of me, I imagine a crack blossom from the middle, shattering the glass into a million pieces. 

Then, the sound of my phone chimes, breaking my gaze towards Glasses. He holds it up, staring through the lens. 

 “Wait, how?” 

“I don’t know, I just thought about pushing down the power button? Looks like you got lucky that there was still some battery left.” 

I sigh, slipping down onto the floor, tucking my head into my knees. 

“That simple, huh.” 

Notifications flood my screen and scroll through each one, dozens of messages from my mum keep on appearing, and even through the words I hear her tone sharpening into anger. 

That was Muslim mums for you—or ethnic parents. No response after half an hour of sending a message means one of three things; you’ve bunked school, ran away or been kidnapped.

“I gotta go.” I say aloud, rising off the floor and looking around, but the classroom is empty.

Everything is in place like it had been before I fell asleep; my bag tucked underneath my chair, desks wiped clean and the sun just high enough to flood the room with light. I stifle, slowly turning over my shoulder. The door opens, sending a loud creak that jolts me out of my thoughts. 

Malik slips in, staring at me with a questioning look. 

“Hey man, your mum called me and Aarif but he already left school. She’s worried you’re not home yet.” He runs a hand through his afro, staring around the room, ready to ask what I’ve been doing here for so long. 

I grab my bag from underneath my desk, still trying to piece together what the hell happened as we walk down the hallway, dim with the late afternoon Sun. 

“Everything okay?” Malik says, tossing his old notebook in his hand. It’s the same one he’s had since middle school. The pages are scribbled with words, mixed up syllables and rhymes that he braids into ordered verses like a lyrical genius. Malik’s super cool, in a school full of kids wired with maths and equations, he conjures up watercolour through words and still manages to top the class in all the other subjects. 

“Yeah, fine.” I say, eyeing the notebook. 

“What about you?” I say. “What were you up to so late in the afternoon?” 

“Practising for a poetry slam.” Malik says. I’d seen him on stage, shoulders back with a steeled gaze and a mic that carries every word with a powerful resonance. It takes a different kind of guts to be up there. We part at the bus stop, but even there, my brain is replaying the scenes in class. 

 

When I reach home, it smells heavy of spice and musk. The TV is on, faintly carrying the voices of a news channel. I remove my shoes as I walk inside, ‘Home.’ I drop my bag to the floor and wave to my sister, seated at the kitchen table. 

“Hey, salam.” I say. Maira’s slathering peanut butter over toast while watching something on her phone.

She’s in her old hoodie, brightly saturated in spring colours. Maira’s two years younger than I am, which leaves us close enough to be at each other’s throats but also close enough to understand when we both need space. Still annoying as hell though. 

Crumbs scatter as she takes a bite, waving to me and removes her earphones. 

“Hey. There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry, Mum’s praying.” Guilt creeps up as I think of the missed calls, I toss my head back and groan. “How was school? Didn’t see you around.” I’m at the fridge, picking out watermelon and slicing it up. Best. snack. ever. 

She removes her earphones, making a face at my question. “Wasn’t that important today.” 

“I thought you had a test on Friday?” For two weeks she’d been nagging me to help out with homework and study, but this was unusual. Maira never missed out on test weeks. 

She looks back at me, her face visibly irritated and rolls up her earphones.

“Just shut up Yaseen.” Yikes, I know I’m getting on her nerves now but this spike in her tone edges a warning: one more word and she’ll burst. I sit opposite her, picking out the watermelon. 

“What’s up with you?” I say. 

She angrily tears up the bread, slicing it in another half. That was her weird way of ‘savouring food’ but I’ll never get it. 

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Leave me alone right now.” I want to take her seriously but it’s hard when she eats like that. 

“Bad grade? I can go through it again with you tonight if you want but then you’re doing chores this weekend.” My patience gets tested with Maira when it comes to school. There wasn’t anyone as bad with maths as she was but that was one way I had to practise sabr. Younger siblings could really grate on you. 

“I said, drop it.” She shoves her plate and slides off her seat, running her hands underneath the water. 

“Sheesh, whatever then. Have fun failing.” I eat the last of my watermelon while she glares at me, ice edging around her tone. 

“Just had a really bad week. You happy now?” She’s off towards her room, kicking my bag on the way. Sometimes I really wonder why Mum didn’t put her in karate either. My head still feels heavy when I think back to those guys in class, nudging me about my future and the assignment I’d missed. 

After I’m done, I rummage through my folders and pull out the assignment, relieved that there was still a week left till it was due. Exhaustion pulls on every part of me and I decide not to do anything until Maghrib. 

I jump on my bed, staring at the ceiling and then towards the wall dragging me away from reality. 

Quranic verses and art that my friend gifted me hang on one side, and my bookshelf in the corner, towering over everything. The shelves are lined with comics, DVDs, and books. 

I glance back at the Quranic frames, a slow calmness descending over me as I go over the words and feel my eyelids heavy. As I’m about to drift into sleep the door opens and Maira walks in, taking a seat on my chair. She pulls at my homework folder, flopping it over like a pancake. 

I groan into my pillow, stuffing it over my face. “Oh my god. What now? I left you alone, get out of my room.”

What’s up with younger siblings? One minute they’re threatening to beat you up and the next they expect you to be okay with it. Maira leans back in my chair, spinning around like she’s never been on one before.

“So when Aarif was getting bullied, how did you guys stop him?” 

I get up, leaning against the wall. “Why?” It was an abrupt question, and I wasn’t sure where to begin. A few years ago some jerk decided to use every moment to torment Aarif, until I stepped in. “I just uhh, taught him a lesson.” Maira flips through the folder, slowly nodding.

“Why do you ask so suddenly?” 

“It’s just been kinda rough at school—” She pauses between her sentences, then tosses her head back and explains everything. It made sense now, why she’d been so mad lately.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I’m literally there.” She’s scribbling on my notepad, incoherent sentences I can’t read. “I told the teachers, but they haven’t really done anything.” 

“Of course they haven’t. Who is it? How long?” I’m asking every question now, trying to go through all the faces in her year group that I know, but it’s way bigger and on the other side of campus. Year 10s were closer to middle school, and Aarif and I didn’t wanna have anything to do with them. 

Maira’s quiet again, resting her head and mumbles something until I throw the pillow at her, gaining her attention. “Well?” 

“That was rude!” She throws it back, hitting me harder than I expected. 

“Well, it’s not my fault you had a slow reaction. Maybe you should use some of that energy in fighting back.” I say. Her expression turned from sad to an intense anger that makes me immediately apologise before it reaches mum. 

“Whatever. I’ll just ignore it.” She mumbles, but I shake my head. No way, that never works with bullies. Ignoring them only makes it seem like it doesn’t exist until they push your button too many times.
“What are you going to do, footloose your way out of it?” 

“Excuse me, that is a great song. No need to hate.” Maira wouldn’t stop playing it for a good week once she’d heard it.   

“Seriously though, get up, let’s go outside.” Closer to Maghrib it’s cooler and the sun is still bright enough. Our backyard has some equipment from years of training, big enough to fit a punching bag and a few other items. Maira keeps her arms crossed, lazily looking around. 

I drag the punching bag to the middle, beckoning her to take a step closer. 

“Describe them.”

“I don’t want to do this.” She steps towards the door. I yell, lowering my tone until she’s frozen, spine straight and gaze focussed. I go through each position, slowly taking her through the movements. “Keep your fist levelled in the centre.” I say, slowly extending my arm out towards the bag and wait till she follows.

“Remember to focus on the core, that’s where your energy is.” I say. It takes a few tries to get right and then she hits harder. Force radiating off her energy as the anger pushes through.

“Keep going,” It’s always hard in the beginning, but the best way to get it out is moving, letting the fire burn up through your fists.

In between breaks she tells me the whole story, passive aggressive comments, slowly turning to harassment until other people joined in. Then skipping school. Sweat beads down her forehead, and she drops her hands onto her knees, pushing hair away from her face. 

“How do you do this everyday?” She wipes her face and I reach over for the bottle, passing it to her. 

“Well it’s not like everyones an expert when they first start.” We sit for a while until she catches her breath, rolling the bottle against the floor. “How did that feel?” 

“Good. Really good.” She laughs, but the confidence slowly melts away and the worry deepens in her features. I was lucky that the only time I had to deal with bullies was a few times, and when Aarif was having a tough time at school. 

It’s quiet for a while until I speak, trying to stay level headed. 

“I don’t know what to do next time it happens.” Her shoulders bunch up, nerves finally visible through her movement. “Even Sarah’s left. I don’t have anybody watching my back, not in class anyway.” 

That was rough. At least my year group wasn’t as feral and everyone was pretty cool with each other. 

“I get it, but nobody else is gonna stick up for you except you.” She’s listening intently, watching the sky turn dusky. 

“The thing with bullies is that they only feed off fear. Once you take that away they’ve got nothing on you.” Maira looks up, pulling both her legs to her chest. “You’ve gotta give it back to them, show them how they made you feel. You’re the one that knows how to throw a punch anyway.” 

We’re both on our feet, cleaning up the yard and as we head inside to pray. I turn to her, locking the door behind. 

“Text me if you need me at school, okay?” 

“Sounds like a plan.” She says.