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This is not a love story. It is nothing like one. This isn't your normal Islamic love story. In fact, it isn't even one. This isn't a love story. It's about a girl, Fatima, on how she gets through life. Her life is full of ups and downs. Bullies and intense hate come towards her as she attends a school in England, where the area is truly racist. Luckily, she had some people who would still take care of her.

Romance / Mystery
5.0 1 review
Age Rating:


WALKING INTO the school, Fatima had no idea of what was to happen or to come. She just knew that she had to get through English life. That was it for her. To get through the life that was about to be hell for her. And not just her, the Muslims that lived around the town she lived in England.

Once Trump had been declared President, she had just lost it. People had already hated on her for being a Muslim in a corrupt country. She sighed as she sat beside on a desk. She knew she was going to face hate from a stupid white boy who was going to sit beside her.

His blue eyes found way with her as he sat in the seat. The same words come out of his mouth everyday. He muttered ‘terrorist’ as he sat on the seat, his hands waving the blonde hair that covered his forehead. She clenched her fists tightly as it took everything from her to not hit him or punch him right now.

She knew she was the only Muslim in her school. She hated the fact people thought she had a bomb at the back of her hijab. It was disgusting. The teacher walked in with his thick American accent. Fatima was British but Persian. Luckily, she was even allowed to come England for education. Her father wouldn’t allow it because he believed that she would lose her values as soon as she arrived in the country.

Sighing, she placed aside her book when she noticed a particular pale boy come sit in front of her. His hair had slight curls in them with amazing light brown orbs. She was about to break down. She played with the edge of her beige hijab as she nervously calmed herself down. She would have thought he would have opened his mouth but he had not.

The teacher glared at her as he saw her fiddle around with her hijab. He pushed his glasses down as he walked towards her, frowning upon the girl. His grey beard had been shaved off with a hint of a cheap aftertaste. Looking down at the table, she tried hard not to flinch at his smell.

“Why do you wear this veil? It’s just some kind of material, is it not?” Mr. Jones asked her.

“It’s called a hijab. Thank you very much,” she snapped upon his comment. “Can you continue with the History lesson you never taught properly?”

Rolling her eyes, she watched as the teacher taught about Crime and Punishment, an interesting part of her History class. Grabbing out of her notebook, she began to draw a flower. Drawing in every detail, she wrote a quote underneath.

“Be like the flower that has crushed but has still left the scent behind.”

She breathed in deeply as she flipped the page to get to the second one. A pair of chocolate brown eyes found her, looking at her notebook and then looking at her hazel eyes. Shutting the book, he turned around and payed attention to the lesson. A while later, the bell rang.

Picking up her bag, she flung it at her shoulder and began to walk outside. She knew she had a sharp tongue that could leave people dumbfounded by it. A bunch of white girls, who had worn their normal short skirts that barely covered their skin, looked at her. She glared at them with her eyes as she opened up her locker. They never had the guts to come up to her face and say words to her. She slammed her locker shut and ignored their hushed whispers behind her back.

Walking towards a bench in the school, she sat on it. A smile escaped from her lips when she saw a picture of her brother, Abbas. She hadn’t seen him in so long and she was getting happy. He was in Iran, visiting their parents. Abbas recently left school and was three years older than her.

Out of nowhere, she saw a boy pass by. He looked at her and came towards her. Oh please, no. Not Travis. She thought to herself as his blonde hair swept off his forehead. There was no denying he was attractive. His blue eyes looked at her coldly. Stepping closer towards her, she crossed her arms. She knew she was one of the loner types. Huffing at his despicable ways, she kept herself strong minded.

“Hey, aren’t you Bin Laden’s daughter? You know the guy who tried to bomb us?” he laughed fiercely, slapping someone’s hand as he high fived him.

Rolling her eyes, she scoffed at his comment. She laughed at him. She was a Shia, not a Wahabi. Fiddling with her hijab, she smiled. Replying back, she snapped at him in response to his comment. She replies, “And you’re an orange man’s son? Oh yeah. His name is Donald Trump! By the way, I’m a Shia. Not a Wahabi like Bin Laden. At least, try to use your brain.”

Standing up, she walked away from the blonde hair boy that just failed at insulting her. No matter how hard he tried to insult her, he failed massively. She knew his character very well, seeing that she was a good judge of character. The clock was ticking and she had known it. Only two more years of secondary school was meant to go for her. Then, back to Iran to get married or something like that.

Most certainly her father would make her do such a thing. He wanted her so badly not to come to England to study A Levels. Fatima walked towards the library before she accidently bumped into someone. In her hand was a book that was she was trying to peacefully read before she bumped into someone. It was Shakespeare, Macbeth. The boy picked up the book quickly and looked at her.

His black hair scraped right off his forehead, covering most of it. As the light shone on his face, it appeared that he had high sculpted cheek bones. Outlining his cheekbones perfectly, his jawline was sharp. A pair of chocolate brown orbs shone in the light. He had a slender nose which was perfect.

Nervously, he chuckled. Smiling at her, she couldn’t help but notice no one has ever been so nice to her like that. His shoes were muddy, but neon orange. They looked like football shoes. His uniform had been roughly done. His tie messy, shirt untucked, his blazer sleeves rolled up. He had to be a girl’s dreamboat. Fingers running through his chocolate locks, he looked at the book.

“A Macbeth fan, eh? Me too. Sorry for bumping into you. I was in a rush,” stated the stranger mysteriously. “My name is Alastair. Yours?”

Passing the book back to her, she smiled. No one had been this polite to her so far in her one year of living in England. Inside, she could feel butterflies emerge. Never in her life did she crush in anyone or anything like that.

“Fatima. I’m in Year Twelve,” she cleared her throat before speaking. “Macbeth is amazing, in all honesty. One of the most amazing creations ever!”

Her hands played around with the edge of her hijab as she was super nervous right now. She never expected someone like him to talk to a terrorist like her. He seemed like he was a friend of Travis. One of those team football players. Stanfieled Secondary school was a nut case of a school when it came to sports. People would go crazy when they would win a football match, just like Arsenal’s fans when they beat Chelsea at times.

“Cool, I’m in Year Thirteen. You’re right about Macbeth,” Alastair chuckled as he rushed towards the corridor. “Gotta run! See you around!”

A blush creeped upon her cheeks. She has never talked to anyone like him yet but it didn’t mean she liked him. She was just getting started with her life. Quickly, she rushed towards the library as she went to return the Macbeth book she borrowed two days ago. Indeed, she loved reading books. It was the highlight of her day when she even just read them.

Putting the back in the return box, a book caught her eye. It was called Nightshade and it was by someone but it had no name of who. The author was anonymous and it didn’t mention their name. She picked up the book and went towards the librarian. Suddenly, she flipped out her library card and placed it on the desk. The librarian groaned and scanned the card as she stamped the return date in the book.

Fatima, as she placed the book in her bag, headed towards the football field. There was a match today, Stanfield versus Kings. Kings was the ultimate sport school where everyone in the area of Stanfield went to. She sat on the school bench and watched the team play. Stanfield’s football team were at three goals whilst the other team Kings were at two goals.

A player played around with the ball upon his feet and passed it to someone in his team. This was Stanfield’s football uniform kit. The ball was stopped by a football player in Kings as he dribbled with the ball on his feet. Stopping the ball, he kicked it into the goal post. Luckily, the goal keeper jumped in and held the ball by his hand. The goal keeper then threw the ball into the green abyss.

“Yes!” Fatima shouted as the ball landed upon a football player from Stanfield.

The ball was kicked inside the goal and everyone, supporting Stanfield, stood up and waved their arms in the air. Fatima smiled upon seeing the goal. She really knew how much she had a passion for playing football. Yet she never had a chance of going to a football club or anything.

There was fifteen minutes left of the game. If Stanfield beat Kings, it meant that they were in the finals for the game. Not just that but Stanfield haven’t had a good history of football in their games. This football team was helping Stanfield rebuild their repurtaiom in sports so more people could engage in such activities.

A foul had happened. This time, it was by Travis. He touched the ball on purpose as he had seen Fatima, cheering for the local school team. Looking at her, he smirked. She picked up her water bottle which was full of water and aimed it towards his head. It hit his head fiercely, smacking his head. He yelled an ‘ow’ and rubbed his head.

“That’s what you get, you annoying idiotic human being!” screeched Fatima, as she walked downstairs towards the football field.

She walked inside and picked up her water bottle. Travis grabbed on her arm and gripped on her wrist tightly. Her wrist ached ever so slightly from his grip on it.

“Travis! Get your hands off my wrist!” she growled, infuriated.

“Say sorry, you terrorist bitch,” Travis swore, gripping more tightly now.

Fatima glared at him. She would never say sorry to such a cruel person. She whimpered in pain, “Please.”

Everyone was watching what he was doing but they said nothing. The referee came and pushed him away from me as he blew the whistle. The referee said that Travis had to be benched for the rest of the game for his punishment. And for Fatima, she was to have a detention for an hour after school today. It was a decent punishment.

Time flies by when you watched a football game. No longer was she welcome to stay for the rest of the game. She walked back inside the building. Why was she still here? School had finished an hour and a half ago. Mr Jones was outside of his classroom, locking his classroom door. His grey hairs had suddenly been pushed back, gelled like a young man. He took notice Fatima was here and left in the opposite direction.

Sighing, she realized she had to find the detention room. The room was labelled B203. That meant, it was in the B block, on the upper ground floor, third room. Currently, luckily for her, she was in the B block, on the lower ground floor. That meant she had to just walk up a flight of stairs and arrive in the room.

Walking up the stairs, she reached the classroom. It was filled with a lot of boys and some girls. Boys were more immature than girls, everybody knew that for a fact. She walked in the room, sighing. She hated the teacher who was sat inside. Her name was Miss Gordon. Her long blonde streaks of hair had been dyed in the new colour of ginger with her tired black eyes.

“Ah, Miss Fatima Quraysh! Take a seat! You have a detention from Mr Mirzier! For throwing a bottle at Travis’s head?” she laughed ever so evilly.

“Obviously, Gordon,” Fatima sighed.

Sitting on the chair she pulled out, beside her was Adalia. Adalia, who was a French brunette, led her into misconception that was her friend. In fact, she used her so much and treated her like a lap dog, Fatima hated it. She deserved a better best friend.

“Adalia, nice to see you here, eh?” Fatima greeted her in a civil way.

“Fancy seeing someone like you here. I am pretty sure this school is 99.9 percent filled with white people. There’s this girl Fatima who fills in the 0.1 percent of not white people,” Adalia sarcastically informed. “Great at Maths, am I not?”

“Amazing. How’s life?” Fatima questioned. “Er, mine is great.”

“Dreadful,” muttered Adalia.

Ignoring Adalia, she sat back in her seat. She hasn’t realised that Adalia had dip dyed her hair blonde. She slouched over just when she saw the Macbeth guy earlier on. Alastair. He was in the football match, Fatima just realised. He walked in, sweat slightly covering his forehead. He was still in his kit. He gulped on water as he came walking in.

“Um Gordon, I’m here for half an hour because apparently you love me too much,” he snarked. “Oh, Macbeth girl. Fatima, right?”

He winked at her as he smiled at her.

Giggling quietly, she remarked, “Uh, uh. Yeah. Yeah, you can go with that. Alastair, am I right?”

“Obviously,” he responded.

Sitting through the detention was easy but taking her eyes off Adalia staring at him was hard. She had to ask Adalia if something was wrong. She was pretty sure that something was going on with her. She possibly could be dating Alastair if not, worse. Flipping her long brown straight hair back, her brown eyes glared at him. Her small things pink lips looked so pink right now.

“Er, Adalia? Are you dating him?” asked Fatima as she fiddled with her things.

“Um, it’s a bit personal but yeah I used to,” she stuttered slightly.

Fatima formed an ‘o’ with her mouth. She didn’t see that coming in her way. Getting out of her seat, she walked outside. Her heart pounded in her chest as she went to the football field outside. The football was still there and she kicked it in the goal.

Her foot dribbled the ball up and down. She got the hang of it, more and more as she practiced it. Stopping the ball, she kicked it in the football post. She liked football and such a passion for it. But she didn’t know what she would do with the passion. Her father wouldn’t allow her to use it anywhere.

Kicking the ball towards the goal post, she sighed as she sat down. Ever so slightly, she had sweated after kicking the ball into the goal post numerous times. Chuckling, she closed her eyes and thought of her home back in Iran. She missed it. Hated it around here because of the intense racism.

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