Chapter 3 — Peer Pressure at School

 *Chapter 3 — Peer Pressure at School*

It felt like a small spotlight had been switched on and the rest of the world blurred into shadow. Mara’s grin was bright and careful, as if this was a game she already knew how to win. Around them, voices quieted. A circle of classmates leaned in like a tide closing. “Come on, Leila,” one of them said. “Just for tonight. It’ll be fun. Nobody will know.” Their idea of “fun” hung in the air like smoke—thin, tempting, and likely to leave a smell behind.

They were planning a birthday get-together at a friend’s house. Not the kind that ended late with bad choices, but late enough and loud enough that it felt like stepping into a different life for a few hours. The real test came when Mara laughed and said, half-joking, “How about you go like the rest of us—no hijab, free hair, classy dress?” The circle held its breath. 

The question was not new. It had come before in whispers and dares, in jokes about being “too strict.” But the way a group asks a question is pressure in flesh—harder and heavier than a single voice. 

The room watched Leilani as though she were a judge or a puzzle. Her heart beat loud in her ears. The hijab at her throat felt like a warm thing and a weight at once. In the mirror at home she had practiced smooth smiles and polite refusals.

But practice is not always enough when people you like push with soft hands. If she said yes, she would be closer to them. She would fit into the bright circle. She imagined the sound of laughter with her in it, the ease of being “normal.” If she said no, she would name herself different. She would invite questions, jokes, maybe even small cruelty. “You don’t have to tell us why,” Mara said, as if being vague would make the choice easier. “You can just come and have one night out. No one will judge.” Leilani looked at the faces—the girl who borrowed lip gloss, the boy who claimed he’d never read a book, the one who always joked about religion as if it were a museum exhibit.

They were all smiling. She wanted to smile back. Her mind flicked to the motifs she had been learning to hold like talismans. Hijab: at times a burden, at times a shield. Mirror: a place where she practiced truth. Prayer mat: the place she came back to. 

The motifs steadied her like small stones in a pocket. “My hijab is not just for show,” she said, her voice small but clear.“I don’t want to take it off.” There was a beat of silence so loud she could hear traffic outside the school. Then a small ripple of laughter—mean, quick. “Oh,” someone said. “So pious.” The phrase landed like a stone.

Mara’s face changed for a moment, a flash of disappointment and then something like pity. “You always make it awkward,” she whispered under her breath, though Leilani heard. The group shifted. Invitations started to feel like tight ropes instead of open hands

That afternoon, Leilani walked home with a new kind of tired. To refuse is to name

yourself and let others name you back. She thought of her parents’ faces—her mother’s gentle pride, her father’s steady look. She thought of Ustaz Hamid’s calm voice: “A

principled no is stronger than a careless yes.” He had said that with a smile, as if courage could be taught like a recipe. Leilani wanted the recipe, or at least the courage to follow it. 

At home she stood in front of her mirror and looked at herself. The hijab framed her face like a quiet promise. She touched the cloth and felt the small pattern on the edge. Her reflection asked a question: who are you when no one is applauding?

That evening, Mara texted her. The message was short: “We’re going tonight. You sure?” Leilani’s phone felt hot. She thought of the party: loud music, crowded rooms, jokes that edged away from care. She thought of the prayer mat rolled under her bed and the slow, kind words of the Quran she read to soothe herself.

She answered: “No, I can’t. Sorry.” She pressed send and watched the dots on the screen go away. The reply that came back had a small sting: “Whatever. We’ll go without you.”

The next day at school the distance was clearer. The jokes were quieter, the lunches shorter. Sometimes Mara’s eyes slid away when Leilani passed. Peer pressure, Leilani learned, was not always loud. Sometimes it was a slow retreat, a silence that made small things feel much larger. She felt lonelier than she had expected. But there were other moments. A girl from her science class, Hana, smiled at her in the corridor. 

Hana had always been different—quiet, studious, the sort who stayed behind to help others. “I liked what you said yesterday,” she whispered. “It took guts.” Small kindness returned like a cool hand. Leilani realized people could be both harsh and gentle in the same world. 

The peer group that had seemed so bright revealed a darker side, but not everyone belonged to that darkness. That week, the mirror and the prayer mat and the hijab had a conversation in Leilani’s head. 

The hijab was not only a cloth to be worn; it was a decision to protect the heart. 

The mirror reflected the cost—friendship might fray. The prayer mat reminded her that being alone sometimes means being close to Allah.

Ustaz Hamid noticed the change in her. One evening after practice he placed a small cup of tea by her hand and said, “How goes the heart?” She wanted to pour out everything—the sting, the silence, the place where friendship had cracked. She told him about the party and the question that had made the whole school watch. He listened. When she finished, he said, gently, “You did right to answer with truth. 

The world will often ask you to trade what steadies you for what dazzles you. You must choose what will keep your soul safe. Friends who leave because of your faith are not leaving you behind—sometimes they are choosing a path you cannot walk with them.”

His words were not a cure. They were a map. For days after, Leilani moved with a new kind of steadiness. She missed the laughter she had once shared with Mara. She missed the easy jokes. The gap hurt. But inside the gap was a quieter space where she could listen to her hands when they prayed, to the small glow of the mosque lights, to the pattern of the prayer mat.

One afternoon, Mara’s laughter came like a small bruise—sharp and quick—when Leilani refused again. Friends drifted. Others, like Hana, came closer. Leilani learned this slow balance: choosing the path that kept her deen intact sometimes meant fewer parties and more quiet nights with the Quran.

At home that night she stood before the mirror. She adjusted the hijab, not as a burden but as a choice. She thought of water—wudu, clean hands—and felt washed. She sat on her prayer mat and made dua for clarity, for strength, for the right companions. The next morning at school someone called her “strong” as she passed by. The word

felt new on her tongue. 

Strength, she realized, could be soft. It could be the quiet courage to say no when everyone watches, the humble weight of a faith that chooses truth over applause. She folded that new meaning into her chest like a small prayer.

Outside the school the sun moved on. Inside, a girl wore her hijab and carried on, making room in her heart for both loss and hope. The peer group’s laughter would come and go like seasons. But Leilani learned that her choices would stay—the stitches in the rope of her life that kept the ends from fraying. She held on, not because the world asked, but because she had decided.

To Be Continue Insha'Allah.........🥰