The List on the Noticeboard

For three whole weeks, Junaid practised. He practised at the bathroom mirror until Auntie Ubah, his mum's younger sister, knocked to ask who he was arguing with. He practised on the top deck of the bus home, muttering his arguments while the windows steamed up.

The motion was "This house believes every school should have its own vegetable garden", and Junaid had an answer for everything. Fresh food. Fresh air. Learning where dinner comes from. Who would water it in the summer holidays? He had an answer for that too. Only two Year 7s would speak for the school at the city debating competition, and he wanted a place more than anything.

On Friday, the list went up on the noticeboard outside Mr Okafor's classroom. Beside it, a new poster flapped in the draught: "History Club, Wednesdays, in the library." Junaid didn't even see it. He squeezed through the crowd of blazers, his heart thudding.

Two names. Mansur Ahmed. Oliver Price.

Not his.

Beside him, Mansur let out a whoop, then turned and saw Junaid's face. The whoop faded. "Oh. Junaid, I really thought you'd…"

"Well done," said Junaid, too quickly, and walked off before his face could do anything embarrassing.

On the bus home, rain streaked the windows. "Mansur only practised twice," grumbled a voice inside him. "He just makes people laugh." Then came a smaller, uglier thought: "I hope he forgets his words on the day." Junaid pressed his forehead to the cold glass and felt ashamed, which only made everything worse.

Auntie Ubah was stirring a pan of shaah when he got in, and the flat smelt of cardamom and cinnamon. She took one look at him and poured two cups.

It all came out: the weeks of practice, the list, Mansur. Then, quietly, the ugly thought too. "I'm a terrible friend," he mumbled into his tea.

Auntie Ubah didn't gasp or tell him off. "Thoughts like that knock on everybody's door," she said. "You don't have to let them in. Wishing you'd been picked too is normal. Wishing Mansur would fail? That's the visitor you send away."

She blew on her tea. "Do you know what the Prophet ﷺ said? 'How amazing is the affair of the believer! There is good for him in all of it, and that is for no one but the believer. If something good happens to him, he is thankful, and that is good for him. If something hard happens to him, he is patient, and that is good for him.'"

Junaid frowned. "So being patient means pretending I don't mind?"

"No. You can mind. You can be sad, and tell Allah exactly how you feel. He already knows. Patience is what you do with the minding." She smiled. "Today that hadith fits two friends at once. Mansur has the good thing, so his part is to be thankful. You have the hard thing, so your part is to be patient. Both of you can come out of this with good."

That night, Junaid made dua in his own words. "Ya Allah, take this sour feeling out of my heart. And please help Mansur do well." The second part was harder to say. He said it anyway.

On Monday, Mansur caught him by the lockers. "Junaid, I'm panicking. You know the other side better than anyone. Could I borrow your notes?"

Three weeks of work. The only proof he had tried. The visitor knocked, loudly. Junaid took a breath, unzipped his bag and held out the notebook. "Masha Allah, you'll be brilliant," he said, and this time he nearly meant it.

Some days the sour feeling crept back. Junaid noticed it and sent it away. Little by little, it visited less often. When Mansur came back from the competition and said, "Your answer about the summer holidays was the best bit," Junaid found he was grinning.

A few weeks later, Junaid finally noticed the history club poster. This term's project: how families from all over the world had made Bristol their home. He signed up, then interviewed Awoowe, his grandfather, about the cold, grey morning he first arrived with one suitcase and hardly any English. Afterwards he realised he hadn't thought about the list for days.

He still went to debate club on Thursdays. But history club had quietly become the best part of his week.

One Wednesday night, rain pattered softly on the window and the streetlights glowed orange across the hills. Junaid still didn't know why his name hadn't been on that list. But Allah knew, and that was enough. Weeks ago, his part had been the patient half. Now, with Awoowe's story in his notebook, he said the other half into the dark: "Alhamdulillah." The rain kept up its soft drumming, and he slept.