The Green Bicycle (10 page)

W
adjda walked slowly into the
majlis
, the formal living room her mother reserved for her father and his guests. It felt like a foreign space in her cozy home, and it made her even more nervous.

It's only a matter of time before Father, and everyone else, figures out what I did
, she thought. The scene she imagined made her legs shake even more. The Abeer scandal would be huge.

In the
majlis
, her father sat on the floor in front of the large flat-screen HDTV, leaning against a multicolored cushion, playing a video game on his beloved Xbox. His
ghutra
and
iqal
were folded up next to him. Wadjda's eyes went instantly to his brand-new cell phone, tossed casually on top of the pile. It was his third in as many months.
Probably shoots laser beams out the bottom or something
, she thought, lips twisting wryly.

On her father's right, a string of light blue prayer beads lay within arm's reach. Usually, the sight of this familiar object made Wadjda smile. It meant her father was home. But today, even that joy was temporarily banished.
All she could think about was taking Abeer's note to the boy. How could she have been so stupid? Such a mess for forty Riyals.

Enough
. Lingering by the door made her look suspicious, like a bad guy in an old movie. Wadjda squared her shoulders and stepped forward. At the sound of her footsteps, her father turned and smiled at her.

If he only knew!
In her defense, Wadjda thought, she'd wanted to help Abeer. The problem was that she'd taken her money—and the boy's. It put her in a bad position.

She plopped down on the end of the couch, choosing the side closest to her father. For a few minutes, she watched the game, but it was boring—the usual slashing and shouting and killing. Casually, like she was yawning, she reached over to the side table and turned her framed Certificate of Excellence in Math to face him. Sensing her movement, he glanced over quickly and took it in.

Then his eyes darted back to the television.

“I'm losing. I should have stayed with my usual fighter.” He leaned his whole body into the swing of his character's sword, gesturing wildly with the controller. On the screen a haggard warrior slumped over, as if exhausted by the battle.

“You're doomed,” Wadjda said, bored. “The other guy jumps way faster.”

Her father took a deep breath and looked up at her with mock annoyance. Then, shaking his head, he went back to his virtual warfare.

“So is that a real certificate,” he asked, lifting the controller and twisting it to the right, “or a fake one like you made last year?”

Wadjda could hear the laughter in his voice, and smiled in spite of herself.

“Are you kidding? I'm great at math. Do you want to hear”—Wadjda paused, sounding out the convoluted name in her head—“Py-thag-o-rean's Theory? It's a miracle—a proof of God! If you add up the angles right, all the things come out the same!”

She settled back onto the couch and crossed her arms triumphantly.

“Sounds like you know what you're talking about.” Her father tossed a smile in her direction—and kept playing the game, face focused and intent.

Wadjda waited and watched for several minutes. On the screen, swords swished. Fake blood spurted. Her father's warrior leaped, hurdling over a giant pile of bricks. Then, all at once, she couldn't stand it anymore. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and blurted out, “I'm saving up to buy a bicycle!”

Her father leaned in, guiding his warrior in a
backflip, muttering something under his breath. Had he even heard her? If so, he'd apparently decided not to acknowledge it.

Dramatic music announced the end of the round. He dropped the controller in defeat, letting the expensive electronic pad clunk to the ground. As his attention finally left the television, slight annoyance dawned on his face.

“Where's the
margoog
?” he asked. “Why hasn't your mother finished the cooking?”

Wadjda just shrugged. Her father shrugged back teasingly, then reached over and began rubbing the prayer beads between his fingers. Idly, Wadjda drew a cushion onto her lap and traced the fabric with her fingers. Unlike the rest of their house, everything in the
majlis
felt shiny and new.

Silence had so filled the space that Wadjda and her father both startled when her mother pushed the door open. Her arms were full of plates and silverware. She leaned over and began to set the dishes on a little mat on the floor beside Father. Her eyes stayed on the ground for a tantalizing moment. Then she looked up and smiled.

In her presence, Wadjda's father seemed to come to life. Mother was dressed up and looking her best—and her best was very good.
That's her favorite Zara shirt
, Wadjda thought. It was made of soft brown fabric and patterned
with dusty-rose-colored flowers. With it, her mother wore tight black pants that flattered her perfect figure.

“Wadjda, look! A movie star!” Her father beamed with pride and leaned back, suddenly at ease. “I've never seen anyone like her. Look at this hair, like a beautiful black silk waterfall!”

Her mother tossed that perfect hair back over her shoulders and looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes. She was pleased, Wadjda saw, and unable to hide it.

“A movie star, huh? Flatterer!” There was the tiniest pause. When she spoke again, the teasing note was gone. Now her voice sounded bitter. “I wonder why your mother's asking all over town for you, then, trying to find your new bride.”

The words seemed to hang in the air. Wadjda looked down at the floor, tracing the intricate red and white patterns on the carpet with her eyes. In silence, her mother finished putting the plates and forks into place. Her father stared at her, as if willing her to lift her head. Finally, her mother did. She gave him a pained look.

Seeing her sorrow hurt Wadjda's heart. Ever since Father's mother had brought up the subject of another wife, tension had filled the house. Though she tried to ignore it, here it was again, expanding like a balloon until it touched the walls and sucked up all the oxygen, leaving no room for Wadjda to breathe.

Slowly, her father reached out and put his hand on her mother's. Wadjda's heart skipped with fear. What if her mother didn't want him to?

Still the same heavy silence. For a second, her mother didn't move—and then she looked up at her husband with tender eyes. Playfully, she pulled her hand away. Again, she tossed her hair over her shoulder. This time it was a sassy gesture, but still elegant. Father burst into laughter and pulled her toward him, grinning.

Their voices dropped, quiet, teasing each other. Though Wadjda couldn't hear what they were saying, the relief she felt at seeing them hold each other was huge. It was like a massive stone that had lodged between her shoulder blades was being lifted. She set the pillow she'd been clutching to the side, smiling.

“I'm not sure my mother's working
that
hard on her search!” Her father raised his voice again, lightening the mood. “Sit and play a match with me!”

Her mother laughed and wiggled her shoulders, gently freeing herself from his embrace.

“I can't, silly. I don't know how.” Still smiling, she straightened her clothes and got up to get the rest of the food.

“Let me play!” Wadjda jumped down off the couch and snatched at the other controller. “I'll take the old guy!”

Her parents looked at each other and burst out laughing. “You really think you can take me on?” her father asked.

“Oh yeah! Prepare to die!”

With that, she pulled the game controller close to her chest and started playing. True to her word, she really was good—her warrior could chop and leap with the best of them. In a few minutes, she'd caught up to her father's score. He watched her, smiling, at once taken aback and impressed by his daughter's endless array of unexpected skills.

C
hocolate bars, mixtapes, football team bracelets, and shiny charms poured out of Wadjda's backpack onto Ms. Hussa's desk in an avalanche. The principal gave the backpack one last shake, glaring down at the candy and jewelry like they'd personally insulted her.

Wadjda shivered. The AC was on, maybe the only AC in the whole school that worked.
Figures
, she thought. The icy principal likes her office icy cold. A single beam of sunlight cut through a small crack in the curtains. It shone down, a spotlight illuminating the illicit goods piled on the desk. Above their heads loomed pictures of Saudi Arabia's king and crown prince. Their grim expressions made it look like the candy upset them, too. But not as much as it upset Ms. Hussa.

S
ilence stretched between them. Ms. Hussa's scowl deepened. Wadjda looked away, squirming in her seat. The rock Father had given her was also on the desk. Wadjda could hardly look at it. She closed her eyes for just a second, wishing with all her might that Ms. Hussa wouldn't take that, of all the things, away.

“Disgusting,” the principal said. She sorted the items using only her fingertips, as if one of them might give her a disease. Finally, she picked up a tape and relaxed back in her chair to study it. Her steely focus made her look as if she were analyzing a possible murder weapon at a crime scene.

“Tapes full of love songs, bracelets, all of this—” She struggled for words, but settled for a sweep of her hands over the desk. The gesture seemed to encompass everything Wadjda had done wrong in her whole life. “You know none of this is allowed in school!”

She stared at Wadjda intently. It felt like being pinned down by two lasers.

The seconds ticked past. Time seemed to move at a painfully slow speed. At last, Ms. Hussa reached into a drawer and withdrew a folder. She slapped it open and started signing papers as she talked, the scratch of her pen very loud in the cold, still office air.

“Abeer was always a good girl.” She flipped over a second document and signed the back. Her pen strokes were harsh slashes on the page.

At that moment, Wadjda knew Abeer had given her up.
Of course.
She must have broken under the pressure and talked.
It was inevitable
, Wadjda thought. Who wouldn't fear the punishments doled out to girls Abeer's age who
got caught with boys? The lucky ones were forced to marry immediately. Those who were less lucky were lashed in public, often before a crowd. Wadjda shivered again. This time it had nothing to do with the AC's frigid blast. If she were Abeer, she might have turned Wadjda in, too. But just how much did Ms. Hussa know?

The principal looked up from her papers sharply, as if she'd heard Wadjda's thoughts. But all she said was, “Do you happen to know how Abeer ended up out there, alone, with a strange boy? She knew it was against the rules. When the religious police caught her . . . it looked bad for her, and bad for our school.”

Wadjda remained silent, trying not to let her face betray her emotions. If she blinked or twitched or made any movement at all, it might somehow acknowledge guilt.

When she didn't answer, Ms. Hussa returned to her paperwork. She continued talking, though. Her voice dripped with cool indifference. It was scarier than yelling.

“Thank God they found someone to marry her off to. Her family certainly wouldn't have let her come back to school after such a disaster.”

With that, she stopped signing papers, closed the folder, and folded her hands on her desk. Again, she locked eyes with Wadjda, who did her best to look back at her like this was a normal, everyday thing—as if she weren't about to
get suspended, expelled, or worse. From the look on her face, you'd never have known that her heart was beating out of her chest, that her head felt like it was about to explode, that her mouth was so dry she couldn't even swallow.

At the thought, Wadjda tried to swallow, but it didn't work. She started coughing, bent over double in her chair. When she managed to get her breath and look up again, Ms. Hussa hadn't moved.

“Did you arrange this rendezvous for Abeer and her lover?” she barked.

“No, of course not!” The words slipped out instinctively, like breathing. Wadjda barely had time to think about them.

“Don't lie. I know you took part in this.” Ms. Hussa narrowed her eyes and leaned over the pile of contraband on her desk. “I just don't know how.” She sat back again and steepled her fingers. “So. What shall we do with you now? Expel you?”

Before Wadjda could reply, the door opened and Ms. Jamila, the school secretary, entered. Wadjda almost smiled, but caught herself at the last minute. Ms. Hussa might get even angrier if the smallest hint of happiness showed on Wadjda's face.

It was hard to keep looking sullen, though. Seeing Ms.
Jamila was a huge relief. She was a young, practical teacher who'd recently been promoted to the position of Ms. Hussa's administrative assistant. Wadjda liked her. Ms. Jamila didn't go out of her way to cause trouble for the girls—but she didn't go out of her way to defend them, either.

Ms. Jamila looked at Wadjda now, one swift dart of her eyes. Ms. Hussa caught the look and raised her eyebrows in annoyance.

“What?” she snapped. “I asked not to be interrupted.”

Thank goodness someone else had arrived to deflect the worst of Ms. Hussa's fury! Wadjda needed that space, that bit of breathing room, to collect her thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed her feet against the floor to keep them from shaking. Then she wiggled her toes, pressing them against the canvas of her Chucks. It was a familiar gesture, and it helped calm her down. But it also highlighted the way her beat-up sneakers stood out among the perfect order of Ms. Hussa's office.

“Well?” Ms. Hussa said, sounding even crosser.

Awkwardly, Ms. Jamila raised the folder in her left hand. “The proposal for the Quran Recitation Competition,” she said. “For the Religious Club?”

The second part came out like a question, but not an apology. From all appearances, Ms. Jamila was accustomed to dealing with her boss's temper. She handed Ms. Hussa
the papers, saying, “We just need your signature to request an increase in the prize money.”

As Ms. Hussa turned her attention toward the forms, Wadjda looked again at her father's rock. It seemed so lonely, sitting all by itself on top of her notebooks. She wouldn't let it go. She couldn't. So much was bound up in that chip of stone. All her father's weeks away, all the talks they didn't have, all the things Wadjda did that he didn't know or care about. But all the things they had in common, too—their loud laughs, their love of pranks and games, their keen eyes and good aim. It was just a rock, but it meant too much to let Ms. Hussa take it away.

Just like that, swift as a snake's strike, Wadjda's hand shot onto the desk. She scooped up the black stone and slipped it into her pocket, all without lifting her body from her chair.

Had the principal seen? Had she gotten away with it?

Ms. Hussa shifted her eyes back to Wadjda. Wadjda counted in her head:
one, two, three . . .

“Go to class, Wadjda,” Ms. Hussa said, gesturing toward the door with a swipe of her hand. “We'll deal with all this . . .” Her eyes dropped to the mess on her desk. “Later.”

Was this good or bad? Slowly, Wadjda pulled her notebooks and schoolwork out from under her confiscated merchandise and put them in her backpack. The bracelets,
tapes, and candy, easily fifty Riyals worth of goods, seemed to look back at her longingly.
All that money
, she thought. All those sales—lost forever. A vision flashed in her mind: the green bicycle, pedaling away into the distance, some anonymous kid perched on its seat. And there was nothing she could do to bring it back.

At the same time, she hadn't been expelled—yet.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Wadjda turned to go. She shuddered as she passed the stiff furniture, all straight lines and sharp edges, and dodged the rows of locked cabinets stacked against the walls. What dark secrets did they hold? Everything in Ms. Hussa's office seemed ominous, threatening. Her shoes squeaked as she crossed the black marble floor, and she winced, waiting for the principal's response.

It came—right on cue.

“And Wadjda,” Ms. Hussa yelled, “from now on, you'll wear normal black shoes like all the other girls! That's an order.”

Wadjda nodded, opening her eyes wide and dipping her chin so she looked extra obedient. Was the terrible conversation really over? Could she have dodged Ms. Hussa's wrath so easily? Maybe Abeer hadn't given her up after all! The possibility was too wonderful to contemplate.

And maybe too good to be true. As she walked away,
she heard Ms. Hussa's voice drifting through the doorway. “Call Wadjda's mother. See if she can come in for a meeting tomorrow. We have to decide what to do about that girl, once and for all.”

Again, Wadjda's heart sank, falling deep, deep into her stomach. The recess bell rang and girls flooded the hallways, almost trampling her as they stampeded out the door to the playground. For once, Wadjda didn't race to join them. She stood where she was, letting a rush of girls in gray flow past her on either side, wondering if this time she had finally gone too far.