The Green Bicycle (11 page)

T
he school day felt endless. Thoughts of how her mother would react when Ms. Hussa asked for another meeting tied Wadjda's stomach in knots. Beneath her desk, her black Converse shoes swayed nervously, twitching back and forth, back and forth above the cheap linoleum tiles of her classroom.

I have to find a way to get new shoes,
she thought, sinking lower in her seat.
Boring black ones, like everyone else's
.

But how? Her mother didn't have enough money to buy Wadjda a proper uniform with the mandated shiny black shoes for the start of each term. Wadjda had gotten used to making do. Usually, having her own style made her feel special. But now? Fixing this one would be hard. She sighed.

From her post at the chalkboard, Ms. Noof stared down the class. She was chewing gum, which the girls weren't allowed to do in school. Wadjda suppressed a flash of anger at the sight. Ms. Noof wasn't wearing proper shoes, either. Her flip-flop sandals were visible underneath her long black skirt and oversized blue blouse. She pushed the sleeves up so they wouldn't get dusty from the chalk.

There was nothing to be gained from letting Ms. Noof annoy her, so Wadjda fixed her eyes on the board until the letters blurred into nothing. Her mind started to roam, and soon she was lost in her own world, far away from the hot confined classroom.

In this inner world, Ms. Hussa had a change of heart. She came into the classroom with Wadjda's tapes and bracelets and candy in her hands, and handed them back to her. She even gave her a little extra money to put toward the bike. Then she told her she could leave early.
Go, have fun
, she said.
Don't worry about the shoes. Go visit your bicycle.

The bicycle! At the thought, Wadjda tugged out her science notebook and turned to the last page. She'd drawn herself, riding through the streets of Riyadh. Hiding her smile, she began shading in the buildings on either side of the picture with gentle pencil strokes.

Only the distinctive sound of Ms. Hussa's high heels clicking closer and closer down the hallway made her raise her head.

She wasn't alone. The sound energized all the girls, setting their bottomless appetite for gossip afire. Behind her, Wadjda heard Yasmeen whispering to Noura.

“Funny she's the one punishing Abeer. I mean, we all know the story about the thief at Ms. Hussa's house. . . .” She broke off in giggles, barely able to contain herself.

“Not a thief!” Noura whispered back. “Her lover! Her father just
thought
it was a thief. That's why he called the police!”

Salma bristled. She was one of the teacher's pets, short, with a square face, bad skin, and bushy eyebrows—the opposite of Ms. Hussa in all ways. But Wadjda knew Salma thought the principal was perfect, and she hated any gossip about Ms. Hussa.

The thought of a brewing fight made Wadjda brighten. Though the gossipy girls were being loud, there was no way Ms. Noof would interfere. Every day, her lessons droned on for a solid hour. It was like a train of sound. No questions or answers could make it jump the track. She probably wouldn't stop even if one of the girls got up and ran out of the classroom, screaming. Most days, Wadjda was seriously tempted to try.

Now, Salma narrowed her eyebrows at Noura and Yasmeen and gave them a fearsome scowl. Putting a finger to her lips, she whispered, “Shut your mouths! If Ms. Hussa said it was a thief, it was a thief!”

“Of course you'd think that, Salma.” Noura rolled her eyes. “The only man who would ever speak to you would be a thief. No one else would want to!”

Salma looked down at her desk, her face pale like she'd been slapped. Wadjda saw her eyes fill with tears. Yasmeen
and Noura giggled—then straightened abruptly and folded their hands in their laps as the principal entered the room. Even Ms. Noof straightened up. Her movements became noticeably faster and, Wadjda noted, she swallowed her gum.

“Girls, our principal is here to explain the Quran Recitation Competition rules—and make a special announcement,” Ms. Noof said. “Then we'll pass around a sign-up sheet.”

She gave a piece of paper to a girl in the front row and moved out of the way to make room for Ms. Hussa. Wadjda subtly turned a page in her notebook to hide her bicycle drawing. As if attuned to the tiniest act of rebellion, Ms. Hussa's eyes went straight to her.

Unsure what to do, Wadjda tried to look extra studious, holding her pencil over the page like she was ready to take notes. The principal
humph
ed, and turned her gaze to the rest of the class. For greater dramatic effect, she let the awkward silence in the room build before beginning her announcement. It worked. At her first words, students gasped.

“Girls, we have increased the amount of money that will be given as a prize. The winner will now receive one thousand Riyals instead of eight hundred. Of course, you'll have to learn all the long
suras
.”

Wadjda raised her eyebrows. That was a huge amount of prize money. It would cover her bike and leave her with cash left over! Quickly, she flipped through the Quran on her desk, trying to tally up the number of pages she'd have to learn. The
Surat al Baqara
meant the first four chapters, and the first four chapters were
long
.

“You must learn the verses and the proper recitation,” Ms. Hussa was saying. “Then you must study the associated vocabulary, and be prepared to account for all the reasons why we know the verses descended from heaven itself.” She said the next words with careful emphasis. “Correct tone, rhythm, and pacing are very important.”

The sign-up sheet was making its way around the room. Wadjda saw the list of names growing longer.
Of course Salma signed up
, she thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
That know-it-all probably would've done it even without the prize money
.

Noura and Yasmeen put their names down, too. They weren't great students, but they were pretty, and when they spoke in class, their lilting tones made it sound like they were singing.
Noura's probably sure she'll win,
Wadjda thought. Surreptitiously, she lifted the page in her notebook and snuck a look at the picture of her bike.

“We want to hear the beauty of the Quran sing out through your young voices,” Ms. Hussa said.

The sign-up sheet fell onto Wadjda's desk. The thick white paper obscured the faint outline of her drawing. It was like a sign, a roadblock.
You have to go through me, Wadjda
, it said.

Fine. Here goes nothing!
In bold black strokes, Wadjda added her name to the list of competitors. She made the letters a little bigger than the others, just in case.

• • •

Class ended, and Wadjda sprang to her feet, gathering her things more efficiently than even Salma. Squaring her shoulders and tucking her
abayah raas
under her arm, she walked as fast as she could to Ms. Hussa's office. In a few brief moments, Ms. Hussa would stride outside to begin her school gate inspections. Wadjda had to act fast.

“May I see Ms. Hussa for a quick chat?” she asked Ms. Jamila.

From her shocked face, Wadjda guessed Ms. Jamila was surprised to see her back so soon—and voluntarily, at that! Still, her tone was sweet and easy.

“Of course, Wadjda. Go check and see if she's busy.” She motioned encouragingly toward the principal's door and watched in bemusement as Wadjda walked over, took a deep breath, and knocked. The door creaked open, and some of Wadjda's old fear returned. The sound was like
something from a horror movie! But she knew exactly what monster lurked within.

“Well? Go on!” Ms. Jamila made shooing motions with her hands.

So Wadjda did.

Inside, she stood in front of the giant desk for what felt like a long time. The dark wood seemed to suck up all the light in the room. Ms. Hussa had her head buried in yet another file, and she did not look up. She flipped page after page, making notes, adding her signature at various points. Finally, Ms. Hussa raised her head and arched an eyebrow, acknowledging Wadjda's presence.

“Well?” she said, as if
she'd
been the one waiting for Wadjda to speak.

Wadjda crossed one foot over the other, trying to cover her black high-tops.

“I thought about what you said,” she blurted. “I was wrong, and I'm ready to change.”

Both Ms. Hussa's eyebrows lifted, as if to say,
Really?
But the look of doubt remained on her face.

“I want to join the Religious Club!” Wadjda declared. She fought to make sure her voice didn't shake. To convince Ms. Hussa, she needed to sound strong and sure.

Ms. Hussa's facial expression still didn't change, but her
eyes narrowed slightly. Despite her outward calm, Wadjda felt like she could practically hear the principal's brain buzzing and whirring as she tried to make sense of this strange new information.

“What, you're becoming a
sheikha
all of a sudden?”

“Maybe I'll learn something,” Wadjda said slowly. “You know . . . to put me on the righteous path.” Seeing that her words weren't having the dramatic impact she'd hoped for, she decided to add more fuel to the fire. “You'll see,” she said, making her back oh-so-straight and tall. “I can be different.”

Ms. Hussa peered at her, clearly suspicious, but also intrigued.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “We'll see.”

W
inding her way through the backstreets on her way home, Wadjda felt lifted, like she was walking on air. A deep sense of determination hummed in her heart and powered her steps. Her enormous new
abayah raas
flowed out behind her like a superhero's cape as she marched forward, heading straight to the toy shop.

Outside, she stood face-to-handlebars with the bicycle, taking in the totality of its awesome presence. The bike had started to feel like a person to Wadjda, something more alive and present than spokes and wheels and chrome. It was a friend, a companion on an adventure. But it was a door, too, an opening that would take her to all the places she'd dreamed of going.

Beep!
A passing car tooted its horn furiously. The sound snapped Wadjda back to reality. With a sigh, she pushed open the door. The little bell jangled, announcing her presence. Fixing a smile on her face, Wadjda stepped into the toy shop. The owner looked up from a stack of receipts and stared at her over his reading glasses. His eyes were curious.

Today, the old man's
ghutra
was pushed to the back,
exposing more of his forehead and giving him a relaxed, casual look.
This guy's stylish
, Wadjda thought.
He's got flair
. Was that a good thing, though? She frowned, toeing her shoe against the ground. She had flair, too, or at least she thought she did. But all her purple shoelaces and cool sneakers had ever brought her was trouble.

Still considering, she slipped into one of the aisles and pretended to be examining the dusty toys. Every so often, she snuck a look back at the owner.

A traditional pot of Saudi blond coffee sat on his desk. The shopkeeper poured himself a little cup, drank it, and then deliberately set both coffee and coffeepot down. Keeping his eyes on Wadjda, he flipped the record on the player beside him. It was an easy, practiced motion, like he did it so many times a day he didn't even think about it anymore. The needle crackled and hissed as it tripped across the grooves of the old record, and a rush of sound filled the shop, the familiar sounds of a faraway time playing out in crackles and spurts. Terrible sound quality! Wadjda had to resist the urge to put her hands to her ears.

“You know they've invented this new thing called a tape player?” she yelled over at him.
Now's as good a time as any to break the ice
, she told herself. To have any hope of convincing the owner to sell her the bike, she needed him on her side.

The old man sniffed, but didn't answer her question.

“Do you ever plan to buy anything?” he grumbled. Wadjda smiled back innocently. So far, he didn't seem super friendly. But he wasn't asking her to leave or chasing her away, either. And every so often his eyes would twinkle—with amusement? Kindness?—in a way that encouraged her to keep going.

“How would I know?” she said. “People need to browse, don't they?”

With that, she turned her back to him and strode nonchalantly through the shop. As she paced, she pretended to look at the dolls and rubber balls and stacks of board games. But her eyes kept slipping back to the window—and the spectacular bicycle, sitting front and center outside. It shone like a beacon in the afternoon sunlight.

Tearing her eyes away, she looked up and saw the owner still staring at her, still peering suspiciously over the top of his glasses. Gathering the stack of receipts, he tapped them into an organized pile, neatly squaring the edges. And still his eyes didn't leave Wadjda. He was making her nervous! Determined to escape his gaze, she snuck off to one of the back sections:
Computer Games.

Idly, she turned over a large box.
Learn Quran the Easy Way
was emblazed on its side in bright red letters. Was this what she needed to win the competition? Mental images
of the girls in her class ran through Wadjda's mind. To beat the best students, like Salma, and the best speakers, like Noura, she was going to need a leg up.

“You won't find any tapes back there.” The owner yelled casually, without looking her way. “This is a modern shop, you see. We only have CDs.”

This time, Wadjda saw it for sure: a twinkle in his eye. As she watched, a smile creased his wrinkled face, making his eyes go crinkly at the corners. Okay, it looked kind of mocking. But a smile was a smile—and a smile was the sign she'd been waiting for.

Yes!
she thought. She beamed back at him, a giant grin that showed all her teeth. Her joy was real, nothing fake about it. For there was no doubt in her mind now: He would sell her the bicycle.

“Thank you very much!” she chirped, her voice light and happy, like the song of a bird. Still smiling, she made her way toward the exit, fixing her veil as she went. “See you tomorrow!”

This was his heads-up. He should know that he'd be seeing a lot more of her—right up to the moment when she set eight hundred Riyals down on his counter and pedaled her bicycle home.

The shop was stuffy and thick with afternoon heat, so Wadjda left the door open. As she passed the bicycle, she
ran her fingers through the ribbons on the handlebars, letting them play across her skin like water. The gesture seemed to spur something in the shop owner. He poked his head out the door and called, “Can you even ride?”

“Ride?” Wadjda raised her eyebrows and folded her arms challengingly. With her feet planted on the ground, she felt like a strong tree. “I race the wind.”

A triumphant note to leave on! Wadjda could have clapped her hands together for joy. Head held high, she spun—

And tripped on the dragging hem of her enormous
abayah raas
. She stumbled forward, bent at the waist, taking fast steps to keep from falling face-first into the dirt.

So much for that
, she thought, feeling herself blush beet red beneath the protective covering of her veil.

Behind her, the owner was laughing. Not loudly. But his shoulders were shaking, and his lips were pressed together, as if to hide a smile. When he caught her looking, he
harrumph
ed and went back inside. A second later, the music from his beat-up record player got louder, as if he'd cranked the volume. Wadjda smiled.

The shop owner may have been trying to hide it, but Wadjda knew she had an ally now. All of a sudden, her quest to buy the bicycle felt so much more possible.