The Green Bicycle (13 page)

A
safe distance from the gate of the boys' school, Wadjda waited, her body practically thrumming with nervousness. She'd hidden behind a wall, tucked into a shadowed door frame near one of the building's corners. She didn't want to look suspicious, but she didn't want anyone to see her this close to the boys' school, either.

She wasn't being cautious because she was worried about her reputation.
Ha!
Wadjda snorted at the thought. At her school, all the whining and hand-wringing about immorality bored her to tears. And she wasn't worried about her mother's threats to marry her off, not really. It was just that she had a mission to accomplish. She couldn't get sidetracked by curious onlookers.

The final bell was about to ring. Why hadn't Abdullah shown up? Wadjda poked her head around the corner. Lots of figures were passing by, and a mess of cars had parked against the wall, waiting to offer rides. But still no sign of her friend's familiar skinny form.

Hmm
. Wadjda ducked back into her doorway and closed her eyes, thinking hard. Was this really a good idea? She
wasn't sure. But though she'd prefer to carry off her mission solo, she knew she needed help. And Abdullah was the only one she could count on to go with her. If he would just show up already!

Another peek around the corner. Nothing. Maybe he'd already slipped out for the day? Wadjda grimaced. While girls in Riyadh had to go through a virtual army inspection to get in and out of school, boys pretty much came and went as they pleased.

Aha!
Inspiration came in a flash. Behind the boys' school was an abandoned strip mall. Abdullah loved to hang out there, throwing rocks at the already broken windows, riding bikes with the other boys, just generally acting tough. Keeping her head low and her veil raised over her face, Wadjda sprinted around the corner, down an alley, and across the street. Putting her back against the mall's dirty wall, she caught her breath and waited.

Sure enough, there was Abdullah, tossing rocks and shouting playful insults at his friends. Smirking, Wadjda scooped up a stone and threw it in his direction. Her aim was good, but not good enough. The rock narrowly missed,
ping
ing against one of the wheels of his bike. Abdullah whirled, eyes darting across the barren parking lot. When he saw Wadjda, his face shifted from anger to shock. He looked nervously at his friends, but they were busy aiming
stones at one of the few unbroken panes of glass on the vast wall above them.

Still chicken
, Wadjda thought, rolling her eyes.
Doesn't want to be seen with me.

She lifted another rock and waved it at her friend, as if to say,
“This time I won't miss!”
Without waiting any longer, Abdullah rolled his bike over to her hiding place.

“Do you know how to get to Adira?” she asked.

Abdullah stared at her, baffled. Seemingly without thinking, he reached up and adjusted his
taqia
, patting it down with his fingers. The delicate white fabric was lovely, Wadjda thought, and the weaving was perfect, like a sturdy spiderweb. It even had a flash of silver thread around the edges. It looked beautiful, sitting just so on her friend's head. She wanted to tell him that, but didn't. Somehow, it felt too weird.

The silence stretched between them. Then Abdullah dropped his hands back to his sides, nodded, and tilted his chin toward the west edge of the parking lot. They set off together without further explanation.

Wadjda stood on the pegs of Abdullah's bicycle, balancing on either side of the back tire as he pedaled them along. Before getting on, she'd rolled up the edge of her
abayah
and tucked it under her body to keep it from getting
tangled in the spokes. She couldn't have it getting dirty—she'd learned her lesson with her veil.

Standing on the pegs wasn't a bad way to ride. Abdullah was a steady cyclist, and it was much faster than walking. But it wasn't very comfortable, either. They flew past the toy shop, and Wadjda thought she saw the green bicycle glimmering in the distance. She sighed and looked down, watching Abdullah's feet spin the pedals.

If I had my own bicycle, I'd have done this on my own,
she thought.
I wouldn't have needed anyone's help.

At this time of day, the streets of Riyadh were a clogged mess. As he maneuvered the bicycle through the cars backed up on the roads, Abdullah looked back over his shoulder at Wadjda. He tried to say something, but she couldn't hear. He tried again, shouting to be heard over the grumble of idling engines.

“You have to get off if we see someone we know! And cover your face. I don't want people to talk about me. I'll say you're my sister.”

“No one will believe it,” Wadjda shouted back. “I'm way too cute to be related to you!”

“Yeah, right,” Abdullah sounded annoyed, like he wanted her to be more grateful for his help.
Fat chance
, Wadjda thought. He was lucky she was letting him come
along. “And isn't the principal going to call your mother? You're skipping school!”

“I'm taking a personal leave day,” Wadjda said. “The school knows.”

She could have said more, could have told him the whole awful story. About Ms. Hussa finding her backpack and confiscating the bracelets and mixtapes, about her parents' fight, her mother threatening to marry her off or lock her in the house forever. But in the end, she stayed quiet. Her family's drama was no one's business but theirs.

They approached a busy road, and Abdullah stopped so Wadjda could get off and walk alongside him. To avoid attention, she was trying unusually hard to be demure, but it was no use. Her veil kept falling off. Try as she might, she couldn't master the stupid thing. And every time it slipped down, Abdullah shot her a worried look. Wadjda tugged the cloth back into place for the fifty millionth time and sighed heavily.

The walk was hot and tedious, but soon they were a safe distance away from any onlookers. Grinning, Wadjda jumped back on the pegs, and they continued across town to an older part of the city.

The Adira section of Riyadh was entirely new to Wadjda. It looked nothing like her neighborhood, with its rows of villas and strong protective walls. Here, dilapidated
buildings slumped against one another. Many looked like they might fall over at any moment. Small shelters were built at their bases, crowding the narrow alleys. Everywhere, sheets of ragged cloth had been pinned up against the brutal sun. The area was crowded with groups of foreign workers, smoking and laughing as they passed by.

Every so often, one of them glanced Wadjda's way. Each time, fear crawled up her spine. She remembered the workers on top of the building. Now they'd entered a neighborhood entirely populated by single men. Wadjda pulled her
abayah
tight around her, covering her jeans and favorite T-shirt. Though everything in her was screaming,
leave, leave
, she kept her eyes resolutely forward.

I have to do this
, she thought again and again
. My mother needs me.

Down one of the alleys, an older Indian man sat on the steps in front of a tiny convenience store. Sun-faded packages of chips and candy and gluey-looking soda bottles were stacked on the shelves inside. Abdullah nodded toward him and raised his eyebrows at Wadjda. Wadjda nodded back. Gathering her courage, she approached. The man kept staring into the distance. Wadjda gave him a slight smile and a wave, looking back over her shoulder at Abdullah.

“Hey, hi there,” she said. “Do you know where Iqbal the driver lives?”

The old man looked at her suspiciously. There was a long pause, long enough that Wadjda began to wonder if he spoke any Arabic at all. Should she ask in an easier way, using the simpler Arabic she was accustomed to speaking with Iqbal?

“Do you know how many ‘Iqbal the drivers' there are around here, little girl?” the man said finally in broken Arabic. Taking a drag from his cigarette, he blew out the smoke in a steady stream.

Wadjda shrugged, muttered, “Thanks,” and turned back to Abdullah. Together, they wheeled his bicycle forward, determined to explore Adira's backstreets together.

It wasn't a pleasant search. The lanes and alleys were dusty and dirty. Garbage lay heaped in sprawling piles. Here and there a stray cat or dog picked at an old packet of food. Side by side, keeping close, Abdullah and Wadjda passed from one street to the next. It was almost lunchtime, and several workers hurried by carrying big sheets of
tamees
bread.

Wadjda smiled. She loved
tamees
bread. Her father used to bring it to work every Friday morning, to eat before prayer. Along with a huge plate of
Yemeni glaba foul
, cooked beans with tomato and olive oil, topped with light hummus, it was one of his favorite meals—and Wadjda's,
too. But at this moment she couldn't think of food. Her stomach ached too much from nerves.

Finally, Wadjda spotted a minivan with taped-on headlights parked next to a shabby house. The bus looked familiar—she could swear she recognized that big dent on the left fender, and the scratched-up bumper! Breathless with anticipation, she pointed it out to Abdullah, and they ran to take a closer look. Wadjda stepped up to the passenger-side window, cupped her hands over her eyes, and peered inside. Sure enough, there was the picture of the little girl on the dashboard. Definitely Iqbal's!

Whirling, Wadjda flashed Abdullah a triumphant “yes,” raising both thumbs high. She felt like an explorer who'd hacked her way through a thick jungle to a lost city full of treasures. “This is the building!” she cried. “Let's go.”

Abdullah tried to go first, but Wadjda stayed close to his side, and they pushed open the crumbling wooden door together. Stepping inside, they found themselves in the middle of an empty courtyard. Makeshift drying racks, each strewn with frayed work clothes, stood in front of a series of doors. Beside each door, men's shoes and sandals were heaped in jumbled piles.

Leaving Abdullah to wait, Wadjda flitted from door to door. Iqbal's distinctive sandals, the toe straps wrapped in
dingy orange tape, were in front of a room on the far side. She motioned for Abdullah to knock, but he shook his head and moved back behind his bicycle, which he still hadn't drawn all the way into the courtyard.

“This is your war, Wadjda!” he whispered. “I don't want any part of your crazy schemes!”

“Fine!” Wadjda hissed back. For a second, she frowned at him, but no, getting mad was a waste of time. She needed to gather her courage to confront Iqbal.

Taking a deep breath, she faced the door and knocked. The sound was more confident than she felt, a loud
BAM BAM BAM
. She waited several moments for a response, her heart beating faster and faster. It seemed to echo the knocks on the door:
BOOM BOOM BOOM
.

No answer. Wadjda looked back at Abdullah, who seemed determined to ignore her. Slouching against his bicycle, he was playing with his
taqia
. He'd made his face look bored and distracted, like he was pretending not to have a care in the world. Wadjda twisted her lips, frowning.
Stupid boy.
Probably thought she hadn't thanked him enough or something.

“Are you going to help or not?” she whisper-hissed across the courtyard.

“You want my help all the time, Wadjda! And you act
like I have to just jump up and run when you come calling! No thanks from you, no nothing.”

Wadjda rolled her eyes; she'd been right. This made Abdullah even angrier, and for a moment she felt bad—he
had
come all the way to Adira with her. But before she could say anything more, Abdullah said fiercely, “You can do it yourself this time!” and Wadjda snapped her lips shut.
No more niceness for you, Abdullah!

Turning, she knocked again, even louder. What if Iqbal wasn't home? Secretly, Wadjda kind of hoped that was the case. But before she could turn away, shrug her shoulders, and chirp, “Oh well, guess we should go,” there was a metallic
click
. The door swung open, and Iqbal stumbled out, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

When he saw Wadjda, every trace of tiredness vanished. Iqbal's eyes popped open wide, like someone had squeezed him around the middle and surprised him.

“You!” he shrieked, a look of fury on his face. “What do you want?”

“You can't do this!” Wadjda shot back. In a second, all her nerves were gone. She felt like a blazing torch, one giant fiery purpose. Iqbal didn't know it, but she was ready to fight. “You can't just stop driving my mother in the middle of the semester!”

The driver gave a dismissive wave and tried to close the door. Quick as a flash, Wadjda drove her foot into the space between door and frame, stopping him.

“Don't you dare close the door on me! You were already paid, remember?”

“Get out of here, little girl! You have no business being out of your house. Does your mother know you're here?” Iqbal's face was twisted and ugly. Looming above Wadjda, he seemed scarier than he did during their regular morning standoffs. “Maybe I should go see her, hmm? Tell her what you're doing?”