The Green Bicycle (14 page)

Wadjda backed away in despair. She had no idea what to do—if Iqbal made good on his threats, she'd be in even
more
trouble.

Then, suddenly, Abdullah was there. He jumped in front of Wadjda and put
his
foot up against the door. Wadjda's jaw dropped.

“Where's your
iqamah
?” Abdullah asked assertively. The
iqamah
, or residency card, was a necessity for all foreigners living in Riyadh. At the sound of its name, Iqbal's already tense face went even tighter. His menacing gaze shifted to Abdullah.

“Go away!” he shouted.

“It's a good job you've got,” Abdullah said, trying to sound tough. “No problems, lots of money . . .” Wadjda
blinked. His tone was grown-up, pragmatic. He sounded like an old man discussing a business transaction. “Just go back to picking up Wadjda's mother, and we can all forget about this incident.”

Iqbal wasn't taking the bait. He snorted and turned, giving up on his attempts to close the door. Cold sweat sprang up on Wadjda's palms. Could they come so close and lose him now?

In front of her, Abdullah raised his voice. His tone was forceful, each word a challenge. “Do you know who my uncle is? The one with the mustache? Have you seen his election posters? I'm sure he'd be interested in investigating your legal status.”

The words worked like magic. As the driver stared down at the tiny troublemakers, his shoulders slumped. Bitterness stole across his face. Sensing his newfound power, Abdullah stood his ground.

Behind him, Wadjda folded her arms and raised her chin, waiting for Iqbal to answer.
We've won
, she thought. Her mother was saved.

H
er
abayah
fell open, and Wadjda threw her head back, letting the fresh air wash over her face. Outside the sweltering courtyard and cramped backstreets of Adira, the city seemed clean and open, the endless journey home a walk in the park. Laughing boldly, Wadjda dashed after Abdullah, who rode ahead, swerving jubilantly back and forth across the street on his bicycle.

Finally, breathless, Wadjda stopped. She planted her feet and crossed her arms, her pose a perfect mimicry of Abdullah's as he'd confronted Iqbal.

“Come, come, surely you know my uncle?” she said in a deep voice. “The one with the giant mustache?”

Abdullah laughed, dismounting and straightening his white
thobe
.

“Laugh all you want. He did know him! That mustache is a registered trademark!”

Wadjda thought Abdullah looked happier than she'd ever seen him. In Iqbal's courtyard, he'd been like a knight in a storybook, full of chivalry and courage. They'd both been! At the thought, Wadjda laughed, too, happy and relieved.

Things had worked out. And she had a true friend in Abdullah, someone who was willing to follow her into danger and stand by her side. The thought sent a gush of pride welling through her.

They set off again, walking together, cutting down alleys in an attempt to avoid the main road. The area was residential now—blocks of houses and small corner shops. Wadjda felt fingers tug at her
abayah
. She looked over and saw Abdullah pointing at a house farther down the street. It was busy with men, who came and went through the front gate in a steady stream.

One man, older, a full mustache bristling on his upper lip, stopped at the door. He wore his white
ghutra
without an
iqal
, the black belt men used to fasten down their head coverings.

“Why . . .” Wadjda started, gesturing toward the man. He was wearing his
ghutra
in the style of the
Haya'
, or commission, men. The Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, to be exact. Which meant she and Abdullah needed to slip away unnoticed. The man might be religious police, and if he caught them hanging out on the street, she'd be in serious trouble. “Uh-oh,” Wadjda breathed.

Beside her, Abdullah sighed and shook his head. “Don't worry. He's busy. See how he's greeting the people? There
was a death in the family.” Turning his bicycle, he gestured to a cross street that led away from the house. “We should go this way.”

Wadjda's eyes were wide with surprise. “A death! Really? Do you know what happened?”

“Their son died fighting in Iraq. From a bomb”

Wadjda's eyes went wide. “That must have hurt so bad!”

“No.” Abdullah shook his head, correcting her. “If you die for God, it's like the prick of a needle—hardly any pain. Then you fly up to heaven and you have seventy women, all yours!”

“Really?” Wadjda giggled in spite of herself. Abdullah, talking about seventy women! Ridiculous. He hid from his friends every time he even talked to a girl. Honestly, the whole idea sounded silly, like when her mother told her the Tooth Fairy would give her more money for extra-clean teeth.

“Really,” Abdullah said, wheeling his bicycle forward, wounded by her giggles.

Wadjda ran to catch up, thoughts tumbling through her mind. Soon, they reached a small grocery store. Abdullah leaned his bike against the wall, his annoyance forgotten.

“Stay with the bicycle,” he said. “Make sure no one steals it. I'm going to get us some ice cream to celebrate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wadjda said. She ran her hands along his
bike, enjoying the feel of the cool metal bars, the slightly cracked leather seat. “Hey, buy the one with the sweepstakes entry!” she shouted, remembering right as Abdullah opened the door.

“Ew! That one tastes like mud.”

“Yeah, but we might win!” Wadjda's eyes sparkled. “Just think—twenty thousand Riyals!”

Abdullah shook his head and disappeared into the shop. Wadjda looked down at the bicycle, itching to hop on and ride. By the time her friend came out, she'd be all the way down the block! But that would upset him, and he'd helped her so much today.

With a sigh, Wadjda leaned against the bicycle. She put her right arm casually between the handlebars, stuck her left foot back against the crossbar, and propped her hand on her hip. It was a pose she'd seen an old American movie star, Marlon Brando, make in a movie about motorcyclists. The movie had aired three nights in a row on television. In it, a group of men rode across America, entering contests on their bikes and fighting rival gangs. Wadjda watched it every single time. Now she tried to imitate Marlon's bored, cool expression as she watched Riyadh's late afternoon traffic flow by.

Abdullah came out of the shop, already-melting ice creams in hand, and smiled.

They'd nearly reached home when the two friends parted ways. Wadjda made the rest of the trip alone. Several streets from her house, she passed a hole-in-the-wall shop that developed pictures. The window display was vivid and busy, packed full of T-shirts, notebooks, pillows, mugs, and other trinkets, all personalized with family photos.

Most of them were so cheesy! Wadjda laughed aloud at a pillow near the front. It showed a man standing in front of a country farm backdrop—fake red windmill, fake black-and-white cows, fake green grass. For extra pizzazz, an airbrushed, multicolored butterfly had been added to the top. It was almost the same size as the man's arm!

Still laughing, Wadjda slipped inside and examined some of the other items on the counter. Then inspiration hit. She fumbled through her wallet, pulled out a photo, and held it up: a veiled woman, her face hidden, tenderly holding a smiling baby girl in her slender, henna-decorated hands.

“Can you put this picture on a mug?” she asked.

W
adjda creaked open the front gate and pulled her gum out of the slot. Long strands of goo trailed after, sticking to her fingers and making a gummy mess.
Ew.
Wadjda tossed the wad into the bushes and rubbed her hands together to get rid of the residue. She let the gate snap closed behind her and then, moving stealthily as a street cat, she crept to the front window and lifted her head just high enough to look through.

Inside, her mother lay on the couch, eyes still fixed on the TV. Holding back a sigh, Wadjda hunkered down, knees pressed to her chest. It might be a long wait.

Her eyes drifted up to the roof. Though it was tempting, she knew there was no way she could shimmy back up.

Things weren't all bad, though. Even in that tiny glimpse through the window, Wadjda had seen contentment on her mother's face. Mother seemed carefree, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Iqbal must have called and apologized, or at least offered to drive her again.

Victory!
Wadjda would have loved to hear that conversation. Just thinking about it made her grin.

She snuck another peek over the sill. This time, she saw her mother looking around furtively as she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Wadjda ducked down again, to be safe, but she knew she wasn't in any danger. Her mother always made that face before she smoked, like she thought it was some big secret.

Ha!
Wadjda's lips twisted wryly. She'd known Mother was a smoker for years—ever since she started finding discarded ashtrays on the roof. It had to stay secret, though, so Wadjda made sure not to let on. In the Kingdom, only sleazy women smoked—actresses or tacky fashion models, the ones who appeared in foreign magazines. Their tight outfits, with exposed arms and bare midriffs, had to be blacked out with a marker by the censors before they were put on the racks.
What a crazy job
, Wadjda thought. To have to go through
every
copy, blacking out all the legs and shoulders and cleavage! If anyone ever found out Wadjda's mother smoked like them . . .

Wadjda shook her head at the thought. It would be a huge scandal. Her father would be so angry. And she didn't like to think about what her grandmother would do!

But this was why Wadjda kept her mother's secret. She thought smoking was maybe the only rebellious thing her mother could do. The only way her mother could feel free. Sometimes, when Wadjda was lying in bed and smelled
the gross smell of smoke, it made her think of how she felt when she ran through the streets, arms and legs pumping.

Besides, from listening to gossip and smelling people's clothes and breath, Wadjda knew her mother wasn't alone. Many Saudi women secretly smoked—but only in complete privacy. They could never risk the awful consequences of getting caught.

Inside, Mother pulled out a cigarette and lighter, rose from the couch, and made her way upstairs. As soon as she stood, Wadjda started crawling toward the front door. In time with the beating of her heart, she started counting:
one, two, three . . .

When she was sure her mother was out of sight, she closed her eyes and twisted the knob. It opened quietly . . .
four, five, six . . .

By the count of ten, without ever making a sound, Wadjda was safely inside. To everyone but Iqbal and Abdullah, it was like she'd never left. In her room, she fell back onto her bed, exhaustion dragging her body down into the mattress. Pride stirred inside her, along with relief—and a touch of gratitude. She'd been able to take care of her mother, to save her job without sacrificing her pride. Sure, the whole mess was kind of her fault, but it had all worked out in the end.

And there was still so much to do! Before she got
too
lost
in patting herself on the back, Wadjda rose, determined. Her
abayah
went back under her schoolbag. With a towel, she wiped her face, mopping away the sweat. Then her eyes went to her savings chart, and she darted across the room to count her money.

Slowly, she ran each bill through her fingers, straightening the wrinkles, smoothing the imperfections. It was silly, but Wadjda found herself hoping that if she were careful enough, there'd be more than the last time she'd counted. Somehow . . .

“Forty, fifty, five-five, sixty Riyals,” she whispered.

Her door opened. Wadjda's head shot up instinctively. A second later, her mother poked her head inside. Though she was trying to look stern, her inner happiness shone through her eyes. It was like trying to put a basket over a lightbulb.

Wadjda smiled—and then gulped.
Oops.
She'd been grounded all day. She was supposed to be apologetic! Trying to make her face look both innocent and repentant, she lowered her head and stared up at her mother. Peeking out from beneath her eyelashes, she looked like a sad puppy.

Without turning her head, she blindly shoved the money under her chart with her right hand.

“Had enough?” her mother asked.

Still doing her best to look defeated, Wadjda nodded.

I accept my punishment
, her wide eyes said.
It was all my fault.

“Tomorrow you can return to school,” her mother said, “but you're staying in that Religious Club for the rest of the school year, Wadjda, like you told the principal.”

Wadjda nodded again, bowing her head even lower. Her mother smiled. It was clear from her face that she thought she'd found more than just a suitable punishment for her daughter. She had put Wadjda on the track to redemption. As she closed the door and walked down the hallway, Wadjda heard her singing softly to herself.

The Religious Club was a small price to pay for this truce! Wadjda started to do a little whistling of her own. She pulled the bills back out and kept counting. After her impulsive stop at the photography shop, though, she had less, not more. In her mind's eye, the green bicycle seemed to slip further away, falling back into the distance.

“Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one . . .” She searched the drawer, scouring the corners for any remaining bills, and sighed. “Sixty-two Riyals.”

The last note went on the pile, and Wadjda gave the diminished stack a gentle pat. Then she picked up the mug she'd purchased and stared at it. Some details had been lost: her mother was nothing but a black blob. Still, the
image exuded unmistakable love. The way her mother was holding baby Wadjda, the gentle, protective curve of her hands . . .

Wadjda smiled, put the mug in her bag, and went out to the living room.