The Green Bicycle (17 page)

T
hat night, before switching off the light, Wadjda reached over from her bed and flicked on the radio. Scrolling through the channels, she lingered on a song she liked, tapping her fingers against the radio, humming the words under her breath. Then she remembered her mission. Methodically, she spun the dial until she found what she was really looking for.

“You are listening to the one and only Quran station. Tune in all day, every day, to hear your favorite readers. Now, Al Hudafi will recite
Surat Al-Baqarah,
” the DJ announced.

Slumping back against her pillow, Wadjda laced her fingers behind her head and stared up at the ceiling. The voice on the radio rang out through the room.

“In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful.
Alif Lam Mim
. This Book, there is no doubt in it, is a guide to those who guard against evil.”

As if in afterthought, Wadjda took her Quran from the desk, flipped to the right page, and tried to follow along.
The male reader was moving very fast, though, and she soon fell behind. Sighing, Wadjda set the Quran back down, making sure to keep it open to the right spot. There was just so much to memorize. Could she ever read with this man's ease?

Wadjda turned her head toward her desk. Her gaze fell on the video game she'd bought, and she smiled.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The door clicked open. Mother poked her head around the jamb, her half smile disappearing when her eyes fell on Wadjda's desk. As fast as she could, she reached over and closed the Quran.

“Don't ever, ever leave the Holy Book open!” she scolded. “Satan will spit in it!”

Yet another old wives' tale. But this time, instead of arguing or rolling her eyes, Wadjda nodded in agreement.

“Yes,
Ummi
. I'm sorry.”

“Good girl.” Her mother was smiling again. “Come, sit with me for a while.”

Pleased by the unexpected invitation, Wadjda clicked off the radio, grabbed the video game, and followed her mother down the hall. A great day was continuing to get better, she thought.

In the living room, her mother perched on the couch, counting
oud
pieces—small sticks of scented wood imported specially from India.
Oud
was very expensive.
Only a few ounces were worth as much as Wadjda's dream bicycle.

Wadjda knew the price well, because she'd been with her mother when she bought it. The salesman was a squat, fat man who sat brooding over his wares like a toad. As he and Mother bargained, his eyes fixed on her hands, the only exposed flesh he could spot. However she moved, whatever she said, his gaze never wavered. Wadjda could tell Mother felt horribly uncomfortable. At one point she tucked her hands inside her
abayah
sleeves to hide them from view. And she paid the salesman's full, ridiculous price, just so she could leave.

I wish I could have done the bargaining,
Wadjda thought.
I'd have saved a fortune!

Still, the
oud
would make the whole house smell wonderful, like a thick, luxurious fog had rolled through, leaving a perfumed charcoal mist that stung your nostrils when you breathed in. When it burned, Wadjda and her mother could pretend theirs was a rich person's home, a place for people who could afford whatever luxuries they wanted.

Humming softly, Mother arranged a small
mubkharah
on the coffee table. The
mubkharah
was a tiny burner that used real coal. Wadjda took a deep breath. Was there a special occasion? she wondered. Why was Mother burning the
oud
now?

She'd have to wait to find out. Wadjda plopped herself in front of the TV and started fiddling with the wires. After ten minutes, she threw the cords down on the carpet. She sighed once, then again, louder. Frowning and frustrated, she looked up, wondering if her mother had noticed her struggle.

“I'll never win the Quran competition,” she said, poking at the wires. “This game doesn't work on our ‘state-of-the-art' TV, so how can I practice?”

She tried to sound casual, to hint that there must be a better option—which, of course, there was. But her mother just looked at her, perplexed. Then she got Wadjda's meaning. Her eyes darted to the
majlis
door.

“Don't even think about it. Your father will go crazy if you mess up his TV.”

Wadjda sighed. Father had recently gotten a giant flat-screen, something like fifty inches, so he could play his video games in style. The ancient, boxy television in the living room couldn't compete. Its picture was grainy and obscured by rolling lines of static. It didn't have the right inputs for a DVD player, much less a video game.

I could probably rig something up
, Wadjda thought, examining the back of the television more closely.
But it would be so much easier to use Father's.

Whatever she did, she had to act fast. Getting the game up and running was a key part of her new plan to win the competition. She closed her eyes, imagined circling the roof on Abdullah's bicycle. Only in this daydream, it wasn't his clanking old bike, but the sleek green bicycle she loved so dearly.

Figure something out, Wadjda
, she told herself.
Or else!

S
he'd survived the first few meetings. Her nerves were settling down. And maybe, just maybe, Wadjda was getting the hang of Religious Club.

At every meeting, she was one of the first to arrive. For a whole hour, she sat up, back straight, eyes lowered to the Quran. She nodded every once in a while, pretending to listen to her teacher's passionate diatribes. Sure, she never knew exactly what Ms. Noof was talking about, most likely the million different ways you could go to Hell. But the look on Wadjda's face always made it seem like the most fascinating thing in the world.

Today, her pretend focus caught up with her. Several minutes into a rant, Ms. Noof stopped speaking and looked out at the circle of girls. “Wadjda, what do you think?” she said, zeroing in on the only girl who looked remotely interested.

Um . . .
Wadjda felt a giant lump lodge in her throat. “I . . . I . . .”

Focus
, she told herself.
Take a few minutes to gather your thoughts
.

Across the circle, Noura elbowed Yasmeen and rolled her eyes.

That was all the motivation Wadjda needed. That now familiar sense of determination flowed into her. She squared her small shoulders.

“I think this competition is very hard for me,” she said.

Noura and the other girls looked taken aback by her confident tone. But not
that
taken aback.
Yeah, we know
, she saw Salma mouth to the girl beside her. Two or three others couldn't help but giggle.

Ms. Noof waved an impatient hand, silencing them. “Go on, Wadjda,” she said.

“Yes, it's hard. But I . . . I heard on the Quran channel yesterday that if recitation is easy for you,” Wadjda said slowly, “then you get only one reward from God. If it's hard for you to read and remember, you get two rewards. One for reading the Quran, and one for the great trouble you go through.”

For the first time in all their meetings, Ms. Noof didn't look annoyed. Her gaze was full of something else: pride. A gleaming look, like she had somehow contributed to Wadjda's incredible breakthrough.

“Thank you for sharing this with us,” she said. “Girls, I want all of you to listen to Wadjda. She is a great example of a person who tries hard, a person devoted to God.”

Noura and her cronies looked dumbfounded. Yasmeen's jaw actually dropped.

“Thank you,” Wadjda said shyly, relishing her new role as teacher's pet. Though she kept her face modest, she stole a peek to either side. Had Salma heard? Could she believe that Wadjda had won Ms. Noof's favor, even temporarily?

It was hard to keep her face still, but Wadjda made herself read the same sentence over and over until her smile faded. Even when her face was composed, she continued to bask in the glory of the moment. It felt good to be the star pupil. Maybe she should try it more often.

Ms. Jamila appeared in the doorway, stuck her head in, and motioned for Ms. Noof.

“Excuse me a moment, girls.” The teacher dragged herself to her feet and lumbered over to the doorway. Ms. Jamila met her eagerly, and they gossiped and giggled for a minute. It seemed Ms. Jamila was admiring Ms. Noof's blouse. She kept reaching out and feeling the fabric of the sleeve. And Ms. Noof was praising Ms. Jamila's new veil! For another few seconds, they traded compliments.

Watching them, Wadjda had a strange thought. Maybe her teachers could actually be normal people? Was it possible? Could they laugh and smile and talk about clothes and friends—everyday life stuff—at least once in a while?

“Wadjda,” Ms. Noof called. “Ms. Hussa needs to see you. Go to her room now.”

Oh no.
Wadjda felt her stomach sink, her mouth go dry. She fought to swallow.

“Oh, and Wadjda?” Ms. Noof gave her another smile. “I told Ms. Jamila to tell Ms. Hussa how well you're doing.”

This was comforting—but just a little. Wadjda's moment of glory had apparently passed. Her classmates were back to giggling . . . and she was back to her usual trek down the endless corridor to the principal's office.

W
hy did I wear jeans
?
Today of all days? Stupid, stupid!

Wadjda stood in front of the principal's desk, fidgeting, struggling to pull her uniform down over her pants and colored-in shoes. The position was all too familiar. Only this time she had no idea why she was there. She'd all but stopped selling stuff, she'd shown up to school on time almost every day, and she'd been careful to wear the
abayah raas
in just the right way. The Wadjda of the last weeks was a girl transformed.

And maybe it was working? She snuck a glance at Ms. Hussa. The principal wasn't giving her that familiar evil eye yet. In fact, she looked totally relaxed, lounging in her chair and staring into space.

Yes. Something was definitely different.

“Wadjda,” Ms. Hussa said abruptly, turning to look at her.

Wadjda blinked. Was she—was that . . . a smile?

“I have to say, I didn't believe it when Ms. Jamila told me. But apparently you really are doing well in Religious Club. If this is a permanent change, I'll be very impressed.”

Behind her back, Wadjda's fingers were knotted
together so tightly they hurt. But she put on a polite face and tried not to squirm.

“Thank you, Ms. Hussa,” she whispered.

The principal stood and started thumbing through a cabinet. When she found the file she was looking for, she pulled it out and checked the papers inside, confirming its contents. Then she fixed Wadjda with a longer stare, one Wadjda didn't understand.

There was a moment of silence, broken by a
swish
of paper as Ms. Hussa tossed the file onto her desk. There was meaning in her actions, but try as she might, Wadjda couldn't make it out. The file felt like something she should be aware of, like it was meant for her to take. But what if she was wrong?

In the end, she didn't move. Ms. Hussa returned to her seat and picked up the file, tapping it against the desk's smooth surface.
Tik-tik-tik
.

“You may not believe it,” she said, looking at Wadjda out of the corner of her eye, “but I was reckless at your age, too. And look at me now!”

Again she tapped the file against the desk.
Tik-tik-tik.

“If you keep going the way you're going, I believe you may be able to win this competition.” Without taking her eyes off Wadjda, she leaned over and pressed a button on the intercom. “Ms. Jamila? Please come by later and pick
up the Quran competition file. All the questions are complete. Thank you.”

She sat back in her chair and pushed the folder to the front of her desk, toward Wadjda. Wadjda's eyes widened as she stared down at it.

“I'll bet the other girls would die to know what's in there.” Ms. Hussa said. Her intense eyes never left Wadjda's face.

A sharp rapping sounded. Someone was knocking on the door. Wadjda jumped, startled. At her desk, Ms. Hussa sat perfectly still, her face calm. “Come in,” she called.

The door swung open, and Fatin and Fatima entered. Wadjda's heart began to pound, hammering against her ribs.

“Close the door, please,” Ms. Hussa said. Fatin did as she asked, then turned and stood defiantly next to Fatima.

Wadjda's mind was really racing now. The two older girls stood between her and the door. Why hadn't Ms. Hussa asked her to leave? She shuffled her feet, scuffing her squeaky sneaker soles against the cool marble floor. Her palms were sweaty.

For a moment, there was silence. Fatin and Fatima kept their eyes straight ahead. Ms. Hussa stared at them. Everyone in the room seemed to be looking through Wadjda.

“So. You still claim you weren't doing anything out there, behind the school?”

“We were reading magazines. That's all,” Fatima returned. “Nothing like what you said!” She motioned toward Wadjda. “Ask
her
!”

Tik-tik-tik
went the folder on the desk. Then Ms. Hussa pressed her fingers down onto it and dragged it in a slow circle. As she did, she looked at Wadjda and raised her eyebrows.

“Well?”

Wadjda felt as if she were standing at the base of a hill. A big boulder was tumbling down toward her at top speed. If she didn't jump out of the way, it would crush her. But she was surrounded on all sides by a deep pit filled with crocodiles. The hungry beasts seethed beneath her, jaws snapping hungrily.

Rock or crocodiles? Which to choose?

She looked at Fatin and Fatima, panic squeezing her throat. They looked back at her confidently. Fatin almost looked cocky. They were so sure she would back them up.

Rock or crocodiles?

Wadjda turned and looked at Ms. Hussa. She looked at the folder in her hands. Then she dropped her head and closed her eyes.

“I'm not sure,” she said quietly. “I was standing far away.”

At the same time, Fatin's and Fatima's jaws dropped. They exchanged a glance. Fatima had gone very pale. Fatin
stared at Wadjda in disbelief. Wadjda kept her eyes pinned to the floor, avoiding their gaze.

“I see,” Ms. Hussa said. “So we may never know if your biggest crime was just ‘painting your toenails,' as you'd claimed earlier today.” She paused, smirking. “A stupid lie. You didn't have any nail polish.”

The words hit Wadjda like a slap. The principal didn't notice. Flashing a satisfied smile, she said, “Wadjda, thank you very much. You may return to class.” A beat, and then she picked up the folder from her desk. “Please give this to my secretary,” she said, staring intently at Wadjda. “And close the door behind you.”

With trembling hands, Wadjda took the folder. She clenched it tight, sure her damp palms would leave smudgy fingerprints on the pristine paper.

Fatin and Fatima moved out of the way, clearing a path for her exit. Wadjda had never realized how much they towered over her. They were so tall! Like two stern-faced statues, glaring down at her tiny figure as it passed between them.

• • •

In the loneliness of the corridor, Wadjda stood motionless, trying to catch her breath. The folder in her hands felt heavy, like it was full of lead weights. She opened it slightly, just enough to see the top sheet of paper inside: “Competition Questions.”

The principal's words echoed in her mind:
I believe you may be able to win this competition.

Wadjda flipped the front cover all the way back. She was about to start reading when the conversation in Ms. Hussa's office got louder.

“It's only a few words,” Ms. Hussa was saying. “Sign it, and we'll forget this ugly mess.”

“No!” Fatin shot back. She sounded like she was almost in tears. “It's a lie! We weren't touching each other!”

The cool wall rose to meet Wadjda's back. She slumped against it, staring up at the ceiling. Though she'd escaped Ms. Hussa's office, she still couldn't breathe. Now her throat was choked with tears.

The bell rang. The noise of chattering girls and slamming doors began to fill the hallway. Wadjda looked down at the folder, then back toward the principal's office. With the clamor that had sprung up, she could no longer hear the argument inside. But it didn't matter. Her mind was made up.

Before she could think better of it, Wadjda slapped the folder shut, dragged herself to Ms. Jamila's desk, and dropped the folder into her in-box.

If I win, I'm doing it my way
, she thought, and walked away without looking back.