The Green Bicycle (21 page)

W
hile the other girls in Religion Club crowded around Salma, giggling and chattering like a flock of noisy pigeons, Wadjda sat off to the side, working. Her knees were drawn to her chest, her notebook perched atop them. Her energy was laser-focused. She was trying to memorize the verses they'd just been assigned, fighting fiercely to hold the jumble of words in her mind.

It wasn't easy. Salma was passing around a stack of photos. The girls laughed and reached for them, knocking one another's hands out of the way in their eagerness.

“Let me see! Let me see!” Noura snatched two of the pictures from the girl to her left. As she examined them, she gasped, covering her face in mock astonishment.

Ms. Noof came in then, clumping heavily along on the worn floorboards. Spotting her, Wadjda pulled herself even farther away from the group of girls. The other students didn't notice. They continued snapping up the photos hungrily, like a bunch of street cats fighting over pieces of food. Oblivious to her teacher's presence, Noura held up a picture.

“Is this your father?” she asked.

“That's Khalid, my husband!” Salma shot back, clearly offended.

“He looks like your grandfather.” Noura laughed. “But I guess that's the best your family could do!”

All of the girls except Wadjda joined in, giggling madly. Salma snatched the photo back, humiliated, and held it to her chest.

Ms. Noof cleared her throat with a loud
harrumph
. “What's going on in here?” she asked, giving her students a tired glare.

The girls fell silent.

“I told them they couldn't have pictures at school,” Wadjda offered, looking pointedly at Noura.

“No, you didn't!” Noura snapped back. Putting on her best fake-nice face, she turned to the teacher and pointed at the stack of photographs in Salma's hand. “Ms. Noof, Salma just got married. Look, she brought pictures!”

“Let me see,” the teacher said, suddenly interested. Snatching the photos, she looked them over curiously. “Who's this, your mother? And is this your husband?”

As they talked, Wadjda's eyes drifted to the hallway—and she flinched back, startled. Fatin and Fatima were passing by, followed by two women who had to be their mothers. They were dressed in full
abayahs
, their heads turned away,
so Wadjda couldn't make out their individual features. But the way they hovered close, looming over their daughters, made her sure they were related.

Then they turned their heads, bringing their faces into view. Wadjda's heart sank. Both women looked furious and scared. Their daughters had been charged with a devastating crime, and the knowledge had left their mothers frozen with fear. At that moment, Fatin was trying to explain something, but her mother silenced her with a glare.

Fatima, who was closest to the classroom, saw Wadjda watching sympathetically. But she didn't smile or nod. She just turned her head away, eyes bitter. Wadjda looked down at the floor, feeling shame rise up in her body, burning her cheeks red.

Behind her, the conversation had dwindled.

“Okay, put these away,” Ms. Noof said, handing the photos back to Salma. “Wadjda's right. You're not allowed to show pictures at school.”

Another blush heated Wadjda's cheeks at the reminder of this new, smaller lie.

“Let's get started,” the teacher continued. “Myriam, read from page thirteen.”

“I need a Kleenex,” the girl whispered. Sighing in exasperation, Ms. Noof waved her off and looked for a more suitable candidate.

“Read, Wadjda,” she ordered. “
An-Nisa',
the third verse.”

Wadjda lifted her head and closed her Quran. “I'll do it without looking.”

Her serious tone showed she meant business. Ms. Noof blinked, genuinely surprised, but gestured for her to begin.

Showtime
. Wadjda recited as fast as she could, the words leaving her mouth so quickly that she could barely catch her breath.

“And if you fear that you shall not be able to deal justly with the orphan girls, then marry women of your choice, two or three or four, but if you fear that you shall not be able to deal justly, then only one or that your right hands possess.”

When she finished, she sucked in a deep gulp of air and sighed in satisfaction. She'd gotten every single word right.

“Very nice, Wadjda,” her teacher said curtly. “You remembered it all. But you have to recite! You can't just go,
badababdababdaba
! These are sacred words.”

She looked around the room for another candidate, and fixed on Salma.

“How about our young bride? Let's hear that voice. Listen closely to her, Wadjda. You'll have to recite like
this
if you want to win.”

“And if you fear that you shall not be able to deal justly
with the orphan girls, then marry women of your choice, two or three or four . . .” Salma recited reverently. Each word trembled on her tongue for a tantalizing moment before tripping out delicately into the world. Frustrated, Wadjda looked back at the empty hallway.

Fatin and Fatima had vanished. Salma's voice echoed through the room, but all Wadjda could think about was where they'd gone—and whether she could have stopped it.

C
link! Smash! Clang!
On the way home from school, Wadjda threw her rock at anything that dared cross her path. Every bottle was a target, every street sign a bull's-eye. Her anger and exasperation powered each throw, sent her rock hurtling straight and true.

At last, she found herself near the toy shop. But she was almost afraid to look. Would the green bicycle still be there? What would she do if it were gone? One tentative step forward, then another, and Wadjda drew her eyes up from the ground like a prisoner facing her executioner.

But the bicycle was there! A surge of energy flowed into her weary bones when she saw it in front of the shop, glimmering in the afternoon sun. For a few seconds, she reveled in her relief.

Then rage hit her. How dare the owner even consider selling it? It was
hers
! She marched into the shop, ready to tell him exactly what she thought about the whole ordeal.

“So who were you talking to about my bicycle?” she said, hands on her hips. “The other day? Outside? You know I saw you!”

“I don't. I don't even know what you're talking about,” the owner sputtered, unsure why he was even engaging in such a ridiculous argument—or why he sounded so defensive.

“You know
exactly
what I'm talking about.” Wadjda shifted her weight, planting each foot against the floor like a mighty warrior. “I don't want you showing my bicycle to anyone else.”

The shopkeeper shook his head, as if he couldn't believe the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Undaunted, Wadjda reached into her pocket and pulled out a cassette tape.

“Here,” she said, and held out her peace offering. “I made you a tape. It's a mix, actually. A bunch of songs to introduce you to the modern world.”

Her eyes went pointedly to his scratchy record player. The shopkeeper took the tape from her, eyebrows arched practically to his
ghutra
. Clucking his tongue, he looked down at the weird song titles scrawled across the cover.

“Thank you for your generosity,” he said skeptically.

Wadjda smiled and pointed at the bicycle once more, as if to emphasize the point of their discussion. The owner laughed, tossed the tape on the counter behind him, and went back to reviewing his receipts.

• • •

Before Wadjda had even turned the corner to her street, she could see the election tent for Abdullah's uncle. It
towered above the rooftops of the neighboring houses and filled the huge empty lot across from their front door. The lights that Abdullah had strung reflected the late afternoon sun. Guest workers bustled about, putting up poles and laying down red carpet. A big space near the center had been cleared of debris and filled with tables, lined up from end to end. That would be the eating area, Wadjda knew, where whole grilled lambs would rest atop massive plates of rice.

Nearby was a big plasma-screen TV and a projector. Chairs had been arranged in a half circle in front. On all sides, the strings of lights flowed down beautifully, making a triangular shape around the top of the building. Beneath them, Abdullah was busy encircling the area with a long piece of fabric, like a billowing cloth fence. As he unspooled the banner and wove it meticulously around a series of stakes, Wadjda saw his uncle's name emblazoned on the cloth in huge letters.

No big deal, right?
Lifting her chin and staring straight ahead, Wadjda marched forward like she didn't see Abdullah—and wouldn't have cared if she had. Even when she walked right by him, she didn't say anything.

Sweating and tired, Abdullah leaned the cloth against a stake and yelled after her.

“What,
you're
the one who's upset now? Your mother almost broke my neck pushing me down the stairs!”

“My mother doesn't want me talking to you anymore,” Wadjda called primly. “Besides, I have to study.”

Giving her
abayah
a toss, she continued walking toward her house. Hiding a grin, Abdullah grabbed the helmet he'd hung from his handlebars and ran after her.

“Since when do you listen to your mother?” he panted. “Oh, and here—I got you this.” He tossed it casually, like it barely mattered. Like he hadn't put it right on the front of his bike, to be sure Wadjda saw it.

“It's a bicycle helmet,” he added. “Like the ones kids wear on TV.”

With a gasp of pleasure, Wadjda caught the helmet in her outstretched hands. Her whole face lit up. Abdullah couldn't hide his pleasure at seeing his gift's effect.

“Do you want to ride in the empty lot behind the tent?” he asked. “We have a few minutes before people come.”

Wadjda nodded in excitement and followed him around the giant white pavilion, strapping the helmet to her head atop her veil. Then, her
abayah
flowing behind her like a true superhero's cape, she rode in circles through the empty lot. Every so often she'd laugh happily, tossing her head back, letting the sound roll out into the world.
Smiling to himself, Abdullah perched on a cinder block, watching her circle around and around.

“Watch this!” she called excitedly.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hands off the handlebars, pedaling steadily to keep herself balanced, and waved triumphant circles in the air. Abdullah nodded in approval. “That's it!” he called.

The bicycle wavered, and Wadjda lowered her hands. But the experiment gave her confidence. She kept riding, letting go for longer and longer periods of time. Now she stretched her arms out to either side, making her
abayah
flow like wings.

Her joy forced words to Abdullah's lips that he'd meant to keep silent.

“The toy shop owner told Khalid and his father that the bicycle was already reserved,” he yelled.

Wadjda's reaction wasn't at all what he'd expected. She hit the brakes hard, planted her feet on the ground, and smiled triumphantly.

“Yes!” she shouted. “He must be holding it for me. I knew it!” She pumped her fist in the air with glee.

Across the street, curious passersby stopped, dumbfounded, staring at this strange girl, standing astride a bicycle in a dirty lot, shouting at the top of her lungs. Abdullah squirmed and ducked his head, feeling more
nervous with each passing car full of onlookers. But Wadjda ignored them. She knew that she was one step closer to her dream
.

Pushing off again, she rode in larger circles, moving more confidently, enjoying the protection of the helmet and the rush of open air.

This will be even better on my bicycle
, she thought.

L
ater that night, slumped in front of her video game in Father's
majlis
, Wadjda still wore her helmet. New resolve lit her eyes, and she depressed the buttons on the controller with steady hands. So far she'd gotten every question right.

“What is
Al Mahrab
?” the robotic voice of the game asked.

“Oh, I know that one,” Wadjda said confidently, and hit the button.

“Correct!” the voice cheered.
Even the robot announcer is tired of giving me a hard time
, Wadjda thought, smirking.

“Finally!” She threw herself back on the couch, raising her arms over her head in the universal sign for “Victory!” On the screen, her score flashed. A hundred percent! Happy music played over the hi-tech speakers.

Still smiling, Wadjda looked at the family tree—and the smile fell from her face. Her name had been taken off. The scrap of paper lay crumpled on the table to the side. She picked it up, turning it over slowly in her hands.

That was when she heard her mother, on the phone in the other room, yelling.

“If you won't listen to me, I don't know why I should listen to you!”

Wadjda jumped to her feet and ran to the doorway. As she watched, her mother slammed the phone hard onto the nightstand, tugged on her
abayah,
and started pulling her
niqab
over her face. Seeing her daughter peeping around the door, she yelled, “Get ready, Wadjda. We're going out!”

Quickly, Wadjda took off the bicycle helmet—she'd gotten lucky. Her mother was too preoccupied to notice. Moving as fast as she could, she sprinted to her room to get her
abayah
. Her mother had already left, hurtling through the front door like a human cyclone. Wadjda had to run to keep up.

No one spoke as they hurried down the street. The experience was impossibly strange, and Wadjda was starting to worry. Mother never walked anywhere. Where in the world were they going? And why was she so angry?

A passing car slowed to a crawl beside them. Wadjda skittered back from the edge of the sidewalk, tucking her body into her mother's side.

The driver of the car lowered his window and began talking to her mother in a slimy voice. All Wadjda could make out was the word, “
Helwa
,
helwa
,” which he hissed over and over. Though Wadjda thought her mother was the
most beautiful woman in the world, it sounded awful when this man said it. She looked up nervously, trying to read her mother's face. Mother was ignoring the man, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Still, she walked faster and faster—and then crossed to the other side of the street. Wadjda did the same, struggling to match her mother's fast pace.

No matter what they did, the guy wouldn't give up. Through the window, Wadjda saw his beady eyes fixed on her mother's cloaked form. When they switched sidewalks, he switched lanes, rolling the car along at a snail's pace right beside them.

Finally, her mother had enough. With shaking hands, she picked up a big chunk of rock and hefted it threateningly. She shouted as loud as she could, projecting her delicate voice into the street.

“If you don't leave us alone, I'll smash your headlights in!”

Her whole body was trembling now, but there was no doubt she was serious.

Despite her anger, the guy in the car started to laugh. He tossed a piece of paper out the window. It landed at Wadjda's feet, and she saw a phone number written on it. Pressing down on the gas, he sped away, shouting, “Call me if you change your mind!”

Wadjda and her mother walked on in silence. Her mother moved more slowly, though. The fire that had
possessed her and driven her out of the house seemed to be smothered, dying. With the loss of momentum, their pace dragged. Soon Wadjda was able to walk easily next to her mother. The new speed didn't make her feel better, though. If only she knew what was wrong!

After another few minutes, they reached their destination. Wadjda's eyes widened. They were at the hospital, the one just down the block! Her mind raced as she followed her mother through the automatic doors. What if someone was sick? Who could it be?

But then she remembered the conversation with Leila on the stoop. Had her mother listened? Maybe she was going to apply for a job! By the time they reached the lobby, Wadjda had started to get excited.

At her side, though, Mother looked nervous. She stood, shifting from foot to foot and drumming her fingers as she scanned the partitions and desks for a familiar face.

There! Leila was at the far end of the room, wearing a lab coat and sorting big binders of files on a shelf. To both Wadjda and her mother's shock, Leila wore only a
hijab.
Her face, even some of her hair, was revealed.

As they watched, a male doctor set a cup of coffee on the counter next to Leila. Wadjda felt her mother tense up. But there was no cause for alarm. Leila and the doctor were chatting, laughing and joking, even!

“Are you going to work here with Leila?” Wadjda whispered, tugging at her mother's
abayah
. “Those lab coats are cool, like the ones in
The Matrix
, only white!”

“Shh!” her mother snapped. “I . . . I just want to give her something, that's all.”

But Leila had heard Wadjda's voice. She spotted them across the room, smiled, and waved excitedly.

“Hey! You came. Wonderful.” Once more, Wadjda found herself thinking how young Leila looked, how happy. “Wait one sec. Let me get the application.”

“Leila, what happened?” Mother whispered, “Why are you showing your face?”

Leila smiled confidently, waving off the remark without comment. She went behind the desk and began shuffling through a file cabinet, searching for a job application. A minute later, the male doctor returned and started organizing his own set of files—on the table right in front of Wadjda and her mother. At first he was distracted by his work, but then he noticed the duo and smiled politely at them.

“How are you?” he asked Mother. She turned her head away without answering and tucked her hands into her
abayah
.

Undeterred, Wadjda looked at the man casually and said, “Hello.”

The doctor smiled at her, grabbed a set of X-rays, and
went on his way. Mother, overcome by the whole situation and growing more uncomfortable with each passing moment, leaned over the counter, waving her hands furtively to get Leila's attention.

“Leila, dear, don't worry,” she whispered. “I'm not here for an application. We were just passing by, and I thought . . . I thought we'd say hello.”

Leila's eyes darted to Wadjda's face, and Wadjda scrambled to cover her surprise at her mother's lie.

“We'll leave you now to work,” Mother said hurriedly. “You seem so busy.”

“It's a good job, and the places are filling up quickly,” Leila said. Wadjda almost winced at the sympathy in her voice. “You should—”

“It's good to see you, Leila,” Mother interrupted. “I'll call you later.”

With that, she took Wadjda's hand and led her toward the door. Wadjda looked back at Leila wistfully, then turned to gaze at her mother. In spite of herself, she tugged on her sleeve and whispered, “I thought you were going to—”

“Enough!” Mother said, and quickened her pace out the door and away from the hospital.