The Green Bicycle (23 page)

S
ide by side, Wadjda and her mother leaned over the barrier wall. Amid the shadows of early evening, the lights made their faces glow, and Wadjda couldn't help thinking how much they looked alike. Dusk softened and rounded her face. It made her eyes look bigger and cast defining shadows under her cheekbones. In this moment, with her arm pressed close to her mother's, no one could doubt that they were related.

Groups of men gathered below, laughing and talking. A light breeze brushed gently through Wadjda's hair, and she shot her mother a look of excitement. The life of their street was in full bloom, and they had front-row seats to the show. In truth, no one really cared who won the election or what the municipal council did. But energy filled the air nonetheless.
Some of it is the novelty of the thing,
Wadjda thought. On their sleepy street, it was nice to see people getting together, to watch the bodies in the crowd mill about and hear the hum of their talk.

Most of all, Wadjda was happy to share this fleeting
moment with her mother. As she watched, Mother brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face and smiled down at the crowded street. They could see Abdullah's bearded uncle, throwing his arms out wide to greet the men as they arrived. Abdullah was there, too, standing at the end of the long reception line, dressed formally in his best
thobe
and
ghutra
. In spite of herself, Wadjda blinked. He looked so handsome! Like a pop star or a soccer player, but better, because he was Abdullah.

Grinning, Wadjda did another scan of the crowd and spotted her father. He was dressed in his best
thobe
, too, and laughing with another man. Nudging her elbow against her mother's, she pointed eagerly.

“Look!” she whispered. “Father's there. Do you see?”

Her mother's eyes widened, and she searched almost impatiently, squinting into the crowd. “Where? I don't—”

Wadjda pointed again. “Right there!”

“Oh! Yes,” Mother's face lit up as brightly as the lights shining over the party. “Look how handsome he is!”

From the corner of her eye, Wadjda watched her mother watch her father. She seemed consumed by the sight of him. Since Wadjda had pointed him out, her mother hadn't looked away, not even for a second. Perhaps it was the power of their secret perch on the roof. Here, hidden
from the eyes of the men below, her mother was free to watch her husband's every move.

Wadjda was certainly enjoying herself. Once she'd made sure her mother was distracted, she bent, scooped up a pebble, and tossed it toward Abdullah. It bounced dangerously close to his feet. Out of instinct, he flinched away, darting his eyes in every direction to find the culprit.

When he looked up and saw Wadjda, without veil or head covering, her face glowing golden under the lights he'd strung, Abdullah smiled without even thinking about it. As an afterthought, he fixed his
ghutra
, throwing its ends onto his shoulders and spreading out the cloth to show how well dressed and important he was.

Seeing him so proud of his formal clothes made Wadjda giggle. She smiled back teasingly, and then reached up and rubbed at her cheek in an exaggerated motion. The gesture was clear:
You've got something on your face.

Abdullah paled with embarrassment. His hand shot to his cheek, scrubbing as hard as he could. It was a brilliant trick, but Wadjda couldn't keep a straight face for one second longer. She started to laugh hysterically, waving a mocking finger at Abdullah and mouthing,
Got you!

A throat cleared to her left. Wadjda looked over to meet her mother's glare. Chastened, she dropped her hand.

And just in time! Down on the ground, the portly bearded man standing next to Abdullah had looked up to see what all the fuss was about. Wadjda and her mother ducked behind the wall, laughing softly, united again by the daring of being out in public unveiled.

When their giggles died away, Wadjda's mother lay back on the roof. Folding her hands on her stomach, she stared up at the stars, twinkling in the clear night sky. Somehow, they outshone all of Riyadh's light pollution.

Again, Wadjda found herself watching her mother. She was still smiling, but now she seemed to be thinking about something far away. Carefully, Wadjda lay down at her side. She could feel her mother's warm arm brush hers. It was peaceful, being here together.

“So, do you love him?”

“Who?” her mother asked shyly, “Your father?”

“No, the neighbor's boy!” Wadjda replied, teasing.

“I don't think
I'm
the one in love with the neighbor's boy,” her mother retorted.

Wadjda reddened and tried to laugh the comment off without answering. Her mother laughed, too. To get a better look, Wadjda flipped onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow and resting her head on her palm.

“You didn't answer!” If she was going to get teased, she wasn't letting her mother off the hook, either.

Mother sighed, and reached out almost instinctively to run her hands through Wadjda's hair. She smoothed out the knots and tangles with gentle strokes, until each strand slipped freely through her fingers.

“I was in high school when he asked for my hand,” she said. “All the girls were so jealous when they saw his picture! He was the first man in my life, and probably the last. And he's a lot of fun, I have to admit.”

The words were kind, but there was something bitter in them, too, like an aftertaste of resentment. The look in her eyes, however, left no room for doubt. Wadjda's mother still loved Wadjda's father deeply.

“You're so much prettier than any other women I've ever seen,” Wadjda said. “In your red dress, you'll give Father a heart attack.”

“No,” her mother sighed. She sounded defeated. “He won't see it. He'll be busy in the men's section. But, Wadjda, the man I know . . . He talks big. Of course he does. But he'd never break my heart with another wife. I swear, I don't know who fills his head with this nonsense.”

She sat up, eager to change the subject.

“Enough. Let's practice one more time for your competition tomorrow.”

Obediently, Wadjda sat and folded her legs beneath her. In that moment, with the soft air brushing her face and
the stars bright pinpricks overhead, she was willing to do anything to cheer up her mother.

“Oh, and don't tell anyone about your crazy bicycle scheme,” her mother said warningly. “They'll never let you win if they know what you're up to. Now: recite.”

Wadjda let her voice flow out of her like a song, felt it carry across the open air of the rooftop and out into the night.

“And of His Signs is that He creates for you mates out of yourselves, so that you may find tranquility in them; and He has put love and mercy between you.”

“. . . Mercy between you . . .” her mother rolled the words around on her tongue in a way that made Wadjda think of sipping morning coffee: warm and sweet.

“. . . Mercy between you,” Wadjda imitated.

“Let it come from your heart,” her mother said. “Forget everyone around you.”

Gently, she clasped Wadjda's hand in hers and placed their joined palms, fingers interlaced, over her own heart. Words spilled from her mouth, full of a sincerity and passion Wadjda had never seen before. A passion her mother had, up until that point, kept locked inside.

Her voice echoed across the empty roof. Above their heads, the election lights swayed gently in the breeze. Beneath her fingers, Wadjda felt her mother's heartbeat.

W
adjda was asleep when her mother came in to say good-bye. She opened her eyes, blinking woozily in the darkness, surprised to see her mother already dressed in her
abayah
and ready to leave for work.

Then she remembered that her mother was going in extra early to open up the school. Wadjda rolled over, frowning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. They'd have hardly any time to chat—and on such an important day! It wasn't fair.

As if thinking the same thing, her mother sat on the edge of the bed and began to caress Wadjda's hair. Wadjda leaned into her side, pressing her head against her mother's shoulder.

“Now, you've got a big day today,” her mother whispered. “So when you go up on the stage, I want you to say this: God inspire me, make things easier for me, and untie my tongue so I may speak fluently.”

Wadjda mouthed the words, struggling to remember them. She was still half asleep, and her voice sounded rough and scratchy. “God inspire me, make things easier for me . . .” She paused, forgetting the rest.

“Good,” her mother whispered. Shifting away, she began to fix her veil into place. “I'm sorry to leave so early, Wadjda. I wish I weren't the teacher on duty.” She shook her head, as if banishing the thought. “But remember now: Untie my tongue . . .”

Wadjda yawned and ran a hand through her messy hair. “Untie my tongue,” she mumbled.

“. . . So I may speak fluently,” her mother prompted.

A car horn honked outside. They both looked instinctively at the door, but Wadjda's mother stayed where she was, smiling down at her daughter. Wadjda brushed her fingertips across the beads on her mother's
abayah
. She wished she could take a fistful of the cloth and hold it in her hands, that she could keep her mother here, by her side.

“. . . So I may speak fluently,” she finished, voice barely above a whisper.

Her mother bent, kissed her forehead, and stood to leave.

“I want so badly to come today,” she said again. “But you know the drill: Iqbal, the other ladies, the commute.” Sighing, she lifted her
niqab
up over her mouth and nose. Her eyes, still visible, shone with pride.

“I know you'll nail it!” she said fiercely. Then she slipped out into the hallway, her form a black shadow in the
dimness. It seemed to stretch across the wall for a long time before it disappeared.

Wadjda watched her go, then sighed and fell back into bed. As an afterthought, she reached over and touched her father's prayer beads. Her mother had put them on the nightstand last night.

Impulsively, Wadjda gathered them up and held them close, tight in her hands, pretending her parents were there at her side.

• • •

On the way to school, she walked as fast as she could, skirting cracks in the concrete, avoiding piles of trash, trying all the while not to think about her mother hurtling down the long, dangerous road to work in Iqbal's battered vehicle. This was not the time. Today of all days, she needed to concentrate.

Lifting a note card, Wadjda began to whisper the
tajweed
written there. It was a pronunciation rule that would help her get the Quranic terms exactly right. As much as she'd practiced, Wadjda knew in her heart that there was room for improvement.

Remember to sing it, she told herself, and breathed the words out into the air.

“
Man yajaala, Mayyjaal, edgham beghunah
.”

Triumphant, she pitched her father's rock at a bottle, glistening dully on the curb.
PING!
A perfect shot. The bottle spun like a top and tipped onto the ground. Wadjda smiled, scooped up her rock, and continued on to school, lifting another note card from her massive stack.

As she disappeared into the chaotic traffic of the early morning commute, her lips kept moving, the unvoiced words beating out a silent rhythm in time with her footsteps.

S
o much has changed,
Wadjda thought, surveying the room from her perch on the competition stage.
I've changed.

Her eyes dropped to her sneakers. The black ink was starting to wear off on the toes, showing a flash of the white rubber beneath.

Well, sort of
, Wadjda thought, and tried not to smile.

She was standing on the same stage where her class had stood five weeks ago, practicing the battle hymn. This time, though, Ms. Hussa stood in judgment, arms crossed, skeptically examining the nervous contestant at the lip of the stage.

As Wadjda watched, Ms. Hussa raised her eyebrows pointedly. Her patience had run out. She was ready for an answer.

A sign above the stage read Q
URAN
R
ECITATION
C
OMPETITION
, in giant letters. Beneath it sat nine girls, including Wadjda—all that remained of the thirty or so who had originally gathered to compete. It was time for the final questions of the first round. Wadjda's palms were
sweating. She kept wiping them against the sides of her uniform skirt, but it didn't really help.

She and the other eight girls sat in chairs along the back of the stage. Three teachers, Ms. Jamila, Ms. Noof, and Ms. Hussa, occupied a table to the side, perpendicular to the contestants. Ms. Jamila and Ms. Noof leaned forward eagerly. Ms. Hussa stood in front of the table, holding a portable microphone, acting as MC and head judge.

The entire school had packed into the auditorium for the competition. It was a mandatory event, though. Most of them probably wouldn't have chosen to come. Many girls looked bored, happy to be out of class but disinterested in the events onstage. Girls exchanged whispers whenever a teacher turned her head.

In front of her, Ms. Hussa gestured impatiently with the microphone.

“Um, benevolence?” the girl she was questioning offered. From the rising intonation at the end, everyone could tell it was a guess—and not a good one.

“Wrong,” Ms. Hussa said authoritatively. “Thank you. Please take your seat.”

Wadjda would have been devastated by this dismissal, polite as it was, but the girl seemed relieved to be off the stage. She fled down the small set of steps as fast as possible and slumped into a row with her classmates in the audience.

“Next,” Ms. Hussa called, waving the following contestant to the front. It was Noura, who seemed confident and at ease, even with the eyes of the entire school on her. She straightened her uniform and walked with her head held high, hands clasped demurely behind her back.

Meanwhile, Wadjda was trying to hide what felt like an expression of total panic. Between her fingers was the cool disc of her father's stone. She rubbed it around and around, making circles against her palm. Its firm weight would give her the courage to stay the course, she told herself. It had to.

“What is the meaning of
sadakatouhen
?” Ms. Hussa asked, repeating the question that had eliminated the last girl.

“Giving a dowry,” Noura said. She sounded fairly confident that she was right.

“Correct.” Ms. Hussa gestured Noura to the back before she could bask in the glory of the moment. There was no clapping for her correct answer—clapping was considered a pagan habit, and strictly forbidden at school events. As a girl, Wadjda had been taught that heathen Arabs used to clap as they went around the Kaaba, the black cube-shaped building in the center of Al-Masjid al-Haram, the great mosque in Mecca. This, Wadjda learned, dishonored the most sacred part of Islam's most sacred mosque.
Muslims had to do the opposite of the pagans. Hence, no clapping.

Of course, if they saw something they really liked, Muslims could chant “
Allahu Akbar
,” instead. But no one in the audience today was anywhere near enthusiastic enough for that.
It'd take more than getting a few questions right,
Wadjda thought, shivering again as she looked out at the great sea of faces.

Ms. Hussa had called Salma forward. “What is
Al-Furqan
?” she demanded.

Salma looked less comfortable than Noura, but still Wadjda felt she was the contestant to beat. Noura was all flash and no substance. Salma had a deep well of knowledge. Now she bent over the standing microphone and looked at Ms. Hussa, not the crowd. “The Quran?” she said quietly.

“Correct!” Ms. Hussa declared. She was clearly rooting for Salma to move on in the competition.

Back in her seat, Wadjda was trying to keep her foot from jittering. It was going up and down like someone working the pedal on a sewing machine. Firmly, she put her hands on her knees, hoping to keep both feet on the floor.

“Next,” Ms. Hussa called out. “Wadjda.”

Her lucky black stone seemed to slip and slide in her hands. Wadjda swallowed hard and stood, readying
herself for the long walk to the front. As she neared the microphone, she grew ever more uneasy. The hugeness of what she was trying to do rose up before her. It was like her task was a giant wall, and she was a car, headed for it at top speed, sure to crash. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it thumping in her throat. Was her forehead glowing from the sweat on her brow?

Then she was at the microphone, and it was time.

“What does
da'ab
mean?” Ms. Hussa's voice echoed through the auditorium.

For the space of a breath, Wadjda stood silently. Ms. Noof and Ms. Jamila exchanged a glance, as if to say that they'd both known this would be the point at which Wadjda would stumble.

“Habit?” Wadjda blurted. Her thumb instinctively sought a button to press, just like when she played her video game.

“Correct,” Ms. Hussa said, not doing a very good job hiding her shock. “Next contestant.”

The next girl approached the front of the stage. Wadjda sat numbly, mind whirling.
I got it right? I got it right!

The blood rushed out of her face. Air returned to her lungs.
I can do this
, Wadjda thought,
if I stay focused
. For weeks, everything she'd done had been leading up to this competition. If she could keep it together a little longer . . .

“What's the meaning of
zaygh
?” Ms. Hussa asked the next girl.

“Weakness?”

“Correct,” Ms. Hussa said. “Next.”

The girl returned to her seat, smiling. Yasmeen walked to the front.

“What is
Hawban Kabiran
?”

Yasmeen took a moment to think. A minute passed. Another. Her eyes swept the crowd desperately, as if the answer might be written on her classmates' faces. At last, she shook her head in resignation and looked up at Ms. Hussa. Her eyes told the principal that she didn't know the answer.

“I'm sorry, Yasmeen,” Ms. Hussa said. “Back to your seat. Next. What is
Hawban Kabiran
?”

A skinny girl Wadjda didn't know shifted uncomfortably before the microphone. It was clear that she, too, had no idea. Grasping at straws, she blurted, “Something . . . big?”

Almost as one, the audience burst into laughter. At the judges' table, even Ms. Noof had to suppress a smile.
Wrong, but not a terrible guess,
Wadjda thought. As she'd learned from her game's endless vocab drills, the word
kabiran
meant “great.”

“Wrong,” Ms. Hussa said. “Back to your seat, please.”

She surveyed the dwindling number of contestants, clumped in their chairs at the back of the stage. “Next. What is
Hawban Kabiran
?”

With quick footsteps, Noura walked to the front and leaned over the microphone. “Great injustice,” she said confidently and waited, smiling smugly.

“Correct!” Ms. Hussa declared.

And then there were six
, Wadjda thought, looking at the three empty chairs.