The Green Bicycle (24 page)

W
adjda could hardly believe she was onstage with the finalists. That she
was
a finalist. Yet, somehow, she'd survived the first round—and the second. Only three girls remained, and Wadjda would be the last to read.

Her nerves had given way to a feeling of surreal distance. It was as if she were an impartial observer, watching the action from somewhere far away. At such a long range, what was happening seemed completely inconsequential, a blink of the eye when you considered the grand scheme of things.

The sound of Noura's voice brought Wadjda back to earth.

“We are but peacemakers,” she recited, her voice confident but unremarkable. She sounded like one of Wadjda's practice audio recordings. “Now surely they themselves are the mischief makers, but they do not perceive.”

Ms. Hussa thanked her with a nod and motioned Salma forward. As they passed each other, Noura looked at Salma out of the corner of her eye, smirked, and gave her head the most imperceptible of shakes.
Don't even try
, she was saying.

If she'd wanted to shake Salma's confidence, it worked.
Wadjda could see Salma's legs tremble as she stood at the microphone. Behind her, Noura settled into her seat, crossed her ankles primly, and looked from Wadjda to Salma like a lion about to feast on two helpless gazelles.

“Please start with
Surat Al-Baqarah
,” Ms. Hussa said, “from the beginning.”

In accordance with recitation protocol, Salma sat and lowered her eyes to the floor. “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful.
Alif Lam Mim
,” she said. But her voice shook. She cast a glance toward the back of the stage, her eyes meeting Noura's cold ones. Noura blinked once, twice.
Like a snake
, Wadjda thought.

Salma tried to resume, but she was distracted now, and kept stuttering over her words.

“This Book, there is no doubt in it, is a guide to those who guard against evil. Those who believe in the unseen and keep up prayer and spend out of what we have given them.” Her eyes darted nervously around. “And who . . . And who . . .”

She stopped. Silence filled the auditorium.

“And who believe . . .” Ms. Noof prompted.

Though Salma was shaken, she tried to continue, squeezing her eyes shut and taking two or three deep breaths. When she resumed her recitation, however, her voice was still wavering.

“Who believe in that which has been revealed to you and that which was revealed before you and, uh . . .” she ground to a halt, looking helplessly at her teachers.

Ms. Hussa raised a hand.
Stop
.

“That's enough,” she said coldly. “Thank you, Salma. Let's continue.”

This was it. Wadjda slipped her hand into her pocket, gripping her father's stone. In her head, she recited the words her mother had whispered to her that morning:
God inspire me, make things easier for me, and untie my tongue so I may speak fluently.

Disgraced, Salma slipped past her and back into her chair at the rear of the stage. Wadjda stayed where she was, silent, awaiting further instruction.

“Wadjda,” Ms. Hussa said. “Please start with
Surat Al-Baqarah
.”

She floated to the front of the stage, feeling oddly weightless, as if her legs had vanished and she was drifting about on a gust of wind. Her brow was creased with uncertainty. When she reached the microphone, she sat, cross-legged, on the floor. The large room dwarfed her, made her feel impossibly small.

Breathe
, she told herself. The moment seemed to drag on endlessly: Wadjda, very small on the stage, fighting to make herself steady.

In the crowd, she saw Fatin and Fatima. They were looking right at her. Wadjda wanted to turn away in shame, but something in their sunken eyes and fallen faces gave her the confidence to keep her eyes lifted. She met their stares—

And she let her mouth open. She let the words rise up in her, let them be taken aloft by everything she'd held on to deep inside. From her heart, they poured forth. Words for her bicycle, for her mother and her long commute, for her father and his lonely branch on the family tree. For Abdullah, the way he was always there when she was most in need. For Fatin and Fatima, shrunken and lost. Words for them—and words for her. Words to push back everyone who thought she couldn't do it, to say to all the people waiting for her to falter and fail:
No.

At first, her voice was soft, but then it lifted, rising and falling in cadence with her words. Her recitation found its rhythm, and the beauty in her tone made the most skeptical girls in the back of the auditorium sit up. Wadjda's voice rang out, soaring above them up to the rafters, growing ever stronger and more intense.

“In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. There is a disease in their hearts,” she cried with almost desperate beauty. “So Allah added to their disease, and they shall have a painful chastisement because they lied.
And when it is said to them, do not make mischief in the land, they say: we are but peacemakers. Now surely they themselves are the mischief makers, but they do not perceive.”

That was the end. Wadjda stopped, blinked. She looked around for some indication as to whether or not she should continue.

The room was completely silent. No girls giggled or whispered. It seemed as if no one even moved. Instead, they stared at Wadjda, a wall of eyes looking up at her in astonishment.

She had done it. There was no doubt left in anyone, not anymore.

“Thank you,” Ms. Hussa said finally. “That was very good.”

T
he call to prayer reverberated from minarets across Riyadh, an echo of overlapping sound as chaotic as it was beautiful. The winner of the Quran Recitation Competition had yet to be announced. Prayer came first. All the chairs in the auditorium had been moved to the front, allowing the girls and teachers to gather in back.

Most of the students stood about, talking in whispers, retrieving their
abayahs
and wrapping them around their bodies. They had to be entirely covered for prayer. Ms. Hussa was in the first row, with the other contestants. A disgruntled Noura stood close by her side, a scowl darkening her pretty face.

Fatin and Fatima had placed themselves away from the group, in the middle of the mosque. They were isolated, a small island in a sea of worshippers. Wadjda spotted them and walked over without hesitation. Fixing her veil properly over her smiling face, she lined up at Fatin's side and unfurled her
abayah
, readying herself for prayer. The cloth rustled in the air as she shook it out. Fatin looked over at her and raised her eyebrows.

“Are you sure you want to stand next to us?” The look she gave Wadjda was full of disgust.

Fatima took Fatin's arm, as if holding her back from a fight, and looked coolly at Wadjda. “Congratulations,” she said.

Wadjda blinked, surprised to hear her speak.

“They haven't announced the winner yet,” she said.

“You won,” Fatin said simply. “And you're their favorite convert, so I'm sure they were all rooting for you anyway.”

The girls seemed so defeated. Their eyes were empty. Wadjda stared uncomfortably at the floor, unsure what to do.

When she looked up again, Ms. Hussa was searching the rows of girls. Most of them were kneeling now, ready to begin prayer. The principal's eyes landed on Wadjda, and she waved an imperious hand, summoning her.

“Wadjda!” she called. “Come now. We've saved you a spot, up here in the first row with the other contestants.”

Wadjda looked back at Fatin and Fatima. This time they looked away, adjusting their
abayahs
. Unsure what else to do, Wadjda dragged her feet up toward the first row of the half circle.

“Traitor,” she heard Fatin mutter under her breath.

Unenthusiastically, Wadjda took her place, kneeling beside Ms. Hussa. She felt cramped and uncomfortable,
like everyone was staring at her. It was worse than being onstage. The circle of prying eyes trapped her, held her in place.

As if reading her mind, Ms. Hussa grabbed the sleeve of Wadjda's
abayah
and pulled her nearer, so that she could whisper in her ear.

“Good Muslims have to line up close to one another so the devil”—she nodded her head toward Fatin and Fatima—“doesn't get in between them.”

With that, she placed her right foot atop Wadjda's left, the traditional posture for group prayer. Any open space between worshippers' bodies was forbidden, the imams taught. Those who prayed must form a solid wall, strong and impenetrable. It was unacceptable to let anyone enter into or break the line.

Ms. Hussa's stare seemed to beat against the side of her head, but still Wadjda avoided looking at the principal. The call for prayer rang out among them, in concert with the echoes from the minarets outside. It was time to begin.

From the middle of the front row, Ms. Hussa acted as
imama
and led the prayer, chanting “
Allahu Akbar
.” The girls repeated the phrase, speaking in one synchronized voice, their individual tones blending together into one.

A
nd still they didn't know the winner.
This is almost as bad
as waiting to buy my bicycle
, Wadjda thought, crossing and uncrossing her ankles impatiently. Though she knew she shouldn't be squirming around, she couldn't seem to stop her body's nervous movements.

Beside her, Noura waited patiently, chin lifted, face seemingly serene. But up close, Wadjda could see her fingers fidgeting against her seat. As much as she tried to hide it, she was nervous, too.

At the side of the stage, the judges discussed the results in low whispers. In the audience, the long rows of bored girls shifted and murmured. Despite the wait, there was no apparent hurry to make the announcement.

Finally, Ms. Hussa stood and walked to the back of the stage. She reached behind the blackboard for her microphone and clicked it on, sending out a screech of feedback. The principal was the only one in the auditorium who didn't wince. Striding to the front of the stage, she pivoted back and forth, taking her usual dramatic moment to scan the chattering girls below. Annoyed that they hadn't
snapped to attention at the mere sight of her, she spoke sharply into the microphone.

“Keep quiet!”

Her voice was like cold steel. Instantly, the girls silenced themselves and sat up properly in their chairs. A smile crossed Ms. Hussa's face, and then she began.

“With me onstage are the three finalists in the school-wide Quran Recitation Competition. Two of them will receive award certificates, but only the winner will be awarded the cash prize for first place.”

In a last attempt at intimidation, Noura looked over at Wadjda and narrowed her eyes, making her face mean and sly as a viper's. Wadjda kept her gaze steady and straight ahead. Whatever Noura did, it no longer mattered.

“The runner-up in this year's competition is . . . ” Ms. Hussa stopped, waiting for what felt like half an hour to continue. “Noura Al Markoon.”

To her shock, Wadjda felt a rush of heat behind her eyes. As the tears streamed down her cheeks, she realized she was crying. Crying from happiness. She covered her face, swiping at her cheeks, her expression the opposite of Noura's.

Compounding her surprise, Salma rushed over and threw her arms around Wadjda in an ecstatic hug. “You did it!” she whispered.

“Wadjda Al Safan, you are our champion,” Ms. Hussa said. An uncharacteristic smile spread across her face, too. “Congratulations!”

You did it.
Salma's words echoed in Wadjda's mind. Ms. Hussa's joined them:
Wadjda, you are our champion!
Was it possible? Yes. She had, and she was.

All those weeks reading and practicing, the hours spent listening to Quran radio and playing her game had paid off. The money she'd spent and the work she'd done were worth it.

Exhilarated, Wadjda thought of her green bicycle, gleaming in the sun. After her practices with Abdullah, she could practically feel the pedals spinning beneath her feet.

On unsteady legs, she rose and stumbled up to stand beside the principal. Her face beamed with happiness. Her hands were trembling, just a little.

When she reached Ms. Hussa's side, the principal addressed her, but kept her eyes on the crowd. It was like Wadjda was a prop for her big demonstration.

“You are in this spot, Wadjda, because of your devotion and perseverance. I hope all the girls here today learn from your example.”

Wadjda nodded a quick “thank you” as Ms. Hussa handed her the certificate. She read it over swiftly, eager to get off the stage and out of the school. The praise was nice.
The award looked cool. But neither one was the cash—or her bicycle.

“
Alf Mabruk bint Al Safan
,” Ms. Hussa said, using Wadjda's tribal name. She'd called her simply “the daughter of Al Saffon.” It was a massive compliment, meant to show that Wadjda had brought pride to her entire family.

I'll take that
, Wadjda thought, a grin stealing back across her face.

Standing there, certificate in hand, her name ringing out across the auditorium, she felt strong and big, taller than anyone else in the room. Even taller than Ms. Hussa, who towered high above her on her expensive high heels.

“Don't be shy! Tell us what your plans are for the prize money!”

The microphone was thrust into Wadjda's hand. She looked at it nervously, her eyes flicking toward Ms. Hussa. The principal nodded, smug and expectant.

Wadjda took a deep breath and scanned the audience. Her gaze slipped past Yasmeen, past the rest of the girls, too. She was searching for—

There
. Her eyes settled on Fatin and Fatima. Once again, they were looking up at her. Fatin still had an expression of contempt on her face, but in Fatima's small half smile there was something . . . a glimmer of pride. Maybe she was happy Wadjda had found an escape, had figured out
how to work a rigid, unfair system and come out on top. Or maybe she just wanted something to be happy about, some small source of comfort, and Wadjda's victory was that thing.

Their eyes held each other's for only a few seconds. It was long enough.

Ms. Hussa nodded impatiently toward the microphone. “Well, Wadjda? What will you do with your prize money?”

Wadjda brought the microphone to her lips, gathered her courage, and did what she had to do.

“I'm going to buy a bicycle from the shop down the road!” she announced, smiling mischievously at Ms. Hussa.

Giggles and laughter erupted from the audience.

“Wha—what?” Ms. Hussa stammered, dumbfounded.

Again, Wadjda looked at Fatin and Fatima. They weren't laughing, like the other girls, but they were smiling bigger smiles than she'd seen since their humiliation at the assembly.

“I'm buying a bicycle,” Wadjda repeated, adding matter-of-factly, “one with no training wheels, since I already know how to ride.”

Fatin and Fatima
were
laughing now, along with the rest of the crowd. Gales of mirth swept up and down the rows of students, filling the auditorium with sound.

“Now, Wadjda,” Ms. Hussa said, composing herself
and clearing her throat. “Wouldn't you rather donate the money to our fighting brothers in Palestine?”

Palestine.
The word hit Wadjda like a punch in the gut. From birth, she had been taught that this was the one cause you couldn't argue with, the one request you could not refuse. To invoke Palestine was to use a magic word that demanded obedience. All Saudi Muslims knew they had to support this cause without question. Had Ms. Hussa said “charity” or “the local mosque,” Wadjda might have had a chance.

Palestine? The money was already gone.

Sorrow twisted her heart. The words she wanted to say echoed in her mind:
No! It's my money. I earned it fair and square, by working as hard as I could. And now I'm going to use it to buy my bicycle!

But as much as she wanted to shout the words out proudly over the microphone, Wadjda knew she couldn't. The damage was done. By challenging Ms. Hussa's authority, she'd broken the biggest rule of all. There was nothing left to do but look steadily back at the principal and wait to see what came next.

Did she regret what she'd said?
No
, Wadjda thought. It
was
her money. And that meant she got to decide what to do with it.

Ms. Hussa stared down at her, eyes burning with rage.
Though she was furious, she kept her emotions tightly in check.

“A bicycle is not a toy for girls, Wadjda.” Each syllable was clipped and precise. “Especially good Muslim girls, who need to protect their honor.”

The words fell hard, tiny lead weights pelting down on Wadjda. The chortling of the crowd stopped abruptly, like someone had put them on pause. Ms. Hussa played on that silence, using it to hold Wadjda up onstage and prolong her misery.

“Besides, I'm sure your family won't allow it.” She raised her voice. “We will donate the money—in your name—to our brothers and sisters fighting in Palestine.”

A cry of outrage rose up in Wadjda's throat, and she silenced it only with great effort. She wanted to scream and shout and demand her money, but—

But she couldn't. There was no way. All she could do was stare at Ms. Hussa in disbelief.

The audience was doing the same. As one, they stared back at the principal, shock and anger in their eyes. A silent solidarity had risen up among them, a quiet rebellion that filled their hearts. For just a moment, they had come together in their internal rejection of Ms. Hussa's absolute power.

“You may step down now,” Ms. Hussa whispered to
Wadjda through gritted teeth. “And you may all return to your classes,” she announced to the crowd.

The microphone turned off with a decisive
click
.

Wadjda stayed rooted, not moving from her spot, unsure what to do. All her energy had been focused on slamming through the school gates,
abayah
flying out behind her, running straight to the toy shop, and buying the green bicycle.

None of that would happen now. Her prize money, all those Riyals, was going straight to Palestine. She'd never see it, never feel its weight in her hand, never count the bills into piles on her bed and see her fortune spread out before her.

Distraught, she turned to leave. A hand clamped down on her shoulder.

“I thought you'd changed,” Ms. Hussa whispered. “But no, you're still the same conniving little demon you always were. You think you can act however you want and people won't notice? You're wrong. This will haunt you forever.”

Infuriated, Wadjda whirled around, shaking off the principal's hand. “You mean like your handsome thief?”

Her voice was ringing and loud—her recitation voice. The crowd of girls close to the stage fell silent, as did a shocked and humiliated Ms. Hussa.

Without another word, Wadjda marched down the steps and joined the crowd of girls leaving the hall. Not once did she look back.