The Green Bicycle (25 page)

A
bdullah peered around the wall of the building just outside the front gate of the girls' school. Where was she? What was taking so long? This was getting risky—he'd been hanging around for almost fifteen minutes. At any second, someone could walk by. The humiliation of loitering so close to the girls' school was immense.

Slipping back around the corner, Abdullah reached up and fixed his
taqia
. No, now it was too far forward. He tugged it back. At his feet sat his backpack, which he'd thrown casually on the ground. Abdullah kicked at the dirt beside it, sending up spurts of dust. They coated his belongings in a fine layer of grit.

His
taqia
slipped back. He adjusted it again.

Finally Wadjda emerged, storming around the corner in a black whirl of fury. She rushed past Abdullah without even looking in his direction. Startled, he grabbed his bag and bike and ran after her. Her aloofness baffled him. What could she be so angry about? Had she lost?

“What's wrong? Didn't you win?” he asked. “Where's the money?”

“In Palestine!” Wadjda shot back bitterly, never breaking stride.

Abdullah froze in disbelief for a few seconds before he caught himself. Again, he sprinted after her. Despite her rage, he could see that Wadjda was heartbroken. Her eyes were red, like she'd been crying, and her lips turned down at the corners.

Abdullah raced ahead and stopped right in front of her.

“What're you talking about?” he asked confrontationally. Maybe a little grumpiness of his own would snap Wadjda out of her funk. “Don't you have another plan? You always have a plan.”

It didn't work. She pushed around him and ran off, leaving him alone in the street, his backpack hanging loosely from his hand, his bicycle propped at his side.

• • •

By the time they got to Wadjda's neighborhood, they were walking together. Wadjda scuffled sadly along, so defeated that she could hardly lift her feet from the ground. The only sound was the rhythmic clicking of the wheels as Abdullah pushed his bicycle along.

“I'll give you my bike,” he offered suddenly. It was a big sacrifice. But at this point, he was willing to do anything to make Wadjda feel better.

Numbly, Wadjda shook her head. “Then how would we race?”

Her voice broke under the weight of her sorrow, and she pulled away roughly, hurrying ahead of Abdullah and on toward her house. Across the street, a group of workers were collapsing the tent and gathering up the trash from the enormous election party. The lights, which had taken Abdullah so long to string, had already been taken down.

Somehow
, Abdullah thought,
I have to find a way to make everything okay
. Gathering up all his courage, he put a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Hey, Wadjda!”

She turned to face him, her face droopy and sad.

“You know I'll marry you when we grow up, right?”

Wadjda smiled at him sadly. The expression made her look much older than eleven. Without saying anything, she turned away and pushed open her door, leaving Abdullah alone in the street once again.

T
o Wadjda's great surprise, the door to their house was unlocked. Who could be home so early? Was her mother already back from work?

And did it really matter?
No.
She let the heavy door slam shut and dragged herself to the living room, ready to collapse, bury her face in a pillow, and cry.

But here she had another shock: her father was there. He sat on the couch, twiddling his thumbs nervously, playing with his blue prayer beads. When he saw her, he startled and ran his hands through his freshly combed hair. It had been trimmed close on the sides and shaped into a cooler, more modern style.

“Hey, finally! You're home.” He sounded as if he'd been waiting for her all day. Wadjda gave him a suspicious look. Finding her father at home before nightfall was like discovering a unicorn in one of Riyadh's alleys. It just didn't happen.

“What's up with the new hairstyle?” she asked sarcastically. Her father didn't answer.

“Your mother's been rejecting my calls,” he said. Again,
he ran his hands through his hair. “I've been trying her for hours. Where is she?”

It was Wadjda's turn to ignore the question. Without speaking, she pulled the first-place certificate out of her bag, walked over to her father, and handed it to him. He looked at her, confused, and started to read. As the words sank in, his face shifted. Confusion gave way to excitement.

“You won?” he exclaimed. “I can't believe it. That's amazing!”

Impulsively, he stood, pulled his daughter close, and embraced her proudly. Wadjda rested her head on his shoulder. He felt very strong. A few tears seeped from her eyes, overcoming her best attempts at self-control. Surprised, her father held her out in front of him and frowned, furrowing his brow.

“Hey, why are you crying? You won. You should be happy!”

Wadjda was ready to tell him everything then, about the money and the bicycle, about Fatin and Fatima and Abeer, to let it flow out in a barrage of stories and tears. But as she opened her mouth, her father's phone rang. Releasing her shoulders, he snatched it up and went to the hallway to talk in private.

The conversation was fast. Through it all, her father kept his body turned away from Wadjda. He didn't look back at her, not once. After a few moments, he whispered
something to the person on the other end and hung up. Moving briskly now, he went to the
majlis
and began gathering his things. When he was finished, he knelt in front of Wadjda and put his hand tenderly on her cheek.

“Tell your mother I waited for her.” He picked up his
ghutra
and the black cord he used to secure it, the
iqal
. “Tell her I wanted to talk. Tell her . . .”

Wadjda's eyes were fixed on her father's, and she saw the emotion break through his composure. Feeling himself scrutinized, he cleared his throat.

“Tell her I love her.”

He forced a smile. For a moment, the boyish light was back in his eyes. He reached down and playfully ruffled Wadjda's hair.

“I'm so proud of you, my little champ,” he said.

In the doorway, he turned back once more, the fading sun falling across his face as he flashed Wadjda an apologetic smile.

Once he was gone, the house seemed very quiet. Wadjda collapsed onto the couch. A few more tears rolled down her cheeks, and she angrily wiped them away.

When the phone rang, it took a few seconds to penetrate Wadjda's sorrow.
Brrring-bring, brrring-bring
. By the time she realized what was happening, the call had timed out. A second later, though, it rang again.

Wadjda snuffled, gathering herself. She swiped her hand under her nose and cleared her throat. Then she reached over and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” Despite her best efforts, her voice was still shaky with tears. “Hi, Aunt Leila. No, I don't know where she is.”

Instinctively, she looked around the room, as if her mother might have appeared suddenly while she was distracted. Where could she be?

“Yeah, for sure. . . . I'll let her know you called.”

Leila hung up, and the dial tone sounded in Wadjda's ear. Sighing, she tossed the receiver to the floor and slumped back on the couch. Her eyes went to the ticking clock on the wall above. She wanted to stay awake and wait for her mother to come home, to pass along her father's strange message. But she was exhausted. The day, with its tremendous highs and lows, had wrung her out like a strong hand squeezing water from a dishrag.

Slowly, Wadjda's eyes slipped shut. As the clock ticked away above her head, she fell asleep on the couch, still dressed in her uniform.

W
hen Wadjda opened her eyes, the living room was dark, and the clock read nine.

N
ine!
Starting to her feet, head blurry and confused, Wadjda looked around wildly.
So late!
Why hadn't her mother come to wake her up or take her to bed? She blinked, rubbed her eyes. Had anything been moved? The certificate from the competition still lay on the table in front of her, where her father had set it. Slowly, Wadjda reached down and picked it up.

Somewhere in the neighborhood, a celebration was going on.
That's funny.
She hadn't known anything was planned. But the sounds were unmistakable, the
crack
of gunshots and
whoosh-bang
of fireworks filtering in through the windows.

No other lights in the house were on, except for a bright line shining out from under her mother's door. Cautiously, Wadjda padded down the dark hallway, poked her head around the jamb—and blinked, caught completely by surprise.

Her mother's
abayah
was thrown carelessly across the
bed. That was normal. But the thing lying next to it was not. A new white lab coat, still covered in a clear plastic wrapper.
Just like
The Matrix
,
Wadjda thought, lifting up the sleeve and letting it drop. Her mind spun. Where was her mother?

Moving faster now, she checked the bathroom. This room was empty, too. Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye, and she sighed. Her face was red and smudged with dust and tears. Wadjda walked to the sink and leaned in to splash water on her cheeks.

Halfway to the faucet, her hand froze. Masses of freshly cut hair lined the inside of the sink. Frowning, Wadjda pinched a silky black clump between her fingers. Before she could examine it more closely, another cacophony of celebratory gunshots and fireworks rattled the house.

No more time to waste. If her mother was home, there was only one place she could be. Wadjda clattered up the stairway to the roof, her heart pounding furiously with every step.

T
he roof was dark, a pool of blackness framed by the lights of the city. Wadjda pushed open the door cautiously. At the far end was her mother, silhouetted against the blackness, smoking a cigarette. Its tip was a tiny blur of red against the gloom.

Wadjda came closer and saw that her mother's hair had been hacked off, a bit unevenly, to shoulder length. The wind sent it twirling and swirling around her neck.

Her mother was staring off into the distance, at what looked like a big party a few blocks away.
That must be where all the noise is coming from
, Wadjda thought. What seemed like a thousand strands of lights illuminated the house, splashing out around it, forming a glowing circle in the otherwise dark streets.

Huge crowds of people were entering the yard. From her perch on the roof, Wadjda could hear their laughter, floating up amid the intermittent
pops
of gunfire. Every few minutes, more fireworks arced up, flecks of sparkling color cascading down across the silent neighborhood.

Wadjda walked over and leaned against the wall beside
her mother, keeping her eyes fixed on the party. Her mother glanced over at her, and then discreetely stubbed out her cigarette against the concrete wall.

“I heard the news.” She gave Wadjda a sad smile. “Congratulations. I'm so proud of you.”

“They didn't give me the money,” Wadjda said, her shoulders slumped. The crushing disappointment of that afternoon had given way to a hollow ache in her stomach. She was devastated and tired. The dream of the bicycle was over.

Just like her father had done that afternoon, her mother reached out and tousled her hair, setting the strands askew.

“Forget them.” In contrast to the softness of her hands, her voice was sharp. “You don't need their money, anyway.”

Wadjda blinked, taken aback. Unsure what to say, she looked out over the edge of the roof, reexamining the scene down the street.

“Isn't that Grandmother's house? But I thought Uncle's wedding wasn't until next month. Right?”

She looked up at her mother, seeking answers.

“It's not your uncle's wedding they're celebrating,” her mother said. Her voice was rough, like she was forcing out the words.

Wadjda looked at the party, then at her mother. She thought of the crisp new uniform on the bed. Her mother's
choppy hair flowing in the breeze, the cutoff strands filling the sink. The party. She couldn't put it all together, couldn't understand what any of it meant.

And then she did. Her eyes widened in realization, and Wadjda threw her arms around her mother, hugging her with all her might. Panicked anguish jolted through her body as she tried to imagine her mother dancing the desperate dance of the second wives. Her beautiful mother, an object of pity.

Their shared sense of anguish brought them together, and they embraced for a long time. Her mother wrapped her arms around Wadjda's head and shoulders, and Wadjda could feel her body tremble with the pressure of holding back her tears.

Her own hands squeezed tightly, pressing against her mother's back as she tried to pull herself closer—and closer still. It was like being a little girl again. But it was like being a grown-up, too.

Gunshots and excited cries sounded in the distance. Stepping back at last, her mother wiped the tears from Wadjda's eyes with her thumbs and cupped Wadjda's chin between her hands.

“It's all right,” she said softly. “He made his decision. It'll be just the two of us now. We'll be fine.”

Wadjda looked up at her, more tears welling in her eyes.

“Let's buy the red dress and go over there and get him!” she said, her voice shaky but determined.

“There's no need for the red dress anymore,” her mother said tenderly. “Besides, I already spent the rest of the money.”

On what?
Wadjda wanted to ask. But she just watched, a little skeptical, as her mother walked to the other side of the roof and pulled the chain dangling from the bare bulb on the wall. The weak light flickered for a second before illuminating—

The green bicycle!

Impossible! But there it was, parked on the pocked concrete of the roof. It glowed warmly in the small pool of light cast by the bulb.

Wadjda inhaled, but there was no air. It was as if she was seeing the bicycle for the first time. As if the measure of her dreams, of everything she'd worked so hard to do, sat right there in front of her.

It was more than a bicycle now. It was the only risk her mother had ever taken, the only time she'd ever dared to step out of line. Wadjda knew how hard she had worked to fit in, to be like everyone else. All of that was gone now, for both of them.

Time seemed to freeze as she stared at the bicycle.
Nothing will ever be the same
, she realized. Then, catching
herself, she sprinted to her mother. Again, she embraced her tenderly. It wasn't desperate and sad, like their last hug. It wasn't a thank-you hug, either. It was a hug that said,
I understand, and I love you.

“I hope it's the right one,” her mother whispered through her tears. “The shopkeeper said he'd been holding it for some spunky little girl for weeks.”

Blasts of fireworks lit the sky as they held each other tightly and cried.