The Green Bicycle (7 page)

T
he air conditioner in the window over Wadjda's desk bellowed, spitting out icy-cold air. But only the top of her head felt any sort of relief. The oppressive heat of the afternoon had warmed the whole house to baking, and the AC only helped if you were right underneath it.

Frowning, Wadjda climbed up on her desk chair and pinned the ends of a dark blanket over the window. This would offer additional protection from the sun—and maybe help the AC battle back the heat from a few more meters of space.

I hate to cover my collage
, she thought. Sometimes when she got home, she'd stare at the cutout pictures while she made bracelets. Sadly, on super-hot days, she needed the blanket. Carefully, Wadjda lifted one of its corners and peered at a favorite picture.

Four girls, completely covered in
abayahs
, glided along on ice skates at a public ice rink. The photo might have been taken at their local mall, which had a large skating arena. The beautiful oval of sparkling ice looked like a jewel in the middle of the massive building, which was
a super-modern maze of endless corridors. Wadjda had begged her mother to let her go skating there, but her mother always refused. The mall was the center of social life in Saudi Arabia—and not just for kids. Grown-ups loved it, too. But Wadjda didn't have a driver, and girls her age weren't allowed to go to the mall alone. Plus, everyone knew couples just went there to flirt, so a chaperone was absolutely required.

Frowning, Wadjda threw herself back onto her bed with a huff. If only her mother weren't so scared of taking chances! Her fear kept them from doing even the littlest things out of the ordinary.

And the world's already so small
, Wadjda thought.
So limited
.

But then, her mother had reason to be afraid. Wadjda had torn the picture out of a newspaper. The accompanying article reported that the religious police had banned girls from ice-skating at the mall. “If anyone is seen renting skates or letting girls from age seven or older onto the rink, they will be punished,” the caption read. The rink would be closed, and the migrant worker who had broken the rule would lose his work permit and be sent home.

Girls could easily bribe those same workers to let them in when no one was looking, though. On the playground, Fatin and Fatima had bragged about doing it. A little money went a long way with the guest workers, they said.
Inspired by their bravery, Wadjda kept ice-skating on her Things-to-Do list. Forget the stupid ban!

But enough daydreaming. She needed to shift her attention to something cooler: money. Carefully, Wadjda laid the bills and coins from her stack out on the bed. This was her entire stash, money she'd hustled and earned by selling candy, tapes, bracelets—anything and everything she could make, scrounge, or imagine. Tearing a piece of paper from her school notebook, she wrote down
800 Riyals
in big letters. Her new goal!

Using thick, dark pen strokes, she drew a chart underneath to track her road to victory. Then, taking a deep breath, Wadjda started shuffling the notes, counting under her breath. “Ten Riyals, fifteen Riyals, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . . twenty-five Riyals.”

No! Not nearly enough
. If she was going to raise the eight hundred she needed for the bicycle, she'd have to seriously step up her game. Still, twenty-five Riyals wasn't nothing. Wadjda wrote the number on the chart, leaned back against her pillow, and closed her eyes, contemplating her next move.

The house was quiet. The only sound was the hum from the AC. Its steady whir lifted the blanket's edges, set them gently swaying. Weariness tugged at Wadjda's mind. She
felt herself drifting into sleep, her breath slowing, mind wandering. She wanted to slip away into a nice long nap so badly. But she couldn't give in to exhaustion. These quiet afternoons were the only time she had alone in the house. If she wanted that bicycle, she needed to work.

Start with bracelets
. Wadjda sat up, shook off her sleepiness, and started mapping out requests. Several girls had asked for bracelets from their favorite Saudi Premiere League soccer teams. Al Hilal, the team from Riyadh, was very popular. Their colors were blue and white. Al-Nassr, which played at the nearby King Fahd International Stadium and wore blue with yellow, was a safe bet, too. She'd make extras of each for some quick sales, Wadjda decided.

Carefully unspooling the colored threads, she stretched out her legs and hunched over her knees to reach her big toes. Using them as the base for her
loom
, she wove the thread back and forth, watching the braided bracelets come into being. Her quick fingers moved faster and faster, tangling the colored threads in complex patterns.

Lost in the task, Wadjda took a long time to realize that her stomach had started to rumble. Luckily, her mother had cooked
kapsa
the night before. At the thought, her stomach rumbled. To make
kapsa
, roasted onions, raisins, and almonds were ladled onto tender rice bursting with cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, and black lemon. This was
then capped off with sizzling grilled chicken rubbed with blackened tomato paste. Toward the end of the month, when her salary was almost gone, Wadjda's mother had to skip the more expensive ingredients, like almonds. It was still early, though, and the
kapsa
was full of flavor.

I should make myself a plate,
Wadjda thought.

The sound of the front door opening snapped her out of her fantasy. Yanking the thread from her toes, she leaped from her bed, darting to the spot just inside the kitchen where she did her homework. Before her mother made it through the door, she slid into her seat, laid out her books, and lifted her pencil. She held it over the paper and sat up straight, like the very best student in class.

The front door slammed. Wadjda could hear her mother's heavy breathing before she entered the kitchen. As she removed her veil, she fanned herself dramatically with her hands, trying to cool down. Her face was puffy and red, and her hair looked like Wadjda's—all messy ribbons and tousled curls.

“Almost three hours in the car without AC! It was awful. I'm not sure how much longer I can handle it. Oh,
habibti
, I wish I could quit this stupid teaching job.” Her mother sank into a chair, took off her heavy shoes and black socks, and rubbed her feet, all with the same dramatic flair. “I swear, this commute's going to kill me. I'd rather sell fruit
down at the hospital than make that hideous trip every single day!”

Nodding in support, Wadjda jumped up to turn on the kitchen AC unit. She felt terrible for her mother. Each day, she came home upset about Iqbal, about his car, about the whole terrible journey to work. Iqbal charged her a lot of money, too!
He could at least fix the air conditioner in his piece-of-junk vehicle,
Wadjda thought.

“If only Iqbal blew cold air, instead of hot,
Ummi
,” she said, smiling mischievously over her shoulder.

Her mother smiled back at her. Then, with a heaving sigh, she went to the stove to begin dinner. Wadjda loitered around the sink as her mother washed vegetables and got the plate of leftover
kapsa
from the fridge. Together, they started to prepare dinner.

What could she do to
really
cheer her mother up? Wadjda wondered as they worked. And when was the best time for announcing her plan to buy the green bicycle? What was the best way to bring it up? Her mother was unpredictable. Sometimes an idea would catch her imagination and she'd eagerly play along, coming up with elaborate schemes and strategies. Other times, she'd frown and shake her head, and Wadjda wouldn't be allowed to bring up her idea again.

The bicycle was too important to mess up. Wadjda wanted to introduce it naturally into the conversation, like it was no
big deal. Of course it
was
, but she'd keep her cool while they discussed it. The cooler the better with her mother.

As she planned and plotted, Wadjda kept imagining the look on Abdullah's face when he saw her riding her brand-new bicycle. . . .

Despite her best efforts, a mischievous grin stole across her face. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned against the counter. Her mother looked up from the food she was heating at the stove. When she saw Wadjda's expression, her eyes narrowed.

“I don't like this look on your face. What are you up to?”

For a fraction of a second, Wadjda debated whether or not she should tell her. If her mother didn't approve, it would be next to impossible to get the bicycle.

But she couldn't help it. She threw caution to the wind, and blurted out, “I'm going to buy a bicycle to race Abdullah Al Hanofi! Maybe in two weeks, if I keep my business up!”

Her mother dropped the dishes in the sink with a clatter. As Wadjda's words sunk in, she twisted her lips and frowned. It was exactly like the face she made when she got mad at Wadjda's father for spending days away visiting his mother.

“A bicycle?” she repeated.

“Yeah! My business is doing so well,
Ummi
! I sold Tic Tacs for four Riyals today.”

“Oh, Wadjda, I've told you a hundred times! You're not supposed to sell things at school. They'll have you standing out in the sun all day for the rest of your life.”

Her mother's harsh words startled Wadjda back to reality. She blinked, watching the beautiful images of herself riding the bicycle go up in smoke.

But her mother wasn't done. “I don't want any more calls from your teachers complaining about you!” she said, throwing up her hands in exasperation.

Wadjda could get sad—or she could get mad. She chose the second option. Rolling her eyes, she stomped off to her room. Behind her, her mother was still going, her voice getting louder and louder.

“And you can absolutely forget about getting a bicycle! This plan of yours is ridiculous. A bicycle! Have you ever seen a girl riding a bicycle?”

I'll never tell her anything again!
Wadjda thought, slamming her bedroom door, hard.
She never understands. She doesn't even try to understand!

Though she slumped down onto the floor, her face was set, her eyes full of purpose. Decisively, she picked up her half-finished bracelets, wrapped the strings around her big toes, and got back to work.

W
adjda entered her classroom early the next day like a woman on a mission. Her task? Scope out potential customers.

The girl who was busily cleaning the blackboard was out. Wadjda breezed past her without stopping. She knew from experience that she'd be a tough sell. Two other girls sat in the back row, bent over, eyes on each other's homework.

“Change the sentence a little,” one whispered. “She'll know you copied it!”

Looking around nervously, the girl saw Wadjda and whispered loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear, “Uh-oh! Here comes the salesgirl!”

Whatever.
Wadjda waved her off with a sassy flick of the head. Stuffing her
abayah
inside her desk and throwing her veil over the chair, she ran out to the school's playground area. One of the younger girls leaped up and came to meet her, making small gestures in an attempt to get Wadjda's attention.

“Hey, Wadjda!” she whispered. “Did you finish the bracelets?”

“Not all of them,” Wadjda whispered back. “I've only got ten today. If you want one, you have to pay two Riyals extra.”

The little girl frowned, trying to decide whether it was worth it. Seeing her waver, Wadjda decided to push. If she wanted the bike, she had to seal
all
the deals.

“It's a lot of work,” she said softly. “I practically broke my back making them. And I stayed up so late last night—I'm not sure I'll be able to keep going like that!”

The thought of the bracelet supply drying up seemed to help the younger girl decide. She nodded. Wadjda's eyes fixed on her hands as she pulled the money from her uniform pocket. With each Riyal, she felt like she could see her bicycle more clearly.

They made the exchange, and a few more girls gathered around. A small, victorious smile spread across Wadjda's face as she handed out bracelets and collected money. A light breeze blew, stirring her curls. It wasn't hot yet. The sun was still pretty instead of scorching.
It's going to be a good day
, Wadjda thought.

Coming to school early was one of her secret joys. The mornings were a pretty safe time to make her sales, which was good. The consequences of being caught with a mixtape full of love songs would be dire. The thought of that conversation with Ms. Hussa . . .
Yikes!
A chill ran down Wadjda's spine, and she shook her head to banish the image.

Then, in the half hour after she sold her stuff but before classes began, she could relax and embrace her well-earned free time. Running around, playing on the playground, kicking up sand—through it all, Wadjda couldn't stop smiling. Her jeans peeked out from under her uniform as she sprinted. Her trusty sneakers made her faster than everyone else. It wasn't as free as a bicycle ride through the streets, but it was close.

In the far corner of the yard, a group of girls played hopscotch. This quiet spot, just past the area where the girls came in and took off their
abayahs
, was Wadjda's favorite. She ran over, sat, and leaned in to get a better view. As she watched, though, she grew increasingly impatient. The girl on the hopscotch grid, Salma, was moving like she was on tranquilizers or something. And the bell would ring at any minute!

Finally, Salma finished her pass and stepped ceremonially off the grid. Grinning, Wadjda leaped into place. She took her lucky stone from her pocket, tossed it in front of her, and started to hop. Completing a smooth turn, she bent to scoop up her rock.

To her left, one of the other girls, Noura, raised her head. Her face twisted up with fear, like she'd just seen a horrible monster.

“We need to go inside!” she cried. “Men are watching us!”

All the girls froze. Then they looked up, frightened, and scanned the horizon above the school's imposing walls. Noura pointed with one hand, shielding her eyes from the sun with the other. Her finger was shaking. Wadjda raised her hand, too. She could barely make out a group of construction workers atop a building far in the distance.

“They're a million miles away, silly,” she said, laughing. “No way they can see us from there. What, do they have Superman powers?”

“If you can see them, they can see you,” Noura retorted. Wadjda snorted and turned her attention back to hopscotch. Noura flushed red.

“Fine,” she hissed. “All the
good
girls are going inside. The bad ones who want to expose themselves to men can stay and play out here by themselves.”

She waved dramatically for the girls standing nearby to join her. One by one, they rose and followed Noura back into the school. Salma went last. Though she looked sad to leave the game, Wadjda knew she would never dare to break a rule.

As she swung the heavy doors closed, Noura looked back at Wadjda with a victorious smirk. Wadjda met her sneer with a look of anger—and stuck out her tongue, too, for good measure.

“Go, you
sheikha
,” she called, using a title reserved for
the most pious of religious women. “Who cares? You're terrible at hopscotch anyway!”

But Noura and the other girls were already inside. Shrugging, Wadjda tossed her stone, balancing on one foot, ready to hop. Before she started, she looked up—and saw Fatin and Fatima. They held a magazine between them, their heads bent over the pages. They were walking toward the back of the school, out of sight of the teachers.

Those girls!
Wadjda shook her head, amazed. They walked around like they owned the place. If she didn't like them so much, it would make her angry—or jealous.

“Hey, you guys shouldn't be outside. Men can see you!” Wadjda yelled. Pointing, she indicated the workers, tiny moving specks far in the distance.

Fatin covered her face in pretend fear and looked over at Fatima. Fatima widened her eyes as if with terror. “Men?! Watching? What a scandal! Oh no, maybe they'll tell everyone they saw Wadjda al Safan playing provocatively in the school yard!”

All three girls burst out laughing, and then quieted, worried their teachers might hear.

“So, what's the latest mix?” Fatin asked. Beside her, Fatima grinned and nodded. Wadjda scrambled through her bag and pulled out a tape.

“It's got everything,” she said. “There are songs on here
from every corner of the universe!” She held the tape up, swaying it back and forth before their eyes like a car salesman swinging the keys to a new Ferrari. “Hear the hits of tomorrow, today! All this can be yours for just ten tiny Riyals!”

Fatin let out a burst of laughter. Taking the tape, she looked over the track list on the back, nodding approvingly. “You little devil. I don't know where you get this music, but I'll definitely buy one later. And hey, what about bracelets?” She flipped to a page in the magazine and held up a picture of a football player. He was tall and lanky, with hair that flopped over his face, and tan, muscled legs. “Look at this gorgeous creature. I want a bracelet of his team—Al Hilal.”

Wadjda took the magazine and inspected the picture, eyes bright. “No problem,” she said, not looking up. “I'll make you a special one for tomorrow.” Now she met Fatin's eyes, smiling broadly. “But it'll be ten Riyals, too!”

Fatin patted her on the head and took back the magazine. Beside her, Fatima was grinning. “Tomorrow, then, little hustler.”

Wadjda pulled her head away playfully. “Don't mess up my hair!” she said, trying to imitate a teacher's cranky voice. “And, hey, you're not supposed to bring magazines to school! Ms. Hussa'll kill you.”

Fatin was turning to go, but she paused and gave Wadjda a sinister look, waving her fingers like an ogre. “Look who's talking!” she said, “Your bag is a twenty-four-hour convenience store.”

All three girls burst out laughing, and then Wadjda resumed hopping, a big smile on her face. Across the courtyard, Fatin and Fatima plopped down by the corner of the building, safely out of view of the main door. They pulled nail polish from their pockets and started painting their toenails blue, the magazine open on the ground beside them.

For a moment, there was peaceful silence, punctuated only by the scuffing of Wadjda's feet on the ground. She was halfway through a circuit on the hopscotch grid, her left foot still lifted, when Ms. Hussa slammed open the front door of the school. The bang of the door against the wall was tremendous. Wadjda gasped, and her hand shot to her mouth.

“Look out!” she hissed to Fatin and Fatima, gesturing wildly with her free hand. “Go!”

“Wadjda!” the principal yelled at the same time. The mean look on her face showed that she wasn't messing around.

Moving like a well-oiled machine, the two older girls jumped up, gathered their things, and rushed through the
back door before the word left Ms. Hussa's mouth. Fatin dropped the bottle of blue nail polish under the bench as she slipped by.

Ms. Hussa didn't notice. She was hovering behind the safety of the door, peering up at the distant workers on their faraway rooftop. Her ducked head and timid posture reminded Wadjda of the instinctive way most women she knew gazed out at the world. Sometimes, Wadjda found herself hiding behind the safety of a door, too.

It's weird that it feels so dangerous just to look out and see who's around
, Wadjda thought.
It should be easier to take on the world than that.

Ms. Hussa pulled her veil tightly over her head, as if protecting herself from a storm, and wrapped her veil around her face as she marched out into the playground.

“What are you doing there?” she snapped at Wadjda. “Can't you see the men watching? Go to class right now, or you'll be punished like the little troublemaker you are!”

Wadjda leaped into action, snatching her bag and running toward the same back entrance Fatin and Fatima had used. As she passed the bench, she saw the bottle of blue nail polish glinting in the sun. Without breaking stride, she bent and scooped it up, cupping it in her palm like a treasure.