The Green Bicycle (8 page)

T
he end of a long, hot day.
Finally.
Wadjda couldn't wait to head home. She dragged her veil up over her face, shouldered her backpack, and was headed to the gate when an older girl, Abeer, pulled her aside.

Abeer was nice enough. A little stuck-up, sure, but now and then she'd buy things from Wadjda. And she never teased her or called her names, so to Wadjda she was better than most. She was pretty, too, with piercing dark eyes. Although her hair was always pulled back in a long braid, she let her bangs fall free to frame her face. She was one of the girls who risked Ms. Hussa's wrath by hiding a small mirror in the school yard and checking the traces of makeup she was able to sneak on during break.

Today, Abeer was already in her
abayah
. Delicate lines of
kohl
circled her eyes, making them look even prettier and more mysterious. Though she seemed ready to go home, she wasn't heading toward the bus line outside. And Wadjda couldn't remember ever seeing Abeer walk to school.

She must be waiting for someone to pick her up, Wadjda decided. Her brother, her father, maybe a private driver?

Abeer looked from left to right, then checked over her shoulder. Tucking her fingers inside the edge of her veil, she pulled it tightly around her face. Her eyes darted left and right again. In her quietest voice, she whispered to Wadjda, “Can you take this paper out to my brother?”

With a furtive movement of her hand, she removed a folded note from her pocket and slid it between Wadjda's fingers. Wadjda looked at her—then it—suspiciously.

“What is this?” she asked, fumbling to unfold the paper.

“Shh!” Abeer whispered, holding a finger to her lips. “It's a . . . a permission slip to pick me up from school. I forgot to give it to him this morning.”

Though she was trying to look casual, Abeer's eyes kept darting around the courtyard. Why was she so worried? Wadjda knew her predicament all too well. In Saudi, if you weren't lucky enough to be born a boy, you needed a paper permission slip from your guardian to do just about anything. From what Wadjda had seen of life so far, girls were doomed to spend most of their time finding ways around the system.

She sighed, folding Abeer's note into her hand. Every girl Wadjda knew had experienced some silly problem with a random paper or approval form going missing. There was no choice: You had to go around it and fix things your own way. And it didn't get any easier as you got older. Once,
Wadjda and her mother had tried to take the train from Riyadh to Dammam to attend a cousin's wedding. They were sent home because they didn't have a permission slip from her father allowing them to make the journey.

Livid, Wadjda's mother called her friend Leila for help. Leila lent her the permission slip she used, along with her family ID card. Since the family cards didn't have pictures, women just used whichever one they could get their hands on. Still, it wasn't easy. Her mother had told her over and over that her name wasn't Wadjda. It was
Aisha
. And her mother wasn't her mother. She was her big sister.

Back then, the whole thing felt like an undercover spy adventure. Wadjda was so excited that she giggled when they bought tickets using their fake names. The sound slipped out before she could help it! Mother's sharp look through the slit in her burka, however, made her stop immediately.

Now Abeer raised her eyebrows at Wadjda and tilted her chin toward the note.
Well?

Wadjda looked back at the gate. A line of girls in black passed beneath the principal's gaze, ants snaking their way to the hill. Ms. Hussa was in her usual spot, examining each as she passed. Her face reminded Wadjda of the train officer, who had mechanically stamped their papers and shoved them back into her mother's hand. Next, he
called indifferently, and “Aisha” and her “older sister” had boarded the train to Dammam.

Back on the playground, Ms. Hussa tossed her hair and straightened her expensive skirt. Occasionally, she stopped one of the girls, made her pause and turn. She was checking to see that only their dusty black shoes showed underneath their
abayahs
. As Wadjda watched, the principal held up a girl whose backpack had a picture of the
Twilight
movie stars on it. It was cool. Wadjda wouldn't have minded having one herself.

Ms. Hussa did not agree.

“On the Day of Judgment, God will ask you to breathe life into these pictures. Can you?” Ms. Hussa's tone was impossibly superior. She held up the backpack, shaking it in front of her student's face. “Pictures of human beings and living things are forbidden, let alone these . . . vampires.” She shoved the bag back into the girl's arms. “Be careful. The West is always trying to infect Muslim youth with its poisons. You shouldn't be watching such movies.”

The ten thousand times she'd been stopped for a similar lecture filled Wadjda's mind. Images flashed through her memory, like scenes from a TV show on mute. Each time, she knew, she risked going too far. There was a line in the sand, and if you crossed it, you couldn't go back. She'd known this since she was very young.

As if in slow motion, she looked down at the note in her hand. Only now did she realize the crime she was being asked to commit.

Abeer saw that Wadjda was catching on. Still whispering, but more forcefully now, she leaned in to look directly into Wadjda's eyes.

“Listen. I'll give you ten Riyals if you help me out.”

Wadjda looked back at Ms. Hussa, then up at Abeer. Again, a vision of the green bicycle passed through her mind. She could practically feel the pedals turning beneath her feet, could almost see Abdullah's awe as she shot past him toward the finish line of a race. She had to earn eight hundred Riyals. She
had
to.

Determined, Wadjda lifted her chin and held up two fingers. “Twenty,” she said.

Abeer's nostrils flared. For a moment, Wadjda thought she'd say no. But then she sighed and started going through her purse, counting out notes. She ran her fingers along the wrinkled bills to straighten them. One by one, she pressed twenty Riyals into Wadjda's waiting hands. Then, having made her payment, Abeer spoke with the authority of a manager tasking an official employee. “He's outside on the corner, in a pickup truck.”

Wadjda nodded, stuffing the wad of notes into her pocket. Her body began to tense up—it changed her
posture, made her look stiff and weird. She had to get it together! This would only work if she seemed normal. Taking a deep breath, she shook out her shoulders and arms and started walking toward the gate. Halfway there, she tried to casually sling her backpack over her shoulder, but it didn't work. She looked like an alien who'd just discovered backpacks, trying to figure out how to put one on.

Behind her, watching Wadjda walk awkwardly away, Abeer frowned. This was a disaster! But there was nothing more she could do. She ducked around the corner, throwing her black
shayla
over her face and leaning her head against the hot stone.

Groups of girls in black flooded past Wadjda and out the front gate. Ms. Hussa was still in her place. In fact, Wadjda saw, she was actually still scolding the poor backpack girl, who was anxiously watching her bus fill up. Though she was clearly trying to pay attention, her eyes kept darting up to peer over Ms. Hussa's shoulder.

As she got closer, Wadjda heard more of Ms. Hussa's seemingly endless lecture.

“. . . you will change your bag! Images are forbidden. In fact . . .”

This seemed as good a time as any for Wadjda to sneak past. But even as she decided to make her move, Ms. Hussa straightened and folded her arms, indicating that she was
finished. The relieved student pulled her veil over her head and dove into the sea of black
abayahs
crowding the door of the school bus.

Sighing, Ms. Hussa turned—and saw Wadjda walking toward her.

“Wadjda!” Ms. Hussa used the tone reserved for special cases. Quickly, Wadjda stuffed Abeer's note into her bag and trotted over. Ms. Hussa paused, squinting down at her, and then looked over to the corner where she'd been loitering. Abeer had plastered herself against the wall. She looked like she was trying to sink back into the stones.

The principal stared at Wadjda, studying her for what seemed like hours. Sweat beaded on Wadjda's forehead. Her heart pounded in her ears like a drum. Surely Ms. Hussa would hear.

The seconds ticked by. Still nothing. Wadjda looked up slowly—

And saw Ms. Hussa holding out a pamphlet. Their eyes met, and the principal flapped it in front of Wadjda, gesturing impatiently for her to take it.

“Come with an
abayah raas
like this tomorrow, or I'll reserve your usual place in the sun,” she said. “Here. Show your mother.”

Wadjda took the pamphlet. On the front was a picture of a completely black figure. The figure had no features—
no eyes, hands, or feet. Its
abayah raas
covered its body from head to toe. Veiled in this way, the person looked like a ghost, like someone had taken a Sharpie and scribbled over the picture until nothing remained but blackness. Wadjda knew it was a woman; it had to be. But looking at the picture, you couldn't tell.

Her heart sank all the way to her feet, and she felt her hands go cold. The
abayah
raas
was the grown-up version of the covering she already wore. It looked way more inhibiting—not to mention intimidating—than the veil. And Wadjda already had trouble keeping
that
on her head! Still, she did her best to smile. She even held up the pamphlet and gave an enthusiastic nod, as if to acknowledge its importance. Ms. Hussa stared back at her, face stony.

There was nothing more to say. It was the
abayah
raas
, or the beating sun. As she turned away and finally let out her breath, Wadjda felt the heat start to drain from her ears. Slowly, her muscles began to relax. Her feet couldn't get her out of there fast enough. She had things to do.

O
utside the school entrance, a bus stuffed to overflowing with girls moaned past. As it rumbled by, Wadjda peered through the dirty windows, but saw nothing but black, faceless shadows.

In its wake, a choking cloud of dust swirled in front of her. Coughing and fanning with all her might, Wadjda squinted up and down the street, looking for Abeer's “brother.”

There.
A handsome young man standing beside a pickup caught her eye. He was waiting in a quiet corner behind the school,
thobe
carefully ironed and pressed. His black hair curled slightly around his ears. Wadjda looked him over skeptically. He seemed like a regular high school kid—like Abeer. His car was decorated with bumper stickers quoting folk poetry about love. Stupid sappy stuff like,
I haven't slept since I glimpsed your eyes through your burka
or
Love is killing me. Every minute I long to see you.

Slowly, Wadjda approached him. “Are you Abeer's brother?” she asked, wanting to be sure she was talking to the right guy.

The young man gave a small choked laugh. When he opened his mouth, his silver braces shone in the sun.

“Yeah, sure, I'm her brother. Have you got the paper?”

Cautiously, Wadjda reached into her backpack. She retrieved the note and held it up, making sure to keep it a tantalizing distance away.

“Yeah, sure,” she repeated, copying his tone. “She said you'd give me twenty Riyals to deliver it.”

In an instant, the young man's oh-so-cool posture changed. “Really?” he asked, arching his eyebrows. Wadjda thought she could see him trying to hide a smile. She waved the paper haughtily.

“Yes, really!”

Now the young man couldn't keep from laughing. Though he immediately reassumed his relaxed posture, his eyes were sparkling. “Okay, okay. Here's twenty Riyals,” he said, pulling a brand-new bill from his wallet. For a moment, he held it out in front of her, teasing Wadjda as she'd teased him with Abeer's message.

Wadjda barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the bill. She couldn't believe he was going to give her the money! Giving him Abeer's note without a second thought, she snatched the twenty Riyals and held it to her heart.

“Wow, even your money reeks of cologne! I'll have to wash it.”

Again, a laugh broke through the young man's cool exterior. He got into his car and waved good-bye. As Wadjda watched, he drove around to the front gate of the school. She turned toward home, smiling in spite of herself.

Behind her, she heard the guard call over the school's PA system, “Abeer Al Rassi, please come to the gate. Your ride is here.”

Her work was done.
Almost.
Though it wasn't exactly on her way, Wadjda decided to pass by the toy shop—just to be safe. As she skipped through traffic and leaped over cracks in the asphalt, she could already imagine the green bicycle, glimmering in the afternoon sun.

When she arrived at the shop, and saw the real bike, it was even better than her imagination had promised. She stood, frozen, in awe of its greatness. Today it looked even bigger and more powerful. She'd get better and better at riding it, learn to go faster and faster—

If only she could reserve it somehow! The thought of someone else buying her bicycle was heartbreaking. As the baffled-looking owner peered out at her, Wadjda licked her finger and rubbed an
X
into the dust coating the bike, officially claiming it as hers.

Harrumph
ing, the shopkeeper opened the door and stomped out, ready to chase her away. Wadjda met his frown with a smile. Her whole face beamed with joy. She
nodded happily toward the
X,
imprinted in glistening spit on the bike's side.

“Don't sell this one. I reserved it!”

The toy shop owner couldn't help but shake his head. “Ha! That's ridiculous.” Balling up his sleeve, he used the folded cloth to rub the spot clean.

Wadjda scrunched up her nose in annoyance and shot back, “I
will
buy it. With my own money, too!”

The shopkeeper looked down at her, a slight glimmer in his eyes. But then the call for
Dhuhr
prayer rang out, interrupting the moment. As if woken from a dream, he turned away and began closing up shop. Brusquely, he pulled a long black blanket over the goods lined up in front of the store, obscuring them from view.

Wadjda watched the billowing black cloth settle over her bicycle. She could still see its brilliant green color in her mind's eye.

The call to prayer continued to echo through the streets, the lilting sound of the muezzin's voice reverberating off the walls of the buildings. A crowd of men had begun to make their way into the nearby mosque. Wadjda saw Abdullah among them, trailing behind his father and uncle, the one with the ridiculous mustache.

Impulsively, she put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. Abdullah had taught her how. On her walks home,
she'd worked to perfect her skill. She knew Abdullah was proud of her impressive volume. “You can whistle as loud as a real fire truck siren,” he'd told her, eyes wide with admiration.

Sure enough, the shrill blast got his attention. Abdullah turned his head, and Wadjda gestured with her eyes toward the handlebars of the green bike, barely peeking out from under the black cloth. Using her hands, she gestured broadly to herself.

Abdullah smiled and shook his head. Pointing to the bicycle, he rubbed his fingers together—
silly, it'll take a whole lot of money to buy that thing!

With a dramatic flourish, Wadjda pulled the forty Riyals from her pocket, fanned out the bills, and waved them defiantly at her friend. His eyes widened—as did his smile. Then Wadjda turned and strutted off proudly into the fading afternoon sunlight, her sneakers kicking up a glorious trail of dust behind her.