“We left the door unlocked. Ummi’s been waiting for you all week!” she called over her shoulder.
Her father’s eyes flickered at the mention of her mother. Once more, he passed his hand over his hair. Then he patted the dust off his overalls and moved toward the front gate of the house.
CHAPTER THREE
I look cool, Abdullah thought. Cool and grown-up.
He was working on one of the large campaign billboards his uncle Abdulhakeem bin Hamad bin Musaid Al Toofi had asked him to set up around town. The task wasn’t hugely important, but any assignment from his uncle made Abdullah swell with pride. It was a big deal to be trusted and given the honor of helping out on his uncle’s election campaign. It was the beginning of his training, the first step in a long journey that would take him all the way to the top of his tribe’s distinguished elite.
Abdullah’s family was an important one, and he knew he would grow up to be a leader in their remote community. In a village as small as theirs, bloodlines and connections were the surest way to reach the top. His uncle was loved by all, and for much more than his family name or tribal affiliation. His enthusiasm for life, and his deep knowledge of the traditional ways of the desert, had earned him respect. He was the ultimate Saudi tribal man—more at home at his legendary camping parties in the desert, hunting wild rabbits through the dunes and smoking shisha, than he was in an office or the city.
But for all his skills, there was nothing his uncle was prouder of than his big, bushy mustache. It best represented his strength and power, and on the billboard it easily spanned three feet. Abdullah stepped back, grinning. He’d seen firsthand how much work went into maintaining such facial hair. Uncle splashed on all sorts of products to keep his mustache thick and lush, and he carefully dyed it black before the white roots could grow out and expose his true age to the world.
Sweat trickled down Abdullah’s forehead. He swiped at it with the back of his hand, wondering idly why his contented uncle had decided to run for political office. Maybe he was trying to act more dignified. But deep down, though, Abdullah knew he would always be an unruly, free-spirited man. The people of his tribe—and his nephew!—wouldn’t want him any other way.
Stories of his uncle were legendary in their village. When Abdullah’s oldest sister had gotten engaged, his uncle had ordered twenty trays of Muffatah, enough to feed the whole neighborhood. Every tray held a grilled lamb, laid out from head to hoof atop an enormous bed of tender basmati rice, dripping with roasted onions, raisins, and pine nuts. That epic meal was still talked about by everyone in their suburb. Abdullah remembered taking a large plate for Wadjda and her mother, too. He’d chosen a good piece of meat for her, carefully selecting the most tender piece of thigh.
At the thought of Wadjda, Abdullah swiped again at the sweat on his brow and straightened his white, tightly woven hat—his taqia. To make it look just right, he ironed it himself before Morning Prayer. He’d done a good job today. The taqia sat firmly on his head. Feeling more confident, Abdullah dropped the screwdriver into the pocket of his pristine white thobe and theatrically pulled out a larger one, giving it a playful spin with his fingers. That’d show Wadjda, he thought—though to be honest, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d actually impressed her. Not when he taught her to knock down a can with a rock from all the way across an empty field. Not even when he showed her how to whistle. He knew she appreciated these things. The flash of her mischievous smile, and the sweet grudging dip of her head, told him so. But she was too proud to say the words aloud.
She’d smile now if she could see the billboard. Why, it was as tall as him! Its two sides came together in a point, like a giant letter A, held together by folding hinges in the middle. The board had been placed strategically at one of the busiest intersections in town, across from the largest supermarket. The roads here met at the midpoint between the boys’ and girls’ schools, which were on opposite sides of the neighborhood.
Abdullah had actually finished putting the board up ten minutes ago, but he kept fiddling, tightening already tightened screws, pretending there was more work to be done. Occasionally, he glanced at a group of drivers who stood nearby, drinking tea, wondering if the poster had caught their attention. No one seemed to notice.
The poster had already begun to accumulate dust, the tiny grains blown in by the low wind that blanketed Riyadh in a constant layer of sand. It blanketed Abdullah’s bicycle, too, which leaned against one side of the billboard. His books were clamped to a rack on the back, and Abdullah shuddered, thinking of the hours of boring lessons ahead.
Still no sign of Wadjda. Nearby was the convenience store where she bought junk food and candy to resell to her classmates at double the price. Abdullah checked his watch, tracking passersby as they moved along the street, their forms appearing and disappearing in the hazy air. Where was she?
At last a familiar shape in the store caught his eye. A jolt of happiness shot through Abdullah. Though he wanted to wave, he didn’t. He had to look cool.
Inside, Wadjda stood in the candy aisle, considering the different varieties of chocolate. She looked up and smiled when she saw him. Instantly, Abdullah disappeared back behind the billboard. He patted at his pockets, looking for another tool, knowing he needed to busy himself with a task before Wadjda came out of the shop. He tried to steady his features, but despite his best efforts, his face kept breaking out in a smile.
He surveyed the portrait of his uncle once more. Uncle was a big man, a bit overweight, but that was as it should be for such an important person. In the picture, he sat upon a chair that looked like a throne. Beneath him was inscribed, “Vote for me for Municipal Council. Your glorious representation.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Abdullah saw Wadjda approach, munching on a breakfast sandwich. He brushed his hair into place, pulled back his shoulders, and stood taller. Wadjda didn’t seem to notice. She read over the poster and laughed.
“What’s this, an ad for mustache products?”
Abdullah almost laughed, too. But he hid his smile from Wadjda, and when he turned to face her, his look was cool and annoyed.
“Very funny, you. That’s a mustache so strong a falcon could perch on it!”
“A falcon? An airplane could land on that thing!” Wadjda chuckled.
Abdullah smiled and opened his mouth to reply. Then, over her shoulder, he saw a group of boys approaching. If they saw him talking to Wadjda in public, he’d spend the rest of the day—maybe the rest of the week—paying for it. They’d tease him mercilessly for wasting his time with a girl. He looked around, searching for a way out. Then, in a move so fast it was almost instinctive, he snatched the sandwich from Wadjda’s hands.
“Thanks for buying me breakfast!” he called, sprinting off in the opposite direction from the group of boys.
“You jerk! If you want to race, you don’t have to steal my sandwich!” Wadjda screamed, and took off after him.
They flew through the neighborhood, jumping to avoid large cracks in the asphalt, dodging around random palm trees growing up through the sidewalk, leaping over the dusty garbage and debris lining the curbs. Cars honked in the morning madness of rush hour. Foreign workers on bicycles glided out of their way, dipping in and out of the stalled traffic like silvery fish making their way upstream.
Wadjda was gaining quickly on Abdullah. From experience, she knew she was faster. It was only a matter of time before she caught him.
But as she rounded a corner, a gust of wind caught her veil and it slipped back on her head, exposing a few inches of hair. For two or three precious seconds, Wadjda felt the cool breeze moving across her face and drying her sticky forehead. Then, without a thought or a missed step, she reached up and pulled the veil back into place, tightening it around her neck, making sure all her hair was out of sight.
Brow furrowed, she picked up speed and started to really close in on Abdullah. She lea
ped over a mangy cat like a hurdler. Her churning feet kicked up a huge cloud of dust and sand as at last she overtook him, snatching the sandwich from his hand, shouting out a final cry of victory. Slowing her run to a trot, she looked back, pumping her arms in show-offy celebration.
This went on for another minute. Then, exhausted, Wadjda and Abdullah stopped running and stood opposite each other, panting. Sweat beads sprung up again on their brows. The already oppressive desert heat engulfed them. They exchanged a glance. Safely away from the other boys, Abdullah smiled at Wadjda.
But before she could smile back, he took off, sprinting toward the convenience store where he had left his bicycle.
CHAPTER FOUR
Strutting down the street, finishing her sandwich, Wadjda took a shortcut that passed within a block of the boys’ school. The other girls in her class steered clear of this area. They wanted to avoid being accused of bad, or worse, immoral intentions.
Wadjda couldn’t have cared less. The best parts of her day in Riyadh were spent roaming the streets, exploring new shops and neighborhoods, poking her head into forgotten corners. Last week, she’d explored the new strip mall Abdullah’s politician uncle was building. When it was finished, he would lease the many storefronts to vendors. But for the time being, most of it was empty. Wadjda had tiptoed through the vast space, imagining what it would look like when it was done.
The world’s so big, Wadjda thought. Like that cavernous mall, with its sky-high ceilings. And she wanted to see all of it.
She darted through the garden gate of the closest home, passing swiftly across the expanse of land surrounding the house and slipping out again through the exit in the back wall. Her favorite part of this particular shortcut was how quiet it was. The path was her own world—a secret Riyadh no one except Abdullah knew existed. And this morning it felt especially serene. Only the occasional rumble of an engine broke the silence. In the distance, Wadjda could just make out the shapes of passing cars and minibuses. Each one was filled with indistinguishable black figures—female students and teachers.
As Wadjda walked, she tallied one more time the sales she hoped to make. If she could unload at least half the bracelets she’d produced last night, she’d almost certainly pass the twenty-Riyals mark. And that didn’t even count the tapes—
Whoosh!
Wadjda gasped, her hands darting to her head. Abdullah had spotted her near the boys’ school and reappeared! He snatched the top of her veil and unfurled it from her head as he zipped past on his bicycle. The thin cloth stretched, billowing between them, forming a black line from him to her.
But the veil was tucked too tightly around Wadjda’s throat. Abdullah’s momentum pulled her forward, and she fell to the ground. Stunned, she shook out her stinging palms, mortified. Her hair was exposed. Again! Instinctively, she raised her hands to cover herself.
A few meters ahead, Abdullah slid his bicycle to a halt. He turned and blinked in disbelief, surveying the strange collection of bows and colored clips knotted randomly across the top of Wadjda’s head. He’d known her forever, so he wasn’t shocked to see her hair. She’d only started wearing the veil last year, and it was always falling off when they played. In fact, Abdullah sometimes had a hard time recognizing Wadjda when she was veiled. She seemed more like herself without it.
Now, though, he couldn’t help laughing. “What’s all this?” he asked, pointing at her hair. He tried to gesture to all the bows and clips, but there were too many, and it looked like he was trying to wave away a swarm of bees.
Wadjda stood and turned to face him, uncovered head held high. Lifting her chin, she tossed her head back the way her father did.
“It’s totally in fashion. Not that you’d know anything about that!”
Her words fell on deaf ears. Abdullah continued to guffaw, practically falling over the handlebars of his bike. In spite of herself, Wadjda reached to the top of her head and tried to pin some of the loose clips back into place. Surely she didn’t look that silly!
While she was distracted, Abdullah kicked his bike back into motion. Catching the flash of sun on metal, Wadjda spun and saw him pedaling off. Her veil dangled from his hand. He held it out mockingly, letting the end trail in the dirt.
“I’ll get you, you jerk!” Wadjda shouted. In a burst of pure rage, she took off after him. Abdullah looked back, saw her sprinting furiously, and started to slow down. He did it partly out of pity—and partly out of fear. You did not want to mess with Wadjda when she was angry. And he’d already messed with her a lot that morning.
Just as Wadjda reached out and ripped the veil from his hands, she tripped and fell to the ground—harder this time. Ow! Pain shot from her knees, from her elbows. To make matters worse, she’d splashed down in the only mud puddle in all of dry, dusty Riyadh.
The puddle was notorious to Abdullah and Wadjda. Every day, a handsome young man stood at this spot, washing his car. He washed it right when the girls’ high school bus passed by the end of his street. He was there every morning, and again in the afternoons. The second wash was for safe measure, Abdullah always joked.
Wadjda figured that the guy must really like his car clean. Either that, or it had something to do with the big smiles and long gazes she’d watched him exchange with the older girls. It seemed to Wadjda that they were able to communicate quite a bit while showing nothing but their eyes.
Although the handsome young man didn’t know she existed, Wadjda liked him—usually. When he washed his car, he blasted music from the speakers, and the bouncy songs gave her walk an upbeat sound track. Today, though, wiping mud off her face and clothes, she cursed him under her breath. Her once-neat black veil lay submerged in the swampy mud.
Ahead, Abdullah screeched to a halt and stood, one foot on a pedal, one on the ground, eyes wide. Smeared in mud, hair a mess around her face, Wadjda looked terrifying. She sat up and shot him a fiery glare.
“You moron! You’re so stupid! How can I go to school like this?”
He’d gone too far. Abdullah’s shoulders slumped. He was about to get off his bicycle to help when some boys emerged from a nearby store. They were the same guys he’d seen at the intersection. Like him, they were dawdling on their way to school.
As the boys unchained their bikes, Abdullah caught the nearest one’s eye. He knew he looked embarrassed, so he struggled to disguise his guilt with a mocking smile. “Did you really think you could catch me?” he shouted.
He didn’t look at Wadjda, and he used a barking, unsympathetic tone she wasn’t used to. Caught off guard, Wadjda looked at him in utter confusion. Then, composing herself, she snapped back, “I did catch you! Even on your stupid bicycle, I’m faster.”
The boys were clowning around on their bikes in front of the shop now, spinning in circles, trying to catch one another with great bursts of speed. Part of Abdullah wanted to join the game. Another part wanted to help Wadjda. He looked back and forth, torn.
“Yeah, right. Seems to me like you’re late and covered in mud. Hey, maybe if you had a ‘stupid’ bicycle, you could go home and change! Oh wait: you don’t. So I guess you can’t.”
With that, he stood up on the pedals and kicked his bike forward, pumping his legs hard. In seconds, he’d covered the distance to the group of boys.
The dust from his departure blew slowly toward Wadjda. She stayed where she was, sitting on the ground, keeping her face steady and still. If her lips trembled, or if the tears fell from her eyes, Abdullah would see how hurt she was.
The boys pedaled off, Abdullah riding in circles around the tallest one, showing his skills. He didn’t even glance back over his shoulder.
Wadjda let her head drop down against her chest. Time for school. She was going to be late and dirty. She took a shaky breath, counted to ten, and hefted herself off the ground, dragging her veil up after her. It felt like an iron chain, impossibly long, almost too heavy to lift. Wh
en she tried to squeeze out the water, she only got more mud on her hands and arms. The veil was too grimy and wet to even imagine wearing.
With a sigh, Wadjda started to run. In the distance, she could still make out the boys, weaving their bicycles back and forth across the street, happy and free. They moved so fast on their bikes. They flew through Riyadh like birds.
“I’ll get one,” Wadjda said out loud. It sounded like she was challenging herself.
CHAPTER FIVE
Wadjda crouched in a sliver of shadow cast by a building around the corner from her school, frantically considering her options. How could she sneak in without being noticed? There had to be a way!
She couldn’t see beyond the school’s front gate, but she knew from experience that Ms. Hussa would be directly inside. Somehow the principal was always there, waiting to catch Wadjda when she messed up. If the devil had a name, Wadjda thought, it would be Hussa.
Images of the principal slinking through school like a Siamese cat darted through her mind. Wadjda shuddered. Each day, Ms. Hussa stood at the entrance and inspected the girls, raised up on her sleek stiletto heels, gazing down from on high. Wadjda’s mother had told her Ms. Hussa’s shoes were designer, and very expensive. It made sense. The principal’s style was as legendary as her terrifying reputation. Each day, Ms. Hussa pulled her hair back tightly to accentuate her perfect makeup. The style set off her sharp, unmerciful eyes. She seemed to have new clothes every week, and the girls were always gushing about her many different outfits.
Not Wadjda, though. She didn’t like expensive stuff, and everything Ms. Hussa wore practically had dollar signs scribbled all over it. To Wadjda, Ms. Hussa looked like a dummy in a shop, not a real person with her own style. Of course, no one cared what Wadjda thought, especially not about fashion. She was the starkest contrast you could imagine to the glamorous Ms. Hussa.
The Green Bicycle Page 3
