The Green Bicycle
Page 10
She gave a piece of paper to a girl in the front row and moved out of the way to make room for Ms. Hussa. Wadjda subtly turned a page in her notebook to hide her bicycle drawing. As if attuned to the tiniest act of rebellion, Ms. Hussa’s eyes went straight to her.
Unsure what to do, Wadjda tried to look extra studious, holding her pencil over the page like she was ready to take notes. The principal humphed, and turned her gaze to the rest of the class. For greater dramatic effect, she let the awkward silence in the room build before beginning her announcement. It worked. At her first words, students gasped.
“Girls, we have increased the amount of money that will be given as a prize. The winner will now receive one thousand Riyals instead of eight hundred. Of course, you’ll have to learn all the long suras.”
Wadjda raised her eyebrows. That was a huge amount of prize money. It would cover her bike and leave her with cash left over! Quickly, she flipped through the Quran on her desk, trying to tally up the number of pages she’d have to learn. The Surat al Baqara meant the first four chapters, and the first four chapters were long.
“You must learn the verses and the proper recitation,” Ms. Hussa was saying. “Then you must study the associated vocabulary, and be prepared to account for all the reasons why we know the verses descended from heaven itself.” She said the next words with careful emphasis. “Correct tone, rhythm, and pacing are very important.”
The sign-up sheet was making its way around the room. Wadjda saw the list of names growing longer. Of course Salma signed up, she thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. That know-it-all probably would’ve done it even without the prize money.
Noura and Yasmeen put their names down, too. They weren’t great students, but they were pretty, and when they spoke in class, their lilting tones made it sound like they were singing. Noura’s probably sure she’ll win, Wadjda thought. Surreptitiously, she lifted the page in her notebook and snuck a look at the picture of her bike.
“We want to hear the beauty of the Quran sing out through your young voices,” Ms. Hussa said.
The sign-up sheet fell onto Wadjda’s desk. The thick white paper obscured the faint outline of her drawing. It was like a sign, a roadblock. You have to go through me, Wadjda, it said.
Fine. Here goes nothing! In bold black strokes, Wadjda added her name to the list of competitors. She made the letters a little bigger than the others, just in case.
• • •
Class ended, and Wadjda sprang to her feet, gathering her things more efficiently than even Salma. Squaring her shoulders and tucking her abayah raas under her arm, she walked as fast as she could to Ms. Hussa’s office. In a few brief moments, Ms. Hussa would stride outside to begin her school gate inspections. Wadjda had to act fast.
“May I see Ms. Hussa for a quick chat?” she asked Ms. Jamila.
From her shocked face, Wadjda guessed Ms. Jamila was surprised to see her back so soon—and voluntarily, at that! Still, her tone was sweet and easy.
“Of course, Wadjda. Go check and see if she’s busy.” She motioned encouragingly toward the principal’s door and watched in bemusement as Wadjda walked over, took a deep breath, and knocked. The door creaked open, and some of Wadjda’s old fear returned. The sound was like something from a horror movie! But she knew exactly what monster lurked within.
“Well? Go on!” Ms. Jamila made shooing motions with her hands.
So Wadjda did.
Inside, she stood in front of the giant desk for what felt like a long time. The dark wood seemed to suck up all the light in the room. Ms. Hussa had her head buried in yet another file, and she did not look up. She flipped page after page, making notes, adding her signature at various points. Finally, Ms. Hussa raised her head and arched an eyebrow, acknowledging Wadjda’s presence.
“Well?” she said, as if she’d been the one waiting for Wadjda to speak.
Wadjda crossed one foot over the other, trying to cover her black high-tops.
“I thought about what you said,” she blurted. “I was wrong, and I’m ready to change.”
Both Ms. Hussa’s eyebrows lifted, as if to say, Really? But the look of doubt remained on her face.
“I want to join the Religious Club!” Wadjda declared. She fought to make sure her voice didn’t shake. To convince Ms. Hussa, she needed to sound strong and sure.
Ms. Hussa’s facial expression still didn’t change, but her eyes narrowed slightly. Despite her outward calm, Wadjda felt like she could practically hear the principal’s brain buzzing and whirring as she tried to make sense of this strange new information.
“What, you’re becoming a sheikha all of a sudden?”
“Maybe I’ll learn something,” Wadjda said slowly. “You know . . . to put me on the righteous path.” Seeing that her words weren’t having the dramatic impact she’d hoped for, she decided to add more fuel to the fire. “You’ll see,” she said, making her back oh-so-straight and tall. “I can be different.”
Ms. Hussa peered at her, clearly suspicious, but also intrigued.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “We’ll see.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Winding her way through the backstreets on her way home, Wadjda felt lifted, like she was walking on air. A deep sense of determination hummed in her heart and powered her steps. Her enormous new abayah raas flowed out behind her like a superhero’s cape as she marched forward, heading straight to the toy shop.
Outside, she stood face-to-handlebars with the bicycle, taking in the totality of its awesome presence. The bike had started to feel like a person to Wadjda, something more alive and present than spokes and wheels and chrome. It was a friend, a companion on an adventure. But it was a door, too, an opening that would take her to all the places she’d dreamed of going.
Beep! A passing car tooted its horn furiously. The sound snapped Wadjda back to reality. With a sigh, she pushed open the door. The little bell jangled, announcing her presence. Fixing a smile on her face, Wadjda stepped into the toy shop. The owner looked up from a stack of receipts and stared at her over his reading glasses. His eyes were curious.
Today, the old man’s ghutra was pushed to the back, exposing more of his forehead and giving him a relaxed, casual look. This guy’s stylish, Wadjda thought. He’s got flair. Was that a good thing, though? She frowned, toeing her shoe against the ground. She had flair, too, or at least she thought she did. But all her purple shoelaces and cool sneakers had ever brought her was trouble.
Still considering, she slipped into one of the aisles and pretended to be examining the dusty toys. Every so often, she snuck a look back at the owner.
A traditional pot of Saudi blond coffee sat on his desk. The shopkeeper poured himself a little cup, drank it, and then deliberately set both coffee and coffeepot down. Keeping his eyes on Wadjda, he flipped the record on the player beside him. It was an easy, practiced motion, like he did it so many times a day he didn’t even think about it anymore. The needle crackled and hissed as it tripped across the grooves of the old record, and a rush of sound filled the shop, the familiar sounds of a faraway time playing out in crackles and spurts. Terrible sound quality! Wadjda had to resist the urge to put her hands to her ears.
“You know they’ve invented this new thing called a tape player?” she yelled over at him. Now’s as good a time as any to break the ice, she told herself. To have any hope of convincing the owner to sell her the bike, she needed him on her side.
The old man sniffed, but didn’t answer her question.
“Do you ever plan to buy anything?” he grumbled. Wadjda smiled back innocently. So far, he didn’t seem super friendly. But he wasn’t asking her to leave or chasing her away, either. And every so often his eyes would twinkle—with amusement? Kindness?—in a way that encouraged her to keep going.
“How would I know?” she said. “People need to browse, don’t they?”
Tearing her eyes away, she looked up and saw the owner still staring at her, still peering suspiciously over the top of his glasses. Gathering the stack of receipts, he tapped them into an organized pile, neatly squaring the edges. And still his eyes didn’t leave Wadjda. He was making her nervous! Determined to escape his gaze, she snuck off to one of the back sections: Computer Games.
Idly, she turned over a large box. Learn Quran the Easy Way was emblazed on its side in bright red letters. Was this what she needed to win the competition? Mental images of the girls in her class ran through Wadjda’s mind. To beat the best students, like Salma, and the best speakers, like Noura, she was going to need a leg up.
“You won’t find any tapes back there.” The owner yelled casually, without looking her way. “This is a modern shop, you see. We only have CDs.”
This time, Wadjda saw it for sure: a twinkle in his eye. As she watched, a smile creased his wrinkled face, making his eyes go crinkly at the corners. Okay, it looked kind of mocking. But a smile was a smile—and a smile was the sign she’d been waiting for.
Yes! she thought. She beamed back at him, a giant grin that showed all her teeth. Her joy was real, nothing fake about it. For there was no doubt in her mind now: He would sell her the bicycle.
“Thank you very much!” she chirped, her voice light and happy, like the song of a bird. Still smiling, she made her way toward the exit, fixing her veil as she went. “See you tomorrow!”
This was his heads-up. He should know that he’d be seeing a lot more of her—right up to the moment when she set eight hundred Riyals down on his counter and pedaled her bicycle home.
The shop was stuffy and thick with afternoon heat, so Wadjda left the door open. As she passed the bicycle, she ran her fingers through the ribbons on the handlebars, letting them play across her skin like water. The gesture seemed to spur something in the shop owner. He poked his head out the door and called, “Can you even ride?”
“Ride?” Wadjda raised her eyebrows and folded her arms challengingly. With her feet planted on the ground, she felt like a strong tree. “I race the wind.”
A triumphant note to leave on! Wadjda could have clapped her hands together for joy. Head held high, she spun—
And tripped on the dragging hem of her enormous abayah raas. She stumbled forward, bent at the waist, taking fast steps to keep from falling face-first into the dirt.
So much for that, she thought, feeling herself blush beet red beneath the protective covering of her veil.
Behind her, the owner was laughing. Not loudly. But his shoulders were shaking, and his lips were pressed together, as if to hide a smile. When he caught her looking, he harrumphed and went back inside. A second later, the music from his beat-up record player got louder, as if he’d cranked the volume. Wadjda smiled.
The shop owner may have been trying to hide it, but Wadjda knew she had an ally now. All of a sudden, her quest to buy the bicycle felt so much more possible.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Was there a class in the history of school that made it easy to stay awake?
Wadjda leaned her sweaty cheek into her even sweatier palm. Her body felt like it was swaying slowly, back and forth. The AC hissed above her. The fan turned, lifting hot air so heavy it felt like a physical weight. All Wadjda wanted was to tip over onto her desk, close her eyes, and sleep for a thousand years.
At the front of the room, the teacher cleared the blackboard, wiping away the equations and figures from their math lesson. As the complex problems disappeared, so, Wadjda thought, did all sense of logic. In the absence of math, nothing in school made sense to her. It was a lot of words, blowing around the room like sand.
Today, their teacher was collecting ideas for the Religious Club’s bulletin board. Though she was the club’s newest and supposedly most enthusiastic member, Wadjda’s eyelids kept slipping shut. With each comforting flash of darkness, sleep seemed more tempting. At this point, Wadjda’s arm was barely able to hold the weight of her head.
Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake. Wadjda recited the words like a mantra. Dragging herself upright, she started pinching the palm of her right hand with her fingernails. Determined, she stared at the blackboard—and even gave a small smile to the teacher, who didn’t seem to notice Wadjda’s new keenness.
“Let’s compile all the stories we know about torment in the grave and make a pamphlet for the whole school. Any ideas about what we should include?”
Noura raised her hand eagerly. The teacher nodded, giving her the floor.
“I want to tell the story of the giant snake from hell,” Noura blurted. “There’s a girl who didn’t pray on time. After she died, the giant snake was sent to torment her!”
“Good, Noura. Thank you.” The teacher wrote “giant snake from hell” on the top line of her chart.
Were they really going to do this for a whole hour? Wadjda gazed idly out into the corridor. Was that? . . . She frowned. Yes, definitely the faint tapping of high heels, in the distance but coming closer. The hair on the back of Wadjda’s neck stood up.
“What other ideas do we have?” the teacher was asking.
Sitting up in her seat, Wadjda tried to concentrate. She had to think of a good story. Torment in the grave . . . If the Prophet Mohammad put a fresh twig on a grave, it was said to ease the dead person’s suffering, right? Wadjda furrowed her brow, trying to decide if that would be a good addition to the pamphlet.
In the hallway, the sound of clicking heels grew closer. And then Wadjda’s worst nightmare was there, coming true right in front of her. Her mother, walking with Ms. Hussa toward her office.
Wadjda’s whole body went rigid as she watched them disappear down the hall. Her mother was nervously fixing her hair and adjusting her blouse, holding her black abayah at her side as she walked behind the principal.
Forget the torment of the grave, Wadjda thought, slumping back in her seat. She was about to experience torment right here on earth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Crash!
A plate smashed to the ground and broke with a resounding clatter. Smaller crashes followed as the pieces ricocheted off the kitchen cupboards and table legs.
In her bedroom, Wadjda sat up like a shot. She could hear her mother cursing her as she cleaned—or broke—the pile of dinner dishes from the previous night.
“Always trying to get money. Sneaking, lying, breaking the rules—and for what?” Mother’s voice, usually low and beautiful, was a screechy scream. Each word trembled with rage. “To buy a bicycle? I swear, Wadjda, you’ll never have that thing, not as long as I’m alive! Do you think I’ll just wait around until you get expelled?”
Wadjda snuck to the door and oh-so-carefully peeked around the corner. When she made out her mother’s figure, she sank back against the wall and buried her head in her hands. Mother was still in her work clothes. That meant things were bad. She never cleaned the house wearing her good blouses and skirts. They were far too valuable. Each month, she saved just enough money to buy one or two things at Zara. Each night, she took great care washing and ironing them so that they’d last longer. Looking good at work was one of her mother’s top priorities, and with the mess she was making in the kitchen, her favorite red silk shirt was going to get ruined.
Smash! Wadjda heard another plate shatter. She covered her ears, desperate to block out the sound. When that didn’t work, she flung herself across the room and slapped at the dial on her radio, hoping music would cover the sound of her own sobs. The song that came on was a new R & B hit by Beyoncé, the notes low and pulsing.
/> Swiping at her nose with the back of her hand, Wadjda cranked the volume all the way up, desperate to tune out her mother’s vicious scolding.
“Turn off that damn radio! Recording those evil songs?” Now her mother sounded even angrier. “You’re no better than Abeer! And what happened to her? I’ll tell you: She’s staying at home until her parents marry her off. That’s what I’m going to do with you, too! No school for you tomorrow! You’re not leaving this house.”
Wadjda turned off the radio and fell back onto her bed. The tears were rolling down faster now, but she swallowed every sob that rose in her throat. Scrubbing at her cheeks, she fought to gather her courage. Then she crept to the door again, wondering why the kitchen had gone strangely silent.
The moonlight beamed in through the dirty window. It silhouetted her mother, who stood very still, surveying the broken glass scattered across the floor. As Wadjda watched, her mother pulled her disheveled hair away from her face, gathering it back strand by strand. For a long time, she stood there, one hand holding her hair, one palm pressing against her forehead. Water roared out of the tap in the sink beside her. Several minutes passed before Mother turned it off. All the rage had left her body. Now she just seemed terribly tired.
As Wadjda watched, her mother searched slowly through the cabinet under the sink for a hand broom and dustpan. Dropping to her knees, she swept up the mess, dumping the pan full of broken glass into the bin. The shards made a loud clatter against the sides of the plastic container.
Padding silently on the balls of her feet, Wadjda crept out farther into the hall. Her mother was in the living room now, pacing back and forth. Wadjda could hear her nervous footsteps, a fast patter that muffled suddenly when she stepped onto the rug. Once, twice, she reached for the phone, only to pull away. Then, abruptly, she snatched up the handle, punched in a number, and waited.