Sure enough, there was Abdullah, tossing rocks and shouting playful insults at his friends. Smirking, Wadjda scooped up a stone and threw it in his direction. Her aim was good, but not good enough. The rock narrowly missed, pinging against one of the wheels of his bike. Abdullah whirled, eyes darting across the barren parking lot. When he saw Wadjda, his face shifted from anger to shock. He looked nervously at his friends, but they were busy aiming stones at one of the few unbroken panes of glass on the vast wall above them.
Still chicken, Wadjda thought, rolling her eyes. Doesn’t want to be seen with me.
She lifted another rock and waved it at her friend, as if to say, “This time I won’t miss!” Without waiting any longer, Abdullah rolled his bike over to her hiding place.
“Do you know how to get to Adira?” she asked.
Abdullah stared at her, baffled. Seemingly without thinking, he reached up and adjusted his taqia, patting it down with his fingers. The delicate white fabric was lovely, Wadjda thought, and the weaving was perfect, like a sturdy spiderweb. It even had a flash of silver thread around the edges. It looked beautiful, sitting just so on her friend’s head. She wanted to tell him that, but didn’t. Somehow, it felt too weird.
The silence stretched between them. Then Abdullah dropped his hands back to his sides, nodded, and tilted his chin toward the west edge of the parking lot. They set off together without further explanation.
Wadjda stood on the pegs of Abdullah’s bicycle, balancing on either side of the back tire as he pedaled them along. Before getting on, she’d rolled up the edge of her abayah and tucked it under her body to keep it from getting tangled in the spokes. She couldn’t have it getting dirty—she’d learned her lesson with her veil.
Standing on the pegs wasn’t a bad way to ride. Abdullah was a steady cyclist, and it was much faster than walking. But it wasn’t very comfortable, either. They flew past the toy shop, and Wadjda thought she saw the green bicycle glimmering in the distance. She sighed and looked down, watching Abdullah’s feet spin the pedals.
If I had my own bicycle, I’d have done this on my own, she thought. I wouldn’t have needed anyone’s help.
At this time of day, the streets of Riyadh were a clogged mess. As he maneuvered the bicycle through the cars backed up on the roads, Abdullah looked back over his shoulder at Wadjda. He tried to say something, but she couldn’t hear. He tried again, shouting to be heard over the grumble of idling engines.
“You have to get off if we see someone we know! And cover your face. I don’t want people to talk about me. I’ll say you’re my sister.”
“No one will believe it,” Wadjda shouted back. “I’m way too cute to be related to you!”
“Yeah, right,” Abdullah sounded annoyed, like he wanted her to be more grateful for his help. Fat chance, Wadjda thought. He was lucky she was letting him come along. “And isn’t the principal going to call your mother? You’re skipping school!”
“I’m taking a personal leave day,” Wadjda said. “The school knows.”
She could have said more, could have told him the whole awful story. About Ms. Hussa finding her backpack and confiscating the bracelets and mixtapes, about her parents’ fight, her mother threatening to marry her off or lock her in the house forever. But in the end, she stayed quiet. Her family’s drama was no one’s business but theirs.
They approached a busy road, and Abdullah stopped so Wadjda could get off and walk alongside him. To avoid attention, she was trying unusually hard to be demure, but it was no use. Her veil kept falling off. Try as she might, she couldn’t master the stupid thing. And every time it slipped down, Abdullah shot her a worried look. Wadjda tugged the cloth back into place for the fifty millionth time and sighed heavily.
The walk was hot and tedious, but soon they were a safe distance away from any onlookers. Grinning, Wadjda jumped back on the pegs, and they continued across town to an older part of the city.
The Adira section of Riyadh was entirely new to Wadjda. It looked nothing like her neighborhood, with its rows of villas and strong protective walls. Here, dilapidated buildings slumped against one another. Many looked like they might fall over at any moment. Small shelters were built at their bases, crowding the narrow alleys. Everywhere, sheets of ragged cloth had been pinned up against the brutal sun. The area was crowded with groups of foreign workers, smoking and laughing as they passed by.
Every so often, one of them glanced Wadjda’s way. Each time, fear crawled up her spine. She remembered the workers on top of the building. Now they’d entered a neighborhood entirely populated by single men. Wadjda pulled her abayah tight around her, covering her jeans and favorite T-shirt. Though everything in her was screaming, leave, leave, she kept her eyes resolutely forward.
I have to do this, she thought again and again. My mother needs me.
Down one of the alleys, an older Indian man sat on the steps in front of a tiny convenience store. Sun-faded packages of chips and candy and gluey-looking soda bottles were stacked on the shelves inside. Abdullah nodded toward him and raised his eyebrows at Wadjda. Wadjda nodded back. Gathering her courage, she approached. The man kept staring into the distance. Wadjda gave him a slight smile and a wave, looking back over her shoulder at Abdullah.
“Hey, hi there,” she said. “Do you know where Iqbal the driver lives?”
The old man looked at her suspiciously. There was a long pause, long enough that Wadjda began to wonder if he spoke any Arabic at all. Should she ask in an easier way, using the simpler Arabic she was accustomed to speaking with Iqbal?
“Do you know how many ‘Iqbal the drivers’ there are around here, little girl?” the man said finally in broken Arabic. Taking a drag from his cigarette, he blew out the smoke in a steady stream.
Wadjda shrugged, muttered, “Thanks,” and turned back to Abdullah. Together, they wheeled his bicycle forward, determined to explore Adira’s backstreets together.
It wasn’t a pleasant search. The lanes and alleys were dusty and dirty. Garbage lay heaped in sprawling piles. Here and there a stray cat or dog picked at an old packet of food. Side by side, keeping close, Abdullah and Wadjda passed from one street to the next. It was almost lunchtime, and several workers hurried by carrying big sheets of tamees bread.
Wadjda smiled. She loved tamees bread. Her father used to bring it to work every Friday morning, to eat before prayer. Along with a huge plate of Yemeni glaba foul, cooked beans with tomato and olive oil, topped with light hummus, it was one of his favorite meals—and Wadjda’s, too. But at this moment she couldn’t think of food. Her stomach ached too much from nerves.
Finally, Wadjda spotted a minivan with taped-on headlights parked next to a shabby house. The bus looked familiar—she could swear she recognized that big dent on the left fender, and the scratched-up bumper! Breathless with anticipation, she pointed it out to Abdullah, and they ran to take a closer look. Wadjda stepped up to the passenger-side window, cupped her hands over her eyes, and peered inside. Sure enough, there was the picture of the little girl on the dashboard. Definitely Iqbal’s!
Whirling, Wadjda flashed Abdullah a triumphant “yes,” raising both thumbs high. She felt like an explorer who’d hacked her way through a thick jungle to a lost city full of treasures. “This is the building!” she cried. “Let’s go.”
Abdullah tried to go first, but Wadjda stayed close to his side, and they pushed open the crumbling wooden door together. Stepping inside, they found themselves in the middle of an empty courtyard. Makeshift drying racks, each strewn with frayed work clothes, stood in front of a series of doors. Beside each door, men’s shoes and sandals were heaped in jumbled piles.
Leaving Abdullah to wait, Wadjda flitted from door to door. Iqbal’s distinctive sandals, the toe straps wrapped in dingy orange tape, were in front of a room on the far side. She motioned for Abdullah to knock, but he shook his head and moved back behind his bicycle,
which he still hadn’t drawn all the way into the courtyard.
“This is your war, Wadjda!” he whispered. “I don’t want any part of your crazy schemes!”
“Fine!” Wadjda hissed back. For a second, she frowned at him, but no, getting mad was a waste of time. She needed to gather her courage to confront Iqbal.
Taking a deep breath, she faced the door and knocked. The sound was more confident than she felt, a loud BAM BAM BAM. She waited several moments for a response, her heart beating faster and faster. It seemed to echo the knocks on the door: BOOM BOOM BOOM.
No answer. Wadjda looked back at Abdullah, who seemed determined to ignore her. Slouching against his bicycle, he was playing with his taqia. He’d made his face look bored and distracted, like he was pretending not to have a care in the world. Wadjda twisted her lips, frowning. Stupid boy. Probably thought she hadn’t thanked him enough or something.
“Are you going to help or not?” she whisper-hissed across the courtyard.
“You want my help all the time, Wadjda! And you act like I have to just jump up and run when you come calling! No thanks from you, no nothing.”
Wadjda rolled her eyes; she’d been right. This made Abdullah even angrier, and for a moment she felt bad—he had come all the way to Adira with her. But before she could say anything more, Abdullah said fiercely, “You can do it yourself this time!” and Wadjda snapped her lips shut. No more niceness for you, Abdullah!
Turning, she knocked again, even louder. What if Iqbal wasn’t home? Secretly, Wadjda kind of hoped that was the case. But before she could turn away, shrug her shoulders, and chirp, “Oh well, guess we should go,” there was a metallic click. The door swung open, and Iqbal stumbled out, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
When he saw Wadjda, every trace of tiredness vanished. Iqbal’s eyes popped open wide, like someone had squeezed him around the middle and surprised him.
“You!” he shrieked, a look of fury on his face. “What do you want?”
“You can’t do this!” Wadjda shot back. In a second, all her nerves were gone. She felt like a blazing torch, one giant fiery purpose. Iqbal didn’t know it, but she was ready to fight. “You can’t just stop driving my mother in the middle of the semester!”
The driver gave a dismissive wave and tried to close the door. Quick as a flash, Wadjda drove her foot into the space between door and frame, stopping him.
“Don’t you dare close the door on me! You were already paid, remember?”
“Get out of here, little girl! You have no business being out of your house. Does your mother know you’re here?” Iqbal’s face was twisted and ugly. Looming above Wadjda, he seemed scarier than he did during their regular morning standoffs. “Maybe I should go see her, hmm? Tell her what you’re doing?”
Wadjda backed away in despair. She had no idea what to do—if Iqbal made good on his threats, she’d be in even more trouble.
Then, suddenly, Abdullah was there. He jumped in front of Wadjda and put his foot up against the door. Wadjda’s jaw dropped.
“Where’s your iqamah?” Abdullah asked assertively. The iqamah, or residency card, was a necessity for all foreigners living in Riyadh. At the sound of its name, Iqbal’s already tense face went even tighter. His menacing gaze shifted to Abdullah.
“Go away!” he shouted.
“It’s a good job you’ve got,” Abdullah said, trying to sound tough. “No problems, lots of money . . .” Wadjda blinked. His tone was grown-up, pragmatic. He sounded like an old man discussing a business transaction. “Just go back to picking up Wadjda’s mother, and we can all forget about this incident.”
Iqbal wasn’t taking the bait. He snorted and turned, giving up on his attempts to close the door. Cold sweat sprang up on Wadjda’s palms. Could they come so close and lose him now?
In front of her, Abdullah raised his voice. His tone was forceful, each word a challenge. “Do you know who my uncle is? The one with the mustache? Have you seen his election posters? I’m sure he’d be interested in investigating your legal status.”
The words worked like magic. As the driver stared down at the tiny troublemakers, his shoulders slumped. Bitterness stole across his face. Sensing his newfound power, Abdullah stood his ground.
Behind him, Wadjda folded her arms and raised her chin, waiting for Iqbal to answer. We’ve won, she thought. Her mother was saved.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Her abayah fell open, and Wadjda threw her head back, letting the fresh air wash over her face. Outside the sweltering courtyard and cramped backstreets of Adira, the city seemed clean and open, the endless journey home a walk in the park. Laughing boldly, Wadjda dashed after Abdullah, who rode ahead, swerving jubilantly back and forth across the street on his bicycle.
Finally, breathless, Wadjda stopped. She planted her feet and crossed her arms, her pose a perfect mimicry of Abdullah’s as he’d confronted Iqbal.
“Come, come, surely you know my uncle?” she said in a deep voice. “The one with the giant mustache?”
Abdullah laughed, dismounting and straightening his white thobe.
“Laugh all you want. He did know him! That mustache is a registered trademark!”
Wadjda thought Abdullah looked happier than she’d ever seen him. In Iqbal’s courtyard, he’d been like a knight in a storybook, full of chivalry and courage. They’d both been! At the thought, Wadjda laughed, too, happy and relieved.
Things had worked out. And she had a true friend in Abdullah, someone who was willing to follow her into danger and stand by her side. The thought sent a gush of pride welling through her.
They set off again, walking together, cutting down alleys in an attempt to avoid the main road. The area was residential now—blocks of houses and small corner shops. Wadjda felt fingers tug at her abayah. She looked over and saw Abdullah pointing at a house farther down the street. It was busy with men, who came and went through the front gate in a steady stream.
One man, older, a full mustache bristling on his upper lip, stopped at the door. He wore his white ghutra without an iqal, the black belt men used to fasten down their head coverings.
“Why . . .” Wadjda started, gesturing toward the man. He was wearing his ghutra in the style of the Haya’, or commission, men. The Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, to be exact. Which meant she and Abdullah needed to slip away unnoticed. The man might be religious police, and if he caught them hanging out on the street, she’d be in serious trouble. “Uh-oh,” Wadjda breathed.
Beside her, Abdullah sighed and shook his head. “Don’t worry. He’s busy. See how he’s greeting the people? There was a death in the family.” Turning his bicycle, he gestured to a cross street that led away from the house. “We should go this way.”
Wadjda’s eyes were wide with surprise. “A death! Really? Do you know what happened?”
“Their son died fighting in Iraq. From a bomb”
Wadjda’s eyes went wide. “That must have hurt so bad!”
“No.” Abdullah shook his head, correcting her. “If you die for God, it’s like the prick of a needle—hardly any pain. Then you fly up to heaven and you have seventy women, all yours!”
“Really?” Wadjda giggled in spite of herself. Abdullah, talking about seventy women! Ridiculous. He hid from his friends every time he even talked to a girl. Honestly, the whole idea sounded silly, like when her mother told her the Tooth Fairy would give her more money for extra-clean teeth.
“Really,” Abdullah said, wheeling his bicycle forward, wounded by her giggles.
Wadjda ran to catch up, thoughts tumbling through her mind. Soon, they reached a small grocery store. Abdullah leaned his bike against the wall, his annoyance forgotten.
“Stay with the bicycle,” he said. “Make sure no one steals it. I’m going to get us some ice cream to celebrate.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wadjd
a said. She ran her hands along his bike, enjoying the feel of the cool metal bars, the slightly cracked leather seat. “Hey, buy the one with the sweepstakes entry!” she shouted, remembering right as Abdullah opened the door.
“Ew! That one tastes like mud.”
“Yeah, but we might win!” Wadjda’s eyes sparkled. “Just think—twenty thousand Riyals!”
Abdullah shook his head and disappeared into the shop. Wadjda looked down at the bicycle, itching to hop on and ride. By the time her friend came out, she’d be all the way down the block! But that would upset him, and he’d helped her so much today.
With a sigh, Wadjda leaned against the bicycle. She put her right arm casually between the handlebars, stuck her left foot back against the crossbar, and propped her hand on her hip. It was a pose she’d seen an old American movie star, Marlon Brando, make in a movie about motorcyclists. The movie had aired three nights in a row on television. In it, a group of men rode across America, entering contests on their bikes and fighting rival gangs. Wadjda watched it every single time. Now she tried to imitate Marlon’s bored, cool expression as she watched Riyadh’s late afternoon traffic flow by.
Abdullah came out of the shop, already-melting ice creams in hand, and smiled.
They’d nearly reached home when the two friends parted ways. Wadjda made the rest of the trip alone. Several streets from her house, she passed a hole-in-the-wall shop that developed pictures. The window display was vivid and busy, packed full of T-shirts, notebooks, pillows, mugs, and other trinkets, all personalized with family photos.
Most of them were so cheesy! Wadjda laughed aloud at a pillow near the front. It showed a man standing in front of a country farm backdrop—fake red windmill, fake black-and-white cows, fake green grass. For extra pizzazz, an airbrushed, multicolored butterfly had been added to the top. It was almost the same size as the man’s arm!
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