Still laughing, Wadjda slipped inside and examined some of the other items on the counter. Then inspiration hit. She fumbled through her wallet, pulled out a photo, and held it up: a veiled woman, her face hidden, tenderly holding a smiling baby girl in her slender, henna-decorated hands.
“Can you put this picture on a mug?” she asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wadjda creaked open the front gate and pulled her gum out of the slot. Long strands of goo trailed after, sticking to her fingers and making a gummy mess. Ew. Wadjda tossed the wad into the bushes and rubbed her hands together to get rid of the residue. She let the gate snap closed behind her and then, moving stealthily as a street cat, she crept to the front window and lifted her head just high enough to look through.
Inside, her mother lay on the couch, eyes still fixed on the TV. Holding back a sigh, Wadjda hunkered down, knees pressed to her chest. It might be a long wait.
Her eyes drifted up to the roof. Though it was tempting, she knew there was no way she could shimmy back up.
Things weren’t all bad, though. Even in that tiny glimpse through the window, Wadjda had seen contentment on her mother’s face. Mother seemed carefree, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Iqbal must have called and apologized, or at least offered to drive her again.
Victory! Wadjda would have loved to hear that conversation. Just thinking about it made her grin.
She snuck another peek over the sill. This time, she saw her mother looking around furtively as she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Wadjda ducked down again, to be safe, but she knew she wasn’t in any danger. Her mother always made that face before she smoked, like she thought it was some big secret.
Ha! Wadjda’s lips twisted wryly. She’d known Mother was a smoker for years—ever since she started finding discarded ashtrays on the roof. It had to stay secret, though, so Wadjda made sure not to let on. In the Kingdom, only sleazy women smoked—actresses or tacky fashion models, the ones who appeared in foreign magazines. Their tight outfits, with exposed arms and bare midriffs, had to be blacked out with a marker by the censors before they were put on the racks. What a crazy job, Wadjda thought. To have to go through every copy, blacking out all the legs and shoulders and cleavage! If anyone ever found out Wadjda’s mother smoked like them . . .
Wadjda shook her head at the thought. It would be a huge scandal. Her father would be so angry. And she didn’t like to think about what her grandmother would do!
But this was why Wadjda kept her mother’s secret. She thought smoking was maybe the only rebellious thing her mother could do. The only way her mother could feel free. Sometimes, when Wadjda was lying in bed and smelled the gross smell of smoke, it made her think of how she felt when she ran through the streets, arms and legs pumping.
Besides, from listening to gossip and smelling people’s clothes and breath, Wadjda knew her mother wasn’t alone. Many Saudi women secretly smoked—but only in complete privacy. They could never risk the awful consequences of getting caught.
Inside, Mother pulled out a cigarette and lighter, rose from the couch, and made her way upstairs. As soon as she stood, Wadjda started crawling toward the front door. In time with the beating of her heart, she started counting: one, two, three . . .
When she was sure her mother was out of sight, she closed her eyes and twisted the knob. It opened quietly . . . four, five, six . . .
By the count of ten, without ever making a sound, Wadjda was safely inside. To everyone but Iqbal and Abdullah, it was like she’d never left. In her room, she fell back onto her bed, exhaustion dragging her body down into the mattress. Pride stirred inside her, along with relief—and a touch of gratitude. She’d been able to take care of her mother, to save her job without sacrificing her pride. Sure, the whole mess was kind of her fault, but it had all worked out in the end.
And there was still so much to do! Before she got too lost in patting herself on the back, Wadjda rose, determined. Her abayah went back under her schoolbag. With a towel, she wiped her face, mopping away the sweat. Then her eyes went to her savings chart, and she darted across the room to count her money.
Slowly, she ran each bill through her fingers, straightening the wrinkles, smoothing the imperfections. It was silly, but Wadjda found herself hoping that if she were careful enough, there’d be more than the last time she’d counted. Somehow . . .
“Forty, fifty, five-five, sixty Riyals,” she whispered.
Her door opened. Wadjda’s head shot up instinctively. A second later, her mother poked her head inside. Though she was trying to look stern, her inner happiness shone through her eyes. It was like trying to put a basket over a lightbulb.
Wadjda smiled—and then gulped. Oops. She’d been grounded all day. She was supposed to be apologetic! Trying to make her face look both innocent and repentant, she lowered her head and stared up at her mother. Peeking out from beneath her eyelashes, she looked like a sad puppy.
Without turning her head, she blindly shoved the money under her chart with her right hand.
“Had enough?” her mother asked.
Still doing her best to look defeated, Wadjda nodded.
I accept my punishment, her wide eyes said. It was all my fault.
“Tomorrow you can return to school,” her mother said, “but you’re staying in that Religious Club for the rest of the school year, Wadjda, like you told the principal.”
Wadjda nodded again, bowing her head even lower. Her mother smiled. It was clear from her face that she thought she’d found more than just a suitable punishment for her daughter. She had put Wadjda on the track to redemption. As she closed the door and walked down the hallway, Wadjda heard her singing softly to herself.
The Religious Club was a small price to pay for this truce! Wadjda started to do a little whistling of her own. She pulled the bills back out and kept counting. After her impulsive stop at the photography shop, though, she had less, not more. In her mind’s eye, the green bicycle seemed to slip further away, falling back into the distance.
“Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one . . .” She searched the drawer, scouring the corners for any remaining bills, and sighed. “Sixty-two Riyals.”
The last note went on the pile, and Wadjda gave the diminished stack a gentle pat. Then she picked up the mug she’d purchased and stared at it. Some details had been lost: her mother was nothing but a black blob. Still, the image exuded unmistakable love. The way her mother was holding baby Wadjda, the gentle, protective curve of her hands . . .
Wadjda smiled, put the mug in her bag, and went out to the living room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The TV was on, but muted. Silent figures danced across the screen—two men in an office building, a boy playing with his friends in the street. Wadjda plopped down on the floor in front of the television, dropping her heavy bag of schoolbooks off to the side. She thought idly about doing her homework, but she was already a day behind. Even thinking about the amount of catching up she’d have to do tomorrow made her tired.
Instead, she sprawled back on the floor, spread her arms to either side, and lay for a while, daydreaming. Every so often, her eyes drifted to the TV. The show had gone to commercial, an ad for the movie coming up next: The Matrix. Though the movie was a million years old, like everything else on Saudi TV, Wadjda liked Keanu Reeves’s sunglasses. They made him look cool. If only she had those to sell at school!
On the other side of the room, Wadjda’s mother had settled back onto the couch, but she seemed bored, too. Her hair was pinned up, a few curls dangling down to brush her neck. It was a fancier style than her usual one. She had beautiful eye makeup on, too.
As Wadjda watched, Mother picked up the phone and held the receiver to her ear. As she waited for an answer, her gaze moved to Wadjda, and a flash of annoyance lit her face. With her eyes, she motioned threateningly to the schoolbag.
Fine. Wadjda sighed and pulled out a book. She tried to read, but the words blurred before her eyes. She tried to take notes, but it felt like dragging an iron rod across the page. Sticking her pencil in her mouth, she chewed on the eraser. After a few seconds, she gave up entirely and rolled onto her back, twirling the pencil between her fingers.
Mother was pacing back and forth, the receiver still in her hand. The phone rang and rang—and then Wadjda heard a voice. Father! Her mother smiled a slow smile. It looked sweet. And very flirty.
“Come on, don’t you miss us?” she said into the phone. Her voice was low and teasing. “It’s been almost two weeks since you stayed for the night. And I didn’t hear from you at all yesterday. Are you punishing us, or have you already found someone new?”
Though her mother’s sappy giggling made Wadjda roll her eyes, hearing her parents talking again after their awful fight sent happiness zinging from her head to her toes. She stared down at the richly patterned carpet, trying to hide her smile.
“If I’m the original brand, why do you look for imitations?” her mother trilled into the phone, quoting the lyrics of a famous song. On graceful feet, she padded into the other room, dropping her voice lower still.
This was the moment! Wadjda pulled the mug from her bag, tore a piece of paper from her notebook, and shook red, green, and blue crayons free of their box. Carefully, she wrote out a famous poem, making each word a different color. She wrote slowly, to ensure her handwriting was its absolute neatest.
“Mother, Mother,” she whispered as she wrote. “I can’t believe I love her so much. / I miss her all the time / I want to kiss her hand. / My mother is full of tenderness / A true gift from God.”
Folding the note into quarters, she slipped it into the mug and set her gift on the table. Then she rushed back to her homework. Through the doorway, she saw her mother pacing the kitchen, the phone still pressed to her ear. Apparently she and Father had finished talking, because Mother was dialing another number. When she spoke, she sounded much happier and more at ease.
“Leila, how are you?” A pause. “Wonderful. Listen, Leila, remember how I collected money for you from the other girls? Well, I’ve had it for some time now—aren’t you coming to pick it up?”
She stopped, almost dropping the phone. Wadjda started at her sudden movement.
“Really!” her mother exclaimed. “You’re working at the hospital across the road? For how long now? What did your husband say? Doesn’t he mind you working with men?!” She paced the floor, listening intently, then said, “It’s like two blocks from my house. What? Now? Yes, great, we’re home.”
She hung up and stared off into space. Absently, she rubbed her fingernail against her bottom lip, a gesture she made when she was thinking. Then, as Wadjda watched, she left the kitchen and walked down the hall. Wadjda scrambled to her feet and crept to the door, watching her.
Her mother was bent over the dresser in her room. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a wad of money. Wadjda’s eyes widened. It was huge! The bundled Riyals made a giant fistful in her mother’s hand.
Saving money wasn’t easy for her mother—or any of her mother’s friends. To Wadjda, it seemed like Saudis were people who liked to spend whatever they earned right away. They’d say, “Spend what you have in your pocket, and what God destines for you will come.” Of course, Wadjda thought, watching her mother flip through the stack of notes, what’s destined doesn’t always seem to happen.
That’s why she was working so hard for her bicycle. And it was why women like her mother used the system of the Jamaaea. Nine or ten women would chip in part of their salaries to a collective pot. Each month, they’d take turns holding on to the full stash. It was a creative way to force themselves to save. The pressure of commitment to people they knew kept everyone on the straight and narrow. This month, it was Leila’s turn to collect the pot.
The Jamaaea. Wadjda sighed and shook her head. Nope. That wasn’t for her. She was going to shake things up, do something seriously different. Provided she could escape Ms. Hussa’s iron fist, she would work hard and save all she needed, all by herself.
Brrrring! As one, mother’s and daughter’s heads lifted at the sound of the doorbell. Sensing motion in the doorway, Mother turned to meet Wadjda’s curious stare. Frowning—she was always yelling at Wadjda for the way she crept around the house—she moved to close the door to her room.
“Go see who it is,” she called as the latch clicked shut.
Why not? Better than homework! Rubbing her hands together to remove smudges of crayon, Wadjda dashed into the narrow hall, enjoying the skid of her stocking feet on the tiles. Sliding to a stop, she pulled open the door and saw Abdullah, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, a roll of extension cord coiled over his shoulder.
For a few moments, they stared at each other. It was weird to see Abdullah again, so soon after he’d offered his help. It made Wadjda feel kind of shy. She wondered if she might be blushing. Fat chance! She leaned against the doorjamb, trying to act cool and indifferent.
“Hello,” she said in her most neutral tone. “What do you want?”
Abdullah shuffled his feet and darted a glance behind him, as if checking for pursuers. “My uncle wants me to string these lights all the way down the street. Can I attach them to your roof?” He sounded sheepish. Then, as if he could hear his voice and didn’t like it, he said with more conviction, “And by the way, you’re welcome for all the help, Wadjda. Too bad you never said thank you!”
“Ask the neighbors about your lights. In this house, we don’t care about your uncle or his mustache.” Wadjda bit her lip, searching for what to say next. Abdullah looked so insulted—and hurt. She wanted to thank him, but the words of gratitude seemed to pile up behind her lips, refusing to come free. What she said instead was, “And thanks for what, exactly?”
He made a sour face at her. “Thanks for taking you all the way to Adira and fixing the situation with your driver! He’s taking your mother again, right? And as for the lights, your neighbors don’t have a pole to hang them on. Yours is the only roof that’ll do.”
He raised his eyebrows expectantly, as if sure he’d won. But Wadjda wasn’t paying attention. She was looking past him, at his bicycle, which was weighed down with rolls of lights, electrical wires, and bunches of small green flags.
“Hold on,” she said. Before he could respond, she slammed the door and ran to her mother’s room. The door was open again, the room empty.
Wadjda sprinted back to the living room. “Hey, Mother!” she shouted. “Abdullah Al Hanofi wants to use our roof to string up lights for the election, so his uncle—the uncle with the giant mustache—will win.”
She skidded into the doorway, flinging a hand to either side, catching the frame and letting her grip on the wood pull her to a stop. Breathless, she saw her mother standing by the coffee table, holding the mug. She was beaming at Wadjda. Wadjda smiled back shyly.
“Thank you, sweetie. You were such a cute baby.” The corners of her mother’s eyes crinkled. “And you are so sweet now—when you want to be.”
She stepped forward. For a moment, Wadjda thought her mother might hug her. Instead, she chucked Wadjda affectionately under the chin.
“As for the boy, tell him to go away. His uncle isn’t even part of our tribe! We will not vote for him, and we certainly won’t help him with his lights.”
• • •
Abdullah stood on the front step of the house, fidgeting impatiently. The coil of wire dragged and rubbed against his shoulder. He was hot, sweaty, and frustrated.
How could Wadjda not be more grateful? Unbelievable. After everything he’d done for her! He’d missed the last class of the day, risked his friends seeing him with a girl, and traveled into a horrible part of Riyadh to strong-arm a bunch of scary people. All of that, and still she acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had hap
pened!
He stood beneath the hot sun, seething. Finally the door opened, and Wadjda leaned out. There was something cool and calculating in her eyes. It made Abdullah nervous.
“I’ll let you onto the roof,” she said casually. “If you bring your bicycle.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Time seemed to stand still. Defiantly, Wadjda looked at Abdullah. He stared back, equally defiant. It was a showdown for the ages, with neither prepared to yield.
The rumble-rattle of a car clanking up to the gate caught them both by surprise. Their eyes met, and Wadjda nodded decisively. They’d pause their fight for now.
As one, they turned to see a minibus full of foreign, mostly Filipino, nurses jerk to a stop in front of the house. A fully covered Saudi woman jumped out. The minibus idled in place as she hurried up the stairs toward Wadjda, accidentally bumping Abdullah, who tried to move out of her way. Overburdened by the heavy coil of wire, he almost fell to the ground, catching himself at the last second. The woman didn’t seem to notice.
“Hey, Wadjda, it’s me, Leila! How are you?” Leila’s voice was clean and bright, like sunshine on a lemon tree. She removed her veil, exposing her smiling face. “Wow, you look so grown-up and cute!”
Wadjda smiled proudly, glancing at Abdullah to make sure he’d heard. But Abdullah was still too annoyed with Wadjda to sit around and watch her be praised. Waving indifferently, he jumped on his bicycle and pedaled away, swerving around the minibus, which sat outside the gate in a growing cloud of exhaust and dust.
“Can you call your mother?” Leila asked, darting a look over her shoulder. “I have to hurry—I’m so sorry, but the bus is waiting.”
Wadjda felt a warm presence at her back. Inhaling deeply, she breathed in the sweet and spicy smell of her mother’s perfume. Mother wasn’t veiled, so she was careful to stand out of view of the front gate, hiding her face from any strangers who might be passing.
The Green Bicycle Page 13
