In the majlis, Wadjda could hear the men talking about the stock market. Many of them had lost most of their money through bad deals. This was common. When the market first took off, she remembered, half the people her family knew had invested their life savings. What they didn’t know, and what was much discussed in the news these days, was that Saudi’s rich and powerful classes were manipulating the stock market. When it eventually crashed, a lot of regular, hardworking people saw their dreams of fast cash disappear—along with everything else they owned.
Luckily, Wadjda thought, her father had never had enough money to buy stocks. What had seemed like a curse when she was small was now a blessing. His voice was calm, not nearly as agitated as the other guests in the discussion.
• • •
After the men had eaten their fill and ventured out into the night together, Wadjda and her mother went to get the dishes they’d left in the majlis. Everything was piled in a row along the long seating area on the floor.
Quickly tired of cleaning, Wadjda wandered about the room, enjoying the rare chance to explore and ask her mother questions. “What’s this?” she said, lifting a large gold frame. It must have been a gift to her father, though she didn’t know when he’d received it. The image inside resembled an enormous tree, but the branches were made of lines. On each line, a name was written in flowing cursive. Wadjda ran her fingers experimentally along one limb, tracing out the shape as it forked along.
“Your father’s glorious family tree,” Mother said cynically. She’d perched on the couch, and was nibbling bits of discarded food off the plates. “You won’t find your name, though. It only lists the men.”
Though she spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, bitterness and anger lurked behind her words. Wadjda blinked, and set the family tree back down.
Across the room, her mother finished eating and rose, stacking the plates. When she moved a napkin aside, she discovered her husband’s prayer beads beneath it. She picked them up and went to hang them on their customary hook by the front door.
Taking advantage of her absence, Wadjda pulled Learn Quran the Easy Way from its hiding place under the couch. In the process of cleaning, her mother had probably discovered she’d been using the TV. And after being caught with Abdullah and his bicycle on the roof, she was already in an impossibly deep hole. Might as well get everything out in the open, she thought, and began hooking the game up to the TV.
When her mother came back in and saw what Wadjda was doing, she frowned. But she didn’t stop her.
“Make sure you clean that up when you’re done,” was all she said. “I don’t want to do anything that will get him upset with us again.”
Wadjda nodded in quiet understanding. But the game took a while to load, and she soon tired of lying on the floor, waiting. Tossing the controller aside, she wandered back to the family tree and read the names aloud, tracing her fingers across the leaves.
“Khalid, Mansour, Mohammed, Omar . . .”
When she came to her father, she stopped. His name stood alone on the end of a branch, isolated and cut off. All around it were his brother’s names. Each sprouted many leaves, the names of boy after boy flowing out below them in a glorious cascade.
For a long while, Wadjda stared at the family tree. Then she reached over, tore a piece of blank paper from her notebook, and grabbed a small piece of tape from her bag. In large block letters, she wrote her name on the paper and stuck it under her father’s, helping his corner of the tree to grow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
While the other girls in Religion Club crowded around Salma, giggling and chattering like a flock of noisy pigeons, Wadjda sat off to the side, working. Her knees were drawn to her chest, her notebook perched atop them. Her energy was laser-focused. She was trying to memorize the verses they’d just been assigned, fighting fiercely to hold the jumble of words in her mind.
It wasn’t easy. Salma was passing around a stack of photos. The girls laughed and reached for them, knocking one another’s hands out of the way in their eagerness.
“Let me see! Let me see!” Noura snatched two of the pictures from the girl to her left. As she examined them, she gasped, covering her face in mock astonishment.
Ms. Noof came in then, clumping heavily along on the worn floorboards. Spotting her, Wadjda pulled herself even farther away from the group of girls. The other students didn’t notice. They continued snapping up the photos hungrily, like a bunch of street cats fighting over pieces of food. Oblivious to her teacher’s presence, Noura held up a picture.
“Is this your father?” she asked.
“That’s Khalid, my husband!” Salma shot back, clearly offended.
“He looks like your grandfather.” Noura laughed. “But I guess that’s the best your family could do!”
All of the girls except Wadjda joined in, giggling madly. Salma snatched the photo back, humiliated, and held it to her chest.
Ms. Noof cleared her throat with a loud harrumph. “What’s going on in here?” she asked, giving her students a tired glare.
The girls fell silent.
“I told them they couldn’t have pictures at school,” Wadjda offered, looking pointedly at Noura.
“No, you didn’t!” Noura snapped back. Putting on her best fake-nice face, she turned to the teacher and pointed at the stack of photographs in Salma’s hand. “Ms. Noof, Salma just got married. Look, she brought pictures!”
“Let me see,” the teacher said, suddenly interested. Snatching the photos, she looked them over curiously. “Who’s this, your mother? And is this your husband?”
As they talked, Wadjda’s eyes drifted to the hallway—and she flinched back, startled. Fatin and Fatima were passing by, followed by two women who had to be their mothers. They were dressed in full abayahs, their heads turned away, so Wadjda couldn’t make out their individual features. But the way they hovered close, looming over their daughters, made her sure they were related.
Then they turned their heads, bringing their faces into view. Wadjda’s heart sank. Both women looked furious and scared. Their daughters had been charged with a devastating crime, and the knowledge had left their mothers frozen with fear. At that moment, Fatin was trying to explain something, but her mother silenced her with a glare.
Fatima, who was closest to the classroom, saw Wadjda watching sympathetically. But she didn’t smile or nod. She just turned her head away, eyes bitter. Wadjda looked down at the floor, feeling shame rise up in her body, burning her cheeks red.
Behind her, the conversation had dwindled.
“Okay, put these away,” Ms. Noof said, handing the photos back to Salma. “Wadjda’s right. You’re not allowed to show pictures at school.”
Another blush heated Wadjda’s cheeks at the reminder of this new, smaller lie.
“Let’s get started,” the teacher continued. “Myriam, read from page thirteen.”
“I need a Kleenex,” the girl whispered. Sighing in exasperation, Ms. Noof waved her off and looked for a more suitable candidate.
“Read, Wadjda,” she ordered. “An-Nisa’, the third verse.”
Wadjda lifted her head and closed her Quran. “I’ll do it without looking.”
Her serious tone showed she meant business. Ms. Noof blinked, genuinely surprised, but gestured for her to begin.
Showtime. Wadjda recited as fast as she could, the words leaving her mouth so quickly that she could barely catch her breath.
“And if you fear that you shall not be able to deal justly with the orphan girls, then marry women of your choice, two or three or four, but if you fear that you shall not be able to deal justly, then only one or that your right hands possess.”
When she finished, she sucked in a deep gulp of air and sighed in satisfaction. She’d gotten every single word right.
“Very nice, Wadjda,” her teacher said curtly. “You remembered it
all. But you have to recite! You can’t just go, badababdababdaba! These are sacred words.”
She looked around the room for another candidate, and fixed on Salma.
“How about our young bride? Let’s hear that voice. Listen closely to her, Wadjda. You’ll have to recite like this if you want to win.”
“And if you fear that you shall not be able to deal justly with the orphan girls, then marry women of your choice, two or three or four . . .” Salma recited reverently. Each word trembled on her tongue for a tantalizing moment before tripping out delicately into the world. Frustrated, Wadjda looked back at the empty hallway.
Fatin and Fatima had vanished. Salma’s voice echoed through the room, but all Wadjda could think about was where they’d gone—and whether she could have stopped it.
CHAPTER FORTY
Clink! Smash! Clang! On the way home from school, Wadjda threw her rock at anything that dared cross her path. Every bottle was a target, every street sign a bull’s-eye. Her anger and exasperation powered each throw, sent her rock hurtling straight and true.
At last, she found herself near the toy shop. But she was almost afraid to look. Would the green bicycle still be there? What would she do if it were gone? One tentative step forward, then another, and Wadjda drew her eyes up from the ground like a prisoner facing her executioner.
But the bicycle was there! A surge of energy flowed into her weary bones when she saw it in front of the shop, glimmering in the afternoon sun. For a few seconds, she reveled in her relief.
Then rage hit her. How dare the owner even consider selling it? It was hers! She marched into the shop, ready to tell him exactly what she thought about the whole ordeal.
“So who were you talking to about my bicycle?” she said, hands on her hips. “The other day? Outside? You know I saw you!”
“I don’t. I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” the owner sputtered, unsure why he was even engaging in such a ridiculous argument—or why he sounded so defensive.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Wadjda shifted her weight, planting each foot against the floor like a mighty warrior. “I don’t want you showing my bicycle to anyone else.”
The shopkeeper shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Undaunted, Wadjda reached into her pocket and pulled out a cassette tape.
“Here,” she said, and held out her peace offering. “I made you a tape. It’s a mix, actually. A bunch of songs to introduce you to the modern world.”
Her eyes went pointedly to his scratchy record player. The shopkeeper took the tape from her, eyebrows arched practically to his ghutra. Clucking his tongue, he looked down at the weird song titles scrawled across the cover.
“Thank you for your generosity,” he said skeptically.
Wadjda smiled and pointed at the bicycle once more, as if to emphasize the point of their discussion. The owner laughed, tossed the tape on the counter behind him, and went back to reviewing his receipts.
• • •
Before Wadjda had even turned the corner to her street, she could see the election tent for Abdullah’s uncle. It towered above the rooftops of the neighboring houses and filled the huge empty lot across from their front door. The lights that Abdullah had strung reflected the late afternoon sun. Guest workers bustled about, putting up poles and laying down red carpet. A big space near the center had been cleared of debris and filled with tables, lined up from end to end. That would be the eating area, Wadjda knew, where whole grilled lambs would rest atop massive plates of rice.
Nearby was a big plasma-screen TV and a projector. Chairs had been arranged in a half circle in front. On all sides, the strings of lights flowed down beautifully, making a triangular shape around the top of the building. Beneath them, Abdullah was busy encircling the area with a long piece of fabric, like a billowing cloth fence. As he unspooled the banner and wove it meticulously around a series of stakes, Wadjda saw his uncle’s name emblazoned on the cloth in huge letters.
No big deal, right? Lifting her chin and staring straight ahead, Wadjda marched forward like she didn’t see Abdullah—and wouldn’t have cared if she had. Even when she walked right by him, she didn’t say anything.
Sweating and tired, Abdullah leaned the cloth against a stake and yelled after her.
“What, you’re the one who’s upset now? Your mother almost broke my neck pushing me down the stairs!”
“My mother doesn’t want me talking to you anymore,” Wadjda called primly. “Besides, I have to study.”
Giving her abayah a toss, she continued walking toward her house. Hiding a grin, Abdullah grabbed the helmet he’d hung from his handlebars and ran after her.
“Since when do you listen to your mother?” he panted. “Oh, and here—I got you this.” He tossed it casually, like it barely mattered. Like he hadn’t put it right on the front of his bike, to be sure Wadjda saw it.
“It’s a bicycle helmet,” he added. “Like the ones kids wear on TV.”
With a gasp of pleasure, Wadjda caught the helmet in her outstretched hands. Her whole face lit up. Abdullah couldn’t hide his pleasure at seeing his gift’s effect.
“Do you want to ride in the empty lot behind the tent?” he asked. “We have a few minutes before people come.”
Wadjda nodded in excitement and followed him around the giant white pavilion, strapping the helmet to her head atop her veil. Then, her abayah flowing behind her like a true superhero’s cape, she rode in circles through the empty lot. Every so often she’d laugh happily, tossing her head back, letting the sound roll out into the world. Smiling to himself, Abdullah perched on a cinder block, watching her circle around and around.
“Watch this!” she called excitedly.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hands off the handlebars, pedaling steadily to keep herself balanced, and waved triumphant circles in the air. Abdullah nodded in approval. “That’s it!” he called.
The bicycle wavered, and Wadjda lowered her hands. But the experiment gave her confidence. She kept riding, letting go for longer and longer periods of time. Now she stretched her arms out to either side, making her abayah flow like wings.
Her joy forced words to Abdullah’s lips that he’d meant to keep silent.
“The toy shop owner told Khalid and his father that the bicycle was already reserved,” he yelled.
Wadjda’s reaction wasn’t at all what he’d expected. She hit the brakes hard, planted her feet on the ground, and smiled triumphantly.
“Yes!” she shouted. “He must be holding it for me. I knew it!” She pumped her fist in the air with glee.
Across the street, curious passersby stopped, dumbfounded, staring at this strange girl, standing astride a bicycle in a dirty lot, shouting at the top of her lungs. Abdullah squirmed and ducked his head, feeling more nervous with each passing car full of onlookers. But Wadjda ignored them. She knew that she was one step closer to her dream.
Pushing off again, she rode in larger circles, moving more confidently, enjoying the protection of the helmet and the rush of open air.
This will be even better on my bicycle, she thought.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Later that night, slumped in front of her video game in Father’s majlis, Wadjda still wore her helmet. New resolve lit her eyes, and she depressed the buttons on the controller with steady hands. So far she’d gotten every question right.
“What is Al Mahrab?” the robotic voice of the game asked.
“Oh, I know that one,” Wadjda said confidently, and hit the button.
“Correct!” the voice cheered. Even the robot announcer is tired of giving me a hard time, Wadjda thought, smirking.
“Finally!” She threw herself back on the couch, raising her arms over her head in the universal sign for “Victory!” On the screen, her score flashed. A hundred percent! Happy
music played over the hi-tech speakers.
Still smiling, Wadjda looked at the family tree—and the smile fell from her face. Her name had been taken off. The scrap of paper lay crumpled on the table to the side. She picked it up, turning it over slowly in her hands.
That was when she heard her mother, on the phone in the other room, yelling.
“If you won’t listen to me, I don’t know why I should listen to you!”
Wadjda jumped to her feet and ran to the doorway. As she watched, her mother slammed the phone hard onto the nightstand, tugged on her abayah, and started pulling her niqab over her face. Seeing her daughter peeping around the door, she yelled, “Get ready, Wadjda. We’re going out!”
Quickly, Wadjda took off the bicycle helmet—she’d gotten lucky. Her mother was too preoccupied to notice. Moving as fast as she could, she sprinted to her room to get her abayah. Her mother had already left, hurtling through the front door like a human cyclone. Wadjda had to run to keep up.
No one spoke as they hurried down the street. The experience was impossibly strange, and Wadjda was starting to worry. Mother never walked anywhere. Where in the world were they going? And why was she so angry?
A passing car slowed to a crawl beside them. Wadjda skittered back from the edge of the sidewalk, tucking her body into her mother’s side.
The driver of the car lowered his window and began talking to her mother in a slimy voice. All Wadjda could make out was the word, “Helwa, helwa,” which he hissed over and over. Though Wadjda thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, it sounded awful when this man said it. She looked up nervously, trying to read her mother’s face. Mother was ignoring the man, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Still, she walked faster and faster—and then crossed to the other side of the street. Wadjda did the same, struggling to match her mother’s fast pace.
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