The Green Bicycle (5 page)

T
he clock ticked loudly. Wadjda watched the second hand circle around. It seemed to be moving in slow motion.

This was her first religion course of the day. Four others would follow before the final bell rang. Some were super boring, like inheritance law as taught by the Quran and the Imams. Only a few classes covered nonreligious subjects. Thinking about the long hours ahead, after the humiliation she'd already endured, made Wadjda want to put her head down on her desk and fall asleep.

Most of her classmates, about twenty other girls, seemed to feel the same way. A few sat up eagerly, staring at the board, but most slumped onto their hands and elbows, tired and drowsy with the midday heat. The depressing room didn't help. The desks had once been covered with pretty stick-on ConTact paper, which had helped obscure the scribbles and graffiti marring their tops. Over time, though, the wallpaper had torn away, leaving an even uglier surface for the girls to work on. No one had bothered to replace it.

The old air conditioner above their heads took the
burning hot air from outside and spat it out, dishwater warm, onto their heads. The fan on the ceiling was the only thing that made the temperature remotely bearable. During the previous class, the girls had covered the single window with cardboard to prevent the sun from beating its way in. It hadn't helped. Every single girl's thick gray uniform was soaked with sweat. Wadjda felt the damp patches under her arms and in a thick line down her back.

It was time to start. One by one, the girls pulled copies of the Quran from inside their desks and set them on top. Each girl's desk contained her copy of the Holy Book and her
abayah
. That was it.
What more would a young girl need?
Wadjda thought ruefully. As far as her teachers were concerned, all other materials were dangerous.

On the blackboard, Ms. Noof, who taught the Quran in addition to conducting choir, wrote,
Registration for the Religious Club: Quran Recitation Competition
. The chalk squeaked through the lines and loops of the words. She moved like a lizard basking on a rock in the afternoon heat, all lazy confidence.

“The competition will be held in just over five weeks,” she said, looking at each student in turn. “This is a very important event. It is a chance for you to show your faith and great devotion to God. Through her hard work and piety, one student will win.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah,
Wadjda thought, slumping farther down in her seat. The school held one of these events once or twice a year. They always ended up being battles between the most popular girls, who were better at public speaking, and the best students, who were better at memorization. Wadjda was neither. She would usually just sit in the back and count the minutes till those mandatory assemblies were over—the way she was doing now.

“This is a great opportunity,” Ms. Noof said. She nodded at Noura, who had won the last speaking competition. Noura gave her a sparkling smile back. “It is an opportunity for you to shine in the light of Allah's greatness, to celebrate the guidance He gives us in the Quran.”

She turned back to the board, and started to set out the verses they would be studying that day. Wadjda's eyes went back to the clock.
Ticktock. Ticktock.

• • •

Finally released at the end of another excrutiating school day, Wadjda stood in the middle of the crowd of girls gathered behind the partition. Once again, it was time to venture into the outside world. Sighing, Wadjda pulled her grimy, stained
abayah
over the top of her gray uniform. Beside her, each girl in her class did the same.

As their hands rose and fell, the school yard transformed into a sea of black, the dark color rippling across the crowd
like a wave—or a shadow. The gray of the girls' uniforms was swept away beneath the flowing black fabric of their
abayahs
. Veiled, each one became a miniature version of the covered woman on the giant poster looming above them.

The girls covered themselves automatically as they talked and laughed. But the energy and enthusiasm of that morning waned beneath the blaze of the afternoon sun. Its hot rays burned down more and more brutally as the clock ticked past 1:30 p.m. Already the temperature had reached well over 110 degrees. Yells and laughter faded to whispers and sighs as the girls readied themselves to leave. In small groups, they'd hop onto their assigned buses or into the cars of their assigned driver. Safely delivered home, they would beeline to the nearest possible air conditioner.

But first they had to get there. And Ms. Hussa was back in her spot, making sure each girl left the school completely covered. It was required, and she always did what was required. One by one, her sharp eyes ran over the older girls, making sure their faces were concealed, their hands tucked inside the sleeves of their
abayahs
. She checked to be sure they wore socks to cover any flashes of skin at their ankles and feet. Most importantly, she made sure that each student's exit card was up-to-date and accurate.

The exit cards
. Wadjda sighed, rocking back on her heels as she watched the crowd move past her. Every girl at school
was required to present one. It listed the family member or driver who would collect her, and the approved mode of transportation she would use to get home.

Ahead, the girls who took the bus raised their cards high as they hurried past. Endless pairs of black leather shoes stampeded out the front gate, sending up a dense cloud of dust. The gritty haze hung in the air for a moment. Then, slowly, it began to settle back onto the crowd. Each day, these girls competed for places at the front of the bus line. Soccer players in the final match of the World Cup couldn't have tried harder to get to the goal.

The students waiting to be picked up by a private car hung back by the partition. They had to present a card that matched that of the male driver on the other side of the gate. This card would then be placed prominently on the dashboard for the entire time the girl was in the car. Since women were not allowed to drive, the whole process was rigidly controlled. No girl must ever go off on her own.

The last group was Wadjda's—the girls who walked home. They already had a note in their files, signed by both parents, stating that they were allowed to travel solo. Of course, if they were seen with a boy, they might still be stopped on the streets. Unless they had a note explaining what they were doing, they'd get in big trouble. Luckily, Wadjda lived close enough that it wasn't an issue. And she
was young, too. Most days, no one paid that much attention to her. And even if she'd wanted a ride, there was no one available to pick her up.

Ahead, Fatin and Fatima waited for their drivers, fanning themselves with their cards. They smiled at Wadjda, but she was too tired to smile back. Her fury at Abdullah for snatching her veil—and her rage over getting busted and humiliated by Ms. Hussa—had given way to fatigue. Her whole body ached, from the bones in her toes to the roots of her hair. With the sun soaking into her jet-black
abayah
, she just wanted to go home.

To her surprise, Fatin and Fatima strolled over. Fatin's brow was wrinkled with mock suspicion. “Looks like someone's trying to get in trouble again,” she said in a singsong voice. Then, in a normal voice, “You must
love
chatting with Ms. Hussa. Where's your card?”

Wadjda folded her arms proudly. “I walk home.”

They laughed, not unkindly, at her innocent pride. And they smiled at her veil, which was so dirty it looked like it had been dragged for miles behind a car. Fatin and Fatima didn't know Wadjda well enough to ask what had happened, but Wadjda thought they seemed intrigued.
Probably picturing all my crazy adventures,
she thought.
Maybe they're even jealous!
Glowing with pride, Wadjda tightened the filthy cloth around her head and walked out the gate.

Being allowed to walk home did make Wadjda proud. When she was dashing through the streets of Riyadh, she felt like she'd become real again. Though she had a mile or so of walking, Wadjda felt like she was already halfway home.

Today wasn't a good day, though. Today was
hot
. Wadjda put her head down and trudged forward, trying to move slowly. As she plodded along, the spinning feet of a group of boys pedaling bicycles caught her eye. Their pale
thobes
reflected the harsh sun, temporarily blinding Wadjda.

A lecture she'd heard in science class tickled her memory. Again and again, her teacher had told them that dark colors absorb heat, while lighter colors reflect it back. She ended the lesson by stating that this phenomenon was one of the miracles of the universe. It proved there was one almighty God, Allah, and that he had created everything for a purpose.

Beneath her hot black veil, Wadjda twisted her lips. She wondered if people knew this scientific secret when the tribal code assigned black to women and white to men. Maybe the real miracle of the universe was that she was able to walk home in Riyadh's sweltering afternoon sun without passing out!

The boys were gone now. Their bicycles moved like a flash around the corner. Wadjda squinted into the dusty afternoon and continued slowly on her way. As she walked,
she pitched the stone Father had given her at various targets—a can, a stick, a funny-colored brick on the side of a building—thinking all the while about the different miracles of the universe. It had taken so much to get her to this exact spot, at this exact moment. So what was
her
purpose, now that she was here?

Crick!
Her rock hit at an angle, ricocheted off the sidewalk, and tumbled into an empty lot.
Oh no.
Wadjda sighed and looked to the heavens for guidance. She felt nothing but the intense heat of the afternoon sun burning her cheeks. If the stone had been a gift from anyone but her father, she'd have abandoned it and kept walking. Instead, she trudged into the barren lot to hunt it down.

Does the universe make sense to anyone?
she wondered, sifting through trash and weeds. Her parents didn't seem sure of what they were doing, and they were ancient! What if she just kept getting older and older, and she never figured out what she was meant to be doing here?

A few minutes passed. Wadjda grew nervous. Was the rock lost? Her father didn't give her many gifts, and this one had felt really special. Like proof that he thought about his rock-throwing daughter during the long weeks he spent away. She kept picturing him out in the middle of nowhere. He'd had to think of her at least twice, she told herself. Once to pick up the stone and once to bring it back.

Ahead was a spiky green plant, its stubby leaves burned brown by the sun, its twigs coated with yellow dust. Wadjda moved it aside and found her rock nestled against a discarded cigarette pack. A smile lit her sweaty face, making her feel light and cool despite the unending heat. She rose, scanning the ground for her next target. Up went her eyes, up up up, her arm lifting, too, as her gaze ran across the horizon.

And at that exact moment, over the top of the fence on the far end of the field, Wadjda beheld a vision. A beautiful shiny green bicycle, suspended in thin air, reflecting back flashes of light where the sun beamed down upon it.

Wadjda stood, mouth agape. Wonder and disbelief swirled through her, sending tingles of excitement down to her fingers and toes. This wasn't real. It couldn't be! She blinked. She shook her head. She tugged back her veil, clearing her face almost completely, and opened her eyes as wide as they could go.

Still the bicycle floated in place on the other side of the fence, not moving, not rising or falling, just hovering. It seemed to be poised at the point where wooden boards met sky, waiting, ready for a ride.

For what felt like forever, Wadjda continued to stare. Without looking down, she dropped her arm and slid her black stone into her pocket. And still her eyes followed the
bicycle. It was like a vision, a dream. The most beautiful dream she'd ever had.

Suddenly, the bicycle began to glide across the top of the fence, its pedals whirling in slow circles, as if pushed by invisible feet. It came to the end and emerged fully into view, and that was when Wadjda saw that her beautiful green bicycle was resting on top of a delivery truck.

Her heart locked on to that bike. Without even realizing her feet were moving, she began to run after it, heart thumping in her chest. The bicycle disappeared down the next block, caught up in the flow of cars cramming the busy street. The truck maneuvered behind a shiny red Ferrari and a rusted pickup, both of which jockeyed for position in front of an old 1980s-style limousine. All the cars were pushing their way toward the stoplight at the next intersection.

There, the chaos of the traffic spilled out beyond the three marked lanes of the street to create five distinct rows of cars. With horns honking and engines grumbling, drivers crowded their way onto the shoulders on both sides of the road. The only traffic rule in Riyadh was muscle. Driving here was an endless game of chicken. The key was to keep moving forward. You never gave in or let yourself be intimidated by other, more fearless drivers.