The Green Bicycle

by Haifaa Al Mansour

  But it wasn’t just the fancy shoes and clothes that put the principal above it all. It was the way she talked—like she was smarter and more interesting than Wadjda. It was the way she walked—like she always had somewhere better to be. It was the way she looked for an excuse—any excuse—to put someone down.

  Ms. Hussa won’t need an excuse today, Wadjda thought, examining her filthy clothes. If she had a good enough story, she could get away with a warning about the muddy uniform—maybe. Coming to school without a veil was something else. Wadjda had been warned about the casual way she covered her hair three times already. But she’d never forgotten her veil altogether.

  And it wasn’t just the punishment Wadjda feared. It was Ms. Hussa’s mean comments, which would burn through Wadjda like tiny sparks on her skin. The whole school would look on as she squirmed beneath the principal’s disdain. Ms. Hussa was the head enforcer when it came to labeling misfits, to relegating anyone who made the slightest misstep to a lifetime of insults and social pariah status.

  “Why does she have to be so awful about everything?” Wadjda whispered to the empty street.

  The wind whistled by, as if suggesting answers. Maybe, it said, it was Ms. Hussa’s deep-rooted sense of superiority. She was the daughter of one of the town’s most influential leaders. They had more money than Wadjda could imagine. Throughout her childhood, Ms. Hussa’s father had probably told her that the family was better than anyone else’s. That she was better, too.

  Or maybe Ms. Hussa had been hurt once, and now she was alone and angry. Though she was very beautiful, Ms. Hussa didn’t have a husband. And everyone knew why. Even Wadjda had heard the rumors. Supposedly, when she was young, Ms. Hussa had been in love with a boy. But the boy was from a different tribe—and even worse, he was poor. Still, they liked each other, so they snuck around. Apparently, they’d been caught together at her house. To avoid punishment, Ms. Hussa had claimed her love was a thief, and said that he’d broken in.

  No one knew if the rumor was a hundred percent true, but everyone whispered about it anyway. So maybe that was the answer to Ms. Hussa’s meanness. Still, Wadjda didn’t understand how the ultimate bad girl had grown up to be the biggest defender of the same moral code that made her look so bad.

  “You’d think she’d give people chances instead,” Wadjda murmured. This time, she spoke loudly enough for the last few girls going through the school gate to hear. One turned her head, and Wadjda shrank back against the opposite wall.

  Enough. She needed to get inside. Sighing, she mapped out her options. There weren’t many. Could she scale the school’s walls? No. She didn’t even have to look up to know that was a stupid idea. The gigantic, brown concrete barrier was almost two stories tall. Unless she magically transformed into Spider-Man, Wadjda wouldn’t be able to hoist herself that far. And that wasn’t going to happen, at least not in the next few minutes.

  Maybe she could bribe one of the other girls for their veil? No. The thought of parting with the money it would take stopped her cold. Besides, everyone else at school was scared of Ms. Hussa, too. Even for money, they were unlikely to risk her wrath.

  The final bell was ringing. She’d have to run the gauntlet and hope for the best. Dashing forward, Wadjda mixed in with the group of girls rushing to get through the gate before it closed. With any luck, she could duck below some of the taller ones and slip past Ms. Hussa’s incredibly sharp eyes.

  As Wadjda passed through the shadow of the front gate, she saw Fatin and Fatima up ahead. As expected, she saw Ms. Hussa, too. The principal was in her usual spot, wearing a beautifully embroidered black top over a perfectly fitted long, black pencil skirt. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she leaned easily against the fence that ran along the interior of the school. This large wooden partition was meant to ensure privacy for the girls during the brief minutes when the school gates were open. A huge image of a fully veiled woman had been splashed across its surface in vivid paint. Underneath, a caption in bold letters read, This is the perfect hijab for all schoolgirls.

  Behind the partition, which formed the final barrier between the all-female school and the outside world, Wadjda could see the girls starting to take off their abayahs and veils. Some of her classmates took it to the next level: they wore the shayla, a sheer silk garment that covered the entire face. But at school, they removed that, too. Because the school was only accessible to women, the girls were free to shed the extra layers of clothing that kept them safely out of sight from the men and boys outside.

  As she looked at the laughing, chattering group, Wadjda felt her heart clench. The overcrowded school yards of Riyadh were probably the only big social gatherings she and her classmates would ever be part of. Nothing else was allowed. And awful as it could be, school was the only place where girls her age were in direct contact with life on their own terms. Here alone they could get away from their homes and families and be themselves.

  Wadjda inched forward. The girls ahead of her cheerfully exchanged morning greetings, shared the latest gossip, and combed their hair into place as they removed their head coverings. I wish I were like them, Wadjda thought. Her classmates always seemed to be having so much fun. Was it possible that they didn’t worry about their mothers and fathers fighting? That they didn’t hear their mothers fretting about bills at the end of the month? Did they not dream of surfing waves or joining a band and playing music like the kind she danced to on the radio? Wadjda blinked, watching the shapes of the girls go blurry and indistinct in the sun and dust. Was it possible, really possible, that they were happy to live the lives everyone told them were acceptable?

  In most ways, it seemed like the answer was yes. Sure, when no one was looking, some of the girls might apply lip balm or spritz on perfume. They might sneak a look at themselves using little mirrors mounted on pencil sharpeners. This had been popular since the removal of all the bathroom mirrors, which Ms. Hussa called “a profane distraction.” Wadjda had rolled her eyes pretty hard at that one. Luckily, no one noticed.

  Aside from these tiny rebellions, though, most of the girls Wadjda’s age were content to fall in line, follow the rules, and avoid the harsh social judgment that came with being labeled “immoral.” Wadjda knew that she risked this judgment each time she darted into a back alley seeking treasures or dashed off after Abdullah on an adventure. Sooner or later, she was going to get caught.

  And Ms. Hussa might be the one to catch her. Wadjda’s heart beat faster as she moved into the principal’s line of sight. She saw Ms. Hussa squinting, trying to see past the two girls in front of her.

  HA! A loud bark of a laugh caught the principal’s attention. She swiveled toward Fatin and Fatima, who were folding their abayahs and getting ready to go to class.

  “Quiet, girls! You’re just behind the front gate. You mustn’t laugh so loudly. Do you want men to hear you? A woman’s voice is her nakedness.”

  A suppressed giggle from Fatin. Silent as ever, Fatima lifted her hand to hide her defiant smile. Twisting her shoulder, she gave Fatin a gentle bump, urging her to respond.

  “Sorry, Ms. Hussa,” Fatin blurted.

  Wadjda blinked. If she didn’t know better, she’d say Fatin was being sarcastic. But surely even Fatin and Fatima wouldn’t dare sass Ms. Hussa!

  “It won’t happen again,” Fatin added—with an equal amount of sarcasm.

  As Ms. Hussa’s quiet fury zeroed in, Wadjda made her move. Pivoting on the ball of her foot, she darted to the left, heading straight for the other side of the partition, where the girls were removing their veils. She could see her escape right in front of her. . . .

  “Wadjda!” Ms. Hussa’s voice sounded like a thunderclap. Wadjda stopped dead in her tracks. Her whole body slumped. Caught, she turned to face Ms. Hussa.

  “Where is your head cover? Are you coming to school unveiled?” The words dripped with horror. If Ms. Hussa had asked, “Wadjda, did you ju
st kill someone?” she couldn’t have sounded more appalled.

  But there was more to come. All of the other girls had stopped what they were doing to watch the spectacle. Suppressing a smile, Ms. Hussa paced toward Wadjda like a lion circling a wounded gazelle. With elaborate fake concern, she examined the mess of bows and clips scattered across Wadjda’s head.

  “And who put those awful clips in your hair? You look like a groomed donkey!”

  Most of the girls were giggling now. They stared at Wadjda and whispered to one another behind their hands. Wadjda seethed with frustration, twisting the soaking, useless veil in her hands.

  Only Fatin and Fatima shot her a look of sympathy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The 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 mil
es 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.