“Traitor! I can’t believe you’re working so close by and you didn’t even tell me!” She pulled Leila deeper into the courtyard, giving her a kiss on either cheek. As an afterthought, she tugged Wadjda after them and slammed the gate shut.
“Working at the hospital’s great,” Leila said with a laugh. “I wasn’t sure about it, you know, but I couldn’t find a driver, and . . . And I’m happy there! It’s only been a few days, but it pays more, they provide transportation, and I don’t have to endure someone like Iqbal for hours every day!”
It is cool to hear Leila so happy, Wadjda thought. For the first time in ages, her face wasn’t tight and strained. The lines around her mouth had faded, and she seemed younger—more like her real age.
Though they’d taught at different schools, Mother and Leila had shared rides on and off for most of the past four years. They’d become good friends during the long commutes, and Wadjda was accustomed to the nightly sound of their rambling phone calls. From these conversations, she knew Leila and Mother were the only ones who secretly passed fashion magazines—sometimes even romance novels!—back and forth under their abayahs. The other teachers were far too conservative to follow the fashions of Western women, and God forbid they read about men and women hugging and kissing!
“I miss you,” Wadjda’s mother said now. “You’re well free of drivers like Iqbal!”
“And that drive,” Leila said, shaking her head at the memory. “The heat!”
Both women laughed bitterly. Then Wadjda’s mother pressed a large stack of notes into Leila’s hand. Leila smiled widely as she tucked the cash into her purse.
“Thank you, dear,” she said. “When’s it your turn?”
“Next month. I want to buy a nice dress for her uncle’s wedding.” Mother gestured at Wadjda, who was kicking her favorite rock around the courtyard and not-so-subtly eavesdropping. “All the other potential wives will be attending,” she added, trying to sound casual.
Leila laughed. “God be with the one he chooses! You might rip her heart out that night!”
Wadjda laughed, but her mother shot a laser glare in her direction, so she closed her mouth and kept kicking the rock. If she didn’t watch it, her mother would send her inside, and she’d miss the rest of the gossip.
“Is he going to drive you to the wedding? I mean, so he sees you before you go to the women’s reception,” Leila asked.
“No, his mother is taking us in a cab.” Mild annoyance crept into her mother’s voice.
Outside the gate, the minibus honked its horn. Leila and Mother looked back, startled.
“Ugh, I have to go. Before I forget, they’re hiring at the hospital. Think about it. It’s closer than that school of yours, and if you work there, we can chat all day.”
“My husband would kill me. He’s so jealous. He can’t stand the thought of other men looking at me.” Her mother shook her head ruefully. “Forget working with them!”
“Oh, stop,” Leila said with a laugh. “You blame everything on him. Enough! If you change your mind, call me. I’ll keep an application at reception for you.”
She took Wadjda’s mother’s hand in hers, gave it a firm squeeze, and left. Her mother followed for a moment, careful to stay out of sight as she watched the minibus jolt away down the street. Wadjda saw the envy in her eyes.
She wishes she had Leila’s courage, Wadjda thought sadly. But she’s too scared.
Sighing, Wadjda pulled back her leg and kicked her rock as hard as she could. Her mother wouldn’t do anything that might cast her further out of the mainstream. Working at the hospital was a big step. Too big.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The ceiling fan turned slowly, adding its thumping pulse to the otherwise soundless space. On the wall, beneath a large sign reading INTERIOR MOSQUE, hung posters with instructions on how to wash for and perform ritual prayer. The drawings were detailed, boxes and boxes of tiny figures carrying out the intricate rites.
By the door, Wadjda’s colored-black shoes sat atop a jumbled pile, all her classmates’ shoes thrown hastily to the side as the girls entered. At this time of day, when the Religious Club met, the classroom doubled as a mosque. Shoes could not be worn inside, and heads had to be covered. There were no desks, so the girls sat cross-legged in a circle on a red Oriental carpet.
Sitting here among the chastest of the chaste, Wadjda felt out of place, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. But she had no choice. The combined power of her mother and Ms. Hussa was too great. So she sat patiently, focused on the teacher, Ms. Noof. Behind her head was a big poster showing a young girl praying. The girl’s face was blurred out, and Wadjda thought she looked like a ghost.
Someone thrust a Quran into her hand. Wadjda looked up, startled. It was Salma, of course. Ms. Noof had asked her favorite student to take copies of the Holy Book from a small shelf in the corner and give one to each girl.
Despite the seriousness of the club, Ms. Noof was chewing yet another stick of gum. Like her students, she sat cross-legged, watching as Salma completed her task.
“Let’s start our program.” She eyed the new students suspiciously—two other girls in addition to Wadjda. “Before we start, I know some of you may have gotten your period. Remember, you are not allowed to touch the Quran during that special time.”
There was an eruption of giggles, quickly stifled behind hands. Wadjda felt her cheeks go hot. To bring up such a shocking subject in school! She hadn’t spoken the words herself, nor did she have her period, but she still found herself embarrassed.
“Shush!” Ms. Noof waved her hands irritably. “Tahara, this is the term for being clean and pure. It is one of the most important things we will study. A woman is not tahara during her period days. During that time”—she said each word with deliberate emphasis—“Do. Not. Touch the Book directly.” You must hold it using a Kleenex or piece of tissue. Remember, this is no laughing matter.”
Her eyes swept the room, moving from girl to girl.
“You are young ladies now. Your bodies are fragile, like flowers. Danger lurks around every corner. For example.” Her gaze settled on Wadjda. “You could damage your virginity riding a horse or dancing ballet like those heretics in the West.”
Wadjda squirmed uncomfortably. Her cheeks were so hot she felt sure she could start a fire with them. The rest of the girls continued to giggle.
“All right, let’s read,” Ms. Noof said abruptly. Across the room, Wadjda saw Yasmeen flipping delicately through the pages, using a Kleenex to shield her hands.
Again, Wadjda felt her teacher’s grouchy stare. Ms. Noof smiled sarcastically at her and waved a heavy hand. “We’ll start with this enthusiastic new face. Wadjda. Open to page fifty and read the first verse.”
Wadjda took a deep breath and flipped to the right page in her Quran. She didn’t read aloud in class if she could help it. Her school wasn’t a world she was part of. She knew she held herself apart and didn’t really try—but why bother? The system was against her. It always had been, from the day Ms. Hussa and her classmates had figured out she didn’t fit in. Why bother trying to change that?
But now she was trying, and it was as if all her fears had been realized. The sound of her voice, alone in the air, made her feel sick to her stomach. Her voice cracked and trembled out into the classroom.
“O mankind! Be dutiful to your Lord, who created you from a single person, and from . . .” Wadjda stopped. Reading quickly and accurately was a struggle, especially when it felt like a hand was squeezing her throat.
“From him He created . . .” Ms. Noof prompted impatiently.
Wadjda repeated the line from her teacher in halts and starts, and then brought her eyes back to the page. Words stumbled from her mouth in an uncomfortable rhythm.
“He created his wife, Hawwa, and, uh, from them both—”
Ms. Noof blew out her breath in a huff. �
�Enough. Stop, please.” She scanned the room for a better candidate. “Noura, continue.”
Noura, with her perfect diction and pretty voice, was guaranteed to get them through at least one verse. Yet, the teacher still seemed annoyed. She crossed her arms and rolled her head from side to side, brow furrowed.
Ignoring Ms. Noof’s grumpy demeanor, Noura began, her voice pure and perfect. She enunciated every word, letting it trip delicately off her tongue.
“He created many men and women. Fear Allah, through whom you demand your mutual rights, and thy wombs. Surely, Allah is ever Allah, Watcher over you,” she recited.
“Beautiful as always, Noura,” Ms. Noof grumbled. She didn’t sound like she meant it, but Noura beamed anyway, smiling at the other girls like she’d just won a beauty contest.
Wadjda looked back at Noura, feeling extreme jealousy through her whole body. She could never read like Noura had, not in a million years.
But if she wanted to win, she was going to have to learn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Read this! Recite that! Memorize this! Ugh!
All the new work for Religious Club had left Wadjda bored and exhausted. It was break time, and she wandered the school courtyard aimlessly, looking for a quiet, shady place to hide. Somewhere she could close her eyes and imagine herself free, pedaling through Riyadh on her green bicycle. Somewhere far from the girls who made fun of her, who thought she couldn’t keep up or follow along or read the text right.
At the back wall, Fatin and Fatima were in their usual spot—and, of course, looking at football magazines and slipping off their shoes to paint their toenails. When they saw Wadjda, they beamed at her. But once again, Wadjda was too tired to muster more than a shadow of a smile, one that didn’t touch her eyes.
“Where’s the nail polish?” Wadjda heard Fatima whisper.
Fatin bent low, running her hand underneath the bench. “I don’t know! I hid it here the other day.”
Wadjda approached casually, ready to tell them she’d scooped up their contraband treasure and hidden it so the principal wouldn’t see. But then she caught her breath and ducked out of the way, concealing herself in the shadow of the wall.
As she watched in horror, Ms. Hussa swooped down on the two older girls like an avenging angel. For once, Fatin and Fatima were taken completely by surprise. They fumbled to cover their bare feet. Eyes wide and panicked, they pushed the forbidden magazines under each other’s clothes. Fatin shoved one behind Fatima’s back. Fatima slipped a second magazine under Fatin’s legs.
“What are you doing here?” Ms. Hussa shouted, her eyes darting between the two girls. “Why were your hands under her skirt?”
Fatin and Fatima froze. It was as if fear had turned them to stone. In her hiding place, Wadjda stood motionless as well, watching.
“That’s all we need,” Ms. Hussa said in disgust. “Two girls, hiding in shadows, putting their hands all over each other! Tell me what that means?” Fatin and Fatima recoiled from each other, mortified. Unmoved, Ms. Hussa stared down at them coolly. “I’m fed up with you two. Just saying ‘sorry’ isn’t going to cut it this time. In my office. Now!”
Still too scared to move, Wadjda watched the principal march Fatin and Fatima inside. Seeing her idols caught and shamed was a harsh dose of reality, like a splash of icy water to the face. If they could be punished, she thought, then no one was safe.
After sitting anxiously through her final class, Wadjda rushed out of the room like a shot fired from a cannon. She had to track down Fatin and Fatima! Frantic, she scanned the crowds of girls pouring out of the high school classes.
Nothing, nothing—and then there they were. Fatin and Fatima walked fast, heads down, in an obvious hurry to get away. Each girl had her veil pulled up to hide her face, but Wadjda saw the anger in both girls’ eyes.
The crowd bumped past Wadjda on all sides, a steady stream of black. At the front of the line, like a crest on a wave, Fatin and Fatima surged forward and disappeared. When they had vanished fully, Wadjda let out her breath in a whoosh. With slow hands and a sad heart, she tugged on her abayah.
There’s no way to salvage such a crummy day, she thought. But maybe the toy shop will help.
And it did. As she walked, she felt her anger and fatigue start to swell into something else—a feeling of growing determination. The giggles of her classmates rose up in her ears. Noura’s little smirk swam before her eyes. And each time Wadjda fought back the sounds and images, she felt herself grow stronger.
She’d beat them all in that competition, she told herself, beat everyone who thought she couldn’t win. She’d do it for all the school kids in Riyadh who spent their days getting humiliated or mocked. Then, triumphant, she’d ride off on her bicycle and leave everyone behind her, gaping helplessly in defeat.
With each step Wadjda felt more powerful. She walked faster. Her feet lifted farther and farther off the ground. Soon she was practically running. Her hand gripped her veil, ensuring it wouldn’t fall or tangle and slow her down. The store drew closer, and Wadjda smiled. She knew what she had to do.
As usual, the owner was in his own world, listening to old records and sipping traditional coffee. His head jerked up when he saw Wadjda. His surprise when she walked right past the green bicycle was obvious. Wadjda might have laughed if she hadn’t been so focused. But her mission called. Without pause, she disappeared into the back aisle. A second later, she reemerged, carrying Learn Quran the Easy Way. She slid the game box onto the counter and looked up at the owner. He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s for school,” she said. “How much?”
The old man flipped it over and examined the barcode. “Only eighty Riyals,” he said. “Cheaper than a bicycle.”
“How about sixty-two?” Wadjda said politely, holding up her remaining funds. With trembling hands, she spread everything she’d saved out on the counter.
This was her biggest gamble ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The wind blew, brushing cool air across her skin. Riyadh spread out beneath her, a patchwork of buildings, of cars and buses, of stories and secrets. High above it all, safely hidden on the roof of her house, Wadjda sat triumphantly astride Abdullah’s bicycle.
It hadn’t been easy to push the heavy bike up the stairs, but Abdullah was desperate. He wanted to impress his uncle and do a good job with his task. In addition to having a well-placed pole that would support many wires and cords, Wadjda’s house was strategically located above the empty lot where the election tent would be built. There was no better place to hang lights for the event.
“So I guess,” Abdullah said, panting, as they tugged the bike around a tight corner, “letting you ride while I work is a small price to pay.”
From her spot on the steps above, Wadjda blew her sweaty hair back from her face and smiled down at him. Abdullah was all big talk. She knew he liked hanging out with her. Tucked away on the roof, no boys would make fun of him for playing with a girl. Pretending to let him have his way was a small price for her to pay, too.
They dragged the bike up another few steps. Looking down, Wadjda noticed that Abdullah was wearing the same beautiful taqia he’d had on the day they went to Adira. This too made her smile.
Now he was hard at work, and she was riding. Cautiously, her toes skimming across the roof’s small amount of flat surface, Wadjda pushed the old bicycle forward. In spite of herself, she was terrified of falling. At the same time, she felt that same rush of determination, telling her to keep going, to try to turn in circles. Awkwardly she pedaled and wove, barely keeping her balance for the few seconds her feet were off the ground.
Across from her, Abdullah fastened a hook to the outside wall. To his left, a crude mass of metal hung off the edge. It looks, he thought, like a crazy metallic nest tangled together by defective robot rats.
“What is that?” he asked, inspecting
the twisted lump inquisitively.
Wadjda’s head shot up, and she planted her feet on the ground.
“What do you think?” she shot back, offended. “It’s an antenna, stupid. I can get signals from way beyond your world on that thing. How do you think I make my Awesome Mixtapes, anyway?”
“With all the people shouting in the background?” Abdullah said smugly, going back to work. “And the static? ‘Awesome’ indeed! Listen, my uncle likes the Quran radio station now. He wants to talk about his campaign there. They have all these famous readers—they recite the Quran beautifully! It makes your heart melt, my uncle says.”
Wadjda put her hand over her own heart, as if to show Abdullah what she was speaking was the truth. “He should hear my mother sing!” she said. “Talk about heart melting. She should have a channel all her own.”
Abdullah sniffed. Whatever, Wadjda thought, and stretched out a hand, pressing it against the railing, using the pressure to push herself along. As she moved jerkily forward on the bike, her eyes drifted to the campaign tent. In front was a poster of Abdullah’s uncle, but he looked wrong somehow, like another person. This serious-faced candidate had no mustache, just a long, carefully grown-out beard. Was it even the same guy?
“Why does your uncle look so different?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Didn’t you hear?” Abdullah bent a cord and wrapped it around the pole. “Men shouldn’t shave their beards! It’s haram! What do they teach you at school, anyway?”
“You know, we learn about our periods, postdelivery discharge . . .” Wadjda said sarcastically. Abdullah practically turned purple with embarrassment. Wadjda burst into a fit of laughter as he sheepishly pretended to busy himself with work.
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