The Green Bicycle Read Free Page A

its title, translating it phonetically into Arabic. The full track list was labeled WADJDA’S AWESOME MIXTAP E, VOL. 7. Next to the growing stack of cassettes, she counted out handmade bracelets. Jewelry brought in decent money from kids who didn’t like music. And just in case, Wadjda specialized in everybody’s favorite treats—candy and chips—which always sold out. The school strictly forbade leaving the grounds during the day, so it was impossible to sneak away and get snacks during lunch. Wadjda had the market cornered.
    Her mother hated the idea of Wadjda selling things to her classmates. “Like a common beggar,” she’d say, shaking her head. But she didn’t seem to mind the extra money when they needed things around the house. Over time, they’d come to an understanding: It was all right as long as they didn’t talk about it—and as long as Wadjda didn’t get caught.
    Today, if she sold all the bracelets and tapes, and maybe a few bags of candy and chips, she could easily clear fifty Riyals. More than enough for a large pizza and two Cokes on Thursday night, when she and her mother alwaysordered dinner in. Wadjda smiled, pleased, and searched the floor for her high-tops. The song was nearing its end. Bobbing her head in time, she looked through the half-open door of her room and saw her mother, drying her hair in the living room.
    Wadjda thought her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth. Her silky hair fell to her slim waist like a black river. It was so thick that it was hard for Wadjda’s mother to control it all under her
abayah
and burka. She had to buy a special cap to keep it from falling out of her veil in public. Thick lashes framed her wide, dark eyes. When she outlined them with black lines of kohl, she looked almost cartoonishly glamorous, like a star from a Bollywood film.
She should be in a movie,
Wadjda thought.
    Of course, her mother would never allow herself such a dream. It wasn’t proper. Still, there was something impossibly elegant in her movements, even as she struggled to do simple tasks, like attach a broken brush accessory to the top of her hair dryer. A smile stole across Wadjda’s face as she listened to her mother curse under her breath. Finally, her mother tossed aside the broken part and dried the rest of her hair without it.
    But Wadjda was wasting time. The clock read 5:30 a.m. Time to go. She jumped up and left her room—but seconds later she was back by the radio, shifting from foot tofoot, drumming her fingers against the dial as she waited for the song to end. At last, she hit stop on the recorder and dashed out, hoping her mother wouldn’t curse her for making them late, yet again.
    Today, though, her mother was also rushing, twisting her hair quickly around her fingers and adding little colored clips to hold it in place. Wadjda waited near the door, underneath a gold-framed picture of her father. The picture had been taken on her parents’ wedding day. Her father practically glimmered, his crisp white
thobe
and checked
ghutra
complemented by the beautiful brown
bisht
, or traditional cloak, draped over his shoulders.
    Had the
bisht
been more expensive than her mother’s simple wedding dress? Wadjda had seen her mother’s gown in the closet, had even run her fingers gently across the white silk, but she didn’t know if there were any pictures of her mother wearing it. She couldn’t remember ever seeing one around the house.
    Following her daughter’s eyes, her mother glanced at the picture, too. At the sight of her husband, she suddenly looked so tired. Wadjda frowned, feeling the familiar twist in her stomach. Something troubling was happening between her parents, but she didn’t like to think about it. Thinking about it made it real.
    Now her mother looked away, sighing. She’d almostfinished her hair. Each strand was locked into place, creating a strange mixture of curls