The Green Bicycle Read Free Page B

and bows.
Only my mother could pull off a look like that,
Wadjda thought. On her, it was beautiful.
    â€œTurn off the stove before the coffee boils over,” she called. Wadjda ran to the kitchen and twisted the knob, letting the gas sputter out. The sandwich her mother had made her waited on the counter—Wadjda’s favorite, a delicious mix of melted cheeses rolled tight in white Arabic bread. Her mother had made her
kerk chai
, too, tea and warm milk. Smiling, Wadjda breathed in the rich smells of cardamom and saffron.
    Her mother ran into the kitchen and tended to her coffee, adding a few scoops of cardamom and a pinch of saffron. Smiling down at Wadjda, she said gently, “Lots of caffeine in there. Hopefully it’ll keep you going—at least through morning period.”
    Wadjda nodded. Recently, she’d heard one of her teachers say that caffeine was bad for kids. In Riyadh, though, people didn’t give habits up easily—not even bad ones. For as long as she could remember, Wadjda had been drinking tea and coffee. She liked the little kick she got from
kerk chai
. These days, she needed it to get through her endless boring classes. And her cousins and friends drank it, too, so surely it couldn’t be that bad.
    Outside, a car horn honked. With a jolt, Wadjda and her mother whirled toward the door. Wadjda’s mother moved too fast, though, and splashed boiling coffee across her hand, scalding her pale skin. Sighing in frustration and pain, she wrapped the wound with a wet towel.
    â€œI guess he’s already here,” Wadjda said, rolling her eyes.
    Her mother spoke without looking up from her burned hand.
    â€œWell, he can just wait. I’m doing everything I can to be ready on time.”
    But there was worry hidden in her tone. And when she moved, she
moved
. Her mother poured the coffee into a thermos, grabbed her notebooks, donned her
abayah
and burka, and made for the door, all in a rush. Wadjda hurried along behind, carrying the rest of her mother’s supplies in a jumbled heap in her arms.
    At the door, Wadjda’s mother paused to tug the keys from their hook, knocking a string of blue prayer beads to the floor as she did so. These were Wadjda’s father’s. He always had the beads dangling from his hands, and he’d roll them over his index finger with his thumb when he talked. Sometimes he even swung them around an extended finger as he paced the house, letting the long blue string slap rhythmically against the fabric of his white
thobe
.
    Wadjda’s mother picked them up and put them backin place. For a moment, she covered them with her palm, letting her hand rest tenderly against the beads, the way she touched Wadjda’s cheek before bed. Then she turned to Wadjda and pulled her veil over her face, businesslike once more.
    â€œDon’t forget your key, and don’t lock the upper lock. Your father may be coming home after his night shift.” Her tone was the one she reserved for the times that Wadjda came home late or didn’t finish her homework—so not really that often, Wadjda thought. Not a
regular
occurrence. Well, not a tone she’d heard for a few days, at least.
    As they exited through the front gate, Wadjda frowned, twisting her lips and setting her jaw like a superhero face-to-face with her archnemesis. Before them stood Iqbal, her mother’s Pakistani driver-for-hire. He was in front of his old van, plastering a broken headlight on with duct tape. When he saw Wadjda, he matched her glare with a deadly evil eye. But then he saw her mother, and he began to act showily exasperated.
    â€œIt very long way, Madame!” He yelled at her in bossy, broken Arabic. “Other teachers we are taking, very long way. You late every day! No taking you late!”
    Rolling her eyes at the familiar show, Wadjda put her hands on her hips and squared her shoulders. Iqbal towered over her, but she did not yield.
    â€œShe no