The Green Bicycle Read Online Free

late! You just came! I see you—five minutes not even!” She used the same broken Arabic for emphasis.
    â€œI no talk to you, little girl. I talk to your mother. She is late!”
    Without letting Wadjda or her mother reply, Iqbal got into the car and slammed the door. A picture of a smiling child in
shalwar kameez
, the traditional tunic and trousers worn in Pakistan, fell to the floor. Iqbal picked it up and cleaned it tenderly before putting it back on the dashboard. Time seemed to pause; he stared into the eyes of the little girl in the picture, looking as if his mind and heart were very far away.
    Then he looked up and found himself back in Saudi Arabia, staring right into Wadjda’s face, which was pressed up against the glass. Leaning back, Wadjda stuck her tongue out, just to make sure Iqbal knew who he was dealing with. He honked again, waving his hands at her with ever more exaggerated impatience.
    â€œDon’t worry about him,” her mother said from beneath her face covering. “Okay,
yalla
, bye!” She took her things from Wadjda, ruffling her daughter’s hair as she stepped into the car. Wadjda heard her parting words faintly: “There’s no problem, Iqbal. You take lots of money, so let’s have some quiet for the long drive.”
    The minivan bumped away in a cloud of dust and clanking of engine parts. As Wadjda was about to go backinto the house, she saw the minivan swerve wildly to avoid an oncoming car. In its recovery, it almost crashed into the garden wall of a nearby house. Wadjda flung her arms wide in dismay. What was Iqbal doing? Nervous, she watched the battered car disappear around the corner, the familiar fear that Iqbal would drive her mother straight off a cliff somewhere tickling its way into her mind.
    In the living room, Wadjda rushed to grab her backpack. But catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she stopped and looked hard at her reflection. Slowly, she lifted her hair, wrapping it around her hand and piling it loosely on her head. Could she ever look as effortlessly elegant as her mother? If Wadjda pinned her curls and tilted her chin slightly to the left, catching just the right light, could she be as beautiful?
    Sunbeams flickered across her face and reflected off the glass. Sighing, Wadjda put on her
abayah
, turning away from the girl in the mirror.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Outside, bright sunlight beat down on the rows of concrete houses lining the streets. A tall wall fronted each home, and a thick layer of dust coated everything: the trees, the trash heaped in the gutters, even the cracked gray sidewalks. In Wadjda’s neighborhood, it was difficult to tell one thing from another. Beneath its blanket of dust,the street seemed boring and lifeless, a giant beige blur stretching endlessly into the distance. Aluminum foil or tightly drawn curtains covered the windows, offering the people inside protection from the sun—and from the curious eyes of the outside world.
    Here and there, groups of girls walked to school, their bodies completely covered with black
abayahs
and veils. Only different backpacks or eyeglasses distinguished one from another. Taxis and minivans passed by with a roar, leaving dust clouds hanging in the air behind them. Women were not allowed to drive in Saudi, so each car was packed with female passengers, all pressed tightly together, all dressed in black. Clusters of foreign-looking men, mostly Indian and Pakistani, moved toward their places of work. They had on worn, faded clothes, most of which looked as if they’d been beaten with a dusty broom in place of cleaning. The women instinctively kept their distance from the men, moving to the other side of the street or waiting for them to pass so they could avoid any accidental contact.
    She couldn’t wait any longer. With a sigh, Wadjda turned toward school—and flinched, her body jerking back as,
crash!
A rock skipped past her, knocking against