The Green Bicycle by Haifaa Al Mansour Page A

were like wounded birds, too. The memory of a pigeon that had flown into the glass of her classroom window came to Wadjda’s mind. She’d stood in the courtyard and watched the delicate creature struggle on the ground. Its wings were hurt, but it was determined to flyagain. Though it was too injured to take flight, it would not accept it.
    The second wives were like that. Beautiful, hurt, and too proud to acknowledge their pain. When they danced, everyone at the party stopped to watch. Unlike the other events in the women’s room, their dance brought collective sympathy and understanding.
    Wadjda thought again of the strangeness between her parents. She shivered. She didn’t want her mother to have to dance the dance of the second wives, not yet, not ever.
    As if she could hear her daughter’s thoughts, her mother stood back from the window and ran her eyes up and down Wadjda’s form. Head bowed, arms outstretched, Wadjda turned to face her. Black fabric cascaded across her body, spilling onto the floor like a puddle of oil, leaving no trace of the girl beneath. Her mother smiled sadly. It was as if she was seeing her mischievous runt transform into a woman, right before her eyes.
    Before either of them could speak, the phone in the kitchen rang. Mother rushed to answer it, leaving Wadjda alone.
    Stumbling over the folds of the
abayah raas
, Wadjda moved to the door and stuck her head out, watching her mother snatch up the phone and hold it against her ear with one shoulder. With her free hand, she lifted the lid off thepot of
margoog
and stirred it slowly. As she listened to her friend, she absently lifted the spoon to her lips for a taste.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Leila. Iqbal, you know, our driver? He’s so rude! He shouted at poor Aiesha yesterday. Aiesha, who never raises her voice! She cried the whole way home. Three hours of tears. Can you imagine?”
    The conversation continued, but Wadjda decided it wasn’t worth eavesdropping any further. Leila was trying to find a driver, and Wadjda’s mother had no way of helping her. All she could do was lend a sympathetic ear.
    This is going to be a long one
, Wadjda thought.
Poor Ummi.
    Removing the
abayah raas
, she flopped down on the floor and went back to her new favorite hobby: counting money. The
abayah raas
she threw across the bed. It was so big that if she’d spread it all the way out, it could have been mistaken for a sheet. The thought of wearing it to school was awful.
    To distract herself, Wadjda ran her finger down from the top of the 800 Riyals column. She stopped at 25 and crossed it out. Then she sorted once more through the new stack of banknotes.
    Forty-five, 50, 55, 60, 65, 70, 75, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86 . . . Eighty-seven Riyals.
    Perfect. Just like I thought
. Wadjda nodded in approval and added the new figure to the bottom of the column.
    In the kitchen, she heard her mother beginning to protest, to refuse her friend’s pleas for help. Her voice was kind, but also firm.
    â€œLeila, dear, we’re completely full. Honestly, you’d be better off with another driver.” A moment of silence. “If you’re lucky, you’ll get someone better than Iqbal!”
    Wadjda raised the money to her lips, gave it an enthusiastic
smack
of a kiss, and put it carefully in a drawer.
    On second thought . . .
    She buried it in the very back, hiding it behind a pile of socks and underwear.
    â€œReally? Abeer? Mariam’s daughter?” Her mother sounded invigorated—like she’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. “How did she even end up in a car with him? Who is he?”
    The words sank in slowly, and Wadjda felt her whole body go cold. It was like she’d been plunged into a pool of ice and was freezing from the outside in. Breathlessly, she tallied up the different Abeers her mother and Leila knew. Wadjda had a cousin named Abeer, but her aunt’s name was