Read Online The Green Bicycle by Haifaa Al Mansour - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Haifaa Al Mansour
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oppressive heat of the afternoon had warmed the whole house to baking, and the AC only helped if you were right underneath it.
Frowning, Wadjda climbed up on her desk chair and pinned the ends of a dark blanket over the window. This would offer additional protection from the sunâand maybe help the AC battle back the heat from a few more meters of space.
I hate to cover my collage
, she thought. Sometimes when she got home, sheâd stare at the cutout pictures while she made bracelets. Sadly, on super-hot days, she needed the blanket. Carefully, Wadjda lifted one of its corners and peered at a favorite picture.
Four girls, completely covered in
abayahs
, glided along on ice skates at a public ice rink. The photo might have been taken at their local mall, which had a large skating arena. The beautiful oval of sparkling ice looked like a jewel in the middle of the massive building, which wasa super-modern maze of endless corridors. Wadjda had begged her mother to let her go skating there, but her mother always refused. The mall was the center of social life in Saudi Arabiaâand not just for kids. Grown-ups loved it, too. But Wadjda didnât have a driver, and girls her age werenât allowed to go to the mall alone. Plus, everyone knew couples just went there to flirt, so a chaperone was absolutely required.
Frowning, Wadjda threw herself back onto her bed with a huff. If only her mother werenât so scared of taking chances! Her fear kept them from doing even the littlest things out of the ordinary.
And the worldâs already so small
, Wadjda thought.
So limited
.
But then, her mother had reason to be afraid. Wadjda had torn the picture out of a newspaper. The accompanying article reported that the religious police had banned girls from ice-skating at the mall. âIf anyone is seen renting skates or letting girls from age seven or older onto the rink, they will be punished,â the caption read. The rink would be closed, and the migrant worker who had broken the rule would lose his work permit and be sent home.
Girls could easily bribe those same workers to let them in when no one was looking, though. On the playground, Fatin and Fatima had bragged about doing it. A little money went a long way with the guest workers, they said.Inspired by their bravery, Wadjda kept ice-skating on her Things-to-Do list. Forget the stupid ban!
But enough daydreaming. She needed to shift her attention to something cooler: money. Carefully, Wadjda laid the bills and coins from her stack out on the bed. This was her entire stash, money sheâd hustled and earned by selling candy, tapes, braceletsâanything and everything she could make, scrounge, or imagine. Tearing a piece of paper from her school notebook, she wrote down
800 Riyals
in big letters. Her new goal!
Using thick, dark pen strokes, she drew a chart underneath to track her road to victory. Then, taking a deep breath, Wadjda started shuffling the notes, counting under her breath. âTen Riyals, fifteen Riyals, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . . twenty-five Riyals.â
No! Not nearly enough
. If she was going to raise the eight hundred she needed for the bicycle, sheâd have to seriously step up her game. Still, twenty-five Riyals wasnât nothing. Wadjda wrote the number on the chart, leaned back against her pillow, and closed her eyes, contemplating her next move.
The house was quiet. The only sound was the hum from the AC. Its steady whir lifted the blanketâs edges, set them gently swaying. Weariness tugged at Wadjdaâs mind. Shefelt herself drifting into sleep, her breath slowing, mind wandering. She wanted to slip away into a nice long nap so badly. But she couldnât give in to exhaustion. These quiet afternoons were the only time she had alone in the house. If she wanted that bicycle, she needed to work.
Start with bracelets
. Wadjda sat up,
Frowning, Wadjda climbed up on her desk chair and pinned the ends of a dark blanket over the window. This would offer additional protection from the sunâand maybe help the AC battle back the heat from a few more meters of space.
I hate to cover my collage
, she thought. Sometimes when she got home, sheâd stare at the cutout pictures while she made bracelets. Sadly, on super-hot days, she needed the blanket. Carefully, Wadjda lifted one of its corners and peered at a favorite picture.
Four girls, completely covered in
abayahs
, glided along on ice skates at a public ice rink. The photo might have been taken at their local mall, which had a large skating arena. The beautiful oval of sparkling ice looked like a jewel in the middle of the massive building, which wasa super-modern maze of endless corridors. Wadjda had begged her mother to let her go skating there, but her mother always refused. The mall was the center of social life in Saudi Arabiaâand not just for kids. Grown-ups loved it, too. But Wadjda didnât have a driver, and girls her age werenât allowed to go to the mall alone. Plus, everyone knew couples just went there to flirt, so a chaperone was absolutely required.
Frowning, Wadjda threw herself back onto her bed with a huff. If only her mother werenât so scared of taking chances! Her fear kept them from doing even the littlest things out of the ordinary.
And the worldâs already so small
, Wadjda thought.
So limited
.
But then, her mother had reason to be afraid. Wadjda had torn the picture out of a newspaper. The accompanying article reported that the religious police had banned girls from ice-skating at the mall. âIf anyone is seen renting skates or letting girls from age seven or older onto the rink, they will be punished,â the caption read. The rink would be closed, and the migrant worker who had broken the rule would lose his work permit and be sent home.
Girls could easily bribe those same workers to let them in when no one was looking, though. On the playground, Fatin and Fatima had bragged about doing it. A little money went a long way with the guest workers, they said.Inspired by their bravery, Wadjda kept ice-skating on her Things-to-Do list. Forget the stupid ban!
But enough daydreaming. She needed to shift her attention to something cooler: money. Carefully, Wadjda laid the bills and coins from her stack out on the bed. This was her entire stash, money sheâd hustled and earned by selling candy, tapes, braceletsâanything and everything she could make, scrounge, or imagine. Tearing a piece of paper from her school notebook, she wrote down
800 Riyals
in big letters. Her new goal!
Using thick, dark pen strokes, she drew a chart underneath to track her road to victory. Then, taking a deep breath, Wadjda started shuffling the notes, counting under her breath. âTen Riyals, fifteen Riyals, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . . twenty-five Riyals.â
No! Not nearly enough
. If she was going to raise the eight hundred she needed for the bicycle, sheâd have to seriously step up her game. Still, twenty-five Riyals wasnât nothing. Wadjda wrote the number on the chart, leaned back against her pillow, and closed her eyes, contemplating her next move.
The house was quiet. The only sound was the hum from the AC. Its steady whir lifted the blanketâs edges, set them gently swaying. Weariness tugged at Wadjdaâs mind. Shefelt herself drifting into sleep, her breath slowing, mind wandering. She wanted to slip away into a nice long nap so badly. But she couldnât give in to exhaustion. These quiet afternoons were the only time she had alone in the house. If she wanted that bicycle, she needed to work.
Start with bracelets
. Wadjda sat up,
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