The Green Bicycle
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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Haifaa Al Mansour is a Saudi Arabian film director and screenwriter, and the winner of an EDA Female Focus Award. Her first feature-length film, Wadjda, won the Best International Feature Audience Award at the Los Angeles Film Festival, among other awards, and is the basis of this novel. The Green Bicycle is her debut book.

FOR MY PARENTS, FOR MY HUSBAND,
AND FOR ADAM AND HAYLIE

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CHAPTER ONE

Wadjda wasn’t thinking about her ticket to heaven. You could see it on her face.

She wasn’t even singing about it, really. Just moving her mouth to the lyrics, her body swaying in rhythm with the melodic chanting of the other girls in her class. Though she mouthed the words, her bright brown eyes wandered the school auditorium restlessly, as if she were trying to catch sight of something more interesting.

Though Wadjda wore the same dull, beat-up grey uniform as the rest of her class, she stood out somehow amid the sea of girls, with their straight, perfectly styled hair, neatly pressed clothes and confident posture. The long hair surrounding her face curled softly, making her look untidy – mischievous, even. If anyone noticed her there, slouched in the middle of the back row, she’d have been easy to identify as a misfit.

“It’s time for battle; it’s the only choice,” the girl next to her, Salma, sang. Her voice rose with enthusiasm. “The war is boiling.”

It seemed like they were always singing about their duty to be virtuous young girls and to fight faraway infidels, or anyone who wasn’t a Muslim. As a believer, it was the biggest, best thing you could do. It was better than going on al-Hajj, the holy pilgrimage; better than zakat, giving money to the poor; even better than freeing a slave. It was the surest way to get to heaven’s highest state.

But that didn’t make singing about it any more interesting. Sighing, Wadjda let her eyes keep drifting. One by one, she read the posters scattered across the walls of the empty auditorium. During Dhuhr prayer, the space would be transformed into an all-girls’ mosque. So each poster was inscribed with lines from the Quran, or from the Prophet’s well-known sayings about women. The closest one read, My fellow Muslim sister: Be careful from the human wolves – men. Protect your honour from those who will kill you.

Wadjda smiled, trying to imagine her friend Abdullah as a wolf. Well, she thought, he’s got black hair – kind of like a wolf’s. But there’s nothing ferocious about him. He’s more of a hamster!

Laughter welled up inside Wadjda, but she hid her giggles beneath the swelling of the song. She’d missed quite a few lines, and Salma was glaring at her. Glancing guiltily around, Wadjda tried to join back in.

They were singing along to a male voice on a cassette tape, which the teacher had turned on for the girls to follow as they practised. But, try as she might, nothing more than a whisper emerged from Wadjda’s mouth. Even if she’d been louder, she told herself, her voice wouldn’t have carried past the first row, where three girls stood, singing their hearts out, chests lifted and chins high. They had the best voices by far, and always got placed up front.

Unlike the girls in Wadjda’s row, who’d been stuck in the back for a reason. Yasmeen hit an especially shrill note and Wadjda winced, fighting the urge to put her fingers in her ears. It was definitely better to be quiet-bad than loud-bad.

By this point in the practice session, everyone was tired and restless. They were probably all thinking about lunchtime, and how best to position themselves in the cafeteria queue for a falafel sandwich. There was a limited number, and they always sold out. The struggle to snag one before the bell rang was maybe the closest thing to real battle that Wadjda’s classmates would ever experience.

“Girls! Stand in your spots!” Ms Noof shouted. Huffing impatiently, she surveyed the three rows of eleven-year-olds on the homemade-looking wooden stage. The teacher’s bulky figure was all but lost in her oversized skirt and long, plain blouse. It was the kind of outfit Wadjda saw advertised along Thirtieth Street in Al-Olaya, the commercial heart of Riyadh. She liked to watch the Yemeni salesmen there haggle with their costumers, who were mostly no-nonsense teachers like Ms Noof.

Although all Saudi women wore essentially the same black uniform in public, with a veil wrapped round their heads and either a masklike niqab or a sheer black fabric called a shayla over their faces, underneath they liked their patterns as crazy and bright as possible. From all the weddings and social gatherings where Wadjda saw her teachers – sometimes, Riyadh felt like a small town, rather than a sprawling city – she knew Ms Noof loved animal prints. Wadjda liked to pretend that, if the school allowed it, her teacher would be wearing a leopard-spotted blouse with matching heels.

At her call, the girls snapped into place. Their feet, all in plain black leather shoes, lined up in perfect rows across the stage. The large banner looming above them made Wadjda feel very small indeed. WELCOME TO THE 4TH GIRLS’ SCHOOL IN RIYADH EAST, it read. That wasn’t true, strictly speaking. Theirs wasn’t the fourth school in the eastern part of the city. But, while all the boys’ schools were named after famous Muslim warriors and scholars, the girls’ schools were labelled with random numbers.

Wadjda twisted her lips and sighed. Just another one of the lessons girls in Riyadh learn every day, she thought. From the moment she’d started school, she’d been told that modesty and quietness, a life in which no one knew anything about her or talked about her, ever, were the highest virtues she could hope to attain.

“Again, from the beginning.” Ms Noof leaned down to push play on the tape recorder, lurching over the small machine like an elephant trying to scratch its toes. Hoisting herself up, she let her gaze fall on the group, scowling at each girl in turn.

From the tape deck came a screech of static. Then the song blared out of the speakers. Though she was trying hard to pay respectful attention, Wadjda couldn’t help raising her eyebrows. They have sound effects now? She hid her smirk behind her hand. I didn’t think this could get any more dramatic!

Yet, even the movie soundtrack noise of distant medieval battle – the thump of galloping hooves, the whinnying of horses – couldn’t keep Wadjda focused. She was tired of following along with the rest of the class. Her eyes wandered again to the dusty red carpets laid out in front of the stage, travelled across the rows of empty wooden chairs scattered around the room.

They must have taken them from the science lab, she thought. The faded green paint made her remember hours of experiments, back when her class had its turn with the lab. She wondered if she could find the chair into which she’d carved her initials, and if the wood still smelled faintly of chemicals.

Two of the older girls entered the auditorium then, pulling Wadjda away from her daydreams. Fatin and Fatima were cool without trying to be. Whenever she saw them, a gigantic grin filled Wadjda’s whole face. Fatin was sassy, always ready with a funny comeback or snarky remark. While Fatima seemed calm and quiet on the surface, underneath she was a true criminal mastermind. Her elaborate pranks were school legend, even if she never talked about them – or talked at all, really.

Once, Wadjda remembered, Fatima had taken a shoe from every one of the teachers while they were praying. She’d hidden them all over the playground, burying a sneaker in the sand and tucking some heels into the nooks and crannies of the dusty lot where the girls spent their free periods. When the teachers finally figured out what had happened, they had to go scrambling and dashing around the playground, digging in the sand like pirates on a treasure hunt. Though Fatima never admitted it, all the girls knew such a brilliant scheme was something only she could pull off.

Aside from the fun and laughter Fatima and Fatin provided, Wadjda liked the two older girls because they didn’t comment on her messy hair, make fun of her unusual clothes, or mock the badges she collected and pinned to her schoolbag. Fatin had even bought one of the colourful bracelets Wadjda made and sold for spare money. It was a special bracelet, with a Justin Bieber charm on it.

Fatin and Fatima should have been in class, but today – like every day – something more fun had apparently distracted them. Fatima hushed Fatin, giggling and poking her in the shoulder, as they slipped by the choir. Though Fatin carried a map and Fatima a globe, it seemed obvious that these were props, a way of pretending they had a reason to roam the school. In all likelihood, they were up to something.

Wadjda tried to get their attention, rippling her fingers in a little wave as she lip-synched the song. Fatin and Fatima gave her an ever-so-slight nod in return. A smile of satisfaction lit Wadjda’s face. She turned, hoping the other girls in her row had noticed.

They had. But someone else had noticed, too.

Ms Noof.

And now Wadjda’s teacher was scowling right at her.

With her hands on her hips and her brow crinkled in angry lines, Ms Noof looked like a storm about to break – right on top of Wadjda’s head. Wadjda’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t get in trouble now: she hadn’t learned the lyrics of the song by heart. What if Ms Noof called her out in front of her classmates? She didn’t want to think about what would happen. Wadjda darted her eyes to the floor, tucking her hands into her uniform pockets and rocking back on her heels. To fake an innocent look, she made her eyes very wide as she sang.

It didn’t work. Ms Noof hit stop on the tape recorder. The song ground to a halt, cutting off a triumphant rattle of drums. The girls’ voices trailed away into silence, and they looked up, seeking guidance.

“Wadjda! Step to the front, please.” Ms Noof set her hand against her hip and gestured with one finger. Wadjda bit her lip and reluctantly dragged herself forward. As she passed through the front row, her high-top Chuck Taylors came into view. Wadjda’s Chucks were no longer too new and black, nor were they too worn and holey. They had just the right beat-up grey colour she’d hoped for during her countless hours running in the streets with Abdullah. The shade was highlighted by faded purple laces.

Among the other girls’ black leather shoes, though, her high-tops didn’t look so perfect. Wadjda closed her eyes and rubbed her sweaty palms against her sides. She wished she could hop offstage and sprint away to anywhere but where she was right now.

Noura, smiling the sweet and perfect smile of a sweet and perfect girl, bumped Wadjda’s shoulder, hard, as she took her place in the back row. Wincing, Wadjda gave Noura a lethal glare. Then, slowly, she turned to face Ms Noof. Wadjda’s eyes felt like lead weights, drawn to the floor by a powerful magnet. By the time she found the courage to raise them and meet her teacher’s gaze, Ms Noof had come close, towering over her. Wadjda knew there was no bigger sin than her lack of enthusiasm for the song. She would not be easily forgiven.

“Why don’t you show us all your beautiful singing voice? Start with the first verse.” Wadjda could see the smirk in her eyes.

The rest of the girls giggled. A finger poked Wadjda hard in the back. Wadjda looked over her shoulder, trying to find the culprit, anger and embarrassment swirling through her. The feeling mixed itself up with the crystal-clear certainty that she was, yet again, a complete loser. Her face flushed, burning so hot and red she was sure her classmates could see. Stupid blush. Stupid song.

Again, Wadjda fixed her eyes on the floor. Again, she scuffed her feet back and forth. Determined, she opened her mouth, ready to sing – but no, down went her eyes, and her mouth clamped shut. The whole class was laughing at her. How could she sing?

“Well?” Now Ms Noof was smirking openly. “If you don’t want everyone to hear that beautiful voice of yours …” She trailed off and gestured with her head towards the door.

Wadjda left without speaking. In her absence, the group looked more unified, a perfectly matched set of neat, well-dressed girls. Ms Noof smiled like a satisfied general inspecting her troops and finding them ready for action.

“All right, girls. Let’s go over it again from the beginning!”

I can’t believe I got kicked out of class. Again.

Wadjda’s foot connected with a rock, sending it arcing through the air. It didn’t hit anything, though. It just plunked back down in the dirt, sending up a cloud of dust.

Nine a.m. The day had only begun, but already the merciless sun burned down, sending its punishing rays right through Wadjda, who stood alone in the centre of the courtyard. Shielding her eyes, she searched the horizon for relief. Not a cloud in the sky. Even her school’s menacingly high fence didn’t cast much shade, though it stretched up far above Wadjda’s head. The sun had already positioned itself directly over the playground, and there was no relief from its scorching brightness.

As if things weren’t bad enough, waves of heat poured from the back of the split-window AC, too – straight on to Wadjda. Sweat sprang out all over her body. Sighing, shaking her loose clothes to move air across her skin, Wadjda paced the dusty ground, searching for shade. She’d been banished to this spot before. She’d also visited the principal’s office enough times this year to know she had to tread lightly and mostly stay put. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to have to come to school for another meeting. She would do anything – literally, anything – to keep that from happening.

Through the white noise from the AC, she heard the voices of the girls echoing in the auditorium.

“It’s time for battle; it’s the only choice. The war is boiling, calling. The horses are prepared; the battle will start. War heals wounds better than suppressing anger!”

Wadjda sighed. Giving up her search for shade, she slumped back against the hot wall and let the song wash over her.

“If our religion is humiliated, heaven calls and our fate is written. Allahu Akbar is our song; it is our light and the fire we fight with!”

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CHAPTER TWO

The warm smell of cardamom and saffron teased Wadjda awake. Traditional blond Saudi coffee was boiling in the kitchen, and she could hear the soft sounds of her mother moving from room to room, preparing for the day ahead.

Wadjda loved the familiarity of their house. It was old and cosy, the place where she’d been born. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Of course, it wasn’t perfect. The walls were so thin that the slightest noise echoed through the whole space. The electricity went out now and then, sometimes because her mother didn’t pay the bill, but mostly because a fuse blew or a switch broke. Over time, Wadjda had learned to fix these things. Between the constant repairs and the monthly mortgage, her mother was always complaining about the house being a money pit. But while their home had its issues it was Wadjda’s safe spot, the only place where she and her mother could be themselves, relaxed and happy and tucked away from the world outside.

It was barely five in the morning. Despite the early hour, Wadjda was already in her grey school uniform, tugging a brush through her hair. She liked to get up early, before her mother set out on the long journey to the remote school where she taught. She liked being there for her mother, liked to take care of her and make sure things were all right. Getting up at the same time was a silent act of support.

With the flick of a switch, Wadjda turned on the radio. Her radio. She smiled and brushed her fingers across its metal sides. This was the thing in her small room that she loved most. Music moved her, lifted her. As she straightened the sheets on her bed and threw her slippers underneath, she rocked her hips and shook her shoulders in time with the beat. It was going to be a fun day, and Wadjda was ready for it to begin.

It was going to be hot, too. Already, the sun was burning through the small window above her desk. Wadjda had covered the window with wallpaper, but even that thick sheet failed to block the intense desert heat. Climbing on to her desk chair, Wadjda added a few pictures to the collage she’d started on top of the wallpaper, using images cut from magazines. Her father brought them back from the oil company on the east coast where he worked.

Scrambling down, Wadjda flipped through one of those magazines now, looking for pictures of girls her age. They smiled out at her from the glossy pages: two girls on skateboards hovering at the top of a jump; a girl strumming a guitar; a group of kids sitting on the beach, boys and girls together, arms slung round one another’s shoulders. The heat burned against Wadjda’s fingers as she climbed up again, pressing these new pictures on to the wallpaper. Her collage was her checklist, a reminder of all the things she would do as soon as she got the chance.

On the radio, the DJ introduced the next song. Wadjda dashed to her tape deck and hit record as the new single from Grouplove began. She wasn’t sure what the DJ had been saying about the song, or what the band was singing about – her English couldn’t quite keep up with the fast pace of the lyrics. But she loved the feeling the song gave her. Flinging out her arms, Wadjda spun in a circle, closed her eyes and let the beat move her. She knew the song was good. The DJs had played it more than a dozen times in the last few days. Only a hit would get so much attention.

Wadjda prided herself on her taste in music. Nine times out of ten, the songs she picked to record went on to become hits. And, as much as she loved music, she loved sharing it even more. The mix tapes she made sold for real money at school – five Riyals each. And this latest mix was so good that her classmates would probably buy it even if she charged a lot more!

The thought of selling the tape made Wadjda pause in her dance. Better be safe. Quickly, she clambered up on to the bed and ran her fingers along the length of cord she’d strung in through the window, making sure it connected properly to the back of the radio. The cord led to the roof, and from there to the makeshift antenna Wadjda had rigged up to capture songs from stations all over the world.

She’d found the antenna discarded next to a garbage bin on one of her rambling walks home from school. Who still uses these? Wadjda had thought, squatting in the dirt. I bet it’s someone old, because there’s a satellite dish on every roof in Riyadh!

Not till later, when she was sitting in their satellite-dish-less house, straining to make out the song buzzing through her radio’s fuzzy speakers, did Wadjda realize the antenna was perfect – for her. But what if she’d missed her chance? In Riyadh, if you didn’t take something when you saw it, it was usually gone by the time you went back.

Still, she had to try. The next day, she erupted out of school the minute she was dismissed and raced through the streets, her heart thudding against her chest. Magically, the antenna was still there. Waiting for her like a gift.

Dragging it all the way to the roof took hours of panting, sweaty work. But it was worth it. The antenna was Wadjda’s tunnel to a faraway world. The music it carried into her room created a private space, a place far from the shrieky Turkish soap operas her mother adored, from the gloomy news reported daily on TV. Wadjda’s radio played music made especially for her.

Turning over the English name of the song she was recording in her mind, Wadjda carefully wrote down her own version of its title, translating it phonetically into Arabic. The full track list was labelled WADJDA’S AWESOME MIX TAPE, VOL. 7. Next to the growing stack of cassettes, she counted out handmade bracelets. Jewellery brought in decent money from kids who didn’t like music. And, just in case, Wadjda specialized in everybody’s favourite treats – candy and crisps – 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 crisps, she could easily clear fifty Riyals. More than enough for a large pizza and two Cokes on Thursday night, when she and her mother always ordered 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 to foot, 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 round her fingers and adding little coloured 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 wardrobe, 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 almost finished her hair. Each strand was locked into place, creating a strange mixture of curls and bows. Only my mother could pull off a look like that, Wadjda thought. On her, it was beautiful.

“Turn 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 favourite, 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 towards 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.

“I guess he’s already here,” Wadjda said, rolling her eyes. Her mother spoke without looking up from her burnt hand.

“Well, 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 round 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 back in 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.

“Don’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 arch nemesis. 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.

“It 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.

“She no late! You just came! I see you – five minutes not even!” She used the same broken Arabic for emphasis.

“I 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.

“Don’t worry about him,” her mother said from beneath her face covering. “OK, 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 back into 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 round 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 round 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.

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 rubbish heaped in the gutters, even the cracked grey pavements. In Wadjda’s neighbourhood, 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. Aluminium 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 towards 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 towards school – and flinched, her body jerking back as – crash! – a rock skipped past her, knocking against a discarded soda can and sending it clanking away across the pavement.

Startled, Wadjda looked up to see her father, smiling and tossing another rock up into the air. Her heart swelled. From the accuracy of the throw, she’d known it was him even before she turned round. Her father was always showing her how to skip stones, and there were endless targets on Riyadh’s garbage-ridden streets. Discarded cans and fast-food wrappers seemed to fill the pavements as soon as the street sweepers passed through, the new rubbish easily taking the place of whatever garbage had been removed.

Wadjda’s father ran his hand through his short black hair and drew his fingers across his neat moustache. Wadjda could almost feel its soft tickle against her cheek. She liked how his uniform from the oil rig had faded, turning a cool, sun-bleached grey. When he’d left home, it had been bright blue and ugly. It looked much tougher after a little wear and tear. Like my sneakers, she thought.

“Watch this!” her father called, and flung a rock towards a jumbo-sized fast-food cup, which someone had left on the wall behind Wadjda. Even as she ducked, Wadjda saw the cup fly from its place, lid and straw exploding in opposite directions. Impressed, she grabbed a stone from the dusty road, hefting it in her palm, feeling its weight.

“Oh yeah? Check this out!” She searched for her target, chest puffed out bravely, and zeroed in on a dusty milk carton lying a few metres away. Though she gave it her best shot, the rock fell short. In silence, Wadjda and her father watched it tumble to a stop near her father’s foot.

“Close, my girl! Keep practising. You’re getting there.”

Wadjda couldn’t wait any longer. She ran over and hugged him. “Where have you been, Abooie?” she blurted, wrapping her arms round his chest and squeezing tight.

Her father didn’t answer. He just held her out in front of him, smiling. “Look at this,” he said at last, pulling a shiny black rock from his pocket. “It’s volcanic, from the Empty Quarter. It’ll fly straight and fast – think how that will help your aim! Now, you have school, yes? Better get going.”

Wadjda took the rock from his hand, beaming. He patted her on the head. They stood side by side for a moment as Wadjda rolled the glossy stone in her hand. She didn’t want to leave, not yet. She wondered about her father’s lonely life on the rigs, out in the middle of nowhere. In her mind’s eye she saw him pacing the Empty Quarter, imagined a glint of light on a stone catching his eye. She thought about him picking up the shiny black rock, holding it in his hand and thinking of her. His daughter.

With a surge of glee, she tossed her new prize up high once, then again. On the third throw, she snatched it from the air and started off towards school, running fast, her shoes slapping exuberantly against the pavement.

“We left the door unlocked. Ummi’s been waiting for you all week!” she called over her shoulder.

Her father’s eyes flickered at the mention of her mother. Once more, he passed his hand over his hair. Then he patted the dust off his overalls and moved towards the front gate of the house.