Free The Green Bicycle by Haifaa Al Mansour Page B

the back of the school, out of sight of the teachers.
    Those girls!
Wadjda shook her head, amazed. They walked around like they owned the place. If she didn’t like them so much, it would make her angry—or jealous.
    â€œHey, you guys shouldn’t be outside. Men can see you!” Wadjda yelled. Pointing, she indicated the workers, tiny moving specks far in the distance.
    Fatin covered her face in pretend fear and looked over at Fatima. Fatima widened her eyes as if with terror. “Men?! Watching? What a scandal! Oh no, maybe they’ll tell everyone they saw Wadjda al Safan playing provocatively in the school yard!”
    All three girls burst out laughing, and then quieted, worried their teachers might hear.
    â€œSo, what’s the latest mix?” Fatin asked. Beside her, Fatima grinned and nodded. Wadjda scrambled through her bag and pulled out a tape.
    â€œIt’s got everything,” she said. “There are songs on herefrom every corner of the universe!” She held the tape up, swaying it back and forth before their eyes like a car salesman swinging the keys to a new Ferrari. “Hear the hits of tomorrow, today! All this can be yours for just ten tiny Riyals!”
    Fatin let out a burst of laughter. Taking the tape, she looked over the track list on the back, nodding approvingly. “You little devil. I don’t know where you get this music, but I’ll definitely buy one later. And hey, what about bracelets?” She flipped to a page in the magazine and held up a picture of a football player. He was tall and lanky, with hair that flopped over his face, and tan, muscled legs. “Look at this gorgeous creature. I want a bracelet of his team—Al Hilal.”
    Wadjda took the magazine and inspected the picture, eyes bright. “No problem,” she said, not looking up. “I’ll make you a special one for tomorrow.” Now she met Fatin’s eyes, smiling broadly. “But it’ll be ten Riyals, too!”
    Fatin patted her on the head and took back the magazine. Beside her, Fatima was grinning. “Tomorrow, then, little hustler.”
    Wadjda pulled her head away playfully. “Don’t mess up my hair!” she said, trying to imitate a teacher’s cranky voice. “And, hey, you’re not supposed to bring magazines to school! Ms. Hussa’ll kill you.”
    Fatin was turning to go, but she paused and gave Wadjda a sinister look, waving her fingers like an ogre. “Look who’s talking!” she said, “Your bag is a twenty-four-hour convenience store.”
    All three girls burst out laughing, and then Wadjda resumed hopping, a big smile on her face. Across the courtyard, Fatin and Fatima plopped down by the corner of the building, safely out of view of the main door. They pulled nail polish from their pockets and started painting their toenails blue, the magazine open on the ground beside them.
    For a moment, there was peaceful silence, punctuated only by the scuffing of Wadjda’s feet on the ground. She was halfway through a circuit on the hopscotch grid, her left foot still lifted, when Ms. Hussa slammed open the front door of the school. The bang of the door against the wall was tremendous. Wadjda gasped, and her hand shot to her mouth.
    â€œLook out!” she hissed to Fatin and Fatima, gesturing wildly with her free hand. “Go!”
    â€œWadjda!” the principal yelled at the same time. The mean look on her face showed that she wasn’t messing around.
    Moving like a well-oiled machine, the two older girls jumped up, gathered their things, and rushed through theback door before the word left Ms. Hussa’s mouth. Fatin dropped the bottle of blue nail polish under the bench as she slipped by.
    Ms. Hussa didn’t notice. She was hovering behind the safety of the door, peering up at the distant workers on their faraway rooftop. Her ducked head and timid posture reminded Wadjda of the