The Green Bicycle by Haifaa Al Mansour Page B

bitterly about who their fathers had left the land to. Brothers clashed, fighting for years over the best locations. All this battling made even the nicest neighborhoods in Riyadh look like they’d been built next door to garbage dumps.
    The rest of the street was covered in construction sites. Every day, it seemed, a new building went up. The city was expanding across the desert, filling in acre after acre thathad once been rolling sand dunes. Wadjda sped past one of the larger construction projects at the end of the block, which she thought was probably being built by a big shot like Abdullah’s uncle.
    As she ran, she counted and recounted the small wad of money she’d made at school that day. No matter how she did the sums, it was still only twenty-five Riyals. Wadjda checked the final amount one last time, in case she’d missed any smaller notes. She hadn’t. Frustrated, she stuffed the cash back into her pocket. Then she took the black stone and hurled it across the field with all her strength.
    She missed her target—a Coke bottle, way out of range. Wadjda gave a small, angry cry. She needed that bicycle! If she had a bike, she could keep up with Abdullah and the other boys. Finally,
they
would be jealous of
her
. They’d see the sun flash off her beautiful green bike as she pedaled by, getting farther and farther ahead and disappearing into the sunset, victorious.
    Maybe she could make more bracelets to sell at school. It was a lot of work, but jewelry always brought in decent cash. She could make more mixtapes, too.
    Ahead of her, a group of men dressed in everything from
shalwar kameezes
to jeans and flannel shirts were at work on a half-finished luxury villa. Like ants, they crawled about, driving nails into the boards of what wouldsomeday be the top floor. As Wadjda stepped onto the field, they stopped what they were doing and turned toward her.
    Awkwardly, Wadjda began to scuttle across the large open space, her arms wrapped around her body, her eyes on the ground. Lost in thoughts of her bicycle, she hadn’t seen the men working above. Now she felt exposed to their watchful eyes—exposed, and completely alone. Cold sweat began to trickle down her back, and Wadjda felt her hands tremble with fear.
    â€œHey, nice throw! Why don’t you come up and play with us? Let me touch those little apples!” one of the men called. The fellow next to him gave a menacing snicker.
    Wadjda’s heart sank, and she froze, trying to pretend she didn’t hear. She imagined the auditorium poster, the one that called men human wolves. Maybe it was right. In that moment, she felt like a rabbit, hopping across an empty field. A pack of hungry beasts stalked behind her, snarling and hungry.
    High above her head, the men laughed vulgarly. They were in a group now, lined up at the edge of the unfinished roof, staring down.
    Wadjda’s face burned with mixed emotions: shame, fear, embarrassment. She felt like she was doing something wrong. But why? On her long walks home, these sprawling lots and narrow streets were her whole world.She knew the alleys and roads like she knew the lines on the palm of her hand. Yet, as the men’s laughter fell on her head, it was like she’d stumbled off the path she knew. Like she was trespassing in a foreign land.
    As she hurried to the spot where she’d last seen her rock, Abdullah appeared out of nowhere and picked it up. His eyes were fixed on the scaffolding above them, and he glared fiercely at the workers. The giant shell of the building loomed ominously. The silhouettes of the men—far bigger than Abdullah or Wadjda—dwarfed their tiny figures.
    Maybe it was the tough-guy look on Abdullah’s face, but when she saw him, Wadjda’s whole body relaxed. She wanted to hug him and cry. Maybe they could throw rocks at the workers together. Not to hit them, but to scare them a bit, to keep them from shouting out such awful