Bindi Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  But she would and she had. There was Auntie in the kitchen, holding the kettle and smiling a cheerful welcome. And there, perched on a chair and looking as uncomfortable as if she was sitting on a spike, was Mrs. Macey.

  Jazz made a kind of shocked gurgling noise. Geena and I stared. Dad looked stunned.

  “Hello, everyone,” Auntie said casually. “How was school? Gloria's just popped in for a cup of coffee.”

  Gloria? Oh no. This would never do.

  Mrs. Macey shuffled around in her seat. She couldn't quite meet my eyes, and I guessed that she was remembering the last time we'd met.

  “And who's this?” Auntie turned to Kim.

  “This is Kim,” I told the traitor crossly. How dare she invite Mrs. Macey into our house?

  “Hello, Kim,” Auntie said. “Would you like a cup of coffee? You're quite safe, it's Nescafé.” She turned to smile at Mrs. Macey. “Gloria thought I was going to poison her with some strange brand of Indian coffee.”

  Mrs. Macey looked positively on fire with embarrassment. She cleared her throat. “I must be going,” she muttered. “Thank you for the coffee—er—Susie.”

  “Anytime,” Auntie said with a wave of her hand.

  “I'll see you out,” Dad added.

  Mrs. Macey did her best not to look amazed that Indian men could have good manners. Mumbling goodbyes, she scuttled from the kitchen toward the front door.

  I consulted Geena with a glance, my eyebrows raised. She nodded. Auntie had come from India. She didn't know that sometimes things could be difficult here. It was time she was told.

  “You know Mrs. Macey doesn't like us, Auntie,” Geena said pointedly.

  “Yes,” Auntie agreed, filling the kettle. “That's why I invited her. I thought it was time we got to know each other.”

  I cast up my eyes. “She doesn't like us because we're Indian,” I said.

  “I know,” Auntie replied calmly.

  “You know?” Jazz roared.

  “So why are you being nice to her?” I demanded.

  Auntie shrugged. “Because now Mrs. Macey feels bad for not liking us when we've been good to her.” She smiled. “Maybe now she'll change her mind.”

  “Oh no, I don't think so,” Geena said icily. “Mrs. Macey will just turn into one of those people who says, Well, I don't like Pakis, but you're all right because I know you.”

  “Yes,” said Auntie thoughtfully. “But if she doesn't hate all of us, at least it's a start.”

  I remembered Mrs. Macey muttering that we were all the same, and I wondered if Auntie was right. Just in time, I caught myself. Eek. For a minute there I'd nearly given Auntie some credit. Scary.

  “I think that's a good idea,” Kim said.

  As one we turned to stare at her. Kim didn't voice opinions. She didn't have opinions. Or she'd never had them before, at least.

  “Good.” Auntie smiled at her. “Kim, you come and help me make the pizzas, and we'll have a little chat. Amber, Geena and Jazz can lay the table.”

  I didn't like leaving Kim alone with Auntie, but I didn't have any choice. Every time I went into the kitchen to collect cutlery or plates or salad dressing, Kim and Auntie had their heads together over the pizza bases. One time they were laughing uproariously. Another time they were talking about Kim's mum. And once they were talking in lowered voices and I couldn't hear what they were saying. I began to feel seriously uneasy.

  Dad was hanging around the living room, getting in our way as we laid the table. He looked jittery and jumpy, as if he'd rather be a million miles away. He'd spent more time in the house over the last few weeks than he'd done for the whole year since Mum. I wondered what Auntie had been saying to him. Had she been nagging him the way she nagged us? Was he getting as fed up with her as we were? I really hoped so.

  The pizzas were made, and they smelled delicious. I had to give it to Auntie: she was a great cook. We all gathered round the table, mouths watering.

  “Save the piece with the burned cheese for me,” I ordered. “I like it like that.”

  I went back into the kitchen to collect the last pizza. Auntie was just lifting it out of the oven. She slid it onto a plate and turned to face me.

  “Tell me, Amber,” she said softly. “Why is Kim so unhappy?”

  My jaw dropped. Of all the things she could have said, I wasn't expecting that. “She's not unhappy,” I said. Here she goes again, interfering in something she knows nothing about. “She's just—Kim.”

  “You should speak to her.” Auntie glanced sideways at me to test my reaction. “If people are unhappy about something, it's better to talk about things than hide them away inside.”

  No one could ever accuse her of being subtle. Well, I could walk all over someone else's feelings too, no problem.

  “Why didn't my mother like you?” I asked abruptly.

  She wasn't expecting that. Her face changed and her eyes dropped. For once, I'd completely floored her.

  “Here.” She held out the plate to me, visibly pulling herself together. “Just remember what I've said, won't you?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I said under my breath as I walked out. Didn't she realize that the only thing we were unhappy about was her?

  We might have ended up murdering Auntie and burying her in our back garden if I hadn't had my next brilliant idea. Everything fell into place the next morning. We were in class waiting for Mr. Arora to arrive for registration.

  “So, Kim,” I said for the eighth time. “What were you and Auntie talking about in the kitchen last night?”

  Kim's eyes became vague. “Oh, just stuff,” she said feebly, for the eighth time. I gave up and turned my back on her to talk to Chelsea and Sharelle. They were perched on our table, giggling.

  “Who did that?” I moaned, as a loud, rip-roaring raspberry sounded around the classroom.

  “It's Botley,” said Sharelle. “He's got one of those remote control fart machines hidden in his bag.”

  “Oh, God,” I said. “How original.”

  Mr. Arora swept into the room, eyes darting here and there. I wondered if Botley would be stupid enough to use the machine during registration. I don't know why I even wondered. At the exact moment Mr. Arora's bottom made contact with his chair, a loud noise reverberated around the room. No one dared to laugh.

  “Botley,” said Mr. Arora in a dangerous voice, “bring that thing to me immediately.”

  “How did you know it was me, sir?” George asked foolishly.

  “Just a wild guess,” Mr. Arora snapped.

  “I was only trying to cheer everyone up, sir,” George protested, shambling out to the front of the class with the machine in his hand. “You know, with the inspectors coming next week and everything.”

  Mr. Arora's left eye twitched maniacally. “You will report to Mr. Grimwade tonight, Botley,” he said through gritted teeth. “And he will give you a letter to take home to your mother. She will be invited to visit the school so that we can discuss your consistently annoying behavior. Is that clear?”

  Yes. It was clear. It was so obvious.

  “Oh no,” Geena moaned. She put her hands over her ears. “I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.”

  “But it's a fantastic idea,” I protested.

  “It's a stupid idea,” Jazz said. “It's the most stupid idea you've ever had, Amber. You must be brain-dead.”

  “Oh, don't be shy,” I said. “Tell me what you really think, why don't you.”

  “Let's get this straight.” Geena shifted a pot of gold paint out of the way, and we climbed onto the stage. We were in the drama studio at break time, pretending to be painting the assembly backdrops. I'd suggested meeting there because it was quiet and we wouldn't be overheard. Ms. Woods always dashed off to the staff room at the first ring of the bell to get her caffeine shot, so there was no one around. “You're going to start behaving badly so that Mr. Arora gets fed up and wants Dad to come up to the school and sort it out.”

  “Now I'm definit
ely having a panic attack,” Kim groaned. Her face did look white. She'd tailed me along the corridors as usual, even though I'd tried to give her the slip.

  “Well, don't breathe too deeply,” I said. “There's a lot of paint fumes round here.” I turned back to Geena and Jazz. “You know what Auntie's like. She'll want to come too and stick her nose in. She and Mr. Arora get together. Perfect. I can see it all now. Eyes meeting across an empty classroom …”

  “Aren't you forgetting one tiny, tiny detail?” Geena asked.

  “What?”

  Geena made a megaphone with her hands around her mouth. “You'll get into trouble, idiot!” she yelled.

  “I know that,” I said, just managing to keep my dignity under this barrage of insults. “I think it's worth it to get rid of her.”

  “Yes, but—” Jazz began.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Jazz looked embarrassed. That doesn't come easily to her, so it had to be something important.

  “Oh, go on,” I said. “It's your turn to insult me. Geena's had her say.”

  “I haven't finished yet,” Geena warned. “I'm just taking a breather.”

  Jazz didn't look at us. She was carefully drawing circles with her toe on the floor of the stage.

  “We-ll,” she mumbled, “I was just thinking. We're kind of, you know, doing all right at the moment. After—after—”

  “Yes,” Geena said quickly.

  After what happened with Mum, she meant. I swallowed. The pain, when I allowed it to come, was still raw, and the depth of it took me unawares. It left me breathless and hurting as if I'd been punched hard and low.

  Jazz was still trying to explain what she wanted to say without actually saying it. “And everyone thinks we're doing fine and that we're cool and this could sort of—sort of—”

  “We get it,” I broke in.

  What Jazz meant was that this would ruin the life we'd carefully constructed for ourselves over the last year. It would put paid to the belief that the Dhillon girls were coping, and even doing better than that. They were getting on with their lives, bravely and confidently. The three of us had never got together and decided to do this in so many words. We'd just bonded together as a perfect unit, and this was how it had happened. Silently we'd all followed the same lead, although I don't think any of us could have said whose idea it was.

  I felt uneasy. Our performance for the outside world had kept us going for over a year. I didn't know what would happen if I started to mess with the image we'd created for ourselves. But if meant getting rid of Auntie, maybe it was worth the risk.

  “Look,” I said, “it won't be that bad. Arora and Grimwade aren't going to hang around, not with the inspectors coming. They'll get Dad and Auntie up to the school as soon as possible. It'll be quick and painless.”

  Kim whimpered like a sick kitten. I grinned at her.

  “Don't worry,” I said. “I don't expect you to help me.”

  “I would if you wanted me to,” said Kim weakly.

  I felt one of the sudden rushes of affection I sometimes have for Kim. “You'd die if you got a detention,” I said, patting her on the back.

  “What exactly would you do?” Jazz asked. “Smoke in the loos? Snog boys behind the bike sheds? Play truant?”

  “I certainly hope you're not going to start smoking,” Geena said. “Dad would have a fit. Anyway, you wouldn't like the taste.”

  I glanced sideways at her. “How would you know?”

  “I tried it once,” Geena said dismissively. “It's overrated.”

  I stored the information up as possible blackmail later. “I wasn't planning on going that far,” I replied. “I was thinking of something more along the lines of George Botley. I've already got a few ideas.”

  Geena looked sober. “So you're really going to do it.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, we can't stop you,” Geena said. “But be careful.”

  “Yes, be careful,” Jazz echoed anxiously.

  “I will.”

  I meant it. I did. I was planning to be careful. I was scared. This was a big step for me after the last year. It would be like going from prom queen to school geek. From being someone everyone envied to being someone like George Botley. I was going to be the Georgina Botley of Class 8A. It wasn't a nice thought.

  Being perfect hadn't been easy. But I'd been that way for so long, I'd forgotten how to annoy teachers. I sat in my maths class with Mr. Arora after break and wondered what I should do. If you can believe it, my mind was a blank. I could think of nothing. Should I begin with something big that would disrupt the whole class, or should I start small and work my way up? I didn't know.

  I was sitting next to Sharelle, and Kim was to the side of me. She kept darting nervous glances across the gap, as if she expected me to spontaneously combust at any moment. I felt nervous enough, and she was putting me off.

  “Go on,” I muttered to myself, twirling my ruler in an agitated manner. Mr. Arora was patrolling the classroom, marking books over people's shoulders. I could stick out my foot and trip him up. I could throw my maths book at him. I could pinch his bottom… .

  Mr. Arora walked past me. I didn't do anything and I could have kicked myself.

  “Do something bad,” I whispered. “Something. Anything.”

  “Amber!” Sharelle moaned. I was so preoccupied, I'd accidentally stuck my ruler in her ear. I apologized.

  “What's the matter with you?” she grumbled. “You've been acting strange all morning.” She stared speculatively at me through narrowed eyes. “That's how my uncle Mac started. Talking to himself.”

  “Well, shoot me if I start collecting bus tickets,” I said, bending my head over my book.

  “Amber”—Mr. Arora had doubled back around the classroom and was at my side again as I wrote in the last answer—”have you finished?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  I watched as he marked my algebra. Everything, including the most difficult sums, was correct. I hadn't even had the wit to do them all wrong. I was disgusted with myself.

  “Excellent, as usual, Amber,” said Mr. Arora in his gentle voice. “Go on to page forty-two.”

  I looked up at him. There's no doubt that Mr. Arora is gorgeous, but if he's got one tiny fault, it's his ears. They stick out ever so slightly. He wears his hair long to cover them up a bit, but they're definitely there, just peeking through.

  “All right,” I said, “Big Ears.”

  At least, I thought I said it. But I could only have said it in my head, because Mr. Arora didn't turn white. The class didn't gasp. Kim didn't faint. And now I'd lost my chance. Mr. Arora was turning away from me. Do it.

  “Oi, Big Ears,” I croaked. But my voice wouldn't come out properly.

  Mr. Arora turned back, looking puzzled. “Did you say something, Amber?”

  Everyone in the classroom was staring at me. I could see Kim clutching the edge of the table, her knuckles bloodless. I collapsed like a house of cards.

  “Er—I can't remember, sir,” I mumbled.

  “It sounded like ‘Britney Spears’ to me,” Sharelle said helpfully. I would have liked to kill her on the spot. It would have been one way of getting Auntie and Dad called up to the school.

  I spent the last ten minutes of the lesson giving myself a good talking to. By the time the bell rang, I'd psyched myself up to go for it next lesson. Netball with Miss Thomas.

  “Not Thomas the Tank Engine,” Kim moaned, as we changed into our kit. “She'll murder you, Amber.”

  Kim was not exaggerating for once. I gulped. Now I was really scared.

  “Look at the weather,” Chelsea complained, staring out of the changing-room windows. The wind was howling and screeching around the building, and the trees were being tossed from side to side and bent double. “Only a lunatic like Thomas could expect us to play netball on a day like this.”

  “I heard that, Chelsea Dixon,” thundered Miss Thomas, appearing as if by magic in the changing-
room doorway. “Detention at lunchtime. Write out one hundred times, I must not question my teachers' decisions or call them lunatics.”

  “I wish I'd said that,” I remarked to Kim. “Then I'd be in detention.”

  Kim did not reply. Possibly her throat had closed up through blind fear.

  We trailed reluctantly out of the changing rooms into the gale, which was blowing straight into our faces. We did prizewinning impressions of acute angles and it took us five minutes to get to the netball courts instead of the usual thirty seconds. I spent the time thinking up things I could say that would get me a detention. Sometimes a simple “Hello, miss” was enough to get Thomas riled.

  As it turned out, it was all for nothing. I would have needed a megaphone to say anything to Miss Thomas that she could actually hear. The wind whipped all the words from our mouths and tore them away, making conversation impossible. Netball, too. Passing the ball was out of the question. At last Thomas let us scuttle back inside, but only after a litter bin had bowled across the court and nearly knocked Kim over.

  “I'm hopeless,” I complained, as we changed. “Useless.” I glanced at the clock. The hands were ticking round to lunchtime. “I'm going to have to tell Geena and Jazz that I'm not getting anywhere. They'll only say I told you so.”

  “Let's go to lunch,” Kim said. “I'll buy you your favorite treacle pudding.”

  “Thanks, but I can't.” I buttoned my shirt. “I've got an assembly rehearsal first.”

  “Oh.” Kim looked disappointed.

  I was still getting changed when the bell rang. By the time I got to the drama studio, most of the rest of the assembly cast were there, including Geena and Jazz. Ms. Woods didn't notice I was late because she was arguing with Kyra Hollins. They'd had this row three times already. Kyra, who was one of Geena's mates, had an aunt who knew someone who was a Buddhist. So she'd been forced into taking part in the assembly by Ms. Woods.

  “Miss, I keep telling you, I'm not a Buddhist,” Kyra complained. “My auntie just knows someone who is.”

  “And as I told you before, Kyra,” Ms. Woods snapped, her hair looking bigger and wilder than ever, “I'm not interested.”