Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

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  For my mum,

  who loves bollywood

  “What would you do if there was a hurricane right now, and the school started to crumble around our ears?” I asked Geena. “Would you help Jazz limp out of the collapsing building, or would you leave her behind and make a run for it?”

  “Oh, stop it,” Jazz moaned tragically. She hopped down the corridor toward the school office, clinging onto our arms. “I am in serious pain.”

  “I'd drop her like a hot potato and make a run for it,” Geena said without hesitation. “Why should we all get killed? It would be so unnecessary.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Two out of three survivors is better than none.”

  “Oh, be quiet.” Jazz winced in an exaggerated style. “You're so heartless.” It was hard to be sure if she'd really hurt her ankle or not. She's a drama queen, and hypochondria is one of her specialities. “I wish I was an only child.”

  “Then you'd be even more of a spoilt brat than you already are,” I said. “It's only Geena and I who are saving you from yourself. You should be thanking us.”

  “All the research shows that it's the middle child who's the most badly behaved,” Geena remarked, “and the oldest who's the most sensible and responsible.”

  “The research is rubbish then,” I said with spirit. “Mum used to say that I could be very sensible.”

  “If you tried ever so hard,” said Geena.

  “And there was a blue moon,” added Jazz.

  Our mum died over a year ago. We didn't talk about her for a long time. We were trying to pretend that we were over it when we weren't. Our brilliant idea was to show everyone how over it we were by being totally perfect. You won't be surprised to hear that it didn't work.

  We talk about Mum now sometimes. It's still hard. But when something hurts like the worst kind of pain you can imagine, you mustn't expect getting over it to be easy.

  “I should be going into lunch now,” Geena complained. She stared wistfully at the clock on the wall as we passed at the pace of a snail. “There'll be no French fries left by the time I get there. Really, Jazz, you're so inconsiderate.”

  “Yes, if you hadn't been trying to flirt with two boys at once, you wouldn't have tripped over that football,” I added.

  “My ankle might be broken,” Jazz said weakly. “I'll have to go home. Do you think Auntie will come and collect me in the car?”

  “You'd better not be faking it,” Geena broke in. “You failed badly when you pretended you had flu to get out of that maths test last week.”

  “Didn't Auntie want to put a thermometer up your bottom?” I said.

  Geena and I laughed very hard, while Jazz looked like she'd swallowed several lemons.

  “I've never seen anyone jump out of bed so quickly,” Geena chuckled.

  “Let's face it,” I said, “Auntie can't be fooled. Most of the time, at least.”

  But that didn't mean we weren't going to try.

  Since Auntie came from India to live with us a few months ago, she's been trying to look after us and Dad, but she couldn't just leave it at that. Meddling, interfering and sticking her nose into other people's business were the things she did best (or should I say worst). Anyway, it turned out that Mum had wanted her to look after us, so we couldn't really argue (well, no more than usual). Now we were trying to get along with her (sort of).

  “It's a pity our idea to marry Auntie off and get rid of her didn't work,” I said with regret. “It would all have been so neat.”

  “Our idea!” Geena repeated sternly. “I hope you haven't forgotten exactly whose idea that was, Amber?”

  “Because we haven't,” Jazz added, forgetting all about her so-called broken ankle as the opportunity to have a go at me arose.

  “All right, so it was my idea,” I blustered. “And it was a good one.” Geena and Jazz made mocking noises. “But I admit it didn't quite work.”

  “Quite?” Jazz snorted. “It didn't work at all.”

  My brilliant idea had been to get Auntie married off to my class teacher, Mr. Arora. Mr. Arora is the hero of Coppergate Secondary School. His dark good looks send girls swooning in the corridors.

  “Well, Amber”—Geena gave me a lofty glance—“I hope you've realized that you can't go around sticking your nose into other people's love lives.”

  “It would have been good, though, wouldn't it,” Jazz said in a wistful voice, “if Auntie had married Mr. Arora? Every girl in the school would have been so-o jealous.”

  “It might still happen,” I remarked. “Especially now they've made up after that row they had at Inderjit's wedding.” Auntie and Mr. Arora had met for the first time at our cousin's wedding reception, and argued (about us, naturally).

  “And now Auntie's joined the PTA,” said Geena with satisfaction. “She and Mr. Arora had coffee together after the meeting last week, too. I heard Auntie telling Dad.”

  “Really!” I said thoughtfully. “That sounds rather promising.”

  “But anyway,” Geena went on quickly, “if we're not going to interfere anymore, it doesn't matter one way or another. You and Jazz will just have to restrain yourselves.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said sweetly. “We can rely on you for information, anyway, as you're obviously keeping a close eye on them.”

  Geena glared. “I am not keeping an eye on them. I just happened to have noticed—casually, and without any effort at all—that they seem to be getting on rather well.”

  “Is that why you were hanging around when Auntie was on the phone yesterday?” Jazz inquired.

  Geena reddened. I grinned. “Don't get your hopes up,” I said. “She was talking to her friend Asha in Delhi.”

  Geena and Jazz both looked disappointed.

  “Oh, let's just leave Auntie and Mr. Arora to get on with it, shall we?” I yawned. I was bored with the whole subject. “If they like each other, they will. And if they don't, they won't.”

  Geena and Jazz weren't even pretending to listen. They were talking amongst themselves.

  “Did you hear that ?” Geena whispered.

  Jazz's eyes were popping out on stalks. “Yes, I did.” She dug her nails into my arm so hard, I winced. “It sounded like—”

  “What are you two babbling about?” I began.

  Immediately Jazz clapped her hand over my mouth, while Geena grabbed my arm and said, “Sssshhh!” loudly. She nodded toward the nearest classroom, 8A, my class.

  I glanced across the corridor. The classroom door was ajar, but I couldn't see inside. However, I could hear voices and they were both familiar.

  “That's Auntie.” I slapped Jazz's hand away. “And Mr. Arora!”

  Of course, I headed straight toward the classroom.

  “What are you doing, Amber?” Geena asked.

  I paused mid-tiptoe. “What do y
ou think? I want to know what they're talking about.”

  “I thought we were just going to leave them to get on with it?” Jazz remarked.

  “And then, of course, there's the whole question of sneaking around listening to other people's private conversations,” Geena said in a stern voice.

  “I won't tell you what they're saying, if that makes you feel better,” I replied. “I wonder if he's asking her to marry him.”

  I was barely at the door before I felt Geena breathing down my neck. Jazz wasn't far behind. Her recovery from a broken ankle in ten seconds was nothing short of a modern medical miracle.

  “Well, that's settled then,” Mr. Arora said. “I know it will mean a lot of hard work.”

  We still couldn't see them, but we could hear them much more clearly.

  “Oh, I'll be glad to help in any way I can.” That was Auntie.

  “And I'll look forward to working with you,” Mr. Arora went on in his gently charming voice. “I'm sure we'll make a great team.”

  “If that's a proposal, it's the most unromantic one I've ever heard,” Jazz muttered.

  “Shhh!” Geena and I whispered.

  “Come in, girls,” said Auntie. “Don't be shy.”

  She has hearing like Superman. We all turned deep, dark red. Then we hung around for a few seconds, shoving each other. Eventually we shuffled in, Geena and Jazz sneakily hiding behind me because I'm the tallest.

  “We weren't listening,” Jazz said immediately.

  Auntie appeared faintly amused, while Mr. Arora tried to look stern. They were certainly a very goodlooking couple, sitting together at Mr. Arora's desk. Auntie had lost weight since she'd come from India. She claimed it was the stress of looking after us. I'm sure she was joking. She was wearing a pair of black trousers, stiletto-heeled boots and a pink sweater, her hair knotted on top of her head. She looked almost pretty enough for Mr. Arora, who was heartthrobbingly glamorous in a cinnamon-colored shirt and geometric-patterned blue tie, black hair flopping over big brown eyes.

  “You do know the rules, girls?” Mr. Arora inquired gently. “You're not allowed in school at lunchtime unless it's an emergency.”

  “Jazz has an emergency,” I said quickly.

  “Doesn't she always?” Auntie said in a resigned tone.

  “She's hurt her ankle,” Geena added.

  We both stared hard at Jazz, who had roses in her cheeks and looked the picture of health.

  “Oh yes,” Jazz said hurriedly, bending down to clutch her leg. “Ow.”

  “You didn't tell us you were visiting the school today, Auntie,” Geena said pointedly.

  “I didn't know I was,” Auntie replied, a picture of baby-faced innocence. “But Mr. Arora rang earlier this morning and invited me.”

  We all stared at Mr. Arora with avid curiosity. He wilted visibly under our scrutiny like a week-old lettuce.

  “I was just wondering if your aunt would be interested in helping us with our latest fund-raising project,” he began.

  It's not the done thing to groan loudly in front of teachers. I had to clamp my teeth firmly together. Geena did the same.

  “Fund-raising?” Jazz repeated in a despairing tone.

  Things had become desperate ever since the upper school had moved across the road into a brand-new building, all glass, steel, space and light. The lower school (us) were still stuck in the old falling-down building, waiting for our part of the new school to be built. We were in for a long wait. A few weeks ago the school inspectors had visited us, and while Coppergate had had a good report, they were concerned at the amount of time it was taking for the new school to be finished. This had led to questions being asked.

  The reason for the delay was rumored to be that the school was running out of money. Tales of fabulous expenditure on the new building were flying all round the playground, with the head teacher, Mr. Morgan, named and shamed as the main culprit. All this massive overspending meant that suddenly we were being bullied into doing sponsored walks, silences and spelling bees by that tyrannical dictator Mr. Grimwade, also known as head of the lower school.

  “Yes, fund-raising,” Mr. Arora said sternly. The teachers had obviously been told to follow the party line, whatever their private thoughts on the subject, and whip us all into submission. He turned to Auntie. “It's a very valuable lesson for the students to participate in paying for their school. It gives them a sense of responsibility.”

  “Sir,” I began innocently enough, although I would never have been so cheeky a few months ago, in my perfect phase, “is it true that Mr. Morgan has a handwoven carpet in his office with the school crest on it that cost five thousand pounds?”

  “Someone said he makes everyone take their shoes off when they go in there,” Jazz added.

  “That's nonsense,” Mr. Arora spluttered. He caught Auntie's inquiring eye. “It was just the once,” he said weakly. “And they were Year Eight boys in muddy football boots.”

  Geena vigorously joined the attack. “And is it true that the staff room in the new building has got digital TV?”

  “Yes, of course it is,” I replied. “The teachers come in at weekends to watch it.”

  “Girls.” Auntie stepped in to save Mr. Arora, who was looking quite bitter. The staff room in our building hasn't even got a washbasin, never mind satellite TV. “Shouldn't you be on your way? I'll see you at home later.”

  “I think I'd better come with you now,” Jazz said in a weak-as-a-kitten voice. “Seeing as I can't walk.”

  Auntie ignored her. “I'll give you a ring in a few days' time when I've had a chance to come up with a few more definite ideas,” she said to Mr. Arora.

  We smirked and nudged each other. “What ideas?” I asked.

  “For an end-of-term party,” said Mr. Arora. “Your aunt's suggested a Bollywood theme. I think it could raise a lot of money.”

  “It was just an idea,” Auntie said modestly.

  I glanced at Geena and Jazz. We were all three quite impressed. A Bollywood party sounded more inviting than a sponsored walk round the muddy playing fields. It sounded appealing. It sounded romantic. Hah!

  I could see it all. Romantic film music echoing softly round the school hall. Auntie and Mr. Arora locked in each other's arms like Sharukh Khan and Manisha Koirala in Dil Se …

  “What are you three looking so smug about?” asked Auntie as we went out, leaving Mr. Arora with his packed lunch.

  “Not a thing,” I said. I was secretly thinking that this romance wasn't dead yet. Oh no.

  “How can I look smug when I'm in pain?” Jazz complained. “Shall I fetch my coat?”

  “Maybe we can help, Auntie,” Geena suggested.

  Auntie instantly looked suspicious. “With the party, you mean?”

  “Of course with the party,” said Geena, wide-eyed. “What did you think I meant?”

  “That's very kind of you,” Auntie said. “But”—she stared hard at us—“there's to be no interfering. Do we understand each other, girls?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Geena agreed. Jazz and I nodded.

  “Good. See you later.” Auntie went off, her stiletto heels tip-tapping down the corridor.

  “But we are going to interfere, aren't we?” Jazz asked anxiously, as soon as she'd turned the corner.

  “Of course not,” I said. “We're helping. That's different.”

  “Why should Auntie have all the fun?” Geena added.

  “But we'll be clever about it this time,” I went on. “I mean, it's not like we're desperate to get rid of her, like we were before.”

  “We're just helping to smooth the path of true love,” Geena said lyrically. “Pointing Cupid's arrow in the right direction. Oiling the wheels of romance.”

  “And it'll be a bit of a laugh.” I grinned and nudged Geena as the two of us walked off down the corridor.

  “Where are you going?” Jazz moaned. She limped theatrically after us. “Now that Auntie's callously abandoned me, you've got to help me to the sc
hool office.”

  “Try limping on the other side,” Geena advised her, “if you want to be consistent.”

  “A Bollywood party?” Kim looked at me over the top of her book. “Sounds great.”

  She carried on reading even though I was staring pointedly at her. Auntie had given Kim this book. It was called Say No and Mean It!, written by someone with the astonishing and unlikely name of Susquehannah Enkelman Gorze. Kim has assertiveness issues.

  “Oh, for God's sake.” I tweaked the book out of her fingers. “I'm trying to talk to you, Kim.”

  “Is it urgent?” Kim asked assertively.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh, sorry.” Luckily, after a few sharp words, Kim usually caves. “You want to talk about the party?”

  “No, about Auntie and Mr. Arora.”

  We were in the classroom, waiting for Mr. Arora to arrive for afternoon registration. “I think it could be on again,” I continued. “Auntie's helping to organize the party.”

  “Really?” Kim looked interested. “But of course you and Geena and Jazz won't be interfering this time,” she added in an assertive tone.

  “No, miss,” I said with heavy sarcasm.

  “What's all this about a Bollywood party?” asked Chelsea Dixon. She was touching up her electric-blue nail varnish while Sharelle Alexander fed her Doritos.

  “It's an end-of-term thing,” I said. I lowered my voice. “You know—fund-raising.”

  “Fund-raising!” Chelsea shrieked. “Don't even mention that word.”

  “My family hide when they see me coming home from school now,” Sharelle said mournfully. “They put false names on my sponsorship forms and then they won't pay up.”

  “What's all this about a Bollywood party?” George Botley shambled over to us, wearing his tie as a headband, his jumper lashed around his waist.

  “My aunt and Mr. Arora are organizing a Bollywood party for the end of term,” I said shortly. As far as I knew, George still fancied me. My aim, however, was to keep him as far away from me as possible.

  “Bollywood? That's Indian films, isn't it?” George looked alarmed. “I'm not wearing a turban. I'd look stupid.”

  “Don't worry, George,” I said. “You can be your usual stylish self.”