Bollywood Babes (16 page)

“How stylish,” Jazz said grumpily.

“I think it's a fabulous idea,” remarked Auntie, with a faint smirk. “You can wear them when we go out shopping later, girls.”

“We got one for you too.” Molly handed another Tshirt to Auntie, which wiped the smile off her face ever so quickly. “I hope it's big enough.”

“We can
all
wear them when we go shopping, Auntie,” Geena said with a grin. Auntie scowled.

“Now I have a phone call to make,” Molly said, batting her eyelashes at Dad. “So if you'll excuse me …” She waved a gently dismissive hand.

“Of course,” Dad said politely. “Come along, girls.”

We trooped sulkily out, still wearing our T-shirts. Molly accompanied us to the door, and then closed it firmly behind us. I wondered who she was calling.

“Well!” said Auntie, holding up her T-shirt with a look that said it all.

“Get me out,” Jazz wailed, trying to pull the T-shirt over her head. “I'm stuck.”

Geena and I extracted her.

“I think it's a brilliant idea,” Dad said firmly. “In fact, I'm going to wear mine to the gym.”

“The gym?”
we roared in unison.

Dad tried not to blush, but couldn't. “Yes, the gym,” he said in a would-be casual voice. “Why not?”

“Dad, you don't do exercise,” I said.

“You take the car to Mr. Attwal's shop and it's only a two-minute walk,” added Jazz.

“Then it's time I got fit,” Dad replied, now a fiery red. He couldn't look any of us in the eye. “I'm going to get my sports kit and go to the gym. I'll be back for lunch. Excuse me.”

We watched him march upstairs.

“You see?” Jazz began.

“Don't start!” I snapped.

Auntie simply looked despairing, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I told you so.” Jazz glared at me, and Geena joined in. “Dad and Molly Mahal. It's happening, Amber, whether you like it or not.”

B
y Monday morning we had a poster advertising the party in our living room window. Molly Mahal had spent most of the weekend on the telephone. Several of the calls had been to Mr. Arora, urging him to hurry and finish the posters. Other calls had been so mysterious that no one else was allowed to hear them. Jazz had tried putting a glass to the living room wall as they do in the movies, but Auntie had stopped her. We later caught her trying the same trick herself.

“I wonder what else Molly has planned,” Geena said thoughtfully, as we left for school.

“Isn't this enough?” I waved my hand at the poster in our front window.

“Obviously not.” Jazz smirked, looking over my shoulder.

Leo was leaning his bicycle against our hedge. He was wearing a Molly Mahal T-shirt under his denim jacket.

“All right?” He pulled Dad's newspaper out of his bag and walked up our path. “Hey, where are your T-shirts?”

“They're not part of our regulation school uniform,” I said frostily, sweeping past him with my nose in the air. Jazz and Geena followed, giggling.

“Good morning, girls.” Mrs. Macey was on her way back from the minimarket, clutching a bottle of milk. She too was wearing a Molly T-shirt. It did not sit well with her tweed skirt and sensible shoes. I ground my teeth.

“Well, it's for the school, I suppose,” Geena remarked.

“Everybody's going Molly Mahal crazy,” Jazz moaned. “Including Dad.”

“Don't look left,” I ordered as we passed the minimarket. “Eyes straight ahead.”

Mr. Attwal had jumped off his stool and was banging on the window, pointing with delight at the Molly T-shirt he was wearing. There was a poster advertising the party taped to the shop door. There were more posters, one pinned to every tree the length of the street.

“I feel like Molly's watching us everywhere we go,” complained Jazz, as we took the shortcut through
the park. There were posters here, too. One on the community notice board, one on the ice cream stall and one in the children's playground.

When we arrived at school, there was more stress awaiting us. The first person we met in the school playground was George Botley, bare-chested, with his shirt tied around his waist.

“George, do you want me to be ill?” I asked. “Put your shirt on immediately.”

George grinned. “Am I driving you wild?”

“Not so you'd notice,” I replied.

George looked disappointed. Instead of his shirt, he pulled on the T-shirt he'd been holding scrunched up in his hand.

“Molly Mahal!” I groaned. I jumped forward and clutched George round the neck by a handful of material. “Where did you get that?”

George looked quite pleased, probably because it's the closest I've ever got to him. “Mr. Grimwade and Mr. Arora are giving them out,” he said. “They said we can wear them every day until the party.”

I released him and turned to Geena and Jazz. “We have to check this out,” I said sternly.

The double doors to one of the Year 7 classrooms were open onto the playground. Mr. Arora and Mr. Grimwade were standing behind a table holding three huge cardboard boxes. Students were milling around them, and they were handing out Molly T-shirts as fast as they could. Both teachers wore T-shirts themselves,
Mr. Grimwade's stretched so tight across his bulging stomach it looked as if the baby was due any minute.

“Form an orderly queue now!” Mr. Grimwade shouted, but there was no chance of that. Molly Mahal fever had really taken a grip.

“Girls!” Mr. Arora spotted us and waved. “Isn't this great? And we have a queue for tickets at the school office already!” He squinted at us through the morning sunshine. “Where are your T-shirts?”

“We left them at home,” I called back.

“Thank the Lord,” Geena muttered.

Mr. Arora plunged his hands into a box and pulled out a handful of T-shirts. “Here you are,” he said encouragingly. “We can lend you some to wear today.”

“Retreat,” Geena said in my ear. “Now. Before it's too late.”

We began backing away round the side of the school. Luckily a rush of T-shirt seekers swamped Mr. Arora at just that moment, shielding us from view.

“This is awful,” Jazz said in a tragic tone. “It's all to impress Dad, and it's just going so brilliantly.”

Geena and I did not even have the heart to argue.

The school office was still locked, but there was already a queue of ten people at the outside door. Mrs. Dhaliwal was one of them. She was having a heated argument with the woman in the blue
salwar kameez
who was standing behind her.

“Don't try and push in front of me again,” Mrs. Dhaliwal snapped fearsomely. “I've been waiting here
for twenty minutes, and I'm not in the mood to be trifled with.”

“Is everything all right, Auntie-ji?” Geena asked diplomatically.

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Dhaliwal directed a final glare at the woman behind her. “Don't mind her. She's just my sister-in-law. Now, how's Molly? And your father?” She gave us a huge wink. “Everything going well?”

We were saved from answering by the sound of the office door being unlocked by the secretary. We just caught a glimpse of Mrs. Capstick's scared face as the queue surged forward.

“This is madness,” Geena said.

“Hello,” said a bright voice behind us.

There was Kim, beaming at us. Of course, she was also wearing a Molly T-shirt.

“Oh!” Kim looked disappointed. “Why aren't you wearing your T-shirts?”

“How many times do you think we'll be asked that,” I said to Geena and Jazz, “before we're compelled to kill somebody?”

“Not long.” Jazz eyed Kim irritably. “My fingers are itching already.”

“I thought you'd be pleased,” Kim grumbled. “I mean, it's all for the school, isn't it?”

We stared hard at her, but Kim looked very innocent.

“I suppose you'd know if Molly's got any other publicity stunts planned,” I remarked.

This time Kim did turn red. It was as if all the blood in her body rushed to her face at once. “I might,” she said, attempting a casual tone. She slung her bulging bag off her shoulder and lowered it to the ground in an effort to hide her crimson face. “I might not.”

“Oh, stop it.” I folded my arms. “You
do
know.”

“Tell,” demanded Jazz. “It will save you from much pain.”

“I can't,” Kim said assertively. “I promised.”

“You
promised
,” I repeated with scorn. “Kim, how long have we been friends?”

“Seven years,” Kim mumbled.

“And do you remember why we
became
friends?” I pressured her.

“You stopped George Botley from painting my face blue when we were five,” said Kim.

“Yes,” I said sternly. “But we also became friends because we like and trust each other. Because we respect each other.”

“Oh, please,” Geena said in my ear. “You'll have us in tears in a minute.”

“Now, are you going to tell us or not?” I asked.

“No,” replied Kim. “I would if I could, but I can't.”

“Well,” said Geena, who was staring down at Kim's bag lying at her feet. “Are you going to tell us why you've got a copy of
Masala Express
in your rucksack?”

Kim's eyes widened in horror. We all looked down
at her bag. It was so full, bits of things were sticking up out of the sides. A pencil case. A science textbook. A copy of
Masala Express
.

“What in heaven's name are
you
doing with a copy of
Masala Express
?” I asked in amazement.

“Nothing,” Kim mumbled, looking guiltier than the most guilty person in the whole world, ever. She made a dive for her bag, but Geena was quicker. She grabbed at the copy of
Masala Express
and caught the end of it. She then hung on for grim death as Kim tried to pull the bag away.

“Let go,” Kim said through her teeth.

“No chance,” replied Geena. She heaved on the magazine and it shot out of the bag like a cork out of a champagne bottle. Geena staggered backward and dropped the magazine. Kim and Jazz immediately dived for it and banged their heads together.

“Oh dear,” I said, strolling over to the magazine and picking it up. “Why didn't you just hand it over, Kim? It would have been a whole lot easier—”

I broke off. The whole front page of
Masala Express
was taken up with a huge photo of Molly Mahal. She was glamorously dressed, and posing in what I recognized as Kim's living room. The headline read: bollywood star to take part in our touch the car competition! read all about it on pages five and six!

I shook the magazine at Kim. “What's going on?”

“And how did you get this?” Geena grabbed the
magazine from me. “It's this week's edition. It's not even out yet.”

“From my neighbor,” Kim mumbled. “The Chowdhurys' son, Miki. I told you, he works at the magazine.”

Jazz, who was still rubbing the side of her head, suddenly spotted the front cover. “Molly Mahal in the Touch the Car competition?” she repeated incredulously. “What's she doing
that
for?”

“Well, to get publicity for the school party,” Kim said eagerly. “She talks about it in the interview.”

Geena flipped to pages five and six. There were more photos of Molly in different outfits (all Auntie's) and a short interview by Miki Chowdhury. It didn't tell us much we didn't already know. The only interesting bit was where Molly said she was currently staying with “some very dear friends.” That made me smile. Or it would have done if she hadn't gone on to say that her future was looking a whole lot brighter than it had for the last few years, and she had quite a few irons in the fire. That sent a cold chill the length of my spine.

“Dad's one of her irons,” whispered Jazz in a doom-laden tone.

“So,” I said crossly to Kim, “she came round to your place so that Miki Chowdhury could interview her, and now she's in the Touch the Car competition this weekend?”

“How very convenient,” remarked Geena. “I'm sure
that
wasn't fixed at all.”

“Oh no,” Kim said earnestly. “Her name was picked out of a hat. It was all fair and aboveboard. She saw the competition in the copy of
Masala Express
that your paperboy gave her, and she entered it.”

“Leo!” I muttered. This was like a conspiracy. It
was
a conspiracy.

“I don't know why you're being so negative,” said Kim, looking puzzled. “She's doing it for the school. You should be pleased. Think positive.”

“Why don't you just—?” I began with vigor, but Kim had already scuttled off.

“Dad's going to be very impressed if she wins,” Jazz predicted, like some tragic prophetess. “She'll probably give him the car as a present.”

Geena and I jumped on her. It relieved our tension somewhat, but didn't solve the problem at all.