Bollywood Babes (2 page)

“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 school 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.”

“Oh, great,” George said, relieved. The idiot then looked puzzled as Chelsea, Sharelle and Kim giggled.

“Sit down, please.” Mr. Arora hurried into the classroom, the register tucked under his arm. “George, kindly replace your clothes on the right bits of your anatomy.”

I glanced at Mr. Arora. He looked all sort of pink and shining and glowy, as if he had a lovely secret. I smiled.

“Amber said I look stylish, sir,” George remarked, stumbling over his trailing shoelaces.

“I did not!” I protested. The rest of the class hooted with laughter. Even Mr. Arora smiled. And, believe me, he does not find anything to do with George Botley funny at any time.

“He's in a good mood,” I murmured in Kim's ear, sliding into the seat next to her.

Kim grinned. “That's because you said he looks stylish.”

“Not George,” I said, casting up my eyes. “Mr. Arora.”

“You said you and Geena and Jazz weren't going to interfere this time,” Kim reminded me anxiously.

“No.” I smiled. “
You
said that.”

“He's definitely interested,” I told Geena and Jazz later. We were on our way home after school, dawdling through the park, Geena and I dipping into a packet of M&M's that I'd nicked out of Jazz's bag. “George Botley was burping all through the register, and Mr. Arora didn't even notice.”

“Absentmindedness,” Geena said knowledgeably. “One of the first signs of being in love. Do you want an M&M, Jazz?”

“After all, they are yours,” I said kindly.

“No, thanks.” Jazz smirked. “And they're not mine actually. Someone left the open bag on my desk.”

“Urgh!” Geena spluttered, spitting hers out onto the grass.

I'd just swallowed mine and almost choked. “Why didn't you say so?” I croaked crossly. “They could have been poisoned.”

“Exactly.” Jazz began to laugh hysterically, so we
set about her with our fists, which only made her laugh harder.

“Stop,” Geena said suddenly. We stopped just outside the park. “Sorry, girls. It's Friday. You know what that means.” And she pointed across the road in the direction of the minimarket on the corner.

“Oh no,” I groaned. “It's not that time again, is it?”

“Why do
we
have to come?” Jazz argued mutinously. “Can't we just wait outside?”

“No.” Geena began herding us across the road like a determined sheepdog. “It's less traumatic if there's three of us.”

I glanced through the window. Mr. Attwal, the minimarket owner, was sitting at the till with his nose in a large book. He had possibly been the most boring man alive until a few weeks ago, constantly telling his customers all the things he might have done if only his life had been different. Then Auntie had come along and suggested that he do a few courses, take a few evening classes. Now Mr. Attwal was like a man reborn. Or a bore reborn.

As we sidled into the shop, trying to remain inconspicuous, a bell louder than a police siren chimed overhead. Alerted to the presence of a captive audience, Mr. Attwal jumped to his feet, beaming, and waved the book at us. It was called
Geography Is Fun!

“Girls, did you know that Asia is the biggest continent in the world?” he boomed across the shop floor.
“And Mumbai is the biggest city—well, going by the number of people living inside the city boundaries; not including the people who live outside the city limits.” He was definitely the most boring man in the world now, for sure. His head seemed to be utterly stuffed with useless facts.

“Great,” I called out. I turned and elbowed Geena in the ribs. “Hurry up,” I mouthed urgently.

Geena had it down to a fine art by now. As Jazz and I waited by the door, she skirted the fresh fruit and veg display, took a left by the tinned fruit and hurtled toward the magazines. Before Mr. Attwal could step out from behind the counter and bear down on Jazz and me, Geena was at the till, clutching her magazine.

“Oh.” Mr. Attwal looked disappointed. “Is that all?”

“Yes, thank you.” Geena had the money in her hand, the exact amount. Five seconds later we were out of the door, breathing hard, Mr. Attwal's voice floating wistfully after us. “Come back when you've got a bit more time and I'll tell you all about the North Pole.”

“Do we
have
to do this every week?” Jazz asked crossly.

“Yes.” Geena unfolded her magazine. “You know very well that Mr. Attwal's is the only shop that sells it round here.”