Bindi Babes (12 page)

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.

“O
h 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
definitely
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.”

Geena nudged me. “We've got something to tell you, Jazz and I,” she whispered.

I glanced at her. Geena's eyes were shining and she looked excited. Jazz beamed at me and nodded. I began, for some reason, to feel slightly uneasy.

“The other kids in my class keep taking the mick out of me,” Kyra said sullenly.

“Kyra,” said Ms. Woods through clenched teeth, “I am a Buddhist myself and it is a wonderful religion. It is a religion of peace and tranquility and calm acceptance. Now shut up before I give you a detention. Where are my Christians?”

We all moved into position at the sides of the stage. Geena, Jazz and I had learned our words already, but some of the others were looking dazed and clutching bits of paper. Daniel Cohen, for instance, was sweet but as thick as two very short, thick planks. Even if he wrote his words out on his hand, he wouldn't be able to
read
them. However, as there weren't many Jewish kids in the school, he'd been forced into taking part.