Bindi Babes (13 page)

Ms. Woods was struggling with the backdrops. Instead of the map of the world showing the spread of the major religions, we were standing in front of Widow Twankey's kitchen from last year's lower-school pantomime,
Aladdin
. I hoped the inspectors had a sense of humor.

“What have you got to tell me, then?” I asked Geena in a low voice.

She smiled. “Jazz and I are going to help you,” she said.

“Help me?”

“Yes,” Jazz chimed in. “We're going to behave badly too. We're
all
going to behave badly.”

“What?” I was outraged. “That's ridiculous.”

“Why?” they said together.

“Because—” I stopped to work out why. “Why should we
all
get into trouble?”

“We always stick together, don't we?” Geena said.

“Yes, all for one and one for all,” Jazz agreed.

“That's so not true,” I said. “What about the time I accidentally broke Dad's laptop and then pretended it had been nicked? You and Jazz found it and dropped me right in it.”

“Oh, that.” Geena waved her hand dismissively. “I was just trying to get in with Dad because I wanted a new CD player.”

“And I just wanted to get you into trouble,” Jazz added. “But this is different.”

“If we all start messing about, Grimwade will get Dad and Auntie up to the school a lot quicker,” Geena said sensibly.

I wanted to argue. I couldn't. I knew they were right. I just didn't want them in on my idea.

“You can't stop us, Amber,” Geena pointed out. “Anyway, I've already started.”

“You've
started
?” I felt almost suffocated by jealousy. “You've started? How? When?”

“I dropped my German book on the floor on purpose,” Geena said proudly. “Twice.”

“Good one,” I said. “I bet Grimwade's dashing off a furious letter to Dad as we speak.”

Geena looked cross. “You're not funny, Amber, and you're certainly not clever.”

“What did Miss Berger do?” Jazz asked.

“She didn't, actually, notice,” Geena admitted. “But I've got some other tricks up my sleeve.”

“Ooh, I'm going to think of something naughty to do this afternoon,” Jazz said eagerly.

Ms. Woods had finally got the right backdrop into position. “Right, Christians and Sikhs stand by,” she panted.

We stepped out onto the stage. The uneasy feeling I'd had was intensified. Now the stakes were higher. We were playing a dangerous game. It was a game we had to win.

“Amber?” Sharelle poked me in the ribs. “Why are you staring at Botley?”

Because I'd decided that there was only one thing to do. If I was going to be annoying, and more annoying than Geena and Jazz, I would have to study a master of the art. And there was nobody more supreme at winding up teachers than George Botley.

“She fancies him.” Chelsea snorted with laughter.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Do I look mentally defective?”

George had strolled into the classroom after lunch with an open can of Coke. While we were waiting for Mr. Arora to arrive to take the register, he was amusing himself by filling his mouth with liquid and squirting it at people. He hadn't dared squirt any at me yet, but I could tell from the glint in his eye that he was thinking about it. Kim had escaped too, by
getting the biggest book in the classroom, a world atlas, and propping it up on her table to form a shield.

“Can you imagine a date with Botley?” Sharelle mused. “He'd probably take you to detention, seeing as he spends most of his time there.”

“Imagine snogging him.” Chelsea shuddered. “It'd be like kissing a dead animal.” She shrieked loudly as a stream of Coke flashed past her ear. “Botley, you're dead!”

“Let me, Chelsea,” I said.

A little devil had jumped onto my shoulder. Hardly registering what I was doing, I plunged forward, grabbed the can of Coke and poured it over George's head.

The first thing that struck me was just how much a can of soft drink holds. The brown fizzy liquid streamed out, soaking George's hair, then his face, then his clothes in the space of seconds.

Everyone was too shocked to say a word, including George, including me. At that very moment Mr. Arora walked in. His eyes almost fell out of his head.

“
George Botley
.”

George turned to face him. He peered through rivulets of Coke running down his face, his trainers squelching. “Yes, sir?”

Mr. Arora advanced menacingly. “Would you care to tell me what you're doing?”

The atmosphere in the classroom was tense. Kim was hiding behind the atlas, and Chelsea, Sharelle and
the rest of the class were goggling at me. No one could believe what they'd seen with their own eyes.

“I'm all wet, sir,” George muttered.

“Yes, I can see that,” Mr. Arora agreed. His gaze flicked to the empty can, which I'd put down on George's table. “And the reason why is … ?”

Everyone looked at me. I felt nervous but exhilarated. This was a bit wilder than dropping a German book on the floor (twice). I was sure to get into trouble. I waited.

“I tipped a can of Coke over myself, sir,” George said feebly.

There was a collective intake of breath from the whole class. Now it was my turn to goggle at
him
. What was he doing, the fool?

“Sir—” I began.

Mr. Arora ignored me. “Why?” he inquired in the kind of pleasant voice that can only mean tremendous trouble two minutes later.

“I thought it would be a laugh,” George replied.

“And was it?” Mr. Arora asked, still pleasant.

“Sort of,” George muttered, wiping Coke out of his eyes.

“
Sir—
” I began again, waving my hand in the air. I heard Kim moan faintly behind her atlas.

But Mr. Arora continued to ignore me. “Go to Lost Property and find yourself some dry clothes, Botley,” he said through gritted teeth. “And then bring a mop from the cleaner's cupboard. When you return, we
hall spend a good deal of time discussing exactly how many detentions you are going to be attending for the next—oh—several weeks—”

“Sir, it was me,” I broke in, unable to stand it any longer. “I tipped the Coke over George.”

“No, she didn't,” George said gallantly.

I could have hit him over the head with the empty can. “I
did
, sir.”

Mr. Arora looked at me as if I was mad. He went over to his table and opened the register, and the class hurried to their seats in a state of high excitement. Meanwhile, George squelched over to the door, giving me a knowing wink, which made me want to slap him.

“God, that was amazing,” Sharelle said, staring at me so hard I thought her eyeballs were going to pop out. “I can't believe you did that.”

“Wasn't it sweet the way Georgie took the blame?” Chelsea crowed. “I always knew he fancied you, Amber.”

“Oh, be quiet,” I snapped. “Can't one of you go and tell Arora that it was me? He'd believe you.”

Chelsea and Sharelle also looked at me as if I was mad. Muttering to myself, I stomped over to my seat. I'd screwed up my courage to do something bad and nobody really appreciated it. It was sickening.

The afternoon did get worse. George Botley returned from Lost Property wearing a shirt that was too big and trousers that were too short and flapped around his ankles like flags. He kept winking and smiling at me all through afternoon classes. I was terrified that he was going to corner me at home time and demand something in return for his silence, like—oh, horror—a date. So when the bell rang at the end of the day I made a run for it and hid behind the bike sheds until Geena and Jazz came out.

“What's all this about you and George Botley?” Geena demanded immediately. She sounded just a shade envious.

“Yeah, it's all round the school that you tipped Coca-Cola over him and then shoved the empty can down his trousers,” Jazz added.

“Someone said that when Mr. Arora tried to tell you off, you punched him on the nose,” Geena went on. “But I don't believe that for a minute.”

“You didn't, did you, Amber?” Jazz asked eagerly.

“Don't get overexcited,” I said. “I did tip Coke over Botley, but he told Mr. Arora that he did it himself. God knows why.”

Geena and Jazz began to snigger. “Oh, I think
we
know why,” Jazz chortled.

“Look, can we get back to the really important thing here?” I snapped, as I hurried them off down the road. I didn't know where Kim was. Didn't care, either. And luckily Botley was nowhere to be seen. “Did either of you manage to annoy a teacher this afternoon?”

“I sort of did,” Jazz said. “Mademoiselle Véronique brought in loads of food so we could practice shopping in French, and I ate half the baguette when she wasn't looking.”

“Was she cross?” Geena asked.

Jazz nodded. “A bit. But she said it was past its best before date. She'd got it half price from Mr. Attwal.”

“What about you?” I asked Geena.

“I left all my books for this afternoon's lessons behind
on purpose
,” Geena said proudly. “Left them in our classroom, just like that.”

“Is that all?” I was not impressed. “We're complete
amateurs
.”

We walked on in silence. I didn't like to admit it, but my plan wasn't working. We were weak and feeble when it came to being bad. And all the time, Auntie was still going about her annoying business, doing her best to make our lives miserable and succeeding.

“It's hopeless, isn't it?” Geena said, as we walked up to Mr. Attwal's shop. “Maybe we're just too nice.”

“George Botley thinks Amber's
nice
,” Jazz said wickedly.

“Give that up right now,” I said, twisting her ear, “or suffer the consequences.”

Mr. Attwal was sitting in the shop window, his head bent over a pile of textbooks. We waved as we went by, but he didn't look up.

“What we need,” I said, thinking aloud, “is something to get us
started
. Something that makes everyone sit up and take notice.”

“
AARGH!
” Jazz roared.

Something—someone—had just swept past us and tugged the pink scrunchie from her ponytail. It was our old enemy, the paperboy. Laughing, he pedaled off down our street, waving the scrunchie over his head like a trophy.

“You give that back!” Jazz yelled.

“After him,” I shouted.

We gave chase. We didn't have a hope of catching him and we knew it, even though he stopped to hurl the evening paper first over our gate and then over Mrs. Macey's. But then, as he swung his bike round, the wheels slipped. The bike slid over on its side, and the paperboy went sprawling onto the road. The two bags spilled newspapers and magazines in crumpled heaps.

“Get him!” Geena shouted triumphantly like a policeman on TV. The three of us raced up the street like hounds after a fox.

I don't know what we were going to do when we got him, but we didn't even have a chance to think about it. As we skidded to a halt and loomed over the fallen paperboy like the three witches in
Macbeth
, our front gate opened. Auntie came out with a trowel in her hand. She was wearing old jeans and a loose white shirt that I recognized as an old one of Dad's. Her hair was tied up on top of her head. She looked annoyingly glamorous for someone weeding a garden.

“Leo?” Her eyebrows went up when she saw the paperboy sitting on the tarmac. “Are you all right?”

I might have known she'd be on first-name terms with him by now.

“I think so,” the paperboy—sorry,
Leo
—mumbled. He clutched his knee. His combat trousers had ripped, and there was a faint seep of blood through the hole.

“He stole my scrunchie!” Jazz howled.

Auntie picked it up from the road without comment and passed it to her. “I think you'd better come inside, Leo,” she said, helping him up. “You look a bit shaken. The girls will pick up the papers.”

“Oh, we will, will we?” Geena muttered.

“Maybe if
Leo
stopped and got off his bike and put the newspapers through the letter boxes once in a while, he wouldn't have accidents,” I remarked under my breath.

Auntie stared at us for what seemed a very long time. “Leo's in a hurry because he does two paper rounds every morning and every evening,” she said at last. “Do you know why?”