Bindi Babes (15 page)

“Amber!” Dad slammed the album shut like he'd been caught looking at dirty pictures. But I knew what it was. Our collection of Christmas photos, starting when Geena was a chubby, bouncing baby with a shock of dark hair sitting under a Christmas tree. The last picture was of me, Jazz and Mum in party hats, and Dad in a false nose and glasses he'd got out of a cracker. There hadn't been any photos last year.

“Auntie sent us up to help you,” I said. I searched his face. He looked tired and strained, and I felt unhappy, angry. This was all Auntie's fault. Couldn't she just leave us alone?

Dad nodded and stared down at the album in his hand. I prayed he wouldn't show it to me or even mention it. Then we heard Geena and Jazz at the bottom of the ladder, fighting over who'd got there first. Dad turned away and pushed the album under a pile of old clothes. I relaxed, suddenly conscious that I'd been holding my breath, and turned away as Geena and then Jazz climbed through the hatch. I didn't
want to see if they had the sudden, explosive rush of memories that I'd had myself.

“Look at all this old junk,” Geena said in a too-casual voice.

“My Little Ponies.” Jazz pounced on a nearby box, and started pulling out plastic ponies with brightly colored manes. “I used to love these.”

Another memory flashed into my head. Jazz sitting on the living room carpet, lining up her herd of ponies. Geena and I watching
EastEnders
. Mum ironing in the corner. It wasn't even an exciting memory, it wasn't anything special. So why did I feel like an invisible hand was twisting my insides this way and that?

Geena was poking around in a big box that stood on an old dressing table. “Oh my God,” she said, pulling at a pink plastic arm. “It's Dimple.” She lifted a large doll with long black hair out of the box. “I thought she'd been thrown away ages ago.”

Dimple was named after a Bollywood film star, and she'd been Geena's favorite doll for years. Even when Geena pretended she didn't like dolls anymore, Dimple had remained sitting on the end of her bed until she'd finally felt embarrassed about it. Geena had complained that there were no Indian dolls in the shops, so Mum had stuck one of her bindis in the middle of Dimple's plastic forehead. It was still there now, teardrop-shaped, pink, edged with gold.

“I remember buying that doll,” Dad said, almost to himself.

We all knew the story because it was one of the family jokes. Geena, six years old and with a will of iron, had seen the doll in an expensive toy shop and had pestered Mum for ages to get it. Mum had refused. Eventually, a fed-up Dad had taken Geena out to buy her something to take her mind off the doll—”some-thing nice and cheap,” he'd told Mum. They'd returned, Dad sheepish, Geena triumphant and carrying the doll.

“I'll never forget seeing Geena climbing out of the car with that doll in her arms,” Mum used to say. “The box was nearly as big as she was.”

For a moment, Mum seemed very close. Closer than she'd been for months. A sort of breathless spell hung over us in the dusty loft. But none of us could bring ourselves to say her name.

“I thought your mum was going to kill me when we got home,” Dad blurted out. “But she just laughed. She said she'd known all along that Geena would get her own way.”

We stood looking at each other. We all seemed suspended in our own personal bubbles of misery. Did we really want to break out of them? I wanted to talk about Mum. I wanted to so much that it shocked me. But then I saw tears in Dad's eyes. There's something terrible about seeing your parents crying; it shakes every bone in your body. So I did something else mature and grown-up instead. I panicked.

“Dinner must be ready,” I blurted out. “I think I heard Auntie calling.”

“Yes, so did I.” Geena leaped in. She had Dimple clutched against her, and her face was in shadow. Jazz had already turned away and was climbing down the ladder as fast as she could.

We went downstairs in silence. Sneaking glances at the others, I could see that they all looked upset, especially Dad. Had I done the right thing or not? I was on such shaky ground, I didn't know. It seemed like everything was changing so fast, I couldn't keep up with it. We all knew whose fault that was. It didn't help make it better.

There was another shock waiting for me in the kitchen. Auntie was peeling potatoes at the sink and there at the table, looking cozily at home with a glass of orange juice in front of her, was Kim.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I just came round to say hi,” she mumbled.

“So why didn't you come and find me?” I asked pointedly.

Kim blushed. “I was talking to Auntie—I mean, your aunt.”

Talking. Again. I glanced suspiciously at Auntie, but she had her back to me. What did they find to talk
about
?

“If dinner's not ready yet, I'm going to my study,” Dad said. “I've got work to do.”

He sounded weary and defeated. Auntie noticed too. I saw her glance at him, but Dad deliberately didn't look at her. My heart leaped with hope. Auntie was definitely starting to get on Dad's nerves
as well as ours. Maybe this was the beginning of the end… .

“Let's go upstairs, Kim,” I said. It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.

Geena and Jazz wandered off into the living room to watch TV while Kim followed me dutifully upstairs. As soon as we were in my room, I shut the door and leaned my back against it.

“Now,” I said, “give it up. What are you
really
doing here?”

Kim looked panicky. “I told you, I came to see you. Everyone's talking about you and George Botley, and I just wanted to see if you were all right.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Now the real reason.”

“Your auntie asked me to,” Kim muttered. She looked incredibly embarrassed, as well she might.

“Why?”

“I just happened to tell her—something,” said Kim, staring down at her feet.

“Is this anything to do with me?” I demanded.

“No.” Kim's blush deepened. “It's about Gary.”

“Gary?” I frowned. “Your mum's boyfriend? What's going on with him then?”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt my stomach twist and start to churn. Felt ice-cold all over. No. No, it
couldn't
be that.

“Kim.” I could hardly get the words out. “It isn't— he isn't—”

Kim looked sick. “No, not that!” she gasped. “It's just—he keeps picking on me.”

Relief bloomed inside me like a flower. So it was just Kim getting paranoid as usual. For a minute, I'd been truly scared that something awful was going on. “Oh, well,” I said, “you've never liked him that much, have you? Maybe you should just keep out of his way.”

“I try,” Kim sighed. “But he keeps calling me names. He says I'm useless.”

“Well, I call you that, sometimes,” I said, trying to jolly her along a bit.

Kim's sad eyes looked into mine. “But you're my
friend
,” she said. “I know you don't mean it.”

I felt like a worm.

“He keeps on and on and he won't shut up,” Kim said. Now that she'd started, it was as if a dam of emotion had burst open and she couldn't stop. “And if I try to get away, he comes after me. And he pushed me. That's how I slipped and hurt my head. And my hand. He won't leave me alone. He keeps teasing and teasing …” Her sentence ended on a tearful gulp.

“And you told Auntie all this?”

Kim nodded. “She said I should talk to Mum. I will, too.”

I stood there silently. Kim couldn't know how bad I was feeling. How long had this been going on for? I hadn't been interested in her problems. I didn't even know she had any problems. I thought it was just
Kim
.

It was a day for memories, and others slipped into my consciousness. Kim at Mum's funeral. The bunch
of white daisies in her hand. She'd been a better friend than I deserved. And I was going to be nicer to her from now on.

“I think you should stop trying to get rid of your auntie.” Kim's voice, stronger now, broke into my thoughts.

I was as startled as if a fluffy little kitten had suddenly jumped up and scratched me, drawing blood. “
What?
”

“You should stop trying to marry Auntie off,” Kim said. “She's nice. I like her.”

“You don't have to live with her,” I snapped.

“Give her a chance,” said Kim. “She's only trying to help you.” She looked terrified and I knew she was going to say something earth-shattering. “I bet your mum would be pleased she's here.”

I felt the color bleach from my face. “Kim—”

“She
would
be
.
” Now that Kim had decided to annoy me, she was really going for it. “She'd be
glad
that someone was looking after you.”

Remembering what had happened in the loft, Dad's face, I felt a fiery surge of resentment, which spilled over into my next words. “Why don't you mind your own business?” But I put it a bit more rudely than that.

“All right then,” Kim said. “I will.”

She got up and went over to the door. Her face was pale but her back was straight. I moved aside, and she went out without a backward glance. A minute later, I heard the front door slam.

“Kyra Hollins, your skirt is too short!” Mr. Grimwade hollered. He was standing by the playground gate on Friday morning, pouncing on people as they went in. “And Richard Martin, I do not want to see that nose stud, eyebrow ring and ten assorted earrings adorning your ugly face on Monday. Is that clear?”

“Lucky the teachers are pretty laid-back about the inspectors arriving on Monday,” Geena remarked, walking into the playground. “If they start to panic, we're in real trouble.” She said it just loudly enough for Mr. Grimwade to hear. He gave the three of us a sidelong look, but said nothing.

“He's staring at us as if we're an unexploded bomb,” Jazz said.

“So is everyone else,” I added.

Everyone was looking as we strolled across the playground. They looked admiring, interested, puzzled or worried, depending on what kind of people they were. If anything, we were getting more attention than we'd ever got before. Geena claimed she'd had three boys ask her out face to face yesterday, and another four through go-betweens.

I saw Kim come through the gates, and fixed a smile to my face. I hadn't forgiven her for what she'd said, but I was prepared to meet her halfway and forgive her, eventually.

Kim stared through me with remarkable coolness. She skirted round the edge of the canteen and disappeared out of sight. My jaw dropped rather obviously.

“What's going on with you and Kim?” Geena demanded immediately. “Have you two had a fight?”

“Don't be an idiot,” I snapped. Kim's behavior had annoyed me more than I'd ever thought possible.

“Ooh, they
have
.” Jazz hopped from one foot to the other. “Tell.”

I sighed, wondering how much I should reveal. “She thought we should lay off Auntie,” I said. “I told her no way.”

“There must have been something else,” Geena said shrewdly.

“Well …” I stared down at the ground. I wanted to tell them because I wanted them to be as mad as I was. “She said that Mum would be glad that Auntie was around to look after us.”

Silence. All around us the noise of the playground boomed in our ears, but we said nothing.

“Got to go,” Geena said at last. “See you.” She disappeared in a hurry. Jazz just turned and went off without a word.

For some reason I felt furious and upset. I kicked a nearby litter bin quite savagely, earning myself more sidelong looks. Chelsea and Sharelle were watching from the other side of the playground, their heads together. They didn't come over. I knew that they were talking about me.

Looking round to make sure as many people as possible were watching, I pulled open a nearby door and walked into school. We were strictly not allowed in the building before the bell rang, and Grimwade usually posted teacher sentinels in the corridor to make sure. But this morning there was no one around. I headed for our classroom. I felt like doing something
really
annoying this morning. I didn't know what yet, but now would be a good time while no one was around.

Halfway down the corridor I stopped. I could hear voices. Cautiously I crept forward, my ears cocked. Our classroom door was ajar. I could hear Grimwade talking.

“… and what worries me most is if they're going to keep this behavior up when the inspectors arrive on Monday.”

“I think they'll stop.” That was Mrs. Kirke, Geena's form teacher. “They're sensible girls.”

“I agree,” said Mr. Arora. “But maybe we should have another word with them.”

“Yes, it's a very delicate situation.” I recognized Mr. Lucas, Jazz's form teacher. They were talking about
us
. Intrigued, I moved a little closer.

“Of course,” said Grimwade, “we know
why
they're doing it.”

I almost gasped and had to clap my hand over my mouth. How could they possibly know about our marriage plans for Auntie and Mr. Arora? They
couldn't
.

“It's been a traumatic year for them,” agreed Mrs. Kirke. “The stress was bound to come out sooner or later. They've been through so much and on the surface they seemed to be coping so well. It seems they've been fooling us all this time.”