I stepped away from the Daily Telegraph. “Excuse me,” I said. “That's not my job.”
“What?” The paper person stared at me blankly. I realized now that it was a girl, but her broad shoulders, short-cropped hair and combat trousers made it difficult to tell. “It's your paper, isn't it?”
“There's the front door.” I pointed at the house. “You have to go and push it through the letter box. Those are the rules.”
The girl glared at me. “It's your paper, and I'm giving it to you” she snapped.
A gold stud glinted at me from the middle of her tongue. I stared at it with interest. I'd never met an Indian girl (or boy) under the age of sixteen who was allowed to have a tongue stud. It was so not done.
“But I'm on my way out,” I said politely. “All you've got to do is walk down the path and push it through our door.”
“All you've got to do is walk back down your path and push it through your door,” the girl retorted, staring at me with beady eyes.
“Fascinating as this conversation is”—Geena yawned—“we have to get a move on or we'll be late.”
It was her turn to be given the evil eye by Tank Girl, who rolled the newspaper up into a tight cylinder and marched over to the gate.
I smiled to myself. You just had to be firm and stand your ground in this kind of situation.
What happened next was that the girl grabbed me by my school sweater and shoved the newspaper down the sweater's V-neck. Then she jumped on her bike and rode off. It all happened so fast, I couldn't move. I just stood there with the Daily Telegraph sticking out of my sweater.
Naturally, Geena and Jazz rushed to my aid. No, what I actually mean is that they nearly died laughing.
“How childish,” Geena said at last, wiping tears from her eyes. “But funny.”
“She was about a hundred times bigger than you, Amber,” Jazz pointed out. “She could have flattened you.”
“Maybe.” I stomped up the path and posted the newspaper through our door. “But I'm sure I can think of a suitable way to get my revenge on that big ugly lump. Brains over brawn, and all that.”
“Yes, but you don't have either,” Geena remarked.
“If that isn't childish,” I said haughtily, “I don't know what is. Let's go.”
We set off for school. Along the way, we soon discovered that Mrs. Macey wasn't the only person who knew “the secret.” Mrs. Dhaliwal, the local marriage
broker and busybody, passed by in her car. When she spotted us, she began waving and beeping the horn loudly.
“Don't worry!” she screeched through the open window. “I won't tell a soul! But it's wonderful news, isn't it?”
Even Mr. Attwal at the minimarket knew. He was another of Auntie's success stories. Once he'd bored his customers with tales of what his life could have been like. Now, thanks to Auntie, he was studying computer technology and learning Italian, and boring them with progress updates. As we passed by the shop, he was serving someone, but he began dancing up and down excitedly and giving us thumbs-up signs.
“This is ridiculous.” Jazz scowled as we walked on. “How can Mr. Attwal possibly know?”
“Didn't Auntie pop into the shop for some saag last night?” Geena said.
“Well, really!” Jazz was disgusted. “If adults can't keep a secret, how do they expect us to?”
“I still think we should keep quiet,” I said. “If it can't be traced back to us, we can't get blamed.”
“Keep quiet about what?” said Kim, who had just come up behind me.
What do you need to know about Kimberley Henderson? Kim is my friend, but she's also a major pain in the butt. She's another of Auntie's little projects.
BA (before Auntie), Kim was quiet and shy and wouldn't say boo to a mouse, let alone a goose.
PA (post-Auntie), she's becoming more assertive—
some would say obnoxious—by the day. I can't tell her what to do anymore. Now, is that a bad thing or is that a bad thing?
“Nothing.” I telegraphed a warning to Geena and Jazz with my eyebrows.
“Of course it's something” Kim said spiritedly. “If it was nothing, you wouldn't have to keep quiet about it. And your eyebrows wouldn't be going up and down like they're on strings.”
“Kim,” I said, “when are you going to learn that there's a very thin line between being assertive and being annoying?”
“We can't tell you, anyway,” Jazz chimed in.
“OK, let me guess.” Kim stroked her chin, looking thoughtful. “You don't seem worried, so it can't be bad news. It must be something good. Is it a party? A new baby? A wedding? Oh!” Her eyes grew round as marbles. “Auntie and Mr. Arora are getting married!”
“Shhh!” I clapped my hand over Kim's mouth. “Do you want the whole town to know?”
“I think they already do,” Jazz said.
“So it is true!” Kim spluttered, slapping my hand away. “I can't believe you weren't going to tell me!”
“Auntie told us not to,” I said.
“Oh, like you three would take any notice of that!” scoffed Kim, very rudely, I thought.
“Actually, I find your tone quite offensive, Kim,” Geena said. “We really haven't told anybody.”
“See?” Jazz moaned. “I told you we were going to get blamed, whatever.”
“Oh, this is great.” Kim clasped her hands ecstatically. “I'm so happy! When's the wedding? Can I borrow a salwar kameez, Amber?”
“Who said you're invited?” I replied.
“I'd better be,” Kim said, “or I'll want to know why not.”
“Kim,” I sighed as we reached the school gates, “don't you ever long for the days when you were quiet and sweet and shy?”
“Not at all,” replied Kim, smiling widely. “This is so much more fun.”
“Isn't this wonderful?” Jazz gazed reverently up at the new school building, a marvel of light, glass and sparkling paintwork. “No more bits of plaster in our hair while we're doing French conversation.”
“It's a shame, in a way,” I remarked, glancing at the old, tumbledown Coppergate School across the road, which was now being demolished. “The end of an era. A bit like us and Auntie.”
“Hardly an era,” Geena pointed out. “It's hardly been even a year.”
“Oh!” Kim clapped a hand to her mouth. “I just realized—Auntie will be moving out, now she's getting married.”
“What's that about your auntie?”
Chelsea Dixon and Sharelle Alexander, two of my friends, were hovering behind us, ears flapping. How they could overhear anything above the noise in the playground was a mystery, but nevertheless they were staring at us with eager faces.
“Auntie?” I shot Kim a warning look. “Oh, nothing.”
“I thought you said she was getting married,” Chelsea said accusingly.
“No, not married,” said Geena. “Carried.”
“Carried?” Chelsea and Sharelle repeated suspiciously.
“Yes,” Geena replied. “As in—er—carried away.”
“Oh, that is so lame,” Jazz muttered.
We all smiled brightly at Chelsea and Sharelle, who still looked suspicious. Everyone at school knew about Mr. Arora and Auntie's romance. They were following it with the kind of avid interest normally accorded to celebrity love affairs. If they even got a hint of the wedding, there would be an uproar.
Rescue was at hand from a most unlikely source.
“No footballs near the windows! And keep off the grass! It's for looking at, not walking on. Put your litter in the bins! No spitting!”
Mr. Grimwade was striding round the playground, yelling. He seemed rounder than ever, puffed up with importance at being made deputy head. He also seemed to have appointed himself custodian of the new school building. He glared at a Year 10 boy who'd dared to rest his elbow on a windowsill, and then homed in on us. He stopped frowning and started beaming.
“Ah, girls! Welcome back.”
“Thank you,
sir,” I replied, wondering why he'd switched from stern to jolly mode. It wasn't long before I found out.
“Now, I'm not going to say a word,” Mr. Grimwade said cheerily. “Not a word. I know it's meant to be a secret, and we respect that. But may I just say how pleased we all are for Mr. Arora. A wonderful woman, your aunt.”
“Thank you,” I said. And that was that. He might as well have announced it through a loudspeaker.
Mr. Grimwade bounced off to search out and destroy more disrespecters of school property. Meanwhile, Chelsea and Sharelle turned on me savagely.
“You utter scumbag, Ambajit Dhillon!” Chelsea shouted. “Your auntie is getting married!”
“To Mr. Arora,” added Sharelle. “And you weren't going to tell us. How mean is that?”
“The Dhillons' auntie and Mr. Arora are getting married!” screeched a couple of Year 7 girls, and so it went on.
We stood there helplessly as the news filtered round the playground at speed, like a game of Chinese Whispers. It all got very emotional and one or two girls actually burst into tears. Mr. Arora was very popular, and many girls were in love with him. His new Year 8 class even decided to brave Mr. Grimwade and make an illegal dash into school before the bell, to paint a congratulations banner.
“Well, that's definitely let the cat right out of the bag,” said Geena five minutes later. There couldn't have been a person in the packed playground who hadn't heard the news. “At least we don't have to pretend anymore.”
“I'm exhausted,” Jazz complained, “and school hasn't even started yet.” She took off her jacket and drew interested looks from a group of boys.
“You don't have to keep sticking them out like that,” I grumbled. “We're not blind.”
“Oh, are they real?” Kim asked. “I thought she'd bought a padded bra.”
“Some of us don't need to,” Jazz said smugly.
“Well, I don't know why I'm hanging around with you lower-school losers,” Geena remarked with a yawn. “So, see you later.” She was about to stroll away when she stopped, suspended in midstep. “My God. Who is that?”
We turned to stare.
There was a boy coming through the gates. Tall, slim, tanned, hair bleached blond. Nice-looking. Better than nice. You could almost say handsome.
We knew every boy in the school. We had them filed, listed and scorecarded. We had them rated on a scale from one to ten. This boy wasn't one of them.
Or was he?
“Oh, I do not believe it,” Jazz said faintly. “That is George Botley”
“George Botley?” Geena and Kim shrieked.
I couldn't say anything. I was too astonished.
George Botley? My short, verging-on-the-plump, pale-faced, mousy, annoying little admirer of the last eight years? No. It could not be possible.
“It is,” Jazz insisted.
I looked more closely. The boy was coming toward
us. It was George. Apparently he'd had a body transplant in the past six weeks.
“Hey, Amber,” he said casually. “How are you doing?”
A voice transplant too, by the sound of it. What had happened to his weedy, whiny, annoying voice? Where had these deep, manly tones come from?
We stood, mouths agape, as George sauntered past. I was astounded to see that he was already collecting a little gang of giggling females, who were trailing after him.
“Well!” Jazz looked gleeful. “How about that, Amber? I bet you wish you'd been nicer to him.”
“Do you really think I'm that shallow?” I replied, trying to gather together the pieces of my shattered dignity.
“Why, yes,” said Geena. “You missed out there, Amber.”
“I think he still likes you,” Kim said loyally.
“Oh, really.” I yawned. I wasn't pretending. I honestly didn't care about George Botley one way or the other. No, honestly. “Like it matters.”
“If he asked you out, would you go?” Kim persisted.
“Kim, boys are a waste of time for us,” I replied. “Dad would never agree. His policy is to arrange the wedding first, then think about letting us date.”
“Not that we've actually tested that policy,” Geena remarked thoughtfully. “It might be worth a go.”
“No chance.” I scowled. “Boys mean trouble. Can
you imagine Auntie asking them if their intentions are honorable?”
At that moment I happened to glance across the playground. Someone else was coming through the gates.
Wow.
My knees wobbled, then sagged. My heart began to flutter. I actually felt myself salivating, as if I'd just laid eyes on a delicious dessert.
And in a way, I had. Now this was a boy. If George was acceptable, this boy was unforgettable. Oh, he was lovely. Black hair artfully spiked around his beautiful face, deep brown, almost black, eyes. He wore his uniform like casual clothes, seeming utterly at home in it. And he was walking into our playground. It was as if Brad Pitt had just appeared, wearing a Coppergate uniform.
A ripple of female interest surged round the playground like a wave. The metamorphosis of George Botley from squat little caterpillar to reasonably attractive butterfly was completely forgotten.
“Oh!” said Kim faintly. “He must be a new boy. He's very good-looking, isn't he?”
“Good-looking?” Geena repeated, her eyes out on stalks. “Yes, you could say that.”
“I'm in love,” Jazz wailed. “Who is he?”
“Hands off,” I instructed, my eyes glued to this vision on long legs. “I saw him first.”
The bell rang as we watched the boy's every movement across the playground. Snake hips swaying, he disappeared through the upper-school entrance.
“Aha!” Geena said with delight. “He's in the upper school. He might even be in my class! Bye-bye, losers.” And she took off at speed.
“How sickening,” I grumbled as we shuffled our way over to the lower-school doors. “Trust Geena to get in there first.”
“Watch out, Amber.” Jazz linked arms with her friend Shweta King. “George'll be getting jealous.”
“Oh, like he cares.”
Nevertheless, I sneaked a glance at George. He was strolling into school, chatting happily with Chelsea and Sharelle. He did not look back.
“It's OK,” Kim said. “I don't think he noticed.”
I glared at her.
“Are you wearing a padded bra, Jazz?” Shweta inquired.
“No,” Jazz snapped, stalking off down the Year 8 corridor.
Kim and I made our way to our new classroom. It was a revelation to see clean paintwork and lights that worked and coat hooks that weren't falling off the walls. George Botley was standing outside, now talking to Rebecca Hayward and Jasmine Cooper, but I wasn't one bit bothered. I'd just seen a vision of beauty that made George Botley pale in comparison.
“Where do you want us to sit, Mr. Hernandez?” Kim asked our new homeroom teacher. With his wiry black Medusa-like curls and retro dress sense, Mr. Hernandez was a legend throughout the school.
“On a chair,” Mr. Hernandez replied absently. His
desk was already covered in books and folders, and he was searching through them rather halfheartedly. “Amber, have you stolen my register?”
“I believe you're sitting on it, sir,” I replied.
“So I am.” Mr. Hernandez stood up and whipped the register out from underneath him. “Have a gold star.”
“You're too kind, sir.”
I followed Kim across the room to sit with Chelsea and Sharelle. I have to say, they didn't look particularly welcoming.
“Oh, look,” Chelsea said snootily, “it's our so-called mate, Amber.”
“You mean the one who always tells us even/thing” twittered Sharelle with a sanctimonious glare.
“Give me a break,” I groaned, sliding into a spare chair. “Besides, if we're talking about hypocrites …”
“I don't know who you could possibly mean,” Chelsea said, very unconvincingly
“Of course you do,” I said. “I saw the two of you flirting with George Botley on the way in. When I think of all the times you've made fun because he's got a thing about me—”
“We weren't flirting” Sharelle said with an attempt at dignity. “We were just chatting. He told us he spent the summer working on his uncle's farm.”
“Nice try,” I said, “but your eyelashes were fluttering hard enough to power the national grid.”
Chelsea and Sharelle blushed rosily.
“Well, what do you care?” Chelsea demanded. “You never liked him anyway.”
“And it looks like he'll leave you alone from now on, Amber,” Kim pointed out helpfully. “He's got so many girls after him.”
We glanced at George. Last year he'd trampled half the class underfoot to try to get a seat just behind me. Now he was sitting on the other side of the room, and Marcia Grant had bagged the chair next to him. She'd had to elbow Victoria Kwame out of the way to get it.
“Good,” I replied coolly. “I'm very happy for him.”
Chelsea and Sharelle smirked. Kim frowned. I was seriously annoyed. I simply could not understand why nobody believed me.
A welcome diversion occurred when the door opened and Mr. Arora walked in. The class erupted into cheers and whoops, and George Botley yelled, “Nice one, sir!”
Mr. Arora turned pink. Trying not to smile, he ushered in a tall, lumpy-looking girl with a skinhead haircut.
“Oh, my God,” I muttered.
Kim looked puzzled. “What is it?”
I shook my head. Geena got Golden Boy, and my class got Tank Girl. Isn't that just my luck.
“Nine J, please.” Looking highly embarrassed, Mr. Arora held up his hand.
“Don't worry,” Mr. Hernandez whispered loudly to him. “Your secret's safe with me.”
The rest of the class chuckled. I didn't. I was fixing the new girl with a stony stare to remind her that I hadn't forgotten about the Daily Telegraph she'd shoved down my sweater. A spark of recognition
flared in her eyes. Then she grinned. Yes. She grinned. Can you believe it? How rude.
Mr. Arora cleared his throat several times. “I'm pleased to welcome Kirandeep Kohli to the lower school,” he said briskly. “She's going to be joining this class, and I hope you'll all make her feel very welcome. But I'm going to ask one particular person to keep an eye out for her and help her to settle in…”
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