Bindi Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  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.

  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 Sha
relle 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?”

  “No,” I mumbled. I had a feeling I wasn't going to enjoy the answer.

  “His brother's ill, and the family are saving up to take him to America for an operation,” Auntie said crisply. “All of Leo's earnings from his paper rounds go toward the fund.” She led him over to the gate. “It's amazing what you can learn from people just by bothering to talk to them once in a while,” she said over her shoulder. She turned from us to Leo. “Come inside—I'll make you a cup of tea.”

  “Thanks, Auntie,” Leo said gratefully.

  They went into the house, leaving us all feeling less than a centimeter tall.

  “Well, how were we supposed to know?” Geena said, quite reasonably, but it didn't make us feel any better.

  We picked up the newspapers and put them back into the bags. As we carried them up the garden path, Auntie popped her head round the front door.

  “Leo's not feeling up to finishing his rounds today,” she said. “So I said you girls would do them. It's very easy. The addresses are written on the papers. Oh, and don't be too long because you've got all your homework to do.” Then she popped back inside like an evil jack-in-the-box.

  Geena said a very rude word. “That is it. I can't put up with her for a minute longer.” She dropped the heavy bag of newspapers on the path and kicked it.

  I, however, had a gleam in my eye. “Homework,” I said slowly. I unzipped my Nike bag and took out the maths worksheet Mr. Arora had given us. I tore it neatly into eight pieces and tossed them into the black bin.

  “I hope that wasn't anything important,” Geena remarked, watching me.

  “Oh, it was,” I said. “Very important. My maths homework.”

  Geena grinned. “Oh, I get it,” she said. She sorted through her bag and pulled out a notebook. She ripped three pages out, scrumpled them into a ball and added them to the bin. “Goodbye, environmental studies homework.”

  Jazz's eyes were out on stalks. “What are you doing?”

  “You know I said we needed something to get us started?” I threw my science worksheets in the bin, followed by some French vocabulary. “This is it.”

  “This just isn't like you, Amber.” Mr. Arora tapped his fingers on the table in an agitated manner. “This is the second day you haven't handed in any homework. I've had complaints from …” He flipped open his notebook. “Miss Patel, Mrs. Kirke, Mrs. Murray, Mr. Lucas, Miss Jackson and Mr. Khan.”

  “I think you'll find you've missed out Mrs. Parker and Mr. Hernandez,” I said. “Sir.” It was shocking how easy it was to be cheeky once you'd actually got off to a start.

  But unluckily, Mr. Arora didn't seem annoyed. He stared at me quizzically as if he couldn't quite decide what to do next.

  “And i
t isn't just the homework, either,” he said at last. “Miss Patel has told me that you talked all through her lesson and then walked out before the bell rang.”

  “The lesson was boring, sir,” I said.

  Suddenly we'd got it all going on. In just two days, Geena, Jazz and I had the teachers flapping about like headless chickens, wondering what was happening. It surely couldn't be long before they gave Dad a call. But I wished Mr. Arora would stop looking at me with that concerned expression on his face. I wanted him to be mad. I wanted him to yell and shout and give me detentions.

  “I'm hearing the same kind of things about Geena and Jasvinder,” Mr. Arora went on. “What's happening?”

  I stood there silently.

  “Is something troubling you, Amber?” he asked gently. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “Only one thing, sir,” I said. “I won't be doing that geometry homework you gave us.”

  Mr. Arora sighed deeply. “I'd like you to reconsider that decision, Amber,” he said. “In fact, I'd like you to go home and think about your behavior over the last few days. Then I want you to come and discuss it with me before the inspectors arrive next week. All right?”

  “Discuss it?” I repeated incredulously.

  Mr. Arora nodded at me and gathered up his papers. Disgruntled, I grabbed my bag and flounced out of the classroom. What was the matter with teachers today? They weren't half strict enough. I didn't want talk. I wanted action.

  It was the end of the day and the school had emptied about ten minutes before. I strolled down the echoing corridors, singing a Bollywood tune to myself. I felt good. I didn't know why but it was an exciting feeling. I wasn't scared anymore. After all, what was the worst they could do to us?

  I'd told Kim not to wait for me, but Geena and Jazz were sitting on the curb by the gate, sharing a bag of crisps. As I headed toward them, a shadow fell across my path. George Botley had sprung out from behind the wall, blocking my way.

  “Hi,” he said gruffly. “Want half my Twix?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, and sidestepped him neatly. Since we'd accelerated our campaign, Botley had become ever more interested. Perhaps he thought he'd finally found his queen consort.