Bhangra Babes (2 page)

“Well done, Amber,” Auntie said, smiling. “And you still have time to read magazines, I see.”

Asian Bride
lay on my pillow. I'd forgotten to hide it again after showing the others.

“Oh, yes, that,” I blustered. “I—er—like the—um— pictures.”

“Really.” Auntie picked up the magazine and flipped through it while Jazz and Geena pulled gleeful faces and made throat-slashing gestures at me.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to borrow it.” Auntie moved over to the door, taking the magazine with her. “I need to start making plans, now that Jai and I have agreed to get married.”

“What?”
we shrieked.

Looking pleased with herself, Auntie disappeared downstairs.

“Wait!” I yelled, trying to fight my way off the bed past Jazz. “Give us details!”

“Get your foot out of my ear, Amber!” Jazz shouted. “Did you hear that? They're getting married!”

“I don't believe it!” Geena wailed. “I've smudged my nails!”

I was first to the door, but Jazz was breathing down my neck. Geena followed us, grabbing a box of nail wipes. We clattered downstairs like a horde of rampaging wildebeest, intent on clearing everything out of our path. This was big. This was
huge
!

Mr. Arora was sitting in the living room next to Auntie, looking embarrassed but very happy. Dad was there too, a big grin on his face.

“Calm down, girls,” Auntie said as the three of us hurtled into the room. “You're frightening your uncle-to-be.”

We all beamed at Mr. Arora, who did actually look

a little scared. He was staring nervously at me, and it was only then that I remembered I'd borrowed Auntie's giant heated rollers and they were stuck all over my head—I looked like a porcupine.

“Isn't it great news, girls?” Dad said, his eyes shining. He took his glasses off and wiped them furiously. He's such an old softie, I think he might have been about to burst into tears. “Are you pleased?”

“I should say so,” Jazz replied enthusiastically. “It's about time!”

Geena elbowed her in the ribs. “You old romantic, you.”

“Well, it is about time,” Jazz said defensively. “I mean, she's fancied him for ages, and—”

“Shall we end this conversation right here?” Auntie suggested.

Mr. Arora blushed. He was so good-looking (floppy-dark-hair-and-melting-chocolate-brown-eyes kind of good-looking), but he really didn't seem to know it. Bless him.

“Congratulations,” I said. “Does this mean you won't give me any maths homework from now on?”

“Sadly, no,” Mr. Arora replied.

“You'll be able to give us loads of insider information, though, won't you?” Geena said with glee. “You can be our spy in the school camp.”

“When's the wedding?” asked Jazz. “Everyone at school will want to see the pictures.” Her eyes shone with a mercenary gleam. “We could charge.”

“There you are.” Auntie smiled at her new fiance.

“Didn't I tell you that there's no way the girls would try to exploit this situation?”

They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, and it was very sweet. Dad pretended to cough and I handed him a tissue.

“The wedding will be in six weeks' time,” Auntie went on. “We have some arrangements to discuss with Jai's parents first, so we're keeping it a secret for the next few days.” She gave us a stern look. “Don't tell anyone just yet.”

“Discretion is our middle name,” I said loftily.

“No, trouble is your middle name, Amber,” replied Auntie. “But make sure that this time you do as you're told.”

“We will,” Geena promised. “I'll keep these two blabbermouths in line.”

“And I hope you'll forgive me, girls,” Mr. Arora added.

“What for?” Jazz asked.

“For taking your aunt away when you've just got to know her,” he replied.

Dad hiccupped and reached for another tissue. I wasn't about to burst into tears, but I was shocked.
Of course
Auntie would be moving out after she married Mr. Arora. It was something I hadn't really thought much about before this.

But how did I feel about it?

How did any of us feel?

“O
f course, we had much more fun before Auntie came,” Jazz said dreamily. It was the next morning, and she was stuffing books into her schoolbag higgledy-piggledy. “Remember? We ate takeaways all the time and watched TV until midnight and Dad was never here, so we did whatever we liked.”

“Yes, but were we happy?” Geena asked.

“Hold on a moment.” I leaned across the kitchen table and flicked my fingers across the top of Geena's head. “Your halo's a little off-center.”

“How childish,” Geena said tartly. “That's exactly why I wouldn't expect you two to understand what I mean.”

“I'm not childish,” Jazz retorted, sticking her tongue out.

Geena looked smug. “I rest my case.”

“I know what you're getting at,” I said impatiently. “We were only doing all that stuff because of Mum, so we weren't really happy at all.”

After Mum died, our family had almost fallen apart. Geena, Jazz and I had stuck together because that was what we always did, but we'd never talked about Mum. We'd tried to pretend it had never happened and that we were all right really. Dad had coped by staying at work all the time. How had we got ourselves out of that mess? We hadn't. Auntie had got us out of it.

“Things will be different this time, anyway,” Geena said wisely. “Dad doesn't spend so much time at work, for one thing.” She glanced at the clock. “We'd better go.”

“If Auntie leaves, we'll have to do our own cooking and cleaning,” Jazz grumbled.

“I'll miss you too.” Auntie came into the kitchen in her dressing gown, a towel wrapped round her hair. “Have a nice day.”

“You too,” I replied, adding cheekily, “Are you seeing your fiance later?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out,” Auntie replied.

“How childish,” Geena muttered.

“Oh, be quiet,” I said. “I
am
a child. I'm allowed to be childish.”

“I was talking to Auntie,” said Geena.

“I think it's time you all left for school,” Auntie said. “And remember”—she followed us down the hall toward the front door—“don't say a word to anyone. It's still a secret.”

“Yes, but for how long?” I wondered, closing the door behind us. “You know what it's like round here. Word travels faster than the speed of light.”

“Oh! There you are, girls.”

Our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Macey, popped out of the house next door. I swear she'd been standing looking through the letter box, waiting for us to come out. Mrs. Macey is Auntie's biggest and most faithful fan, even though just a little while ago, she hated us all simply for being Indian.

“Isn't it wonderful?” she breathed reverently. “But I'm not going to say another word about it, girls. My lips are sealed!”

And she popped back inside again.

“Did she mean what I think she meant?” asked Jazz.

“Yes,” Geena said.

“But how does she know?” Jazz persisted.

“Auntie must have told her,” I replied, opening the gate.

“But
we're
not allowed to tell anyone?” Jazz grumbled. “That's so unfair.”

At that moment we were distracted as a bicycle flew across the pavement and screeched to a halt inches from our toes. Without so much as an apology, a hulking

great Neanderthal climbed off the bike and thrust Dad's
Daily Telegraph
under my nose.

Now, in the past I've had my problems with the kids who deliver our newspapers. I admit it. Leo, our last paperboy, and I had a love-hate kind of relationship going on. But Leo had gone to America with his family for six months. Now, apparently, we had some kind of skinhead person who was built like a tank delivering our newspapers.

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.