Bhangra Babes Read Free

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