Bhangra Babes Read Free Page B

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