Bollywood Babes Read Free

end-of-term thing,” I said. I lowered my voice. “You know—
fund-raising
.”
    “Fund-raising!” Chelsea shrieked. “Don't even mention that word.”
    “My family hide when they see me coming home from school now,” Sharelle said mournfully. “They put false names on my sponsorship forms and then they won't pay up.”
    “What's all this about a Bollywood party?” GeorgeBotley shambled over to us, wearing his tie as a headband, his jumper lashed around his waist.
    “My aunt and Mr. Arora are organizing a Bollywood party for the end of term,” I said shortly. As far as I knew, George still fancied me. My aim, however, was to keep him as far away from me as possible.
    “Bollywood? That's Indian films, isn't it?” George looked alarmed. “I'm not wearing a turban. I'd look stupid.”
    “Don't worry, George,” I said. “You can be your usual stylish self.”
    “Oh, great,” George said, relieved. The idiot then looked puzzled as Chelsea, Sharelle and Kim giggled.
    “Sit down, please.” Mr. Arora hurried into the classroom, the register tucked under his arm. “George, kindly replace your clothes on the right bits of your anatomy.”
    I glanced at Mr. Arora. He looked all sort of pink and shining and glowy, as if he had a lovely secret. I smiled.
    “Amber said I look stylish, sir,” George remarked, stumbling over his trailing shoelaces.
    “I did not!” I protested. The rest of the class hooted with laughter. Even Mr. Arora smiled. And, believe me, he does not find anything to do with George Botley funny at any time.
    “He's in a good mood,” I murmured in Kim's ear, sliding into the seat next to her.
    Kim grinned. “That's because you said he looks stylish.”
    “Not George,” I said, casting up my eyes. “Mr. Arora.”
    “You said you and Geena and Jazz weren't going to interfere this time,” Kim reminded me anxiously.
    “No.” I smiled. “
You
said that.”

    “He's definitely interested,” I told Geena and Jazz later. We were on our way home after school, dawdling through the park, Geena and I dipping into a packet of M&M's that I'd nicked out of Jazz's bag. “George Botley was burping all through the register, and Mr. Arora didn't even notice.”
    “Absentmindedness,” Geena said knowledgeably. “One of the first signs of being in love. Do you want an M&M, Jazz?”
    “After all, they are yours,” I said kindly.
    “No, thanks.” Jazz smirked. “And they're not mine actually. Someone left the open bag on my desk.”
    “Urgh!” Geena spluttered, spitting hers out onto the grass.
    I'd just swallowed mine and almost choked. “Why didn't you say so?” I croaked crossly. “They could have been poisoned.”
    “Exactly.” Jazz began to laugh hysterically, so weset about her with our fists, which only made her laugh harder.
    “Stop,” Geena said suddenly. We stopped just outside the park. “Sorry, girls. It's Friday. You know what that means.” And she pointed across the road in the direction of the minimarket on the corner.
    “Oh no,” I groaned. “It's not that time again, is it?”
    “Why do
we
have to come?” Jazz argued mutinously. “Can't we just wait outside?”
    “No.” Geena began herding us across the road like a determined sheepdog. “It's less traumatic if there's three of us.”
    I glanced through the window. Mr. Attwal, the minimarket owner, was sitting at the till with his nose in a large book. He had possibly been the most boring man alive until a few weeks ago, constantly telling his customers all the things he might have done if only his life had been different. Then Auntie had come along and suggested that he do a few courses, take a few evening classes. Now Mr. Attwal was like a man reborn. Or a bore reborn.
    As we sidled into the shop, trying to remain inconspicuous, a bell louder than a police siren chimed overhead. Alerted to the presence of a captive audience, Mr. Attwal jumped to his feet, beaming, and waved the book at us. It was