Bindi Babes (16 page)

“Maybe we could offer them some kind of grief counseling through the Schools' Psychology Service,” Mr. Arora suggested.

For a moment I thought I was hearing things. Then I got it. They thought we'd gone off the rails because of
Mum
.

“It's not that, you idiots!” I wanted to yell. But I didn't. I crept away, back up the corridor. I was hot all over with this mad, intense rage. I was so
bored
with everyone else thinking they knew what was best for us. There was only one thing wrong with our lives. Auntie. Once she was gone, everything would be fine.

So they thought we were going to stop and go back to being perfect once the inspectors came. Had I got news for them. We were going to get worse. And I had the
best
idea where to start. The oh-so-special assembly on Monday morning.

“I
can't
believe
we did all that stuff,” Jazz said under her breath. “Look, I'm so nervous, my hand's shaking.”

She attempted to put a silver bindi on her forehead and ended up with it stuck to her eyelashes.

“Don't be a drama queen,” I said, picking up my comb. “It had to be done.”

“You don't think—” Geena began hesitantly. She was sprawled on Jazz's bed, watching us dress. “You don't think we went a bit too far?”

My mind flew back two days to Friday afternoon. Sneaking into the hall after Ms. Woods had set things up, we had prepared for an assembly that I guessed the inspectors would never forget. Today
was Inderjit's wedding. Tomorrow could be our funeral.

“We
agreed
,” I said. “We can't back out now.”

“I'm not backing out,” Geena snapped. Looking enormously irritated, she grabbed Jazz's pillow and heaved it at me. It hit me on the back of the head, almost shunting me through the dressing table mirror.

“Stop it,” I shouted, throwing the comb at her.

“You two! You're like a couple of naughty kids,” Jazz moaned.

“You started it,” Geena and I snarled together. We were all on edge, unsurprisingly. And secretly, my row with Kim was still doing my head in. We hadn't made up yet and I couldn't believe how much it was bugging me.

I glared at Geena and Jazz and flounced out of the room, almost tripping over my long skirt. Out on the landing, though, I froze into stillness. I could hear Dad and Auntie talking in the living room. Not talking. Arguing.

“I know you think I'm interfering, Johnny—”

“Aren't you?” Dad sounded weary and defeated. I felt a pang of sympathy for him. “Can't you just leave it alone? Things will work themselves out.”

“Will they?” Auntie asked. “It's been a year, Johnny. It's too long already. I'm worried about the girls. And you. You never talk to them. You're never
here
, except when I nag you to come home from work early—”

“The office is very busy at the moment,” Dad retorted, a trace of anger in his voice.

“It's been busy for the last year, as far as I can tell,” Auntie broke in. “When are things going to change? Because they can't go on like this. Buying the girls everything they want and never being here is not the solution—”

I jumped as Geena and Jazz came out of the bedroom behind me.

“What are you doing lurking around out here?” Geena demanded.

I shook my head at her but it was too late. Dad had heard us overhead, and was already halfway out of the front door.

“Girls, are you ready?” Auntie called.

We clattered downstairs. Auntie was wearing a peacock-blue sari stitched with gold swirls, and high-heeled sandals. Her hair was swept up on top of her head and pinned with two jeweled combs.

“You all look lovely,” she said approvingly.

“So do you,” Jazz blurted out. Geena and I were stunned, but Jazz seemed even more shocked than we were. She was so mortified, I didn't have the heart to kick her.

Dad was getting the car out of the garage, so we went to join him. He and Auntie were talking, but only just. They certainly weren't getting on very well at the moment. Dad had always been laid-back, but you could only push him so far before he'd snap. It was all very hopeful.

We drove to Slough and then crawled up and down the road outside Inderjit's parents' house,
looking for a parking space. The cars were double-, and in some cases treble-parked, and someone had even parked sideways with the bonnet of the car on the pavement.

“Who's the groom?” Geena asked, as Dad squeezed the car between a Mercedes and a BMW, muttering a prayer under his breath.

“Harjinder's a doctor from Coventry,” Auntie replied. “He has a younger brother, if you're interested.”

Geena looked outraged. I almost laughed but just managed to stop myself in time, and Jazz did actually give a kind of strangled snort.

The front of the house was decorated with flashing fairy lights. The door stood open, and people were spilling out to stand on the driveway. Bhangra music thumped and echoed down the street, played on an enormous sound system. As we approached the front door, we were patted on the head, pinched on the cheek and kissed and hugged by lots of people, some of whom I didn't actually know
.
I suppose most of them were some sort of relatives, but it's kind of hard to keep track when you have so many.

The house was controlled chaos. There were about twenty men in smart suits, some wearing turbans, crammed into the front room drinking whisky and all talking at once. Dad peeled off straightaway to join them. We fought our way into the back room, where some aunties were watching a video of
Lagaan
. Auntie Rita and Biji were arguing in a corner, and Baby was in the garden, chatting up a teenage boy. The kitchen was
heaving with women heating up samosas, handing out trays of tea and occasionally slapping one of the kids for misbehaving. There seemed to be hundreds of kids all over the place, playing, fighting, screaming, crying and generally getting on everyone's nerves. It was just like every other wedding I'd ever been to. Everybody was enjoying themselves enormously.

“Let's go see Inderjit,” Geena suggested.

The three of us stepped around a squawking toddler and headed upstairs. Auntie had already been absorbed into the group of women in the kitchen and was chattering away in Punjabi.

There were more kids fighting on the stairs, but eventually we made it to the top. There was another bunch of them in Inderjit's parents' bedroom. Two girls were pulling sari after sari out of a wardrobe like magicians, while a little boy was parading around with a big pair of white underpants on his head. Inderjit's door was closed, so Geena tapped on it loudly. Sukhvinder, Inderjit's sister, opened it.

“Oh, it's you,” she said with a grin. “Indira, it's Geena, Amber and Jazz.”

“Yeah, they're all right,” Inderjit called. “Let them in.”

The bedroom was full of girls dressed up like colorful painted butterflies in floaty pastel-colored saris and salwar kameez. Inderjit was sitting on the bed in her sari underskirt and tight top. Her hands and feet had already been intricately patterned with mehndi, and one of her cousins was weaving white flowers into her long dark hair. Lucky it had grown back, really.

“Hi,” I said. “Did you know there's a fire under your bed?”

Inderjit gave a shriek, bobbed down and retrieved a lit cigarette. “I thought you might be my mum,” she said.

“Your husband won't like you smoking,” one of the girls teased.

“He knows what he can do,” Inderjit retorted. The girls giggled and started making rude comments about the groom and the wedding night in Punjabi.

“Inderjit
, beti
,” called a voice from outside the door.

“God, that
is
my mum!” Looking panicky, Inderjit threw the cigarette out of the open window onto the driveway. We heard a faint “
Ow!
” below us.

“You scored a direct hit on Uncle Davinder,” remarked Jazz, who was nearest to the window.

Inderjit's mum had come to hurry things along because we were late for the gurdwara. We were shooed out of the room so that Inderjit could be wound into her sari, and then we hung around outside the house so that we could see her emerge in all her glory. She came out looking doe-eyed and innocent, as if she'd never shaved her head or smoked a ciggie in her life.

“Let's make a dash for it,” Dad said in a low voice. “It's going to be hell trying to get a parking space at the gurdwara.”

Everyone else had the same idea, and there was a mad rush to the cars. Dad just doesn't have that killer instinct when it comes to parking, so we had to leave the car three streets away. We hurried to the
gurdwara, which was an old church hall, and joined the end of the queue at the doors. Once inside, we took off our shoes and left them on the racks.

People were moving along the aisle down the middle of the hall to bow to the Holy Book, which was under a gold canopy at the far end. When we'd done that, we split up, Dad to sit on the men's side and us on the women's. I sat down cross-legged on the floor and looked around. The bride and groom were already sitting at the front with the priest, but people were still coming in from outside.

I looked at my watch. Twenty-two hours to go to the special assembly and then we'd be dead. I was still sure we'd done the right thing. Fairly sure. About fifty percent, really. Or maybe thirty.

More people were coming in down the aisle. I watched idly as Mr. Arora walked past me.

Mr. Arora?

What was
he
doing here?

My eyes almost fell out of my head. It was like seeing a dream suddenly become real. Mr. Arora was
here
. I didn't know why or how. I didn't care. This was our chance, and we were going to grab it.

I glanced at Geena and Jazz sitting either side of me. Geena was examining her nails and Jazz was fiddling with her hair. I elbowed them both in the ribs simultaneously.

“Mr. Arora's here,” I whispered.

“What?” Jazz hadn't heard what I said.

“Nice try, Amber.” Geena yawned, not looking up.

“He
is.
” I looked round, but he seemed to have disappeared. “Where's he gone?”

For a moment I was worried. Maybe my brain was overheating and I was hallucinating. Then I spotted him sitting down not far from Dad. “There he is,” I whispered. “Near Dad, next to the guy in the hideous purple and green tie.”

“That's Mr. Arora!” Jazz gasped.

“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” I said.

We all stared at Mr. Arora's handsome profile, willing him to turn round and see us. He didn't.

“Do you think he's going to the reception?” Geena asked.

We looked sideways at Auntie. The same thought was in all our minds.

“Let's hope so,” I said.

“Maybe we shouldn't wait to find out,” Jazz said anxiously. “Maybe we should just grab him afterward and push him in Auntie's direction.”

From then on, I paid no attention to the wedding at all. I fixed my eyes on Mr. Arora, watching his every move. Not that he did much. He looked at his watch four times, ran his hand through his hair twice and scratched his arm once. By the end of the ceremony I was a nervous wreck.

“Listen,” I whispered, as everyone rose to their feet. “You two keep Auntie here while I grab Mr. Arora and bring him over to meet her.”

I scrambled to get up, almost tripping over my floaty scarf. But as I attempted to launch myself across
the aisle toward Mr. Arora, one of Inderjit's aunties, well over a hundred kilos and dressed in a lime-green sari, sailed into my path like a battleship, all guns blazing.

“There you are,” she boomed, pinching my cheek and nearly taking the top layer of skin off. “I thought you weren't here. Come and give your auntie a hug.”

I was crushed against her enormous stomach, and released, dazed and bruised, about ten seconds later. Jazz was trying to hide behind Auntie, but neither she nor Geena escaped. By the time we'd all come up for air there were so many people milling around us, we couldn't see Mr. Arora at all.

“Let's get straight to the reception.” Dad had appeared next to us, looking harassed. “We might have a chance of a parking space if we run.”

“What about Mr. Arora?” Geena mouthed at me as we raced out of the gurdwara.

“He'll be at the reception,” I said confidently, hoping I was right.