Bhangra Babes by Narinder Dhami

know
anything,”
Kim wailed. “Will somebody please tell me what's going on?”

F rom then on, Kiran simply refused to speak to us. She came up with various techniques to avoid us, which included getting to school late and leaving as soon as the bell rang, wearing headphones and listening to music on an MP3 player during breaks, and asking all our teachers if she could sit elsewhere in their classrooms instead of with me. She completely blanked us for the whole of that week, and we had no idea what to do next.
    Of course, we had to confess our lack of success to Mr. Arora, although we didn't tell him that Kiran had guessed we knew her secret. We thought that might be a bit much to cope with for a man who already looked as if he were under a death sentence. Auntie-ji had been throwing her weight around again—this time, Bollywood karaoke and
    fire-eaters at the reception—and Mr. Arora and Auntie weren't getting on too well again.
    We got an unexpected breathing space, though, when Kiran didn't turn up at school the following week. Someone else had started delivering our newspapers, too. It was now Thursday, and she'd been absent for the past four days. Mr. Arora had told us that Mrs. Kohli had phoned the school office to say that Kiran had flu.
    “I don't want to sound mean and selfish,” Jazz began as we met up in the playground to walk home at the end of the day.
    “It doesn't usually stop you,” I replied. “Go on, force yourself.”
    “But it's been lovely not having to worry about Kiran for the last few days,” Jazz went on. “It means we've had more time to get to know Rocky.”
    “Yes.” I thought dreamily back to a certain romantic moment behind the canteen. No, not
that
kind of romantic moment. Rocky had given me a lecture on the history of hip-hop and bhangra, and I'd stared into the fathomless depths of his chocolate-brown eyes and not listened to a word he said. “I think he likes me.”
    “Wishful thinking,” Geena scoffed. “I'm utterly certain he likes me best.”
    “And what do you base that on?” demanded Jazz.
    Geena's face took on a gooey, lovesick smile. “He gave me half his Mars bar yesterday.”
    “Ooh, start planning the wedding, then.” Jazz sniffed disparagingly. “He told
me
I was the prettiest.”
    “He did not!” Geena and I said together.
    “The truth always hurts,” Jazz replied smugly.
    “He's definitely playing us off against each other,” I mused as we wandered over to the gate.
    “Well, it's not surprising, is it?” Geena pointed out. “What boy wouldn't enjoy having three gorgeous girls competing for his attention?”
    “And after all, it's only a bit of fun,” said Jazz.
    We glared at each other with narrowed eyes.
    “I know that,” I replied. “I just wonder if maybe we should play it a bit cooler, that's all.”
    “There he is!” Geena cried.
    Rocky had come out of a side entrance and was heading toward the gates. “Out of my way!” commanded Jazz, dropping her bag in all the excitement.
    Of course, we ignored her. Geena and I hurried after him, leaving Jazz to pick up her spilled possessions. But we were too far away to catch him. Rocky swung open the door of a sleek silver Mercedes waiting at the curb and climbed in. As we watched, with disappointed faces, the electric window slid down, and Rocky waved as the car purred away.
    “That guy's got a big head,” muttered a familiar voice beside me.
    “Explain yourself, George,” I said coldly. “Do you mean that Rocky's head is literally of a larger-than-average size, or are you implying that he thinks too much of himself?”
    “He thinks too much of himself,” George said in a belligerent tone. “And I'm not implying it. I'm stating it.”
    He turned and walked off, leaving me with several witty put-downs teetering on the tip of my tongue.
    “Poor Georgie,” said Geena. “A touch of the green-eyed monster, I think.”
    “He can't talk about big heads,” I muttered. “The way he's been