Free Bindi Babes by Narinder Dhami

if she doesn”t want to get married?”
    “Of course she does,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “She probably just hasn't found anyone dumb enough to marry her yet.”
    “But you can't
make
her get married if she doesn't want to—” Kim began.
    “Indian girls get married, Kim,” I said impatiently. “It's what they
do
. Everyone expects it.”
    “Sarika Sharma didn't,” Geena remarked. “You know, my friend Kamini's sister? She's got that amazing job with Microsoft, and a posh penthouse in Canary Wharf.”
    “And what about Razia Khan?” Jazz said. “She's a lawyer, and
she's
not married.”
    “All right,” I retorted. “So they haven't got married
yet
. But they probably will. We're just hurrying Auntieup a bit, that's all.” I played my ace card. “And if no one's got a better idea …”
    Nobody had.

    As the inspectors' visit drew nearer, panicking had become a daily activity at school. I honestly don't know how the teachers would have managed without us three. We spent every lunchtime helping Ms. Woods design and paint the backdrops for the assembly. And calming her down each time she got upset, which was often. I didn't do PE that afternoon. Instead I spent the lesson helping Mr. Arora to tidy up the lower-school maths cupboard, just in case the inspectors inspected it. Geena was outside the school office, painting a mural on the wall that said WELCOME in about forty different languages. It covered up the cracks really well. Meanwhile, Mr. Grimwade had Jazz going round the lower school for most of the afternoon, delivering messages and threats about the coming visit.
    “They should let the three of
us
run the school,” I said, as we walked home that afternoon. “Then there'd be no problems.”
    “True,” Geena agreed.
    Jazz was staring down the street at the minimarket, which was just ahead of us. “I think I'm seeingthings,” she said in a dazed voice. “What's Mr. Attwal doing?”
    It was all very strange. Mr. Attwal was sitting outside the shop on a chair. He did that sometimes if the weather was fine and sunny, as it was today. He could pounce on passersby and lure them into conversation more easily then. But today Mr. Attwal was reading some kind of leaflet or pamphlet. What it was, we couldn't see from here. But it was so interesting, he never once raised his head. Not even when a load of schoolboys went into the shop, one after the other.
    “What's going on?” Jazz wanted to know.
    We were all quite curious. We went up to Mr. Attwal and stood in front of him. Eventually he looked up, but only because we were casting a shadow across him.
    He blinked. “Hello, girls.”
    “What are you reading?” Geena asked. But we could see what the leaflet was.
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There was a large pile of similar leaflets beside him.
    Mr. Attwal's round face lit up. “I'm going back to school,” he said triumphantly. “Well, not really. I still have to look after the shop. But that's why a correspondence course is perfect for me.”
    “What are you going to learn?” Geena asked.
    He shrugged. “There are so many things. Book-keeping, computers, engineering, languages. I haven't made my mind up yet.”
    “That's great,” I said, meaning it. It certainly solved the problem of him boring all his customers to death. But I couldn't help wondering why he hadn't thought of it years ago.
    “Actually, it was your auntie who gave me the idea,” Mr. Attwal said happily.
    “
Auntie?
” I repeated.
    “Yes, she came into the shop and we got talking, and she said what about a correspondence course?” Mr. Attwal went on. “So I left my wife looking after the shop, went to the library and got these leaflets. Your auntie's a very clever lady.”
    Clever wasn't the word I was thinking of.
    “Now I can be whatever I want to be,” Mr. Attwal said. His eyes were dreamy.
    We walked on. We were