When I Was Joe (3 page)

‘What do you think?' asks Maureen.

‘I look like a bloody Goth,' I mutter, giving the eyebrows an experimental wiggle. Actually I rather like it. I look a lot older – I seem to have grown taller, cooped up in captivity – and the messy black hair is excellent.

She turns to Nicki. ‘I think I've done a pretty good job there.' But Nic's gloomily examining her brunette helmet-hair frump-of-the-year look, and doesn't even look at me. With one crappy haircut and some unisex sweatshirts, Maureen's managed to turn her from someone who looked a bit like Nadine Coyle into a complete minger. She's gone from looking twenty-five, max, to around forty. Poor old Nic. She's actually only thirty-one. If they ever made a TV show called
Ten Years Older
then Maureen could get a job as presenter.

Doug comes in the room and says, ‘Well done Maureen, good job. I've settled up so we can leave now – by the back stairs please. I don't want anyone here seeing what you look like now. It won't take long to pack up, will it?'

He's right, it'll take about five minutes – there was never any space to unpack in the first place. ‘We're going now?' says Nicki. ‘But where?' And Doug says he'll explain everything in the car.

She sits in the front with him and I sit in the back with Maureen and we drive and drive. He tells us the name of the town where we're going to be living, but neither of us have ever heard of it. It's about fifty miles out of London – far enough away to be really boring but not far enough for people to have strange accents.

He says I'm going to be starting school on Monday and he points it out, Parkview Academy, as we pass it halfway up a hill.

‘You'll be in year eight,' he says.

‘No, I'm in year nine.'

‘You'll be in year eight because it's safer. We want to make you as different from your old self as possible. And luckily' – he smirks – ‘you don't look too old for your age.'

Stupid tosser. ‘So what is my age?'

‘We've made you thirteen; your new birthday is September the fifth.'

Brilliant. A whole year lost. A new birthday. Outstanding. ‘You're an idiot,' I mutter, but I say it in Urdu so he won't understand.

He glances in the mirror and sees the look on my face. ‘What's that? It's very important that you take this seriously,
Joe
.' He's started using our new names, speaking slightly too loud like we're deaf or foreign or stupid. ‘If you screw up then we'll have to move you elsewhere, give you another identity. Some people have to do this three or four times. Let's try and avoid that, eh lad?'

‘Yeah, yeah. . .' Three or four times? He can't be serious.

‘You'd better change your attitude fast, lad,' he says, ‘because it's a matter of life or death.'

There's nothing I can say. Doug's the only person who knows Joe Andrews and Doug already thinks he's stupid, greedy and revolting. Maybe everyone else will think the same. I look out of the window and wonder why Joe and Michelle have chosen to live in such a dump.

And then we're driving down a high street with the same shops that you see everywhere, and we're into an estate where all the houses look identically dull and
shabby, and we're pulling up outside a semi with a red front door. This is it. Our new home. A safe house. But can we ever be safe again?

School is the only place where I feel calm. Everywhere else I'm looking out for exploding shops and heavies bursting from the shadows. It's completely exhausting because nothing actually ever happens, so I'm wasting tons of energy watching and worrying.

But once I go through the school gates I feel better. No one can find me here. I'm camouflaged among hundreds of other kids all dressed the same. It's not like London where everyone looks different. In the playground, pretty much everyone is the same colour, has the same sort of look. I never even knew you could be this invisible.

My invisibility doesn't hold up in the classroom though. My class is full of babies. The boy who sits on my left – Max – is about seven inches smaller than me, and his voice is as high as James Blunt's. The girl in front of me – Claire – is even smaller. She looks like
an eight-year-old who's borrowed a uniform five sizes too big for her.

I'd been quite interested in the idea of sharing a classroom with girls. But even the ones who look thirteen seem incredibly young. There're only one or two who make a real effort with make up and stuff.

Among this lot I really stick out. I'm the tallest. I sometimes look like I might need to shave. I know everything – it's so helpful that St Saviour's was unbelievably strict and made us work so hard. Redoing year eight is a breeze. A boring one.

Today I'm dozing in English class, thinking about a picture I once saw in a magazine of a woman member of a tribe somewhere in Indonesia. Her left hand had only two fingers; the rest had been hacked off, one finger for every family member she'd lost. It was her tribe's way of remembering the dead. I can't see it catching on in England, but right now I think it's got possibilities. People would know something about you right from the start, without asking questions. So you never forget, and you carry the truth on your body.

Some losses don't really deserve a whole finger though. When my dad left, I was only about two and he just kind of faded out of my life. Now he's gone forever, I suppose. He'd never find us even if he looked. Maybe he's worth a little toe. What about losing a friend?
What about seeing someone die?

Brian, who sits on my right, pokes his elbow in my ribs and I'm suddenly aware that the classroom has gone strangely quiet and everyone is looking at me. A few of the girls are giggling. ‘Joe Andrews?' says the teacher. ‘Are you still with us, Joe?' Damn. I wonder how long he's been calling on me. ‘Yes, sir,' I say, which is what they expected at St Saviour's, but it gets a big laugh here. Bugger.

‘Wake up, young man,' says Mr Brown. ‘Late night last night?' I shrug, then half nod, so he can take it as agreement if he wants.

‘Perhaps you'd like to tell us, Joe, something about Prospero's magic in
The Tempest
?'

He's trying to catch me out. Big mistake. I deal with his question really easily – I even quote from the play, that's how good I am – and then I sit there trying not to look smug.

All the girls are giggling now. Even little Claire sneaks a look at me from under her long droopy fringe. I'm getting quite a bit of female attention. Pity I can't take advantage without feeling like a child-molester.

The bell goes, and Mr Brown scowls and stomps out of the room. Brian slaps me on the back and he and his mates walk with me to the dining room to get lunch.

Ty Lewis at St Saviour's never made people laugh
or had an instant gang. He – I – he was just Arron's sidekick. I never made any friends of my own, I was too worried he'd go off with some new mates.

I've never been in a school without Arron. We made friends when we walked to school together on our first day in reception at St Luke's, because our mums knew each other from some evening class. He was really happy to be going to big school – he knew everything about it because his brother Nathan had been there for three years already.

I was pretending I was happy too, for my mum and gran, but I was actually a little bit nervous and I didn't like our teacher because she kept on calling me Tyrone. Arron showed me where to put my coat, and how the lock on the loo door worked. He taught me to climb the climbing frame, and he explained to Miss Eagles that I was really called Tyler. And he'd always been there every school day since. Until now.

Now I'm always looking around for him. Sometimes I see a tall dark boy at the end of a corridor and I try to catch up – then realise that it's not him after all. It can't be him. Every time I feel sick, every time the same – I'm not sure – disappointment? Relief?

As we're queuing for our lunches – stodgy lasagne, excellent because I'm lucky to get a boiled egg at home – some girls wander up to us. They're the most confident
girls in year eight, the ones who've discovered make-up and short skirts and – if I'm not mistaken – push-up bras.

Their leader is called Ashley Jenkins and I have a vague impression that she's loud and annoying. Her eyelashes curl like fat spider-legs, her lips are glossed like snail's slime. I try and ignore her. It doesn't work.

‘That was cool, the way you tricked Mr Brown,' says Ashley, patting her hair.

‘I suppose so. I wasn't really tricking him.'

Ashley shrugs: ‘Whatever. I was wondering, do you want to come for a walk with me after school? Maybe we could go up the shopping centre?'

My practical experience with girls is pretty minimal after two and a half years at an all-boys' school, although Arron and I had talked a lot about the theory. Arron gave me basic instructions based on eight weeks of tussling in the park with Shannon Travis – eight weeks when I felt left out and left behind. We'd never imagined that I would be asked out in front of a huge crowd of people. In fact, we'd never really imagined I'd be asked out at all.

From the way the year eight boys around me glance at each other, it looks like I am being offered their ultimate fantasy. Ashley doesn't look like someone to offend. Ty would have been speechless, but luckily
Joe is a supercool dude. There's a poster on the wall, and I improvise. ‘Great offer, Ashley, but I can't do tonight. I'm training with the athletics squad. Really sorry.'

Ashley looks impressed but not exactly like she believes me, and likewise Brian and his friends. And there's a look of surprise on the face of the teacher right in front of us in the queue who – I realise too late – is Mr Henderson. He has taken me for all of two PE lessons and certainly never mentioned anything about athletic talent. But, fair play to him, he turns around and says, ‘We're looking forward to having you in the squad, er, Joe. Make sure you're there prompt at 3.30 and bring your kit. I'll have cabbage and carrots, and go easy on the custard,' he adds, turning back to the dinner lady.

Ashley pouts and says, ‘When are you free then?' and I say, ‘I'll let you know,' impressing Brian's gang almost as much as my fantasy place in the athletics squad. The girls find another table, and I'm left with the impossible questions of the boys. When was I chosen? What did he say to me? Had I ever competed before? Did I realise that everyone else in the squad was at least sixteen?

The same criteria apply to Ashley: ‘She's never looked at anyone in our year before,' says Brian. ‘She's only just split up with Dan Kingston in year ten. She won't like it
that you didn't say yes right away, Ashley gets whatever she wants. Aren't you the lucky one?' Everyone laughs and jeers and the lasagne sticks in my throat. It tastes like lumpy cement.

I'm sure Mr Henderson won't make me train. They take PE really seriously at this school, much more so than at St Saviour's where we were lucky to get a game of football in our concrete playground. Here they have fields and a running track, a gym and even a swimming pool. The school is a designated sports academy, whatever that is, and the athletics squad is made up of people who compete for the county. I am an idiot.

But when your whole life is a lie then one more doesn't seem like a big deal. It's ironic really, I'm only at this school because I'm trying to tell the truth.

The final bell arrives soon enough and I text home to say I'll be a bit late, and walk slowly over to the sports staff office, which is right by the running track. I'll tell Mr Henderson that I made a stupid mistake. But when I get there there's a girl sitting at his desk. She's older than me and she's not wearing school uniform, but she's too young to be a teacher.

I stand there feeling awkward while she looks me up and down. She takes her time.

‘Are you Joe?' she asks. ‘Umm . . . yes,' I reply uncomfortably. ‘I'm Ellie,' she says. ‘Mr Henderson
asked me to watch you run and try you out. I'll report back to him.'

I shift from one foot to another. ‘Umm, you see, the thing is I'm not really meant to be here.'

She looks up at me. Grey eyes, blonde fringe, a smile that could be friendly or might be laughing at me. ‘But you are here.'

‘Yes but I'm not meant to be. I wasn't spotted, or asked to join the squad or anything like that. I just . . . umm . . . made a mistake.'

‘It may not be a mistake. That's what Mr Henderson wants me to find out.' She takes her hands off the desk and reaches down and kind of glides towards me, and I suddenly realise that she's sitting in a wheelchair. I go all hot and cold with embarrassment.

‘If you'll just open the door for me then I'll go out to the track and meet you there when you're ready,' she says.

I just stand there, probably with my mouth open. She assumes I'm shy. ‘Don't worry, Joe, the others are training in the gym today. There's no one to watch.'

‘I . . . you . . . you're in a wheelchair?' It comes out as a question. Duh! How dim can you get? I am never going to speak to this girl again. Luckily she laughs and says, ‘Wow, you're really observant. Don't let it scare you off. Now go and get out of your clothes and
I'll see you in a minute.'

And she wheels away, leaving me completely crushed and absolutely determined to impress her. I rush to open the door. ‘Hurry up,' she says, and I do.

Twenty minutes later I've warmed up and stretched, following her instructions, and I'm pounding round the track. It's amazing how good it feels, how concentrating on breathing and moving make all the worry of the last few weeks fade away.

When I run it doesn't matter if I'm Joe or Ty. Running isn't just about escaping, it's about power and strength, chasing away the fear of the unknown, these people who want me silenced. When I was eight I thought I could grow up to be a superhero; here I am flying around the track as fast as Spiderman, as strong as the Incredible Hulk.