When I Was Joe (11 page)

Two minutes later, I'm joined by two . . . three . . . no,
four of Ashley's friends. Mr
What Car
? looks pretty impressed. Lauren and Emily wedge themselves on to the sofa, Dani sits on the arm, Becca plonks herself on the pile of magazines. ‘Where's Ashley?' demands Becca.

‘In there, trying things on.'

‘So are you two here, you know,
together
?' says Lauren. The way she says
together,
it sounds like Ashley and I are heading for a public snog in the main display window and she's all set to sell tickets.

‘No, I'm here with my mum. She's picking new clothes for her birthday.'

‘Aaah. . .' chorus the girls together. ‘You're so nice,' says Emily. ‘My mum would love a son like you,' says Dani. It's clearly not cool to crawl away and hide under a clothes rail as I would have done when I was nine – not really that long ago – so I shrug and say, ‘It's no sweat.'

Mum emerges carrying a massive pile of clothes. ‘Are you going to buy
all
those?' I ask. ‘Are
all
these girls your friends?' she retorts. Ashley's close behind. ‘Joe's very popular,' she says, making flicking motions with her hands at her friends, who ignore her.

‘Is he?' asks Mum, clearly astounded.

‘We think he's so nice to come shopping with you, Mrs Andrews,' says Emily.

Mum recovers. ‘I mean, yes, isn't he great. I'm so lucky. Oh well, he's always been popular, haven't you, love? Always had all the girls running round him. Must be those big green . . . er, brown eyes. I'm just going to pay for these and then maybe I'll get changed into the jeans and we'll go and buy your trainers.'

I knew shopping with Mum would be bad but I hadn't realised that I'd have to give her a full CIA-style undercover briefing beforehand. First my name, then my eyes. . . Maybe it is safer if she's kept under house arrest.

‘I'll meet you outside. ‘Bye, girls,' I say and escape, thankfully bumping into Brian and his mates Max and Jamie who are hanging around at the top of the escalator.

‘Oh, Christ,' I say, leaning on the balustrade. ‘Ashley Jenkins just ambushed my mum in Top Shop.'

The boys whistle at Ashley's name and Brian asks, ‘Were her mates with her? Emily and them?'

‘Oh yeah, the full pack.'

‘You could have your pick of those girls,' says Brian wistfully. ‘If you hurry and make your mind up then some of us might get a chance to get a date before the end of term party.'

‘What end of term party?' End of term is still weeks away.

‘Arranged by the school, end of term, everyone under year ten. Usually good, and this year it's our main chance of, you know, getting some action.' He looks a bit uncomfortable, and I definitely get the impression that Brian's very new to even thinking about girls. Whereas I have thought about girls non-stop for at least a year – mainly Maria from the tattoo parlour – but never before felt I had the slightest chance of getting anywhere.

‘Thing is, Joe, if you were to get off with Ashley, then you could put a word in with the others for us. . . Maybe set up some double dates, that kind of thing. . .'

Out of your league, mate, I'm thinking, but I say, ‘Yeah, if I can, I will.'

I'm interrupted by Max whistling as he gazes down to the floor below, ‘Who's that babe with Ashley?'

I look. Of course. It's my bloody mother, all done up in her new jeans and transparent top, and viewed from a distance she looks, well, not bad. I can't have young tossers like Max whistling at my mum. I have to put a stop to this right now.

I lean towards him, with a menacing glare, eyes narrowed, hands in fists. ‘Doncha disrespec' my muvver,' I say slowly in my best and most aggressive gangsta voice.

It does the trick. ‘That's your mum?' he squeaks. ‘I'm really sorry Joe, I had no idea. . .' and the rest of the
boys shuffle their feet and look a bit scared. I wonder if Brian told them about our supposedly confidential conversation.

I put my hands down. ‘No problem, bro, easy mistake to make.' Especially when she's dressed as flipping Hannah Montana. ‘I'd better go and rescue her from Ashley.'

When I reach them Mum's looking around for me. ‘You don't look like a good Islamic girl,' I tell her in Turkish – Salik in the kebab shop was always saying it to his daughter – and it's an old joke between me and my mum because it's what I say when she's off to the pub. So she laughs and rolls her eyes at me and Ashley looks completely convinced, gives me a wave and blows me a kiss.

‘Let's go and get your trainers,' Mum says, ‘and then maybe some jeans and T-shirts for you. We can look wherever you want.' I'm secretly chuffed about this, as I steer her into the Nike store, because all Ty's clothes came from Asda or charity shops or down the market. Joe scores again. I wonder how often we can go shopping before Scotland Yard's cash runs out.

Several hours later we're leaving, laden with loads of really cool stuff, and I see Carl again. This time he's with the whole family – red-faced dad, plump harassed mum, and – yes! – Carl's pushing a double buggy with a bawling
pair of snot-covered toddlers.

‘See you, Carl,' I say, and I move my arm so it rests lightly on Mum's shoulders. Just as if she were my slightly older, but remarkably glamorous girlfriend. She looks a bit surprised, but it's worth it to see Carl's baby-blue eyes pop as we walk past. It's a good moment.

Today is the inter-schools athletics competition and I have no intention of telling my mum about it. She had her share of my time and attention yesterday. But when I go down for breakfast, she's sitting at the kitchen table all dressed up in her new jeans and red top. It seems a bit mean not to tell her the truth when she asks me where I'm going.

‘Can I come?' she asks. ‘I'd like to see you run. See what the fuss is about. I've been thinking it's good that you're getting into athletics. It'll keep you out of trouble.'

We both know what sort of trouble she means. Knife-carrying trouble. I say yes right away, to shut her up.

I make her change into something more decent though.

So here we are, out on the playing field, lining up at the desk to sign in. I'm hoping I can dump her somewhere because I've already seen that quite a few of my new friends are here. Max and Jamie definitely . . . and there aren't that many parents.

Ellie and Mr Henderson are at the registration desk and Ellie's face lights up when she sees my mum. ‘Oh, I'm so pleased to meet you, Mrs Andrews,' she says. ‘I'm Ellie. I'm sure Joe will have told you I'm supervising his training.'

My mum has just clocked the wheelchair and has put on her I'm-a-legal-secretary-and-nothing-surprises-me face. She shakes Ellie's hand and says, ‘I'm Michelle. Thank you so much for the time you're giving Joe.'

Mr Henderson gives me a form to fill out. It's simple enough but I feel a bit bad when I have to put my fake birth date. I'm pretending to be ten months younger than I am. Isn't that cheating? I'm getting an unfair advantage. Isn't that as bad as taking performance-enhancing drugs?

Mr Henderson notices that I'm dithering and says, ‘Is something bothering you Joe? It's all pretty straightforward, isn't it?'

‘No . . . yes . . . I was just wondering which race to put down. . .'

‘Well, it's quite simple, Joe. You are in year eight.
You are a boy. So you want the race for year eight boys.'

‘Oh. OK. Umm . . . Mr Henderson?'

‘Yes?'

‘I don't suppose I could try running the race for year nine boys, could I? It might be more of a challenge.'

As soon as I've said this I realise I sound like a big-headed complete prat. Mr Henderson laughs, Ellie smirks and my mum rolls her eyes.

‘Stick to your own age group,' says Mr Henderson. ‘Although if you really want a challenge, there's a 1500 metres event later on which is open to any under-sixteens. I wouldn't normally enter a thirteen-year-old, but if you want a go. . .'

So of course I have to look keen and eager and say yes please. When I trail in last I am going to be totally humiliated.

Ellie checks with Mr Henderson that he can manage without her and offers to introduce my mum to her family. ‘They're all here,' she says. ‘We're going to have a wheelchair race. This event is really good for mixing in disabled events with the rest. And my little brother is running in the under-eleven 200 metres.'

Her parents are over by a row of benches for spectators. Two boys are chasing around in circles making a load of noise. Claire from my class – shy, tiny Claire – has the same approach to out-of-school clothes as she
does to uniform I notice. She's wearing a huge shapeless navy shirt and baggy jeans, and she's sitting on one of the benches, hunched over a book. I'm standing right by her so I say hello, and she looks away from her book for a millisecond and then looks back again. She doesn't even say hello. I feel a slight prickle of irritation.

Ellie's mum is called Janet and she looks a bit like her – same warm smile and twinkly eyes – and Gareth, her dad, is a big red-headed guy. He's full of pride as he tells my mum about Ellie. ‘It's amazing what she's been able to achieve in a wheelchair. You won't believe it when you see them race – there's such skill . . . so fast. I don't mind telling you Michelle, we thought the worst when she had her accident. She was a champion gymnast you know, tipped for the top – we were so proud of her. And then. . . But she's just got on and made the best of things and . . . well, she might be about to qualify for the Paralympics.'

‘That's fantastic,' says Mum, and then Ellie tells me to go off and get changed and start warming up because the year eight boys' race will start in forty-five minutes.

I meet up with Max and Jamie in the changing room. The race is 800 metres, which is a good distance for me. ‘There're four entrants from every school,' says Max. ‘The main thing is to hack your way through the crowd.' I'll have to start fast and keep up the momentum,
I decide. I look at Max's short legs. I should be able to beat him at least.

They can't be bothered to do a proper warm up – ‘It's not like I stand any chance of winning,' says Jamie, ‘so why waste the effort?' – but I jog a bit and then do all the stretching exercises that Ellie's shown me. Then I check that my mum hasn't blown our cover. She's sitting next to Ellie who's raving on about my potential and what a great future I could have if I totally devote my whole life to athletics.

Ellie says, ‘Joe, come here for a minute.'

I trot over obediently. ‘Look,' says Ellie, ‘look at his legs. They're long in proportion to the rest of his body. That gives him a great advantage before he even starts.' And she points out the length of my thigh, which means that her hand is brushing against my crotch. My mum's eyebrows are slightly raised and I think she's trying not to giggle.

Luckily they call the year eight boys' race and I can escape from this sexual harassment. I'm still bothered by the worry that I'm actually cheating. But then I decide it's not a problem. I'm year eight, aren't I? I'm definitely a boy. And some of the others lining up look pretty tall and big too.

Bang! The race starts and I sprint to the front of the pack. I'm breathing well, lengthening my stride, moving
away from the other runners. There're about four of us jostling for front position and as we turn the curve we fall into place – first a big blond guy, me in second place, two others on my heels. I'm fine. I'm steady. This is going to be easy. . .

. . . And it is. I hang on for the final circuit and kick off. I overtake the blond. I see his scarlet, shocked face and then I'm out and away. It's not even hard. I'm not even pushing it. And then I speed up for the stopwatch and I'm getting to the final tape and – wow – it was easy, but it feels so good to win. So amazingly good.

Everyone is cheering and they're cheering for me. I punch my hand into the sky and then put it down again. After all, I've only won a poxy race for thirteen-year-olds. It's not exactly Olympic gold. Someone hands me a bottle of water and I gulp it down.

Mr Henderson slaps me on the back. ‘Well done,' he says and he shows me my time. ‘Excellent. Year nine are up next. See where that time would've got you.'

It's odd watching the year nine boys lining up. I ought to be one of them. In that group I wouldn't really stand out – I'd be average height, just another fourteen-year-old. Nothing special. Not like Joe. . . I watch them run, watch the winner celebrate – and then Mr Henderson shoves a piece of paper under my nose and I see that
I was faster by a full five seconds. I could've won that race too. I can't stop smiling.

Jamie and Max come and find me, and we high five. ‘Knew you'd do it,' says Max. ‘You're going to be an international athlete, aren't you? I overheard Mr Henderson talking to the head teacher and he said you had more potential than anyone else in the school.'

He's winding me up, I'm certain. ‘Shut up,' I say, shoving him. ‘Don't talk bollocks. Look what's next.' And we turn to gawp at the year eight girls, next on the track. Some of them look quite good in their PE kit.

I wonder how Ellie feels watching races like this. Does she feel bad that she has to use a wheelchair to race? Of course she must. She's so amazing, so positive, that it's easy to forget how difficult her life must be. She has to depend on other people all the time. I'd hate that.

What's worse: making the absolute best of a life which is so physically restricted, or having to accept that your life is always going to be dictated by fear and lies and uncertainty? I still think I'd prefer to be me – Ty or Joe or whoever – than be stuck in a wheelchair.