When I Was Joe by Keren David Page A

pleased.
    â€˜We’re going to spend a bit of money on ourselves,’ she says. ‘You’ve grown so much that all your jeans are a bit short on you, and we could get some T-shirts too. I hate to see you in those awful hoodies all the time.’
    Doesn’t she remember that I’m wearing a hood up as much as possible on police orders? ‘What I really need are good running shoes,’ I say, and she agrees that I can get some.
    We walk up to the bus stop, and I realise that I am actually taller than her. I can look down on her sprayed highlights. It’s only an inch of difference, but it’s massive. I was beginning to think I’d never grow and now it’s really happened. After all the training of the last few weeks I’m stronger and fitter too. My whole body is different. Being Joe has turbocharged all the changes that they kept on promising in PSHE lessons. He’s taller, he’s hairier, he’s got more muscles. His voice is almost always deep. He’s managed to avoid getting spots though. Ty was a boy, but Joe is almost a man. I like it. I like it a lot.
    Going through the shopping centre doors, I feel like a hundred eyes are on us. I turn to her hastily. ‘Can I go and research trainers while you check out New Look?’ And we arrange to meet outside Top Shop in half an hour.‘It’s all very well in New Look,’ she says, ‘but I’m not doing proper shopping without your advice.’
    The sports shop has good stuff – it’s not one of those fashion shops in disguise – and I get busy checking out the trainers. Then I spy big bully-boy Carl buying football boots with his mum. She’s making a huge fuss over getting him exactly the right thing and seems to have plenty of money to do so. I know he’d hate to be spotted, so I wait until his mum’s busy with the assistant, wander past and say, ‘Hey, Carl, how you doing?’
    Carl snorts like a pig that’s run out of swill.
    â€˜Shopping with your girlfriend?’ I ask innocently.
    Carl grunts angrily. His mum returns, carrying a pair of lurid orange boots which look like someone’s vomited all over them, and asks, ‘Oh Carl, sweetie, is this one of your team mates?’
    â€˜No,’ growls Carl. She looks puzzled so he has to mumble, ‘ ‘s name’s Joe. In my year.’
    â€˜Great boots,’ I say helpfully. ‘No one’s going to miss you in those, eh, Carl?’
    â€˜That’s just what I was saying,’ says Carl’s mum, and I’m loving the way that Carl glowers.
    I’ve done enough. I have some ammunition to use against him just in case he mocks me with my mum later. I pick the shoes I want, and ask the guy behind the counter to keep them for me, Then, just as I’m leaving, I turn andmouth, ‘Bye sweetie,’ behind his mum’s back. I hear her say, ‘Seems like a nice boy.’ And Carl splutters with fury.
    Walking into the loud, bright jumble that is Top Shop makes me incredibly homesick for my Auntie Emma, who used to combine babysitting with shopping. My earliest memories involve glittering bangles and shiny shoes, playing peek-a-boo with the changing room mirrors and hide-and-seek amongst the clothes rails.
    When I was nine, Emma’s friends told her it was me or them, and Mum decided I was compromising my masculinity. Arron and I were packed off to Nathan’s boxing club where we spent our Saturdays imitating the older boys and jabbing at a punch bag and hoping no one would make us actually fight. But I’m well known in my family as an ace style adviser. It’s not a talent I tend to shout about.
    I wander along behind Mum, as she picks things up and adds them to her huge pile of things to try on, and I realise I’ve stepped into the headquarters of the Joe Andrews fan club. I’ve seen about twenty girls from school, and every single one has waved, giggled or