When I Was Joe by Keren David Page B

smiled at me. And, as we reach the changing room and the very welcome sofa placed outside for boyfriends, partners and unlucky sons, there she is. Ashley Jenkins. And she’s not too happy.
    â€˜I’ll come and show you the stuff I like,’ says Mumand she disappears behind the curtains. I sit down next to a big bloke reading
What Car?
and start sifting through the mags thoughtfully provided. But Ashley won’t be ignored.
    â€˜Hey Joe,’ she pouts, perching on the edge of the sofa’s arm. ‘What brings you here? I thought we were going to come shopping together?’
    I have to admit she looks a lot better than she does in school uniform. Today she’s wearing a tight yellow top and jeans that show off curves that usually look a bit lumpy under her tie and grey jumper. I can see the edge of a lacy black bra under the bright T-shirt. It’s quite an attractive combination.
    â€˜Oh, yes. Sorry, Ashley, we must arrange it, but it’s my mum’s birthday soon and I said I’d go shopping with her today.’
    Girls must read these things differently from boys. Ashley rubs my arm and purrs, ‘Oh, that’s so sweet.’ Or maybe she’s taking the piss? And Mum chooses this moment to pop out of the changing room, dressed in a short skirt and a revealing red top. She says hopefully, ‘What do you think of this, Ty?’
    Bugger. Why’d she have to call me Ty in front of Ashley? And what is she wearing? She’s showing way too much cleavage. Mr
What Car?
is licking his lips.
    â€˜It’s a bit much,
Mum
,’ I say, trying to signalenormous disapproval with my eyes. ‘The colour’s OK.’ I hope she’ll get the message. She doesn’t: ‘Well I love it. Hang on, I’ll show you the jeans.’
    Ashley is open-mouthed. ‘That’s never your mum? She can’t be old enough.’
    I’m proud of having a mum who is young and pretty, I really am. But, right now, I’m feeling extremely anxious that she’s forgetting everything that Maureen the makeover lady said about looking anonymous. ‘She’s a whole load older than she looks,’ I tell Ashley.
    â€˜Why did she call you . . . what was it?’
    â€˜She’s half Turkish,’ I lie. ‘It’s the Turkish word for son.’ If Ashley knows any Turkish at all, then I’ve made a big mistake. But luckily she doesn’t seem to.
    â€˜Can you speak Turkish, then?’ says Ashley, and I launch into a long complaint about the evil thieves who short-change you at the cash and carry. She looks a bit stunned, but I think she believes me.
    Mum comes out again, this time dressed in tight-cropped jeans and a white top. It suits her new dark hair, but it’s also indecent. See-through, in fact. I can see she’s feeling happier than she has for weeks, which is nice, but right now I’d prefer to put her in a head-to-toe burka like Imran’s mum wore when we were at St Luke’s.
    â€˜Mum,’ I say firmly, ‘it’s OK, but you’re beginning to look too much like your friend.’
    â€˜What friend?’ she says, admiring her denimed bum in the mirror. ‘D’you know I’m a size eight now?’ she adds, a little anxiously.
    â€˜There’s no way you look fat,’ I say firmly. These magic words are the key to successful clothes shopping with females. David Beckham probably says them to Posh all the time. Having softened her up, I go back on the attack. ‘You know, your friend Nicki. You know . . .
Nicki
. You don’t want to look like her. Why don’t you find something more like your mate Maureen wears?’
    â€˜Maureen has no taste or style,’ says my mum. ‘
Nicki
used to get a lot of compliments.’ And she does a little twirl in front of the mirror.
    â€˜Mrs Andrews,’ says Ashley, ‘I’m Ashley. I’m in Joe’s class at school. I really like