When I Was Joe Read Free Page A

curious.
    â€˜If you forget when you’re writing, then it’s easy to turn a T into a J,’ he says.
    â€˜Oh, right,’ I say, slurping the chocolate milkshake, although I think it’s much more likely that I’d forget when I was talking. Or listening. . . How am I ever going to remember that my name’s meant to be Joe?
    He lectures us about staying as anonymous as possible, not making too many friends, never phoning anyone in London, never giving out our address. ‘Best not to invite anyone home,’ he adds. We’ll be allowed the occasional phone call or letter to Gran and my aunties every six weeks or so. ‘We’d have more rights if we were in prison,’ says Nicki.
    â€˜What about our mobiles?’ I ask – I’ve moved on to the strawberry milkshake now and I’m not feeling all that great – and he says he’ll be giving us new ones,‘but I’ll be checking your statements. No phoning London, no phoning family or friends. You’re just getting them to be able to communicate with each other really.’ He’s obviously not planning for us to actually have a life. It’s going to be hard to know what I can tell people and what I have to hide. How do you lie about everything?
    He lets us write letters to Gran. I chew my pen and can’t think what to write. ‘I’m missing you a lot. Love, Ty,’ is what I put in the end. ‘Can I write to Mr Patel to say sorry about the shop?’ I ask, and Doug says, ‘No, I think that might complicate matters.’ I would argue about it but I’m trying to stop myself throwing up mixed milkshake all over the table.
    â€˜So,’ says Nicki, ‘when does this end? I mean presumably after the trial we’ll be going home again.’
    Doug just looks at her like she’s the most stupid person he’s ever met. The bit of my brain that does emotions, the bit that’s gone missing for the last few weeks, suddenly reappears, and I feel such hate boiling up inside me –
how dare he disrespect my mum?
– that I choke on my burger. By the time I’ve stopped coughing and she’s stopped slapping me on my back and a little bit of quarter-pounder has flown across the table and been brushed off Doug’s sleeve, we’ve all realised that she’s asked the wrong question. ‘It’s not going to end, is it?’she says, and her voice is flat and empty and there’s no argument left in it.
    And he’s still wiping his sleeve and looking completely revolted and says, ‘We’ll have to see.’
    One day it’s pouring with rain and I’m lying on my bed watching some football match from prehistoric times. Nicki’s reading a set book from her Open University law course and telling me to turn the sound off.
    â€˜I don’t know why you’re bothering with that,’ I say. ‘You’ve missed so many assignments now that you’ll fail anyway.’
    She makes a face at me.
    â€˜And I bet you’ll lose all your credits for the last three years too, because you’ll be called Michelle Andrews and have a new address and everything.’
    I don’t know why I’m being so mean. That course means the world to her. She lifts her head up and says in a dangerous voice, ‘Why don’t you just shut up now, Ty?’
    â€˜I’m just trying to save you from wasting your time,’
    And the next thing the book is flying through the air towards me, and I dodge it, totally lose my balance, fall off the bed and crash into the bedside table, breaking a glass and cutting my hand.
    â€˜Ow!’ I screech. ‘What was that for?’
    â€˜It wasn’t going to hit you anyway,’ she hisses.
    There’s a knock at the door and Doug walks in.
    â€˜What’s going on?’ he asks, and we both mumble, ‘Nothing. . .’ and I get up off the floor, push the table back into place,