When I Was Joe

When Ty witnesses a stabbing, his own life is in danger from the criminals he's named, and he and his mum have to go into police protection. Ty has a new name, a new look and a cool new image - life as Joe is good, especially when he gets talent spotted as a potential athletics star, special training from an attractive local celebrity and a lot of female attention. But his mum can't cope with her new life, and the gangsters will stop at nothing to flush them from hiding. Joe's cracking under extreme pressure, and then he meets a girl with dark secrets of her own. This wonderfully gripping and intelligent novel depicts Ty/Joe's confused sense of identity in a moving and funny story that teenage boys and girls will identify with - a remarkable debut from a great new writing talent.

KEREN DAVID was brought up in Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire and went to school in Hatfield. She left school at 18 and got a job as a messenger girl on a newspaper. She was freelancing as a reporter on the old Fleet Street by her mid-twenties and, after living and working in Scotland for two years, was appointed as a news editor on the Independent at the age of 27.
She and her family then went to live in Amsterdam for eight years where she was editor in chief of a photo-journalism agency. On returning to the UK in 2007 she decided to attend a course on writing for children at
the City University. When I Was Joe started out as a project for that course. She lives in London with her husband and two children. Her other titles for Frances Lincoln are Almost True, Another Life and Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (9781847801913).

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?