The Accidental Life of Jessie Jefferson by Paige Toon Page A

bag on a nearby table.
    ‘Are you OK?’ she asks with a frown.
    I nod brusquely. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
    ‘I don’t usually see you in here,’ she replies, awkwardly tucking her hair behind her ears. It always looks neat and tidy, unlike mine. I couldn’t even be bothered to brush it this morning.
    I shrug. ‘I just needed a bit of peace and quiet.’
    Sympathy crosses her face, but she looks down almost before it can register. I haven’t rewarded her recent empathy with anything but meanness, so I can hardly blame her. Out of the blue, I miss her, really miss her, and I desperately want to confide in her. Libby understands how much it’s killed me not knowing who my real dad is. I can trust her.
    I pull up a chair and sit down, confused by my feelings.
    The door whooshes open and Amanda walks in. ‘There you are!’ she exclaims.
    I glance at Libby and see her face light up. ‘I thought you were ill today,’ she says with a smile.
    ‘I had a doctor’s appointment,’ Amanda reveals with a roll of her eyes. ‘Sorry, I tried to text you but idiot Kevin unplugged my charger so my battery was dead.’
    I don’t know who Kevin is – her brother, her boyfriend – but I don’t ask. Now I’m the outsider and I don’t want to be here.
    ‘Come on, shall we go and sit on the grass?’ Amanda urges.
    ‘Shall we go and sit outside on the grass?’ I ask.
    ‘I forgot to put sunscreen on this morning,’ Libby replies with downturned lips.
    ‘We can sit in the shade,’ I say. ‘Well, you can. I’ll sit next to you in the sun. I really want to get a tan this summer.’
    ‘I wish I could tan like you,’ Libby grumbles. ‘I’ll just end up with even more stupid freckles.’
    ‘Your freckles aren’t stupid,’ I say with a grin. ‘They’re highly intelligent. Doesn’t that one speak French?’ I prod her arm.
    She giggles. ‘No, you’re thinking of this one.’ She prods a freckle on her other arm, then indicates the one I pointed at. ‘This one knows how to do algebra.’
    We crack up laughing and I drag her outside.
    I blink back tears at the memory, feeling an unexpected pang of loss.
    ‘Come on, Libs, it’s gorgeous outside,’ Amanda says.
    ‘Sure,’ Libby replies. She stuffs her book into her bag. Amanda’s eyes flit towards me, but she doesn’t acknowledge me. We barely know each other, and if Libby has told her anything about me, I doubt it was favourable, considering my recent behaviour.
    Libby stands up and hesitantly looks down at me. ‘Do you . . . Do you want to come with us?’ she asks uncomfortably.
    ‘No, no, it’s OK,’ I brush her off. ‘I’m not feeling that well. Like I said, I wanted some quiet.’ I feel like I need to give her some excuse. Any desire to reveal the truth has flown right out of the window.
    ‘OK,’ she says, stepping away from me and meeting Amanda’s eyes. I’m sure they’ll be bitching about me the moment they go out the door. No. Libby is not a bitch. She was a good friend. A best friend. And now she’s Amanda’s.
    I clear my throat and try to gee myself up. Then I see the three computers up against the far wall and an idea comes to me. I relocate myself in front of one of them.
    Google: Johnny Jefferson.
    Over a hundred and forty million hits come up. The first is his official website, the second his official fan club, but I click on the third link: Wikipedia.
    I could write a five-thousand-word essay using all of the information I find, but the things that stick out the most include the following:
    His birth certificate says his name is Jonathan Michael Sneeden.
    Sneeden, not Jefferson.
    His father, Brian Jefferson, left his mother, Ursula Sneeden, before Johnny was born.
    Something we have in common.
    He was raised in Newcastle by his mother.
    So his mother gave him her name? Mine did, too: Pickerill.
    His mother died of cancer when he was thirteen.
    And mine died at the age of fifteen . . .
    After her death, he went to live with his