Free You Can Trust Me by Sophie McKenzie

and you.”
    Genesis 9:12
    This will amuse you.
    Before I met the One, there was Georgina. She was our babysitter when I was twelve or so—and thought, of course, that I was too old to need a babysitter. I tolerated Georgina because she was pretty, or at least appeared so to me then.
    It was summer—and my mother was having a party to celebrate our moving to a new house in the area. Naturally my father was not there, but Georgina was. I remember she arrived at the party in a daringly short skirt. Her hair was in braids, and her full lips were coated in a bright red lipstick, giving her the veneer, at least, of adult sophistication. Most of the men at the party—husbands of friends of my mothers—couldn’t keep their eyes off her. But Georgina was my property. It didn’t occur to me that she was eight years older that I was—not to mention five inches taller. I had never been kissed, and I decided, in that moment, that I wanted Georgina to kiss me and that nothing was going to stand in my way.
    It was hot, a textbook summer’s afternoon, complete with blue skies and the perfect amount of breeze. The adults were standing in the garden, sipping wine and beer, smoking, chatting. It was all very boring and suburban. Georgina herself was busy flirting, the little tramp, enjoying the attention of all those older men. I told her I needed to speak to her around the side of the house. Reluctantly, she followed me.
    We stood between the rough brick of the kitchen wall and the lilac wisteria that trailed down the rickety wooden fence that divided my house from its neighbor.
    â€œWhat is it?” Georgina asked, her tone impatient.
    â€œKiss me,” I said, looking up at her. The sun was catching the fine hairs above her top lip and making her long fair braids shine like gold.
    Georgina laughed. “Puh-leese,” she said. She bent down and pecked me on the cheek. “See ya, kiddo.” She turned away, clearly intending to head back to the party.
    I was outraged. That was not the kiss—or the attitude—I had been looking for. I grabbed her wrist, twisting the skin as she tried to pull away.
    â€œStop it,” she snapped.
    â€œNo.” I stared at her, full of confidence. “Kiss me. Or I’ll tell Mum you stole her necklace.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” Georgina frowned. “What necklace?”
    The item in question—a bequest from my late grandmother—was in fact in my own pocket. Using the cover of the party, I had just taken it myself and I was looking forward to selling it next time I found myself in the center of town where I could pass unquestioned and anonymous. I can’t remember now what I wanted to buy with the money, but it wasn’t the first or the last time I took small items from my family and friends. Strangely, though the objects themselves were invariably missed, I was never suspected as the thief. Too good at covering my tracks, even then.
    Georgina was still frowning. I repeated my threat.
    â€œYou won’t tell your mum any such thing,” she said, and despite her words, I could hear a slight uncertainty in her voice.
    I twisted the skin on her wrist, harder than before. “I swear,” I said, “that I will.”
    She hesitated. “Go on, then, you stupid little creep, but she won’t believe you.”
    I released her and she marched off, back to the party. I filled with contempt. How dare she doubt me?
    A few minutes later I crept up beside my mother and informed her that I had just seen Georgina taking the necklace from the jewelry box in her bedroom. Mum took Georgina into the kitchen, where Georgina denied everything. Her attempt to put the blame for the accusation on me was somewhat undermined when Mum demanded to see her pockets—into which I had, of course, slipped the necklace as I made my threat.
    Mum was shocked and upset. So, naturally, was Georgina. I watched from the