I met Emma the summer before I started school. Actually, it was her brother Jake I went to meet. We - my Mom my Dad and I - lived in what I'm sure would be called a nice neighborhood. I personally didn't think so as I was practically the only child around - the area was what in my mother's home country is called a 'silver wedding neighborhood' - meaning that everyone living there is old (in the eyes of a 5 year old!!) and their kids have long since left home. So when the house next door was put on the market and bought by a family with kids (plural!) my excitement was at fever pitch - and when Mom learned that one of said kids was a boy my age, my happiness was complete.

In my mind it was a certainty that 'the boy' (name as yet unknown) and I would be best friends forever. So it was with a very positive attitude I went to meet him the day the family moved in. Jake's attitude was markedly less positive. He came from an area full of other kids and saying goodbye to all his friends - just before they were going to start school together - had been hard and he was grumpy. My appearance didn't please him much either. He was into all-American sports like baseball and 'real football', as he called it - and had the physique for it, while I was a scrawny kid that didn't care for sports much, although I would kick a soccer-ball around if forced to do something physical besides swimming.

In a non-too subtle way I was interrogated about which other potential playmates were around. When I had earnestly assured him that I represented the sum total of suitable kids, he reluctantly agreed to play. He showed me round the house first - despite my polite protests that I knew it very well, having been friendly with the previous owners; an elderly couple who occasionally baby-sat me. So round we went, and in the process we walked in on his mother in the process of changing a toddler. I can't claim to remember very much of the conversation verbatim this many years later, but the gist of the exchange in his sister's room got etched in my mind forever.

"Who's that?" I asked

"Oh, that. That's Emma, my sister. She poops and pisses her pants," he declared, making no attempt to hide his disgust.

"All little kids do," I replied sagely, staring at the pink marvel on the change table in deep fascination.

"Do you?" he asked - evidently equating the fact that I was half a year younger (and nearly a head shorter) than him with the possibility that I was a still piss-pants baby too.

"NO!" I exclaimed with some heat. Toilet training had actually been a slow process for me but I had been out of diapers for a long time that summer.

The exact wording of his final remark eludes me. It was something along the lines of "Well, there you are. She is pretty useless!" although I'm sure few 5 year olds, and certainly not Jake, would express themselves precisely that way. Anyway, that was the meaning of it and with that he walked out of the room again.

With considerable reluctance, I dragged myself away from the wonder-of-wonders, a sibling, and completed the tour. As the Ward family was just moving in and few of Jake's things had been unpacked, we went next door to our place. Jake got a reciprocal tour of our house and reluctantly agreed that my room was 'alright'. He was taken in by the fact we had a pool and pestered his mother into finding his swim wear so we could try it out. He tried to play down the fact that I was much better at swimming than him, and later complained bitterly that the only football I had was a soccer ball.

"At least you don't have a piss-pants sister!" was his parting shot when he had summarized pros and cons of the neighborship.

No, I didn't have a sister. I had frequently plagued my parents about siblings, but it never happened. Only later did I learn why, but I am getting ahead of myself.

Jake and I played a lot that summer. As I said, there was no one else, and the pool was a draw card. But I realized early on that we weren't going to be the kind of friends had I had fantasized about - to be honest, I didn't like him all that much. Again, that is an analysis made looking back so many years. At the time I noted that I didn't like the things he liked (physical sports and violent games), and I was astonished that he disliked his little sister so much - in my eyes she was his greatest asset.

When we started school Jake naturally took up with the other 'sporty' kids. It is amazing, really, that you can tell who will be jock and who will be brain from the word go. It didn't worry me all that much; there were other 'brains' and I think I was pretty happy, all things considered.

Our school - unusual perhaps in that it went all the way from K to 12 in one compound, was fairly large. It was set in very large grounds with the various sections (primary, middle, high) having their own buildings and vice principals but with extensive common facilities. The school was called Evesham School - also unusual in that it is not the name of the town but rather the name of some settler who established the first school in the area. In fact there is no Evesham in Iowa and people often asked our sports teams if they were from New Jersey or Florida. But apart from that, it was a pretty ordinary school with its usual razor sharp separations between people of different financial backgrounds on top of the jock/brain division. I was oblivious to that and floated happily along.

Mrs. Ward - Jake and Emma's mother - had noted my interest in Emma and I got invited to her second birthday in October. Jake was again full of disdain, but my mother - in line with the traditions in her home country - had bought a 'consolation gift' that I could give Jake in addition to the present for Emma, and that went down well. Possibly especially because there hadn't been such a gift for Emma on Jake's birthday. Perhaps I am making him worse than he was, but on subsequent birthdays of Jake's (which fell in September) I would always have a small something for Emma too and I remember him reacting badly to it.

As Emma grew she wanted to be in on the games Jake and I played when we were together. I was happy with that and Jake hated it. Emma loved playing 'house', but Jake refused. Not just because of this, although it contributed, Jake and I played less and less and as we went through second and third grade we were rarely together. He would often go to sporting events with his dad (whom I didn't like much either) and I started to go over only when I had seen Jake and his dad drive off, innocently asking after Jake and ending up, as was my plan, playing 'house' and similar games with Emma. In the simple and angst-free world of an 8 year old boy and 5 year old girl, we loved each other in an unconditional and uncomplicated way.

When summer came I taught her to swim and we spent all day in the pool for weeks. At first we were supervised closely by one or the other mother, but soon - as it was obvious we were 'water safe', we were left to our own devices. I had turned 9 and was deemed 'sensible' and 'responsible'.

Swim wear for both of us was the same - either a pair of miniscule swim pants, or - if the weather was too hot and Jake was not there - nothing. Again no angst and no hang-ups. Our mothers may have tried to get us to cover up - I don't recall; the pool was not visible from the road anyway and we were so young. At that age we had no idea being together nude was anything special. But Emma, nude as the day she was born, brown as a nut and a head full of dark auburn curls was a sight to behold. I also tan easily and my short blond hair went almost white during summer.

Midway through the summer holidays, Jake went away on a camping trip with his father. They never returned. I later learned that the Wards had been having major marital troubles, but at 9 I didn't understand what that meant, nor what on earth my dad was talking about when I by accident overheard him say to Mom that 'the bastard couldn't keep it zipped up'. But I knew from previous experience with classmates that 'divorce' sometimes meant 'moving away' and while I wasn't going to miss Jake I went in complete terror fearing that Emma and her mother would have to move too. Luckily, that didn't happen. Although they had it tough financially afterwards (I only learned that a lot later), Mrs. Ward was able to keep the house - and I was able to keep Emma.

So in August Emma started kindergarten at Evesham School while I started 4th grade - the last grade in primary school at Evesham and thus the only time we have ever been in the same section. A lot of kids got driven to school and there was also a school bus, but my mother's background was one of 'Kids ride bikes!' and as there are excellent bike paths from the school to most residential areas of our town, I had been riding a bike to school since the beginning of 3rd grade. At not even 6 Emma was obviously too young to ride a bike and getting her to school was complicated for Mrs. Ward due to her work and she didn't like the idea of Emma going on the bus alone. My mother offered to help as her work hours were better suited to delivering kids in the morning, but I didn't want to stop riding my bike at least one way and a brain wave hit me.

"I'll be happy to walk Emma to school," I said. It wasn't all that far.

"That's really sweet of you George," her mother said, "but remember it has to be every day."

"Well, I go to school every day too!" I retorted.

I cannot exactly remember the discussion which also included my mother, but the outcome was that I would walk Emma to school every day (except in the dead of winter) - wheeling my bike alongside. Emma would go to an on-site, after-school daycare program when her short school day ended and be picked up by her mother at closing time, while I would ride my bike home mid-afternoon at which time my mother was often home.

But in the morning I would knock on the door 20 minutes before school started and walk along the path with Emma. She was not the only kid being taken to school by an older child of course, but in all other cases it was a sibling and generally it was on the school bus. So it got noted - especially because we would inevitably be holding hands.

"George's got a girlfriend!" - I remember the sing-song voice vividly. I now know it was meant as a taunt, but I was remarkably naïve and so it didn't register back then.

"Huh?" I asked the grinning class mate. He was called Paul - a jock-in-the-making and one of Jake's former friends.

"Is she your girlfriend?" another kid asked.

Now, I know this sounds absurd - especially for a 'brainy' kid with an astonishing vocabulary; at this stage I was a full 2 years ahead on many tests. But I had actually gotten to 4th grade without ever knowing the concept 'girlfriend'. In my analytical mind, 'girlfriend' was 'girl' plus 'friend'. Emma was certainly both, so I simply replied "She sure is."

Emma - two weeks into kindergarten - apparently did know the concept. The fact that I freely acknowledged her as mine made her very happy. I had not let go of her little hand and she squeezed it. I squeezed hers back, still looking - I am sure - completely like a question mark over why it should be so extraordinary that I had a friend who was a girl. The laughter that had followed my reply sounded strained and hollow - confused even - and died out quickly. There is not much fun in taunting somebody about something they don't care about. So it was quickly an established fact that George Waters, the weird brainy kid in 4th grade, had a girlfriend in Kindy called Emma Ward.

As I said, I didn't find it remarkable, but Emma knew it was. She told her mom who told mine, and so Mom explained to me about girlfriends and boyfriends. Or tried to. It was in age-appropriate terms, of course. And since 'someone special you like very much - even love' fitted my relationship with Emma perfectly, it didn't do anything to make me feel embarrassed or indeed understand why it was something you could taunt and tease about. Mom gave up and just smiled in the end. "I'm glad you have Emma," she said. "And I'm sure Emma is glad she has you."

I was glad too. I got invited to Emma's sixth birthday as usual. She had invited the girls from her class; I was the only boy there but that didn't faze me. There was a lot of giggling, but I think everyone enjoyed the day and I was included in the games and much admired. When the girls were collected by their parents at the end, more than one mother asked if I was Emma's brother - not an unnatural question. When told that I was 'the boy next door' and 'Emma's special friend', reactions like 'How cute!' or simply 'Sweet!' were common. Again it complete escaped me that there was anything unusual about it.

It was shortly after Christmas that year that Mom stopped working. I didn't know why at the time - only that she was always home which I thought was nice. It wasn't. It turned out she was ill. As in very ill. I was too young to understand it or even to notice the gradual change, but when summer came I was sent away on camp. It was not something I wanted, or indeed enjoyed. I would much rather have spent the summer in the pool with Emma.

When I came back even I noted that Mom had changed. She was very very thin - her arms and legs barely thicker than mine and her hair looked strange. She was wearing a wig because chemotherapy had taken her own hair.

Three days before I started middle school, Mom died. Apparently she had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer three years after giving birth to me. It was only discovered because she went through extensive checkups to determine why she didn't fall pregnant again. Radical surgery to save her life had taken her fertility - thus the lack of siblings. For about 6 years she had been in remission and she and Dad assumed she was cured. But then the cancer came back and it was everywhere. Despite the doctors' best efforts, they couldn't save her.

I was too young to understand any of that - I was simply shattered. Dad did his best, but he was completely devastated too, of course. In reality what kept me going was Emma. A first-grader, 2 months shy of seven - and she was my rock, my comfort, my sweet companion. It was with Emma I could cry, with Emma I could be angry and upset, with Emma I could be allowed to be gloomy and distant. The first couple of months of 5th grade were a blur, but eventually I emerged from the haze and life went on.

Dad's employers hadn't been particularly understanding and in the end he switched jobs, even if it cost him quite a bit, in order to be able to be a single parent. I will say this for him; he has been fantastic. The first Christmas was hard, but from then on we didn't look back. Emma and I fantasized about her mom and my dad getting married so we could be real siblings, but that was just us dreaming. I've never seen an indication of anything beyond a general liking between the two - and in fact Dad has never dated since Mom died - at least not to a level where I noticed it.

The next couple of years were fairly uneventful. Emma and I spent a lot of time together. She got a bike, I taught her to ride it and we started riding to school; in winter we would go on the school bus together and our respective peers decided to overlook the anomaly and simply considered us siblings. We were, after all, not of an age where the girlfriend/boyfriend concept had sexual connotations. But of course our bodies changed. My major growth spurt started in eighth grade. I never got overly tall - my family isn't - but I certainly grew in various places and my dick essentially went from nothing to male average in a span of just months.

I started noticing girls with curves and my dick reacted accordingly. About the same time, Emma - an early bloomer - started developing the first signs that she was growing up too. Her chest started puffing up a bit and she generally got more rounded. We were still very close, also in a physical sense, and I am sure she noted my erections, some of which were caused by her. I know that sounds dubious, but it was completely involuntary and completely innocent. Abusing Emma was never on my mind.

When summer came it was obvious we couldn't frolic in the pool in quite the same way we had been used to. Skinny dipping was right out and Emma was made to wear a proper swim suit. It didn't stop the physical proximity and she definitely saw my stiffy which seemed to live a life of its own. I discovered masturbation and I am sure most of that year was spent spanking the monkey. I did do some school work too, of course. But since I was always way ahead of my peers, I had time for other activities!

I entered high school at the same time Emma started middle school. I was not the only junior boy with a 'grade school girlfriend', although I'm sure that in Emma I had both the youngest girlfriend and the longest term relationship. Of course, said 'relationship' was also by far the tamest - it was not sexual at all; we hadn't even progressed to kissing.

But Emma kept developing. On my 15th birthday in March, Emma - at 11 and nearly a half - got her first period. She was at our house when it happened. Although her mom had prepared her for this inevitable event, she still freaked out. And when Emma freaked out, she sought me out for help and comfort. So I took her by the hand, walked over to her house, found her mother and explained that Emma needed a little help. That I was so calm about it helped her, and half an hour later we were back at our house for dinner. Dad - who was cooking - hadn't even noted we'd been gone, so he was more than a little surprised when we walked in the door just as he called out to say dinner was ready. "Where have you been?" he asked.

"Over at Emma's for a moment," I replied. "I'll tell you later!" I mouthed in response to his questioning eyes and Emma was spared further embarrassment. Dad forgot about it and never asked.

Over the summer I got my Learners Permit, or Instruction Permit as it is officially known, and during the beginning of 10th grade, I got through the mandatory courses. Dad supervised me for the driving hours required so on my 16th birthday I got my Intermediate License - and the chance of driving alone outside the night curfew. I also reached the age of consent and both events gave rise to a Paternal Talk. Both seemed more than a little academic to me; I had no car of my own - and no prospect of getting one any time soon, and since I was not a tall popular jock, chances of getting to use the other 'permit' seemed even more remote, or so I thought.

That doesn't mean I wasn't interested. But for some reason my fantasies - no matter how they started - always ended up centered on Emma: Emma at 12½ was all girl. The promise of curves had suddenly gone from promise to delivery and despite her small physique, she sported quite a rack - by far one of the best in 6th grade. Boys closer to her in age discovered her and hit on her; they got shot down in flames. We still spent nearly every day together and I realized that my attraction wasn't so innocent any more.

I was deeply ashamed by this. Boobs not withstanding, Emma at 12½ was still a child and I felt like a pervert. My dick didn't care; I was frequently aroused in her presence and when summer came and I got to see just how well she filled out not only the respectable swim suits but also the miniscule bikini she had gotten, I was almost permanently hard. She noticed of course and rather than being grossed out, she seemed to want us to go along new paths. "If I'm your girlfriend, how come you never kiss me?" she would say. And then looking very directly at my crotch - I was now if possible even stiffer - she would add "I know you like me!"

The campaign became even more overt. She would frequently 'accidentally' flash her boobs at me and on one occasion, on the pretence of drying herself after a swim, she essentially masturbated herself with the towel. I had been studiously not looking at her, but the noises she made caught my attention and when I looked at her and saw what she was doing, I completely lost it. As in, I came in my swimming trunks. Oh, yeah and out of my swimming trunks, shooting up my stomach. Mortified, I left to clean up. Emma just giggled and kept up the banter.

I tried to explain to her that while she was free to do anything she liked - including tormenting me, I was the one who would be in the wrong. It didn't work all that well and during my junior year our relationship slowly but surely deteriorated. I was distressed, but in my heart I knew I was right. A boy of nearly 17 should stay away from a girl of just 13. Right? Age of consent is 16 and that must be for a reason. Right? Sure. Sure! I felt dreadful. It came to a head around my 17th birthday when Emma in no uncertain terms let me know that she expected me to invite her as my date to junior prom or else...

I was saved from making a decision by a bout of glandular fever - I was ill in bed for over three weeks including my birthday and the prom the following night (attendance was in fact decimated as there was quite an epidemic). The only bright spot was that I got my full unrestricted license a few days later. I had a spotless driving record - chiefly because I had been driving so little. But happy I wasn't. Emma was perfect: Perfectly beautiful, perfectly wonderful, perfectly sweet. And perfectly out of bounds.

I didn't see Emma much during the summer before my senior year. Mr. Ward, her father, had suddenly expressed an interest in seeing her and as Emma was now in a permanent state of conflict with her mother, she (Emma) agreed to visit him and her brother down south. I found out that the nature of the conflict with Mrs. Ward was in some respect related to me. Emma wanted to date. She was told there was only one person she would be allowed to date this side her 16th birthday and that was me. That didn't exactly help things. Nor the fact that Emma didn't have a good time with her father and brother, to put it mildly. Much later I heard just how bad; in fact they were drunk, abusive and she had feared for her safety. She never went back. But at the time, she - perversely - added this to the litany of my sins.

She returned just a day before school started. More beautiful than ever and more unattainable. We barely spoke to one another for the first many weeks. Hell bent on getting into trouble, she took up hanging out with the rich football jocks. Led by Paul, they privately called themselves 'The Pedo Boys' and their motto was sickening - 'If she's old enough bleed, she's old enough to breed.' They had left a trail of misery including pregnancies and at least one suicide attempt and it was astonishing that they got away with it. But their parents more or less owned the town and there were always young girls swarming around them willing to try their luck. That Emma should be one of them made me sick with worry. I was petrified what might happen to her and so I tried to spy on her. She discovered me of course, but as luck would have it she overdid her disdain in actually deliberately making a date with Paul for Friday - knowing I overheard it.

Inventing a completely fictitious date of my own, I pleaded with Dad to have the car and he agreed. Knowing that Emma would certainly not let Paul pick her up in view of her mother, I staked them out from Paul's place hoping that he did not recognize our plain ordinary car. He didn't; he drove off and I followed him from a distance. He picked up Emma at the mall parking lot and they headed more or less directly towards a secluded area just outside town popular with teenagers for exactly one purpose.

I really had no plan - what could I do? Phone the cops? Not likely. It is not exactly illegal making out with someone young, so unless they were caught in the act, that idea was hopeless. I parked a little distance away and snuck up closer to the car, doing everything I could not to be seen. I was helped by the fading light. They had moved to the back of Paul's car and the movements of the vehicle made me feel sick. I was crouching down behind some low bushes nearby wondering what the hell I was up to and debating with myself if I really wanted to be around witnessing that the girl I had loved all my life was being fucked by an asshole when I heard Emma scream "No Paul, NO! I don't want to!"

Acting instinctively and on adrenalin alone, I leapt out of cover, ran to the car and tore the back door open. Paul had Emma pinned to the back seat. He had yanked her top up and her skirt and panties down and was holding her down with one hand while trying to get his jeans off with the other. The scene, illuminated only by the lights in the car that came on when I opened the door, still stands etched in my mind. Emma's bra was open and her glorious boobs clear to see - as were her dark auburn pubic hair. But what caught my attention and gave me strength was the pure terror in her eyes.

Paul had swung his head around to discover who the intruder was and he had the look of a wild animal in his eyes. It felt like time was frozen, although I'm sure it was only a fraction of a second before Emma - given the one chance the she needed - slapped Paul's face hard. It made him lose his grip on her and slide down from the seat. I in turn grabbed Emma by the feet and pulled her out of the car. I the slammed the door shut, got her on her feet and got her panties and skirt pulled back up so she could move. "Run!" I yelled and taking her roughly by the hand I rushed us back to our car, almost threw her in the back seat and drove off in a way that would have made my Dad furious and the police tear up my license.

I had to concentrate on driving, so Emma got a chance to rearrange her clothes in some privacy. When I finally looked up and caught her eye in the rear view mirror, she had a face like a mask. Recognizing the fragility of her defiance and sensing more than knowing the risk that she could turn her anger against me, I forced myself to say as neutrally as I could "What's your cover? What did you tell your mom you were doing?"

"Going to the mall with friends," she replied in a strange voice.

"That's what you're doing then. When will she pick you up?"

"At eleven," she replied in the same toneless voice.

"Fine," I said. "That's what's happening then."

No more words were spoken until we came to the mall parking lot. When I got out of the car too, Emma said in an unpleasant voice "And what exactly are you doing?"

"Nothing," I replied once more forcing myself to sound neutral. "I will stay around somewhere in the background until you have been picked up by your mom."

"Do you think I need a nanny?" she asked sounding openly hostile. I just looked at her, but said nothing.

True to my word, I stayed discreetly some distance from her. I noted once or twice that Emma was checking to see where I was, but I did not let her catch my eye. She ran into a group of friends and joined up with them, blatantly flirting with some of the boys, in, I am sure, an attempt to goad me. I ignored it. At eleven most of the kids were being picked up which wasn't surprising as everything in the mall had closed by then. So Emma was standing with a group of age-appropriate friends when Mrs. Ward turned up and everything looked normal.

I drove home too. "You're back early," my Dad said. "How was your date"?

"Not good," I replied. "It had its moments - but some I would actually rather forget."

He was kind enough not to inquire further.

I didn't see Emma on Saturday or Sunday. Only half a year ago that would have been unheard of and I felt a dull ache, a sense of loss. But it couldn't be helped. That I had saved her from being raped was obvious, but she did not seem to appreciate my effort, and besides I could not watch over her always. I nevertheless made a point of being in evidence during all the breaks on Monday. I was not the only high school boy in the middle school area as that was also 'hunting ground' for the Pedo Boys. At least Emma stayed away from them and when I saw Paul and two of his cronies approach the bike yard after school, I neatly cut in between them and Emma and asked loudly if we should ride home together. Emma, torn between genuine fear of Paul and her desire to be stand-offish with me, made some neutral reply. As soon as we were away from the school I sped up and rode off alone - I did not wish to impose myself on Emma, only to protect her.

During school Tuesday the pattern repeated, but in the afternoon I hoped the danger was over. I had an errand in town for Dad; I had to pick up a parcel for him. Paul's two henchmen were hanging out near the bike yard when I left, but there was no sign of Paul. Riding my bike towards town I suddenly realized I'd forgotten band practice. I play drums and percussion in the school orchestra and with a concert coming up, more practice had been scheduled. Annoyed, I turned around and headed back to the school.

The two heavies were gone from the entry to the bike yard, but not far as it turned out. Riding in at top speed I heard a slap followed by a piercing scream and Paul's menacing voice "Your weedy boyfriend can't help you this time!" he taunted. "I'll teach you a lesson you won't forget anytime soon. No bitch EVER hits me."