Mostly I get in trouble for forgetting to say “yes, sir” and “yes, ma’am” or for trying to explain myself on the rare occasion I get caught doing something I’m not supposed to. “Stop justifying yourself!” Auntie Crystal will scream. “The Bible says, ‘If I justify myself my own mouth will condemn me.’ Job 9:20.” I shut up, knowing a slap across the face is next. But I can’t hold it all in. When I’m backed into a corner, bursting with rage and the unfairness, I know silent tears will begin rolling down my cheeks, even though I clench my jaw to hold them back. I don’t want the other kids to see me crying.
I approach cautiously. Uncle T takes me by the shoulders and bends down so that we’re eye level. I brace myself for the correction, but he kisses me smack on the mouth. Affection is encouraged in the Family, and we’re all taught to give hugs and kisses, but a kiss on the mouth is different. I pull back.
“Have you ever French-kissed?” he asks with a knowing smile. I don’t know where to look or what to say. I stare at his shirt and say nothing. I know what French kissing is, but I’ve never actually done it.
“Look at me,” he insists.
I tilt my eyes up as he leans in and again presses his mouth against mine. I feel a wet tongue pushing against my lips and press them more tightly together.
He pulls back and looks into my eyes. “Kissing and being affectionate is how we show God’s love. Are you going to be unloving?” His voice drops on the last question, and I hear the displeasure that signals punishment. There’s nothing I can say. Of course I believe that I should show people God’s love. Of course I want to make Jesus happy.
“Open your mouth,” he orders.
Like a robot, I open my mouth, and he pushes his tongue inside. I try to hold still and not gag, making my mind as blank as I can. After moving his slimy tongue around like an eel for what feels like an eternity, he says I can go. I run outside so fast I lose one of my flip-flops. I rush to the hose and wash my mouth over and over to get rid of the taste. My mind flashes back to the bed with Uncle Jeff. Is that what Uncle T wants?
All my hero worship turns to disgust. I’m in a loop of confusion and distress. After that, I walk around the outside of the house to avoid passing through the kitchen, where Uncle T might catch me alone again, until he leaves six weeks later. I try to brush it off. Gross, but it’s over, he’s gone.
A few months later, I’m alone in the schoolroom, collecting a sweater that I left when we ran out for Get Out. I feel a big hand on my shoulder, and I shudder, and then laugh when I turn and realize it’s just Uncle Bill, one of the teachers for the group of five-year-olds. Uncle Bill is a towering, skinny, mellow man with a funny mustache and blond receding hair. I’ve always trusted him. But before I know it, he kneels in front of me to hug me, then gripping my shoulders, he shoves his tongue inside my mouth. I can’t move. Him, too? I don’t know what to do, or who to tell, or if this is Godly or wrong. I’m even more confused when a few months later the adults have an exorcism over Uncle Bill to cast out the demon of homosexuality.
After that, I try to make sure one of the other kids is always with me. The age limit for sex with adults has been raised, but maybe French kissing doesn’t count?
There is no one I dare ask.
Whenever new folks arrive, the dynamic always changes slightly. Will the new adults fit in smoothly or have tense arguments requiring serious prayer sessions? Will their kids be friends or foes? A cute boy to flirt with, or just more girls stuffed into the same bathroom? There is also the possibility that contraband will find its way to the Farm.
I don’t know how the strange book arrives.
I see it peeking out of a pile of old clothes to be discarded and pick it up, curious. The Secret Garden—just the name thrills me! Checking to make sure no one is looking, I slip it under my jacket and walk away, my heart beating like a trapped sparrow.
I find a quiet corner and begin reading. From the first page, I’m in love. Systemite literature is forbidden, but I can’t turn in something so enchanting. Instead, I hide the book in the loft, and when I have a few minutes between my tasks, I steal away to read. Afraid of discovery, I don’t turn on a light, instead reading by the sun that sneaks through the dusty skylight. I ignore everything but the sound of approaching footsteps as I’m swept into a wonderful world of country estates, hidden doors, and secret keys.
It’s tricky, getting away in a commune overrun with kids and adults, and whole days pass before I can return to my other world. But I think about it all the time, during class, during chores, and even during grace. The story is even better than the cartoons about Grandpa’s home that I’ve read a thousand times, or the Bible stories that I can repeat in my sleep.
This is new, my very first novel. The rich descriptions transport me, and I see every detail in Technicolor. I live with each scene for days before I can sneak back and read the next one. I walk about the Farm in body, but in my mind, I’m wandering English manor grounds. My hands push aside the morning glory ivy growing on the farmyard fence, as I search for the secret door in a stone wall.
Mary, ever the burden, grows suspicious and follows me around. It doesn’t take too long before she catches me in the loft. As soon as I hear the ladder creaking, I slip the book under the blankets, but it’s too late. Mary, sure that I’m hiding something, digs around until she finds it.
I’m dragged before my mother to answer for my crimes. She taps the volume against her palm, waiting for me. She had read the back of the book and fixates on the word “magic.”
“Where did you get this book?” she almost shouts. She’s just found out she is pregnant again, and she’s even more emotional than usual.
“I found it,” I mutter quietly.
“I caught her hiding it in the loft!” Mary announces with a self-righteous expression. I’d want to punch her smug face if I wasn’t so desperately concerned about my own safety.
“Faithy, this book is about witchcraft! That is the Devil’s work trying to get in and influence your mind. You should know better than this!”
“But, Mommy, it’s not real magic or spells. It’s nature and exercise that heals Colin. Positive thinking is really just like prayer . . .” I trail off.
“Quiet!” she snaps. “I’ve heard enough. The Devil disguises his work to suck you in. We can’t allow these worldly influences to corrupt your heart. You obviously knew it was wrong or you wouldn’t have been hiding it! I’m confiscating this. Don’t let me catch you reading something like this again, or I’ll have to tell your father.”