“Here, you can use my textbook, until you get your own.”
I’m grateful, but I feel my ears burn with embarrassment.
My first class goes by in a blur, and too soon I’m spit back out into the beige hallway that smells of rubber carpet and new paint. I awkwardly weave my way around the clusters of students standing in front of the lockers, laughing about their summer vacations, as I search for the next classroom listed on my assignment sheet. I have nothing to talk with them about. I’ve never had a vacation. I spent my summer keeping my family alive.
It’s nearing noon when a bell rings again, and all the kids dash to the gym with their bagged lunches. As I walk into the cafeteria, I’m lost in a bobbing sea of kids I have nothing in common with and no connection to. I miss Patrick; we would have whispered and giggled together at all the strange clothes and habits—he could always bring out my silly side. Even with Family kids I’d never met before, there would be only a few minutes of initial awkwardness and then everything would feel comfortable, as we had a whole shared history. I have no one to talk with here, so I walk silently and stay out of the way.
My mom and I had prepared a lunch for each of us early that morning, laughing at doing something we’d seen only in movies. Now the wrinkled brown paper tears in my sweaty fist. The long walk across the shiny hardwood basketball court feels endless; I’m so exposed and small, yet massive at the same time. All the kids are chatting in groups on the bleachers, and I worry about where to sit. I feel their eyes on my skin, judging my clothes, my body. What are they thinking? I wear a long, baggy, green-plaid shirt that covers my black stretch skirt. Now, just like Mom, I’m very self-conscious of my growing butt.
I discreetly study my classmates to learn how to dress like them. The girls all wear slacks and collared shirts, sharp colors with bold designs. It’s so different than in the Family, where women are expected to wear provocative, floaty clothes. There, we welcome sexual flirtation; here, if a boy snaps your bra strap, you can report him to the teacher.
I listen to their conversations, like I’m trying to figure out a code. They talk about going shopping or TV shows. Nothing deep or important like saving the world, sacrifice, lessons, caring for children, not even the Bible. What is there for me to say? There is nothing from my past or my life that I can share; anything about the Family must remain a secret, as Mom needlessly reminds me, or we could get booted out of this Christian school and lose our financial scholarships.
After a few weeks, I grow accustomed to the daily class schedule and the after-school routine. I don’t have playdates or hang out with my classmates; I must be home to take care of Jondy and Nina since Mom doesn’t get home from her telemarketer job until 6:00 p.m.
We are not supposed to disturb Grandma. She likes the house quiet, so it’s my job to keep the kids out of her hair when she is home. She’s away at work most of the day, running the programs for Head Start across Georgia, so when she returns in the evening, she likes to park herself in the one comfy reclining chair in the living room, where she watches TV and eats her dinner. I am happy to join her, quickly getting hooked on Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Weekends are a new concept. I never had a day off from daily Devotions and chores unless I was sick, but now we cannot keep up with Devotions as well as school. Mom is laying down in her room, too tired on her first day off from work to take us for an excursion. Jondy and Nina are getting bored cooped up in the house all morning and start squabbling on the floor in front of the TV. Grandma sets down her knitting with a thunk.
“Faithy, let’s take the kids to the library,” Grandma says. “We can pick up some picture books to keep them quiet.”
I drag Nina and Jondy away from The Flintstones and bundle them into the car, grateful to get out of the house. I’ve never been to a library before. I think of the few novels I’d managed to read back at the Farm and wonder what it will be like.
The old brick building with colonial columns is a short drive from Grandma’s house. The strange smell of old paper and new carpet hits my nose when I walk in. I stare at shelf after shelf of books, more than I have ever seen in my life. How did so many books exist that are not about the Bible? How could people make up so many stories?
“Faithy, I’m going to take Jondy and Nina over to the kids’ section,” Grandma tells me. “You can go over there and pick out some books for yourself.” She points to a section under a sign that reads, “Young Adults.”
I wander the aisles in wonder, the tips of my fingers grazing the spines as I read the unfamiliar titles. My whole life, I’ve never been allowed to read System books—will that change now that we’re in the US? What will Mom let me read? Whatever I choose, I’ll have to be able to make a good case for it.
I walk back and forth, back and forth. My head spins with the options. Suddenly, I realize I have no idea how to pick a book for myself. The few novels I’d read back at the Farm were the only ones available to me, so I didn’t actually choose them. The names, the titles, the authors, are all new to me. How can I make the right choice?
I spot Black Beauty, a familiar friend in a sea of strangers. Though I never read the book, I’ve seen the movie many times. Dad always let us watch horse movies because we had horses: Black Beauty, The Black Stallion, National Velvet. This, I realize, is my ticket. Mom can’t disapprove of these books when the Family has already approved the movies.
When I reach for the book, I notice that it’s surrounded by an entire shelf of books with Black Beauty written on them. I gasp in shock. What! Black Beauty has sequels! How come no one told me?
I jump when I hear Grandma calling me from the front desk. I grab the book and hurry over to her, before I lose my courage.
Seeing the single book in my hands, she says, “Is that all you want?”
“How many can I take?” I’m almost afraid to ask. I don’t want to seem greedy.
“As many as the library will let you check out. They’re free. You just have to bring them back before the deadline, so only take as many as you can read in three weeks.”
I have no idea how many I can read in three weeks, but I won’t pass up such riches.
I run back to grab five more horse books and hurry to the counter.
Is this really okay? Is someone going to take them all away any second? For a moment, I’m transported back to the stuffy, hot loft at the Farm where I first discovered a new world in The Secret Garden. Even though the book was confiscated, I lived in that English countryside for months, adding my own stories.
Grandma looks at my selection, nods, and we check out. Triumphant, I walk out with my bounty. My next challenge is to convince Mom not to take them away.