Before
“I found us a new place in Oregon!” Jill said happily.
“It’s called Farm Home, and it’s an intentional peace community.
Isn’t that beautiful? A group of families founded it, and everyone lives there for free, taking care of the gardens and animals, working together to support each other.
I’ll finally be able to raise you properly.
No more scrabbling for rent, no more broken pipes and eviction notices. It sounds too good to be true!”
Yes, it did.
When they pulled up on the dirt road, dozens of people gathered to greet them, as if they were already family.
Three kids Kestrel’s age were assigned to give her a tour of the property—a big farmhouse and collection of cottages, several barns and sheds, crop fields, and a fruit orchard.
When Kestrel saw her mother again, she was in deep conversation with a slim bearded man called Teacher, who served as Farm Home’s unofficial leader. And the blue convertible was gone.
The kids brought Kestrel into the cottage set aside for children aged seven to thirteen. Kestrel was to share a room with a half dozen girls, sleeping on four mattresses shoved close together.
“What about my mom?” asked Kestrel.
“The parents sleep in different houses,” a girl explained. “And that means . . . no grown-ups to tell us to go to bed!”
At first, it felt like a perpetual sleepover.
The girls in her room stayed awake for late-night parties, sometimes joining with the rest of the children for a massive game of Sardines.
As long as they didn’t wake the adults and still got up in the morning to do their chores, the kids were free.
Kestrel discovered she didn’t mind her chores.
She could chat with other kids while weeding between the zucchini and tomato plants and milking the goats, and she thrived, feeling capable and a part of something tangible.
Loneliness was banished. Solitude just a bad memory. Kestrel was part of a huge, messy, silly, wonderful sort-of family.
But after a couple of weeks of barely seeing her mom, Kestrel learned that wasn’t an aberration.
In order to “cultivate both equality and independence,” Teacher advised parents to separate from their children and allow the community to share child-rearing responsibilities.
Kestrel felt an alarming tightness deep in her belly as she realized she might never again go to the grocery store with her mother, begging for cupcakes and chocolate milk.
And no more nights when Jill watched dramas on TV and Kestrel curled up and fell asleep, her head on Jill’s lap, the sounds of the show making her believe their house was full of people.
Now when Kestrel spied Jill from a distance, she felt strange and achy and tinged with shame. Maybe Jill didn’t want her anymore. Maybe Kestrel was being punished for being a bad kid.
Also, there were the rules. Most were sensible and mostly achievable.
Don’t steal. Don’t lie. Don’t cheat.
But there were just so many rules. Kestrel wished they were written down somewhere for her to memorize. Instead she was in a constant state of worry that she might be breaking a rule she didn’t know about.
Do your chores thoroughly. Clean up after yourself. Be positive.
If an adult caught her breaking any rule, her punishment might be loss of Free Time. And, it was hinted, there were worse punishments.
Attend Teacher’s lectures. Pay attention to Teacher’s lectures.
Every sunrise and sunset they gathered in the Pavilion to listen to Teacher lecture about peace, harmony, and personal responsibility. As near as Kestrel could tell. She was so bored, she barely kept awake.
But the lectures were the one time of day she was sure at least to see her mother.
Often she managed to sit beside Jill, close enough that their knees touched, and sometimes their elbows.
Kestrel’s whole self felt aware of those small points of contact, pulling them deep inside her as if they were full-body hugs.
Sometimes she turned her head toward her mother and slyly breathed in through her nose.
Jill smelled different now, like Farm Home’s goat milk soap.
A few weeks after arriving, Kestrel leaned close to whisper a confession—“Mom, I don’t like Teacher.”
“Hush,” Jill said. “If you ever say that to me again, I won’t be able to talk to you.”
Kestrel didn’t say it again. Her gut warned her to be wary of Teacher, so she tried to ignore her gut.
Confess rule-breaking every week.
This meant entering the Confession Room when it was vacant and, to a blank-eyed video camera, detailing any rules she’d broken. Ten-year-old Kestrel knew instinctively to keep this simple and stick to things she’d already been caught doing.
“During Teacher’s sunrise lecture, I got up too many times to go to the bathroom. And at lunch yesterday I tried to take an extra muffin.”
Aside from adults berating her for wiggling and talking too much, Kestrel managed to avoid any real trouble, except the time she lured fellow eleven-year-old Jenna away from weeding duty and down to the pond. It was hot out, and they swam and splashed and picked names for imaginary pet horses.
The next week, Kestrel was shocked when one of Teacher’s assistants confronted her about the stolen afternoon. It was useless to try to lie her way out of it, because Jenna had already blabbed in the Confession Room.
“I had to,” Jenna explained later. “Teacher says Farm Home will teach the whole world how to live in peace and harmony, but it only works if we’re completely honest and obedient.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Kestrel, “but they wouldn’t have found out. You could have just not said.”
“But I want to bring peace and harmony to the world!” Jenna wailed.
News of the infraction traveled all the way to Teacher himself, and when Kestrel was called to his office, he gestured for her to sit on a bean bag. He remained standing.
“I know your heart, Kestrel,” said Teacher. “I can tell when people are good or bad.”
“Like Santa Claus?” Kestrel asked, genuinely curious.
Teacher looked down at her as if he could see right into her soul. And he frowned. Many times since coming to Farm Home, Kestrel had felt confused, uneasy, or ashamed. But that was the first time she’d felt afraid.