To All My Fans, With Love, From Sylvie

by Ellen Conford

  “No, I mean it. Go sit on the other chair.”

  “Why? Don’t you like kissing me?”

  “Very much. That’s why I want you to go and sit on the other chair.”

  “I guess I’m not very good at it,” I said sadly. “I mean, I haven’t any experience—”

  “Then you’re a natural. And if you don’t get off me I’m going to stand up and dump you right on the floor.”

  I giggled. “You wouldn’t.”

  He made a sort of strange little choking sound. I thought maybe he was getting angry, so I pulled myself off his lap. My knees felt weak as I went to sit on the edge of the bed. I didn’t want to make Vic angry. Not when he made me feel like this.

  It seemed like a long time before Vic looked up at me.

  “Sylvie, you said you weren’t mixed-up anymore.”

  “About some things. Some parts I couldn’t figure out.”

  “Which parts?”

  “The part about Uncle Ted—you know.” I looked away from him, over at the TV screen. “Do we have to talk about this now? Everything was so nice, and you told me to forget about all my problems. . . .”

  “I know. But if we don’t talk now, we might end up making you more problems.”

  I figured he must have been worrying about getting carried away and losing control and getting me in trouble and that was why he wanted to talk instead of making out anymore. So I just sighed and turned to face him and said, “Okay. Let’s talk, then.”

  “You never felt loved, did you?”

  “Not until now,” I said shyly.

  Vic took a deep breath. “Listen. This is sort of complicated. You don’t go out with boys much—”

  “I don’t go out with boys at all.”

  “But you have certain normal, healthy feelings that all girls your age have. You know what I mean?”

  I looked down at my hands.

  “Sylvie? You liked it when we were kissing?”

  “You know I did,” I whispered.

  “Okay. Good. So you have these feelings, but what can you do about them? Now, here’s Uncle Ted acting affectionate toward you, and no one else in your whole life ever has. See what I’m getting at?”

  “Not exactly. If I went out with boys I wouldn’t feel this way about Uncle Ted?”

  Even in the dim, flickering light from the TV screen, I could see Vic was frowning. “I’m not sure. Maybe. I told you this was complicated. I’m just trying to figure it out from what’s in my psych books. But why I said it was natural was because you always wanted somebody to love you, and Uncle Ted’s acting like he loves you—or at least, wants to make love to you. And one part of you says that’s wrong, but another part of you wants it.”

  “But that’s not love!” I cried. “That’s sex.”

  “Sometimes people don’t know the difference. Maybe you want to kid yourself into believing that if you let your foster father make love to you, that would be like having a father who loved you.”

  “You must think I’m a real jerk!”

  “Yeah, sometimes I do.”

  “What?”

  “Not about this, but—”

  “About what?” I said coldly.

  He jumped up and started pacing around the room. “Well, for crying out loud, Sylvie, look at yourself. You run away from home with a hundred and thirty bucks and have this fantasy that you’re going to be a famous movie star before your hundred and thirty bucks runs out.”

  “That’s not true! I never expected—”

  “You get into a car with a guy you never saw before, he tries to attack you in a motel room, and what do you do? You get right back in the car with him and let him drive you to Las Vegas. Am I supposed to think that’s smart? Do you think that’s smart?”

  “He said he loved me,” I whispered angrily.

  “Didn’t you tell me yourself you thought it might just have been sex?”

  “Well, maybe at first,” I admitted. “But then, after he got to know me—”

  “He only knew you four days! How well could he get to know you in four days?”

  “Well enough to want to marry me.”

  “So he could sleep with you. You know damn well that’s why. You’re not stupid. You’ve done some stupid things, but you’re not stupid. And if a thirty-five-year-old man can mix up love and sex, is it so crazy that a fifteen-year-old girl might?”

  For a while I didn’t say anything. I was angry and confused. How could I get so mixed-up as to think that if I let Uncle Ted do what he wanted, it would be the same as having a loving father? A father doesn’t do that.

  Besides, I’d spent so many years thinking about my mother, I didn’t even think that much about not having a father. As far as I knew, my father was dead. No one had ever mentioned him to me. Maybe he was killed before I was born or something. I never expected to find my father, like I expected someday to find my mother. So why would I look for a father in Uncle Ted?

  It was complicated. It bothered me, what Vic said, but it also bothered me, maybe even more, that he thought I’d acted like a jerk. Maybe I hadn’t acted like the smartest person in the world, but what other choices did I have?

  I had to ran away.

  From Uncle Ted. From my feelings.

  From myself.

  I’d never tried to explain what I felt about Uncle Ted, I just did. And every time I’d felt it, I’d tried to turn it off, make it go away, hide it even from myself. It was something I never wanted to think about, let alone sit down and try to figure out. All I knew was that it was wrong and bad.

  And now Vic said it was natural.

  I’d never been so confused in my whole life. But one thing I wasn’t confused about. One thing I knew for sure.

  “I know how I feel about you,” I said softly. I didn’t look at Vic, just looked down at the floor.

  “How do you know? You just met me this morning.”

  “I just know,” I said stubbornly. “And besides, it doesn’t feel like I met you this morning. It feels like I’ve known you for years.”

  “But you haven’t. Sylvie, you haven’t known anyone for years. You think I’m being nice to you, and you like kissing me, so you think you love me. You’d think you loved anybody who was nice to you.”

  “That’s not true! And you love me too. You must. Otherwise, why would you—”

  “Why do you want to be an actress?” Vic asked suddenly.

  “Because I think I’d be good at it”

  “Why else? I mean, there are probably lots of things you’d be good at. Why did you pick that?”

  “Well, you know, to be famous, maybe have my mother see me in the movies, make a lot of money—”

  “And the fans?”

  “I thought about that.”

  “A lot of people would love you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  “Anybody would like that!” I snapped.

  “But not everybody needs it so much,” Vic said gently.

  “You don’t love me.” Suddenly there was a cold, hollow feeling in my stomach. I was alone again. Nothing was going to be all right. I had been kidding myself.

  “How could you do this to me?” I cried. “Why did you do all this, how could you let me think—”

  “Oh, Sylvie, you don’t love me either. That’s just what I mean. You’re ready to think you’re in love the minute someone does something nice for you. Or you think they love you. You’re going to get yourself in trouble that way.”

  “I nearly got in trouble with you, didn’t I?” I said nastily.

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “How could you? How could you kiss me and—you’re just like all the others!”

  “Didn’t you want me to?”

  “What kind of a reason is that?” I cried. “You did me a favor?”

  “I did myself a favor,” Vic said. “I wanted to and I enjoyed it. And so did you. What better reason is there?”

  “Love.”

  “Sylvie, I’ve kissed oth
er girls, but I didn’t marry any of them. And you’ll kiss other boys before you marry anybody. That’s not necessarily love. But it’s not necessarily wrong.”

  I lay down across the bed and buried my face in the pillow.

  How could everything be so terrible again so fast? How could I fall in love and have my heart broken all in the space of a few hours? Because, no matter what Vic said, I was sure he was wrong about one thing. I did love him. I would always love him.

  “Sylvie.” He came over and sat on the bed. He put his hand on my back. I wanted to forget everything he’d been saying and pull him down to kiss me and hold me again. But I knew he wouldn’t let me.

  “I do like you, Sylvie. You’re sweet and pretty and I think you’re the bravest girl I’ve ever met. I’m very . . . attracted to you, and I felt you were attracted to me. I didn’t do anything I shouldn’t have, did I?”

  I couldn’t answer him.

  “Did I?” he repeated. “Did I step one inch out of line?”

  “No,” I whispered finally.

  “I wanted to. I would have liked to. But in a very special way, I do love you. Not the way you mean it, but believe me, I care about you. And I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Everything I’ve done has been because I—I feel for you.”

  It wasn’t enough. It was something, but it wasn’t enough. I guess I had really been imagining marrying Vic, and having him take care of me forever. That’s what I thought would happen. That’s what naturally happens when two people love each other, isn’t it? But he didn’t love me “that way.” He just “felt for me.” He felt sorry for me, that’s what he meant.

  I was cold, and Vic hadn’t even turned the air conditioner on.

  “Sylvie, what are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said miserably. “I didn’t think about it. All I thought about was you. I guess I thought you’d take care of me. I don’t know why I thought that. I’ve always had to take care of myself. I just thought you loved me, so . . .”

  He stroked my back. “I’d like to take care of you, Sylvie. But I can’t. I have eight more years of school before I become a doctor, let alone a psychiatrist, and you have a problem you can’t wait eight years to solve. You know I’ll help you as much as I can. But, help you do what? That’s what we have to figure out. Do you still think you can go to Hollywood and try to get in the movies?”

  I turned over on my back and stared up at the ceiling. I thought of Ruby Durban, my stolen wallet, Walter in the Blue Grass Motel, Walter screaming at me under the streetlight.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  “There’s no reason why you can’t try later, when you’re eighteen, say.”

  “That’s three years.”

  “I know. When you finish high school.”

  “You don’t need to finish high school to get in the movies.”

  “But until you get your first break, you’ll need a job. It would be easier to get a good job if you had a diploma.”

  “You don’t need a diploma to be a model, either. That’s what I was going to do till I got my first part.”

  “But what choice do you have? Even if you tried to stay here, eventually they’d find you and make you come back. You’re a minor. You know they’re looking for you. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “I could stay with you. At your house. You could tell your parents I’m a friend from school or something.”

  “Sylvie, my father’s a cop. Why do you think I didn’t take you there in the first place instead of hiding you here? He’s probably got your picture on the wire right now.”

  A cold shiver went down my spine. “Why didn’t you tell me your father was a cop?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry that I’d turn you in. I was afraid you’d run away if you knew.”

  “But, Vic, all you did, hiding me and—doesn’t that make you an accessory or something? Isn’t that a crime?”

  “Maybe technically. I don’t know. I don’t care. It would have been a crime not to do it. Anyway, that doesn’t matter now. What are you going to do?”

  “Maybe I could go to California, and when you go back to UCLA in the fall—”

  “Sylvie, be realistic. That’s the first place they’d look for you.”

  “No, no they wouldn’t. They were looking in Rochester. That’s where I told them I was going.” I remembered the note I had left Aunt Grace, how clever I thought my plan was.

  “That was five days ago. By now, every police department in the country has your description. And everyone knows you wanted to be in the movies. Don’t you think they’ll figure it out?”

  Suddenly, clear as if it was happening right now, I saw myself writing the last letter to my mother from New York. I remembered how I told her my plan, and how Uncle Ted had come into the room while I was writing. Just like I was watching a movie, I saw myself grabbing the letter, crumpling it up, and sticking it in my bathrobe pocket. And then I saw myself taking off the bathrobe and kicking it under the bed. . . .

  Vic was right. It was hopeless. For all I knew, every movie studio in Hollywood had been warned to be on the lookout for me. Every guard at every entrance gate might have a picture of me. The minute I set foot on a studio lot, they would be on the phone to the police.

  “You mean I have to go back to New York?”

  “I don’t know what else you can do.”

  “Back to Aunt Grace and Uncle Ted?” I asked dully.

  “Well, that’s another question. Do you want to go back there?”

  “Aunt Grace is okay. And Honey and Bunny. But. . .”

  “Yeah, but. You have to decide whether you want to spend that much time running and hiding and locking doors.”

  “Or not running.” My voice was barely a whisper, but Vic heard me.

  “Oh, you’ll run, honey. I trust you. You just have to trust yourself a little more. But—it’s a hell of a way to live, isn’t it?”

  “How do I know the next place will be any better? It could be worse. There might be other things. I mean, except for Uncle Ted, everything was okay.”

  “I know. You’re right, there’s no way to tell whether the next place would be better. I guess you have to decide whether to stay with the problem you know, or to take a chance on the next place.”

  “Even if the social worker did believe me—”

  “She’ll believe you all right. I typed up a statement of all the things you told me about Uncle Ted and got it notarized.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I swear in front of a notary public that everything in that paper is true. And it has my phone number and address in it. I’m your witness. If they don’t believe you, you can show them that statement. They can call me long distance or I could even come to New York and testify, if they want. But I don’t think they’d want to make such a big stink about this.”

  “I hope you have to come to New York,” I said. “I can’t stand it that I’m never going to see you again.”

  “Why do you say that? Who says you’re never going to see me again? There are buses, trains, planes. I have vacations. And I’ll write to you, if you promise to write to me every week and tell me you’re okay. Or if you’re not okay.”

  “You’ll come and see me? Will you write to me every week too?”

  “Every week as long as you want me to. And I’ll come and see you. Do you think when you go back to New York tomorrow I’m going to forget I ever met you? I’ll never forget you, Sylvie. I’ll always be here if you need me. All you have to do is write, or phone, or yell.”

  “Oh, Vic, I don’t care if you believe it or not, I love you.”

  He pushed my stuff off the bed and lay down next to me. He slid his arm under my shoulder.

  I won’t cry, I promised myself. As long as he’s here with me, I won’t cry. Even if I do have to go back, at least I’ll have somebody real to write to now. Somebody who’ll wait for my letters and answer them, and help me if I need help. And in t
hree years ...

  “Vic?” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “When you’re a doctor, I’ll be twenty-three. I wouldn’t be too young then.”

  “You might even be famous by then.” I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “But you won’t get married until you’re a doctor, will you?”

  “No. How would I support a wife for eight years?”

  “Then when I’m twenty-three, you’ll still be single.”

  “I expect to be.”

  “Well then, maybe—”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Sylvie, we don’t know what’s going to happen the day after tomorrow. Let’s not think about eight years from tomorrow.”

  “All right,” I said. But I would think about it. I wanted to. I didn’t want to think about the day after tomorrow.

  I snuggled against him and he put his arms around me and held me close and his chest was my pillow and he stayed with me all night long.

  And in the morning we made a long distance call to the Child Welfare Department in New York.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Celeste Watman for being so outrageously generous with her time and expertise; to Harvey Miller, for providing access to the legendary Miller Music Archives; to Sue Kostiuk, for her valiant battle with the Bureaucracy; and to my friends at the Massapequa Public Library, particularly Harry Weber.

  Copyright © 1982 by Ellen Conford.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher.

  Please direct inquiries to:

  Lizzie Skurnick Books

  an imprint of Ig Publishing

  392 Clinton Avenue #1S

  Brooklyn, NY 11238

  www.igpub.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Conford, Ellen.

  To all my fans, with love, from Sylvie / Ellen Conford. pages cm

  Originally published by Little, Brown, 1982.

  Summary: Afraid of her foster father’s advances, fifteen-year-old Sylvia flees and is aided by Walter and Vic who have different motives for helping her.