To All My Fans, With Love, From Sylvie. Ellen Conford

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       Chapter 1

       June 10, 1956

       Dear Mom,

       Even though you will probably never get this, like you never got any of the other letters I wrote you because I never mailed them, I am writing anyway to tell you I am finally going to “take the plunge” and set out for Hollywood.

       As you know—well, I guess you don’t know, but you would if you had gotten my letters—people have always told me I ought to be in the movies because I am so pretty. I am not bragging or anything, I am just saying what people tell me. Anyway, I can’t stay here anymore because of certain reasons which I cannot go into, but they are the same reasons why I had trouble in the two other places and I don’t see that it is going to get any better even if they move me again.

       I made a very careful plan about how I am going to get to California, so don’t think I am just rushing into this without knowing what I’m doing. I am fifteen now and when I’m all dressed up I look at least eighteen or nineteen and I can take care of myself.

       Well, when you go to the movies, or if they have movies where you are, look for me on the silver screen. Only don’t look for the name Sylvie Krail, because I am changing it. I have not definitely decided on my stage name yet but I hope you will recognize my face, even though you haven’t seen me since I was

      I crumpled up the letter and threw my pen down on the desk. I don’t know why I bother writing to my mother. I don’t even have her address. All I know is that she’s locked up someplace in a home for drunk people and has been there since I was three years old. At least, that’s what everyone always told me. Not in those exact words, but I figured it out.

      But sometimes I need somebody to talk to and there isn’t anybody, so I write to my mother, and while I’m writing I can pretend she’s really listening and will write back and give me advice about the problems I’m having.

      I pulled out the bottom drawer of my desk and reached all the way back in to make sure the envelope was still there. My fingers touched it, I could feel the bulge of it, nice and fat because it was stuffed with mostly small bills. $137. It took me almost three years to save that money.

      “Sylvie!”

      I slammed the drawer shut just in time. Uncle Ted walked into my room without knocking, like he always does. It took me a while, but I learned that the only safe place to undress was in the bathroom with the door locked. Even in my own room on the hottest days I can’t just sit around in shortie pajamas like other people do. So even though it was June, I had my flannel bathrobe wrapped around me, tied good and tight.

      “Are you sure you won’t come to church with us, Sylvie?” Uncle Ted stood over me, looking even taller than six feet, because I was sitting down and had to crane my neck to look up at him.

      “I can’t today,” I said, making my voice sound weak and sick. “I’m really not feeling very well.”

      “Poor Sylvie.” Uncle Ted put his hand on my forehead like he was feeling if I had a fever. He moved his hand down the side of my face to my neck. My whole body clenched up.

      “Maybe I’d better stay home with you,” he said softly. “In case you need something.”

      “No!” I said too loudly. “I mean, you have to drive Aunt Grace and the twins to church. How will they get there if you don’t go?”

      His gray eyes seemed to look right through me. He dropped his hand to his side.

      “What are you writing?” he asked suddenly, his voice now all hearty and cheerful. He reached for the crumpled paper on my desk. I grabbed it and stuck it in my pocket.

      “A fan letter. To James Dean.”

      “James Dean is dead,” Uncle Ted said, frowning. “He’s been dead for almost a year.”

      “But he still gets more fan mail than any other star in Hollywood.”