The Penpal

The Penpal

An actress has been kidnapped by a long-time friend; can she write her way out of trouble?

Dear Kyle,

           In yesterday’s letter, I wrote a little bit about one of the classes I took in my freshman year at Northwestern. You seemed to really like it, because when you slipped my breakfast, sanitary items, and stationary through the flap in my door this morning, you asked me to write more about school in today’s letter. Actually, if I’m being perfectly honest, it was more of a demand, but as I’m in no position to argue with you at the moment, I guess I’ll go ahead and tell you about how we met.

I didn’t much care for Mrs. Wilton’s English class in high school. I was far more interested, as you might suspect, in drama and music classes. Still, we did read some Shakespeare and a little Arthur Miller, so I was happy enough. In third semester my senior year, we were set a penpal assignment. An exchange had been arranged with another school and we would be tasked with writing five letters over the semester to our new pen-friend, each with a length and topic requirement. I don’t recall what those first few letters contained, Kyle, but I know that I loved reading your replies. In your first letter to me you included a senior picture you had just gotten done – you were sitting awkwardly on a wooden ladder, holding a silver trumpet. “It’s a lame picture, but my mom made me get them done and I thought you’d want to see what I look like,” you’d written. I didn’t think it was lame. The trumpet was nice – I’d never seen a silver one before – and that made me think music was something that was important to you. In my next letter, I asked you about it, and I also included my own senior picture.

Soon the assignment was over – we had exchanged five letters each, and we had no more obligation to write each other. But you were cute and a good listener, and you’d asked me about my acting work in your fifth letter – and well, I just wanted to talk about it and see what someone else thought about my dreams! So, I kept writing to you. I was in the high school’s production of “Oklahoma” that year – I know you remember this detail. I saw it in the collection of DVDs in your living room the night you brought me to this place. You had a whole shelf just of the shows I have been in – “Cabaret”, “Showboat” –you even tracked down a copy of the 1961 telecast of “Waiting for Godot”. I assume you had all of these so that you could be well-acquainted with the stories while we wrote each other.

The “Oklahoma” part was my first lead role. I hardly felt ready for it – the feeling that I was a fraud about to be found out was constantly in the back of my mind. But you kept writing to me, kept encouraging me. “You are the best thing about that production, Sylvia” you wrote the week after opening. “When Curly couldn’t remember his lines, you just swept right in and picked up the pieces. You will be amazing in college.” That was the first clue that I overlooked. You had been in the audience. The first time I read that letter, my head was still buzzing with the euphoria that came after a successful performance. I think I told myself I must have mentioned the flub in my previous letters, or that you were guessing about Curly based on other things I’d told you. How could you know about something so specific unless you’d been there? But there’s no way you’d have driven three and a half hours to my school and not introduced yourself. So, I just shook my head and ignored it.

You were right, though. I was amazing in college. Northwestern isn’t exactly Julliard, but as far as universities for performing artists go, you can’t do much better in the Midwest. I had good enough grades (and ACT scores) to be accepted and luckily my parents had a savings plan. All I had to do was show up to class and be brilliant. What an experience! And living so close to Chicago meant I could dip my toes into other performing arts scenes for a try – poetry slams, art walks, improv – it takes a lot of elbow-rubbing to make the connections needed for the BIG, FAMOUS GIGS, but somehow, I managed to keep my sanity through it all. I think your letters kept me grounded. “Be careful in Chicago,” you would write. “The bad ones can sometimes sneak in looking like good ones.” Why were you so right about everything?

It was in my third year of university that I really started pushing for us to meet. I had just gotten cast with that famous improv troupe and I invited you to come out for my opening night. You had always had very good reasons for not meeting up before. Out of town, couldn’t afford to get off work, too busy with your grandpa. But this time, in your return letter, you didn’t even acknowledge the invitation. I have to admit I was confused and a little hurt. You just talked about your job and how much you hated your boss. You’d been doing that a lot more. The tone of your letters had gotten pretty negative by then. Most of the time you were complaining about your job. Some woman had gotten a promotion (you never did tell me her name) to be your manager and you just couldn’t stand her. 

Despite the non-acknowledgment of my invitation, I stashed your letter away with the rest and went on to the show. Opening night was amazing- we were all on form and the audience was in tears. That’s how a lot of stars get their big break, did you know? Head hunters from the big production companies come to those shows, and sometimes agencies too. There were a few business cards and gifts on my dressing table when the show was over. Who knows where it could have all led.

The glow of the opening night was short lived. It was nearly two a.m. by the time we’d struck the set and finished toasting our success. I packed up my stuff and headed out to the bus stop. It was rainy but I didn’t mind – my thoughts were whirling. That’s probably why I didn’t see you – why I nearly missed meeting you for the first time. Actually, I guess I shouldn’t say it like that. It wasn’t a proper meeting, was it? You hit me over the back of my head and stuffed me in your trunk. Not too romantic, you have to admit. You should have just said hello and offered me your umbrella.

I became conscious in your living room. I couldn’t talk – duct tape over my mouth and ropes around my wrists, like every cliché crime movie I’d ever seen. You were sitting across the room from me. You didn’t look sinister or scary – just a little sad, actually. And kind of sweaty.

“Do you know who I am?” You’d asked me first. I shook my head, and you actually looked disappointed. But how was I supposed to recognize you? I’d only ever seen that stupid senior picture of you with the trumpet. That was years ago. You have a beard now; you’ve put on quite a bit of weight too. But once you introduced yourself to me, I understood. My parents had warned me once about giving too much information away about myself to strangers – but you never felt like a stranger, and I guess that’s why it didn’t feel dangerous. I should never have trusted you. What were you going to do to me?

For now, you’d said, you just wanted me around. You locked me down here in this basement and gave me some stationery. “What’s this for?” I was bewildered. Did you want me to keep track of the days as they went by? Write my own ransom letter to my parents? But you told me that you loved reading my letters and you only wanted to read more. Each day, if I would write you a letter, you would keep me safe and bring me food and clothes and whatever else I needed.

Kyle. I need you to understand something. I have no intention of being your letter slave. I really hope you have enjoyed reading this one, because it is the last thing you will ever do. By now, in fact, you’ll probably already be dead. I wrote the letter long enough so that I would have time to pick the door lock (did you know I am good at that? I never shared that talent with you, did I?) and stab you in the carotid with the very pen I am writing this letter with. I guess this letter, since I’m bothering to write it to the end, will also serve as my confession. But I have seen enough “true crime” shows to know that have zero interest in ever being a victim. So, whatever happens now, I am embracing it.

Rest in hell, Kyle.

Yours sincerely,

Sylvia