Forbidden Sister by V.C. Andrews

looking for answers that were critical to who I was and who I would become.
    Later, when the Styleses’ family driver called to say that he was waiting outside, Papa and Mama came out, too, to see what sort of car they had sent. It was a black Town Car, and the driver was in a chauffeur’s uniform.
    “I hope that’s not on the public’s dime,” Papa muttered.
    “Don’t spoil her night,” Mama warned him.
    When I had come down in my new dress and shoes, Papa had looked speechless for a moment. Just as you would suddenly enter a new world withyour mother, you would with your father, I realized. Fathers, I decided, were far more comfortable seeing their daughters as little girls, while mothers couldn’t wait for them to grow up and get into dresses and hairdos and makeup. When the realization came to fathers that their little girls were on the threshold of being women, they first recoiled. There was safety and comfort when your daughter was a child. She moved in that bubble-gum-and-lollipop world, with little or no idea of what eventually would awaken inside her and make everything she did and everything she said suddenly far more complicated.
    Except for the danger of pedophiles, of course, boys and men didn’t hear any sexual suggestions in what a little girl said or see any passionate interest in a little girl’s smile or the look in her eyes. Little girls were really only cute; women were pretty. Little girls could sit on their fathers’ laps with no one raising eyebrows. That would more likely raise smiles. Young women couldn’t. You could hug and kiss your father at any age, of course, but there was always that awareness that you were a woman now. The affection had to be more sophisticated.
    Maybe Papa had seen this happening too quickly in Roxy. Maybe he had tried, as they say, to put the toothpaste back into the tube, and that was impossible. She had crossed over, and the little girl was not coming back. He wasn’t prepared for it, not that he ever would be, but it was just too soon, not only for him but for Mama, too.
    The chauffeur stepped out quickly when he saw us and came around to open the door for me.
    “I hope that turns into a pumpkin at midnight,” Papa called to him.
    The chauffeur smiled and tipped his hat. “No worries, sir,” he said. He had an Australian accent to go along with the expression.
    When I looked back as we drove off, I saw Mama put her arm through Papa’s and watch the limousine disappear. They were watching me do a very grown-up thing. They knew I was moving on. It made me sad, and I thought, why couldn’t parents return to their youth when their children were old enough to be on their own or when their children were wives and husbands, mothers and fathers? Why couldn’t they become carefree and adventurous again? They had completed their obligations and fulfilled their responsibilities. Wouldn’t a nice long drink from the Fountain of Youth be a wonderful way to go on?
    Of course, all grandmothers and grandfathers might protest. That was something special, too.
    Evan’s family lived on a cul-de-sac on one of the most expensive streets on the East Side. He was waiting at the entrance when we pulled up and rushed to open my door before the chauffeur could do so.
    “You look beautiful,” he said when I stepped out.
    “Thank you.”
    There was a doorman and a man behind a desk in the lobby manning security cameras. The lobby was all gold and black tile, and there was a large chandelier illuminating the statuary and the artwork. There were small tables and chairs that looked as if they had neverbeen used. I saw that someone had to have a special card to use the elevator.
    “This is like a museum,” I said, gazing at the pictures.
    “Sometimes it feels like it,” Evan said. “I have to warn you,” he continued when we stepped into the elevator, “my mother can come off snobby sometimes. She’s a stickler for perfection when it comes to her dinners. Another couple