A dark room in a log cabin in Oregon, circa 1965. The smell of blood cuts through the air, along with the wails of a newborn baby. A midwife quietly announces to the young couple, "It's a girl." She gingerly hands the baby to its mother. The baby girl is adorable, with a wisp of blond hair on her head and two shining blue eyes. When the mother looks at her child, all she can think of is the financial strain the baby will cause. After a long pause, she says, "We'll find some way to deal with this." The father rests a hand on his wife's trembling shoulder. "Beryl," he says. "We can name her Beryl Grace, after my mother." The mother shrugs in response. "Sounds fine," she says.

Seven years later, Beryl Grace is at another little girl's house with a clutch of friends from school. Beryl was always at a friend's house, even on Christmas. Anywhere but home. The little girls play dress-up with blankets and stolen makeup kits, squealing with delight as they become princesses, First Ladies, and glamorous movie stars. One of Beryl's friends, Denise, asks "What are you, Beryl? A princess, an actress, or what?"

"Hmm," said the makeup-smeared Beryl. "I don't really know! Why not both?"

"You can't be both, silly," said Denise, tossing a teddy bear at her friend. Denise's mother walked past the open doorway. Beryl ran after her.

"Mrs. Stewart! Mrs. Stewart," yelped the little blond. When the adult stopped and looked at Beryl, the child struck a pose, causing Mrs. Stewart to smile. The woman knelt down to be at eye level with Beryl.

"Can't I be a princess AND an actress, Mrs. Stewart?" Beryl loved talking to her friend's parents. They always made her feel happy inside. Denise and a couple other girls had trotted after Beryl, who was still showcasing her most fabulous famous-person pose.

"Sure, honey," said Mrs. Stewart with a smile. "You can be whatever you want if you've got the guts to achieve it." As the adult walked away, Beryl excitedly turned to her friends and said, grinning, "I'm gonna be famous." Denise and the other girls giggled and dragged Beryl back to the playroom. They played make-believe for hours on end. Soon it was nighttime and Denise's mother was calling up Beryl's mother to ask if Beryl could sleep over. Mrs. Grace agreed, of course. That was one less meal to worry about, one less room to heat with electricity they couldn't afford. As Mrs. Stewart tucked in the girls, she gave Denise a big, warm hug and said "I love you forever and ever, with all my heart, Dee." Then she turned out the light and left the room.

"Denise," whispered Beryl. "Are you sleeping?"

"No," came the reply. "Are you?"

"No. What was that?"

"What do you mean," whispered Denise.

"Why'd your mom hug you like that? She's only going down the hall," said Beryl.

"That's just what we do at bedtime," said Denise.

"Oh. Ok," whispered Beryl. The little blue-eyed girl turned over in her blankets, away from her friend. She sleepily stared into the darkness. Her parents never gave big hugs or said "I love you forever."

At age twelve, Beryl Grace's parents had her working in their shop on the weekends. Technically, she had no free time. She was too busy "earning her keep." Her parents were strict like that. So when Beryl's father sat down across from his daughter's principal, he was embarrassed. He'd had reason to be embarrassed when he found out that Beryl had been attending drama classes, an utterly useless pursuit. But this time was worse. She'd been missing too many classes. She wouldn't obey the dress code. Beryl sat in a corner, almost completely swallowed up by her father's coat. It covered up her shirt, a crop top. She wore her blond hair like Farrah Fawcett, re-doing it every time her mother tried to change it. Beryl was scolded that night. Her parents yelled at her; she yelled back, stomping and throwing ceramics onto the floor. They locked her out for the night. She went to her friend's house, where Denise's older brother let her in.

Four years later, Beryl was in a van with a group of freewheeling 20-something year olds. They were traveling to Los Angeles, where Beryl was to meet a talent agent she'd contacted over the phone. She'd seen commercials for the agency on TV: "Hollywood's always looking for fresh talent! The next big-budget movie star could be you!"

On the morning she'd left, Beryl had stopped by her parent's bedroom. "I've got a new boyfriend," she said. Her mother was sewing a tear on a pillow and didn't even look up. Beryl stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. Her miniskirt was too tight, but she'd still chosen it over a looser one. She waited for a comment from her mother, about her "incessant whoring," her outfit... Anything. Eventually, her mother said, "Another one?"

"Yeah. It's Denise's brother," the teen added.

"Mm," came the absentminded reply.

"He's five years older than me... He's 21," Beryl said.

"Okay," said Mrs. Grace, an irritated bite in her tone. But she still didn't look up.

"I'm only 16, Mom. Doesn't this bother you?"

No response.

Beryl brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. Her tone rose in anger as she said "Don't you care at all? Don't you goddamn CARE about what happens to me?"

Mrs. Grace's eyes flicked up to meet her daughter's gaze for just one moment as she said, "Watch your language, young lady. I won't have such behavior taking place under my roof."

On that day in 1981, Beryl Grace had already packed her bag. After that exchange with her mother, she just grabbed the suitcase and walked out.