Susan was flattered to be called a woman. "It wasn't quitting,Larry. It was-well-there was no way around it. You go and doa hundred pageants and then write me a postcard. We'll com-pare notes."

"Such spark. You could really harness that-make it workfor you."

"I'm happy enough just having my mother off my back."

"Have you ever acted before?"

"Have you ever been in a pageant with cramps before? Orthe flu?"

"Touche. How old are you?"

"I'm out of high school, if that's what you mean."

"No-I meant-"

"With a beret and a kilt I look fourteen. With makeup, cruellighting and two beers in me, I can pull off thirty. Easy."

"What's the most ridiculous pageant you ever did?"

"I was Miss Nuclear Energy three years ago. I had this littleatom-shaped electric crown over my head. It was pretty, actually. But the pageant was dumb. It was organized by men, not women,and the only other thing they'd ever organized was a Thanks-giving turkey raffle. The whole thing was so-corny. Instead of sashes we had name tags."

"We should meet. We should get together."

Susan's stomach made a dip, like cresting a roller coaster'sfirst and biggest hill. She was excited. She hadn't expected this."Why's that?"

Barb pa.s.sed by the door to tell Susan the sloppy joes wereready.

"You could really go places," Larry said."Like where?"

"Movies. TV"

"Be still my heart."

"Come into town. Tomorrow."

"We're going to Disneyland tomorrow."

"The day after then."

Susan had the sensation that this was just another emcee call-ing her up onto some stage where she would be judged again.After a few weeks of freedom from pageantry, she felt oldstrings being tugged and that spooked her. Trish, now answer-ing only to "Dreama," called Susan to the table. "Dinner time, Larry. I ought to go."

"What's for dinner?"

"Sloppy joes."

"I love sloppy joes."

" It gives me cellulite."

"Cellulite?You're a child!"

"I'm seventeen."

"Ooh. I'll back off now."

They were quiet.

Larry asked her, "Meet me?"

"What do you look like?" Susan asked.

"If I were in a movie, I'd be a sailor like back in the old days, with a sunburn and a duffel bag, and I'd be on sh.o.r.e leave wear-ing a cable knit sweater."

Two days later Susan, Dreama and Barb met Larry for lunch atan outdoor cafe where the linen, china and flowers were whiteand the service was so good they didn't even realize they werebeing served. Larry was late, and when Susan saw him rushtoward the table, her heart did a cartwheel. Larry was older, curly-haired, gruff and in a glorious twist of fate, a clone of Eu-gene Lindsay, the winking judge.

Susan fell into a reverie. She hoped that Larry's breath wouldsmell like scotch. She realized that Larry was to be her devir-ginizer, and a wash of s.e.xual energy and nervousness borderingon static cling came over her. She caught his eye as he ap-proached, and sealing his fate with Susan, he winked.

"I'm late," he said.

"You're just in time," she said. Their eyes locked and theyheld each others' hand a pulse too long.

"Larry, this is my friendDreama and her aunt Barb." They shook hands, and Barb sizedLarry up in a manner that was blatantly financial, embarra.s.sing and amusing.

Lunch was a blur. Afterward, Susan left with Larry, ostensiblyto test for a new TV show. Once inside his Jaguar, Aunt Barb andDreama out of sight, Larry told Susan that the test was actually for the next day. He then looked up at the sky innocently. Susan wasn't fazed. She told Larry this was pretty much what she'd fig-ured. Oh G.o.d, she thought to herself, I'm a jaded harpy and I'm onlyseventeen. Mom did this tome. She's gone and turned me into ... her.

Larry asked, "So where do you think we might go now?"

Years later, with hindsight, Susan would find it appalling that Barb had left her so readily in the hands of an L.A. predator.

Later that night, after Susan and Larry had exhausted them-selves in Larry's bed, they would briefly chuckle over the clunkyroving eye Aunt Barb had focused on Larry, then phone Barb and say, "Barb?

Larry Mortimer here. We're late like crazy. Wedidn't even get a chance to audition. The tests were sloweddown by a union walkout. It'll have to be tomorrow. We'll beback at your hotel in an hour. Here.

Susan wants to speak withyou." He pa.s.sed the phone over the sheets to Susan.

"Barb? Wasn't lunch today a dream?"

The next day at the actual audition, Susan clarified in her ownmind one of the larger lessons of her life so far, the one whichstates that the lessyou want something, the more likely you are to get it. As she uttered her very first line, "Dad, I think there'ssomething not quite right with Mom," the character of KatieBloom, two years younger than her, melted onto Susan Colgate'ssoul, and as of 1987, the public and Susan herself would spend decades trying to separate the two. Katie Bloom was the youn-gest of four children, a distant fourth at that. Her three on-screen siblings were played by a trio of better-known TV actorswho couldn't seem to make the bridge into film, and theychafed madly at any suggestion that their Bloom work was "onlyTV" Off-screen, the three were patronizing and aloof to Susan.On-screen they looked to their younger free-spirit sister Susanto give them a naive clarity into their problems, and as the yearswent on, their problems became almost endless.

When Susan emerged as the keystone star of the series, it wasin the face of outright mutiny by her costars. At the beginning she thought their coldness was the angst of tormented actors.Then she realized it was essentially f.u.c.ked-up bitterness, which was much easier to handle. Far more difficult to handle was the issue of Marilyn's continued involvement in her life. The proce-dure, for insurance reasons, demanded that Susan live witha family member near the studio. The glimmer of TV famequickly outshone the gloom of pageants lost. Marilyn and Donrented the upper floor of a terrifyingly blank faux-haciendaheap in deepest Encino. Susan did the easier thing and lived inLarry's pied-a-terre in Westwood. Thus, Marilyn's presence wasminimized to that of a bookkeeping technicality.

Larry was like all of the pageant judges in the world rolledinto one burly, considerate, suntanned package. He knew howthe stoplights along Sunset Boulevard were synched and shiftedhis Porsche's gears accordingly. He had a writer fired who calledSusan an empty Fez dispenser to her face. He made sure she ate only excellent food and kept her Kelton Street apartment fully stocked with fresh pasta, ripe papayas and bottled water, all ofwhich was overseen by a thrice-weekly maid. He lulled Susan tosleep singing "Goodnight, Irene," and then, after he nippedhome to sleep with his wife, Jenna, he arrived at work the next day and saw to it that Susan received plenty of prime TV andfilm offers.

When she thought about her new situation at all, it was withthe blameless ingrat.i.tude of the very young.

Her life's trajectory was fated, inevitable. Why be a wind-up doll for a dozen years ifnot to become a TV star? Why not alter one's body? Bodies were meant to photograph well. Mothers? They were meant to be Tas-manian devils-all the better reason to keep them penned up inEncino.

Every night she took two white pills to help her sleep. In the morning she took two orange pills to keep from feeling hungry.She loved the fact that life could be so easily controlled asthat. Inasmuch as she had a say in the matter, she was going tokeep the rest of her life as equally push-b.u.t.ton and seamless. Inthe mornings when she woke up, she couldn't remember herdreams.

Chapter Twenty-three.

John, Vanessa and Ryan were driving from Vanessa's house toRandy Montarelli's out in the valley. The three were crammedinto the front bench seat, Vanessa in the middle. John was sweatyand pulled a pack of cigarettes out from the car door's sidepocket and lit one.

"You smoke?" Vanessa asked. She made a serious, unscruti-nizable face.

"As of now, I've started again. I'm worried about Susan. Ican't unstress."

Once in the Valley, John pulled the Chrysler into an ARCO sta-tion for gas and gum. He went to pay at the till, and on return-ing to the car found Ryan and Vanessa in the front seat gigglinglike minks.

"Christ, you two."

"We're young and in love, John Johnson," Vanessa teased.

"People like you were never young, Vanessa. People like youare born seventy-two, like soft pink surgeon generals."

Driving along in the accordion-squeezed traffic of Ventura Boulevard, John said, "So, are you two wacky kids gonna getmarried or something?"

"Absolutely," said Ryan. "We've even got our honeymoon planned."John considered this young couple he was driving withacross the city. They were like rollicking puppies one moment,and Captain Kirk and Spock from Star Trek the next. Both seemedbent on discovering new universes. John thought that they were, in a way, the opposite of Ivan and Nylla, who he was con-vinced had married in order to compact the universe intosomething smaller, more manageable.

"Where are you two clowns going to honeymoon then, Li-brary of Congress?"

"Chuckles ahoy, John," Ryan replied. "We're actually going to Prince Edward Island."

"Huh? Where's that-England?" John was driving at an an-noyingly slow speed in order to torment a tailgater.

"No," said Vanessa. "It's in Canada. Back east-just north ofNova Scotia. It has a population of, like, three."

"We're going to dig potatoes."

John put his hand to his forehead. "Dare I even ask . . . ?"

"There's this thing they have there," said Ryan, "called the to-bacco mosaic virus. It's this harmless little virus that's lollingabout dormant inside the Prince Edward Island potato ecology,not doing much of anything."

"Except," said Vanessa, "it's highly contagious, and if it comesin contact with tobacco plants, it turns them, basically, intosludge. So what we're going to do is rent a van and fill it upwith infected potatoes and then drive down to Virginia andKentucky and lob them into tobacco fields."

"We're going to put Big Tobacco out of business," said Ryan.

"Romantic," said John, "but it does appeal to my Lodge pesti-cide genes."

"Vanessa's dad died of emphysema."

"Don't make me sound like a d.i.c.kensian waif, Ryan, but yes,Dad did hork his lungs out.""Vanessa likes to f.u.c.k things up with the information shefinds," said Ryan with a note of pride.

"You know what, Ryan? I have an easy time believing that. I'm also going to light up another cigarette.

Sorry, Vanessa, butI'm flipping out here."

Ryan shouted, "Hey-that's Randy Montarelli's street over there," and John pulled into a leafy suburban avenue. The tail-gater whizzed off in a huff. Randy's wood-shingled house was pale blue and tall cypress tree sentinels were lit with coloredfloodlights.

"Well," said Ryan as they parked across the street and peekedat the house. "We're here."

"We are," said John. It was a quiet moment, like being onholiday, after flying the whole day and navigating throughcabs and crowds, arriving in the hotel room, shutting the room and taking a breath.

What came next was unknown, and Johnrealized he hadn't given this moment much thought. He was stage-struck.

"I just saw somebody move inside a window," said Ryan.

"We have to go down there," said John.

"Ryan . . ." said Vanessa. "Maybe we should wait here. MaybeJohn should be alone for this."

"No. Come, you guys-I need you."

Like clueless trick-or-treaters, they headed to the front door.From inside the house they heard a TV blaring, feet poundingan uncarpeted floor and a door shutting. John rang the bell be-fore he had a chance to change his mind. All interior soundstopped. Vanessa rang it again three times quickly. A minutepa.s.sed and still nothing. Ryan tried the doork.n.o.b to see if it wasopen. It was.

"Shut the f.u.c.king door, Ryan," said John.

"Just checking."

"h.e.l.looooo . . . ?" Vanessa called into the crack in the door.

"Oh jeez," said John.

"You are such a chickens.h.i.t, John." Vanessa cooed into thehouse, "h.e.l.lo-we're from Unesco."

Ryan turned to Vanessa: "Unesco?"

"It was the first thing that popped into my head."

"Right," said John, "like you're Audrey Hepburn and ready to hand over a clod of Swiss dirt if they donate five bucks."

From down the hallway came the sound of somebody trip-ping over a small heap of suitcases. A man appeared, pale aslinguine, in a black bodysuit, a cell phone dangling from hisright hand.

"Well, well, it's the Mod Squad. I'm Randy.You're John John-son, aren't you? What are you doing here?"

"Perhaps we could come in?" John asked.

"No. I-can't. I mean, I know you're famous and rich, butI don't know you personally. And I don't know these two hereat all."

"I'm Ryan."

"I'm Vanessa."