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last thing he said: “Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone. Or else .”
    The abuse became a regular occurrence; it was happening at least three times a week, sometimes every day. After several months of this, not surprisingly, I wanted to get out of the house. I asked my parents if I could move out and get my own place. They explained that six-year-olds did not have their own apartments. Besides, these things cost money. “How much?” was all I asked.
    It was oddly my brother who explained that I needed a job and that the only job for kids that paid well enough to get an apartment was acting. Perfect! I already had a press clipping file and an audition tape from the supermarket. Well, sort of. The Arrow Market in West Hollywood was the first market to put in video security cameras. It was such an innovation, they didn’t try to hide it. You could watch the video monitor at the checkout line. So every time we went shopping, I marched into the cheese aisle and practiced my tap routine. I wasn’t very good, but the people at the checkout counter were very entertained nonetheless. I had turned theft prevention into art.
    I soon joined the Arngrim family ritual—the audition process. Everyone in my family—in fact, everyone I knew—went on these things they called “auditions.” I liked them at first, because I enjoyed dressing up and making sure my hair was absolutely perfect—no small feat in my case, with my nearly waist-length, super-fine, fly-away Barbie doll hair. (I think they invented the No More Tears and No More Tangle hair products just for me.) But I didn’t care for the long car rides. I was then and still am prone to motion sickness and became famous for starting off auditions by brightly chirping, “I frew up in the car!”
    At that age, auditions didn’t demand any acting, seldom even dialogue. I was just asked to smile, then turn, and smile. It was sort of like posing for a cheerful mug shot. I finally landed a national television commercial, a major gig in anyone’s book. It was for Hunt’s ketchup. It was a series of commercials featuring a whole bunch of kids. The premise was children trying to figure out “how they get those tomatoes into the bottle.” We were all given a sealed bottle of ketchup and a large tomato and told to do our worst. Some pushed, some tried to jam the tomato down the neck of the bottle. It was pretty funny.
    So there I was on my first set, in an adorable white tennis outfit. No, I did not play tennis, but it was the ’60s, and those cute little tennis skirt and top sets were very popular. And against my pale skin and white-blond hair, it made for a striking look. I fiddled with that bottle and tomato in every way possible, squinting and biting my lip, finally pressing down on the tomato with the bottle. Small problem: my tomato was apparently just a little bit riper than the others. Finally, during one take—squish!—the tomato exploded. Juice, seeds, and tomato flesh flew everywhere, splattering all over my fabulous, brand-new white tennis outfit, all over my face, landing in my hair, in my eyes, everywhere. I froze with my juice-covered arms extended away from my body.
    The director and all the adults stood frozen, too, stifling hysterical laughter. Finally, the director, a very nice woman, came up to me and said, “Can I get you anything, honey?” (By which I suppose she meant, did I want a towel?) To which I replied, in a very deep, un-six-year-old girl voice: “Yes. GET…THIS…GODDAMN TOMATO JUICE OFF OF ME!”
    At that point, any attempt on anyone’s part to stifle laughter went right out the window. I think some of those crew members are still laughing. I wasn’t really mad. I was just appalled. Not to mention cold and wet. Later, I did thank the nice lady for wiping me off. But my reputation in Hollywood was off to a hell of a start.
    For the next several years I led a double life. I did my best to behave normally at school and in public, while at