She dreamed of spaceships, distant planets and becoming a movie star.

What she could not have imagined was that her own life would eventually sound stranger than some of the science-fiction stories she loved: a nightclub dancer discovered by an empire, a centerfold paid to embody the new American fantasy, a highly paid Bunny, a beach-movie beauty—and later, an employee of both a rock-music provocateur and one of the most controversial women of the 1970s.

Her journey began far from Hollywood.

Born on October 17, 1937, in Reading, Pennsylvania, she grew up fascinated by science fiction and the possibility of appearing on the big screen. Yet before movie cameras found her, she was performing under the lights of Chicago nightclubs.

She worked as a chorus dancer at the Chez Paree, a glamorous venue that attracted famous entertainers and fashionable crowds. Night after night, she danced before strangers, unaware that someone watching would eventually change the direction of her life.

She was discovered for a rapidly growing men’s magazine that was transforming American attitudes toward sex, sophistication and the unmarried bachelor.

In 1960, the publication was still young, but its founder was already building something much larger than a collection of provocative photographs. It promoted jazz, literature, expensive drinks and a carefully packaged vision of freedom.

The dancer from Pennsylvania was chosen as its Playmate of the Month for June 1960.

Photographer Don Bronstein created the centerfold that introduced her to millions of readers. According to later accounts, she received $500 for the pictorial, followed by $100 per month during a two-year exclusivity agreement.

The money was welcome, but the greater reward was visibility.

Her photographs opened the door to an extraordinary new world. She subsequently appeared as one of the cover models for the magazine’s January 1961 issue, ensuring that her face remained connected to the publication as its cultural influence expanded.

But her most lucrative role did not unfold on a movie set.

It happened inside the original Playboy Club in Chicago.

Wearing the famous satin costume, collar, cuffs and rabbit ears, she worked as a Bunny during the club’s most glamorous period. The women serving drinks were presented as living extensions of the magazine’s fantasy, but the work was demanding. Costumes were fitted tightly, appearances were carefully regulated and drinks had to be served using prescribed movements.

Successful Bunnies could make remarkable money through wages and tips. She reportedly earned as much as $1,000 a week—an astonishing income at a time when many American workers earned only a fraction of that amount.

Yet she still wanted the movies.

Television offered the first steps. She appeared in such series as 87th Precinct, The Bob Cummings Show, Boris Karloff’s anthology series Thriller and the stylish mystery program Burke’s Law.

The parts were often small, but she possessed exactly the kind of bright, playful screen presence Hollywood wanted as the serious 1950s gave way to the colorful youth culture of the 1960s.

Then came the beach.

She joined the cast of Beach Party in 1963, entering the sun-drenched cinematic world associated with Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello. These films mixed music, romance, comedy and impossibly carefree teenagers dancing beside the Pacific Ocean.

She returned for Muscle Beach Party and Bikini Beach, playing a character named Sniffles. She reportedly preferred comedy and dreamed of becoming a performer in the tradition of Lucille Ball.

But Hollywood had other ideas.

Studios largely viewed her as a beautiful woman who could decorate a party, a swimming pool or a romantic complication. Even when she entered the science-fiction world she had loved as a child, the opportunity came through a modest production rather than a major studio epic.

In The Time Travelers, released in 1964, she played Reena, a woman living in a distant and dangerous future. The movie followed scientists who accidentally stepped through a time portal and discovered a devastated Earth struggling to survive.

For the girl who had once dreamed about science fiction, it must have felt like a strange fulfillment.

Her final screen appearances came in 1967. She appeared briefly in Banning and in the comedy A Guide for the Married Man, where her character was identified simply as a “Very Attractive Woman.”

The description revealed both her advantage and her limitation.

Beauty had opened Hollywood’s doors, but it also made it difficult for the industry to imagine her as anything else.

Then her life took several unexpected turns.

After leaving the centerfold world, she reportedly worked as a makeup artist for Alice Cooper, the theatrical rock star whose concerts featured sinister costumes, fake blood, electric chairs and stage executions. The former Bunny was now helping construct the appearance of rock music’s most famous nightmare.

Even more surprisingly, she later worked briefly as a secretary for Linda Lovelace, the adult-film performer whose fame, troubled private life and later denunciation of the pornography industry made her one of the most controversial figures of the era.

She also spent time working in the business office of the Oakland Raiders, exchanging movie sets and celebrity parties for the organizational machinery of professional football.

These chapters never became a sensational memoir.

She did not spend her later years exposing famous lovers or turning private encounters into tabloid headlines. She became a mother, lived largely beyond the spotlight and eventually settled in Arizona.

When she died in Phoenix on February 9, 2016, at the age of 78, the brief public notice offered few details. The woman who had once been unfolded in millions of homes left behind a remarkably private ending.

What remained was an extraordinary trail: Pennsylvania dreamer, Chicago dancer, June 1960 centerfold, prosperous Bunny, beach-movie actress, time traveler, rock-star makeup artist, secretary to an infamous adult icon and football-office employee.

The mysterious woman who moved through some of the strangest corners of American popular culture—and survived them without surrendering her entire story—was Delores Wells.