The collision between Druscilla and me was inevitable.

Harris must have warned her to stay away from me, but with the producer out for the weekend and Pagliani filming with Dean, the tension had escalated all morning.

Thus far, I was remarkably successful at avoiding the actress, but with us filming together for the first time the next day, she eyed me, talked smack to her little squad, and hijacked all of Sherise's free time.

Dean's little talks with me at the boma in the evening hadn't helped, and somewhere in her head, she still thought Harris was teaching her a lesson and that as soon as she repented and toed the line, he would give the lead back to her.

When Pagliani gave the scenes this morning to learn our lines, it sunk in that she was the villain, not the heroine, and no longer the star of this movie. That the thick little nobody from nowhere would take her place.

"Go home before you humiliate yourself," she hissed, confronting me in the back garden where Jeanette and I were working on my acting skills until a moment ago when my coach left to check on preparations for lunch.

Did Druscilla watch us? Because the second I was alone, she pounced.

"Well, I didn't cast myself in this role."

That calm answer impressed even me.

"Lady, you are a fat loser from nowhere that doesn't have what it takes, and one good scene does not make a movie. Go back to mommy Benoit and work in the restaurant where you belong."

"Maybe, but I'm here playing the role you couldn't."

Who was this person speaking through my mouth when my knees were literally banging together and nausea threatened?

What if she was right, and it was just a fluke?

What if...

"Druscilla, why don't you learn your lines instead of interfering with Mercedes? Your father showed me that scene, and I agree with his assessment.

"You possess neither the emotional depth nor range of acting skills to portray Arielle. Mercedes does, and trying to psyche her out won't alter the fact that she does have the capacity, depth, and undefinable something that draws an audience.

"When characters rely on sheer raw sex appeal, looking pretty, being bitchy, and appealing to a certain type of male audience, you are the right choice. That is why Harris rewrote Anabelle's character to be all of those things.

"Now, I get paid by the hour, and Harris will get a bill for this little interlude."

I almost clapped my hands as Jeanette took Druscilla down like a pro. She'd played a few villains, and they were not Anabelle-type characters. Her portrayal of the dark queen in a recent version of snow white was genuinely chilling. Then again, that Snow White had been a few shades shy of the innocent victim.

The role won her an Oscar for best supporting actress, but Jeanette retired at age thirty-eight and moved back to South Africa to marry Barry.

Druscilla's mouth set in a hard line, her eyes blazing as she turned on her heel and stomped off like a pissed five-year-old.

"Don't give Druscilla that power over you," Jeanette said, watching me and bringing my thoughts back to the present. "She isn't right, and the only way to prove her words true is to allow her a seat at your table. I wish I could make you see yourself the way others do," she said as the coffee arrived.

She waited until we had been served and were alone before leaning forward and catching my eye.

"You have more raw talent, intuition, timing, and grasp of the essence of acting than that woman will ever have, and you are just discovering yourself.

"You have a stage presence when you step into a role that draws attention to you, even if you stand absolutely still and say nothing."

Being this close to one of the world's most successful and beautiful actresses was a little intimidating, but she was such a genuine and caring person. Right then, she didn't even wear a lick of makeup and was absolutely at ease with her hair caught in a messy bun, wearing sweatpants with a funky Star Wars T-shirt. Except it looked great on her, as even a burlap sack would.

"What I saw earlier when we rehearsed your lines for tomorrow, even while you were feeling out what direction you wanted to take with them, can't be bought or taught.

"The Druscilla's of this world robbed you of enough, and they do not matter. I've noticed that when you're out at the boma in the evening, you pretend you're invisible, hiding in plain sight, and it works. Why do you do it?" she asked, curious, serious, and concerned.

"I was teased because of the way I look," the words hurt as much as the memory, and the fire in her eyes surprised me.

"You are curvy, gorgeous inside and out. Yours may not be a traditional beauty, but you leave an impression on people. They remember you and want to know more about you when you don't try to disappear into the background.

"Don't let people from the past, who found you intimidating and could only compete with you by putting you down, determine the rest of your life."

She refused to let me look away or retreat from the truth.

"When I was younger, I stuttered. Did you know that? Still, do when I'm angry or my feelings are hurt. People teased me too."

This was not common knowledge and privileged information.

"I came from a dirt-poor family. Mom had three kids with a man she loved, and then he just collapsed one day, dead. Years later, she remarried, and Ben beat the fucking tar out of her.

The F-word made me blush, and for a second, she almost smirked at my discomfort but didn't.

"By the time I turned twelve, he had drunk himself into an early grave, and the vibrant woman from my childhood had become a shadow of her former self."

She paused, taking a thoughtful sip of coffee.

"Mom worked so hard, but because she left school in the tenth grade, or standard eight as it was called back then, she could only get menial jobs. Being a white woman with colored kids didn't do her any favors in that small town."

A sad smile tugged at her lips.

"Despite the lightness of our skin, people were mean, and not just the whites. Mom cleaned people's houses, but it was good, honest work, and she was great at it. Some days..." she hesitated, her posture tight as the memories played out in her mind.

"Some days," she started again, gaining control over the errant emotions, "we would only have enough bread that each of us could get a single slice, and she'd stay hungry so that we could eat."

Tears filled those intense blue-gray eyes.

"Desperate, Mom married Phil, and the town nearly had a conniption fit. Everyone knew it wasn't a love match. The farmer wanted a wife that knew the score and would understand that when he died, everything he owned would go to his nephew and niece, apart from a small cash sum for his wife.

"People called Mom a bought whore, and a gold digger. Although we suddenly had enough food and proper clothes, we were not children in Phil's house."

Her gaze darkened, a hardness edging her mouth and a tightness to her frame that required no explanation.

"We were servants that worked the farm for 'aalmoese.' Sorry, charity."

With shaking fingers, she finished her drink, replaced the cup, and pulled up her knees, resting her chin on them.

"Every day after school, we came home, put on our work clothes, and did our assigned chores. My brother was four years older than my sister and me, and he left the day he turned eighteen. Phil was livid. He thought my brother 'an ungrateful little shit' for throwing his 'kindness' back in his face."

Her grimace spoke volumes.

"Phil never allowed us to eat at the table with him and my mother, and we had our meals in the kitchen with the staff.

"With my brother gone, our workload increased. I wanted to leave school because it was all too much, but my mother wouldn't hear of it. When I got to the twelfth grade, or 'matriek' as we call it, a famous actress visited our little school.

"They were shooting a movie on a nearby farm, and we happened to be rehearsing Cinderella for a school play to raise money.

"The new teacher came from Johannesburg with her newly minted ideals and aspirations, and things were not going well. Especially not when she started spending hours each day helping me to speak normally because her mother was a speech therapist."

This felt like a television interview, except these details she never shared with anyone. It warmed my heart that she would tell me such private things, considering me a friend.

"That teacher changed my life, but the parents were in an uproar when she cast me as Cinderella. I was demoted to the fairy godmother because it was a private school, and I had a scholarship."

She smirked, glancing at me with her nose wrinkled, and for a second, I could almost see that twelve-year-old girl.

"The night of the play, the girl who was supposed to take the lead caught nerves, took a nip of something, and got hammered. In a panic, Mrs. Lewis shoved me onto the stage, and I froze. Unable to form a word until I heard her say something no one else had until that day; 'I believe in you.'"

"Suddenly, I was not Jeanette's little black crow. I was Cinderella; there was no crowd, just me in a world of my imagination filled with characters come to life.

"Marly Williams, the star of seventeen movies and two tv-series, gave us a standing ovation and had the producer of her movie cast me in a minor role. The rest is history."

Our eyes met, and there were tears in mine.

The petty little grievances of my life suddenly seemed so inconsequential. There was always food in our house. Mom never had to marry a man to give us a future, and I never had to watch her be beaten, humiliated, or reduced to a shadow of her former self.

"Today, Mercedes Benoit, I want to say that I believe in you, but for this to work, you must believe in yourself."

Her life story humbled me. She grew up hard, and I sometimes saw it in her eyes, an edge, a coldness that she had to overcome. It was both the heart of her heroines and the ice in her villains.

Could I really do this? She believed I could, but did I?

(version 2)