Chapter 20
There was this popular saying–actors fall into two categories. Some were naturally gifted, and others worked their way up. The former were born with artistic instincts and an instinct for performance. Put them in front of a camera, and they would blend into the role like it was second nature.
Honestly though, that kind of talk usually came from outsiders. Even the most talented actor, without proper guidance and enough practice, would be just as clueless in front of a camera as a well–dressed chimp.
This had nothing to do with talent. It was like a baby born with a gift for math but raised in total isolation, couldn’t read, couldn’t write–no way that kid was turning into a genius.
No matter how rough things were for Tasha in her old life as a comedy actress–how hard she worked or how much people laughed at her–those years on set gave her solid experience. Because she lacked natural talent, she worked twice as hard. She practiced in a mechanical, repetitive way until every move on camera became second nature, burned into every inch of her skin.
The second Leonard called “action,” Tasha would know exactly where to stand. The moment the scene partner made a move, she’d pick it up right away. She knew when to shine and when to step back, knew which expressions brought emotion without stealing focus.
None of that could be mastered overnight. Screaming at home wasn’t the same as stepping into the role of a queen on a real set, with eyes watching from every direction. Same craft–completely different world. From the day acting was born, it had always been an art that demanded time and dedication.
Truthfully, among all the actresses around Tasha’s age, unless they were child stars, no one had more acting experience than
her.
All that muscle memory had long since settled in. Even if Tasha tried to come off as average, to Leonard, the moment she stood there–no costume, no props–she already looked like a maid.
Tasha opened her mouth, and a worried servant came alive. She lifted her eyes, and Leonard felt like he had become the airheaded beauty from the script. She was an actor who could fall into character just seconds after flipping open the script!
And on top of that, Tasha’s accent was clear and neutral, her enunciation sharp, every line hit the right tone and emphasis. Her looks might not be stunning, but her posture was upright, her movements graceful. All those little things most people ignored–directors noticed, and they added points.
Sure, Leonard might’ve lost his mind trying to one–up his mentor, but he wasn’t completely nuts. Any actor with real skills protected their reputation. Leonard knew this was his first time directing and everything was thrown together last minute. He wouldn’t have a solid crew. That much was clear.
So Leonard had already dropped his standards. Fame and status didn’t matter. In this industry, no actress looked that bad anyway. As long as they could act, that was enough.
To be honest, this whole casting process had been a rush job. Finding someone this good by accident–Leonard was honestly shocked.
Tasha’s idea of “average performance” and what Leonard thought of as “performance” were two totally different things.
‘Angelica seems reliable enough,’ Leonard thought. ‘Yeah, maybe she’s not drop–dead gorgeous, but since when does a maid have to be breathtaking?‘ After seeing a whole lineup of actresses with faces that looked like they were glued together in the dark, finally finding someone who looked the part was a relief.
Tasha gave the perfect expression of surprise, and said, “Thank you, Director! Should I go pick up the script now?”
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Leonard spun the pen in his hand and waved it off. “Nah. Go next door and get in touch with Brian. He’ll let you know when it’s time.”
Honestly, Tasha had her doubts. She figured Leonard probably didn’t even have a full script right now–maybe not even one full episode.
Still cursing him silently, Tasha thanked him again and walked out.
Brian turned out to be the yawning assistant she’d talked to on the phone. When she went over to chat, Tasha noticed a paper signup sheet on the table in front of him with three or four names scribbled down. Ember’s name was on it too.
“That should be the full result of Leonard’s casting day, Tasha thought. ‘Based on the number of people who auditioned, the selection rate is actually pretty high.‘
Tasha tried to make small talk with Brian, hoping to find out whether the project was Story in the Palace. But that went nowhere. Finally, Tasha realized–this drama might not even have an official name yet!
Leonard really had lost it. That was the thing with writers–you messed with them, and they’d get back at you. No matter what, even if they had to make something out of nothing.
Tasha told Angelica she got the part and sincerely thanked her for the recommendation. Even though the WhatsApp she added was probably just Angelica’s work account–and Angelica might not even see her message–Tasha still had to show proper respect.
Getting a role without even knowing what the script was about–that was a first for Tasha.
Tasha honestly couldn’t remember what kind of role the maid in that ten–year–old show had. Judging from the lines, Martha seemed to have a bit of a brain. Probably not just a throwaway part.
Tasha did vaguely remember Ember’s character, though. She had a decent amount of screen time. Since her paycheck was 30 thousand dollars, Tasha figured she’d probably be getting somewhere between 2 thousand dollars and three thousand dollars–before taxes, of course.
No matter how much, it was still imaginary money for now. Tasha was still broke, with less than one thousand dollars in her
name.
Tasha glanced at the sky. It was getting late. No background work today–might as well go grab a bite.
Tasha found a seat at a diner near the film lot and treated herself to a plate of glazed pork belly–fatty, shiny, and swimming in sweet sauce. A small reward for scoring her first non–background role.
‘Whether Story in the Palace is plagiarized is still a big question mark. Everything that happened today feels off. But food comes first. Always, Tasha thought.
The pork belly glistened under the light, glossy with caramelized sauce and practically glowing. Tasha picked up a piece and popped it into her mouth. The flavor was rich, the meat springy and tender.
While chewing slowly, Tasha replayed the audition in her head. The moment she spoke Martha’s lines, Leonard jumped right in, reciting the next part without even blinking. No pause, no hesitation, no stumble.
Tasha had picked that role completely at random. The odds that Leonard flipped to the exact same page were close to zero. Besides, she could tell he hadn’t even looked at the script–he said the lines off the cuff.
Sure, a director being familiar with the script was normal. But being this familiar? Tasha had rarely seen someone recite the entire thing like they memorized it in their sleep–even among film directors working with short screenplays.
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Tasha wondered, “This drama is supposedly whipped up in three months, still doesn’t even have an official title, yet the director can quote it line for line… How does that make sense?‘
Thinking this, Tasha grabbed another piece of meat, perfectly stewed and full of flavor, and chewed slowly.
Suddenly, a thought popped into her head. Tasha thought, ‘What if… this script has been written long ago? Or–what if Leonard’s the original writer?
“What if this whole thing had been his idea from the start?
20
‘Wait a second. Who even writes the script for Memories in the Palace? That plagiarism scandal in my last life was huge, but I never once heard the screenwriter’s name.‘
.
“Hey, can I get the mac and cheese? Thanks,” Tasha called out.
“Sure thing! Big or small?” the owner replied cheerfully.
“Big one,” Tasha said, setting her fork down. She pulled out her charger and plugged her Renxo phone into the outlet by the table.
Then Tasha started searching things like [Memories in the Palace screenwriter] and [Who wrote the script for Memories in the Palace].
The production team had claimed it was the blood, sweat, and tears of over a dozen writers. But that kind of talk only fooled the public. Anyone in the industry knew better. A drama was a complete work; the script was its foundation. With too many people involved, it just turned into a mutant.
Tasha had once read a story in a picture book. A mother collected leftover pantry goods–old brown rice, wild rice, broken grains, and even instant rice packets–to donate to the school lunch program so her son could eat and study. But when the cafeteria manager saw the mismatched mix, he got furious. “You can’t cook this kind of rice! It’ll clog the machine!”
Writing a script worked the same way. Tossing a dozen writers into one pot–of course it would get burnt.
It wasn’t hard to guess why the production used that kind of spin. Among those dozen writers, there was definitely one who held more power, maybe even oversaw the whole thing. And that person? Probably not that impressive, either in experience
or actual skill.
Memories in the Palace was a major project. Tasha figured the budget had to be at least 70 million dollars. With that kind of investment, everybody was under pressure.
If it exploded in popularity, everyone would win. That lead writer could come forward, ride the wave, even brand themselves into a new Leonard if they played it right.
But if it flopped–which was rare, but possible–someone had to take the fall. That same lead writer could just blend into the crowd, pretend to be innocent, and let the other nameless writers take the hit.
Tasha thought, ‘A sweet gig like that definitely requires the director’s blessing. So who the hell has the pull to get Manuel onboard like that?’
Tasha got nowhere with her searches. The mac and cheese arrived. She gave up for now and focused on eating.
Suddenly, someone sat down across from her, silent, watching. “You still eat like a champ.”
The second Tasha saw who it was, her appetite dropped by half. She said, “What, gathering material at the diner now?”
Elena sighed. “You think writers don’t have anything better to do than gather material?”
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Tasha frowned, set her fork down. “You trying to bum a meal?”
Elena wrinkled her nose at the glazed pork belly. “Relax. I’m not here to fight you for it. I don’t eat meat.”
‘Even if you did, there’s no way you’d be getting any, Tasha muttered.
Elena kept going like she hadn’t noticed. “My place is nearby. I come here sometimes”
Tasha did a quick mental check of the property prices in this neighborhood and nearly choked. She murmured, ‘She’s made that much money from writing? In both her past and present life, I’ve never even heard of Elena as a writer. Polly’s bookstore doesn’t carry her books either. Maybe she used a pen name?‘
“Running into you today was just a coincidence,” Elena added.
Tasha nodded half–heartedly and kept eating. Her eating style wasn’t exactly crude, but definitely far from graceful.
Elena couldn’t help but comment. “Can you at least try to be a little more mindful?”
“Mindful of what?” Tasha looked genuinely confused. “If this is offending your sensibilities, please walk right out the door.”
Elena paused. “You’ve really changed. You’re not the same as before.”
Back in middle school, Tasha had been naïve and kind to a fault. Even after Elena hurt her, she hadn’t held a grudge. She just never spoke to her again.
Now? Every word out of Tasha’s mouth had bite. Elena didn’t know how to deal with it.
Tasha suddenly asked, “If I’ve changed so much, how’d you even recognize me?”
Tasha figured her current self looked nothing like the girl from middle school. Even her own mom, Janice, probably wouldn’t recognize her if she walked by.
Elena hesitated and replied, “Even though you look totally different from three years ago… I’ve always had this habit. I don’t recognize people by their face. I look for details.”
Most artists and writers had quirks. Elena was no exception. People often said she was good at writing characters, probably because she liked to study real–life details.
“Details?” Tasha repeated softly. “What kind of details?”
Elena pointed at a spot on Tasha’s arm from across the table. “You’ve got two thin scars there that make an X shape.”
Tasha subconsciously touched the spot. The scars had come from her little brother, Wesley, when he was playing with a newly sharpened pencil.
She was supposed to help watch him. Wesley stabbed her once, and she’d tried to back away, but he had threatened to tattle, saying she was bullying him.
Tasha had been young too and scared of getting in trouble, so even though it hurt like hell, she stayed still and let him do it again.
“That kind of scar is super rare. I’ve only ever seen it on you. Once I guessed it was you, I looked at your face again and noticed the resemblance,” Elena said.
“Got it,” Tasha said, dropping her hand and digging back into her pork belly.
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Elena tried to stop the conversation from dying. “What about me? Why didn’t you recognize me? It’s only been three years- you couldn’t have forgotten already.”
Tasha’s fork paused. She thought, ‘How am I supposed to explain that even though it has only been three years for her, in my mind, our last meeting was fifteen years ago?”
Tasha answered vaguely, “You’ve changed a lot too. You’re prettier than you were in middle school.”
That part was true. If Elena had been a flower bud back then, now she was a fully bloomed moonflower–dark, elegant, and in her prime.
Elena’s expression twitched. After a long pause, she said, “I don’t think that’s a real answer.”
Tasha gave up trying to play nice. She said, “Think what you want. Just say I’m dumb and bad with faces.”
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