Chapter 5 The Backpack
Back at the bookstore, Polly had dinner waiting for Tasha, like clockwork.
Tonight’s feast? A steaming bowl of mac and cheese, a buttery roll, and a latte”borrowed” from the coffee shop next door. Polly was hunched over a tattered book, peering through a magnifying glass like she was hunting for buried treasure, when Tasha sauntered in. Polly’s face lit up like a Fourth of July sparkler.
“Hey, kid! You’re here! Check this out—what’s this beauty?”She grinned.
Tasha’s eyes popped. Polly was holding a faded canvas backpack, so retro it could’ve been her classmate.
Polly grinned ear to ear. “This was my son’s high school bag! Gave it a good wash and dry yesterday. You can’t keep toting stuff in a plastic bag—that’s just lame, girl!”
Tasha grabbed the backpack, giving it a quick feel. It was old, no question—complete with a neat side patch and a zipper that screamed “I’m new here.”
Sure, it wasn’t flashy, but it was sturdy, roomy, and clean as a whistle, with that fresh laundry scent.
Tasha had rocked plenty of hand-me-down backpacks before.
Her sisters’ or brother’s castoffs? Usually trash. Zippers jammed, straps shredded, or just plain gross.
Janice was all heart—for her younger kids. Tasha? Not so much. Her siblings got their stuff washed and fixed, but Tasha got nada. Janice’s favorite jab? “With your head in the clouds, Tasha, a backpack’s just for looks.”
Orson, their dad, was even less help. He only cared about keeping the bills low. With four kids eating up cash, any extra spent on “screw-up” Tasha sent him into a fit.
So Tasha patched and scrubbed her own gear, her clumsy stitches turning into lumpy messes. She’d hauled those stained, knotted bags to school, soaking up smirks and whispers.
Polly caught Tasha’s quiet vibe and started fussing. “Don’t knock it for being old, okay? Those bags on Main Street? Tiny and, like, forty bucks! Total rip-off.”
She rambled on, “Looks worn, but this thing’s tough as nails! Big enough for all your stuff when you’re out and about…” Polly trailed off, like she felt bad for offering such a scrappy bag.
“Polly,” Tasha looked up with a cheeky grin, “I’m totally into it. Thanks—this thing’s a game-changer.”
With that backpack as her new wingman, Tasha’s days just got a whole lot easier.
From that day, she settled into a simple groove, bouncing between two spots.
Days were spent hustling as an extra at the film studios.
Guard, maid, servant, soldier, crazed fangirl, the lead’s random buddy, or just some face in the crowd—she’d take any role, no questions asked. Lines or no lines, camera time or not, Tasha was down for it all.
On good days, she’d snag parts like a corpse, a weepy mourner, or a body sprawled in fake blood or a grimy puddle. Those gigs tossed her an extra two or three bucks.
While others whined about the “gross” or “bad juju” roles, Tasha dove in like a champ. Rain, shine, brutal heat, or soaking storms—she showed up, no fuss.
She acted like every role was her big break. Even for the tiniest, blink-and-you-miss-it parts, she gave it her all. Playing a background statue? Shoulders back, zero slacking.
Still, her paycheck stayed flat, and no hotshot director popped up to call her a diamond in the rough.
After wrapping, she’d park herself in a corner with a dog-eared book from the bookstore. Classics, the kind everyone’s heard of—some even on a kid’s summer reading list. But Tasha read like it was her job, soaking up every word.
When the day was done, she’d grab the crew’s lunches. Some were straight-up gross, others sketchy with stray hairs or even a rogue fly. Didn’t faze her. One box? Cool. Two? Bring it.
One time, another extra watched her pluck a massive, squirming praying mantis from her food. Tasha didn’t even blink—just flicked it away and demolished the whole box.
The extra’s jaw hit the floor.
Soon enough, the nickname “Trash Can” stuck. But here was the wild part: despite eating like a pro wrestler, Tasha didn’t gain an ounce. If anything, she got leaner.
After the studio, she’d hightail it to the bookstore, watching the shop while tearing through books. Classics, poetry, whatever was on the shelves—she read it all, no pickiness.
Those words sank deep, like they were carved into her brain, filling every empty space.
But it wasn’t enough. Not even close. Her soul was starving, her brain screaming non-stop,”Hey, I need more! Gimme knowledge!”
She could feel the gap between her brilliant mind and her spotty life experience. She had a genius-level brain, but it was like a library with half the books missing. Memories from her old life were sharpening, and—ugh—they were mostly a blank slate when it came to anything worthwhile.
The old Tasha? Just a chaotic nobody, hustling for bucks by playing the clown.
Every night, Tasha read until two or three a.m., only stopping when her system forced her to crash. She’d drag herself up at six to play an extra on set.
Yup, three or four hours of sleep, max. The rest of her time? Either blending into the background on set or tearing through books.
The system’s forced sleep was a lifesaver, keeping her mind and body from totally crumbling. It even tweaked her hormones to dull the burnout. But, real talk—Tasha was running herself ragged.
After her three daily meals, she’d gain about two kilos. She poured every bit into boosting her beauty stats via the system.
The changes were so subtle—two points a day—that nobody noticed her slow glow-up.
The system kept nagging her to trade some points for health. Tasha wasn’t listening. Knowledge, experience, and looks were her thing. Health? As long as she wasn’t dropping dead, she was fine.
Tasha didn’t bother chatting up the other extras. If they came to her, she’d be polite, but that was it. Over time, the gossip started. They called her stuck-up, a try-hard, one named it.
She worked hard, never slacked, and stayed sharp. Directors would toss her a “good job” now and then. But her lone-wolf vibe? Yeah, that made her no friends among the extras.
One day, Tasha was curled up in a corner with Jane Eyre when a shadow blocked her light.
She looked up to see Paige Lane, strutting in a flashy outfit and rocking stilettos that could double as weapons.
Paige was a big deal among the extras. She had the looks—way more than Tasha, who could disappear in a crowd.
While Tasha played corpses or stood around like a prop, Paige landed better gigs: maids with lines or prostitutes who got face time. Not exactly Oscar-worthy, but it beat the usual grind.
In the cutthroat world of showbiz, nobody messed with Paige. Everyone played nice, calling her “Miss Lane” with fake grins.
Tasha glanced up, her tone flat. “Hi, what’s up?”
“Well, well, Jane Eyre?” Paige smirked, snatching the book with her red-manicured fingers. “What is this, middle school homework? Didn’t take you for a book nerd.”
Tasha didn’t flinch. “Nerd? Who’re you talking about?”
“You, duh,” Paige said, throwing shade with a grin. “No lunch breaks, always reading after takes. What’s your deal? Secret genius or something?”
“Nope,” Tasha said, cool as ever. “Bombed my SATs. Just here to pay the bills.”
Paige froze, thrown off. She’d expected a comeback, not Tasha’s straight-up honesty. For once, she had nothing to say.
“So, can I have my book back?” Tasha asked, cool as ice.
“Whoops, didn’t mean to mess with your vibe!” Paige giggled, all fake charm. “Here.”
Tasha reached out, but Paige “slipped.” The book hit the floor with a loud thwack.
Tasha finally shot Paige a look.
Paige smirked, practically daring her to snap.
Tasha didn’t take the bait. She leaned down from her stool, grabbed the book like it was nothing, and flipped right back to her page.
Paige’s face went cherry-red.”What’s your deal?” she spat. “Think you’re hot stuff? Dream on, loser!”
Tasha didn’t even twitch.
“Strutting around like you’re somebody!” Paige sneered. “Sucking up like a try-hard! You’re the only extra here who cares this much. Ever seen a mirror?
“Keep acting, nobody! You’re going nowhere!”
Tasha turned another page.
Paige was fuming now. She stormed off, heels clacking like a machine gun.
The System, which had been watching the whole show, finally piped up. “Host, why’s she coming at you for no reason?”
Tasha flipped a page, answering in her head with a slow drawl. “You bragged about being the slickest system in your batch. Can’t figure this out?”
The System huffed. “My core’s top-notch, and I process like a champ. But human drama? Yeah, not my jam.”
Tasha didn’t bite. The System kept going. “You humans waste time on the dumbest stuff. Like, what was that? That girl’s little fit did her zero favors.”
Like her whole stunt just now.
“Wasting time, huh?” Tasha muttered.
She glanced at her book, open to a worn page in Jane Eyre.
Softly, she read, “Because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense of mortification.”
The System paused, then chimed in, “Chapter 21, Jane Eyre. What’s this gotta do with us talking?”
Tasha flashed a cheeky grin. “Well, damn, System. You’re quick, but you’re totally blind as a bat and clueless about people.”
The System’s tone went cold. “I’m just a bunch of data vibes, but my ‘eyes’ can scan your whole world in a split second. Way sharper than yours.”
Tasha giggled softly. “My bad.”
Her quick sorry left the System stumped, totally blank on a comeback.
Tasha flipped a page, smirking. “Alright, I’ll stop screwing with you.”
“So, Paige? She’s shacked up with Mark Moss, the director’s assistant. He worked some magic to get her a role as a weepy maid in this show.
“She’s the heroine’s sister. Only in episode one, but it’s a bigger gig than Paige usually scores.
“Then, at showtime, the director spots her red nails. A laundry maid with a fresh mani? Get outta here.
“Even for a low-budget web series, that’s a rookie move.”
“The director reamed her out and swapped her for—get this—her nemesis, Jessie Stone. Those two hate each other’s guts.”
The System cut in, “Director didn’t pick you, so why’s she coming for you?”
Tasha shrugged. “Two scenes later, I’m a background maid. Stood straight, owned it. Director passes by and says, ‘That’s the real deal. Not like those jokers who don’t know their role.’
“She won’t touch Jessie, so I’m her punching bag.”
The System went quiet. “So, humans just pick on the weak and… what, take out their crap on them?”
“Uh, sort of,” Tasha said with a laugh. “But yo, how’d you miss the director tearing into her? I saw it clear as day.”
The System sounded smug. “I’m your System, Host. I don’t waste time on nobodies unless you say so.”
Tasha mumbled, “Okay, that’s pretty dope.”
The System felt like it just leveled up in human drama.
Tasha glanced at her book, reading softly, “I was pissed… and I swore I’d beat her.”
She snapped the book shut with a grin and bounced off to grab her lunch.
*****
The afternoon shoot was in full swing. Paige, always one to bounce back, had lost her morning role but somehow—thanks to Mark’s shady maneuvering—scored a new part as a maid.
This maid? Total redshirt. She was snooping on a cabinet top, found the villain’s dirty secret, and bam—he caught her, strangled her, and staged it as a suicide.
Problem was, Paige was short. Like, painfully short. Heels gave her a bit of a boost, but even standing on a stool, she was still stretching like crazy to reach that darn cabinet.
The stool was a fixed prop—no swapping it out.
Mark, seeing no one was watching, groaned. “Why’d you push for this gig? You know you’re pint-sized. The last maid was way taller, perfect for it. And I screwed up and told her to bounce.”
Paige’s face went cherry-red, but she bit her tongue.
Mark kept griping. “Director’s gonna tear me apart. Just ditch it, Paige.”
Paige was sweating, terrified she’d lose this role too. The director wasn’t here yet—still time to fix this.
She glanced around and spotted a thick book on a chair outside the set. Score. She darted over and grabbed it.
Mark raised an eyebrow. “Jane Eyre? Whose is that?”
“Some extra’s,” Paige said, eyes gleaming. “She’s off playing background in another shot. I’ll borrow it, stand on it, tiptoe a bit—boom, I’m tall enough.”
Mark hesitated. “If the camera catches that book, we’re screwed.”
“My skirt’s long—it’ll hide it,” Paige shot back, grinning. “No one’s seeing jack.” She barely glanced at the book, just plopped it on the stool with a snicker.
The director was due any second, so Mark let it go. He lined up the shot, and they were set.
The scene was low-stakes, and the crew was still groggy from lunch, barely awake. The director waved lazily, not really caring.
Paige stepped onto the book, feeling like a mastermind. She’d fixed her height issue and got to mess with Tasha’s stuff. Double win.
“Action!”Cameras rolled.
Paige stretched, tiptoeing for the cabinet.
The prop was right there, but Paige wanted to trash Tasha’s book. She faked struggling, scraping her muddy shoes all over the cover, then ground her heel in for good measure.
Crack! The book buckled. Paige slipped, and thwack—she hit the floor hard.
“What the hell?” The half-asleep director snapped awake. “You idiot! What, you grease your shoes?”
Paige’s butt felt like it’d split in two. She stared at the book, stunned.
It was a hardcover, looked solid, but the cover was hanging on by a flimsy plastic strip.
It held up when she grabbed it, but her petty shoe-grinding tore it loose, sending her crashing.
Paige gaped at the book, outdone by her own scheme.
The director clocked her as the maid he’d kicked out that morning and lost his cool. “You again? What, you haunting me? Beat it!”
Even a nothing scene like this was turning into a total mess. ‘What a drag!’ the director thought.
He whirled on Mark, barking, “Stop shoving your shady pals into my crew! Try that again, and you’re toast!”
Mark shrank back like a scared mouse, not making a sound.
Paige stood there, frozen, until the director waved a hand. Two beefy guards half-dragged her off set.
She wasn’t hurt—the stool was low, just a slight sting. The director didn’t care, just snapped, “Where’s the real actress?”
“Right here!”Rosa Sherman, a tall actress in costume, jogged up, huffing. “Sorry, got stuck.”
The director was steamed but held it together to keep things moving. “Just go!”
Rosa, late or not, was ready. She tucked Jane Eyre—cover and all—into a corner out of the camera’s reach and hopped onto the stool.
She crushed the scene like a pro, and it wrapped smoothly. The director chilled out a bit, even tossing her a “Good job.”
After, Rosa grabbed the book and weaved through the set until her eyes lit up in a quiet corner.
“Hey, Tasha!”she called out.
Tasha was kicking back on a stool, munching a boxed lunch. She gave a shy grin. “Hi, Rosa.”
Rosa bounced over, handing her the book. “Here’s your baby.”
“Thanks.” Tasha set her food down, noticing the cover was taped up neat.
“Fixed it and wiped it down,” Rosa said, grabbing a stool to sit with her.
“Thanks!” Tasha flashed a grin, doubling up on the thanks.
“Nah, I owe you,” Rosa said, relieved. “You saved my butt, tipping me off about the shoot and lending me your costume when mine vanished.”
“Good thing all the maid outfits look the same,” Tasha said, setting the book aside and digging back into her lunch.
“And the second AD didn’t chew you out for not having yours?”
Tasha swallowed some rice. “I showed up crazy late—by then, they’d already shot the background maid bit. Didn’t need me.”
“What? And he didn’t flip?”
Tasha hesitated. “I said I overheard your call with Mark at lunch. He said the shoot got pushed to three, so I thought our scene did too.”
She glanced at Rosa, nervous. “You’re not mad, right?”
Rosa blinked, recalling Tasha was nearby during that lunch call.
Tasha had her back, so a little fib to dodge the second AD? No biggie. Rosa shrugged it off.
“So he just let it slide?” Rosa asked.
Tasha nodded, all innocent. “He and Mark are tight, so maybe he gave me a pass for Mark’s sake.”
Rosa snorted. “Figures—those two are like peas in a pod.”
Tasha nibbled her spoon. “That scene was whatever anyway. Just a background maid thing—nobody cares if you’re there or not.”
She added, “Your scene, though? Big deal. Can you believe Mark botched the call time? So lame. Lucky I saw the crew setting up when I hit the bathroom.”
“Lame? That guy’s too into his job,” Rosa growled. “All for his little side chick—”
“Side chick?” Tasha looked lost.
Rosa shot her a look, half-exasperated, half-laughing. “Tasha, you gotta wise up! You’re, like, prime bait for a con, and you’d probably thank the guy!”
“Con me? I’m broke—what’s to steal?” Tasha asked, curious.
“Whatever,” Rosa said, waving it off. “You won’t get it. Just stick with me, kid, and keep your eyes peeled.”
Tasha grinned. “Thanks, Rosa.”
Rosa was a big deal among the extras, with connections that gave her some serious credit. She was right up there with Paige, no question.
“Well, talk about karma biting back!” Rosa said, glancing at innocent Tasha before catching herself. “Anyway, she had it coming. Too clumsy to handle a stool, and down she goes! Just a bummer your book got trashed under her sweaty feet.”
“Ugh, yeah,” Tasha groaned. “It’s a used book I borrowed from the bookstore. Now I gotta cough up cash to replace it.”
Rosa waved her off. “Psh, I got you! I’ll cover the book. You lost out on today’s pay because of me, and now this? No way that’s fair.”
Tasha beamed. “You’re the best, Rosa!”
Rosa slipped her a few bucks and took off. Tasha scarfed down her takeout, shoved the book in her backpack, and hummed her way to the bookstore.
Her singing was a total trainwreck, like she was butchering a song for sport. The System endured it quietly, thinking it was worse than its own dull, mandatory speeches.
At the bookstore, Tasha shuffled in, giving Polly a sheepish look. “Hey, Polly, that Jane Eyre? Kinda got wrecked on set. I’ll pay for it.”
“How bad is it?” Polly asked, popping on her glasses. “Let me take a peek.”
Tasha shook her head. “No need. I made some decent cash today, so I’ll cover it. Plus, I kinda want to keep it—like I’m buying it, you know?”
Polly sighed. “Honey, why go for used books when you could grab a new one? Money doesn’t just fall from the sky.”
She knew Tasha’s sweet vibe masked a stubborn streak a mile wide. No point arguing. So, Polly let it slide.
Her memory was still sharp as ever. “That book was basically brand-new,” she mumbled, thinking back. “Now, how much did I pay for it?”
