A tiny frown pulled at my brows as I stared in the mirror. This was not an outfit I would buy, and the makeup version of me looked so different from the one I saw in the mirror each morning.
"Oh, you look so cute!" Sherise gushed. My best friend and cheerleader thought it her personal mission to make me feel better about myself.
"If you stick a gold ring in a pig's snout, it would still be a pig," I said, and she looked taken aback.
"When will you stop seeing yourself through the lens of those bullies? You're gorgeous just the way you are. We were not all made to look the same."
Sherise had never gotten mad at the way I derided myself before.
"Mercedes?! Did you send those flowers yet?" Mirelly asked, peeking around the door, and today, I didn't quite have the energy for her displeasure.
"Yes, and wrote a pretty note."
I got off the chair, not used to wearing a skirt, and pulled at it to get it back into place so I wouldn't flash anyone. The options were limited, and there was no way I would squeeze into any of the other wardrobe outfits Bonita, the stylist, chose.
"Then get out here; Mr. Porter wants you to make some notes." Predictably, she walked away without waiting.
Unused to wearing heels and not wanting to face-plant, I followed at a more sedate pace.
Glancing down, I pulled at the blouse a little. That bra pushed my cleavage into the stratosphere, making me uncomfortable, but Sherise teased me mercilessly for being a prude and I caved.
How proud would Mother be to see me in a dress and actually looking like a woman? We didn't have the same build, and she wasn't ashamed of her body or afraid to dress nicely.
She often told me I looked like a boy, but I preferred slacks and loose, flowing blouses at work that didn't draw attention to my flab. At home, I happily chose T-shirts and jeans or sweatpants.
***
Grabbing a pen and paper from the office, I headed to the set. Harris often asked me to make notes of his conversations with the actors so he could refer to them. So, it wasn't odd for me to be on set, and I needed no explanation.
"Bloody hell, Druscilla, get your head in the game," Harris said coldly, and that tone of voice warned me this would be a long day.
I settled on the chair closest to his, which proved difficult with the narrow skirt.
"From the top, do it again," he ordered, walking in my direction with clipped strides of those black dress shoes he always wore with perfectly pressed black dress pants, a formal white shirt, a gray cardigan, and a tie.
If the silver streaks in his gray hair didn't make him look so distinguished, and he wasn't still so handsome in his late fifties, he'd look like a schoolteacher. Instead, he looked like a gracefully aging soap actor.
Our eyes briefly met, and the frown touching those dark brows said he had a busy morning, and my absence was noted.
The stagehands reset the scene as he sat and drank water from a bottle I handed him.
"Did you resolve your family issues?" he asked unexpectedly, sounding less stern than he looked.
"Yes, sir," I answered, expecting a reprimand, but he was too preoccupied.
***
About forty minutes later, I understood and shared his frustration.
"Druscilla!" Harris thundered, making me jump.
YOU ARE READING
The Ugly Duckling (Excerpt)
Romance(Available on Amazon under Cristal Sieberhagen) I am Mercedes Benson, and if I must be honest with you, my life has been no great adventure. There have been ups and downs, but who doesn't have those? Do I have Mommy issues? Sure. Have I learned to "...
