The Christmas Pic

1. Ava

CHAPTER 1

AVA

They call me the Grinch. Am I green and hairy with a general distaste for society? Perhaps the latter and, admittedly, hairy when I don’t feel like doing the dreaded full-body shave. But I’m definitely not green, either in the sense of color or inexperience. I am at the top of my game in the world of tech, and being a woman in this industry is no sleigh ride. As CEO of Gramsta, the biggest social platform on Earth–yes, Earth– I’m considered “unrelatable” to the general public. All the men at my level get to indulge in the world’s most elitist hobbies, like polo or yachting with Russian oligarchs, yet if I charter one little private jet to the Maldives so I can actually enjoy my holidays for once, I’m smeared across the press as a Christmas-hating eco-destroyer.

Eco-destroyer? I think not. Gramsta is supported by one hundred percent renewable energy. Christmas-hating… They might have one on me there.

Christmas and I, we have a history. My haters didn’t realize how apt a villain they chose to denigrate me with when they picked the Grinch. Believe it or not, I’m not the only person in this world who isn’t a fan of the holidays. We did a user poll and over thirty percent of those who voted would rather stay home than load up their cars for a week of hellacious travel to be surrounded by people they hardly know and hardly like.

Which is exactly why I created Gramsta’s AI Christmas Card Generator. All you do is upload pics of the people you want in your photo, then wham, bam, thank you person of unspecified gender–you’ve got yourself a hassle-free Christmas card. The AI might still be a little finicky, but it’s the best image generator on the market that absolutely no one is giving me due credit for. Yet.

Which is why I’m getting my nose powdered by a makeup artist on the set of a commercial my marketing crew has arranged for me. My team consists of pedants with an extravagant flare, and I’m usually here for it, but this set is far from my personal brand–typically professional, elegant. Today, we’re on a studio lot somewhere way too deep in the Valley for this Westside girl and the cramped honey wagon they’re making me up in is a long way from my perfectly curated executive office in Venice with killer views of the Pacific. Not to mention there’s no treadmill in sight–an absolute must-have for the moments when I need to get out of my head and on the move.

But for now, I’m stuck in this chair with Charlene, the makeup artist, gabbing away about the first assistant camera, who she clearly has a crush on, as she adds an ungodly amount of rouge to my cheeks.

That’s the thing with crushes: they distract you from doing your job at the top level required to run a Fortune 5 company (no, I did not stutter or miss two zeroes, thanks). Why would I take time out of my insanely busy schedule running a company I love to talk to strange men from the internet who want to mansplain my expertise back to me? Matchmakers don’t appeal either–I’ve fired enough headhunters to have a healthy disdain for people who think they can suss out a better match than me. All of my contradictory opinions on modern dating might give off red flags that I’m “too much” or “difficult,” and to that I say… No shit.

I gaze at my garishly rosy cheeks in the mirror.

“Can’t say I’ve ever looked this… cheery.”

“That’s what we’re going for!” Charlene chirps.

I’m trying to be kind, really, I am. But it’s difficult to see yourself staring back like one of those haunted Christmas composition dolls. Luckily, I keep my mouth shut long enough not to let that one slip. I have to work on what comes out of this yapper. I’m quick, but sometimes too quick for my own good. Most people can’t keep up, but that’s what it takes to be in my position. Lonely? Sometimes. But not always.

I breathe a sigh of relief as my assistant, Max, knocks on the door.

“We’re ready for you on set, Ava.” Max picks up their head from their tablet and recoils. “Oh dear god, what happened to your face?”

So it is as bad as I thought . The patriarchy makes even me doubt myself sometimes.

But Max, with their petite stature and unmatchable gusto, has been there for me for five long years. Longer than anyone else. As soon as this new product launches, we’re headed to the Maldives for our annual trip to free ourselves of the absolute chokehold All I Want For Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey has on every public space in this Santa-forsaken country. It’s the closest thing we have to a Christmas tradition.

“We can fix it in post. Let’s go.” Max closes the door behind us. I clear my throat and they know what to do.

Max peeks their head back in the honey wagon. “Oh, and, Charlene? You’re fired.”

Max escorts me across the lot. “Doing your dirty work is exhausting.”

“You’re only doing my excess dirty work, I’m up to my knees,” I tell them as we approach the set .

“Things are off to a rough start,” they say, “but remember why we’re here.”

I roll my eyes. “The Board is the last thing I need to hear about right now, Max.”

“I understand, but let’s think beyond this moment and about the future of Gramsta. You have so much innovating to do with this company, and for that we need their support.”

Max is my favorite person on this Earth who, at times, totally exasperates me with their even-keeled perspective. But they’re right. I have ideas galore on how to move the internet forward for the betterment of humanity, and unfortunately, that will also require involving the worst of humanity: old white men and their cash.

We approach the set and in front of us stands a cartoonish facade of a house, decked out in holly jolly maximalism.

“Talent is on set! Last looks!” the assistant director calls.

Max shoos away the wardrobe team and adjusts the collar on my cream-colored pantsuit. “You’re gonna kill it.”

“I know.”

I take my mark and read off the teleprompter, explaining the ingenuity of my Christmas Card Generator. Some of the crew trade glances over my spiel, probably because their minds are blown by the AI revolution they’re witnessing in this very room. People are busier than ever and I’m here to make their lives easy and obnoxious-family-free. You’re welcome.

“And… cut!” The director approaches me as I slide on my Dolce sunglasses, ready to put a bow on this shoot and get back to putting the final touches on the actual product. But she has other ideas, chirping, “Now let’s do another take with a heavy dose of Christmas spirit!”

I’ve already spent the better part of two years frosting my invention in Christmas to appease the masses and convince the Board to let me release the generator. The director might be doing her job, but she’s struck a nerve that’s already raw for me .

“I’ve doused this project in enough Christmas spirit to drown Rudolph,” I inform her coldly. “I’ve got places to be.”

But this director chick doesn’t want to back down, folding her arms at my rebuttal.

“One more take,” she presses, her voice raising enough to catch the crew’s attention. “We want the audience to feel like Ava Garcia-Greene is in their living room on Christmas morning, presenting the best gift imaginable to her loved ones. Think of warmth, coziness, togetherness. Family. ”

Now that this exchange is being observed by everyone on the lot, I refuse to be publicly condescended to about what my audience is meant to feel about the program I created.

“I don’t need to pander to anyone more than I already have with all of this Christmas garbage. This is the most prominent advancement in AI history under the guise of holiday cheer. Which I couldn't care less about. I care about my business.”

Max winces in my periphery. I sense the PAs whispering amongst themselves. Have fun gossiping about this at lunch later.

“But if we do it right,” the director insists, “this commercial could be good for your business–”

Any semblance of decorum I have left goes out the window. “I don’t need you to tell me what’s good for my business. I have enough people doing that already,” I snap, churlish as fuck.

She’s speechless, giving me and Max plenty of time to scoot to the black Caddy that pulls up to whisk me away from this North Pole hellhole.

In my mind, I’m not always a bitch. It’s just sometimes I have to do what it takes to protect myself. I’m a busy woman. Places to go, people to boss around, et cetera et cetera. I don’t have time to pretend I’m emotionally invested in this holiday.

Max opens the back door of my SUV. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the launch! Then after that, beautiful beaches with nary an ornament…”

“Nor snowmen, nor… ”

“Christmas carolers!” we exclaim together.

I slide into the backseat and am assaulted by the unmistakable sickly sweet scent of Fuji Apple Strawberry Nectarine. Materializing through a cloud of smoke is the beefy elder tech bro who runs my life.

“Jason, what the hell?” I hiss. My driving time is my sacred space, the time I can (maybe) take a breath and be alone. Of course a Board member would impede that.

“Thought I’d catch you the only way I know how,” he says, taking another puff of his vape. “I’m gonna keep the main thing the main thing. The Board is on the same page: you are on some slippery ice, my friend.”

I try hard not to totally dismiss his inarticulate blathering and mixed metaphors.

“We put some big bucks into this Christmas Card doohickey of yours, and if you continue to pull your typical little Ava ‘I don’t need to paint inside the lines’ stunts, we will pull the plug.”

“I’m not–” I start. He stares at me doubtfully.

Okay, so perhaps I am , but innovation should far outshine this bureaucratic bullshit.

“You can’t pull the plug, it’s coming out tomorrow,” I argue, cringing as he takes another hit.

“It doesn’t matter if it comes out tomorrow or in ten years,” he says, vape clouds whooshing out of his face hole. “The truth is, Ava, you don’t play the field. We need you to play the field.”

A laugh escapes my lips; he definitely means play the game, but how the hell could I play any sort of game with someone who doesn’t even understand basic idioms?

He stares at me like I’m proving his point. “It’s like I can hear what you’re thinking: ‘no male CEO would have to deal with this!’” His impersonation of me is misogyny at best. “And that may be true, but that’s life, kiddo. You got the raw end of the stick and you have to work with it. ”

The car slows.

“This is my stop!” He crawls over me and gets out.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I deadpan.

He shakes his head at me. “This generator needs to be a hit, Ava. And to make it a hit, you’ve got to do as you’re told.”

Before I can point out that the success of Gramsta is entirely owed to me not doing as I’m told, he slams the door.

All in a day’s work.