The Christmas Pic

3. Ava

CHAPTER 3

AVA

When I say I walk through the doors of Gramsta HQ like I own the place, it’s admittedly an understatement. I saunter past poster-size magazine covers of my face, from Forbes 30 Under 30 to Rolling Stone ’s ‘Next Steve Jobs.’ Also decorating the sleek entry is my ‘ Next Wicked Witch of the West’ People cover. I put this up in the lobby alongside my biggest successes, since I firmly believe life is all about an ironically spiteful laugh in the face of your enemies. Plus, I look good in green.

You wouldn’t believe that the year before People named me Boss Bitch of the Year. The haters over at that celeb gossip shitshow went in on me because I wouldn’t bend to their will and give them the Gramsta handle they wanted. Boo-hoo, bitch. Haven’t you learned that you don’t always get what you want in life, Wendy? The so-called editor had her Photoshop lackeys turn my face green, sparking the Grinch nickname, and hasn’t called Max for a comment since. But I digress.

Sure, I have my Board that I have to answer to, but really, I run this ship. I’ve never liked things being out of my control, because when they’re in my hands, they’ll be done the right way. I don’t know what it’s like to be normal, but god it feels good to always be right .

I stride into the office on my high horse–a practice not just for show, but a ritual that’s almost as life-giving as the espresso waiting for me in Max’s hands. Building this company from the ground up, I recognize the power of an entrance. Clad in a sharply tailored suit, red-bottoms, and hair pulled back into a slick no-nonsense bun, I embody the force I’ve fought to become as I stomp in–later than I should on a launch day. I’ve earned it, though. My employees, a mix of tech nerds and suits, still pause to watch the spectacle as I breeze past their desks at the start of each day.

But this morning is different. Usually no one looks me in the eye out of fear, but today, they’re avoiding me in a much different way.

Max rounds a corner and spots me, greeting me at the foot of the gorgeous custom glass staircase with my morning venti quad shot–yes, Pedro Pascal and I have the same order, and yes , I did learn that from the same People issue I graced the cover of. I take a long sip as Max waits to let something spill. They know better than to speak before I have my first hit of the caffeine good-good, but I can tell something is off.

“Spit it out,” I say after I come up for air. Their eyes go wide. I haven’t seen Max act this hesitant in front of me in years, not since we had our heart-to-heart about their transition, which I accepted with open arms. I’ve been accused of being cunty at times, but hating people for being themselves is where I draw the line. Unless they suck, then hate away.

Max gulps and squeaks out what they can muster. “There’s been, uh… some feedback on the new launch.”

“We don’t listen to the Board.” I brush them off as I head up the stairs to my office overlooking all my scurrying minions.

“It’s not only the Board,” Max says. “It’s… worse.”

Up in my office, Max trembles as they hand over their phone. It’s open to Gramsta’s comment section on the Christmas Card Generator launch post .

“Ava Garcia-Greene is like if Scrooge and the Grinch had a baby,” I read, droll. “This is what you wanted me to see? The internet being the internet?” I continue to scroll past hateful comments, including one from Wendy–something about her utter distaste for me, blah blah blah. Unfortunately when you invent the means with which hate is dispersed, it opens you up to more of it. I wouldn’t say I’ve gotten used to it, per se, but it’s been affecting me less as the years go by.

“No, this is much, much worse.” Max pulls up backend numbers. “#GoodbyeGramsta is trending like crazy.”

“They’ll be back and we’ll recover before the week is done. We always do.”

But Max grows more anxious. “Some comments from the commercial set leaked,” they blurt out.

“That director? So much for women helping women,” I yawn. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not the villain here; I’m too busy busting my ass through the glass ceiling to engage in petty bullshit.

“One of the PAs…” Max pulls up a video of me on set talking to the director about Christmas being garbage. I watch myself go in on her. Sure, it’s not my best look, but it’s nothing to lose our collective minds over. I hop onto my in-office treadmill to think through our plan of action.

“Everyone thinks you hate Christmas and they’re saying the generator is soulless,” Max stresses.

“Well, they’re right: I do hate Christmas and the generator does not have a soul. None of us do. Show me one peer-reviewed study on the existence of a soul .”

“Ava! They’re gonna burn the place down!”

“ Pfft. ”

“You think I’m kidding?” Max shouts, frantically flipping through windows on their phone. “And I quote, ‘Burn the godless corporate scions profiting off of our beloved holiday!’ ”

“Clearly that person didn’t do their research,” I say. “I’m definitely not a descendant of wealth.”

“That’s besides the point, Ava. They’re boycotting the app completely!” Max hands me their phone, open to a user summary of the generator.

“Over 500 million uses in twenty-four hours? Some boycott,” I snort. “That’s double our projections for day one.”

Max points to the screen. “That is a decimal.”

Five million . A measly five million. The worst performance of any launch I’ve ever had. I grasped that people hated AI images, but I thought that was because they were shitty–adequate at a glance, but disintegrating the moment you zoomed in on any detail. I thought the masses would be grateful for my unprecedented advancement. I thought they would thank me.

“The Board is calling it a crisis–PR, financial, you name it. Jason called a few minutes ago. They have some emphatic suggestions on how to fix this.”

“You can call them what they are: commands,” I snip, accelerating the treadmill to 4.4, entirely too fast for these Louboutins. If anyone should dictate how to guide this ship back on course, it’s me. All the Board does is lounge on their piles of Daddy’s money, spouting the most elementary buzzwords imaginable–from 'hashtag' to 'handle'–as if they're profound insights. I started Gramsta from my middle school computer lab, armed with nothing but sebaceous hyperplasia and a dream. I transformed what could have been a simple photo app into the multibillion-dollar corporation it is today. The idea that my all-male Board, a necessity when funding a startup in 2008, understands better than I do how to navigate a crisis is rich. And not the kind of rich I’ve made them.

“They say you need to prove to the public that you don't only talk the talk, but that you walk the walk.”

“Shocking that Jason nailed an idiom for once,” I sneer, beep beep beep -ing the treadmill even higher. “I would be able to fully walk my walk if they hadn’t pigeonholed my literally groundbreaking AI photo generator into being a Christmas gimmick in the first place!”

Max sighs heavily. “On the topic of Christmas… that’s your cut-off. Jason’s adamant about not dragging this into Q1.”

“But tomorrow–”

“I know–”

I screech like a banshee. “They can’t take away my Maldives!”

Buzz buzz. My SyncCircle ring warns me of my accelerated heart rate, but I ignore it, pushing the treadmill faster.

“Ava, be–”

“You’ve been here this whole time. You’ve seen what I’ve done! For them! For this company!”

“It’s true–”

“You’ve walked the walk with me!”

“I have–”

“You’ve seen me do nothing but walk!”

Beep beep.

“The!”

Beep beep beep.

“Walk!”

“Ava, stop!”

Sometimes I should listen to Max, but that would bruise the ol’ ego, probably even worse than it was contused post-treadmill rage-walk tumble. Not that I can’t get another custom-tailored pair, but a snapped $6,000 heel is never a good way to start the day. Still on the ground, I elevate my leg with a nearby stack of Tech Times as Max rushes in with an ice pack. The patriarchy can’t get me down, but a sprained ankle might.

“Ava….” Max bends down, trying to force eye contact. They’re getting sentimental again, my least favorite Max trait. Wh ile I admit I need an emotional being in my life, it still gives me the heebie-jeebies to see an over-salinated peeper peering into my personage.

“What now?” I groan.

“It’s just…” they take a deep breath. “You’ve had some important people in your life fail you.”

“Max, we don’t need to go all Psychology Today –”

“But you’re not them, Ava. You’ll never fail yourself.”

“Sure, but–”

Max stands, emboldened. “If there’s one thing about Ava Garcia-Greene it’s that, out of anyone on this planet, she’s got this. She talks some dang good talk, and she will walk that flippin’–”

“MAX!”

They realize I’m still on the ground. “So sorry.”

They help me up into my bespoke leather executive chair, propping my swelling ankle onto my desk. “You’ve gotta stop apologizing,” I reply with a wince.

“Right, sorr–I mean, no, I mean…”

“My apology, however.” I refocus. “What do they want? Me to beg for the public’s forgiveness on my story? A grid post? God forbid… an extended multi-platform plea for the planet’s pardon?” I hate giving the competitors any of my heat, even if it’s for the good of Gramsta.

“Er… worse,” Max struggles. “Jason said those things haven’t worked in the past, so the Board wants you to be held publicly accountable their way or… you have to resign.”

My jaw drops. “Resign?!” The Board has pushed my buttons before, but they’ve never threatened anything like this. They supported this app with their whole dicks. They’ve never postured their power in a way to intimidate me out of my own company. It’s preposterous.

And that’s how I know it’s serious. I don’t play their games, but sometimes to stay in power, you must bend to the whims of… gag… men.

I sink further down into the made-to-order leather and roll my eyes. I exhale a big shhhhhh through my teeth, like my mental coach taught me.

“Fine. What’s their way?”

Max doesn’t have to say a word because their reluctant face says it all. I instantly realize where I’m headed.

Not again.