The Christmas Pic

11. Ava

CHAPTER 11

AVA

Max pulls the rental car up to The Photo Truck, parked at yet another intersection of Gay and Christmas. Jo and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot yesterday, but I’m here to do a job: repair my image.

Which is precisely what Max and I were berated about on a six a.m. wake-up call this morning from Jason, who already caught wind of those second-rate pap shots of me spilling coffee on Jo. Huffing through his pre-sunrise CrossFit session in LA, he spewed a jumble of idioms about thin ice and striking hot irons. My desperation to get him off the phone overrode self-preservation and I found myself agreeing to get a head start on smoothing things over.

I’ve got to speak with Jo, move us past any bad blood, and make sure everything we capture for the Board and Aspen is as gay and harmonious as Harmony Springs itself.

“Looks even worse up close,” I say, examining the truck’s peeling exterior.

“It’s… charming!” Max attempts.

I pull my sunnies down the bridge of my nose and shoot them a glare.

“Charmingly hideous,” they amend .

I push my sunglasses back up, knowing I was correct in my assessment. Not that it brings me great joy when someone else’s business is tragic, but the thrill of being right never gets old.

“May I make one suggestion?” Max peeps, as soon as I’m about to step out.

I raise an eyebrow–permission granted.

Max holds out a Gramsta-branded tee. I stare at the shirt in their hands. I highly doubt Jo is going to want anything to do with this peace offering, but it’s more than I thought to bring.

I take it. “Wait here.”

I get out of the car and make my way to the side door of the colorful truck, but before I can knock, I see the face of a middle-aged golden retriever of a man peering out the window at me. I’m not taken aback by this; it happens a lot with tech fanboys. They drool all over my creations and speak to me as if I had not been the one to invent them myself. It’s kind of adorable in a pathetic way–like they’re toddlers trying to impress me with their knowledge of the ABCs.

Before dog-man can wipe the drool from his chin, Jo pushes past him with a feigned courtesy that evaporates the moment she sees me.

“What are you doing here?” Her tone is icy.

“Lovely to see you again, too.” My reply drips with sarcasm. If I couldn’t tell from her voice alone, the annoyance is written across her face.

“Ms. Garcia-Greene, I thought we agreed over email that we’d meet tomorrow.”

“Please, call me Ava,” I offer, though her glare tells me she's not buying the friendly act. “Our first meeting yesterday was–”

“Messy?” she interjects.

“Yes, and not because I… tossed coffee in your general direction.” I still stand by that not being my fault. The idea that gay mi stletoe can be hanging above your head at any moment in this town is truly haunting.

“You did a lot more than that,” she snaps, accusatory. She’s clearly been brooding over our encounter. “I have a shoot happening, so I need to get on with it.”

“Wait–” I say, smoothing out the wrinkled shirt in my hands. “I wanted to… start off on a better foot.”

She examines the shirt, her gaze fixed on the oversized Gramsta logo.

“For the other shirt… that got…” My words falter, my usual eloquence deserting me in her cold stare.

She turns dismissively and heads back to the truck.

“Wait!” I call out, desperation creeping into my voice.

She stops and faces me again, arms crossed.

“I’m–I’m sorry, okay?” I blurt out the apology, cringing at how clumsy it sounds.

“Apology accepted,” she replies curtly and turns away once more.

“Wait! Again,” I exclaim. “I was hoping… I could see your process? Be a silent observer during your shoot?”

“You? Silent?” she scoffs, her skepticism palpable.

“Ooh, got me. Feel better?”

The man’s face reappears, smooshed against the window like a pup who’s learning how glass works. “When do we get to meet Ava?!” he whines.

Jo glares at me, overwhelmed. She lets out the deepest, most intentional sigh I’ve ever heard.

“Stay out of my way,” she commands, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.

Emma hands Jo her camera as I take in the… erm, sights. The truck is cute, cuter than I thought it would be, but dated as all get out. The computer is a relic, the first generation of Mac desktops without a tower. Various items are haphazardly held together with Christmas-colored duct tape. And the driver’s se at? Flat as a pancake and stuck that way. Hidden behind Jo's makeshift backdrop, these flaws are not immediately visible, but they scream amateur hour to anyone taking a closer look. I snap some photos to document and Emma glares at me.

“All right, who’s ready for a family pyramid?” Jo sing-songs with grating enthusiasm.

“Pyramid? Isn’t that a little… jejune?” The words slip out before I can stop them, earning me one of Jo’s now-infamous glares. I zip my lips shut.

She poses the family as I poke around the truck’s antiquated tech. Definitely old, definitely needing repair, but not completely unsalvageable.

“I’m sorry, I can’t ignore the tech genius in the room,” the dad swoons. “It’s soooo nice to meet you, Ms. Garcia-Greene.” Like, buddy, chill, your wife is right there.

But he reaches his hand out to shake mine, and I can’t deny the man his dreams.

“Please, call me Ava,” I say, leaning down to him at the bottom of the pyramid and shaking his hand. The family pyramid shakes and I retract. “I’m here as an invisible observer, though. Pretend like I don’t exist!”

“How could I do that? I’m a day one Ava stan!” His son cringes. My superfan searches his pockets for his phone. “I still have the original filter pack on my Gramsta.”

The pose wobbles even more.

“Honey,” his wife huffs. “The first rule of the truck is no phones, remember?”

“Mom’s right, phones away, please!” Jo cuts in, a hint of a strain in her voice. “They spoil the Christmas magic. I promise as soon as we get this pose–”

Jo raises the camera to take a photo.

“All right, all right, but this is something else!” the dad gushes. “I used to dabble in dev myself. My issue was I was never any good with the backend, just had big design ideas. ”

“That’ll get ya,” I reply. “Gotta have a talented tech team to make the magic happen.”

Jo’s frustration mounts. Every photo on the cracked computer screen is of the dad talking.

“That’s great, now I need to make my magic happen over here, thanks,” Jo snaps. It’s not my fault tech bros are obsessed with me.

I retreat to the corner, attempting to take up less space–something I haven’t been able to do in years, thanks to the macho world of tech. I watch as Jo tries to get the perfect pyramid picture, but my attention can’t help but wander over to the monitor which jiggles with every step. I poke it and it wobbles even more.

Jo turns toward me and points. “Don’t touch that.” She turns back to the family. “Everyone say ‘don’t touch that!’”

“Don’t touch that?” the family puzzles as one. The photo displays on the monitor–a fail.

I can tell Mom is growing tired of having the kids’ knees drilling into her back. “Can we try a new pose?” she says, exasperated.

“We can get it,” Jo insists, determination flaring.

I step away from the monitor, my hands up in submission. As she takes another photo, I accidentally slip my raised hand in front of the flash. The photo that pops up on the monitor appears as if half of it has been consumed by specters. But no, that’s a shadow of my body, and Jo is growing more livid by the second.

“Ava, you’re in my light,” she bites.

“I didn’t–”

“ Please . Sit.”

Reluctantly, I squat in the corner, no chair in sight. Jo doesn’t seem to care as she nails the perfect shot at last.

“Great!” she beams. “We’re done with that. Let's do individuals. Who wants to go first? ”

Mom leans down and attempts to get her youngest to go first, but I recognize the CAMERA SHY written all over her little face; it mirrors my own from years past. Though I still feel that way, fame has compelled me to push through it, one forced smile at a time.

“Hey, that’s okay,” Jo coos. “Maybe Mom goes first?”

“Oh, I don’t–” the mom starts. But Jo nods to her as if to say I’ve got a plan.

The mom sits on a stool Emma places in front of the backdrop as Jo kneels down to speak to the daughter. “You, my friend, have been promoted to assistant camera.”

I don’t know where Jo is going with this, but a double-chin photo of Mom from the perspective of a three-foot munchkin will be, at the very least, hilarious. Jo instructs the girl to peer through the viewfinder and click the button, and sure enough, a terrible photo of Mom appears on the screen.

“Look at that beautiful photo you just took!” Jo undeservingly compliments. I strain to see the artistry as she continues. “Are you ready for me to take one of you?”

The little girl nods, suddenly enthusiastic. She clambers onto the chair and strikes a pose. Jo, now fully in command of the shoot, is in the zone, immersed in a flow state that's familiar to me. It's almost... respectable. Yes, that's the word. Respectable.

Ultimately, though, all Jo did was fool a six-year-old (or however old she is, I don’t grasp children’s ages) into doing what she wanted–not that hard. And while the picture she got out of it is shockingly good, what I previously assumed stands: she still doesn’t understand how to run a business, and I’ve still got my work cut out for me.