The Christmas Pic

12. Jo

CHAPTER 12

JO

Ava’s outside the truck, scribbling an autograph on Karl’s bare chest. I may not get the hype, but that doesn’t make the hype any less pervasive.

“I’m surprised you didn’t knock her out with a C-stand,” Emma observes as she zips lenses into their cases.

“I’m trying to avoid spending Christmas in federal prison, thanks.”

“Who’s going to prison?” Ava materializes behind us.

Emma fixes me with a look. “Not Jo.”

“That’s good because you weren’t half bad behind the camera,” she says to me. “You got them out of their shells.”

Emma pipes up. “Jo’s got all the tricks. Straight from the Roger Fisher Academy of Fine People Skills.”

Ava scrunches her brow. “Roger Fisher?”

“My dad.” I don’t elaborate and Ava doesn’t push it.

Instead, she starts futzing around the studio, flipping through my wall calendar, touching flash bulbs, and generally molesting my truck.

“Can I help you?” I ask, acidic.

She actually chuckles which annoys me even more. “I think that’s my question for you. ”

I do not like how pleased she is with herself. “Did you not just say how impressive I am behind the camera?”

“I said you ‘weren’t half bad’ but you can run with that.” She picks up a packet of vintage Polaroid film and inspects the expiration date. I bite back a defensive retort about how expiration dates are irrelevant when it comes to shooting on expired film, that's part of the magic. She’d delight in my defensiveness, so I hold it in.

“Anyway,” Ava continues. “You’ve got artistic talent, I’m not going to deny that. But I also wasn’t wrong about making improvements to your business .”

She strides over to my Mac desktop at the back of the truck.

“Is this a computer or is it technically a slide rule?”

I scoff. “It’s not even that old.”

Ava blanches like I told her the computer had leprosy. “You’re putting files on there and not backing them up. You’re playing Russian roulette with an ancient processor that one day is gonna straight-up eat your entire portfolio because it overheats.”

My stomach clenches; she's probably right, but her words land as a personal attack. My dad’s business has rested on my shoulders for the past five years, and I've fought to keep it afloat. When she says I'm putting that at risk, I can’t help but feel I’m being accused of dishonoring my father’s legacy.

Emma pipes up before I can formulate a retort. “We welcome a cash infusion to replace our hardware!”

“Glad you’ll welcome it, but that’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Ava says.

I sit down with a thump atop a Pelican case and try to massage the crease out of my forehead. I’m painfully aware of how poorly I’m masking my annoyance. “Pray tell.”

“I need more time to observe and investigate, but off the top of my head, you need to implement more automation throughout your business, update your tech, stop being complacent about outreach to new customers because it’s a small town… get a real online presence. Come into the twenty-first century. Etcetera.”

This woman cannot help herself from adding a thick layer of snark to every time she speaks.

“Etcetera?” I am a glutton for punishment.

She comes to stand over where I’m seated and folds her arms. “Etcetera means there are lots of specifics I can’t conjure up out of thin air without first digging into exactly why this business isn’t working.”

Our gazes lock. I thought she had blue eyes but the green of her suit highlights little aquamarine flecks around her pupils. The color of a pool full of chemicals.

“Doesn’t helping The Photo Truck kinda go directly against your vision for AI to replace all photographers?”

Ava blinks and our staring contest ends. “Don’t worry, the success of your single vehicle business does not threaten my empire. And anyway, I happen to think we could coexist and serve different purposes. Gramsta is hoping this whole… excursion… to Harmony Springs will demonstrate that.”

I snort. “‘Coexist and serve different purposes’? Is that the company line? Very kumbaya language to describe the myriad jobs being hemorrhaged by AI.”

“We’re creating jobs with AI. The more popular our AI services on the platform, the more engineers and data analysts and project managers we hire.”

I hold up my hands. “If that helps you sleep at night.”

I swear she flinches but it’s so subtle I can’t be certain. Good. She’s in need of a wakeup call from one of us blue-collar plebes in the trenches of her totally altruistic robot revolution.

Emma jumps up from her place at my alleged slide-rule of a computer. “Upload complete!”

I stand up from my seat and clasp my hands together, searching for the perfect hint to get Ava out of my personal space so I can get some editing done without her judgmental hovering. But it turns out this corporate girlboss can occasionally read the room without an assist.

Ava tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and purses her lips. “I need to catch up on some work at my hotel.”

I offer her a tight smile as a reward for her momentary perceptiveness. “Thanks for dropping in. Unannounced. A day early.”

Her lips twitch. “You are sincerely welcome.”

I walk her to the door of the truck. She steps down and my chest begins to untighten for the first time in hours. As I’m closing the door, Ava turns around.

“Christmas is in two weeks. We don’t have much time to do what needs to be done.”

I don’t disagree. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” she chirps back, already deep in her phone. “I’ll have Max make us a dinner rez tonight so we can tackle our first official day tomorrow.”

My mouth opens and closes like a goldfish as I grapple for an excuse that will get me out of this, but Ava has needled me into a tight corner where I’ll be a hypocrite if I do anything but go along with her suggestion.

Emma pops up over my shoulder. “Send us the deets!” And then she reaches around me and shuts the door on Ava.

I whirl around to face her. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“That woman is playing 5D chess. Chinese finger trap, remember? Go to dinner. I’m sure it’ll be somewhere nice, and she’s definitely paying.”

We make our way to the front of the truck. I get into my broken driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition. The engine sputters but eventually gears up. I grimace.

“Play the game,” Emma tells me. “And play it to your advantage. ”

I pull out of the lot. “Where did you become such a savvy businesswoman?”

“Where everyone learns anything these days.”

I suspect she’s talking about a certain monopolous social media app, so I side-eye her. We make the rest of the drive to Emma’s place in relative silence.

We pull into the complex. As she gets out, Emma playfully punches me on the arm.

“Jo? For the love of all things Christmas, wear something other than flannel tonight. At least look spiffy while you’re ripping Ava a new one.”

Occasionally, Emma has decent advice.