The Christmas Pic

15. Ava

CHAPTER 15

AVA

“We’re going to leave you to it.” Emma nudges Max and they escape out the back door of the truck before I can even get a word in. The women’s shelter closes to donations soon, and Emma wants to be sure they get there with time to spare. God knows the residents of this town need this kind of attire to fit in, so I don’t protest. I usually heavily depend on Max in situations like this shoot, not only to do my bidding, but to put me at ease with that classic Max attitude. Now, it appears, I have been left to Jo and her literal devices.

She puts her final tweaks on the lighting setup for my Christmas card. I would’ve preferred to keep it simple, because that’s usually how I like it, but I’m finding myself reluctantly enjoying the camp of Harmony Springs.

The flash suddenly goes off in my face. “I blinked,” I spew, immediately self-conscious in my slinky red dress.

“That was to test the light,” Jo assures me, but it doesn’t make me feel better. She must catch me eyeing the photo because she leans over to the computer and drags it into the trash. “Fresh start.”

She raises the camera and I tense. She lowers it and I relax. She does it again, and so do I, and goddammit, she laughs at me .

“I didn’t peg you as the type to get nervous over a photo,” she says. “Ava Garcia-Greene, poster girl of… everything.”

“Why would I be nervous when you’re simply peering into my entire soul?” I mutter.

“It’s not so bad!” Jo encourages.

I let out a sigh concerning enough that she announces she’s got to bring in the ‘Christmas big guns.’ She leans behind the backdrop to the front of the truck, her flannel brushing up her back to reveal the soft skin across her hips. A twinkle of music plays through the truck speakers: the horrifyingly classic intro of Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You. My sigh turns into a groan.

“Not into Christmas music, eh?” She makes her way back to her spot in front of me.

“Are you surprised?”

“It is very controversial these days.” She readies the camera. “Clients either love it or they want to claw their ears off when they hear it.”

“Can’t say I love it,” I say casually, as if I wasn’t just about to flee the country to avoid it entirely. She laughs a truly infectious laugh, which makes me crack a smile, too.

Jo sneakily snaps a photo, which is an improvement from the trash can shot, but she can definitely still tell my ears are bleeding internally.

“What about something a little less… Mariah?” she suggests.

“You can try,” I grumble. She chuckles again and changes the song.

“How’s this?” Feliz Navidad blasts.

“Some would argue even more grating,” I shout over the music. She goes to change it. “It reminds me of my childhood.”

“Yeah?” She turns the volume down to hear me, amused by my remark.

“But not because I’m Puerto Rican. I mean, I am, but we never celebrated our heritage,” I admit. Jo’s eyes probe me deeper than her camera lens and I lose my train of thought.

Oh, right, yes, Feliz Navidad . “Remember the Sesame Street Christmas movie?”

“Do I remember Christmas Eve on Sesame Street … Who do you think I am?” She jokes. “They show it every year at the local theater.”

Of course they do. What’s gayer than Bert and Ernie on ice?

“I’d watch that scene with Big Bird and the little girl ice skating on repeat,” I tell her. “So much so that I remember the tape disintegrating in my VHS player.”

“No way,” she laughs.

“Way. I desperately wanted to be good at ice skating.”

“Were you?”

“Never skated a day in my life,” I say, pulling the new sweater over my head.

“What?! We have to go while you’re here!” She stops, remembering she doesn’t like me. “I mean, if you want.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little too late for me to live out my Sesame Street dreams?”

“Absolutely not.” She grins and catches me off guard with another flash of the strobe. The picture pops up on screen.

I’ll admit it, she’s good.

“So I get the sense you’re not a huge Christmas fan?” she says slyly.

“What told you that?”

”You’re missing out. Christmas rules.”

“Christmas rules ?” I mock.

“Yes!” she says, sincerely. “Even if you don’t ‘believe.’ It’s the perfect time to spend with family. To be grateful for the year. To take advantage of the world slowing down.”

“Which neither of us are presently doing.”

“Speak for yourself.” She takes another picture, this time catching me making a most offended face .

“Delete that!”

“Rule number one of the truck: never delete a memory that precious,” she simpers.

I guffaw–no way that ‘memory’ is anywhere near precious.

She sneaks another smiler, this time where it looks like I’m laughing off into the distance like one of those Women Eating Salad memes. Honestly, it’s more me than any photo Annie has ever taken of me (yes, that Annie).

“So who are you going to send this to?” she asks.

This photoshoot was more of a reconnaissance mission for me, a chance to suss out the user experience of Jo’s business. I wouldn’t be caught dead sending people Christmas cards.

“I have to think about it,” I say after a moment.

“Besides millions of followers,” she laughs.

“Yeah, but does that even count? That’s all fake,” I shrug.

“The inventor of modern social media herself admits it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But I’m still stuck on who I could possibly send this to, and she notices me spiraling.

“And I’m assuming that’s why you’re anti-Christmas?” She digs in.

“Christmas hasn’t been all bad,” I concede. “Mom always kept up the traditions the best she could. My dad wasn’t around.”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay.” Because it was. Would it have been great to have a father figure in my life? Yes. Would a bad one probably do more damage in the long run? Yeah, it’s, like, statistically why so many people are fucked up.

“You have a good Christmas memory, though? With your mom?” she asks.

“Hmm...” I think. I don’t want to break her little Christmas-lovin’ heart, but it’s been a bleak time of year for me for a minute now. I would literally do anything to escape it.

But then a memory comes to me. It’s not like my nightmare from the plane. It’s unexpectedly warm. “One of our last real Christmases, my mom got me my first computer. I mean, it was ours, but I hardly ever let her on the thing. That changed my life.”

“See? Christmas. Rules.”

I go to smile at Jo and she quickly snaps a candid. The photo appears on the screen and is what you might consider the one . I stand to get a better view of my relaxed–dare I say– smize? ?? leaping off the screen.

“Wow,” I muster.

“You look… kind.” She appraises me, as though she finally sees something she likes about me.

“You are good at your job then.” I motion for her camera. “Your turn.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. It’s your turn.” I take the camera from Jo and point her to the seat.

She resists. “Rule number one of being a photographer: the photographer does not get her photo taken.”

I sneer playfully. “What, you think I created Gramsta and wasn’t a photographer myself?”

“Really?” She’s surprised at first, but recovers quickly, and with that classic Jo annoyance says, “What haven’t you done?”

“Jill of all trades. Master of… also all trades.” Sometimes it’s impossible to feign humility. But she laughs again.

“Do you see what I’m wearing?” she says, still trying to evade the camera.

“Isn’t that what you always wear?” Jeans? Check. Flannel? Check. Platform Docs? Checkity check check.

She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t worry, remember? I like a challenge.”

She shoves me playfully. People don’t tend to, well, touch me, so my face must’ve given that away. She backs into the chair .

“Uh, sorry, I didn’t–” she stammers.

“We’re even now,” I say, forgiving.

“All right, what do I do, Ms. Photographer?”

“To the left a little…” I tell her.

She turns.

“Perfect right there.” I snap a photo. I’m a little rusty behind the camera, but it’s not bad. I adjust the flash a hair to remove some of the shadowing from her already-defined jawline.

“What about you? What’s your favorite Christmas memory?” I ask.

“Using my own tactics against me, I see.” She pauses, like she’s deciding whether to trust me or not. She picks at her thumb and looks up at me through her thick lashes.

“Every Christmas after we opened presents, my dad and I would drive the truck around and take photos of the community,” she says. “But the best part was sitting up in the passenger seat on the way home, listening to him belt his heart out to The Beach Boys’ Christmas Album.”

Jo casts her eyes down, swallowing hard.

“Oh,” is my dull response.

Yep. Dead dad alert.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I sputter.

“No, no. I love thinking about my dad,” she says. “He was stubborn, but such a kind, creative soul.”

“Runs in the family.”

“Which part?”

“All of it?” I offer.

She laughs. “Any idea of who you’re gonna send your card to yet?”

“Honestly?” I exhale. “No.”

She looks at me; like genuinely takes me in.

“I have something to show you. For truck knowledge purposes.”

“And that is? ”

“You’ll see.” She shoots me her trademark grin and hops to the dilapidated front seat, cranking the key in the ignition.

For two seconds, heat blasts from Chrissy’s air vents, beginning to warm up the front seats, and then with a wheezing sound, the air turns off completely. Jo doesn’t even blink from her perch atop the broken driver’s seat.

“Guess we’ll be adding that to the list.” We drive off, shivering into the night.