I can read the warning she’s basically shouting at me with her face and offer her a teasing wink in response.

  “Right. My reputation . . . and Americana Land’s reputation,” I correct myself. “That’s what’s at stake. Who’d like to go first with updates?”

  Stephanie, one of my analysts, raises her hand. I’ve told her she doesn’t need to do that. We’re not an elementary class, after all, but old habits die hard and it’s sort of become her ‘thing’ now. When she holds her hand up, it’s because she’s got something important to say, and we all listen carefully. I nod, giving her the floor.

  “I’ve been working on recruiting vloggers for directed marking. Timing has proven to be an issue for some of my prime targets, but I found two locals who highlight regional attractions who are on board. One already did his visit and sent me his videos for approval. Jayme, would you like to see them before they go live?”

  Jayme, who was taking notes in her red leather notebook, stops writing to tell Stephanie yes.

  I raise my hand too, a nod to Stephanie’s habit, to add, “I’d like to see them as well.”

  “Will do. I’m also working with some out of area vloggers. I’ve got one coming in this weekend. If it’s okay, I’ll likely do a walk-about with them. Full disclosure, I’m a fan, but I promise not to fangirl,” Stephanie vows. “I’ll just take them through the park to really highlight the experience and make sure they have a great time.”

  “That sounds good. I like the personal touch.” Giving Stephanie approval is easy because she would never do anything to jeopardize Americana Land.

  Unlike me, apparently.

  Jin leans forward, looking down the table to Stephanie. “Make sure you show them the new Find Freddy Freebird site online so you can hunt for the hidden Freddy Freebirds in the park. I’ll send you the locations so you have a heads-up and the Freddy Freebird visiting hours for photos.”

  Xavier jumps in. “I’d like the pictures too. We can use them for the social media blitz.”

  It’s a good segue, and Xavier takes the floor once Stephanie indicates she’s done.

  “The photo offensive line has been a pretty easy process. People are excited about their visits to Americana Land, so a few keyword searches led to plenty of options. We did media release forms with a bunch of them to be safe and have already uploaded a gallery onto the park’s website and changed our focus on our social media pages to target the teen to twenties demographic.”

  “What’s the response been?” I ask.

  “Good engagement, actually,” Xavier answers. “We’re not seeing the follow-through with ticket sales at the gate yet, but the online responses have been mostly positive.”

  Jayme’s head jerks up. “Mostly? Show me.”

  Xavier clicks around on his laptop and then throws the image to the screen behind me. It’s a picture of a young, pretty woman holding up an Americana Land bag with a big smile on her face. She’s decked out in full gear, including a Freddy Freebird shirt, red tie-dye shorts, AL flip flops, and an Abraham Lincoln mini top-hat headband. It looks like a photo ad for our merchandise.

  “We thought this was a great variety of available items, but the comments went a bit off-kilter.” He moves our attention to the list of comments. “This one in particular.” He reads from the screen, “Make sure you keep your receipts for all that or they’ll accuse you of shoplifting, throw you to the ground, and assault you. Just ask Abby Burks.”

  I grit my teeth, my vision narrowing to the point the words on the screen become black squiggles on a white background. “What the hell?”

  “Delete it. Now,” Jayme orders.

  Xavier looks from her to me, gauging who’s in charge, but on this, we’re in full agreement. “Do it.”

  “Before I do,” Xavier continues carefully, “you need to see the rest of the thread.” He points at a link to a video of the Abby Burks incident and then highlights the other comments.

  Why’d Abby play Grandma Barb like that? Should’ve just said it was a souvenir pack. Boom! Zero problem.

  Junior Steen can tackle me anytime. #shootingmyshot

  Abby’s a dramatic bitch. Never liked her.

  Grandma Barb! She’s a fixture. Love her!

  Who’s the hottie? Heyyy Daddy!

  #ManagerGoals. Back your people no matter what.

  This is not the improved image we’re chasing, but I look to Jayme, judging her take on the thread. Xavier notices and follows my gaze for further instruction. Jayme studies the screen quietly for a moment. “What are the analytics on that photo versus others in the same time frame?”

  One of Xavier’s team, Padma, pulls that information from the file cabinet in her mind and gives Jayme a run-through of rapid-fire statistics. Jayme doesn’t seem flustered by her pace. In fact, there seems to be a computer running behind her eyes as she evaluates both the numbers and the psychological impact of the thread.

  “Leave it,” Jayme decrees finally. To Padma, she specifically requests, “Keep a close watch on the analytics and thread for this one. If there’s anything . . . and I mean anything, good or bad, that you think I need to see, don’t hesitate to contact me. Anytime, day or night.”

  “Same. I want to hear about anything like this sooner rather than later. Don’t wait for an update meeting,” I add to the entire team.

  “One more thing on this,” Jayme says to Xavier. “Can we add some shots of team members to the photo stream? I’ve never seen or heard anything about Barbara being affectionately known as ‘Grandma Barb’. For the target demographic, that’s an emotional hit. Lots of them never had grandparents, especially not warm, accepting, unconditional love types.” She pats her chest emotionally. Her eyes going hazy, she stares off into the distance, and I wonder if she’s thinking of her own family, given the way she doesn’t like to talk about them. “Get a shot of Barbara with a group of teen or twenty-ager guests. Close, arms around each other, big smiles. One big, happy family. Tag it with the Grandma Barb hashtag and caption. Let’s see how that does for statistical engagement.”

  Xavier is scribbling notes onto his iPad. “I’ll have it by end of day, live online within twenty-four hours.”

  “Excellent. Thanks, Xavier. Anything else we need to address or ideas we can supplement our current strategies with?” I ask the table. I value their input and knowledge and am happy to consider their offerings even though Jayme seems to have things well in-hand with her experience in reputation rescue.

  “Okay, let’s keep at it, then. Jayme and I are working on the summer concerts. We’ve got our big headliner, Jazmyn Starr, prepped to close out the series.”

  There’s a gasp, and like everyone else, I turn to see an unfamiliar face in the corner of the room. The young woman there is bright pink, her hands pressed over her mouth and her eyes wide. “Sorry, sorry,” she mumbles from behind her fingers. “Just excited.”

  Jayme gets up to go over to the woman. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Jayme.” She offers a handshake, which the woman takes reluctantly.

  “I’m Kyleigh, an intern. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. Actually, I’d love to know what’s got you so excited. Is it Jazmyn Starr?” Jayme asks, leading her as she sits down next to Kyleigh in an empty chair.

  Kyleigh’s nod is as quick and fast as the words gushing past her lips. “Oh, my God, yes. She’s awesome! I love her style. And her music. And her.”

  Kyleigh is fangirling big-time, her voice spiraling higher and higher. But the instant she realizes everyone is looking at her, she clams up.

  “No, no. I need this sort of feedback. You’re our target audience, after all,” Jayme tells Kyleigh, smiling warmly. “Do you mind if I pick your brain?”

  “Mine?” Kyleigh echoes. “Uh, okay.”

  “Tell me everything you know about Jazmyn Starr. The info only a true fan would know.”

  That seems to be something Kyleigh can talk about easily because she instantly starts reeling off facts about Jazmyn’s childhood, musical styles, influences, and more. “She’s friends with DJ Amalfo too. He started out as a Starr-light—that’s what she calls her fans—and adds her bass lines to his mixes.”

  “DJ Amalfo?” I repeat.

  Kyleigh smiles wide. “Yeah, he’s this great mix of classics and fresh beats. He’ll seamlessly blend Jazmyn Starr with something old like Blink-182.”

  Todd sputters, choking on his coffee. “Did you just call Blink-182 old?” Todd’s creeping up on forty, though I bet he’d definitely insist he’s mid-thirties.

  Kyleigh shrinks again. “I think that’s what they’re called. They’ve got a song called I Miss You or something like that? I’m not sure, it’s a guy with a weird accent, like he’s trying to sing in cursive but not very good at it.”

  “What’s singing in cursive?” Todd asks, looking even more confused.

  Kyleigh sings, adopting a drawling, mumbled sound. “Dond waste yore toime yon me, yorall redii the voice insoide moye yedd.” She shrugs. “Kinda like that, but I’m very good at it either.”

  Todd looks like he might explode.

  “Focus,” I remind everyone, hoping to bring us back to the topic at hand—the summer concerts—before a generational skirmish breaks out.

  Kyleigh looks grateful for the help and finishes with, “Yeah, DJ Amalfo does stuff like that because he likes Jazmyn’s music too.”

  “Where do you see him live?” Jayme asks.

  “Live streaming, usually. He does pop-ups at clubs or venues. Sometimes, even warehouse raves. And people dance along at home with the show.”

  I don’t consider myself old by any means, but I simply can’t relate to what Kyleigh is talking about. I’m somewhere between EDM raves and the concerts by the old bands that we usually host in the summer. Hell, the last concert I went to was a BTS show that I got tickets to for Toni. I didn’t know a single word of any of the songs, but the dancing, costumes, and energy were amazing. And I’d gotten the title of Best Brother Ever from Toni when I tried to copy the choreography, so it was a definite win.

  “Oh, my God,” Jayme gushes suddenly. “I’ve got it!”

  She snaps her fingers and gets up, pacing with wild eyes that definitely aren’t seeing the conference room or team right now, but rather an idea taking shape in her mind. Talking to herself, she mutters, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before! It’s perfect. Quick implementation, instant publicity, a sense of community . . .”

  She trails off, and my team looks to me for a reaction. Are we really listening to this crazy woman? This is the ‘fixer’?

  “Care to share?” I tease with a grin, excited to hear what her brilliant mind has come up with now.

  “We’re going about the concerts all wrong. It seemed logical to implement them in a similar fashion to what Americana Land has already done successfully. Build on your strengths, especially when we’re trying to move quickly.” She shakes her head, talking aloud but also seeming to talk to herself as she fiercely proclaims, “But no. That’s not good enough. Not nearly good enough.”

  The slight to our programming cuts deeply. I know how hard everyone in this room has worked on those concerts and don’t take kindly to it being dismissed so callously. Not even by her. “Excuse me?”

  My tone brings Jayme out of her reverie, and she holds her hands up apologetically. “No, it’s perfect for that series. But it’s not what we should do for this one. We’re trying to reach the Kyleighs out there, want them to see Americana Land as a fresh, current vacation destination that they can support.”

  She’s pointing at Kyleigh as though she’s the representative for an entire generation.

  “And?” I prompt, willing to see where she’s going but impatient for her to get there when she’s talking poorly about my own department's work. “End state, please.”

  “A festival. A weekend-long festival.”

  Jayme’s statement should mean something. Or at least she says it as though it does. But I don’t get it. Pivoting for more insight, I try for a softer approach. “Please explain.”

  Xavier flinches next to me, so I guess I was a bit sharp. Especially given the arched brow glare Jayme is shooting my way.

  “We’ve been reaching out to artists, trying to organize them to come weekly. But guests are going to pick and choose who they want to see from the line-up. It’s not like students can get out early every Friday for a concert or ask for time off work. They’ll have to prioritize, probably pick one at most. But what if they didn’t?”

  Jayme makes a loop around the table, meeting the eyes of every member of my team, ending with Kyleigh, who looks like she might throw up. I get the feeling she thinks she started this firestorm, but I’m hoping it’s going to be a beneficial burn by the time Jayme’s finished.

  “We’ll have a festival . . . music, special food and drinks, merchandise, activities. It’ll be like Coachella or Electric Daisy Carnival, but right here at Americana Land. We’ll do an all-access pass so people can see every show and ride every ride. With it all happening at once, people can come for a long weekend. It’ll be the event of the summer.”

  I’m starting to get it, or at least understand her excitement. But productions on this scale don’t happen overnight.

  Being the logical, reasonable one isn’t usually my area of expertise, but thinking out loud, I say, “With the concerts spread out, we have a renewable stream of photos, advertising, and posts for social media. It’s one thing if one concert doesn’t go well” —I hold up one finger, and then a second— “and we have another to fall back on. But a festival? It’ll be do or die, all our eggs in one potentially fucked-up basket. The social media blasts from attendees will have to match the narrative or it’s going to be a huge failure. Like Fyre Festival-level catastrophic.”

  “It’s dangerous, I’ll give you that,” Jayme concedes. “But aren’t you a gambling man? One who likes risks?” She bats her eyelashes, well aware that she’s using my own habits against me.

  I answer her with a wry glare.

  “Gamble on yourself, your team, on me.”

  The soft plea in her tone surprises me. She could easily boss this thing into fruition and no one would give it a second thought. They trust her because I trust her.

  But that’s not what she’s doing. She’s letting the decision be mine. At the end of the day—or the festival, I guess—it will be my redemption or my failure. She’ll stand beside me either way, but it’ll be mine to own.

  In a way, this is the repair of my reputation as well.

  “All right, people. This is a lot to do in a short period of time. Is it even possible?”

  Scanning for feedback, I see Spencer talking in hushed tones with Kyleigh. Spencer has been on the marketing team since before I was here. She’s in her fifties, with a closely cropped sharp hairdo that she keeps a soft shade of blue to match her boldly oversized glasses.

  “You sure?” she asks Kyleigh. The beaming smile is answer enough. Spencer holds up her hand. “Carson?”

  “Yes?”

  “Kyleigh and I would like to take this on. We’ll be project managers and get everything rolling. I’ll need everyone’s full cooperation—both marketing and the broader AL team—but I think we can do it.” Spencer looks certain, and she is not one to do things halfway.

  I look to the rest of the team. “Anyone opposed? This is going to be a major time crunch, so if you need to step away from this, now’s the time.”

  No one says a word.

  “Well, I guess we’ve got a festival to plan.”

  CHAPTER 12

  JAYME

  Carson’s team files out, excitement and nerves leading them to chatter about the various things they need to work on. This is going to be an epic undertaking of massive proportions on the tightest time crunch.

  This is bigger than any other reputation rehab I’ve ever tackled, by far. But I feel compelled to do it. For Carson. He deserves the best.

  He deserves my best.

  And I didn’t give it the first round.

  I’m mad at myself for not coming up with this idea sooner. Admittedly, the multi-faceted approach we’ve been using has been working, building traffic to the social media, creating a positive buzz around the Americana Land name, and restoring Carson’s reputation.

  But I pride myself on seeing beyond the standard approach. My innovation and creativity are what make me uniquely good at what I do. And this rehab needed a swing for the fences knockout, which is what I should’ve brought to the table from the get-go but am only now offering.

  Was I too blinded by Carson, the man, to help Carson, the client?

  I follow him down the hallway to his office. His strides are quick and long, leaving me behind several paces as I struggle to keep up. He holds the door open for me to enter but then shuts it behind me with a sound of finality. He sits down on the couch, and I sit beside him, scanning for hints of his thoughts.

  Given the hard line of his jaw right now, I think he’s disappointed that I didn’t come up with this idea sooner too.

  Straightening my back and ready to take my lumps, I say, “I’m sorry.”

  For some reason, at the same time, he mutters, “I’m sorry.”

  We look at each other, matching confusion in our eyes. “What?” we say in unison again.

  “Ladies first.” Carson holds his hand out, giving me the floor to speak.

  I scoot several inches closer to him. This is going to be hard enough to admit. I don’t need to shout it from the rooftops too. I notice that I’m twisting my hands and force myself to still them, laying them in my lap, one over the other.

  “Jayme?”

  “Hang on . . . I owe you an apology, but I’m working up my guts.” I glance up from my hands to find him fighting a smirk. “I don’t do this often, so I want to do it right.”

  “Of course, you definitely want to do it justice,” he says agreeably.

  Frustrating man, trying to make it easy for me to admit that I fucked up.