Page 112 of You've Got Hate Mail
“We had to talk to a few lawyers when our own video made the rounds,” Olivia says.
“Someone—someone’s making money off of an AI rendition of my vagina?” I ask.
“Multiple renditions,” Samantha murmurs. “Of your vagina animated to sing and dance.”
“With an unexpectedly high number of subscribers,” Olivia adds.
I didn’t know it was possible for my spine to snap this straight, but here I am, feeling three inches taller.
“Sleep on it for a few nights,” Olivia says.
Samantha’s nodding vehemently. “Going back on the internet isn’t always the answer. If you’re not ready, if you’re not in the right headspace—it can backfire. It can backfire spectacularly. I had Olivia right next to me the whole time, Mabel and Ginny too, and I wasn’t flashing vajayjay.”
“And you can’t control what goes viral and makes money. Good or bad.”
They know exactly what I’m thinking.
That if someone’s going to make money off of my vagina, then it should be me.
I have the famous vagina.
Theinfamousvagina.
And I’m living in a place that needs the kind of money that GrippaBeav can make a woman.
Fast.
Faster than any other idea I’ve had.
But my entire body is breaking out in a sweat at the idea of ever showing the world my vagina again. I’m still rushing through showers, and I ran into the bathroom this morning to hide from Heath seeing that I need a bikini wax.
“My sister’s a lawyer,” I say, hating the words the minute they come out of my mouth.
My sister will lecture me on wearing underwear anytime I’m filming myself. She’d probably lecture me more if she heard how many times I’ve gone without underwear because I don’t do my laundry often enough.
But if it helps Mabel and Pip and Ginny and Samantha and Olivia and Lavender and Heath?—
Oh my god.
Has Heath seen it?
Not the point, Cricket. Not the point.
If it takes asking my sister for help to get money to help this five-minutes-of-shame commune, then I’ll ask for help.
“Chicken!” a little voice shrieks. “Look, Samantha! I found a chicken!”
Lav barrels into the kitchen, carrying my squawking chicken. She’s wearing a foam hat that looks like alien antennae—Lav, not the chicken—and when she drops The Cluckinator, I notice her nails are painted scaly green and she’s wearing a pink rhinestone shirt that saysI’m the troublein uneven rhinestones, like this was hand-made, but thank goodness, where my matching shirt has a penis, hers has a rhinestone dragon.
Olivia springs into action. “No chickens in the kitchen, Lav.”
I rush toward Lav, grabbing the bird before she gets any farther into the room while Samantha pushes the cart of finished croissants into the pantry and away from any flying feathers.
And that’s it.
Nothing else terrible happens.
The croissants aren’t ruined or unusable.
