Page 10 of Ripped & Shipped
“Awww, Mabel. You’re too sweet.”
Another clod of the face mask falls onto the floor.
Mabel tracks it with her eyes and says, “Don’t you worry none about that. I’ll get to it later. It’s sweepin’ day anyhoo.”
Mabel had asked me here to help her with her booming TikTok channel. Yes. She’s got an account at @bordeauxgrannysgotback. Even though I got everyone in town onto social media a few years ago to help a struggling local author gain exposure and get a publishing deal, Mabel’s the only one who’s treated her account seriously and grown it. Most of the people in Bordeaux have long since left their accounts as neglected as a graveyard in a ghost town. Mabel’s got an honest-to-goodness following. Every so often she asks me for help, and I’m glad to give it.
“Do you want to take care of your skin care regimen? I can come back later?”
“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary. I’m about to wash this off with vinegar. Then I’ll be ready to collab with you, as you say.”
“Vinegar?”
“Apple Cider Vinegar,” she clarifies. “The stuff smells like the devil’s spit, but my girl on the YouTube said it has some healing properties. Though, I forget quite what it’s supposed to do for me. I’ll give it a go since I can use all the help I can get.”
“I think you look amazing. And your followers think so too,” I assure Mabel.
I wonder at what age a woman is allowed to just let go and be herself without trying so hard. I’m already half-exhausted from managing my online image, and I’m only twenty-nine.
Mabel forgets herself and steps toward me to draw me into a hug. I feel bits of dirt, and probably dirt-coated yogurt clumps, crumble off her face and into my hair. I’d tell you it bothered me if it did, but it’s so rare I get a hug that I actually don’t mind a bit.
Mabel changes into a red dress that’s more like a mumu. Then she and I film two dance videos based on trending dances she memorized the moves for. She tags me in the one she posted, and I accept the collaboration invitation. The comments rack up in no time. Everyone’s saying how cute Mabel is, and how sweet I am to spend time with the seniors in my town. People love Mabel—as they should. She’s a hoot.
Mabel’s account has our town name in it, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure most people think she’s either talking about the wine or the city in France, since some people in Dayton haven’t even heard of Bordeaux.
Allowing my followers to see Mable’s TikTok handle is the closest I’ve come to disclosing my whereabouts. Back when I was a wannabe, just starting out and only dreaming of coming half this far in popularity, I openly filmed around town, never hiding any of the shop names, and hardly thinking twice about anyone finding me. Even though I aspired to greatness, I never imagined making it this far—to the point where people want to know exactly where I live.
But the world’s a crazy place. And as fun as my followers can be most of the time, I don’t go a day without some stranger saying something inappropriate, propositioning me, or making phony offers to help my account soar. Most of it’s relatively harmless, but I don’t want to take my chances.
I finish helping Mabel. The air conditioning of my car blasts my face while I sit in the driver’s seat in front of Mabel’s house making sure each comment on the video she and I just cross-posted has a reply. This kind of personal touch is what keeps people coming back to me. Responding to my peeps consumes hours of my time each day, but it’s worth it.
I’m about to drive off when I get a notification of a DM (that’s Direct Message, for those of you still living in the stone age. Not knocking you, of course. You do cavegirl you, boo, just do it as fab-YOU-lously as you’re able. Rock that prehistoric life, you know?).
The handle of the account is @GenesisAssistsStars. Drake had mentioned that his assistant’s name was Genesis. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you my heart rate kicks up a notch as I open her message.
@GenesisAssistsStars
Hey, Ella Mae! Drake asked me to reach out for him to plan a time for the two of you to meet. This month he’s doing a retrospective focus on his early days as a YouTuber. Drake’s hoping you could do a little collab in the style he used in the old days.
Maybe subscribers can pick your meals and you two can eat what they pick and rate it? Does that work? He’s itching to get this filmed. His plan is to collab with a few less-known influencers like you. It’s going to be a whole series of “throwback” collabs. He said something about it being his way of giving back and supporting small accounts. So sweet, right? His followers will love this return to his roots, and the generosity vibe always gets great ratings.
I take a deep breath and reread the message. Why do I feel slightly insulted? This is a great opportunity. And Drake’s reach is massive—nearly four times larger than mine. He would naturally see me as small. That’s normal. Thisisgenerous of him.
It’s never easy hearing someone else refer to me as aless-known influencer. Try telling my eight million followers and superfans I’m less known. To them, I’m as big as it gets.
And I don’t like the termgenerosity vibe.Either you’re being generous or you aren’t. To call it a vibe makes it sound selfish and manipulative. While I can be a bit overzealous, and even outrageous, my generosity never has been, and never will be a “vibe.”
But this isn’t my initiative. And it’s not my place to drive this project. It’s Drake’s. He’s been on social media for years, making a name for himself and consistently growing. If I’m going to do this collaboration, I’ll have to let him use whatever terms and approaches he wants.
@Fab-U-Lous_EllaMae
Hey, Genesis! Great to meet you! Thanks for reaching out. I’ve got a slightly flexible schedule. Let me know when Drake wants to meet. I love the idea of a follower-engaged collab. If they’re the ones picking the food we’ll eat, they’re going to be invested. Let me know when and where Drake wants me.
I wait a minute. No response. Tossing my cell onto the passenger seat, I take off. My brain races with thoughts about Drake, this collab, and my strategies for the coming month of my own posts.
I push the bluetooth on my steering wheel. Calling Meg should distract me from the flurry of ideas and emotions this collab is dragging up. She’s always good for me—especially when I’m spiraling into overthinking mode. Even though we live together, we don’t always make time to hang out. She started dating this older guy, Joe, about a year ago. They don’t seem super-serious, but they are consistent. If I want some of Meg’s time, I need to get my name into a slot on her calendar.
“Hello, Ella Mae,” Meg answers in her professional, I’m-at-work tone of voice.
