“If people don’t like me after delivering this,” I say, “they don’t deserve me.”
Jenna chuckles.
“Holy-sweet-Jesus!” Alistair’s shrill voice screeches out as he jumps from his squat and starts running in panicked circles.
“What the hell’s going on?” I ask.
“There-there, oh-my-God,” Alistair mutters, pointing to Fifi’s rear.
“What?” I snap.
“Something came out. I swear! But then it got sucked right back in.”
My father is on his knees, shaking his head back and forth in bogglement. I can’t say I blame him.
With an amused look on her face, Meghan says, “And…you have no idea what that could be, Alistair?”
Alistair’s brow furrows. “You don’t understand, it didn’t look like any calf baby,” he gestures to Fifi. “It was sinister.”
“Get down here!” Pa growls.
Alistair obeys, squatting quickly by Fifi’s side, more afraid of my father than anything coming out the heifer.
“Did you just see that!” Alistair exclaims, pointing at the heifer’s rear. “Look-look!”
Father sighs. “That’s a hoof.”
“Get in there!” Meghan barks at the camera crew, and they gather around Pa and Alistair.
“While we’re waiting for the main event,” Jenna says, “Meghan is right. These little shorts we’re throwing up are internet gold. The first story received over thirty-million views, the second is catching up. What’s better, is people are talking about more than what a sloppy drunk you are.”
I bite my lip, trying to decide whether or not that’s a lot of views. I think it is, but I’ve never really paid much attention to social media.
“So, what does that mean? Am I back in the public’s good graces? Is my work secure?”
Jenna grins. “That means we knocked it out of the park. People haven’t canceled you, which means you’re still employable.”
“Awesome!”
“But…that doesn’t mean your work is safe just yet. The studios can still decide to let you go if they find your brand toxic. You’re still going to have to address the situation, and I have the exact place in which you’re going to do it.”
“Where?”
“We’re going to crash Garrett’s interview.”
My heart damn near stops beating. “No!”
“Pull!” My father’s harsh voice draws our attention.
Alistair has a hoof in hand, tears streaming down his face as my father’s meaty finger is pointed in the direction he wants Alistair to tug.
“Boy, we don’t got much time here. You best put those muscles to work,” he barks.
And to Alistair’s credit, he gives a great yank, and another, and before a minute passes, a new baby calf is sprawled on the hay-covered floor.
