Their funding gives them the best engineers and cars to date. F1 is all about money and fame, so whoever has the biggest budget has the fastest cars. The teams with the fastest cars get the best drivers. And we all know what that means, winning.
It’s all a game. If you know how to play it, you’ll succeed.
Nearing the end of the garage, I finally make it to the office part of the building. The gray cubicles line the way to the conference room. Walking towards the end of the cubicles, I see in bold lettersSOCIAL MEDIA MEETINGS IN SESSION.
So, this is where I have to go for the PR debrief.
I peek my head through the door and see about five people in seats surrounding a shiny table. Lucia stands at the other end of the conference room drinking water out of a Styrofoam cup, while listening to a social media strategy being spewed out by a redhead at the other end of the table. Feeling like I can enter without interrupting anyone, I open the door wide and put one foot in the door. I let my combat boots take me forward until I am in full view of everyone. Lucia greets me with a wide smile, as do the other people in the room who are about to start the meeting.
“Hi, I’m Maria Alejandra,” I say while walking up to the other end of the long table. Going up to them and shaking hands, I give each of them my warmest smile. Once I am done greeting, I sit down in the closest vacant seat.
“So, what are the PR rules and appearances I have to make for Elektra?” I raise my eyebrow. This whole social media situation makes me nervous. I’m fully on Instagram, but I do it myself. I’m able to express myself freely on there without any control from the companies I have worked with.
“Well, we don’t ask for much company-wise. You can control your social media how you want, but there are a few prerequisites to what you post while racing, on and off the track. We also have some suggestions that you don’t have to take, but overall, we have an audience that is very diverse. So, we have to see what fan base you’re going to be catering to when you post or make appearances on social media.” A guy with brown shaggy hair says while turning on his projector and connecting to screen mirroring. Looking at the screen, he pulls up my Instagram.
“Overall, your feed in the new era’s POV is trendy. You have a solid, consistent feed that can be seen as relatable to the youth.” I nod my head.
“But F1 is not only an audience of kids, teenagers, and twenty-somethings who appreciate a good feed. Who do you think brought the new generation’s attention to the sport? The sport is not only known for its conservative fan base, but also for the people who have been watching F1 religiously since day one. I’m not talking about 80-year olds who just sit on their couch and watch races. I’m talking about the 40-year olds who were taught by their fathers.”
I attempt to listen and not roll my eyes. He then scrolls and clicks on a post, attempting to give me an example of what I am doing wrong.
“This photo for example, is a picture of you in a bikini, but to other men it could mean you want to attract attention,” he’s very careful about the last two words he says.
The photo is taken from an angle that is facing downwards towards my body and the ocean that surrounds me. My body is clad in a white bikini, showcasing the marvelous tan from my vacation in the Maldives. The bright blue ocean contrasts the color that overlaps it with a tiny shark circling the boat dock that I’m on. I love that photo because it was my first vacation that I paid for myself and also because I look damn good in it.
I look at him. “Can I see your computer?” I ask casually. Confused, he hands the computer over to me. I quickly take it out of his hands and start typing.
“What’s your name?” I ask him
“Troy.” I almost laugh. Troy is a name for registered assholes.
“Troy. Like the city of Troy or as in High School Musical’s Troy Bolton?” I look up making eye contact with him. He then responds with the boring answer, “like the city of Troy.”
I laugh a little. “I bet Mr. Donatello loves you then,” I say in a mocking tone.
Looking back down at the task in front of me, I finish my scroll through the social media page I searched for. Pressing on the post I want, I slowly push the laptop away from me.
I look over and point at the screen with the most sarcastic face I can muster, and turn my head back in Mr. Troy Bolton’s direction. I finish off the “lost puppy” facade with a little head tilt. “Does he want to attract attention?”
The picture on the screen is of my fellow teammate, Xavier Valente, after a “tiring” workout session. The pose shows him exhaustedly looking up at the ceiling. Shirtless, might I add. The caption reads:
THEXAVIERVALENTE:Working for that second world championship title.
He stays silent.
“You see, there are only two differences between me and Mr. Valente in the two pictures that have been presented to all of us today. One, he is completely shirtless with his titties out, whereas I happened to have all my assets covered. Two, one picture is intended for the female gaze while the other is for the male. While both objectifying, one is drawing only good attention while the other is receiving both good and bad. Which one of the two do you think it is, Mr. City of Troy?” I lean down and grab a pretzel from the bowl in the middle of the table. Leaning back against my chair, I plop it in my mouth while maintaining eye contact with him.
He looks at me, not wanting to say anything because he knows it’ll get him in trouble. “That’s what I thought. So, here’s what I think is best for everyone. I will post the prerequisite posts that you require if they are F1 based. I don’t need anyone running my socials like a lot of drivers do. I’m a big girl, so don’t worry.”
After a second of silence passes, he quickly smiles then passes the laptop to a girl with an impressive set of braids. She looks at me with a proud smile that fits her so perfectly. Her white smile accentuates her dark skin. I like her already, and she hasn’t even started talking yet. She presses a few buttons which projects a PR schedule onto the white screen.
“Firstly, I just want to say hi, and welcome to Elektra. We are incredibly happy to have you on the team. My name is Abigail. I’m the Head of social media and PR here, so if you have any questions about photoshoots or anything, I’m here to help. What you see here is a schedule of all the preseason photoshoots and interviews that have been scheduled for the months entering preseasons testing as well as the first race of the season. In two days, we have the big photoshoot for all the F1 promotion, such as candids of you in your racing suit as well as your preseason F1 YouTube clips that will eventually be put into a compilation on the sports official channel featuring all the other drivers.” She takes a breath. “In two weeks, you have your first interview with Netflix for “Drive for Your Life,” as they have offered an in-depth episode on your journey into F1 as well as how you advance during the season. They want you to be a frequently shown driver throughout the fifth season. You can decide whether you want to be featured or not, but it is a part of your contract that you are obligated to at least be shown twice. After those two appearances, you obviously have the choice of whether you want them to go in depth or not. There are some more things here and there that you will learn about along the way. I’ll give your schedule to Lucia, and she will keep you up to date on all the interviews and social media promotions you will have to do.” Finishing up her explanation, she looks over at me with a warm smile. I return it. Then I hear the door open and none other than the devil himself walks through.
Mr. Donatello greets everyone.
“Hello,” he says in his deep Italian accent. “I came in here to see if you were done with the meeting because I would like to steal the rookie for a moment.”
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes when he says “rookie.” I wouldn’t mind the word if it came from anyone but him.