Screen Queens

by Lori Goldstein

  But Mountain View was a place that valued what Delia could do. Because Delia could code. She loved it almost as much as she loved the people surrounding her on this stage—these people who’d be left behind in Littlewood.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go,” she whispered.

  Her father silently watched her mother, reached around Delia, and made the final lighting change. She wasn’t sure he’d heard her until he nodded.

  “Hmm . . . maybe not. But you’ll wonder ‘what if’ every day if you don’t.”

  Delia swallowed hard. Her parents met as part of a touring company. They settled down in Littlewood when Delia came along. They professed to never regret it. But their business was putting on a show.

  She tugged on a curl that had an extra spring thanks to the messy bob Cassie had given her yesterday and twirled it around her finger. “What if I can’t . . .”

  “Can’t what, Delia?”

  “I don’t know. Can’t . . . do it.”

  “Then you’ll find what you can do. There’s a role for every actor and for every actor a role.” He winked at Delia. “Just make mine a cinnamon. Ba dum tss.”

  He then handed her a going-away gift—a necklace whose pendant was a small piece of circuit board.

  Her throat tightened. She could see how tired he was; he’d worked so hard these past couple of months, traveling to Chicago to build sets for a couple of independent theaters to earn enough to cover what Delia’s ValleyStart scholarship didn’t. And still, he got her this.

  “Description said it was perfect for fathers, sons, or your favorite tech lover,” he said. “Since you’re that last one for me, hope it’s okay . . .”

  “It’s perfect.” Delia threw her arms around her father, and when Claire and Cassie hurried offstage, before either said a word, Delia brought them into the hug, inhaled her mom’s lilac perfume, and smiled.

  FOUR

  MEETUP • In-person meetings of online groups made up of individuals with like interests

  USING HER SHOULDER, LUCY muscled her way through the heavy metal door that opened onto the third floor of the dorm. She did her best to ignore the cinder-block walls and tucked her chin to avoid the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights as she exited the stairwell, hauling her luggage behind her. Lucy quickened her pace, scanning the room numbers. There. 303. The door was ajar. Those fruitless ten minutes she spent searching for an elevator had knocked her off schedule. As project manager, she was the de facto team leader, and she needed to arrive first.

  Thankfully she had. If only she hadn’t arrived in this room.

  Mountain View U was a far cry from Stanford’s sprawling green lawns, but still, ValleyStart was the most prestigious summer incubator for high school graduates in the country—it should act like it.

  But there were bunk beds. Rubber-coated mattresses. And linoleum tiles. Linoleum.

  Lucy’s shower flip-flops were just upgraded to full-time use.

  She rested her bags on the floor, thought better of it, and set them both down on the single desk under the window. A fleck of paint chipped off the sill and onto her leather carryall. The last new coat probably preceded even her mom’s attendance. Mountain View U was her mother’s alma mater but not where she’d met Lucy’s father. That was the software company where her mom still worked, though her dad had moved on years ago.

  Lucy spied a cobweb stretching from the desk to the window and reached for her phone. She unlocked it and paused, her finger hovering over her father’s number. It was after ten at night in London. He’d probably just left his office.

  Lucy stood in the center of the room, trying to imagine five weeks of living in this dark, cramped space that smelled of gym socks and desperation. It wasn’t like she expected a single or an en suite, but at least a proper wardrobe or a bed that wasn’t pee proof.

  At least it was pee proof.

  Oh God.

  Lucy dug her notebook out of her tote bag, searching for what she’d written down about housing, positive she must have missed the ability to pay more for a room that was, oh, livable.

  Her finger kept flipping, landing on the page she’d filled in last night on Ryan Thompson. She already knew everything about him, but she’d organized it into categories for easy reference: likes and dislikes, hobbies, education, Pulse origin story, childhood, and family tree. Which was missing his dad. He died when Ryan was fifteen.

  Lucy’s father may not have been around much, but she knew what she could rely on him for: anything that could be accomplished with a wire transfer or the gifting of a stock option. It was how Lucy did everything from trading volleys with a former Wimbledon semifinalist at tennis camp to being the first to sport a limited-production sneaker from Nike.

  But Ryan created Pulse all on his own.

  And Lucy was an adult now.

  And so Lucy extracted her lavender-scented hand sanitizer wipes from the side pocket of her bag and began disinfecting the pee-proof mattress.

  * * *

  * * *

  A double rap on the door made Lucy jump. Her head collided with the underside of the bunk above her.

  “Dammit!” she said, whirling around, sanitizer wipe in hand.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

  A brown-skinned woman stood in the doorway. She wore a coral scarf over a crisp white linen shirt and wide-legged trousers, which made her already long legs appear even longer. Her dark hair pulled back at the nape of her neck accentuated her sharp cheekbones.

  Nishi Kapoor. It was Nishi Kapoor.

  Lucy stuffed the used wipe under the belt at the back of her sundress and smoothed her hair while simultaneously feeling for a welt.

  “You seemed pretty focused there,” Nishi said. “Is something wrong with the room?”

  “How much time do you have?” Lucy gave a little laugh.

  “Sorry, but it’s pretty standard as college dorms go.”

  “Right, sure. I know. Just figured I’d spruce it up.” Lucy fought the flush she felt creeping up her neck. “For my roommates.”

  “How thoughtful.” Nishi stepped forward and extended her hand. “Nishi Kapoor.”

  “Lucy Katz.”

  “Welcome to the program, Lucy. And accept my apologies if I’m a bit starstruck.”

  Lucy exhaled a sigh of relief. “I know, I mean, Ryan Thompson’s going to be here.”

  Nishi shook her head. “Oh no, I meant you. Daughter of Abigail Katz, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “My mom? You know my mom?”

  “What woman in tech doesn’t?” Nishi said. “I’m excited to see what you have in store for us, Lucy. Our attendees never fail to astound me.”

  “It’s amazing that you have time to mentor.”

  “Not so much ‘have’ as make. Three years running. My first year, the internships were at my company.”

  All facts jotted down in Lucy’s notebook. “That was the daily planner app bought by Google for—”

  “Enough to fund my second company. And my third.”

  “And steal this beautiful lady right out from under me.” A man with tanned white skin, a swimmer’s build, and a perfectly manicured five o’clock shadow poked his head in the doorway. He winked as he strode into the room, giving Nishi a peck on her cheek. “Good seeing you, NK.”

  Lucy froze.

  Ryan Thompson.

  In her dorm room.

  Her dark, dingy dorm room that now smelled like lavender-coated desperation.

  “Ryan,” Nishi said. “I didn’t think you’d be making the introductory rounds.”

  “Oh, I always enjoy mingling with the little people.” Ryan turned and gave Lucy a playful smirk. “No offense.”

  Cement glued Lucy in place, but she took an imaginary pickax to her jaw. “Oh, oh, course not. I mean, it’s no one’s fault but my own that I’m on
ly a 4, but I expect to be Thumping, or even Throbbing really soon.”

  Ryan laughed. “I meant the joke—a pretty lame one considering . . .” He gestured to their height difference.

  “Of course.” Lucy forced a smile, inwardly kicking herself for blurting out her low Pulse ranking to Ryan Thompson.

  He stepped forward and offered her his hand. “And you are . . .”

  “Lucy.” That she omitted her last name had as much to do with Nishi’s reaction to her being a Katz as it did with her inability to formulate a full sentence.

  Ryan hummed the Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” just like a lot of older people did upon meeting her, but somehow, this time Lucy didn’t mind so much. “Let me guess . . . Cupertino . . . no . . . Palo Alto High.”

  “Go Vikings!” Oh God. “I mean, yes, 4.8 GPA, and I interned at Dropbox as a sophomore, and I’m about to start training for my third marathon, and—”

  “And you’re only Thudding? Clearly, we at Pulse have a glitch.”

  His mischievous grin sent Lucy’s heart to a solid Level 8—Pounding. Would it be inappropriate to ask him for a selfie? She was about to reach for her phone when Nishi interrupted.

  “Well, Lucy, we’ll leave you to unpack.”

  “Aw, so soon?” Ryan said. “We were just getting to know each other.”

  “We’ve got five weeks, don’t we?” Nishi said.

  “That many?” Ryan said, and Lucy wasn’t sure if he was joking or actually surprised. “Well, I’m game if you are, Lucy.”

  She was about to respond with an emphatic “yes” when the sound of someone clearing their throat made everyone turn to the door. A tall Asian American girl with straight black hair, dark eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose dropped her duffel bag to the floor.

  “Hey,” she said, kicking off her black slip-on sneakers and pulling her silver-rimmed aviators off the top of her head. “I’m Maddie.”

  FIVE

  WYSIWYG • What you see is what you get

  “UH-HUH,” MADDIE SAID FOR the fifth or sixth time. She’d lost count. Some people’s online personas differed wildly from who they were in real life.

  Not this one.

  Maddie was getting dizzy watching Lucy unpack. She buzzed around the room, spreading moisturizers and serums and tonics Maddie wasn’t sure were for slathering or drinking out on the desk in size order. Then she began stacking her clothes by color on the top bunk on one side of the room.

  “These will be mine,” Lucy said of the two beds. A statement, not a question.

  One look at her roommate’s clothes, and Maddie knew they were expensive. She’d seen at least two of the exact same sweaters on the girls in her private Cambridge high school. It wasn’t that Maddie couldn’t afford them, it was simply that she didn’t care to. Ripped jeans that didn’t require a crowbar to get into, simple black tees that masked smudges from Danny’s sticky fingers, and loose hoodies with pockets that hid everything from a few extra pounds courtesy of a Saturday Rib-It Festival in Inman Square to her tablet for spontaneous sketching were the extent of Maddie’s fashion requirements.

  Her computer was a different story. Her art translated to her business, which translated to Danny. Even state-of-the-art was a step behind.

  She slid her ultra-sleek, mega-powered laptop out of her messenger bag, attached the extender cable to the charger, and plugged it into the wall before climbing to the top bunk on the opposite side of the room. For the first time since she crossed the threshold, she breathed in air that didn’t reek of lavender.

  She texted Danny at camp.

  Maddie: Don’t feed the sharks.

  He quickly wrote back. Too quickly?

  Danny: It’s a lake. Sharks don’t live in lakes.

  Maddie: Because people don’t feed them.

  Danny: Maddie!

  Maddie: Danny!

  Maddie: Settling in okay?

  Was he unhappy? Already?

  Danny: I guess.

  Danny: Someone smells like feet.

  Maddie: Same here. Except feet doused in lavender.

  Maddie: You’d think it makes it better. It doesn’t.

  Maddie: Mom call?

  Danny: She texted. You?

  She hadn’t.

  Maddie: Same.

  “Don’t you think?” Lucy was staring at her, awaiting a response to a question Maddie hadn’t even heard.

  Maddie gave a shrug and a head bobble, then returned to Danny.

  Maddie: Gotta go before new roomie ropes me into designing an app for butt facials.

  Maddie: Miss you.

  Danny:

  Danny: Five, right?

  Maddie: These weeks will fly faster than a pterodactyl.

  Danny:

  “Because Ryan Thompson thought there was a glitch.” Lucy’s raised voice broke through Maddie’s ability to tune others out, which she’d honed thanks to her parents. “He actually said that. Which means I totally look like someone at a higher level and . . .”

  Maddie:

  She unearthed her four-leaf clover necklace from beneath her sweatshirt and held on tight. She should probably get off the bed, unpack, talk to this Lucy girl for a second—or at the very least try to get this Lucy girl to stop talking for a second. Instead, Maddie retreated farther into the corner of the bunk. Sharing a room was going to suck as much as she’d thought it would.

  Maddie opened her laptop, connected to the dorm Wi-Fi, and responded to a couple of emails from clients. She’d been balancing her freelance work with school for the past year, and though she wasn’t valedictorian or anything, she had held her own among the over-scheduled, overindulged, over, over, over kids in her high school and expected to do the same while at ValleyStart. Though if something had to give, it would be the program. She had no interest in Pulse or an unpaid internship or living three thousand miles away from her brother. This incubator was a box to check, one that would open doors not just to remote clients but to the host of tech startups and companies needing design work on-site in Cambridge, keeping her close to Danny.

  Maddie was about to shut her laptop when a notification popped up for the private graphic design forum she’d practically lived on up until a couple of months ago. Taking care of her brother had narrowed Maddie’s world, leaving little time for friends or extracurriculars, and that was okay. Most of the time. But when Maddie realized she could share her love of design with people and they’d actually get it, everything changed.

  Their stories of successful freelance businesses sparked her own. First with chalk and crayon and then with graphite and colored pencils, Maddie had always loved to draw. She’d bring to life the characters in the books her parents would read to her at night. She’d re-create and eventually reimagine the covers—the wrappers, as she used to call the dust jackets. But it was the entertainment and literary agency her parents founded that brought graphic design into Maddie’s world. She’d sat at the kitchen table with her mom and dad, listening as they spoke with a freelance designer, sharing their vision of the agency. Maddie drew as they talked, not fully realizing that she was translating their words into reality. The logo she’d doodled that day inspired the whole look and feel of their site. Her parents had sent Maddie’s sketches to the designer. She could still picture the mix of pride and mischief on her parents’ faces when they showed her the website for the first time and presented her with a brand-new drawing tablet. And that was it, Maddie was hooked.

  But she didn’t have a community to share it with until she found the forum. She liked the camaraderie and support, with everyone cheering one another’s wins and commiserating over losses. She had one friend, a guy, who she relied on most. She valued his advice. So she’d thought nothing of him probing deeper and deeper into the request for proposal she was submitting to an about-to-blow-up virtual reality
game startup. In their private chats, she’d written volumes about her ideas for the site and app, and he’d read every line, encouraging her.

  Of course he had, right up until he slid his own RFP in to the company just before hers.

  In his cover letter “explaining” how he’d learned of the startup, he “let it slip” that “M. Li” was not yet a high school graduate and also happened to be female, the opposite of the gamer’s touted demographic. She lost the bid. Not because she trusted someone she shouldn’t have, but because she trusted, period.

  She’d been following him, torturing herself with what might have been for too long. If ValleyStart was anything, it was a new chapter, kicking off with lessons not just learned but seared into her skin. Maddie went into her profile settings and turned the notifications off.

  If only she could do the same to Lucy. Not one pause in her babbling on about Pulse and Ryan Thompson.

  “Listen,” Maddie called down from her bunk.

  Lucy extracted her head from the closet. “Sorry, what?” She swiveled her neck before looking up. “Did you say something, Madeline?”

  “It’s Maddie.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Are you sure, because I think—”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well, if you change your mind—”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then you’ll think about it.”

  Lucy returned to lining up her shoes, and Maddie became convinced that one of her new roommate’s bags must have originally been owned by Mary Poppins. Maddie couldn’t fit half of what Lucy had unpacked in even one of those pieces of luggage.

  Lucy stepped back and assessed, then jotted something down in a pink-and-white-striped notebook.

  “Retro,” Maddie said, eyeing the notebook.

  “Hmm, more classic with a hint of vintage and some surefire flair on club nights, but not really retro.” She looked up at Maddie. “But maybe things are different on the East Coast? You should check out the online articles I wrote for Teen Vogue this season. ‘California Style for Any Zip Code’ and ‘Optimize Your Closet in Six Easy Steps.’ Happy to take you shopping anytime. You know, so you’ll feel more . . . comfortable.”