Screen Queens

by Lori Goldstein

  Delia’s eyes drifted to the Ada quotation taped to the bottom of her bunk—the one that used to live on the corkboard above her desk at home.

  Imagination is the Discovering Faculty, preeminently. It is that which penetrates into the unseen worlds around us, the worlds of Science.

  The power of imagination.

  Maybe for Ada.

  Delia wished she could channel Ada’s brilliance now as she listened to Lucy talk about the problems with Lit. She’d followed every protocol she knew and more she’d had to learn. And still she couldn’t break through. The problem wasn’t in the user interface or the code layer but had something to do with the database. It was responding slower and slower with each request, even when the requests were the same. She was missing something. She just had no idea what or how to find it.

  Which was what kept her up at night—worrying and reading. She’d been poring over tutorials online and reading books she’d borrowed from the library, her photographic memory cataloging it all. Because she needed to stand out as a developer. And mastering the database side was how she’d do it. Being able to troubleshoot server issues and laggy SQL without a data admin’s help-that would make Delia the unicorn Lucy already thought she was.

  “Once we have our data from the beta test, we’ll be able to finalize this slide,” Lucy said, clicking through the Demo Day presentation she’d been putting together. “And you’ll narrate along with the others that really dig into the code.” She tapped the screen on her laptop.

  “What? You mean me? Onstage?” Hives prickled beneath Delia’s skin just at the thought. No one ever said anything about her having a speaking role. “Isn’t Demo Day your thing?”

  “Nothing about this is just my thing—”

  Maddie snorted.

  “We boom or bust together, ladies,” Lucy continued, ignoring Maddie and what seemed to Delia the ever-present tension between the two. “And I for one need a big, bad . . .” She mimed an explosion with her hands. “An earth-shattering one.”

  Delia nodded, her pulse still in overdrive. “Me too.”

  “Uh-huh, sure,” Maddie said, her stylus sweeping against her tablet as she doodled what looked like horns coming off a close resemblance to Ryan Thompson. “You both want this, so I’m in. Even though Pulse is a complete and utter crock.”

  “Don’t start,” Lucy said. “We know how you feel about Pulse.”

  “It’s not just Pulse, it’s Emma. Sadie said she was supposed to play at that stupid Pulse-a-palooza, and I checked and she’s not on the lineup anymore. Even the entertainment needs to be Crushing It.”

  “So? Since when is Emma your BFF?”

  Delia cut in. “And what about Eric? He’s the one who lost a third of his team. And he needs this.”

  Lucy eyed her. “Not more than us, Delia. I know you guys are a thing—”

  “We’re not.” Because Delia didn’t date. (And because Eric hadn’t asked her out on one.)

  “But we have to come first.”

  Delia sank deeper into her plastic-coated mattress as Lucy returned to the slideshow. She knew her team came first, and she wanted to win, it was just that she wanted Eric to win too.

  Lucy had designed the Lit beta test, enlisting several on-campus spots and a couple off-campus venues as their test subjects, to be rated in real time. And that was the biggest “snag”—the ratings weren’t averaging fast enough. The more ratings Delia put into the app at once, the slower it worked. A lag might not be noticeable on a small scale like the beta test, but once the app hit a fully functioning market, the delay would become monumental. The judges could extrapolate as easily as Delia had. They had to fix it—Delia had to fix it.

  She ran through all the possible solutions again—a recitation she’d committed to memory same as when she helped her mother rehearse. Only Delia’s lines were a jumble of letters and numbers that she couldn’t untangle.

  A buzz interrupted. A text from Cassie. Delia picked up her phone and shot up so fast, she hit her head on the bottom of the upper bunk.

  “Please tell me that’s not the right time,” she said, holding up her phone.

  “Can’t,” Maddie said. “That’s the right time.”

  Lucy placed her hands on her hips. “Painted Ladies, huh? No significance whatsoever to that being your background picture since you and Eric aren’t a thing.”

  The mattress squeaked as Delia shoved herself off of it. She grabbed her kiosk nametag from her suitcase/nightstand and searched under her bed for her backpack. Maddie’s stuff made its way into every available crevice on their side of the room, with balled-up sketches in the corners, sneakers dangling off the bedpost, and chargers dropping down into Delia’s sheets. As Delia slid her backpack across the floor, it brought with it a Red Sox hat filled with pretzels.

  “What are you doing?” from Lucy.

  “Hey, I’ve been looking for that,” from Maddie.

  “How long has it been missing?” Lucy asked.

  Maddie paused.

  “Don’t tell me,” Lucy said, snatching the hat and dumping the pretzels in the trash.

  Delia edged past her. “Guys, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got work.”

  “Now?” Lucy said. “But we planned this all week. You said you’d take tonight off.”

  Maddie tucked the hat low on her head. “May be boring as hell, but even I know we have to be on the same page before the beta test.”

  “Because,” Lucy said, “if we come out on top, we have an eighty-five percent chance of winning Demo Day. Eighty-five, Delia.”

  “I know. And I want to stay, I do,” Delia said. “But no one could cover for me. And I’m already late.”

  Lucy twiddled her fingers. “Tell loverboy we said hi.”

  “That’s not why I’m going.”

  “Right,” Lucy said.

  Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was Eric.

  Where are you? I’m doing my best to cover, but between the “unwrapping” and the “setting” and the fire department on speed dial, I’m afraid I’m missing something.

  A grin snuck up on her, and even Maddie sounded pissed when she peered over Delia’s shoulder and looked at her phone. “Eric, really? Not cool, Delia. I’m here, trying to win, for you.”

  Delia’s smile vanished, and she stood frozen in the doorway. Her phone lit up again, this time with a phone call. Cassie. But Cassie never called—Delia wasn’t even entirely convinced her friend knew her phone, despite its name, had the capability.

  She shrugged an apology and answered on her way down the hall. “Is everything all right?”

  “Dee Dee, it’s me.”

  “I know.”

  “Good, we can cut to it then. My bus is about to leave.”

  “Cut to what? Wait, why are you getting on a bus? Shouldn’t you be at the theater?”

  “Not tonight. And not tomorrow. And not because I’m all sorts of psychic like you, but because your parents already said they canceled tomorrow night’s show too.”

  “They what?” Delia’s parents were the definition of “the show must go on.” Her mom spent the first two hours of her labor with Delia onstage as Juliet. A testament to her dedication to her craft even if those last scenes had her lying on a slab, pretending to be dead.

  “When was the last time you talked to them?” Cassie asked.

  Delia thought. “A few days ago. I’ve left messages, but I know how busy they get during the season, and they’re the worst texters.”

  “Listen, Dee Dee, Chicago’s calling me, and unlike your parents, who you know I love—sometimes more than my own—I’m answering. So, you didn’t hear this from me, but the theater’s in a major nosedive, like snatch those oxygen masks and say a dozen Hail Marys. And now someone’s swooping in, offering a parachute. I think they just might jump ship.”

  De
lia closed her eyes. “Cassie, I live for your mixed metaphors, but I’m already late for work and . . . and these are my parents. The theater’s everything to them. It’s their life.”

  Our life.

  “Some vultures want to turn your parents’ theater into a multiplex. Offering big bucks.”

  “A movie theater?” Delia couldn’t remember the last movie she’d watched with her parents. “But how . . .”

  “Because, Dee Dee, the theater’s not everything to them. You are.”

  * * *

  * * *

  A pickup drone-flying tournament had just ended when Delia arrived at the Hot Pocket kiosk. An actual line awaited her. She nodded to Eric, who had an equal number of customers holding drones with clipped propellers and broken camera lenses despite his being a computer repair station. Numb, she was grateful to have something rote to do. If she paused for too long, the scream simmering at the base of her throat threatened to bubble out.

  Selling the theater. Selling the theater.

  Cassie would never mess with Delia, especially about this, and still some part of Delia clung to the hope that her best friend was pulling a prank.

  After her line dwindled and Eric was embroiled in what sounded like a tedious explanation of the forces of gravity, Delia called her parents. This time they answered.

  “Dad, put Mom on the line too.”

  “I’m here, doll,” her mother said. “We’ve been dying to hear how it’s going. Sorry we missed you, but you know the summer season—”

  “Are we really doing this?”

  Her dad sighed. “Cassie.”

  “No. No sighing over Cassie telling me what you both should have.” Delia took a breath. “It’s not like . . . done, is it?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “But we’re close.”

  “You can’t!” Delia cried, and Eric looked her way.

  “Delia,” her mom said. “We know it’s upsetting—it’s hard for us too.”

  Her dad took over. “But sometimes life tosses a ball your way, and you just have to catch it.”

  “But I’m here,” Delia said.

  “And we’re so very proud of you,” her mom said.

  “No, I mean, I’m here, I’m doing okay.” She swallowed and touched her necklace. “Great. Doing great.” Her parents had done so much to keep her dreams alive. And she was here to do the same for them. She just needed time. More time. “So you don’t have to worry about me for college or—”

  “Honey, listen,” her mom said. “We’ll talk about this when you get home. All performances suffer when you’re distracted. It’s why we’ve restrained ourselves from calling as much as we’d like.”

  “Twice a day,” her dad joked.

  “He really means three,” her mom said, and Delia could imagine the smile lighting up her face. “Now, don’t you worry about us. Just break a hard drive, okay?”

  “And a keyboard,” her dad said. “Or two.”

  “But—” Delia started.

  “We love you! Bye-bye!” in simulcast and then click.

  And right there, in front of the Hot Pocket microwave, Delia screamed.

  * * *

  * * *

  Eric set two plates down on the bench outside the student center. A turkey, bean, tomatillo salsa on the right, a vegan cashew cheese on the left.

  “Preference?” he asked.

  “Cashew cheese.”

  He cocked his head.

  Delia gave a soft smile. “Kind of addicting.” She broke off a piece and rested it on his plate.

  He tasted it. “Not bad. Though must be a real pain in the ass to make.”

  “Why?”

  “Just think, milking those tiny cashew udders.”

  Delia paused, then broke out in laughter.

  “And my work here is done,” Eric said, a smile brightening the green flecks in his eyes. “Unless you want to tell me what that was about. Can’t grow up with a grandmother who talks as fast as a coyote steals a backyard poodle and not be a good listener.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “’Fraid so. Both.”

  “Remind me not to move to Denver and buy a poodle.”

  “Okay, but only on the second part of that sentence.”

  And that’s all it took. Delia talked. Told Eric everything, about her parents, about her clearly foolhardy plan to win ValleyStart, get a job, and ease her parents’ money worries. About her fears of getting that job, of living here, so far from home, but also of her desire to live here, so close to what she’d always been good at. Or was before she got here.

  “No wonder you’re screaming,” he said. “I’m barely holding it in just listening to you. You’re putting so much damn pressure on yourself. Comparing yourself to everyone else here.”

  “Because they have so much more, better schools and computers and programs they learned on.”

  “I didn’t. And I’m here. Same as you. You know how much of an accomplishment it is to just be here, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “But I-I want more.”

  “Good. So do I.”

  “But I’m afraid to want more. Because what if . . .”

  What if I let everyone down?

  “What if you don’t get it? You try harder.” He trailed his hand through his hair, and pieces of it flopped over his eye. He tossed them back.

  “Which women in tech have to do, right? Especially women of color, like Emma. Is that why she left?”

  He paused before shaking his head. “I think her heart wasn’t in it. Music’s her thing. She only came here because her dad wanted her to. Which is cool. I get it.”

  “Your parents wanted you to come?”

  “Not exactly.” He bent over, resting his elbows on his knees. “My mom died when I was in fifth grade.”

  Delia reached for a curl. “I didn’t know.”

  He looked back at her, smiling weakly. “It’s okay, really.”

  “I’m sorry, Eric.”

  He nodded a thanks. “Here’s the thing: my mom didn’t exactly want me to come but she’s the reason I’m here.” He faced forward and rubbed his hands together. “See, after, my little sister had nightmares. For weeks. She slept in my room and would wake up each night like it suddenly hit her. ‘We don’t have a mom anymore,’ she said one time. Shit, I was ten, and I didn’t know what to say, so I said something like, ‘I’ll be such a good big brother that you won’t even notice one day.’ My grandma had moved in by then and my sister’s crying must have woken her. She came in and said, ‘And I’ll be such a good grandma, that you’ll notice every day your mom is gone, but some of those days, you won’t notice quite as much.’ And she was right.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “Always felt guilty for saying that. Like a betrayal to my mom for what I said to my sister and to my grandma for her hearing it—like I didn’t appreciate what she gave up to come help raise us.”

  “Eric, that’s not . . . You didn’t mean it like that. You were just trying to help.”

  “I know.” His eyes lowered. “It’s just . . . my grandma shouldn’t still be clocking in every day on the pediatrics floor and my dad shouldn’t be working two jobs, but they are. A couple of years ago, I looked up top-paying jobs straight out of college, and developer was one of them.”

  “That’s why you started coding?”

  “Yeah, didn’t realize how much I’d dig it though. So I’m here for them, all of them, but I’m here for me. You need to be here for you, Delia. And you need to know that that’s okay. It’s the only way to push through the rest of it. Trust me.”

  He stood and reached for her wrist. “Come up here.”

  It wasn’t until Eric’s skin was against hers that she realized she was shaking. He pulled her close and cupped his hand around both of hers.

  “I wasn’t always a
ble to talk about this stuff as easily,” he said. “What helped get me here, well, I’ll spare you the ones that didn’t work, but my grandma sorted through her mental Rolodex until she landed on a sort of mantra that helped me keep my emotions in check.” Eric stepped back and released her hands. “Now, I’m going to say it before I ask you to repeat it, so you can get your snickering out—”

  “I won’t laugh at you, Eric.”

  “Not me, this. And you better. Because if you don’t, you’re gonna be too close to my grandma for me to be having the thoughts I’m starting to have about you.”

  Delia flushed everywhere, but when she raised her head and caught Eric’s small, tentative smile, she didn’t mind.

  “Here goes,” he said. “‘Breaths raise you from the depths.’ And cue laughter.”

  Delia did, a little, because it was corny. But one thing Delia had learned from her dad was to embrace the corny.

  Eric placed his hands on his stomach and signaled for her to do the same on hers. “Next time you want to scream and not scare away stoned summer students, breathe in, and think, ‘Breaths raise you from the depths.’”

  “Breaths raise you from the depths,” she said.

  And they did.

  But so did Eric.

  SIXTEEN

  GOLDEN RULE • The investor with the gold makes the rules

  LUCY SHUT HER LAPTOP and swiveled her head between Maddie and Delia. The bags under Delia’s eyes were barely noticeable now that she’d allowed Lucy to apply a heavy dose of concealer, the same tactic Lucy had been employing all week to mask her own.

  For days, Delia had been head down into the wee hours, immersing herself in all things database, and Lucy, feeling bad about the other night, had stayed up right alongside her. Maddie was there too; she’d stepped it up, just like she’d promised. The end result . . .

  Lit looked fabulous.

  Lit sounded fabulous.

  Lit was fabulous.