by Anna Yen
“Yes. Yes, that is true,” he said. He looked as though he missed those days.
“Wow! So you were a do-gooder.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “But you sold out for a paycheck, huh?”
Grant tried not to laugh. “That’s right. And right now, this greedy bastard is going to walk you out.”
“So do I have the job?” I asked, point-blank. I knew it might be too direct, but I had nothing to lose.
“Are you going to show up if I say yes?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Grant Vicker just smiled.
“I got a job,” I said, beaming.
“What? Where?” Dad asked.
“Sterling, Rich!” I responded, proud to say the name of my new employer who had emailed me earlier that day with a formal offer letter.
We were gathered for our weekly Sunday dinner—me, Kate, Audrey, Mom, and Dad. It wasn’t uncommon for Kate to join us, so I’d invited her to help celebrate the good news. We were seated on the clear acryllic chairs at the dining table in our great room. Between the kitchen and this room, we had everything we needed: a bathroom, a sunken family room with a large-screen television, a large eating area, and clear views into the garden on one side and over Silicon Valley on the other.
Dad smiled at Kate, certain she’d had something to do with my stroke of good fortune.
“Hey, don’t look at me. The only thing I did was submit her résumé,” she said, waving both hands in the air.
Dad turned serious. “I’m sure you did more than that. Thank you, Kate. You are a very good friend.”
Kate smiled and nodded modestly. “Don’t thank me yet. She’ll be working long hours and you probably won’t like it.”
“How much are they paying you?” my mother asked, always the one worrying about money despite the fact that she had been raised with a silver spoon in her mouth and my father had been successful enough to build her her dream home.
“Not as much as the investment bank, but I get paid double time if I work more than eight hours a day,” I said.
Audrey was more skeptical. “Yeah, and they’ll bill you out for ten times the amount they pay you. Law firms are such rip-offs.”
I frowned.
Why don’t you go join Ava and your husband at your in-laws?
“Daddy is very proud of you, Sophia,” my father said, glowing. Then his face fell. “But please don’t work too hard. Your health comes first.”
Although I understood how he felt, I winced at his comment and wondered if my health would always overshadow my achievements. It occurred to me long ago that the worst part of having a chronic illness wasn’t the illness itself. Although it royally does suck. It was the assumption that I couldn’t handle things as well as healthy people, or at all. Have you ever noticed that when someone with an illness does something amazing, it’s always “despite”? Even when the illness wouldn’t actually get in the way of what they’re doing whatsoever?
He swam the English Channel, despite bipolar disorder!
She won the chess tournament, despite breast cancer!
The last time I’d checked, diabetes wasn’t directly in conflict with kicking ass in the legal world.
Mom noticed my disturbed expression and changed the subject. “Oh! Maybe you’ll go to a top law school and find a nice boy,” she said with honest excitement.
Amen!
“We always thought you’d be a great lawyer, given the mouth you have on you,” she continued, taking my mind off Dad’s comment.
“Let’s focus on being thankful I got a job and that I’ll get to work with Kate. So back off, Mom,” I joked.
Mom raised her shoulders to her ears and chuckled with embarrassment.
“Which group are you in?” Dad asked, turning to my friend.
“I work for Austin Sterling, Mr. Young.”
“He’s the firm’s founder, Dad. A big deal,” I added.
Audrey clearly wasn’t excited for me. “I guess it’s good that you got a job, but this has nothing to do with your finance degree, and you’ve got to stop thrashing around, Sophia. I mean, who does that? Who just walks into a law firm and says, ‘Oh hey. I’m going to be a paralegal, not for any good reason other than I have nothing better to do’?”
Maybe she’s jealous.
“That’s the one thing your sister does well, Audrey. She doesn’t think—she just goes,” Mom said.
“The one thing, Mom?” I prodded. But Mom was right. I was good at not overanalyzing. Sure, in some cases it had gotten me in trouble. But for the most part, my tendency to jump in with both feet had served me well. Yay for me!
“Well, that and spending money,” Dad said, poking me in the side.
Mom nodded, Audrey shook her head, and I stood up to change the subject and to kiss up a little. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. It was very gourmet! Kate and I are going to meet some friends.”
“Now? It’s so late,” Mom said.
“Mom, it’s only eight thirty.”
“Oh. It feels later. Probably because it’s getting so dark so early,” she muttered to herself.
“No drinking, Sophia!” Dad said. “Too much sugar!”
“I know, I know.”
Kate stood and followed me as Mom shouted after us, “If you do drink, don’t forget to take extra insulin!”
I pretended I didn’t hear her because I was too busy feeling thrilled with myself. I was eager to go out and celebrate my next chapter. Maybe with this new job my family would start to take me seriously. Would I?
Chapter 3
A few days later, wearing my favorite leopard-print shift dress, I opened Sterling, Rich’s glass doors and took two steps forward with closed eyes. This was it—my big debut in the legal world. I imagined my name in bright lights on a Sterling, Rich marquee: super paralegal girl: starring sophia young. It wasn’t the Warriors or Broadway, of course, but there was an excitement brewing inside of me that felt just as exhilarating, as if I were going onstage. I opened my eyes, expecting to see an audience that was ready to cheer. Instead, a few men in ties and women in boring skirt suits were having conversations, speaking on the phone, or reading documents as they hurried to their next meetings. What have I signed up for? Jack Wynn’s words rang unbidden in my head and gave me a brief moment of stage fright: “We’re going to have to let you go.”
I didn’t have time to dwell on that for too long, though. One of the Beauty Queens at reception was smiling at me pointedly—it was one of those lips-don’t-touch-the-teeth kind of smiles. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Within moments, Miss America was walking me up the glass stairs on the right side of the lobby and onto a gray-carpeted landing adjoining a very large conference room. The “VIP room,” as she called it, was centered between two wide hallways; we walked toward the one on the right. I noted a kitchen stocked with coffee and a glass-fronted refrigerator filled with soda, then imagined myself sashaying into the kitchen thrice daily for my gratis Diet Coke pick-me-ups. We’d passed the kitchen and two short pass-throughs when I heard a booming voice screaming expletives. I lowered my head to hide my smile and the fact that, for some reason, I found it hysterical anytime someone strung obscene words together.
The voice was coming from one of the offices toward the end of the hall, thirty feet away. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed, but no one seemed to flinch. People, mostly women, sat at their desks facing the hallway, lined up like ants on a log, either speaking into their telephones or typing away feverishly at their computers. Across from them, on the right side of the hall, were large, windowed offices overlooking a carefully landscaped, full back parking lot. Most had messy, paper-piled desks and shelves filled with books that didn’t look very interesting. As the booming voice got louder, I fully expected that when we got close enough, a curtain would be ripped aside to reveal the Great Oz. But within a few feet of the office, I recognized whom the voice belonged to. Not the Wizard: Grant Vicker. Miss America and I stood in his doorway for
a moment, then she whispered to me before returning back down the hall, “I’m sure he’ll be off in a minute so just wait here.”
“Tell those lazy-ass, inanimate fucking objects that we received comments from the SEC again—they’re questioning the validity of the company’s metrics.” Then silence.
“They can’t just make up metrics that ultimately don’t say anything about their company.”
Grant lifted his left hand and began to wave it as he continued, “That’s like saying, ‘Look over here, not over there.’ This country would be in a lot of trouble if the SEC was that stupid.” Then silence again.
“Look, I highly suggest you help your client identify the financials and metrics that accurately reflect the state of their business. Otherwise this thing isn’t going public.”
No “goodbye” followed; no “take care”; no “thank you.” Just the sound of the receiver slamming into the phone cradle. Conversation over.
Grant looked up at me and his face smoothed like a shirt under a hot iron. He smiled warmly, his conversation apparently forgotten.
“You actually showed up.”
“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t think many people actually believe that they can just say they’re going to be a paralegal one day, and then be ballsy enough to do it a few days later. It’s nice to see you. Welcome.”
Grant stood and walked out the door, not checking to see if I was following. I rushed out behind him, down the same hall through which Miss America had led me just five minutes earlier. But instead of walking toward the stairs, he turned right down a small pass-through that separated one side of the floor from the other. Then, suddenly, he stopped. I was so close on his heels that I nearly slammed into him.
We were standing before an open frosted-glass door, and Grant was gesturing as though he were a tour guide displaying the majesty of the Taj Mahal. “Here we are,” he said. “This is your office.”
For a split second, mystified by my luck, I allowed myself to imagine the world beyond the doorway as a vast, hill-facing expanse, as impressive as Grant’s office.
“Shall we?” He ushered me in.
My hill-facing expanse was in fact a six-foot-wide closet with the ambiance and airiness of a shoe box. The closet’s modular desk faced the door, and two matching chairs sat in front of it. A floor-to-ceiling combo bookshelf and file cabinet ran the length of the back wall. Fluorescent lights flickered from the ceiling, and lit by their unpleasant glow sat a woman in her late thirties, her highlighted curly blond hair short. Even though the pale yellow of her silk blouse wasn’t doing her any favors, she looked warm and professional. As she rose to introduce herself, she tucked a large binder under one arm and stashed a pen behind her ear.
“Thank you for showing Sophia around today,” Grant said stiffly. Without waiting for so much as a response, he was gone. I made a mental note that the Truly Busy don’t need to say goodbye. Maybe someday I’d cut that word out of my vocabulary, too.
“Hi! I’m Grant’s former paralegal, Ellen,” the woman said. “I’m going to show you the ropes.”
“Hi!” I said with a bright smile, not so much because I was happy to meet the woman who used to have my job but more because I recalled Kate’s story of how Ellen and Grant had parted ways. She had asked Grant to stop swearing so much, and in response, Grant fired back with “Who died and made you fucking queen?” When Kate shared this with me, I’d laughed and thought, Now that’s the kind of boss I want to work for.
Ellen and I spent most of the day going through every little piece of minutia, from Grant’s current client roster to the ins and outs of what my responsibilities would be during various legal transactions. It all sounded daunting, but I didn’t allow myself to worry. I focused on taking copious notes and kept reminding myself that Kate wasn’t far away. Ellen also graciously offered her assistance, saying, “I’m just on the other side of this wing so come by anytime. I’m always happy to help.” The women at Global Partners were even more cutthroat than the men so my predecessor’s offer caught me by surprise. How reassuring it was to have such support. Women power!
As the clock approached six thirty, Grant appeared in my doorway. I was learning how to navigate Sterling, Rich’s digital client-billing system; its six-minute-increment tracking system translated minutes into tenths of an hour. It confused me. Ellen had given me an old-school, ring-bound Franklin Planner, which had preprinted pages for each day. The hours were separated by ten dotted lines, each representing a six-minute increment that I could use to remember which clients’ accounts I worked on that day, and when.
“Come on,” Grant said, “you should listen to this call with the banker from GP about our response to the comments from the SEC. You can start to learn how we counterargue.”
We. That’s nice. I’m a we.
But then I froze. Grant noticed my now-pale face and asked, “What? What’s wrong?”
“Who is the call with at GP?” I asked, almost tearing up as I recalled the firing incident.
“Jack Wynn,” Grant said.
“Oh, Jesus. I can’t be on a call with Jack Wynn!” I responded, feeling clammy and slightly faint.
“Let me explain something to you, Sophia. Bankers are like real estate agents. They don’t actually do anything, but they make a shit ton of money and, unfortunately, are a necessary evil. I don’t care if Jack Wynn fired you. He’s an asshole. But he’s an asshole we have to work with quite often, so don’t worry about him. He can’t touch you while you’re working here. Well, assuming you don’t do anything egregious to him.”
Grant and Ellen restored my faith in humanity, or in Silicon Valley at least.
Minutes later, I sat in his office as he dialed into a conference call number. “Just listen in and learn,” he advised.
When the call began, I shuddered upon hearing Jack’s voice, then took a deep breath and grasped my pen tight. As Jack and Grant went back and forth about the different ways they could respond to the SEC comments, I gathered this call was a follow-up to the one Grant had been having earlier that morning, when I’d arrived. They sorted through the financials and business metrics that our client’s peers used, and reasons why those did or didn’t apply to “our” company. At the end, Jack and Grant agreed that it was best if they called the SEC the next day, together.
Before we hung up, Jack asked, “Should we have a code word?”
“What do you mean?” Grant asked.
“I mean, if you and I need to talk privately about something during the call, should we have code names for each other so we know if one of us wants to put the SEC examiner on hold?”
Grant looked at me incredulously and rolled his eyes, then leaned closer to the speakerphone to say something. But before he could, I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “How about we give him the code name ‘Pig Fucker’?”
Grant dropped his head and shook it slowly, trying very hard not to laugh while he responded to Jack. “Let’s just tell the SEC we need a moment if we want to talk on a separate, private line.”
As I walked out of the office that evening, a sense of satisfaction washed over me. Watching Grant weave and tackle every angle of a problem could be valuable, although I wasn’t sure how. He was a maestro at analyzing situations, negotiating, and predicting results. If I listened to and observed Grant Vicker carefully, maybe I would become skilled at it, too.
I had plans to meet Kate and her first-year associate, Mark, at the Dutch Goose after work. “I want you to meet his roommates. They’re medical school residents!” she’d exclaimed when we met earlier in the day. Like the Rosewood, the Goose was a favorite of ours—one of those wonderful places you walked into and immediately felt its history of countless drinking stories, date nights, and evenings spent with friends seated along its worn wood picnic tables. When I hurried in fifteen minutes late, the buzzing chatter coming from the young hopefuls inside somehow calmed me.
“Hey!” Kate yell
ed, waving at me. “I came by your office around seven to see if you were ready to go, but you weren’t there.”
Kate, Mark, and Mark’s two roommates were sitting in the far corner booth. The Golden State Warriors game was playing in the background, and as I walked over, the peanut-shell-covered floor crunched under my heels.
“Grant’s working on an IPO for a mobile app company, and guess who the banker is?” I asked, smiling.
“Who?” Kate leaned forward as though I were sharing a good bit of gossip.
“Jack Wynn!” Mark shouted out as if he were a game show contestant. When I nodded, Mark continued, “Kate mentioned you used to work at Global Partners. That man is on a lot of IPOs.”
I wanted to tell them all about the conference call, but instead, I waved to the two roommates and apologized as I slid into the booth, “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude. Hi, I’m Sophia.”
Kate introduced me to the dark-and-stormy-looking roommate, a solid nine who mesmerized me so deeply that I barely waved to the curly-haired, shorter guy.
Kate pointed to Dark and Stormy and said, “He’s studying ophthalmology.”
“Oh!” I jumped in my seat, reached into my purse, and threw on my new pair of glasses. “I just got new glasses! What do you think?”
The stunned look on Kate’s face told me I was making a fool of myself, but only a split second of awkwardness passed before a man’s voice saved me. “In that case, did I mention I’m studying urology?”
The voice came from Mark’s other roommate—the shorter, curly-haired one whom I’d barely noticed. The table erupted in laughter and I smiled brightly at him. “Peter,” he said while extending his hand.
The moment was interrupted by the vibrating phone in my purse, which I answered. It was my dad. I plugged one ear with a finger and held the phone with the other hand as I made my way outside to hear him.
“Hi, Mei-Mei. Where are you?” Based on the echo coming through, Dad was on speakerphone.
“I’m at the Dutch Goose.”
“Tell her no drinking!” my mom shouted from the background. In her opinion, drinking establishments were a triple whammy for me: first, proper ladies shouldn’t be seen in bars; second, the empty calories did nothing for anyone’s waistline; and finally, diabetics really shouldn’t drink because it generally messes with their blood sugar levels. Mom was right on the last point, but I wanted to live my life.
