Sophia of Silicon Valley

by Anna Yen

  The hour-long commute never bothered me; I spent the time returning phone calls and checking them off my call log.

  “Yes, I am definitely interested in using your stock surveillance software. Our CTO, Matteo, is reviewing your documentation, and since his team would be responsible for implementing your software, I can’t sign your contract until I get his approval.” Then, “No, I’m sorry. I can’t give you Matteo’s contact information.” By six thirty, my morning coffee was usually squeezing my small bladder, forcing me to fumble for my keys so I could let myself into Treehouse and run for the bathroom. Unlike Sterling, Rich, the building was always quiet, with just me and Ashley in at this hour; it was the perfect setting for us to get work done. For those first two weeks, I spent the time learning everything there was to know about Treehouse—its financials, its relationship with Samba, and how our business model would work once we released Treasures. At seven thirty or so, the receptionist would arrive and turn on the building’s overhead lights, cuing me to turn my attention to my email and the eternally blinking red voicemail light on my phone.

  There was, of course, a stray predawn call from time to time—when Ashley felt a matter needed immediate attention. The first time it happened, she must have caught me in the midst of deep sleep because I didn’t hear the ringing until she called a third time (as she impatiently informed me).

  “Hello?” I answered, trying my best to sound awake and alert.

  “Listen, the New York Times just called for a response to something Scott said while he was out to dinner with his wife. Someone must have overheard him and it’s causing a lot of hysteria. Can you handle it, please?”

  I’m not sure what “handle” means, but sure. I’ll give it a go.

  “Okay,” I said. Not like there was an option to say no. I rubbed my eyes awake. “What did he say?”

  “Oh, you know Scott.”

  Not really.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that if Bill Filac dropped more acid, his products would be more creative.”

  I sat up, now fully awake and trying not to burst out laughing. Bill was the CEO of Filac Software, Quince’s biggest competitor. I didn’t have any experience dropping acid myself, but I knew Scott’s words were fighting words and I loved good office drama. “What? He did? Oops!”

  “I’m sure you’ll handle it with grace. We just don’t want the New York Times to print it. Valleywag already wrote something on their blog last night, but Scott’s not worried about that. They’re a gossip blog. The New York Times is one he does care about. For them to publish this quote would be a terrible and distracting headline for us and our IPO.”

  “Isn’t it time we hire a PR person?” I asked. After all, this wasn’t just someone asking for a charitable donation. This was the New York Times!

  “Ha! You’d think. But we haven’t. Not yet, anyway. Scott said this is what you’re good at,” Ashley said.

  I am?

  “The emails and voicemails have already started to come in—I forwarded those to you. I’d start with the New York Times reporter, though. His contact info is in your email.”

  I flipped back my warm, peach-colored down comforter and rolled off my queen-size bed. Hunched over and dragging myself to the other end of my childhood room, I walked past the two large windows that faced the valley. It was three o’clock in the morning—pitch-dark outside with just the dim glare from the streetlights below. Being awake at that hour made me feel lonely, but I shook it off as soon as it came. No time for loneliness. Time to work your magic. I wiggled onto the white upholstered cushion of my polished nickel-finished chair—the one that matched my wall-to-wall white lacquered desk. I turned on the lamp and squinted to shield my eyes from its brightness. My fingers pulled out a Bic from the blue-and-white ceramic pen holder that I made when I was twelve, then reached for the Post-it pad next to the telephone. I dialed into my Treehouse voicemail, but when the first message was from a livid woman calling from Mothers Against Drunk Driving, I hung up. Can’t deal with that now—it’s too early. It wasn’t until later that day that I heard the other messages from Alcoholics Anonymous, Al-Anon, and every other antidrug organization out there, all rallying a cry to boycott anything related to Scott Kraft, because they had heard about his acid comment and felt the need to share their opinions about his “lack of morals” and “poor role model” actions. Rumors travel fast.

  On my BlackBerry was the email that Ashley said she’d sent—the contact information for the New York Times reporter who had called for a comment about the Valleywag blog post. I opened my ThinkPad, did a quick search on the reporter’s most recently published articles—everything from network security breaches to the last-mile connectivity problem. What the hell is that? A quick scan of the article explained that the term referred to something about telecommunication companies and their challenges around providing high-speed Internet service to remote geographic areas. Yawn. I took a slow, deep breath, the same way I would if I were trying to calm down my quick-tempered mother, then dialed the reporter’s number.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to sound cute and flirty and ditching any voice-coach-of-yore influence that remained. “This is Sophia from Treehouse. I understand you had some questions for Scott? Isn’t it a little early for you over there? I hear East Coasters don’t get to work until ten a.m.!”

  “Well, I don’t know about ten o’clock, but we’re certainly not early risers in this town,” the reporter said. He sounded deflated, dorky, and older, perhaps married with high school–age children. Probably someone who didn’t get a lot of attention at home because his wife was too busy carting the kids around.

  “That’s right. The town that never sleeps, right?”

  “The city that never sleeps,” he said.

  I laughed harder than I needed to. “Oh, sorry. English is not my first language.”

  “Oh, really? What is your first language? You speak English very well.”

  “Mandarin. I didn’t speak English until I was about six years old.”

  A big exaggeration. More like three.

  I crossed my fingers and hoped that this guy was on the Orient Express, or at least had a bit of yellow fever. This is where being Chinese comes in handy.

  “Oh, really? My wife is Chinese! Were you born there?”

  Bingo!

  I spent the next few minutes recounting the personal story that always fascinated people: How Dad escaped from China by swimming two and a half miles to Hong Kong with his eight siblings when he was a teenager, and how two of them drowned. Then, after immigrating to Taiwan and graduating from high school there, he snuck onto a cargo ship that was on its way to America. And how he earned his Ph.D. from Stanford. The oohs and aahs coming from the reporter told me now was a strategically wise time to bring up the rumor. A personal connection had been established.

  “Anyway, I’m so sorry I’ve taken us off the subject. You’d asked about Scott?”

  “Oh, right. Yes. I was hoping to speak to him about his comment that Bill Filac should drop acid to make his products more interesting. There’s always been a rivalry between them, and, well, we’d like to know if he’d care to comment.”

  “What? No, I don’t think Scott would ever say something like that. He’s got young kids. Besides, you and I both know that the rumor of a rivalry between Quince and Mr. Filac’s company is more likely something made up by less seasoned reporters than yourself. Both companies serve completely different audiences and markets.”

  “Well, you’re right on that point.”

  “Look, all boats rise with the tide. So what I know Scott wants to do, and am sure Mr. Filac does as well, is to empower people with technology, don’t you agree? But then, there’s the issue of the last mile, which is an entirely different problem.”

  Distract, distract, distract. Might as well use that boring article to my advantage.

  “Ha. Isn’t that the truth?”

  “And that issue isn’t up to Scott or
Mr. Filac. Regardless, Scott has the utmost respect for Mr. Filac. Who wouldn’t? It’s a huge market and for every Coke, there’s always a Pepsi.”

  God, spending too much time with Jonathan. “All boats rise,” “For every Coke there’s a Pepsi.” Vomit!

  “Respect, huh?”

  “Well, sure,” I said before fake giggling. “Other than maybe having some opinions about how uncreative it is to name a company after yourself. I mean, can you blame him? Who does that?”

  “People with huge egos. That’s who,” said Mr. New York Times Reporter. “Hmm. So are you saying it’s not true—what Scott said?”

  “Well, look. It certainly doesn’t sound like him—he’s vegan, you know. And lives a really healthy lifestyle. The guy meditates every morning and has a spiritual yogi and everything. We even now have one at Treehouse. I can’t imagine him condoning any sort of illegal drug use. The man won’t even take an aspirin,” I said, trying to interest him in these other details. That’s called deflecting.

  “Treehouse has its own yogi?”

  “Well, not like a full-time employee or anything. Just a spiritual adviser.”

  “And vegan—what is that? Like vegetarian but only raw food, right?”

  “No. Vegetarian but also no dairy—no animal products whatsoever. I mean, he doesn’t even eat cheese! I love cheese!” I squealed.

  “I do too,” he admitted.

  “Oh! Well, I hear there’s a lovely cheese store in Chelsea—let me take you there the next time I’m in New York!”

  “That would be great,” he said.

  “Great! It’s a date! So did I answer your question?” I asked.

  “Well, I’d still like to talk to him, but if that’s not possible, I’m not comfortable writing anything about the Valleywag article. The New York Times doesn’t print rumors.”

  “Well, that’s just what it is,” I said. “Okay, well, here’s my cell phone number in case you need anything. Anything at all.” I wished him well and hung up. God, I wish Mom were that easy! Then, after letting Ashley know I’d taken care of the reporter, I dragged myself back to bed, feeling slightly dirty for being such a flirt but forgetting about it quickly as I drifted back to sleep.

  Despite all the interruptions, which usually had something to do with “so-and-so calling,” I made good progress on completing the last items that needed to be addressed before we left for the roadshow: negotiating “what will we get if we list our stock on your exchange” proposals with the Nasdaq or NYSE; working with Jonathan on the “teach-in” for our research analysts, who we hoped would be supportive mouthpieces to Wall Street as soon as we went public; coordinating between Treehouse’s finance team and the Sterling, Rich lawyers to provide the financial information they requested so they could update our S-1 filing; and helping Jonathan prepare the investor presentation we would use on the roadshow. I’d had little interaction with Scott since I walked through the Treehouse doors six weeks ago; it seemed as though Jonathan might be shielding me from our fearless leader. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll turn into former IR person number seven. I asked Ashley about the six that came before me. She began by saying rather loudly, “I’m no gossip,” then leaned toward me and whispered, “Scott fired them.”

  “Anything I can learn from?” I asked.

  “Well, you’re already at an advantage because Scott hired you himself, and I’ll bet he’s more likely to keep you on just so he doesn’t have to say that he was wrong,” she said with a laugh.

  “Thanks a lot,” I mumbled.

  “No sense of humor this morning? Fine. The others had been sent by a recruiting company Jonathan hired about six months before you started. Let me think,” she said, tucking her short hair behind her ear and tilting her head slightly. “The first one was a longtime IR executive, and on her first day here you could tell she just wasn’t going to fit in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think she was just too rigid. She had a process that probably had worked for her in the past, but Scott felt like she was treating this job like a template that had been created and that wasn’t what he wanted.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Well, for example, she didn’t think there was any point in considering Nasdaq because she swore up and down that the New York Stock Exchange was the better platform. And when Scott pressed her on why, the only thing she said was that she always went with the NYSE. She was out the door by the third day, if I recall correctly.”

  Ashley went through numbers two, three, four, and five rather quickly before she came to the last one. “Number six was here the longest,” she said.

  “How long was that?”

  “He was here about one week before he had a complete breakdown.” Ashley chuckled unsympathetically.

  I laughed nervously and changed the subject.

  “Good morning, Matteo,” I said, walking into Treehouse’s kitchen to get a glass of water. Our CTO was standing in front of the seven-thousand-dollar Italian espresso machine he’d demanded—the same espresso machine that no one except him could figure out how to use. “Jonathan and I were just saying we should get trained on Shareholder.com soon. Did you review the technical documentation I sent? Is it okay for Jonathan to go ahead and sign the contract?”

  “I looked at it,” he said, straight-faced. “It’s such a simple piece of software. I can’t believe you want to use that. I’m going to build you something better.”

  “I don’t need anything better. Besides, a lot of companies use their stock surveillance tool,” I said, confident in the research I’d done. “Even Samba uses it, and they’re a multibillion-dollar business.”

  “Ha. Don’t just follow what other people are doing, little lady. Think of new solutions. I’ll build us something in-house.”

  “How long will that take?” I asked, deciding that now wasn’t the time for me to take issue with Matteo’s “little lady” comment. I need his help.

  “Eh, a few months.”

  “I don’t have a few months. This has to be done before the IPO. Is this a budget thing? Or is there something you don’t like about Shareholder.com?”

  “Why don’t you go back to your IR stuff and let me take care of the technical matters of our company,” Matteo said, shooing me away with his hand.

  “What I don’t understand is why you want to reinvent the wheel. Stock surveillance isn’t our business, so I’m handing you a perfectly good solution.”

  Then I realized what this was probably about. Matteo wanted credit for our stock surveillance; he wanted everyone in the company to be aware of his extraordinary talents. But I knew that under no circumstances would Jonathan and Scott agree to let Matteo touch this project; his priority was finishing the technical renderings of the Treasures characters. So I told myself to back down. Let Scott and Jonathan fight this one.

  Matteo was too busy stirring sugar into his espresso to respond to me, so I exited the kitchen—without my water.

  Two days later, an email from Jonathan appeared in my inbox.

  To: Sophia Young

  From: Jonathan Larsen

  Subj: Shareholder.com

  Scott took care of it. Please schedule us for training this week. I’ll assume someone comes here.

  I’d been told that Scott didn’t like meetings.

  “He thinks email is one of the best mediums for sharing status updates and that meetings should be saved for problem solving,” Ashley had explained. Which is why I was surprised, and nervous, when the following week, she IM’d me.

  Ashley: Scott wants to see you.

  Sophia: When? Why?

  Ashley: Now.

  My hands became a bit clammy. I wasn’t sure I was ready for Scott. I had suddenly become afraid of him, although I really didn’t know why.

  Scott was on a phone call but Ashley waved me through. “He’s just finishing up.”

  I crept into Scott’s office carrying my pen and notepad. Unsure of whether to sit or stand, I fidget
ed a little before settling on staying right where I was: near the door.

  “How much would it be?” Scott said. Then, after the person on the other end of the line finished speaking, Scott asked, “What kind of permits? And how long would it take? Okay. Let me get back to you.”

  Scott hung up the phone and turned his attention to me.

  “Nice haircut,” he said.

  My right hand shot up to touch my hair and I realized Scott was referring to the three-inch-shorter, flat-ironed A-line bob hairstyle I’d adopted a few days ago.

  “Thanks!” I said, surprised that he’d noticed.

  “We’re going to announce Treasures’ release date. Can you please write a press release?”

  I’ve never written a press release before, but sure. Why not? How hard can it be? Copy the Samba format.

  “Yep, no problem. But doesn’t everyone know it’s coming out the day before Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes. But what they don’t know is that this is a Treehouse production. You’ll have to do some coordinating with Samba’s PR team, but I want you to draft it to emphasize that Treehouse is the creative force behind the movie.”

  “Okay, no problem.”

  “And a quote from me. Draft it and email it over.”

  “But won’t this be viewed by the SEC as pre-marketing the stock before our IPO?” I wanted to seem important and knowledgeable, but I just ended up stating the obvious.

  Jonathan entered the room. “No, it’s the same thing as a product announcement. Normal course of business.”

  Then a light went off in my head. “Oh! Brilliant! You’re putting out the release now so you can do a bunch of media interviews just before the IPO! It will build investor momentum just like you said, all under the guise of ‘normal course of business.’”

  Scott began tugging at the hem of his jeans as though he was pulling up his socks. I could tell he was agitated. He stood up suddenly, sending his chair sliding back on the thinly carpeted floor. “This is the only time I’ll explain myself.” Scott began to pace. “No one knows our name or who we are. They all assume Treasures is a Samba film. We need to start building our own brand, and the sooner Treehouse becomes a household name, the better. I don’t want us to be dependent on Samba forever.”