Sophia of Silicon Valley

by Anna Yen

  “So should I set up interviews for you or something?” I asked.

  “I want you to personally email a copy of the release to every journalist, editor, and news desk you can find,” Scott said.

  I scribbled notes on my legal pad and began listing the news outlets that I was familiar with: People, InStyle, Us Weekly, Entertainment Tonight, Vanity Fair, Mercury News, the San Francisco Chronicle, KTVU News, USA Today. Then my pen stopped as it dawned on me how horribly unqualified I was for this job. I was certain Scott didn’t mean for me to focus my efforts on People, but that’s about all I knew! Fake it till you make it. Say something, stupid.

  “Uh, so should I coordinate with Ashley to find time in your schedule for these interviews?”

  Scott turned around to face me. He took a deep breath and then asked, “Are you stupid or fucking stupid?”

  I contemplated his question for a moment, smiled, and answered what Audrey had called me many times before. “Fucking stupid.”

  Jonathan eyed me and tilted his chin down so he could hide his wide grin. Then Scott leaned in close to me as though he wanted to tell me a big secret. “The key is to make them want you. Not to have to spend hours speaking to every fucking reporter out there.”

  To: Scott Kraft

  From: Sophia Young

  Subj: Treasures Press Release

  Scott,

  Hope you’re having a good morning. Per your request, please find attached a draft press release announcing Treasures. I’ve included information about the plot, a list of the voice actors, and the movie’s release date, and listed Dylan as the director. I also included an embellished version of the Treehouse company description that was included in the S-1, and added my name as “Contact.”

  Please let me know if you need anything else.

  Thanks and regards,

  Sophia

  I hit the Send button and leaned back in my chair. My first email to Scott Kraft. It felt exciting and satisfying. I was certain he’d approve.

  “What do you mean Scott isn’t available for an interview?” It was only the next day, and already an angry reporter named Pat was shouting at me after seeing the press release on the news wires.

  I held the handset away from my ear. “I’m sorry, Pat. He’s not available.”

  “Listen to me. You seem new to all this. I am a reporter from the Wall Street Journal and I’m telling you, you don’t just put a press release over the wire if you’re not willing to speak to the press.”

  “It’s just that his schedule is completely booked,” I said.

  “You can’t find TEN FUCKING MINUTES on his calendar?” he screamed.

  “Um.” I pretended to scan Scott’s calendar, which I didn’t even have access to. “Nope. Sorry.”

  “What about when he’s driving to the office?” Pat asked.

  Ugh, this guy is relentless.

  “No, he has a call at that time already.” Then, realizing I could try the ol’ IPO-quiet-period stunt, I said, “And we’re in the quiet period, so there’s really very little he can say.”

  “Don’t try that bullshit with me. I know he can talk about this. He just issued a goddamn press release about it!” Pat was screaming again.

  I scratched my head. My mobile phone was ringing, the red message light on my voicemail was blinking, and I had to get off the phone. “Pat, I’m really sorry, but he’s just not available.”

  I could hear Pat inhale deeply as though he needed full lungs for the stream of expletives he was about to let rip. I deliberately increased the pitch of my voice so I could sound young and sweet. “Please don’t shoot the messenger.”

  Pat stopped screaming. “I’m sorry. Just call me if you find some time in his schedule. Thanks.”

  The next three days were filled with a stream of calls, all with the same outcome, including my New York Times “friend” from the acid incident. Scott was nowhere to be found, leaving me feeling cornered and battered.

  “Where is he?” I asked Ashley.

  “At home,” she said.

  “What is he doing?”

  It was after ten o’clock and I wanted to strangle the jackass for making me take the fallout from his strategic press stunt.

  “His trainer was late this morning.”

  “He has a personal trainer every morning? Is that why he doesn’t get in until ten o’clock?”

  It must suck to be him.

  “You didn’t hear it from me. Anyway, he waits until traffic has cleared before he hits the road, unless he takes the helicopter,” Ashley responded.

  My cell phone rang again, reminding me of the chaos that the press release had created. I was totally unprepared and inexperienced, but no one in the company seemed to care. I didn’t know what else Scott and Jonathan expected—Samba’s marketing engine had been publicizing Treasures across every conceivable media and print outlet for weeks, and although studio names are never mentioned in those instances, Samba was the behemoth and the public expected it to be a Samba production. But when people—journalists in this case—realized it was a Treehouse production and that Scott Kraft was behind Treehouse, it was as though every Scott fan (and nonfan, quite frankly) wanted to know more. They’d been waiting for years to see his next venture after Quince, and our press release announced that their messiah had reappeared.

  My cell phone rang again.

  I shouldn’t have tried to be so important. Now everyone and their mother has my cell phone number.

  “Just turn off the phone,” Daniel said.

  “I can’t just turn off my phone, Daniel,” I said. As soon as I saw the hurt look on his face, I regretted my tone. It was past midnight and we were naked in bed and had just had I haven’t seen you in so long sex, which wasn’t as good as you’re so sexy when you’re making dinner sex, but it did the job. I reached for my BlackBerry on the nightstand when suddenly Daniel said, “I feel like I’m just your joystick.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, you just come over, climb on, do your thing, snap at me, and then go back to work.”

  I put down the BlackBerry and giggled. “Oh, Daniel. I’m sorry!”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “But it is! You’re not my joystick. I’m really sorry. I’m just completely in over my head.” I turned to Daniel and tried to kiss him, but he pushed me away.

  “Forget it.” He stretched for the lamp on his nightstand and turned it off, then rolled over and showed me his back.

  I sighed. You big baby! Then I considered how Daniel (or his ego) felt about my job. I was working with an incredibly important person and making more money than he was, while he was doing entry-level consulting work with a salary that just barely covered his rent and school loans. I switched out of my turbo-work mode and softened, then gently placed my hand on Daniel’s shoulder, feeling nothing but love—mad, desperate love. No other man ever cared about me enough to have this sort of reaction, and although we were fighting, I smiled. Sick of me, I know. But it felt good to know I could affect someone this deeply. I wanted to try to make up, but I had a lot more work to do for Jonathan. So I let Daniel stew and began emailing the list of reporters and publications that had called for interviews earlier that day, just as Jonathan had requested. I thought Scott didn’t want to do interviews!

  Scott said I was to email him straightaway if Time, Hollywood Reporter, or Newsweek called, but I’d emailed him about them two days ago, and he hadn’t responded. Is this an ego thing or something? I felt offended that he didn’t reply to any emails or even acknowledge anything I’d done since my first day at Treehouse.

  The next morning at work, Jonathan appeared in my doorway.

  “You need to stop emailing Scott.”

  “But, he said to—”

  “Sorry, I meant you need to limit the number of emails you send him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Let me just put it this way: you’re giving him too many details, and he finds statements like ‘hope you have a
good night’ terribly annoying.”

  I crinkled my eyebrows. I’d always fancied myself as someone who was good—no, great—at crafting emails. So Jonathan’s warning was like a hard slap to my face, especially given how hard I’d been trying. I did my best to hold back my tears, but they welled up at the lower rims of my eyes anyway.

  “That’s so mean!”

  Jonathan let his surprise flash over his face, then laughed quietly. “You pretend like you have such a hard shell. But you’re really a softie!”

  “I know. It’s awful, I’m sorry,” I said, embarrassed at my breakdown and dabbing away at my damp eyes with my index fingers.

  “Don’t worry about it! Just use the information and fix it.”

  What Jonathan said explained why I hadn’t heard from Scott. Okay, fine, God forbid you strain yourself and type a few words. I’ll give you something that only requires two or three characters, I thought bitterly. I drafted, then redrafted, and redrafted for ten more minutes my next email to him. It had only two sentences and required a simple yes or no.

  To: Scott Kraft

  From: Sophia Young

  Subj: Time

  Time magazine called. Keri Boot wants to speak to you.

  Yes/No?

  Within minutes, an email appeared in my inbox.

  To: Sophia Young

  From: Scott Kraft

  Subj: Re: Time

  Only if she guarantees the cover.

  The phone call to Keri didn’t go well, at least not when I asked her to guarantee the cover. We hung up, and within minutes, her editor called.

  “Sophia, you know I can’t do that,” he said.

  “Well, I’m sorry, truly I have no idea what’s possible and what’s not, because, to be honest, this is my first press release,” I said, hoping to disarm him.

  A moment of silence went by and I was certain Mr. Editor would cave in about the cover topic.

  “Well, let me tell you. I cannot guarantee the cover. There are lots of things that can happen between the time Keri does the interview and the time we go to print.”

  Shit! “Well, you’re the editor so I assume you’re the boss. If there’s someone else you think I should speak to, please have him or her call me. Otherwise, blame yourself when you see an article about Scott and Treehouse on the cover of Newsweek!” I hung up.

  An hour later, a call from Keri sealed the deal for the only interview Scott granted after all that press release craziness.

  “Okay,” she said, sounding surprised. “He’ll be on the cover.”

  Chapter 8

  “‘Instant classic’ written all over it,” wrote the Hollywood Reporter. “Just perfect. Script, characters, animation . . . ,” said Empire. “[Treasures] is both an aural and visual delight,” raved the New York Times.

  Well, they did it. The dream that Scott, Dylan, Matteo, and the entire Treehouse creative team had worked so long and hard to achieve finally came true. Treasures had the most successful Thanksgiving opening ever, earning rave reviews nationwide. That Sunday, I enthusiastically waved goodbye to my parents and climbed into the spacious back seat of a chauffeured black sedan. My first business trip. I felt like such a grown-up, an important grown-up, as I was shuttled to the airport. It truly only dawned on me then that I was flying with Scott Kraft. For insurance reasons, Jonathan took a separate flight to New York that had left earlier that balmy morning—it was standard protocol at Treehouse that executives not fly together, and I shuddered thinking about the reasons why the insurance company enforced this. Between the insurance policy and the fact (according to Ashley) that Scott never traveled alone, I was the one stuck flying with him. A five-hour flight with Mom sharing her “wisdom” with me would be more fun. But no one was going to kill my buzz this morning.

  The day’s printed-out agenda from Ashley read Scott and Sophia meet at United Airlines Gate 82, so I waited there until I heard “Last boarding call for flight 6 to JFK” before stepping onto the Jetway, dragging my suitcase behind me.

  “He’s not here, Ashley,” I said into my cell phone, panicked that I had done something wrong.

  “Dammit! Why can’t he stick to the schedule? Let me find him.” Click.

  Then, lo and behold, when I stepped into the Boeing 777’s aisle not fifteen seconds later, there was Scott Kraft seated in 1A. The flight attendant offered to take my coat and whispered as she placed a glass of champagne on my seat’s wide armrest, “He seems really nervous.”

  I nodded, sat down next to Scott, and happily wiggled around in the fancy leather first-class seat before texting Ashley, I got him.

  “Hi!” I said cheerfully, hoping to distract Scott from whatever was freaking him out. “I was waiting outside.”

  “Don’t speak to me,” Scott said.

  That was so incredibly rude that I found it hilarious. Pure comedy! I love this guy!

  The airplane began taxiing down the runway, and I watched Scott squeeze his eyes. He made such snug fists with his hands that blue veins bulged. His back was glued against the dark navy seat and his breathing was even and deliberate. Had he been a friend and not my boss, I would have tried to talk him down. But Scott didn’t seem to be one for chitchat or comforting, so I sat silent, sipping the champagne that the flight attendant offered earlier. I noticed the man seated across the aisle push some buttons on his armrest to recline his seat and raise his footrest. I examined the various buttons on my armrest and, after pushing a few that I shouldn’t have (including the flight attendant call button), raised my own footrest to a level that suited me. Ah, that’s better. Now my feet don’t have to dangle off the floor.

  When the pilot announced we’d reached cruising altitude and turned off the seat belt signs, Scott opened his eyes, relaxed his fists, and laid each hand on an armrest. Not a half a second later, though, the airplane vibrated and Scott gripped the armrests tightly, his knuckles white. I referred once again to Ashley’s Day 1 schedule (detailed in fifteen-minute increments) for some indication of how I might comfort Scott, but she’d written only By the way, Scott is a bit skittish on the airplane. I’d call this a flat-out phobia! The other thing Ashley had fitted me with was a tote bag full of applesauce made by Scott’s personal chef, two bottles of Smartwater, and some sort of homemade trail mix. I looked at my watch—Maybe he wants a snack? But before I could ask, Scott began to speak.

  “The most dangerous time periods during a commercial flight are the ten minutes after takeoff and the ten minutes before landing,” he said in an unnaturally high voice. I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I reached over for the tote bag as well as my purse.

  “Do you want a snack?” I asked, pulling out a small mason jar full of applesauce with one hand and a raffia-tied parchment-paper bag that held his trail mix with the other.

  Scott shook his head.

  I put the snacks back in the tote and dug around in my purse. Then I pulled a pill out of my pillbox.

  “What about the helicopter? You fly in that. Isn’t it the same thing?”

  “No. A pilot doesn’t have as much control in a large commercial aircraft like this,” Scott said before adding, “That really smells. What is that?”

  “It’s for high blood pressure,” I responded.

  Scott looked surprised. “You’re so young.”

  I raised my eyebrows and shrugged, not wanting to get into the whole “diabetes side effect” thing.

  “High blood pressure at your age? That’s a bad sign,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “High blood pressure is the beginning of cardiovascular disease. You should learn how to meditate. Besides, manufactured medications wreak havoc on your cells—there’s always some side effect or chain reaction that happens in your body when you take one, so you should avoid them at all cost.”

  I didn’t care for Scott’s prediction and tried hard to push it out of my head. It wasn’t my nature to research my various ailments because I simply didn’t want to know. If the doctor told
me to take a pill, I’d take a pill. That was all there was to it.

  Scott turned to get a closer look at me and said, “At least you don’t look like you have any signs of cardiovascular issues.”

  Oh, so now you think you’re an M.D. “Oh yeah? What’s that supposed to look like, Doctor?”

  “Well, people with high blood pressure are often overweight. If they’re not, then it’s likely something genetic so you’d be screwed regardless. Others look bloated—they have edema. They’re puffy.”

  I nodded as though I understood, but really I was just egging him on. “Uh-huh. Puffy like the Pillsbury Doughboy? You see cardiac patients often?”

  “I like to sit in on medical school classes at Stanford,” Scott said, completely missing my Pillsbury joke.

  Ugh, that sounds awful. “Why would you do that?”

  “I’m just learning. It’s always good to expand one’s brain.” Something about the way he answered suggested there was a lot more to Scott’s medical curiosity, but I didn’t feel comfortable prying.

  I would have changed the subject, but Scott continued his prior line of questioning. “Are you supposed to work the hours you’re working? You’re not going to have a heart attack on us or anything, are you?”

  A+ on the social skills, Scott.

  “I am healthy. But thank you for your concern.”

  “I wasn’t concerned.”

  “Oh. Anyway, I work those hours because you don’t seem to think we need to get any help.”

  “Why do we need help? Samba does all the marketing and PR and you handle all the IR. If our teams are effective and productive, then, in my eyes, we’re fully staffed. Besides, I don’t trust people,” he said, looking down and pulling at his socks through the bottom of his jeans where there were small, noticeable holes. By now I knew that’s what Scott did—tugged at his socks through his jeans—when he was stressed, anxious, or simply frustrated.