by Anna Yen
“There’s a lot of ‘stuff’ that comes up, though, that has nothing to do with Treehouse and that takes up a lot of time. The acid debacle, for example.” I noted Scott pulling at his pants again, so I left it alone.
The delicious aroma of baking bread filled the cabin, signaling that our meals would be served soon. My CEO stood up and mumbled something about washing his hands, then moved past me and into the aisle. A flight attendant came by with a tray of warm mixed nuts and asked me for my drink order before moving on to the next row.
I removed a long, thin cosmetic case from my purse, retrieved my glucose monitoring kit from inside, and used it to test the level of sugar in my blood. Normal. Then I reached inside the cosmetic case again and withdrew a syringe, which I used to inject my pre-meal insulin. The woman across the aisle eyed me suspiciously, but I ignored her and went about my business. Over the years I’d become accustomed to the stares. With the left sleeve of my fall-colored cashmere sweater pushed up to my shoulder, I jabbed the small-gauge needle into my bicep and pressed down the plunger, then capped the syringe and placed it back inside my purse. The whole thing took twenty seconds. When Scott returned and hastened to buckle his seat belt, the suspicious woman leaned over and said to him in a condemning tone, “She was shooting drugs over there while you were in the bathroom.”
Scott turned to me with a confused look.
“I saw it myself,” the woman said, pointing at me. “She shot something into her arm.”
“I assume she’s joking?” Scott asked, unsure if the woman and I were colluding on some trick he wasn’t finding funny.
“Yes, I shot up.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“What? What did you shoot up?” Scott seemed almost excited.
“Insulin,” I answered while turning to face the nosy woman, who said nothing but suddenly busied herself with a book.
“You’re diabetic?”
“Yep.”
“God, that shit will kill you. I know someone who just died from that. Terrible disease.”
Scott’s insensitive comment should have upset me, but it was so shockingly rude that this time I laughed out loud.
“Well, it hasn’t killed me so far,” I said. “But life is short and anything can happen, so . . .”
“That’s probably why you’re the way you are.”
“How exactly am I?” I asked.
“You emit a get it done attitude.”
“Yep,” I declared proudly. “Chop-chop! That, and let bygones be bygones! Those are some of my life mantras.” Also fat, dumb, and happy, but I decided not to include that this time.
Scott cracked a grin. “I’d have to agree with some of those. If you’re so chop-chop, why aren’t you married?” he asked.
“Really? You don’t have anything else to ask me?”
Scott shook his head.
“I have a boyfriend,” I answered.
“That’s not what I asked. How long have you been together?”
“About a year and a half.”
Four hundred and eighty-five days, actually. But who’s counting?
“What does he do?”
“He’s an environmental consultant.”
“So why hasn’t he married you yet?”
I frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Like you said, life is short, Sophia. You’ve got to reach out and grab what you want.” It was the first time he’d said my name.
“Yeah, but in this case, it’s not up to me.”
“Sure it is. Does he know this is what you want?”
“No.”
“Then tell him straight out,” Scott said. “But for the record, I don’t like him. If a guy that age is dating a woman for that long, it means he’s afraid of commitment, he’s selfish, or he’ll never marry her. I’m old-fashioned that way and you deserve better.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t care.”
I would have stood up for my future husband more ferociously, but my heart softened at the image of Scott sitting there like a pouting child—crossed arms, tousled hair, and holey jeans.
“Enough about me. What do you think about my hair?” I asked jokingly, hoping to make Scott laugh. Bingo! He chuckled, so I took the chance to ask him, “Why are you doing this?”
“What?”
“This. This roadshow. This company. You don’t need the money. At least, I don’t think you do. So why Treehouse?”
“It’s about legacy,” Scott said, but quietly, looking down as though he were talking to himself.
“Legacy? You’ve already got a great legacy. Everyone already knows what you did at Quince.”
“That’s unfinished,” he said. “Anyway, Treehouse is a chance for me to leave something behind that touches the hearts of my children—forever. And not just my children or even my grandchildren, but all generations to come. Computers are replaceable, but stories are not. And this is an opportunity for us to make the quality of animated films dramatically better—the animated film industry hasn’t been touched in decades. What we’re doing is raising the bar. And we’re starting this Treehouse University, the training program for all the young talent we’ve hired—it’ll teach them how to tell stories, to design and create, in a whole new way.”
Scott’s passion moved me. It touched my heart. Through all his brashness, there was a very sensitive person inside. Just like me.
When we landed in New York, a driver in a black suit was waiting for us, holding a sign with my name printed on it. Wow, that’s cool. An hour later, the limousine pulled up to the hotel that the bankers had arranged, much to Scott’s disdain.
“I’m not staying in that stodgy hotel,” he said as he picked up the phone. After a few minutes of yelling at Ashley for doing a poor job overseeing the itinerary that the bankers had arranged, he got back in the limousine, and I followed. As we pulled out onto the avenue and headed farther downtown, I looked longingly out the car window at the hotel’s ornate gold awning and admittedly gaudy but wonderful Corinthian columns. But when we pulled up at the contemporary Four Seasons Hotel on Fifty-Seventh Street, I thought, Even better. We were greeted by two doting bellmen and the hotel’s general manager, who escorted us through the lobby and straight past hotel registration. The manager was overly chatty—He must be nervous—telling us several times how welcome we were and reminding us that if we needed anything at all we should call him directly. When we reached the fifty-first floor, one bellman said to me, “This way, Ms. Young.” He directed me to the left, and as I followed him, I turned to make sure Scott cooperated by following the general manager and the other bellman to the opposite end of the floor. I waited until they disappeared into his room.
He didn’t even say good night.
I turned my attention to my bellman, who stood holding open a door that he must have unlocked while I was making sure Scott was taken care of. “Welcome to the Presidential Suite.”
My eyes widened with surprise. Oooh, come to Mama! The room that I’d get to enjoy for only eight or so hours was as big as a small house. It had floor-to-ceiling bay windows and two balconies, a large sitting area, and an expensive-looking white leather couch. Most jaw-dropping of all was the view of Manhattan laid out below, but I didn’t examine it for long, because out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a personalized welcome note and gift basket. I walked toward the gift basket, passing a polished-wood television console with two closed cabinet doors. That’s where the minibar must be! The bellman unobtrusively placed my suitcase inside the closet to the left by the door. He was about to put Scott’s snack bag inside as well, but I stopped him midreach.
“Oh! Do you mind taking this to Mr. Kraft’s room, please?”
Better you than me.
“Of course! Is there anything else, Ms. Young?”
How much do I tip in a place like this?
“No, thank you,” I said as I handed him a five-dollar bill. Then I came to my senses. “Oh
, I assume Scott has an equally nice room, right? It wouldn’t be right for me to have the nicer room.”
“He’s staying in the other Presidential Suite, Ms. Young.”
Seconds later, with the bellman gone, I walked farther into the suite and saw a door on the far left that led to a luxurious bedroom and en suite bathroom. I leaped onto the king-size bed, ran my hand along the softest white sheets I’d ever felt, and called Audrey.
“You won’t believe where I’m staying,” I said.
“Where?”
“The Four Seasons! In the Presidential Suite! And we flew here first class! And a chauffeur, who had a placard with my name on it, was waiting for us when we landed!”
“Don’t get used to it unless you’re paying for it yourself,” she said. Such a buzzkill. The sound of my niece, Ava, suddenly crying in the background sent knives through my heart and interrupted the conversation.
“Awww, let me talk to her!” I demanded.
“She’s just tired. I need to put her down.”
“Just put her on speaker. Tell her Auntie Sophia wants to speak with her.”
Ava was halfway through a blood-curdling scream when I barked loudly like a dog several times. The screaming stopped, so I barked again, even changing the pitch of my barks to make them seem more realistic. Probably not what Penny Jenkins imagined. After nearly a minute of hearing Ava giggling, I shouted out to Audrey, “And that’s how it’s done!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks. I’d better get her down for her nap. Remember what I said about that hotel.”
I rolled my eyes, then stood up so I could help myself to the suite’s minibar while dialing Daniel next. He’ll be more excited.
I spent the next three minutes gushing to Daniel about the airplane ride, the chauffeur, and best of all, the Presidential Suite. He was mostly quiet on the other end, except for the occasional “uh-huh,” and “wow.” But when I started describing my view of the Empire State Building, Daniel interrupted and said, “Babe, that’s all really nice and everything, but I’ve got to go.”
Okay, not so excited. Who should I call next? Kate!
“Hola, chica!” I exclaimed when I heard her voice on the other end of the phone and the sound of her keyboard, which meant she was at work. It was how we used to greet each other in college, but somewhere along the way we’d forgotten about it. Until now.
“Hola!” she said enthusiastically. “Where are you?” When I told her, she said, “I grew up in New York and I’ve never even stepped foot into that hotel.” I grinned and thought how wonderful it would be if someday we could take a girls’ trip here together—just the two of us. Like old times. Except we’d be in a luxury hotel instead of a youth hostel.
“How is work?” I asked, knowing it couldn’t be that good since it should have been a quiet Thanksgiving weekend, but this was one of the first questions Silicon Valley people asked each other. I made a mental note to stop doing it. Shouldn’t we all have something more interesting to talk about? Nothing better to say than “How’s work?” or “What do you do?”
Kate answered the way she always did—“It’s crazy”—before launching into a long and complicated story about an unreasonable client. Somehow, the topic segued into something more interesting for both of us: the dress she’d bought for the Sterling, Rich holiday party.
“Mark’s going to love that!” I said after hearing about her elegant purchase.
“Ha. Not so much. I showed him and he said he didn’t like it.” Kate’s tone was that of someone who didn’t care. She had a hard shell, rarely showing her emotions, but I knew Mark had hurt her feelings. I also knew Kate hadn’t said a thing to him about it.
Oh Mark. Mark, Mark, Mark.
I did my best to convince Kate to share her feelings with her boyfriend, then changed the subject, knowing she didn’t like it when I tried to solve her problems. But I’m a problem solver!
“Oh, and while you’re Miss Important on your roadshow, guess where I’ll be tomorrow? The Red Bean launch party.”
“Hey! That’s my client.”
“Your old client,” she said. “They closed four entire streets in downtown San Francisco and built three stages to feature different musical performances by U2, Sting, and Jimmy Buffett.”
“What?! That’s insane!” I said, not hiding my jealousy. Then, thinking about it further, I asked, “Is that how they’re spending that IPO money? Shit, that’s just over and beyond.”
It was also so typical of what happens in Silicon Valley.
When it was approaching eleven o’clock, Kate and I finally hung up. I ordered room service and then forced myself to sleep, knowing the East Coast time change would make my morning wake-up call particularly painful.
At 7:15 a.m. the next day, 4:15 a.m. Pacific time, my eyes burned from exhaustion as I rolled my suitcase out of the elevator and stepped into the quiet, grand hotel lobby. It faced a large lounge where professionals were seated two by two, having early meetings and coffee. Next to an older man stood a cute (an eight, maybe nine), well-groomed junior investment banker named Sendur, whom I recognized from the S-1 drafting sessions back home. He was holding a tray of drinks with Starbucks logos printed on them as he approached me, leaving the older gentleman to his BlackBerry.
“You found us,” I said.
Sendur handed me my soy au lait, and when he noticed the happy but surprised look on my face, he said, “Ashley made sure we knew what the team wanted to drink each morning.”
I smiled. “Is that one for Jonathan? He’ll want a mocha.”
“Yeah, Ashley told us. But nothing for Scott, right?”
“Nope. Yoga and meditation are his morning caffeine,” I said.
When the elevator’s double doors opened again, Jonathan and Scott stepped out, looking as handsome as ever, exuding confidence, intelligence, money, and power. Scott, a solid ten, and Jonathan a ten, too! I almost didn’t recognize them in their dark suits, ties, and polished shoes.
“Well, you look very nice,” I said.
Jonathan smiled and reached for his mocha. “Thanks.”
When the compliment wasn’t returned—yes, I was fishing—I suddenly felt like a dowdy old woman dressed in my houndstooth-patterned sweater, matching skirt, and reasonable heels. I shouldn’t let Mom buy my clothes anymore.
The older banker, who was later introduced as Ric, briefed Scott, Jonathan, and me about the people and asset management firms we’d be meeting that day, then Sendur collected each of our driver’s licenses. “So I can run ahead and check us in at lobby security before each meeting,” he said before pointing toward the limousine and black SUV parked outside the revolving doors that led to Fifty-Seventh Street. “We’re ready to go.”
Jonathan waved his hand ahead toward the waiting cars. “After you,” he insisted.
I did my best to play it cool, as though it were perfectly normal for me to be escorted into a limousine by influential bankers and two powerful technology executives. But my feet wanted to skip. Skip, skip, skip along toward this next adventure. Control yourself, Sophia. Instead, I walked to the car with a new, confident stride.
At eight o’clock, even though it was only one block away from the Four Seasons, our small caravan pulled up to the curb outside the iconic General Motors Building. Sendur checked us in at the security desk, gave us each a visitor badge, then led us into an elevator. When the doors opened twenty or so floors later, we entered the lobby of Baron Capital, a multibillion-dollar asset management firm with the most beautiful offices I’d ever seen. The walls were stark white and an expensive-looking lighting fixture hung over the reception area, which had an unobstructed view overlooking Central Park. The receptionist, a twentysomething woman with dark hair and heavy makeup, directed us to the waiting area, where at least two dozen stunning modern art paintings were displayed.
Jonathan took his time moving from one painting to the other; I turned around and saw Scott standing in front of a breathtaking floor-to-ceiling glass fish
tank. It was jaw-dropping—incredibly clear, dark blue water, and exotic, colorful fish swimming happily inside: clown fish, puffer fish, a blue angelfish, and even a starfish. I’d never been scuba diving, but this is what I imagined it to be like. As my eyes followed the orange clown fish that glided to the right, Scott crouched down to examine the intricate, glowing sandy bed toward the bottom of the tank. Upon close inspection, I could see that a single glass panel separated the bottom third of the tank from the top. Scott brought his face closer to the glass and I peered to see what he was looking at. At first I couldn’t make it out, but then it came into view—a small octopus nestled between two rocks. I heard Scott whisper as he cracked a smile: “My spirit animal.”
“What’s a spirit animal? Is it like your horoscope?” I asked.
“No. It has nothing to do with birthdates. It’s an animal that comes to you in some form or another, like in a dream or in some other more physical way,” Scott said.
“Mmm,” I said, but it all sounded like hocus-pocus to me.
“Everyone has their own spirit animal that most closely represents them—their traits or skills, or what they’re supposed to learn or become.”
We watched the octopus undulate toward us, drawing ever closer to the glass. Scott seemed to be sharing some sort of telepathic moment with it. The serenity was interrupted by an obnoxious chewing sound coming from behind us. I turned around to see Jonathan shoving a(nother) handful of peanut M&M’s in his mouth.
“Look! They have peanut M&M’s!” He smiled broadly.
Before I could respond, a man called out Jonathan’s name and asked us to follow him to the conference room. I tapped Scott on the shoulder, sorry to break up the spirit animal staring contest. It was show time.
“I’m Mitch.” A friendly-looking man with smiling eyes and a slight underbite reached to shake Jonathan’s hand. “Thank you for coming in.” Mitch turned to repeat this exchange with Scott, except Scott kept his hands behind his back, awkwardly put me between himself and the investor, and said, “Hi, I’m Scott.”
