by Anna Yen
“Thanks for the confidence, Sophia. Now draft the damn press release and move on—and send me my quote the minute you have something. Say I’m taking the interim-CEO role. That will be more accurate until we get everything sorted out.” Click.
First of all, what the hell is “interim CEO”? He can’t just coin his own terms. And second, there goes my date with Peter.
It was our four-month anniversary, and he’d gone to great lengths to plan a special night. I paged him at the hospital, not only to cancel our plans but also because I wanted, needed, to hear his calming voice. Peter had been a steady rock in the midst of the choppy Treehouse seas, and when he called me back, his genuinely understanding “We’ll celebrate tomorrow” was all I needed to inspire me to turn to my computer and do as Scott had asked.
The loud ringing of the phone startled me. “Look, I’m downgrading your stock to a ‘hold’ and I just wanted to give you a heads-up,” said the Goldman Sachs analyst on the other end of the phone. Shit! How did he find out? His name was Darren Derman and he was a sharp, talented young man just out of Tuck School of Business. I had the other fifteen analysts under pretty good control, and their research reports fell within the range of the earnings estimates we provided. To my knowledge, they were good advocates for us to the thousands of institutional investors in the world of Wall Street. But there were a few like Darren who caught on to even the smallest of details during the earnings calls; the Darrens of the world didn’t hesitate to put me, Scott, or Jonathan on the spot. They seemed to particularly enjoy doing it when they asked for comments about rumors, knowing very well we couldn’t say anything, even though most of the rumors were true. Damn, I hated the smart ones.
“You can do what you want, Darren. Go ahead and downgrade us. But you don’t even know if this Quince news is just a rumor, and you’re going to look really stupid if you’re wrong.” I spoke calmly but emphasized stupid and wrong for dramatic effect.
“Are you saying it’s not true?”
“You know I can’t comment.”
“My source is reliable and I know this is happening. There is no way Scott can be CEO of Treehouse and Quince,” Darren declared. I agreed in my head, but of course couldn’t say as much.
Before I hung up, I said, “Just make sure you’re not doing this to make a name for yourself, Darren. I know you’re a hotshot on the Street, but please don’t use Treehouse to showboat.”
I was bombarded by news headlines such as the return of the prodigal son when I arrived at the office earlier than usual the next morning. Numerous analyst reports had been published overnight, each one of them downgrading Treehouse’s stock to a “hold.” Everyone except Darren. I typed a simple email to Jonathan and Scott and attached all the analyst reports that were out thus far.
To: Scott Kraft; Jonathan Larsen
From: Sophia Young
Subj: Analyst reports
Interim-CEO news is out. My guess is stock will drop 20% at open. Brace yourselves.
When the opening bell rang thirty minutes later, Treehouse’s stock plummeted. A merciful call from Nasdaq Surveillance came in two minutes later.
“There is a lot of activity going on in H-O-U-S,” the Nasdaq representative announced, spelling out our stock ticker symbol. “We’re temporarily suspending trading.”
“Thank God!” I declared as I leaned back in my chair and looked up at the ugly, asbestos-filled ceiling.
Chapter 13
I was startled awake by the sound of a honking car and looked up to see that the stoplight ahead of me had turned green. I had fallen asleep at the wheel. A quick glance in my rearview mirror didn’t show any beaming headlights, so I tilted my head back and closed my eyes again. Just a few more seconds.
The intersection of Woodside Road and Alameda de las Pulgas was silent and deserted at eleven o’clock at night. It was located on the border separating the two tony towns of Woodside and Atherton, where the sidewalks roll up at dusk and the cars carrying Silicon Valley’s elite disappear shortly thereafter. It was a cold January night, but my convertible top was down in an (unsuccessful) attempt to keep me awake.
“Hey! Are you okay?” a voice shouted at me.
My head shot up from its relaxed position against the headrest and I looked to my left. It was Jonathan in his car. “Hi!” I yelled back. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just tired.”
Jonathan sounded more awake than I’d been in months. “You must be! I pulled up next to you and you were dead asleep, mouth open and everything.”
It was the time of year when the accountants were closing the fourth-quarter “books”; Jonathan and I stayed late so we could begin reviewing them and had slumped out of the Treehouse offices only an hour earlier. These results would symbolize something more than they usually did—three months had passed since Scott’s Quince news, and I hoped that when we announced them in February, the news would prove to the world that Treehouse was still thriving, despite the new arrangement.
Although the transition had gone smoothly, I felt as though I’d been through the wringer. On top of my investor relations and other responsibilities at Treehouse, Scott saw to it that I was “lucky enough” (his words) to work on Quince projects as well. Just yesterday he’d delivered the speech I’d written for his first public appearance as Quince’s interim CEO. The day had started out rocky, very rocky, due to the infamous cookie episode, but I’d managed to get him to Moscone Center just in time. That day he made history by addressing the largest Quince World audience that had ever gathered since the event’s founding twenty years ago. The three-day conference attracted developers, enthusiasts, and Quince vendors who spent the day listening to presentations from Quince experts and visited the thousands of booths that were set up by companies whose businesses were built upon the Quince technology platform. It was a day to remember; I could still see the wings of the convention center’s stage and the profile of Scott’s face with the stage lights reflecting off his glasses. The roar of the crowd and the rush of excitement I felt for him, because of him. A true hero’s welcome.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, realizing Jonathan lived one town south of Atherton.
“I’m following you. I knew you were tired, so I wanted to be sure you got home okay. I’ll follow you the rest of the way home. We’re almost there, aren’t we?” Jonathan asked as the stoplight turned green again.
I placed my hand to my heart and pushed down gently on my car’s gas pedal. As my BMW edged slowly forward, I said, “You are sooooo good to me. Thank you, but I’ll be fine. Go home!”
When I pulled up in front of my parents’ house, Peter was standing on the doorstep, wearing his blue hospital scrubs and holding seven red roses. “One for each month we’ve been together,” he said as he handed me the flowers. I could tell he was going to say something else, but I cut him off because I wanted to say it first. I wanted to allow myself to be vulnerable. “I love you, Peter. I truly do.”
My boyfriend gently tossed the roses inside our foyer, took my hand, and pulled me close. He stared at me with his big blue eyes, surrounded by incredible eyelashes—those eyes emitted a calm demeanor and confidence that made me feel safe and sure. “You make me happy, Sophia. Every time I leave you I can’t wait to see you again.” His words were sweet and thoughtful. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that he didn’t say I love you back. Peter leaned in to kiss me, but just before his lips reached mine, he said softly, “So I guess that means that I love you more.” We both stood there staring at each other, grinning like two people sharing a delightful secret. But our romantic moment was cut short by a text message from Kate that read: Important. Call me.
It was one of those messages that gave me the feeling that something was terribly wrong. A 911 text would have sent the same chills up my spine. I told Peter something was up with Kate and that I needed to call her immediately. Before the phone even finished its first ring, Kate picked up.
“I know I shouldn’t care about this so much, b
ut I’m really disappointed I don’t have an engagement ring yet,” she said, sounding stressed and worried. It was uncharacteristic of Kate to be overly emotional, so I didn’t want to discount how she was feeling.
“You’ll find something. It’s not for lack of trying. You guys have been looking, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“We just can’t find anything we like.”
“You can’t find anything you like is probably more accurate. Why don’t you just show him the ring you love? The one on Union Street?” Don’t make life so hard!
“I don’t want to be one of those people,” she said.
“You’re not! He’s asking you to pick something out. And you know very well that he can afford that ring. For goodness’ sake, you can afford that ring, and he makes three times what you do. You have the ability to easily solve this problem, Kate.”
“I know,” she admitted, then continued to stress for a few minutes more. When it got to the point where she and I were both just repeating ourselves, I evangelized a classic Life According to Sophia Young–ism. “Stop whining. Do something about it and move on. Show him the ring, Kate.”
“Well, that’s awfully empathetic of you,” she said, clearly not responding well to my bluntness. “I’ll let you go. You sound busy.” Then all I heard was a click. I decided I would fix things with Kate later or that Bridezilla would come to her senses. Right now, it was time for just Peter and me.
All he said was hi, but I knew immediately that the person on the other end of the line was Scott.
“What’s wrong? And good morning,” I said as I rolled over onto my back and yawned rudely in his ear. The winter sunrise was still hours away, so there was no light coming through the vertical window blinds in my room. But I didn’t care. I was still thinking about my evening with Peter and wishing his pager hadn’t gone off three hours earlier.
“I saw the latest draft of the shareholder letter. You removed my reference to This American Life. Why did you do that?”
“Because most people don’t listen to NPR, Scott.”
And please don’t make me do a focus group to prove it.
“That’s bullshit! NPR?”
“NPR does not generally serve the masses. You taught me that when we do something, it needs to be accessible to the everyday American. And I’m telling you, This American Life is not everyday America.”
“Yes, it is!”
“No, it’s not,” I argued. “I know you love that program, but People magazine and USA Today—those are everyday America.”
Scott was silent for a moment, a sign that I could keep pushing. “Look it up yourself. What’s the Nielsen rating for NPR versus Howard Stern or public television versus the Oprah Winfrey Show?”
I heard the sound of Scott typing. “Fuck!”
Before I could say anything to rub it in, he added, “I’m not going to comment on this letter until I really understand our investor base.” I closed my eyes because I knew his I want a focus group command was coming, and all I wanted to do was go back to bed. Scott’s frustrated, annoyed mad-genius routine wasn’t exactly new, and as if on cue, he said, “I want a focus group that produces statistically relevant data so I can understand the demographics of our shareholder base.”
I should have respected Scott for insisting on perfection and “understanding your target.” Obviously, if he wanted this, we’d have to do it.
But for God’s sake, why can’t he just listen to me for once?
I rolled toward the nightstand and grabbed my notepad and pen. Inevitably, Scott wasn’t finished. “I also want to see samples from the graphic design agency you’re suggesting. Oh, and please reschedule that bus tour visit with Goldman Sachs.”
“Scott, we can’t just reschedule the bus tour. They’re bringing twenty investors from Boston to see other companies—not just us.”
“Just make it all happen, Sophia,” Scott said.
“I only have two tits,” I responded angrily. I could almost hear him smile through the phone, and felt a slight high knowing I could still entertain him.
Scott suddenly changed the subject. “Goddammit. Have you seen the cover of Rolling Stone? Andre Stark is front and center.”
Ah. That’s why you’re so grumpy.
My CEO didn’t care for Andre Stark, although I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he was jealous of the younger, up-and-coming technology genius, or judging Andre’s ladies’-man lifestyle and showy presence. Or maybe it was because Andre was always being compared to Scott by the press even though he was the exact opposite: 100 percent Hollywood, complete with six divorces and a home in the Malibu hills.
“Oh, and Ashley needs your social security number. Can you call her, please?”
“Why does she need my social security number?” I asked.
He responded as though we’d been discussing it for weeks. “The president’s dinner. That’s tonight. Our chef is preparing now.”
“The president? Of the United States?”
Silence. I’ll take that as a yes.
“I didn’t know the president was coming for dinner,” I replied, slightly suspicious. “Why do you want me there?”
“Christine and I thought you might enjoy meeting him,” Scott said. His tone was innocent, but I read through it immediately.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing. What do you mean?”
“I’ve been working for you for a long time and you’ve never invited me to dinner. What do you want?”
Then he came out with it: the real reason. “I want you to help Ashley serve the dinner. Christine hired a catering staff, but you know how I feel about strangers.”
I considered his “offer” for a moment—he was right, it would be cool to meet the president. But certainly not in the way Scott was suggesting. So I said, “Yes. Well, too bad for you. I’m not a servant.”
“But it’s the president!”
“I don’t care. What you’re asking me to do is rude, you know. This is one of your weak points, Scott. Let’s start to work on our social skills—your filter. It will be a goal of ours in the coming year,” I said through my chuckle. “Besides, I’m having dinner with my family.”
Scott blew me off with a disgusted “Ugh” before continuing, “I respect your family time, but this is a unique situation. Anyway, you really should get some distance from your parents. You’re twenty-six! Why are you still living at home?”
“First of all, I see a lot less of my family since I started working for you. Second, telling my parents I’m moving out would not go over so well. Chinese parents have a death grip on their kids. And finally, I’ll move out as soon as I can afford a place.”
“What are you talking about? We pay you plenty. You can get a place. A nice place.”
“Maybe to rent, but not to buy! Pay me enough to do that and I’ll move out tomorrow!” I joked.
“Buy? What is it with women and feeling the need to buy places?”
“What do you mean? It’s a great investment.”
“That’s not true. That’s not true at all. I went through this same discussion over and over with Christine when she wanted to buy.”
“Yeah, and you bought a place!”
“Against my will! It’s insane—the prices in Silicon Valley. I built an entire spreadsheet that proves that economically, buying does not make sense. But women want to nest. They like to nest.”
I didn’t feel like arguing about this with him, so I stayed silent.
“What time is dinner?” Scott asked.
“Five thirty.”
“Okay, come over after.”
“No, I’m going to help Kate’s fiancé pick out her ring. They’re getting married in May. I know exactly the one she wants and he wants me to show him.”
“Oh, Jesus. Why do you always stick your nose into everyone’s business?” Scott asked, now sounding more annoyed. “It’s simply not a good use of your time. You could be doing something so muc
h more important, interesting, valuable.”
“What, like serving dinner to people?”
“Don’t deflect the discussion,” Scott said.
I sat up in bed, ready to defend myself. “I’m not sticking my nose anywhere. I know the exact ring she wants, so why wouldn’t I want her to have it?”
“You need to really reflect on why you always worry about other people and not yourself.” By the sound of Scott’s voice, I could imagine his face—it softened. His tone was slightly condescending, but I didn’t mind. It showed that he cared.
“You never stop. Not for one minute. You’re either working or trying to fix other people’s problems. You couldn’t even sit through two minutes of meditation. Those things you do aren’t ever going to make you happy. You have to find your happiness and passion from within. I know it sounds trite, but it’s true.”
“You Americans and your obsession with happiness!” I said, sounding disgusted.
“You’re American, Sophia. You don’t get to just claim you’re Chinese when you feel like it.”
Fair enough.
“I’m just saying you should reflect upon your actions more. Understand why you do the things you do. Don’t get me wrong, if you’re always sticking your nose into people’s business because it gives you joy, then I’m all for it. But I think you do it for other reasons.”
I was pacing beside my bed now, not enjoying this conversation at all. I knew Scott was right but refused to let him win this battle. “Oh, so you don’t call coming to serve dinner ‘wasting time’? What is your point, Scott? I’m having fun. That matters to me.” I looked toward the tan cork of my bulletin board, where I’d pinned dozens of photos that reminded me of all the laughter I shared with friends and family, times when demanding bosses weren’t calling me at the crack of dawn.
Scott’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “First of all, it’s not just serving dinner. It could be a learning experience with the president, and you’re passing that up to go ring shopping for someone else! I’m saying that you occupy yourself with these small things because you don’t want to think about your own life. Why not?”
