Sophia of Silicon Valley

by Anna Yen

  My phone was already ringing when I sat down at my desk. I rushed to grab it, although I wished I hadn’t. The voice on the other end of the call sounded shaken, and pleading.

  “Uh, yes, hello. I’m calling to ask whether my son was on the airplane that just crashed. His name is Martin Moore and he works on your battery team.”

  My hands trembled as Mrs. Moore continued. She pronounced her words very slowly, as though she were trying to sound out a scrambled word. “He—flies—down. He—has—an—airplane.” I sat at my desk, stunned and unsure of what to say. Although I didn’t really know Martin, tears began crawling down my face.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  “Mrs. Moore, my name is Sophia. I don’t have any information at this time. I’m so, so sorry.” I wanted to reassure her, to take her anguish away and tell her it would be okay, but it wouldn’t have been appropriate. The only thing I could do was listen to this grief-stricken mother as she searched for some speck of hope that her worst fear hadn’t come true. Minutes later, over the din of the ringing telephone, Mrs. Moore abandoned complete sentences entirely and alternated between sobbing and screaming into the receiver.

  “Tell me! Please! Alive? God, please,” she cried.

  I let my tears fall onto my desk and thoughts began racing through my head: how lucky I was that it wasn’t my mother sobbing to a stranger; what I could do for this poor woman; where the hell Rajesh could be; and didn’t Ion have a crisis communications plan? I’m not qualified to handle this.

  Finally I said, “I’m really sorry, but I don’t have any information. Can you please give me your phone number? I’ll be sure someone calls you back as soon as we know more details. I promise.”

  That wasn’t a lie. At least, I hoped not. My line lit up with another call. Then my telephone display showed me a call was waiting. Ring, ring, ring.

  Mrs. Moore choked out her telephone number and begged me once more to give her news. I apologized again, then had no choice but to hang up. Ji-yan was waving at me to get my attention, and when she got it, she shouted, “I’m transferring Jack Wynn to you. He’s asking about Andre.”

  I picked up the phone. “This is Sophia Young.”

  “Sophia, it’s Jack Wynn.”

  No “Hello, how are you holding up? Is there anything I can do?” My former boss simply asked, “Was Andre involved in that plane crash?”

  “Andre wasn’t on the plane,” I said.

  “What about the men who died? Are they key employees?” Jack was all business and no sympathy.

  “I’m not allowed to disclose who was on the plane,” I said.

  “I need to know if the passengers were working on projects critical to the on-time delivery of the Model A. If we announce a delay, our IPO will be shot.”

  “Everyone here is important, Jack! If you don’t need anything else, I have to go. I have calls to take here.” I hung up without wondering if I should have been more professional. There was no time to be pleasant, though, especially to assholes like him, and quite frankly, I didn’t have any idea what exactly the three men on the airplane were working on.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  For the next thirty minutes I fielded calls from various members of Ion’s board of directors, as well as the venture capitalists who’d funded Ion from the start. They all wanted to know about the IPO—or in other words, when they were going to be able to cash out and get their money. I despised them for being so insensitive and greedy until I realized that I actually played a huge role in helping these rich men get richer.

  I was slumped over in my chair when Ji-yan shouted from her side of the floor, “Transferring Roberto to you.”

  Before the phone finished its first ring, I picked up the receiver. I was anxious to hear what was happening and to speak to someone who could relate to what I was going through. “Hey. It must be chaos over there. Are you doing okay?”

  Roberto shouted over sirens and loud voices, “I’m okay. The coroner just arrived and the police are notifying the families. Don’t talk to the press—just say ‘no comment’ and forward them to my voicemail. I’ll deal with them later.”

  “I’ve already told some people that Andre wasn’t on the airplane. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine to say. But that’s it. Gotta go.”

  “Wait! One more thing. Have you touched base with Andre? Everyone is asking about the IPO.”

  “I spoke to Andre—the IPO is still on track, but . . .”

  “I will need to give insiders a little more, Roberto. They all want to know what roles the crash victims played and what their absence means for the completion of the Model A.”

  Roberto was silent, which gave me time to think. Suddenly I burst out with an answer that I knew was the right one, but which felt wrong all the same. “Hey, how about I tell the insiders that Ion’s teams are broadly trained and deeply structured, and that we do a lot of knowledge exchange internally, so we still anticipate having the Model A out on time?”

  “Great. That sounds good. Now seriously, I’ve got to go.”

  Click.

  As I hung up the receiver I became slightly sickened at how quickly I put a positive spin on such a terrible tragedy. I wondered whether I was any different from the Jack Wynns of the world, and felt disgusted with myself that I’d made my decision to come here because I was chasing the money.

  When my phones were finally silent, I listened to the messages on my cell phone. The message indicator had been blinking for hours.

  “Sophia, this is Dad. Please call us back and let us know you are okay.”

  “Hey, lady, it’s me, Kate. I heard the news on the radio and just want to be sure you’re okay. Call me.”

  “Sister. Please call me or Mom and Dad as soon as you can. We’re really worried.”

  “Sophia, it’s Ashley. Please call us back. You know the numbers.”

  “Sophia, it’s Sissy. Please answer the phone.”

  “Grant here. What the hell? Call me back.”

  “It’s Peter. Please answer the phone. I’ve been calling all morning. Are you okay?”

  The sound of his voice enveloped me like a warm, safe embrace and I quickly covered my mouth to choke back a wail. All morning I’d done my best to be strong and calm, but the sound of Peter’s voice weakened me. My chin tilted down to my chest and I whispered quietly to the man I loved, as though he could hear me, “God, I miss you.” Suddenly, I sat up straight and looked around me to make sure no one had witnessed my moment. Shake it off, Sophia. Now isn’t the time. I then picked up the phone to call my parents.

  “Ai-ya, Mei-Mei. You had us so worried. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t call earlier. It’s just crazy here. Can we talk later?”

  “Of course. Get back to work. I will tell Daddy.”

  “Okay, bye. Love you,” I said.

  “Just one thing before you go. Have you spoken with Peter?”

  At a time like this? Only my mother.

  “No, Mom.”

  “This is one of the reasons you guys broke up. You’re too independent. Too bossy. Your father and I have both told you—‘Don’t be so bossy.’” Mom sighed. She’d already forgotten about the plane crash and was now blaming herself for not fixing my bossiness problem sooner. “You’ve been like this since you were a little girl.”

  “Mom! Listen! That’s not it. I have to go.”

  “Okay, okay. But if that’s not it, is it because he doesn’t think you’re a virgin? I told you not to use those tampons! The boys are going to think you’ve been to bed with lots of people if you use those tampons.”

  Jesus H. Christ.

  “Mother. I’m at work and I am surrounded by people,” I lied. “Can we please talk later?”

  “Fine. Just be aware that you spend most of your day with extremely important people, Mei-Mei, and it’s not wise to hold the bar that high for your husband. Those men count on you to take care of them and your life will be much easier if
you marry someone who will take care of you.”

  I rolled my eyes and nodded. “Okay, Mom. Yes. Okay. And don’t forget it’s also those men who fired me!”

  I hung up and called Audrey, Ashley, Grant, and Kate to give them updates. All the important people. Well . . . all but one. I debated whether to call Peter, knowing that if I heard his voice I would crumble, and he would come running to save me from this nightmare. But what good would that be for us? Or worse yet—what if he doesn’t come running? My stomach filled with dread as I imagined all the different ways a conversation with Peter could play out. I decided it was safer to email him instead, so I drafted a message, then redrafted it at least a dozen more times before pressing the Send button.

  To: Peter Bruce

  From: Sophia Young

  Subj: Your voicemail

  Peter, thanks for the voicemail. It meant a lot. It’s chaos here, but I’m fine. I hope work is okay and that you can come up for air soon.

  Love, Sophia

  I sat back, questioning whether I should have written something different. Maybe I shouldn’t have signed it using Love. Then Mom’s words crept back into my head. “Those men count on you to take care of them,” she’d said. “It’s not wise to hold the bar that high for your husband.” I questioned again why I’d hesitated when Peter asked me about our long-term plans. Is it that I’m afraid I’ll have yet another person depending on me? Or is it that I’m afraid he’d be yet another man telling me what to do, or worse, that he’d “fire” me?

  Four weeks after the crash, our office lobby looked like a sprawling, colorful shrine that wound all the way up the stairs to the second floor. Mixed in between the lovely rainbow of flowers were notes of sympathy and cards of encouragement—all from strangers who were cheering us on. I was surprised by the country’s outpouring of emotion, and took a moment to wonder what it all meant: so many supporters who had no affiliation with Ion whatsoever were going out of their way to let us know they were thinking of, and rooting for, us. I stood at the base of the lobby stairs, gazing into the sea of colors, feeling as though the country was begging us to make it proud. A sudden rush of patriotism caught me off guard as I realized Ion wasn’t just about profits and losses, stock options and employment agreements. It was about solidifying America’s position as a leader in the automotive industry by bringing the world’s first electric car to market. The image of myself as a hero elicited a chuckle, and I ignored my desire to strike a superhero pose. Instead I began climbing the stairs, and any concerns I’d had previously—about becoming like the money-hungry, merciless Jack Wynn—fell away.

  We’re going to make history.

  As they say, the show must go on. Literally. I scurried up the remaining stairs to toil away on the perpetual bane of my existence: the roadshow presentation. I thought I’d gotten it nailed down that first day that I spoke with Andre, but the state of my personal work area was a good indicator of my progress: stained coffee cups from the kitchen downstairs were stacked around my computer stand, Post-it notes were stuck to my telephone and my pen-marked desk, and my trash can was overflowing with crumpled balls of paper. I took a deep breath and sat on the gray exercise ball that two weeks ago had replaced my Herman Miller Aeron chair (according to tie-dye-wearing Gordon from Ion’s “Healthy Workplace” team, it would force me to use my core). I was ready to attack the blessed presentation again. The only things I had going for me were the graphic designer and film director I had surreptitiously recruited. The designer was the one Roberto had hired to build our website—the same one that Andre’d already approved. If Andre liked this designer’s style, it made sense to use the same person for our roadshow graphics. When our controller, Rex, informed me I had signing authority on anything under ten thousand dollars, I convinced the graphic designer to take on my presentation project for $9,999, even though he’d normally get paid four times that amount. For the sizzle reel I recruited an Oscar-winning film director whose name I had spotted on the Model A’s waiting list when I was reviewing it my first day on the job. Yet even with all this talent, Andre still hadn’t signed off on either project, and I was still unsure why.

  After several hours, I saved the sixty-fourth draft of the presentation and said to myself, This is it! The final! Then, before turning my attention to scripting out the slides for Andre, I checked my email.

  To: All

  From: Andre Stark

  Subj: Moving on

  Today we will be unveiling a memorial dedicated to our peers who we tragically lost four weeks ago. Please meet us at two o’clock this afternoon at the newly landscaped area on the far end of our parking lot (where the asphalt ends and Palo Alto’s hiking trail begins).

  I thought a lot about this memorial—about what it should be and what it should stand for—and selected a hand-carved sandalwood bench that contains a natural fragrance that will last for decades. Though the scent won’t last forever, our memories of our colleagues will. Martin, John, and Joe were an important part of Ion’s success and it’s up to us to make them proud.

  I hope the bench will be a place of reflection for many of you, and that it brings some peace to us all.

  —Andre

  I stopped reading the email and thought about how beautiful and generous a gesture this was. Qualities of a great leader.

  I connected my headphones to my computer so I could do the next-best thing there was to observing Andre on a roadshow: I watched every past interview Andre had given and noted his body language, his voice tones, his language and cadence. When I finished watching all the videos I could find, I listened to Andre’s radio interviews with my eyes closed, hoping to permanently embed his words in my head via osmosis, if there was such a thing. I replayed certain phrases my CEO liked to use, then quietly repeated them to myself. Two hours later, at noon, a tap on my shoulder startled me from my psycho-transmission. I opened my eyes and flipped around; Rajesh stood behind me, motioning for me to remove the headphones.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. He sounded less than friendly. “Are you listening to music?”

  “I’m listening to interviews of Andre.”

  “Why? You look like you’re sleeping. We can’t have that in our office. This is a place of business, Sophia. And by the way, I think you should stop smiling so much in meetings. You know, men can interpret that the wrong way, and, well, I find it unprofessional.”

  “Excuse me?” I stood up quickly, which sent my exercise ball flying toward Miles. “First of all, I’m not sleeping, Rajesh. I’m listening to Andre’s interviews so I can hear how he tells the story,” I defended myself. An awkward pause passed before I decided to drive my point home harder: “Since the way you and Jack wanted to do it didn’t resonate.”

  Rajesh’s stunned expression concerned me for a moment, but I decided I didn’t care. I had to set boundaries with this asshole. The two of us stood at my desk, staring each other down, and just when I thought Rajesh would fire me, he nodded with approval. “That’s smart.”

  Of course it’s smart!

  “And if you’re suggesting that my smiling is flirting, I don’t agree. This place needs to lighten up a little, don’t you think? Shouldn’t we be having some fun here?” My boss looked surprised at my reaction, and I doubted myself for a moment before remembering that Rajesh was the last person qualified to challenge my professionalism. I decided to passive-aggressively address how he treated me, “I’m really trying my best, Rajesh. I would sincerely appreciate some guidance about how to do my job better, and it would be terrific if you could give me a bit more feedback on this presentation. I feel as though I’m flying blind. Isn’t that a better use of our time instead of etiquette lessons? If you have problems or concerns about my work, perhaps a three-month review is appropriate.”

  “There’s no need for a quarterly review. You’re doing fine. Just fine. I have no concerns at all.”

  I nodded and looked at the clock. Meeting time.

  “Glad to hear it,” I told Raj
esh as I slipped by him. “We have your finance meeting now, so I’ll see you in the Einstein conference room. I just want to get some coffee before I head down.” This would be my first meeting with the broader finance team—until then it had been only smaller meetings between me, Miles, and Rajesh—and I had a feeling it would be death by spreadsheets.

  Unlike Treehouse, Ion loved meetings. Spread throughout my day were investment banker meetings; status meetings with the entire executive team; meetings with battery engineers so I could grasp the proprietary nature of our technology and translate it into something understandable for our investors and research analysts; sync-ups with Roberto’s PR team, who, bless them, wanted to make sure that any PR messages they sent out that week wouldn’t jeopardize or conflict with any of my planned IR messages. To be fair, I asked to be invited to all these meetings when I started, because I knew it would be the fastest way for me to learn Ion’s business. But on that day, carrying my coffee into Ion’s largest conference room and seeing the complicated spreadsheet projected onto the large white wall screen, I regretted sticking my nose into every department’s business.

  As I eased myself into one of the conference room’s cushy brown leather chairs, the men seated around the large black lacquer table swiveled in their seats to see who had arrived to the meeting. I looked at the clock and noted I wasn’t late, but clearly they were all waiting for me. Note to self: arrive early to Rajesh’s meetings. My boss’s glare sent chills up my spine—he looked like I had walked in twenty minutes past start time, like he thought he owned me and I’d disobeyed him in the worst possible way. I diverted my eyes toward the screen and swiveled my chair to face it, all the while feeling sorry for his wife, and daughters, who had no choice but to deal with Rajesh’s very same glare.

  The weight of the room was heavy, even though the sun shined brightly through the wall of sliding glass doors that led to our office’s large back patio. Everyone looked fairly casual in their button-down shirts and khakis, but their straight-backed seated postures and quiet voices suggested a much stiffer environment. My casualness stood out among my peers—even my clothes screamed trendy while theirs whispered conservative. I questioned at least a dozen of the calculations that were presented, while everyone else in the room, including Rajesh, seemed content to assume that what was presented was flawless. Their passivity, particularly Rajesh’s, made me nervous, and I wondered whether he had a good grasp on these financial matters. If he did, he’d be asking many more questions. Or maybe it’s me that isn’t understanding. When the meeting was over, Rajesh announced, “This is Jason’s last day, so after work the team will be meeting at the bar downstairs to wish him well.”