If You, Then Me

by Yvonne Woon

  We parted ways, and though I forced myself not to turn back, I listened to his footsteps all the way down the hall until I found myself outside of Kowalski’s office. I took a breath and knocked.

  “Come in,” he called from inside.

  Kowalski was gazing at his computer over his glasses, one hand scrolling with a mouse. “Sit,” he said, without looking up.

  “You’ve missed a lot of class,” he said, still scrolling.

  “I know, I’ve been—”

  Kowalski held up two fingers to silence me.

  “Your assignments are barely finished and the ones that you have finished are sloppy.”

  “I’m sorry but—” I began, but he held up his fingers again.

  “When you first arrived in my classroom I had high hopes for you. Your assignments weren’t great, but they showed promise. Though you had terrible documentation and I highly doubt that if anyone inherited your code they would easily know what you were doing, you did show that you had a creative mind for logical solutions. However, that mind seems to have atrophied.”

  He still hadn’t looked at me. He paused to type, then continued scrolling.

  “Your stock has gone up,” he continued. “But that’s of little importance to me. My job is to teach you how to code, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that you either don’t want to be taught or are unable to learn. I hope it’s the former and not the latter, though both are problematic.”

  “It’s neither,” I interjected. “I’ve just been really busy—”

  “Busy?” he said, amused. “You clearly don’t know what busy means. I’m busy. You’re not busy. You’re distracted.”

  The old me might have wanted to shrink into a tiny speck on his leather chair, but the current me wanted to reach across the desk and make him look me in the eye. Couldn’t he at least give me that?

  “Distracted founders aren’t founders at all. They’re PR stunts. Some have early fame, but they never do anything meaningful, and they never create companies that change the world. You are currently on the fast track to this route.”

  I wanted to remind him of all the CEOs who dropped out of school to start their companies. I wanted to remind him that they were out changing the world while he was here, in this pathetic office, berating a sixteen-year-old rising star for doing exactly what the Foundry had brought her here to do—getting funding.

  “At your current rate, I don’t see you recovering from this anytime soon, but if you’d like to prove to me that you deserve a place at this incubator, where thousands of other teenagers would gladly trade places with you, I’d like you to redo all of your assignments and pass them in by the new year.”

  “The new year? But it’s mid-November. That gives me just over a month to do three months of work.”

  He slipped a pen out of one of his pockets and jotted down a note from the screen. “I see you can still do basic math. That’s a promising start.”

  I stormed out of his office. I didn’t care that Kowalski was supposedly one of the best programming teachers out there, nor did I care about his pedigree or his lore. To me, he was just an old man who couldn’t bring himself to look at his students when he told them they had no potential and were going nowhere. I remembered what Mitzy had said about the Foundry when I’d first met her—that it was essentially a beauty pageant, and that it was made for men. What did Kowalski know about what I was capable of doing? Sure, I’d been focusing on other parts of my business for the past few months, but that didn’t mean that I was a bad programmer or that I was destined to fail. Who was he to tell me what I could or couldn’t do? When my stock was down everyone seemed to be telling me that I didn’t belong here, and now that my stock was up, everyone was still telling me that I didn’t belong here.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  It was Mike Flores. Reflexively, I glanced over his shoulder.

  “AJ’s not here, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

  I leaned back, relieved.

  On any other day I might have told him everything was fine, but I couldn’t bring myself to put on a happy face. “Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, you can’t win?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really?”

  Mike shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “It doesn’t seem like it.”

  “They’re just good at hiding it. You’re good at hiding it.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m seething in the hallway.”

  “Mitzy Erst. All those pictures online. Your stock just rocketing sky-high out of nowhere. You’re the dark horse. You’re the one everyone’s placing bets on.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I have to fight to get anything.”

  “Have you taken a look around? The grass is perfectly green despite the fact that we’ve been in a drought for basically a decade. The whole town is meticulously groomed, watered, and maintained to look like a natural Eden, when really it’s all man-made. Nothing here came easy and none of it was natural. All of Silicon Valley is built on the idea that we can shape the world into a new place if we work hard enough. The point is that it’s a fight. That’s the promise—that here, you can make something out of nothing. So I don’t see why it being hard is so bad.”

  I’d always assumed that Mike was dumb and unaware. He was too pretty and rich to be smart. People with perfect skin and a Roman jawline and hair that looked sculpted out of marble even on rainy days didn’t have to be clever or witty. They just had to show up and smile. So when I listened to Mike’s analysis of Silicon Valley, I fell silent.

  He was also a possible contender for ObjectPermanence. I hadn’t really considered him because of the Kate complication, but now I wondered if I should treat him like a real possibility. Was he introspective enough to write like ObjectPermanence? Before I didn’t think so, but now I wondered if I had misjudged him, too.

  I must have been looking at him strangely, because Mike shoved his hands in his pockets. “Look, you don’t have to tell me what happened or anything. Just go easy on yourself, okay? If people are making your life hard, it means you’re doing something right.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and I meant it.

  Twenty-One

  I tried to meet up with Mitzy, since she was the only one who would really understand what I was going through, but she was strangely unavailable, returning my texts days later and telling me that she couldn’t meet in person because she wasn’t feeling well. So instead, I did the next best thing and did what Mitzy would do, which was get through a bad week with pedicures and expensive lattes. I wanted to talk to Amina about what had happened, but she was busy working on the end-of-the-semester assignment rush and I didn’t want to admit to her that I wasn’t doing any of them.

  I tried to go to class, I really did, but seeing Mast a few desks away, his face glued to the whiteboard as if he was purposely trying to ignore my presence made me too upset, so instead I went to classes when it suited me, and told myself I’d pass in my assignments remotely. Like Lars Lang had said in his welcome speech, all that mattered was that I got the work done eventually.

  I considered going through all of Kowalski’s old assignments, but just looking at them reminded me of how he’d essentially told me I didn’t belong at the Foundry and I felt irritated all over again. So I tucked them into my desk drawer and I told myself I’d start them in truth over winter break when I’d cooled off.

  Instead, I made sure to post on Façade twice a day, updating my growing number of followers with pictures of my coffees and spa days, with captions about how even Founders needed to take some time to recharge. It felt satisfying seeing the likes and comments roll in, people I’d never met telling me I was their idol and asking me where I got my clothes. It wasn’t a substitute for friends, but it was a pretty good second option. All the while, I watched my stock climb.

  I had just returned from treating myself to a fancy frozen yogurt when I was met with a pile of cardboard boxes stacked high outside
my dormitory door.

  I hadn’t ordered anything online, nor was my mom the care-package type, but strangely enough, they were all addressed to me. I slid them into my room and opened them.

  The first box contained, to my confusion, a shredding machine. I opened the next box to find an espresso maker. I had no idea how to use it, and wondered if it had been misdelivered. A big box toward the bottom was full of clothes, beautiful clothes: silk work shirts and blazers with satin lapels and bright pink lining. Two more contained shoes: leather flats, suede ankle boots, and two pairs of heels far too high for me to walk in. Some were in my size and, inexplicably, some were in a size larger than mine.

  Another box contained a juicer and a high-end blender. Another, a laptop and a new phone. A small package contained two watches, one with a rose gold face and the other with silver.

  The final box contained business cards. They were beautiful, made of thick paper stock that refused to bend under pressure. My name was printed on one stack in clean, black typeface: Xia Chan, Founder and Chief Executive Officer. I ran my finger over the smooth paper, feeling the raised letters of my name and title imbuing me with power.

  Mitzy’s name was printed on the second stack: Mitzy Erst, Chief Operating Officer. I stared at her title, confused, then picked up my phone.

  >What are these business cards? I texted her. To my surprise, she wrote back immediately.

  >They came in?! What do you think?

  >They’re really nice but where did they come from?

  >I ordered them at the salon. Don’t you remember?

  >??

  >Remember we were getting pedicures and I asked you if you preferred pearl or ivory and you said pearl. These are them. I ordered them that day

  >Okay . . . but why do they call you Chief Operating Officer?

  >You asked me to be COO at the Karlsson Barrow party. You even took out the contract I gave you and amended it by hand and signed it. You don’t remember?? We drank champagne after and that guy spilled his cup all over you

  I remembered the champagne, and tried to trace that memory back to the moment that I’d signed Mitzy’s contract, but all I could recall was the bottle popping, the delight in seeing the foam spill out of the flute, and the overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude I’d felt for Mitzy while we’d clinked glasses.

  Did I want Mitzy to be my Chief Operating Officer? Something about it didn’t sit right with me, though the more I thought about it, the more I supposed it was okay. To be honest, I wasn’t totally clear on what that job even was. And I liked Mitzy. She was the only one who had told me the truth from day one and had been right. She was the only one who’d believed in me consistently from the beginning. She was the reason I was still at the Foundry, so why wouldn’t I want to make her a part of my company? It wouldn’t even be a company without her.

  >Then I told you I’d already ordered business cards, but that my title was only “Senior Advisor.” And you told me that I should call the company and change my title to COO since the old ones were inaccurate. So that’s what I did

  >What’s all this other stuff?

  >Your new business stuff. You ordered it at the party, too. You don’t remember?

  >How are two luxury watches for business?

  >To tell the time

  >And the shoes?

  >You have to walk in an office, don’t you? The size 8s are for me. Thanks btw

  >Why did I order a juice machine?

  >You said you wanted to detox

  >And the espresso machine?

  >Can’t work without coffee

  >And a shredder?

  >Every office needs one

  >I don’t even have an office

  >But you will. We can store all the stuff at my place if you don’t have room

  >Why did I get a computer? I already have one

  >Oh, that’s for me. You said it was my welcome-to-the-company gift

  I turned the watch in my hand. It was really nice: cool to the touch with a face just big enough for my wrist. I tried it on and held out my arm, admiring the way it glimmered in the sunlight. I’d never thought I needed a watch, but now that I had it on, I liked it.

  I picked through my other purchases, trying on shoes and opening the box of the espresso machine so I could glimpse the chrome interior. I liked imagining it in my new office, gleaming in the reception area, a shining beacon to everyone who entered, signaling that we were a company who invested in the comfort and happiness of our employees.

  I must have paid with my Vault, which I considered opening, but then brushed it off. I had plenty of money, and anyway, Mitzy was right. A lot of these things would come in handy when we got an office space. By then, I’d have funding and would be earning money, and a few impulse buys at a party wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

  More packages kept coming in over the next week. A garment steamer, a prim box of fancy lotions made of goat’s milk and honey, a massage pad that I immediately strapped to my desk chair and sat in, thanking my past self for having the foresight to gift me this particular luxury. Another with a giant candle, which perfumed my entire room with the smell of gardenias.

  Seema and Kate didn’t seem to pay much attention to my deliveries, but Amina was more suspect.

  “What’s up with that huge candle?” she asked after spotting it in my room. “Your room smells like an overpriced lotion store.”

  “Fancy lotion is actually really worth it. The ingredients are so much higher quality than the crap you find in the drug store and the difference on your skin is noticeable.”

  Amina looked at me like I was speaking a different language. “Since when do you care so much about skincare?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with taking care of yourself.”

  “And what’s up with that the juice machine? Are you seriously replacing meals with pureed celery?”

  “It’s good to detox from dining hall food sometimes.”

  “What’s wrong with the food at the dining hall?” Amina asked.

  “What isn’t?” I said. “I mean, it’s fine, but it’s not like restaurant quality or anything.”

  Amina raised an eyebrow, but before she could respond, my phone vibrated with a text from Mitzy.

  “Hold on a sec,” I said, and checked her message.

  >The Vilbo executive we met at the Karlsson Barrow party wants to meet with you today. Can you be ready in an hour?

  Had we met a Vilbo executive at the party? I had no memory of that either, which I was partially grateful for, as I didn’t want to know what cringeworthy things I’d said or done.

  Amina gave me an impatient look. I ignored it and typed a response. Normally I would have immediately said yes, but this time I hesitated.

  >I have class

  >Seriously? Skip it

  >It’s kind of a big day. I’m supposed to do a mock funding meeting in my business class.

  >Mock funding meeting??? This is a real funding meeting. It’s the whole reason you’re here.

  She had a point.

  >Fine

  >Don’t forget the business cards

  >I won’t

  I shoved my phone in my pocket and turned to Amina.

  “I’m sorry but I have to go.”

  “Go where? We have class.”

  I already knew that Amina was wary of Mitzy, and as a result I tried not to bring her up, so when I didn’t respond right away, Amina knew exactly who I was talking about. Her face dropped with disapproval.

  “It’s Mitzy, isn’t it?”

  “She has a meeting set up for us. With an executive from Vilbo. It’s kind of a big deal.”

  “Well, you can’t miss that,” she said, her tone unreadable. Was she being sincere or sarcastic? I couldn’t tell.

  I hurried back to my room where I got changed and slipped a handful of business cards in my bag. Straightening the collar of my shirt, I checked myself in the mirror, then reflexively took a selfie to post for later.

  Mitzy
was in the kitchen when I arrived at her house.

  “I’m in the middle of making a smoothie,” she said. “Do you want one?”

  “No thanks. I had a juice before I came.”

  “Her name is Ella Eisner,” Mitzy said while she dumped a bunch of celery into a blender. “She’s the senior vice president of corporate development. She also heads the Vilbo Big Ideas Venture, which invests in start-ups. She’s often referred to by people on the inside as The Prophet, because the start-ups she chooses to fund always take off.”

  Mitzy was talking faster than usual and seemed to be gripping the blender handle with uncharacteristic intensity. Was it possible? Did Mitzy get nervous?

  Before she could continue, her cell phone rang on the counter. I glanced at it, reading the caller ID. “It’s someone named Fucking Lawyer Scumbag Fuck?”

  Mitzy immediately snatched it from me and silenced the call. “Fucking lawyers. I hate them all.” She looked at me, her face darkening. “You know, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t snoop through my things every time you came over.”

  “I wasn’t snooping,” I insisted.

  “Of course not. You were just looking to see who was calling me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, baffled and slightly alarmed. “I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

  “I never said it was a secret. I’m not embarrassed to say that I hate lawyers, in particular that one. But you don’t see me arching my neck to see who’s calling you every time your phone vibrates. I mind my own business.”

  “Okay, sorry. I won’t look at your phone anymore.”

  “Good,” Mitzy said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Anyway, back to Ella. She rarely takes meetings, and when she does, they’re extremely brief, so you have to be concise and to the point,” Mitzy continued. “And she doesn’t tolerate fools or bullshit, so if she asks you a question and you don’t know the answer, don’t try to talk your way out of it and think you’ll trick her. Just tell her your honest answer.”

  “Okay—”