Screen Queens

by Lori Goldstein

  “I am comfortable.”

  “Oh, then, maybe, stylish?”

  Maddie dug her fists into the mattress—and came away with something sticky, which she did her best to ignore. “And here I thought this was a tech incubator, not a fashion show.”

  “Why can’t it be both? I swear, you should see what some of these startups let people wear. After Stanford, when I’m CEO, my company will have a proper dress code. Because like it or not, impressions matter, especially first impressions.” Lucy grabbed something red off the top bunk. She affixed it to the wall beside her bed with beige putty from her Mary Poppins bag. A Stanford pennant. “Let’s just hope I made a good impression on Ryan Thompson.”

  “He’s just a guy, you know. Pisses standing up like all the rest of ’em.”

  “He’s Ryan Thompson.”

  A shuffling in the doorway drew Maddie’s attention. A pale white girl with springy dark blonde curls clutched the plastic handle of an old metal suitcase plastered with stickers.

  “Maybe you could show a little more respect,” Lucy said.

  Maddie whipped her head back to Lucy. “What’s he done, truly?”

  Lucy’s eyes widened. “He’s changed the world.”

  “Not in a good way.” Maddie swung her legs off the top bunk, balanced on the bottom mattress, and dropped to the floor.

  “He’s the reason we’re here.”

  “Not my reason,” Maddie mumbled.

  The girl in the doorway jostled from one foot to the other the way Danny did when he refused to admit he drank too much orange soda.

  “Are you going to come in or not?” Maddie snapped—and immediately regretted it.

  SIX

  NOT READY FOR PRIME TIME • When a product is not quite finished or is finished in such a way that it will hinder its ability to compete in the marketplace

  “SORRY,” MADDIE SAID.

  Delia knew it was Maddie because she knew what Lucy looked like from her Pulse profile picture.

  That.

  Petite face, thick hair, a hint of bronzer on her cheeks . . . it was like she’d stepped out of a “Ten Ways to Get Fit for Summer!” spread in a magazine.

  And Delia was sweating in the coat that had been too light when she woke up this morning back home in Littlewood.

  Had she really left home?

  Was this really going to be her home?

  Delia clutched the handle of her mom’s old suitcase tighter. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Lucy laughed. “Can’t interrupt when it’s your room too. Entrez-vous, dear Delia.”

  “Entrez,” Maddie said.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, it’s not. You said ‘entrez-vous.’ You asked if she was coming in, when I’m assuming you meant to simply invite her in.”

  “I’ve had four years of French,” Lucy said.

  “I’ve had six,” Maddie countered.

  And all Delia had had were French fries and French toast. She forced herself to step into the room. “Uh, yeah, well, sorry I’m late. I missed my connection in Orlando.”

  “Orlando?” Lucy grabbed a fancy notebook off the desk and started flipping through. “I thought you were from Chicago?”

  “Um, not exactly. But that’s where I left from.”

  “Why not fly direct?” Lucy asked.

  “Why not let the girl put her bag down before you ask twenty questions?” Maddie said.

  Delia hugged the wall, missing Cassie, the only person she’d ever shared a room with until now. She shifted the weight of her suitcase from one hand to the other, waiting for her two roommates to challenge each other to whatever the Silicon Valley equivalent of a duel was.

  Silicon Valley.

  A place of myth and legend and dreams that became reality—not through wands and fairy dust but through innovation and iteration. From the back seat of the cab, signs with words Delia knew from “About Us” pages on websites and the back of product packages called to her: Bay Area, Burlingame, Menlo Park, Palo Alto, Cupertino. Silicon Valley, where every day people created things that didn’t exist the day before, all from technology that didn’t exist when her parents were her age. And she’d be a part of it.

  She just had to figure out how to breathe here. Which may have been easier had the room not smelled like the theater costumes at the end of a hot summer’s run.

  “Settle in,” Maddie said, pointing to the bottom bunk on one side of the room. “Unless you’d prefer the top?”

  She would. It seemed like it might be a little more private. But she said, “Bottom’s fine.” She laid her suitcase on the rubber-coated mattress. The introductory email didn’t say anything about sheets, did it? She turned to see Lucy opening a sealed package of silver bedsheets. “Uh, excuse me, but do you know if we were supposed to bring our own bedding?”

  “Only if you have an aversion to lice,” Lucy said.

  Maddie rolled her eyes and walked to the closet. “Will these do?”

  Delia nodded, accepting the stiff set of sheets and thin towel. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucy cringe. It seemed she’d already settled in with double the number of items Delia had packed. Delia had gone over the checklist a dozen times but now worried that she should have taken it as a suggestion, not a mandate. Not that she had as much in her closet at home as Lucy had brought here. At least when it came to clothes. Cable-knit cardigans and corduroy jeans in winter, denim shorts and loose tees in summer were Delia’s standard uniform. But if there was a market for a pop-up shop specializing in dissected computer parts and used programming books, Delia’s room at home would be getting high ranks on Yelp.

  “You’re both unpacked, then?” Delia said.

  “Almost.” Maddie’s eyes drifted over Lucy’s careful stacks. She then opened the top drawer of the dresser across from her bunk and dumped the contents of her duffel, including her tablet and sketchbook, inside, followed by the duffel itself. She tossed a Red Sox baseball cap over the post at the end of her bed. “Yup, all done.”

  Lucy shook her head and tucked her own empty luggage away in the closet. “Take your time, Delia, but then we should probably start brainstorming. I heard one year they kicked things off at two in the morning.”

  “In the middle of the night?” Delia said. “That’s crazy.”

  “Probably illegal,” Maddie said.

  “Just a way to challenge us,” Lucy said. “Considering we all come from high schools that are more advanced than most colleges, they’ve got to do something.”

  “Sure,” Delia said. Her own high school only had two AP classes, and as usual, Delia was one of two girls in them. She’d been on campus for ten minutes and already felt years behind. “It’s just . . . the thing is, I didn’t realize . . . and so, well, I have orientation.”

  “You? Why just you?” Lucy reached for her notebook.

  “It’s not part of the program. I have a part-time job.”

  “A job? But ValleyStart is your job—our job—all of us, together.”

  Delia focused on the Washington Monument on the “D.C.” sticker at the corner of her mom’s suitcase. “It won’t interfere, I promise.”

  “But how . . . I mean, is this even okay with the program?”

  Delia’s eyes shifted to the Mardi Gras beads surrounding “New Orleans” before turning to Lucy. “They had a link at the bottom of the website for campus jobs. I’m used to working and going to school.”

  Lucy pursed her lips.

  “Me too,” Maddie said, glancing up from her phone, which was so new, Delia wasn’t even quite sure what model it was. “Go, we’ll catch you later.”

  Delia didn’t wait for Lucy’s reaction. She left her mom’s suitcase on the bed, said a quick “nice to meet you both,” and hurried through the doorway still wearing her too-heavy ja
cket beneath her equally heavy backpack with a heart that outweighed them both.

  She nearly barreled into a girl in a cropped denim jacket carrying a guitar. Delia was so mortified that she couldn’t even attempt to return the girl’s “hey.”

  As soon as she reached the stairwell, Delia pressed her head against the cool brick wall and tried to breathe. She pulled her phone out to text Cassie and realized she’d be busy moving scenery just in time for her mom’s solo. Delia was early for her orientation. So she sat on the top step and opened Delia’s Den.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Uh, yeah, we have Hot Pockets in Illinois,” Delia said for the fourth time in the common room of the student center. Kiosks, including hers, lined the perimeter of an open space furnished with a brightly colored rainbow of beanbag chairs, couches, and even a couple of chaise longue chairs.

  A guy with floppy blond hair and a sunburn that had turned his white skin the color of a red bliss potato eyed her skeptically—apparently completely unaware that she was the one who should be side-eyeing him. Delia was pretty sure that the ocean wasn’t around the corner, and yet he was wearing jeans over a full-body wetsuit. The top half dangled unzipped around his waist, and his blue, red, and white plaid shirt hung loose, unbuttoned. If anyone needed food-service lessons, it was this guy.

  “But these are organic,” he said. “Let’s go over it once more.” He held up the rectangular Hot Pocket. “Unwrap this.” He tapped the microwave. “Open this.” He mimed punching the numbers. “Set it.” He narrowed his eyes. “And don’t forget it. But if you do . . .” He wiggled his phone. “Have the fire department on speed dial.”

  “Isn’t that just 911?”

  He cocked his head.

  “For emergencies, don’t you just call 911?”

  He stared at her, raised a hand to each side of his head, and made a pfft sound. “Mind blown, Illinois. Mind blown.” He slung a backpack over one shoulder and said, “Now go forth and feed.”

  Delia bit her bottom lip. She managed to contain herself until he was halfway across the room before she burst out laughing.

  “Where am I?” she said to herself.

  “Been asking myself the same thing,” came a voice from behind her.

  Delia turned to see a guy, tall and fit, with tanned white skin and light brown hair, buzzed on the sides, long and soft on top, smiling at her.

  Immediately a warmth spread under her skin, and she knew she was glowing pink.

  “That’s the second dude in a wetsuit I’ve seen since I got here.”

  “Strange,” Delia said.

  “You want strange? Had two girls come by drinking pea milk lattes.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Delia knew she was now bright red, but she had to ask. “I really hope you mean the vegetable. . . .”

  “Yup. Milk made from peas—the little green ones I realized my grandma would stop serving if they ended up in my nose more often than my mouth.” He grinned. “And I thought Denver had its quirks. I’m starting to think I’m in for a bizarre summer.”

  “You’re from Denver?” Was everyone from somewhere cool? And cool was probably not even the right adjective. Hip? Rad? Delia was going to have to study Urban Dictionary.

  “Born and fed,” he joked. “That guy . . . let’s just say I’m glad you took over his shift. He was practicing surf stances for an hour before you got here.”

  “And the ocean is . . .”

  “Not close. I double-checked. You know what he said?” The guy stepped out from behind the counter of his kiosk and jumped, ending in a squat with his hands straight out to each side. He lowered his voice and spoke slowly, “When the waves call, it doesn’t matter how far, I’ll hear them, and I’ll heed them, bro.”

  Delia giggled. Ugh. Laugh, don’t giggle, Delia.

  He reclaimed his full height and hopped up onto the counter behind him. “I’m Eric Shaw.”

  “Delia Meyer.”

  “Lemme guess, ValleyStart?”

  Delia looked down at her plain jeans and long-sleeved tee. “Coder. Am I that obvious?”

  “Sure, but only because of that.” Eric tipped his clean-shaven chin to her backpack. Her ValleyStart ID card and room key dangled off a carabiner on the side.

  “Oh.”

  “And we coders need to stick together. Especially ones with part-time jobs.”

  “You’re working too?”

  Duh.

  “Came in a few days ago and stayed with a friend so I could get in some extra hours before the program starts.”

  “And you like it?”

  “More and more each day.”

  His grin made Delia’s stomach flip. She pushed through the feeling—as she’d learned to do. Delia didn’t date. Too many unknown variables.

  Eric’s smile began to fade, and his brow creased. “Oh, hey, hope I didn’t sign up for too many hours and steal them from you.”

  It took Delia a moment to understand what he meant. “Oh no, I didn’t apply. I only put in for—” She gestured to the sign above her.

  “The Hot Pocket kiosk.”

  She nodded.

  “You actually applied for the Hot Pocket kiosk? Instead of computer troubleshooting?”

  She half nodded, half shrugged. His confusion made perfect sense since the computer kiosk job paid nearly double the Hot Pocket one.

  He suddenly started nodding. “You’re one of those.”

  “What?”

  “Smart-smart. Figure you’ll let your brain rest, is that it?”

  Not at all. She didn’t apply because she figured everyone out here would be smart-smarter than her.

  “Smart-smart, Delia,” he said again. “Because pea milk lattes may make you think otherwise, but this, this is going to get in-tense.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Despite its name, the Mountain View campus didn’t have a mountain in sight. The grounds were as flat as the farmlands around Littlewood. Except here there were palm trees. Everywhere. They hardly looked real. They looked like they were from another world. One Delia couldn’t believe she was actually in.

  The campus, compact yet filled with green space, revolved around the student center. It was the hub of the Mountain View wheel, with long white stone paths radiating out like spokes. Clearly marked with guideposts, each led to a cluster of buildings surrounding a grassy quad. A simple, easy-to-navigate design that eased Delia’s stress level.

  Her and Eric’s shifts ended at the same time, and they walked to the dorms together. They discovered they were both at ValleyStart thanks to the scholarship program, which funded half the cost, had each only signed up for Pulse in the past few months, and shared a love of Python and skepticism for Swift, one of the hot new programming languages used by companies like Airbnb.

  Just as they neared the two-tiered terra-cotta fountain in the middle of the grouping of white three-story dorms topped with red tile, Delia’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten anything since the fried egg and toast her dad had made her that morning. Time change or not, could it have possibly just been that morning?

  She’d been too nervous to eat the packet of nuts offered on both legs of her flight, let alone attempt a Hot Pocket. Delia was twisting a lock of her hair, mustering the courage to ask Eric if he was hungry, when her phone buzzed, followed by his.

  Her heart sank as she read the text.

  ValleyStart: Welcome one, welcome all. And so it is time to heed the call! Hackathon, tomorrow, 8 am. Hack or Be Hacked!

  “At least it’s not two a.m.,” Eric said.

  Delia couldn’t respond because a flurry of texts followed, all from Lucy.

  Brainstorming time!

  Followed by “brain” and “storm” emojis.

  Let�
�s bring our Level 10 game!

  It’s Ryan Thompson, ladies!

  Then, finally, Um, guys, where are you?

  SEVEN

  SWOT ANALYSIS • Strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats, otherwise known as day one

  THIS IS IT.

  Electricity charged through Lucy’s limbs like she was at a club in the Tenderloin. Music pumping, hips thrusting, rafters vibrating, the whole place one claustrophobic creature alive on artisan gin and Red Bull and sweat.

  Her head bobbed to an internal beat as she adjusted the knot of her ValleyStart tee at her waist and crossed the quad with Delia and Maddie. The “Hackathon” banner beneath the yellow painted tiles beckoned her inside the Spanish Revival–style student center.

  She had arrived.

  They had arrived.

  So what if Delia was a typical coder: all gray matter, practical shoes, and the social skills of beached kelp. From the little bit of code she’d shown Lucy last night, Lucy knew she wouldn’t have to carry her.

  And Maddie . . . well, yes, the girl had an attitude problem. But she also had a client list bigger than the population of Sausalito. No one would hire her for her personality, that was for sure. Which meant she must be a kick-ass designer.

  That freed Lucy up to do what she did best. Strategize, stylize, and socialize. In other words, sell. The number-one component of any successful startup. And Lucy would be a success.

  No matter what her mom thought.

  CIO? Pfft. Lucy snorted. Try CEO, Mom. Glass ceiling, my CrossFit-trained ass. She couldn’t help a snicker. Delia jumped beside her.

  It’s fine, it’s going to be fine.

  Lucy seized Delia’s hand, which actually felt as wet and slimy as beached kelp. Still, Lucy pushed forth her most enthusiastic smile. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  Eyes downcast, Delia’s head moved the tiniest bit, and Lucy took that as a yes.

  It’s going to be fine.